Pounamu Pounamu

One Summer Morning

His room is a small one. Four walls, a large wardrobe inset with a full-length mirror, a little desk littered with his schoolbooks, a bookcase, a single bed spread with a quilt his mother has made, and a chair with a clock on it. The alarm is set for half past five in the morning. In four minutes it will ring.

The boy is still asleep. The blankets are drawn around his neck so that no air can get in to disturb the warmth. His head is burrowed beneath the pillow and there is just a small opening for him to breathe through. He sleeps covered like this because last night was very cold. Also because now that it is summer, the sun slants earlier through his bedroom window and would shine full on his face if it were uncovered. Then he would wake up before he needed to, and half past five is early enough to have to wake up as it is.

But the morning draws relentlessly on. The sun pierces through the foliage of the lemon tree outside the boy’s window and makes the shadows of the branches and leaves leap and shiver and grow within the room. It lights up a pile of school clothes on the floor: cap, unpolished shoes, shorts, grey shirt and long socks. Then it pauses for a moment on the pencil marks on the wallpaper as if trying to rub them out. But they are indelible. A record, made by the boy, of how tall he has grown in the last five years. The topmost pencil line is very thick and almost cries out the boy’s despair at not having grown at all in the last few months. Obstinately it registers and insists that he is still five foot two and a quarter inches tall. No more, no less. He can comb his hair higher if he wants to or put on his thickest soled shoes, but he will still be only five foot two and a quarter inches tall and he may as well get used to it. Anyway, that’s tall enough for a thirteen-year-old boy isn’t it? The sun moves away but pauses again at an opened exercise book. English composition: a story about pirates, in large writing so that the page has been filled with the minimum of effort and imagination. On the opposite page, the previous week’s story has been commented on by the boy’s teacher: ‘Bears no relation to the subject set. No marks.’ As if embarrassed, the sun moves away, across the bed where the boy huddles. The hands of the clock tick tock, and then the shrill bell rings to rupture the boy from his dreams.

‘Go on then, you damn clock!’ the boy thinks beneath the pillows. ‘Ring until you’re all rung out and see if I care. You’re just fooling me, I know your tricks. Well I’m not budging. I’m not moving. It’s not time yet. And anyway, it’s too cold.’

The boy waits for the clock to stop but it grinds obstinately onward, a long incessant yell at him to wake up. He pretends not to hear, and finally the alarm begins to wind down, gives a few gurgles and bleats, and gives up. The boy is exultant, but then he hears three loud thumps on the wall and his father’s voice grumbling and loud, calling to him.

‘Hema! Hema, stop that clock.’

‘It’s off now, Dad!’ the boy yells back, pulling the pillow away from his head. He listens, alert, as his father settles back to sleep again. Then he slides his head back under the pillow.

But the clock cries for vengeance. It seems to the boy that it is ticking and tocking more loudly: you must get up, you must get up, there is work to do, there is work to do.

The boy mutters to himself. But the clock has won as it always does and ticks with satisfaction at the sight of one small arm creeping out from beneath the blankets to grope for and finger the old clothes lying on the floor. The hand picks up a singlet and underpants and ferries them beneath the blankets. The bed arches and squeaks in tumult and then subsides. The hand appears again. This time, a shirt disappears. Trousers are the next to go, followed by a thick jersey and socks. Each time, mutterings and cursings issue in muffled despair from the bed, and minor earthquakes heave. Finally, the tumult subsides. For a moment, there is silence. And then a cautious foot slides slowly out of the bed, the toes twitch, testing the temperature, point down like a divining rod searching for water, delicately touch the floor, rebound with the shock, touch the floor again and resignedly teeter there like a ballerina’s foot before lowering from toes to sole to heel. The other foot follows. And then the boy rises, still swathed by the blankets which now also cover his head, to sit there like a patchwork-quilted ghost.

Another day has begun. And like a beetle shuffling out of its protective cocoon, the blankets peel away and the boy appears.

With a groan, Hema lurches out of bed. He greets the morning with a yawn. Sleepily, he blunders down the passageway, thinking enviously of his two sisters who are still in bed.

‘Why do I have to be the only boy in the family?’ he grumbles to himself. ‘Why does everybody pick on me! Georgina should have been a boy too. It just isn’t fair!’

He passes his parents’ bedroom and glares accusingly at the locked door. His thoughts are very rebellious this morning. Just as well his father cannot read them, otherwise Hema would get a clip over the ear. But the thoughts are soon gone. His mind becomes a piece of machinery, the tumblers clicking and turning, and prompting him to the chores he has to do every morning.

‘First, light the stove,’ his mind directs. ‘What do you know! Georgina has actually done her job properly this time! The wood is all ready in the stove, but I bet you she’s used green kindling again. And what’s this? She’s ripped up one of your comics for paper! How would she like it if you ripped up one of her stink love magazines? Never mind. Light the stove. You’ve read that comic anyway. No, don’t use the kerosene to make the fire blaze, you know what your father said. No, don’t do it. Well, don’t blame me if he finds out. Now put the pots on to boil. One for the porridge and one for the tea. Good! Mum will be pleased with you this morning, eh.’

