by Sue Orr
A bit of gossip here, a snippet from a newspaper there. That’s how I found out what they were up to. It was of little interest to me; I could think only of my mother. I obsessed over her. I couldn’t leave home, couldn’t risk leaving my father in his fragile state. I made do with scavenging news of her from any source.
I watched, listened, read. Once, when I was lighting the fire in the kitchen, I happened across a photo of Tū in an old newspaper. He was in the foreground, at a lectern, giving a speech about the importance of maintaining old military alliances in an ever-threatening climate of unrest, or something like that.
Behind Tū’s earnest face was my mother. Her hands were clasped beneath her chin, almost as though she was praying. She was looking at the back of Tū’s head, but the camera had caught her face perfectly. The expression was one of rapture, absolute, unconditional devotion.
I finished lighting the fire and hammered on my father’s bedroom door.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I shouted. I expected the usual response: Go away, leave me alone. But for once, he called me in.
He was sitting up in bed. Although I saw him most days shuffling around the kitchen, it was only then, swaddled in dirty bedclothes, in the middle of a too-big bed, that the true depth of his despair revealed itself. Everything about him had turned grey: his hair, his skin, even, it seemed, the room. The air was heavy and putrid — the windows had not been opened since my mother had left. Black mould grew up the walls and across the ceiling. It was as though my father was embedded in the calm, foul vortex of an ugly storm.
‘Enough,’ I said.
He looked at me as though he had no idea who I was.
‘Let’s go. Let’s pack up our stuff and go to the city.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘We can’t stay here, Dad. This is hopeless. Look at you. Look at us.’
‘No. It could never work out.’ He recited the words slowly. His eyes wandered to the window as he spoke. ‘She made a choice. The boys ahead of me.’
The itch was coming: the tingle on my scalp, the prickle on my neck.
‘I stayed with you, Dad. Now you should do something for me.’
‘I owe you nothing,’ my father said. ‘It was your choice to stay.’ And he turned away from me again.
The rash spread like fire down my body, across my shoulders, down my arms and chest and into my groin. It came down my face, searing my eyelids, parching my lips. I ran my fingers over my mouth and felt the fragile skin beginning to crack. I started for the door, for my usual hiding place under the house. Then I remembered — there was no one to bother now with the scratching, no one except my father, who no longer cared about me.
I got as far as the front door of the house. A rage was building inside me but it was different from the rages I had experienced in the past, the ones heralding a storm. It was a rage against myself — my stupidity at choosing to stay with my father, with a man who clearly did not value my sacrifice.
The blind white anger that had engulfed me the night our family split came over me again. My last recollection was standing in the doorway, looking out at a beautiful clear, warm day. My next knowing moment was coming to, in the same place at the front door, in the middle of a hailstorm — a whiteout of freezing cloud, ice balls as big as my fists smashing hard against my face.
I stood quite still, cold white mist touching my hot skin, cooling it down. It was beautiful relief. I tore my shirt off and let the invisible droplets take the rage out of my body. I closed my eyes. The cool brushed against my eyelids like an iced feather.
I should have been frightened, but the relief was too great for me to feel panic.
The day unfolded like most others around that time; my father remained shut in his room, exiting only to nibble at whatever he could find in the kitchen and to use the outhouse. I roamed the hills around our house, bare-chested, enjoying the delicious chill of the mist on my tender skin. I stayed out until night fell and the mist turned into a thick wet fog. I lay on the grass and tried to peer through the strange white stillness to the stars.
While I looked at the fog and the sky, I started to think about the whiteout. How I had not felt its approach. How I had wished for something to cool my itching, raging skin. How I had wanted something like that so badly, and how I had got what I wanted.
I MISUSED MY GIFT. Instead of letting the anger build up inside me, I had a bit of fun.
I’d think of Tangaroa out fishing, bringing home kai for them all to share while my father and I made do with the sad, straggling remains of my mother’s vegetable garden. A wild storm would pummel the seas, tearing his precious boats to pieces and casting fisherman to their death.
