by Неизвестный
Earlier, the caretaker had turned on the heaters and the room was warm. Aroha also noticed the residual smell of bread from yesterday’s cooking class and her stomach rumbled.
She lifted the bags onto one of the benches. ‘Can I put them away for you Miss? I know where everything goes.’
The teacher had a towel in her hand and was busy rubbing her hair and dabbing at her clothes in an effort to dry them. She looked over at Aroha, and for the first time noticed she was soaking wet. ‘My God girl, you’re wetter than I am. You can’t go to class like that. You’ll get your death of cold.’ She thought for a minute. ‘Go out the back into the laundry. There’s a couple of old spare school uniforms there. Try them on for size and see how you go. And take this towel and dry yourself off. When you come back, I’ll make you a cup of Milo.’
Aroha went into the back room where the washing machine and drier were kept, used for washing tea towels and oven cloths. She took off her uniform, wincing as she pulled it over her head, trying not to look at the dark purple bruises that flared over her ribs and down her legs, a legacy of the beating Uncle had given her the night before. She had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for them to come home. And by the time they did, the dinner she’d cooked had burned and gone cold.
She was used to being hit, having bruises and welts, but last night the man her mother made her call Uncle was roaring drunk. Picking up the broom, he’d hit her over and over again. She’d curled up in a ball like a hedgehog she’d once seen when she came across it during the day. But there were still parts of her body she couldn’t defend. He struck her legs and back, and when she tried to stand and run, her stomach and ribs.
She didn’t sleep – too sore – and although she thought there was no longer any room for crying, her sobs and whimpers soaked the pillow.
This morning she left the house early not bothering to try and find anything to eat. There was nothing anyway – only some stale milk. The rumbling snores where her mother and Uncle lay sleeping, echoed round the bedroom. They would probably be gone when she came home from school, back to the pub to play snooker, cards or drink until the money ran out.
Aroha carried her wet uniform out to where Pene Walker heated milk in a saucepan. ‘Shall I put it in the drier Miss?’
‘No, leave it in the laundry and I’ll sort it out later. That is if you don’t mind wearing what you’ve got on.’
Aroha didn’t mind at all. This dress smelled clean and sort of like flowers – she supposed it was the washing liquid, but whatever it was, she liked it. When her uniform got dirty, and she only had the one, she had to wash it by hand and it never seemed to be completely clean. The stains didn’t come out, and in summer it was hard to get rid of the smell of sweat.
Some of the kids made comments, though she tried to ignore them. ‘Can’t you afford soap in your house Aarrooohaaa?’ ‘Go and jump in the river and have a wash Aarrooohaaa.’ And in class, the whisper, ‘I don’t want to sit with you. You stink.’
The words hurt as much as the beating.
‘Would you like some sugar in your Milo?’ the teacher asked, and Aroha nodded. ‘What about a muffin? I made some yesterday and there’s one or two in the fridge. Go and get them and eat them up. They’ll only go stale if you don’t.’
Aroha sat, ate muffins and drank hot Milo. Cupping the warm drink in her hands, she swung her legs, forgetting for a moment the bruises that covered them from ankle to knee.
‘What’s that on your legs?’ Pene asked, leaning forward.
Aroha quickly pulled the uniform down as far as it would go. ‘I fell over the other day. Down some steps,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt and they’ll be gone by tomorrow. I’m always bumping into things and falling over. I’m just clumsy.’
She turned away and, picking up the plate and cup, washed and dried them and got ready to go. She felt safe here and wished she could stay in this warm place for ever. Instead, she was going home that afternoon to face Uncle and her mother like always. Aroha didn’t think Mrs Walker would hit her kids or make them wear stinky clothes.
The teacher put her arm around Aroha’s shoulders. The girl flinched, not meaning to, but the touch was painful. ‘Is everything all right at home? You could tell me, you know.’
Aroha said nothing, just shook her head. Her eyes stung and she swallowed hard, but waited until she was outside before she cried and her tears mingled with the cold morning rain.