For a moment, Hema stands there, watching the wood burning. He turns his back to the stove so that his behind will get warm. But then the tumblers in his mind click again. Like an automaton, he obeys their orders.

Out onto the back porch he goes. His gumboots are waiting for him, cold and clammy. On they go! A quick wash at the basin in the bathroom. A bit of water here, a bit of water there, just enough to get the pikaro out of his eyes. Even that little wash makes him shiver. Quickly he grabs for the towel and rubs at his face, gasping and blowing and shivering, as if he’d just risen from the freezing Antarctic sea.

‘We’ve got electricity but how come the water’s always cold,’ he moans. ‘Our farm must be the only one in the world where the hot water is always cold. No hot water, no electric stove, no nothing! Jeez, this is supposed to be modern civilisation isn’t it? And here I am, still having to chop wood all the damn time. It isn’t fair.’

He grumbles bitterly to himself and thinks of his woes. A young boy like him, stuck out in the sticks while everybody else in the world must be having a good time in their flash city apartments and going on round-the-world cruises. And all those people, sipping at their champagne, they’ve probably never even heard of Waituhi. What a dump! But when he’s a man, ah, watch out world!

He looks up and sees himself in the square mirror above the wash basin. For a moment, he is entranced. Then he turns his head so that his best side is showing and beams a slow and careful smile.

‘Boy, you’re handsome!’ he whispers.

He winks. He makes his face stern. He cocks one eyebrow. Narrows his eyelids. Starts a slow, shy smile. Now a crooked one. Juts out his jaw. Turns to see his left profile. Aaargh! Another bloody pimple! Hastily turns to his best side again. Studies his hair just to make sure he hasn’t got dandruff. Then smiles again.

‘I’m a man, now,’ he tells the mirror.

‘Oh no you aren’t,’ the mirror replies in the voice of his mother.

‘Oh yes I am!’

‘Seeing is believing,’ the mirror responds. ‘I see it, but I don’t believe it. You still look like a kid to me.’

‘Don’t you call me a kid! I’m thirteen years old.’

‘But still a kid.’

‘Just you look at this!’ the boy yells. He thrusts his jaw at the mirror. ‘Can’t you see?’

‘What?’

‘My chin! Look at my chin!’

‘Where?’

‘The hair! Are you blind or something?’

‘What hair? Look boy. You’re only five foot two and a quarter inches tall and you better believe it. You’re still a kid and you better believe that too.’

‘So? I’m catching up to Dad anyway.’

‘Yeah, but you aren’t a man like he is.’

‘I am so too! Just look at these muscles.’

‘What muscles?’

‘And look at this chest.’

‘Sunken as it always has been. You’re still a kid, just as you’re still only five foot two and a quarter inches tall.’

‘Aaah, shut your mouth!’ the boy yells.

‘And the same to you, doubled,’ the mirror replies.

Hema turns away. A slow, triumphant smile spreads across his face. He turns back to the mirror.

‘You think you’re smart, don’t you!’ he leers. ‘Well, I am a man and I got proof. You want to see it?’

‘I know your proof, Hema,’ the mirror sniffs. ‘I don’t wanna see it and you better believe it. You’re too cocky, boy. Just because you’re sproutin’ hair all over the place, you’re still a kid.’

‘You’re always pickin’ on me!’

‘I’m just telling you the truth for your own sake, boy. And while I’m at it, you’re not so handsome as you think you are either. Your nose has got a bump in it and those lips! They’re not lips; they’re rubber tyres. You need a haircut. You got pimples and no amount of squeezing will get rid of them. And those teeth!’

But Hema has had enough. He walks away and goes down the steps to the wash-house where the milk bucket is kept. A firm grip round the cold handle and away he shuffles, head down, in the direction of the cow bail.

‘Pick, pick, pick, everybody picks on me,’ he mumbles to himself. ‘They all tell me I’m still a kid, but I know I’m a man. Why can’t everybody treat me like a man? Always pickin’ on me.’

He mumbles all the way down the path, and the steam of his breath in the cold air is like smoke from a hard chuffing train. Still moaning, he comes within smelling distance of the outhouse toilet, suspends his angry thoughts and breath, hurries past, and almost disappears in steam as his thoughts and breath boil out again.

Clank, clank, clank goes the bucket as it swings against Hema’s legs.

‘Shut up, won’t you!’ he yells.

A fantail skips from a manuka and flits in cheekiness around him. He shoots it with his angry eyes.

And then, as he is approaching the gate from the house, he almost trips over a big clod of dirt.

‘Why don’t you look where you’re going! Everybody picks on me.’

Everybody.

Even the latch on the gate is against him this morning. The frost has made it stiff and unwieldy.

‘You bloody latch,’ Hema swears. ‘Move, you f.b. so and so. What the hell is wrong with you! You son of a bitch, you stinkin’ f.c. of a b.b.!’

Suddenly, he lights on the right combination of words. The gate swings grandly open, and Hema stalks along the edge of the pine trees toward the cow bail. The ground is littered with pine needles and pine cones. Hema picks one up and throws it in the direction of the house. A loud explosion reverberates through the trees. Branches break, trees shatter and fall. Thoroughly satisfied, Hema turns again toward his destination. That’ll show the so and sos! That’ll teach them to pick on him!