I would think of my two green-fingered brothers and their successful gardening shops. A salty wind would blow hard from the sea, through the rows of plants, burning their green leaves to a black, brittle crisp.
I thought of Tū, his desire for conflict charading as noble loyalty. That one was easy. Did it ever rain on his military parades? Always.
Mostly, though, I thought of Tāne. I played out, over and over in my head, the night he called us all together, then split us all apart. I thought about him carrying on championing the wildlife cause. I would think about it, sitting on the front porch, looking way into the distance. I would sit and look and think and soon I would see it: the haze of a bushfire drifting across the horizon.
Over time, the news came that my brothers had married and had children. It was only then that I came around to understanding that our family would have just died away if we’d all stayed together, alone. I still wasn’t happy about things, though. I still reckoned we could have worked things out a different way.
T WHIRI-MY-NAMESAKE IS SMILING.
‘You understand, don’t you,’ I say, and he nods.
‘Shall I continue? You want me to continue the story of how I became a weather presenter?’
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
Everyone is back, each child standing exactly where they were before, the two men still glancing at Carole. The long black second hand on the clock has just started moving again.
‘THERE’S AN OLD RUMOUR,’ says Carole. ‘Tāwhiri’s been here so long, he can predict the weather. And that’s how he came to be a weather presenter — one of the first ones.’
‘You don’t want to believe those silly stories, Carole,’ I say. ‘Sounds a bit farfetched, doesn’t it, kids?’
Ugly sneers from the boys at the front of the group, mutterings Stupid old dick, impatient shuffles.
‘No no,’ I carry on, ignoring the boys. ‘It was nothing as mysterious as that, a far more ordinary story, I’m afraid.’
I tell how a young man with a passion for watching the clouds moved from the country to the city, got a job at the television station and worked his way up to become a weather presenter. The children are bored, who could blame them? I’m bored, too, with that talk.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. An old man in a suit that’s too big for him. Look how my shoulders fail to fill the jacket. And the trousers, sagging in the backside, pulled tight by a belt on its last notch. At the end of my talk, I look to the back of the group.
Tāwhiri-my-namesake isn’t there. I search the faces. He’s nowhere.
Carole has been listening, too, perched on the edge of her desk.
‘Tāwhiri, can I have a quiet word?’ she asks. ‘I just wondered, do you want to read the weather today?’
‘Why?’ I ask her.
‘I’m not feeling that well,’ she says.
‘Are you sure you’re not well enough?’ I can tell she’s fibbing.
She looks at me, grinning. ‘Actually, that’s rubbish.’
‘Thought so.’
She feels sorry for me, having to perform in front of these rude school groups. I won’t accept pity, and I’m about to tell her so, when I change my mind.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You take over here.’
THE MAKE-UP GIRL I
S new, fresh out of training. Her long black hair is clipped back and coiled into a shiny eel bun. Her name is Wanda, she tells me brightly.
‘Kia ora, Wanda, I’m Tāwhiri,’ I say, reaching forward in my chair to shake her hand.
For a moment we look at each other in the wide mirror: one ancient, crevassed face and one new pale canvas. Wanda puts a hand on my shoulder.
‘So, Tāwhiri. What do we usually use for you?’
The fat little make-up pots with the black lids line the heavy glass shelf under the mirror. There are ten of them, identical in size and shape, each containing liquid of a different skin tone. They graduate in colour: an alabaster white to the sunkissed tan in the middle to a syrupy black oil on the far right.
I shrug my shoulders, remembering a time long ago. ‘It doesn’t seem to matter, Wanda, which one you go for. Once it’s on, it always turns out the same.’
Wanda’s neat, pruned eyebrows knit in confusion, then relax. Silly old fella is what she is thinking. ‘Okaaay,’ she says politely, and goes over to Reina.
‘Reina, what do we use for Tāwhiri?’ she whispers.