Pene had met Aroha’s ‘uncle’ once, and the memory of that meeting still left a bad taste in her mouth. A celebrity chef had made a visit to Whakatāne, and the class were invited to experience a cook school. It was a wonderful opportunity, and the only charge was five dollars for the bus. All the children paid except Aroha, and one afternoon on her way home, Pene called in to see if there was a reason why she wasn’t allowed to go.
An old car sat in the driveway and the house was in need of a paint. There were no curtains and one of the windows was cracked, while another had boards nailed over it. She wished she hadn’t come, but it was too late now. She knocked on the door and heard heavy footsteps. I feel like one of the Billy Goats Gruff, and here’s the Troll that lives under the bridge, she thought.
The door opened and a man with a black bushy beard stood glaring at her. His belly pouched over his belt, a dirty shirt was open to the waist and a smell of sweat, alcohol and bad breath gathered around him in a cloud.
Where’s your Chanel No 5 when you need it? Pene thought, taking a step back.
‘What d’ya want?’ he asked, his eyes roaming up and down her body but never reaching her face.
She explained about the trip and needing the money for the bus, but she already knew as she spoke it was a waste of time. The money in this house went on other things – certainly not school trips or, God help her, toothpaste and deodorant!
‘Waste of fucking time taking kids to something like that. Bloody girl can’t cook anyway. Always burning stuff. Go and ask some other arsehole for money. You won’t get any here.’ And he shut the door in her face.
No, she didn’t like Aroha’s ‘uncle’ at all, and in the end she had paid for the girl to go on the trip without anyone knowing.
When Pene saw the bruises on those thin legs, a voice spoke in her head and she knew the how and why of their cause. Although only a suspicion, she knew she was right. Her own children, two little boys, were boisterous, plump as puppies and full of fun. They weren’t like this child, thin, with dark circles under her eyes and an air like she was walking on eggshells. Maybe if she got a chance later today, she would have a word with Peter Hemi, the headmaster, and see what he thought.
But in the end, the day was a busy one; she got caught up with other problems and forgot. It wasn’t until later that evening, getting ready for bed, she remembered. ‘I’ll go and see Peter first thing tomorrow,’ she said to herself, but the feeling of guilt didn’t go away and she slept poorly that night.
Aroha dragged her feet going home. Somehow the rain seemed colder, the puddles deeper and the day darker than it should have been mid-afternoon. She didn’t want to go inside, but there was nowhere else. She walked up the pathway, opened the door and was swallowed by the darkness.
That night, Uncle came to her room. He’d done it before, but in the past had only stood in the doorway, yelling, swearing and threatening. This time it was different.
Aroha was asleep, but came awake when he sat on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged under his weight. She smelled him, a combination of beer, cigarettes and something else that was probably pot. He put his hand on her head and began to stroke it. ‘Lovely hair, just like your mother’s,’ he whispered. He ran his hand over her face and Aroha lay frozen, hardly breathing.
His hand went lower, to her neck then her shoulders. Aroha jolted up. ‘Mum,’ she called, her voice loud in the small room, but all she heard was the sound of the television in the lounge.
She called again, ‘Mum!’ and the name caught in
her throat, she was so unfamiliar with it. How long since she last called the woman who lived in this house anything?
The man clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up you little bitch. There’s just you and me.’ He pulled back the covers and started to get into the bed. Aroha’s heart thumped so hard in her chest, she thought it would burst. He was breathing heavily and had taken off his trousers and underpants. Panic flared, but instead of immobilising her, everything was magnified a thousand times. She hated him, this man who filled her with so much terror that sometimes when he beat her, she wet herself. She pushed him. An action so unexpected that he fell to the floor.
Aroha leapt from the bed and ran for the front door. She gave no thought to the fact that all she had on were pyjamas. Somewhere behind her, she heard noises and her uncle’s voice calling her to come back. ‘I’ll come looking for you bitch. You can’t hide from me. You got nowhere to go.’
A door slammed, but Aroha didn’t look round to see if he was following or had gone back inside.