He is in a better mood now and doesn’t even kick the bucket with his fury when he discovers Queenie and Red aren’t waiting for him at the cow bail. Mind you, they’ll both suffer for this show of disregard for their lord and master. He’ll pull their teats so hard they’ll never forget it! They’ll just have to be taught that he’s not a boy any longer. He’s a man and has been one for a whole two weeks now. Watch out, world! Hema Tipene is a man now! And why? Why has he become a man all of sudden? Because two weeks ago, two marvellous weeks ago, he, Hema Tipene, discovered sex.

‘Tom, how do babies come?’

‘Don’t you know, Hema?’

‘Course I do! I only wanted to know if you knew.’

‘Don’t tell lies! You don’t know at all, Hema. Own up and tell the truth.’

‘I know a little.’

‘Hasn’t your Dad told you, Hema?’

‘A bit. I think he thinks I know already. I don’t want to ask him because he’ll think I’m dumb. But you’re my cousin and you’re eleven and I’m ten and I thought you should know and, well, I thought, I thought you could, you could …’

‘So you’re curious eh, cuz? Well, I’ll tell you. You see, there’s this stork and …’

‘Don’t make fun of me!’

‘So you really want to know, Hema. Okay. A man and a woman sleep together and they make a baby.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Well not exactly. They do “it”.’

‘What’s that?’

‘“It”! You know. “It”! Jeez you’re dumb! He uses his thing!’

‘But that’s rude! You’re lying.’

‘Well don’t believe me then. Go and ask your Dad.’

‘Dad wouldn’t do that!’

‘You wanna bet? That’s how you got here. Haven’t you ever heard of “it” before?’

‘Course! But I never thought that babies came that way. That’s rude.’

‘No it isn’t, cuz. It’s sweet.’

‘How do you know!’

‘I’ve done it.’

‘You teka.’

‘All right then, don’t believe me.’

‘I won’t.’

‘All right then.’

‘I still don’t believe you.’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘I don’t, you know.’

‘Okay! Quit it! You make me sick.’

‘I still don’t believe you. Who did you do it with?’

‘Somebody.’

‘Somebody who?’

‘Just somebody! I’m not going to tell you; you got a big mouth!’

‘I won’t tell. True I won’t. Where did you do it?’

‘In the bushes.’

‘The bushes where?’

‘Just in the bushes! Jeez, go to sleep won’t you!’

‘And you’re sure that babies are made by doing it? You know, with your thing?’

‘Aaargh, go to sleep.’

‘I’d never have believed it. I don’t believe it! But how does it work?’

‘You really want to know, Hema?’

‘Course I do. And you should know because you’ve done it.’

‘There’s nothing to it really! You just lie there and heave and snort and that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘But why doesn’t the woman heave and snort all by herself then?’

‘It’s better when you both heave and snort together.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s fun, Hema.’

‘It’s still rude. Are you sure you did it properly?’

‘I think so. It was fun, and Anita, she said it was fun.’

‘You did it with that ugly thing!’

‘She’s not so ugly. Anyway it was dark so I pretended she was somebody else.’

‘Eeee!’

‘She called me her darling.’

‘But tell me, what happens?’

‘Hmmmnnn. Um, it just happens, that’s all!’

‘You don’t know at all!’

‘Course! It happens when you’re about thirteen or older. Then you’re a man.’

‘What happens?’

‘You become a man that’s all! Jeez, I wish you’d stop asking these dumb questions.’

‘But then, how come … the baby?’

‘The girl gets hapu, Hema. A big puku.’

‘And the baby, where does it come out?’

‘Haven’t you seen cows having calves, Hema? The baby comes out like that!’

‘True?’

‘True. So now you know.’

‘Yeah. Now I know. But are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Are you sure you’re sure?’

‘Jeez, go to sleep won’t you!’

‘I still don’t believe you did it with Anita.’

‘Aaaaargh! Don’t believe me then.’

‘You didn’t, did you!’

‘Go to sleep!’

‘I’m going to ask her tomorrow.’

‘All right then, I didn’t!’

‘I knew! I knew you were a liar! I don’t believe anything you’ve said.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud.’

‘But when did you say it happens, Tom? When you become a man? When you’re about thirteen? Boy, I can’t wait! But are you sure?’

‘Go to sleep! Go to sleep! If you don’t go to sleep, I’ll give you a bloody hiding! Leave me alone. Please, Hema, leave me alone!’

‘Okay. When I’m thirteen, right? Three years to go. What a long time to wait. What a long long long time.’

Looking back, Hema realises that three years wasn’t so long to wait after all. In comparison the eight years to come before he is twenty-one seem a dismally long way off. Once, he used to look forward to the time he was thirteen. He is thirteen now and a man. But now he’s got to wait until he’s twenty-one, because then he’ll be his own boss. It’s not much good being a man when you’re not your own boss. It just isn’t fair! But who knows, eight years may sneak past him without his knowing it! Somebody might even invent a time machine and he’ll be able to take a short cut to twenty-one. That would be just neat.

For the time being though, he decides to relish the idea of being thirteen and the tremendous thing which has happened to his body. For just two weeks ago, two fantastic weeks ago, his body coughed and wheezed and exploded into manhood and a little voice said in his mind:

‘Well, Hema, you’re not a kid any more.’