Reina is distracted, filling bottles at the bench. ‘Take your pick.’
Wanda giggles. ‘Alright then,’ she says. She runs a finger down my face, as though checking for dust. ‘Let’s try this one.’
She reaches for the alabaster white. They always do.
The smooth, thick liquid sits on my skin. Wanda’s hand moves quickly — more and more of it scooped from the pot, dolloped on. The brush swirls like a feather duster over my closed eyes, my nose, down over my cheeks and lips. I feel the heaviness of the cream hanging off me, and Wanda’s mutterings. Jesus, man, weird.
When I open my eyes, the job is done. It’s heavy-handed, but the exact shade of my skin. Wanda’s pretty cupid bow of a mouth is hanging open.
‘I don’t get it,’ she says. ‘What happens, under the studio lights? What does it look like onscreen?’
Reina joins her behind me. She rubs my shoulders.
‘Tāwhiri doesn’t usually do the broadcast, Wanda,’ she says.
I lift my old bones, rearrange myself in the chair for comfort.
‘Reina’s being kind, my dear,’ I say. ‘This old man has nothing much to do and the network keeps him on to talk to rowdy schoolkids. Except for today. Today I get to present the weather.’
I smile at the silliness of it, at the pity on both their faces, that kind, sad grimace reserved for the aged.
‘Ah, go on with you both!’ I say, chuckling under Reina’s hands. ‘Where else can an old koro get a free massage from beautiful young girls?’
‘Excuse me,’ Reina says. ‘Old man getting a free massage? Who else would put up with those little shits? He’s the man, Wanda,’ she says, laughing. ‘I mean it. You deserve more than a massage, Tāwhiri.’
‘More than a massage, really? If you’re offering …’ I wink at her in the mirror.
I sit back to let Reina and Wanda trim my eyebrows and spray my hair into perfect silver waves.
IT FEELS STRANGE NOT holding a pointer. Oh, I know things have moved on, but still. That pointer was lovely to hold, smooth, cool, like a taiaha. It kept the nerves at bay.
Now I have this gadget, this tiny clicking thing. Just hold it in the palm of your hand, they told me. When you’re ready for a new screen, just push the button. Simple!
So I stand, waiting, in the studio as the sports presenter finishes his bit.
How different everything is. The lighthearted banter between the presenters, as though we’re all sitting comfortably in someone’s front room, chatting about world politics, who’s winning the golf. It’s a big, bright, friendly moment.
‘We’ve a special treat for you tonight, folks — a face from the past … Did they have televisions back that far, Tāwhiri?’
Ha ha, the the wit of it all! That’s my cue.
‘Thank you, and, yes, they did. Grainy old black and white screens, but televisions nonetheless. None of these television remotes, though, just an old wooden pointer …’ I wave the remote towards the camera, give a great big presenting smile.
‘Well, good luck then, Tāwhiri. Let’s hear what tomorrow brings, weather wise.’
Weather wise indeed.
I begin.
The forecast is good for the whole country, I say, clicking my little button to move the images behind me.
Up the country we travel — south to north these days — how smooth it all is, as though we are birds passing over the land. I do the right thing, remember to warn about strong sunshine, remind everyone to slip, slop, slap, cover up.
On we go, across Cook Strait — calm seas, people, put the boat out — and on to the North Island. I pause the graphics over the East Coast.
There will be rain, I tell the camera, a slow, steady fall that will go on for days. There will be significant breaks — time to get a load of washing dry before the next shower, time for the parched land to absorb the moisture before the next downpour.
All the time I’m talking, I remember the dry dust clouds, dying cattle and devastated farmers of decades ago. It feels good to settle that debt.
Up the country, nearly done. The camera man is moving towards me, zooming in on my face, and I remember what Carole said about ending the segment: Finish on a personal note.
I look calmly into the camera. I am talking to millions of people, but I can see only one person staring back at me down the lens.
Tāwhiri’s schoolteacher.