She kept running, gasping for breath, stumbling over gravel and loose stones, wincing and crying out as unseen things sliced her naked feet. No streetlights shone. No cars swished along the wet road. Aroha felt she was the only person left alive in the entire world, and it was a dark place.
Pene Walker drove down the hill, towards the school. The car had only backfired twice, blowing out minimal smoke, which was a good omen. She decided today she would teach the kids how to make scones, maybe cheese scones if the budget ran to it.
As she came up to the school, something caught her eye. She braked hard and the car backfired in retaliation, smoke billowing out and spreading across the car park in a black cloud. Pene got out and walked over to one of the giant oak trees, squinting, unable to quite make out what she could see.
Then she did.
‘Oh Aroha,’ she whispered. ‘What have they done to you?’
And the teacher with the bright red hair that could have lit up a room, knelt down and gathered up the girl huddled beneath the sheltering branches of the giant oak tree and held her in her arms.
Hands of Time
Ann French
Chapter One
The waiting is the worst. Watching them leave. Wondering how long before someone comes back home. Tāne’s heart beats fast, and he’s always listening for the sound of police sirens.
They’ve been doing this for six weeks. Jewellery is the main thing, small stuff they can put in their pockets or schoolbags carried over their shoulders. That way if the cops see them, they can pretend they’re on their way to school. That’s the idea, anyway.
The boys, Wiri, Ben and Tāne, want to get into the Scorpions gang, but to do that they have to prove they’ve got what it takes, which means breaking into houses and stealing. Tāne doesn’t like it, because many of the people they steal from don’t have much. It seems mean, but when he says this to Wiri and Ben, they say, ‘Don’t be such a pussy,’ so he shuts up.
Today, the house is on the edge of a park and there’s no one around so it should be easy. Going up to the front door, Wiri knocks, and although they already know there’s no one home, it pays to play it safe. They walk around the side and find a window that’s half open, and Tāne gets to climb in, because even though he’s sixteen, he’s still the smallest. He opens the back door and the other two bundle inside, making for the bedroom, where most people keep their jewellery. The house is neat and clean and smells like someone’s been baking. On the bench in the kitchen, Tāne finds some biscuits – chocolate chip, his favourite. He hasn’t had breakfast and he’s starving.
Taking big bites, he demolishes two and then stuffs six more in his pockets, hearing them crunch and knowing they’re turning into crumbs, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll eat the bits later.
‘Tāne, come on,’ he hears Wiri call and goes into the bedroom. The drawers have been pulled out and everything is on the floor. There’s clothes and underwear and Ben holds up a pair of old lady’s pants, puts them on his head and dances around the room. It looks so funny that the boys fall on the floor laughing, which is great, until they hear the sirens coming down the street.
They race out the door and across the park, Ben still with the knickers on his head. But it’s too late – there are cops and cars everywhere. Worse still, there’s dogs, and although they’re on leads, the look of them is enough to make Tāne piss himself.
He runs, but he’s no match for the dogs or cops, who although big, are fast runners. There’s a ‘whump’ and the wind is knocked out of him as he’s tackled. Tāne flies through the air and next thing is lying on his stomach with tufts of grass and dirt in his mouth. When he looks up, there’s a dog, the biggest he’s ever seen, baring its teeth and growling.
‘Don’t eat him Gus,’ says a voice. ‘He hasn’t got enough meat on him for a decent feed.’
Someone laughs, but Tāne doesn’t think it’s funny. A hand grabs the back of his shirt and he stands up, trying to rub away snot and grime.
The cop with the dog says, ‘A face only a mother could love,’ and the dog barks as though agreeing with him.
What would they know? Tāne thinks.
He discovers he’s the only one the cops caught.
‘Tell us who else was involved and it will go better for you in Court,’ they say. He doesn’t believe them and stays quiet. The first rule of being in a gang is never to nark on your mates. At least, he thinks that’s the first rule, and gets depressed when he considers that Ben and Wiri are probably back at gang headquarters, drinking cola and eating chips while he’s in jail with pockets full of crumbly biscuits. He tries to be strong and not mind, but his insides feel like wobbly jelly.