Mind you, the signs had crept up on him long before then. His shoulders started to broaden and his legs began to thicken out. Hairs began to appear in the most odd places, short and curly, and he used to look down at them and say:

‘Shake it up, won’t you!’

But the tiny tufts just sniffed back.

‘Just wait your hurry, Hema Tipene!’ they seemed to say.

However, Hema didn’t want to wait. His friends’ voices seemed to be breaking all over the place, but his was still like a squeaky kid’s. So he took up sneaking smokes from his Dad’s packet, because that was supposed to make your voice low and sexy. But then somebody told him that smoking stunted your growth so he gave it up. Oh, the agony of being only five foot two and a quarter inches tall! Everybody else was taller than he was and he was going to be a dwarf for the rest of his life. Worse still, he wouldn’t be able to get a girl and what use would it be if he was a man then? He used to lie in bed and be haunted with dreams of himself sitting on the beach while all those beautiful girls wandered past him on their way to ogle a six-foot giant striking poses with his huge biceps and leopard-skin togs. And the next morning, he would rush to the wall and measure his height again.

‘Five foot two and a quarter inches,’ the wall would intone. ‘No more, no less. And it’s no use standing on your toes, Hema!’

It just wasn’t fair. Why was he stuck with short parents? It was all their fault. Poor Hema, he would sulk all day.

‘What’s wrong with you now, son?’ his father would ask.

And Hema would draw his breath, expel it, and blow his father to smithereens. After a while, he would calm down and a steely glint would appear in his eyes. Even if he was going to be short, he’d show those girls a thing or two. After all, being tall wasn’t everything. You had to have powerhouse thighs, and he did, staying power which he definitely would have, and the last time he had measured his thing, it had almost driven him into fits of grateful hysteria.

And still the signs of his approaching manhood kept coming. Hundreds of people surely, had said to him:

‘Pae kare, you’ve grown in the last few years! Is this really that little boy we knew before? Hey, you’ll be busting out of your pants soon!’

Such remarks used to make him strut like a rooster and more determined to keep on wearing his tight school shorts to accentuate the obvious. He just loved hearing his relatives talk about him! He wasn’t so keen though, if they said he looked like his father (Dad was ugly!) or like his mother (With her big nose? Not likely!), but he didn’t mind when they said he was going to take after the Tipene side of the family. The Tipenes were renowned for being tall and also for their prolific breeding, legal or otherwise.

The trouble was, that only visitors to the family seemed to notice the changes in him. Homage wasn’t at all forthcoming from his own family. There was the time when Uncle Frank had commented on Hema’s fuzz and had said he better start shaving. All that day, Hema had gone around the house with his head cocked to one side, hoping that his father would see and take the hint. But Dad was as blind as a bat. And Georgina had said:

‘Have you got a stiff neck, Hema?’

He could have throttled her on the spot. His big sister was always spoiling things. Nobody would ever marry her! She was going to be a spinster and a good job too.

His family was hopeless! All they wanted to do was keep him in short pants for the rest of his life. That had been another source of friction between himself and his father. He’d first asked his father to buy him longs when he was eleven. And here he was, thirteen years old now, and his knees were still exposed. What had Dad said?

‘When you’ve got something to hide, Hema, then you can have long pants.’

What a dumb father. Couldn’t he see? It just wasn’t fair. All the other boys at school had long pants which they paraded around in at the pictures and dances. Yet he still had to sneak round in shorts. They made him look like a kid, even with the obvious! No wonder he hadn’t had much success with the girls.

Hema sighs to himself. Nobody understands him, nobody sympathises with him. He’ll just have to make a stand against his father. Have a showdown with him. Give me some long pants, Dad, or else! After all, he’s a man now, and has been one for two whole weeks. Yes, he’ll just have to make a stand.

‘You and me have bin a long time together, Pardner, but this is where we go our separate ways,’ he will say.

He levels a glance at his father, sitting on the other side of the card table in the Last Chance Saloon. The other drinkers scatter to the sides and the piano roll stops rolling. Somebody whispers, ‘Get the sheriff!’

‘Are you gonna give me those long pants?’ he continues.

‘Nope.’

‘You’re sure about that, Pardner?’

‘Yup.’

The silence thickens. Blondie, the dancehall girl, screams:

‘Don’t do it, Kid!’

He cocks his eyebrow at her and aims a well-directed spit at the spittoon.

‘Don’t you worry about me, honey. Me and this here hombre have some unfinished business to attend to. Shall we mosey outside then, Pardner?’

‘Yup.’

The street is dusty. The sidewalk empties of people. Out onto the street he and his Pardner go, spurs jingling while the sun shines at high noon. He turns and faces his Pardner. Regret shows on his face.

‘You ain’t changed your mind about them pants, Pardner?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then draw!’

His draw is lightning quick. Two guns spurt lead. He is hit in the shoulder. But it is his Pardner who falls. The smell of cordite drifts across the street. A woman screams, ‘Murderer!’ But he, the Kid, just blows at his revolver, spins it twice before slipping it in the holster, and then walks over to the still body.

‘Why’d ya make me do it, Pardner? Why didn’t ya just give me my pants?’