His hard face, smug at having bullied a little boy, excited about his big beach birthday party with the generator pumping, music blaring, coloured lights swinging from the pine trees.
As though you’re there with them, in their homes. It’s like you’re part of the family these days, Tāwhiri. So personalise it, as much as you can. That’s what Carole said to do.
‘Tomorrow night, folks, the place to be is Auckland — just north actually, up there at that beautiful Orewa Beach. That’s the place to head to, if you’re planning a big birthday party. The weather will be fine, perfect.’
The vision in my mind is in black and white. The electrical storm will be one of those rare, freak events touching just a tiny pocket of land, leaving the surroundings untouched. So small, it never featured on the computer screens before we went to air. The storm is hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth mentioning, so I don’t.
If I closed my eyes, I would hear a man screaming, ambulance sirens in the background. I would smell it, too, the smell of burning. But I leave my eyes open, stick to the cues. Smile into the camera, until the signal is given that we are done.
GEORGE CLARKE JUNIOR
… Don’t you look at me like that, you idiot; you can easily see the gallows, being at least the height of my father. Impossible — one fat head moves, another one in its place … Perhaps if I’m polite —
‘Excuse me sir, do you mind? You’re taller than me, after all.’
Shouldn’t even be down here in the stinking crowds. Me, George Clarke Junior, official translator to the condemned man after all … All right, one of two translators. So what if my oh-so-holy father claims me unreliable? Says he can finish the job himself … Ha! Finish the job: for a missionary he did a right job on Maketu’s final wishes this morning — making up the whole translation then kicking me out for challenging him …
So hot for March, sticky too. Black clouds will empty for sure, maybe they’ll hold until after … What’s that smell? Know it … My father, that’s it, after weeks on the road, spreading the good word among the natives. Foul. What do the natives make of him, the stinking George Clarke? But this is worse, much worse. Soap and water, not hard to find …
Heat, excitement, like a fever … Putrid the smell, coming from under long-coats. Something else too … Can’t be … What’s that in that basket? Meat? No! Still hot, steaming … A picnic at a hanging? Maybe. Quite something … The first execution, after all. A brand-new country, so why not? Do what we want,
can’t we, have a party! Meat … Hungry … Stomach aching … No … Something else … oh! No … Won’t be sick. Can’t be, can’t miss it …
Stop pushing! We can’t all be at the front. Behind me: push push … A woman? Can’t be. Hoops against my legs, yes, a woman, who? Won’t look … Guess … Ah, who cares … Doesn’t matter … Close, yes, go on, will you? Push harder, touch me. Lean back, can’t help it … Scent … Closer, nearly on top of me … ha! Won’t move … Fair excuse. God, I want — Father would thrash me, if he thought for one minute … Let him try … Forgets I’m seventeen, not a kid now. Give him one back if he does … Oh. Gone. Where are you, woman? Over there … there … let’s see who … you, from church, Mrs Hamilton. That hat, silly little feather arrangement on top of your head, bobs around, blocks my view of Father at the pulpit … Know it anywhere …
Children! Frederick and James, are those the names? Eight and six, maybe younger … She’s pushing them forward … Little mouths hanging open, staring up at the noose, whisper whisper … Let’s climb on it afterwards … we can play. Who can blame them —?
‘Look!’
It’s only that prosecutor, Brewer, pacing the steps up … Back down again. He’s counting them? … Trust you. Showing off to the crowd. Think you’re a hero, Brewer, don’t you … Seeing the convict right to the gallows … What are you doing there, anyway? You’ve been hanging around all day. No reason for it; you’re not the hangman, not the jailer either … Yes, I see you, Brewer and you see me too, don’t you … You see me clearly and by that scowl on your pompous face you’ve still not forgiven me … For what? Doing what my father should have done? For giving a true translation of Maketu’s words? You’re a pompous swine, Brewer. You can forbid my presence in the jail but —
‘Excuse me … could you let me through? Excuse me … I need to speak to that man.’