Jail turns out to be not so bad. He’s on his own, and although the bed is hard, it’s clean with blankets that smell of disinfectant. The cop who arrested him brings a big plate of kai, and he eats it all except the Brussels sprouts. There’s even ice cream, and he licks the bowl.
Next morning he goes to Court and a social worker from Child, Youth and Family (CYF) stands up and gives a report. Tāne doesn’t understand how she knows all the stuff she talks about, but as he listens, he feels ashamed that everyone should hear what she says.
‘Tāne Hokomia doesn’t have a home life,’ she says. ‘His father is in prison, away for three years for assault with a deadly weapon, and his mother is a P addict. She is currently undergoing drug rehabilitation. Tāne’s siblings are in care, but somehow he’s slipped between the cracks, which is why he’s here today. He is one of a group of young juveniles who live on the fringe of a gang who utilise their youthful vulnerability to commit crimes.
‘Social Services feel that unless action is taken to withdraw Tāne from this destructive environment, he will inevitably be drawn into a life of crime on a much larger scale.’
She goes on to say that the house they burgled belonged to a seventy-six-year-old woman who had been ‘traumatised by the incident’ and had gone to stay with her son for ‘an indefinite period’.
Tāne doesn’t understand all the words, but he knows he and his mates have done a shameful thing. He hangs his head, unable to look at the people in the Court. The wobbly jelly feeling is back in his stomach.
Chapter Two
The Judge puts him into a temporary foster home in South Auckland. The people, Mr and Mrs Herewini, are nice enough, but Tāne keeps thinking about the old lady – eating the biscuits, tipping out the drawers, disrespecting her things – and it’s not a good feeling.
Every day he goes to school. And hates it. The other kids stare, whisper behind his back, and he’s way behind in maths and reading. The numbers don’t make sense or add up, and words swim on the page. At interval and lunchtime no one asks him to join in, so he sits alone until the bell rings and everyone goes back inside.
Three weeks go by, and one day, when he gets home from school, there’s someone waiting in the kitchen. He’s big, with broad shoulders and a bit of a puku. Looking at him sitting in th
e flimsy chair, Tāne expects it to break and fall apart like matchsticks. The man is wearing a heavy woollen jumper, a pair of shorts, and heavy workman’s boots. Holding out his hand he says, ‘Tēnā koe,’ and Tāne’s hand is swallowed up by a bear paw. It’s huge and the back is bristly like an old dog’s whiskers. Hard, sandpapery skin rubs against his fingers, and when he takes his hand away, checking no bones are broken, Tāne sees how his own are smooth without lumps or hard bits. He wonders what this man does that makes his hands so rough.
‘E noho. Sit down,’ says the stranger pulling out another chair, and Tāne thinks that if he’s only going to be spoken to in Māori, it will be a pretty one-sided conversation.
He sits down, trying to work out what is happening, what this is leading to.
‘CYF sent me to see you. Got yourself into a bit of trouble, eh bro?’ says the man.
Tāne nods.
‘I run a mussel barge out of Coromandel and thought you might want to come work for me.’ Getting up, he moves the chair closer to Tāne and sits down again. The man looks at his hands and then back at the boy sitting opposite, who thinks to himself that this is not a man you would want to mess with.
‘You’d be paid a decent wage but you’d have to work hard and there’s no room for slackers. It would be better than hanging around here waiting to get picked up and carted off to prison. What do you say? If you’re keen, I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon about one o’clock.’
Tāne has never been outside Auckland, and although he has no idea what a mussel barge does, it’s got to be better than the last three weeks and going back to school.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
‘Hemi Parere,’ the man says and smiles.
The next day, Tāne says goodbye to the Herewinis and walks to where Hemi’s car, a Ford van, is parked. He doesn’t look back.
Before they leave Auckland, they make a stop at Tāne’s house. Nothing has changed in the neighbourhood. The sound of stereos turned up full, barking dogs and litter. Plastic bags, bottles, paper blowing in the wind. Graffiti on the walls. Old cars sit in driveways, rusted, with tyres missing, along with abandoned supermarket trolleys. A wasteland of junk.