And he weeps there while a lone voice sings and violins play a Western song …

Yup. It’ll have to be done, Hema decides. Man to man. A showdown with his father. Regrettable but necessary. For he, Hema Tipene, received the final proof of his manhood two weeks ago.

When it happened, it was a shock to Hema, but afterwards, he had been delighted. The dreams had started coming a little before that time, composed of one part actual knowledge and six parts imagination. Whatever he knew about sex from paperback books, toilet walls, discussions with friends and accidental sightings of girls down at the river made up the structure of the dreams. His imagination filled in the gaps, liberally and with an appalling disregard for the practicalities of the matter. When he awoke from these dreams he was stiff and sweating and he used to moan to himself:

‘Hurry up won’t you!’

Naturally, he wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, but Dad used to think it great fun to yell from the other side of the wall:

‘Who you talking to in there, Hema!’

Then Hema would hear his father and mother giggling and that put him in a rage. He’d pretend the sheet was his Dad and start boxing with it. Take that and take that you b.b. so and so, he would mutter. He’d kick with his legs and twist and turn, then start to panic because the sheet was strangling him. So he would give one mighty uppercut and dispatch his father forthwith. Trying to be funny, huh? That’ll show him!

The waiting was the worst part. Sometimes he tried to will it to happen, but he gave that up quickly because he started to worry.

‘Oh, gosh! What happens if I’m sterile?!’

The utter horror of such a thought. Doomed to a life as a eunuch. The living death. Or wandering through a world where everybody is having fun and he, poor lad, is unable to participate. Oh, misery!

At such times of stress, he, Hema Tipene, often performed an act which would have earned the scorn of his school friends had they seen him. He pulled down the blinds, knelt down, looked round just to make sure nobody could see him, made a house with his hands and …

‘Our Father, which art in Heaven,’ he would begin.

But even He seemed to be deaf, just like Dad. That was the trouble with older people: deaf, dumb, blind and mean! Think they own the world do they? Well, they better watch out for Hema Tipene!

And then all of a sudden, the long awaited event happened. On a Wednesday night (happy night!) it was, after the witching hour of midnight. He went to bed after having done his English and Maths and General Science homework in the usual five minutes, turned the lamp down and hadn’t even given a thought to sex. Then the dream fell around him: a Bacchanalian delight obviously derived from a Roman epic movie he’d seen the weekend before. He, of course, was the dissolute emperor, munching on a bunch of grapes, his other six hands each around nubile slavewomen. A voice whispered in his ear. It was Claudia. She kissed his chest and the sweetness began. Softly. Unfolding. He the giver of sweetness and yet being given it. Participator and also spectator. Until with a shout, he brought the walls of Jericho tumbling down.

And he awoke, startled with joy, peered closely at the sheets for the final proof that his manhood had come at last. Jeez! Gosh!

He lay back in the bed and sighed. He was all right. He wasn’t sterile. It had happened at last. And even though he was only five foot two and a quarter inches tall, he didn’t care. Napoleon was short too! Tomorrow, he’d have to take a bath. What about the sheets? That’s Mum’s worry. Tonight, he was finally a man. Surprise, surprise, surprise.

His heart was thundering with relief and happiness. An owl hooted:

‘Happy birthday!’

An opossum snarled its congratulations. The moon winked knowingly as it passed above a dark cloud. And it just felt so great to be alive and able! He sighed again and thought of the Claudia of his dreams.

‘Oh, Claudia,’ he whispered happily, ‘peel me another grape.’

The morning sun shafts between the pine trees. Hema is standing beside the cow bail, shivering in the morning cold. His breath is hissing steam from his impatient nostrils. He has been waiting and waiting and still those blankety blank cows haven’t come. And he has called and called and his echo has cracked the silence of the hills far away. He calls again.

‘Queeeeeeennniieee. Rrrreeeeeddddd!’

Where are they! They should know by now that their lord and master demands their presence. Just wait till he gets them, just wait. He’ll make them run all the way to the cow bail and they won’t get any hay after he’s finished milking them either. They’ll be sorry!

Cursing to himself, Hema puts the milk bucket down and goes off in search of the disobedient cows. It is a dismal prospect because the paddock is a big one with two great humps in the middle and a steep incline to a patch of willow trees at one end. There are so many blind spots in the paddock too, and this means he’ll have to go up into them to look for the cows. Gosh, his father was dumb putting a cow bail in this paddock. Just because he didn’t have to do the milking every day. The pain of it!

Hema begins walking along the fenceline. Some of the battens are rotten and he kicks one to show his displeasure. Oh hell! It’s fallen off! He picks it up and wedges it against the fence, otherwise Dad might get him to nail the whole fence up properly. It wasn’t fair. It was always, Hema do this and Hema do that. Why wasn’t Georgina a boy too? All she did was the cooking now and then and maybe washing the dishes. And even though he was two years younger than she was, he had to milk the cows, light the fire in the morning, feed the dogs and Mum’s stupid fowls, chop the wood and millions of other things! But now that he’s a man, aha, things are going to change around here. He’ll soon crack that whip! And Georgina putting on all those airs as if she was a lady. Huh! She’s as much a lady as her b. behind, and that’s being charitable. He’ll fix her.

‘Georgina!’

‘Yes, Master?’

‘Get my kai, chop some wood, press my pants, comb my hair, make my bed, shine my shoes, cut my lunch, and then come here and kiss my … You dogs just shut up!’ he yells.

Hema has come to one corner of the seven-sided field and the dogs have started to howl and bark from the direction of the shearing shed. They rattle at their chains, hoping that Hema has brought them their breakfast. But he ain’t no servant to dogs neither! The dogs begin to howl more loudly and Hema answers them. He lifts his throat into the morning air and …

‘Oooowwwwwuuuuu,’ he yodels.

The dogs rejoin in chorus, and for a few minutes boy and dogs embark on a cacophonic symphony of excruciating power. The melody screams through the air, is counter-pointed, floridly embellished with little barks and grunts and small squealed appoggiaturi from the pups, and then soars again. Then Hema laughs. He turns to the dogs and wiggles his behind. Stupid dogs! They’ll just have to wait. Everybody will have to wait now that he’s a man! He sniffs disdainfully, delicately skirts two large cow pats, puts his nose in the air and his foot in a third.

‘Aaargh!’

He retreats and a steely gleam issues from his diamond-hard eyes. Vengeance will be his, because he is the Lord. Just wait until he gets Queenie and Red. He’ll teach them not to leave their deposits all over the place.

With renewed purpose, Hema continues to follow the fenceline as it zigs and zags back towards the house. He climbs the first incline and is gasping and chuffing for air when he finally reaches the top. He moans: does his father think he’s a train? Fancy making this paddock the one for the cows! He looks to the front of him and looks to the back of him. He looks to all sides too. Queenie and Red are nowhere to be seen. Misery. That means they must be on the other side of the next hump, dang and blast it. He starts to walk in that direction when suddenly, he hears wild geese cackling overhead. He looks up and sees them, arrowing sharply through the bright cloudless morning. So beautiful they are, and they have all the sky as their dominion. Breathless with wonder and happiness, he watches them until they are like feathers falling over the pine trees and farmhouse, falling, falling, then gone. And with their going, he feels strangely sad. It is good to be a man, but how wonderful it has been to be just a kid! He looks down upon the farm and the house and caresses them with his memory.

To the left of him is the house. It is still and quiet and the smoke from the chimney is soft and grey. Is his mother up yet? From here, he can see the kitchen window.

And from here he can remember …

Our farm isn’t flash, but we’re lucky to have it. It’s one of the ‘pieces of broken biscuit’ that were left to our tribe after most of our land was taken in the land wars. Dad’s mother, Nani Miro, paid the rates on it until she died to make sure it stayed in the family. We still miss her.

The roof of our house needs painting again, but Dad will leave it as he always does for ‘next year’. The guttering needs fixing too. There were bees in the roof last summer. Dad tried to get rid of them but almost burnt the house down. The bees are still there and will probably stay until the house falls down. It doesn’t hurt when they sting. In the winter when it was cold, the bees liked to drop through the cracks in the ceiling and crawl into warm places such as the beds. Georgina didn’t like that. But bees don’t hurt when they sting. Old Bulla, the roadman, used to catch them with his hands, he wasn’t afraid! They’re only a nuisance in the summer when the grapes and the fruit trees are ripe. Last summer the grapes were purple-sweet and the bees soared all over the place in drunken delight.

Behind the house is the woodshed, the wash-house, Dad’s tool shed and a few other sheds that aren’t used. Mum has to wash the clothes by hand. Until Dad finally built the bathroom, all us kids were washed in the copper. In one of the unused sheds is a big stack of old newspapers and some of them have reports on the Second World War and King George’s England. One of the wild cats had her kittens in there, right on top of King George! That cat was just plain careless. She had a lot of kittens, but they went wild too. They would only come to Hine, my younger sister, and used to follow her as if she were their mother.

Next to the sheds is the vegetable garden. Mum got sick of waiting for Dad to build a fence around it so she did it herself. Before that, Bluey and Stupid, who are two of our horses, used to eat all Mum’s cabbages. Stupid could eat anything! He used to come to the kitchen window and we would throw him the potato peelings and our kai if we didn’t like it. The hens would come to the window too. And then we got Porky, our pig, and he used to join the hens and Stupid and snuffle around for the kai. Actually, Porky turned out to be a she and had some piglets.

The house is on a small rise, and beyond it is the garage for the truck, and the fowlhouse. We had ducks once too, but the dogs got at them, worrying them. Most of them died. Dad asked me if I’d like to rear some more, because the ducks belonged to me. I couldn’t.

There were lots of fruit trees here, but most were chopped down by Dad when we moved onto the farm. The house was almost choked of light before. There are still lots of trees: lemon, orange, fig, plum, nectarine and even a loquat tree. The loquat tree bore fruit for the first time last summer. The trees all need pruning, but as usual, Dad says he’ll do it ‘next year’.

Beside the house, but a bit higher on the rise, is a huge outspreading walnut tree. Mum is afraid of that walnut tree, but she likes walnuts. Every winter, it creaks and sways and the wind tears the older branches away and flings them at the house. For a long time, Mum has been trying to get Dad to cut the tree down. Not ‘Next year’, but ‘Now’! However, every time he says he will, then she changes her mind. If you cut it down, she says, it might fall on the house. Let it stand. First she’s scared that it might fall down in the high wind, and then she’s scared to have it chopped down. But then, perhaps she knows as I do about the opossum in that tree. He was there before we came, and he will probably stay there until the tree finally does fall down. We don’t have guns in our house. Dad doesn’t like shooting things.

In the front of the house and to one side, is the tennis court. We used to play tennis lots until we got tired of mowing the court. We only had a cranky push mower, and there were already enough lawns to mow. We’re not rich.

Right in front is a big lawn. Mum used to grow flowers there until she finally decided that there were enough wild ones around to make the house beautiful. Everything grows wild now. The leaves from the trees fall in autumn. The grass grows wild beneath the trees. The flowers wither in winter. Fruit falls and remains to rot on the ground. And yet, everything is right somehow. The soil is nurtured by the fallen leaves and fruit, the grass tufts up to be eaten by the sheep and horses, and although the flowers die they come up again, the next year. There is some strange purpose here which does not need our help. We have beauty without cultivating it.

The lawn ends at a small stream which flows around the contours of the rise upon which the house stands. There is a footbridge over it and a path leading to the road where the mailbox stands.

Last summer, there were frogs in the stream.

To the right of the house, there is a small plantation which is always boggy because of the water from the stream. Where the ground is drier, a tall stand of pine trees grows. We used to drag sugar bags around with us and fill them with pine cones for the fire. One night, as we were watching from the back verandah, the moon came so low that it was suddenly caught by the leaves of two cabbage trees which were standing side by side, like two hands clasping at the moon. Georgina found a nest of baby stoats underneath the pine trees one day. We took them back to the house, but Dad made us return them before the mother stoat got wild with us. At the end of the pine trees, is the cow bail.

The shearing shed and yards are beyond the plantation. That’s where all the hard work is done: the shearing, docking, dipping, pressing wool, machinery repairs, creosoting the battens, carpentry … and the paint is blistering from the roof just as if it is sweating with the hard work too. There are four stands for the shearers and mostly Dad and his brothers shear our sheep. Dad’s a gun shearer! He has the number one stand. When it is the shearing time, we saddle the horses and go out mustering the sheep. Sometimes Mum comes too on Gypsy. When Hine was a baby, Mum used to wrap her in a blanket and swing her over her back. It is hard work mustering. The sheep are dumb. The dogs are too, and chase the sheep all over the place except to where they’re supposed to be shepherded. The biggest problem is getting the sheep across the river. The farm, you see, is divided in two by the river with the farmhouse and shearing shed on one side and the rest of the farm on the other. There is a narrow track joining the two parts and it descends steeply from the other side down to a swing bridge across the river, then rises steeply up to where the shearing shed is. Sometimes, when the sheep are really dumb, it takes a whole day to get them across the swing bridge. That’s when Mum comes down and Georgina too, to lend a hand. It really makes you sweat! So sometimes we have a swim in the river to cool off. But that’s not the end of it all, oh no. The sheep have to be put through the race at the yards next to the shearing shed. That’s where the ewes and hoggets and lambs are separated for the shearing. Then when the shearers come, Dad starts the old engine in the shed; it coughs into life and provides the power for the shearers’ handpieces. Shearing the sheep takes a long time. Mum, Georgina, my uncles’ wives and my girl cousins do all the fleeco work and sweep the board. I am the sheepo, and sometimes Hine helps me. My bigger boy cousins do the pressing because I’m not strong enough. Soon I will be! It is a good life.

When the shearing is finished and everybody leaves, it makes you feel a bit lonely. Not for long though, because there’s still a lot to do! The sheep have to be taken back across the river and the odds and ends tied up at the shed. Later the big trucks come to take away the bales of wool.

Sometimes, for a holiday, the whole family goes out scrub cutting. There is a lot of scrub on our farm and we use hooks and axes to cut it down. We stay in a small hut on the other side of the river. In the morning, Mum cooks breakfast, then we all hop on our horses and go to attack the scrub. Mum, Dad, Georgina and I cut the scrub. Hine piles it in heaps. Then Dad sets fire to it and the smoke billows thickly across the hills. At smoko time, Mum puts the billy on. It’s a lot of fun.

In the docking season, it is fun too. The tails of the lambs have to be cut off or else they get dags. When we were young, us kids used to trail behind Dad and as soon as the tails dropped off the lambs, we would grab them and grill them over an open fire, then scrape away the burnt wool and eat the tails. Neat, boy!

And always at night time, we would come to the farmhouse. It is very big for our small family. There are four bedrooms, a huge kitchen, a pantry, and a long sitting room with a big open fire. In winter, Mum and Dad bring their bed into the sitting room and sleep beside the fire. We have a lot of books including a whole set of encyclopaedias that a salesman sold us. We have Chinese Checkers too. No television though. But we’re so busy, I suppose we wouldn’t have time to look at television anyway. In winter, it is good to play in the sitting room while Mum and Dad are in bed. You can watch the fire leaping in the grate if you’re bored. The fire leaps and curls and crackles and sometimes it sizzles when the rain falls down the chimney.

Then, when Mum and Dad are tired and want a moe, they send us to bed. So we each take a lamp to our rooms and they make beautiful golden patterns on the wallpaper.

This place is where I, Hema Tipene, have lived all my years as a kid. It has been a happy time. Now that I am a man, I am sorry to leave those times behind.

He sighs, this boy, as he looks down upon the farm.

If it has to be, he thinks, it just has to be! Who knows? I might have better times now that I’m a man. Watch out, world!

Hema turns to look for the cows again, but suddenly he hears the back door of the house slamming shut. He looks down and an impish gleam lights his eyes. He sees a figure, her hair still in curlers, putting on her gumboots and shuffling down to the outhouse and shivering beneath her brunch coat. It is Georgina, the queen of the house, off to sit on her throne. And from where he is standing, Hema can see right inside! He chuckles to himself. He’ll fix her! Jeez, she looks ugly. If only her boyfriends could see her now. He waits and watches. Georgina opens the door, bends down to inspect the throne, then turns around, gives her behind a few wiggles, arranges herself comfortably on the seat, sighs and stares uninterestedly around her. As usual, she does not close the door, just sits there in all her radiant beauty. And Hema cups his hands to his mouth and calls:

‘I can seeeeeeee yoooouuuuu!’

And Georgina’s shriek of fright rends the air.

‘Who’s there! Who’s watching! Go away!’

She starts to call for her father. Then she sees Hema dancing and doubled up with laughter. He is thinking: perhaps she wet her pants!

‘Just wait till I get you, Hema Tipene!’ Georgina screams. ‘Just wait! I’m going to tell Dad that you’re spying on me!’

She lifts herself up carefully and grabs at the door to pull it closed. Her voice still booms out from behind it.

‘Don’t think you can get away with it either, you little bugger! I’ll get you when you get back! I’m going to tell Mum and Dad too, and Dad will give you a good hiding, you little shit.’

But Hema is too busy chortling to himself to listen. Serves her right. That’ll teach her! Ana!

In a much better mood now, he walks down the incline, pants up the second hump and spies Queenie and Red. They are sitting under the willow trees, right up in the highest part of the paddock. Furious again, Hema steams down the hump and stands at the bottom. He points his finger at the ground, looks up at the cows and disappears in fire and brimstone.

‘You fellas just come down here right this minute! Queenie?! Red?! You hear me up there? If you think I’m coming all the way up there, you better think again. Now hurry up, I haven’t got all day! Didn’t you hear me you effing-blasted-bloody soand-so cows?! Come down here this minute! Queenie! Red!’

‘Mooooooo,’ Queenie says.

Red just sniffs, licks at her nostrils and continues chewing her cud. Whoever is that little boy down there hopping around?

‘Pae kare, you fellas!’ Hema yells. ‘See this stick? Well I’m coming up there and I’m going to lay into both of you. Just you wait. Just you wait!’

Swearing to himself, Hema pulls at the grass and climbs up one side of the steep hill. Everybody is picking on him today. Everything is against him. It just isn’t fair! And those cows, they’ll soon see who’s the boss! He’ll slap their haunches and tie their tails in knots and they’ll be sorry. He finally gets to the top, opens his mouth to scream at the cows …

But they are gone. He looks around and is just in time to see two brown behinds swaying saucily over the first hump.

Misery. Oh gosh, all this way for nothing. Why was he ever born?

Utterly dejected now, Hema wanders back after the cows. Down the hill, up the hump and down the hump, up the rise and down the rise, and along the line of pines to the cow bail where Queenie and Red are waiting. He stares at them for a moment with a hurt expression in his eyes. And they stare back with their wide innocent eyes.

‘You fellas are mean to me,’ Hema tells them.

‘We’re not going to be yelled and screamed at,’ the cows seem to say.

‘I didn’t mean all those things,’ Hema sniffs. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you fellas. Tomorrow, you be good and be here waiting for me, eh?’

The cows lower their heads. Hema pats Queenie first, and she sways into the cow bail, while Red wanders off to chew the time away before it is her turn. In the bail, Hema sits on the stool, greases Queenie’s udder, puts the bucket between his knees, snuggles his head into Queenie’s belly, and begins to pull gently on her teats. The back two first. Then the front two afterward. The milk spurts rapidly into the bucket, warm and frothy. And as Hema milks the cow, he talks to her. His eyes glaze over, his dejection falls away and he sighs:

‘Oh, Queenie! I’m a man now.’

‘Hey boys! I’ve got a juicy book here!’

‘Where!’

It is lunchtime at school and Hema has joined some of his mates under a tree where they are shaded from the sun. Fats Matenga has wobbled over, bearing a paperback in his quivering hands.

‘Giz a look, Fats.’

‘Hold your horses, boys! Hey, lay off, Jackie, it’s my book.’

‘Cut the noise, Fats! One of the teachers might hear you. Jeez you make a noise and a half. Where are the good bits!’

‘Good one on page … ah, here we are! Gather around me, boys, and listen to this!’

… James Able stopped at the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and suddenly, he froze. Someone had been here. He could tell, because his Secret Agent eyes had discerned faint fingerprints on the polished brass. As quick as a flash he dropped on his knees and withdrew his Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster. He listened, his well-oiled body keen for action. Somebody was in the room! Who could it be? Maybe it was the Spider, mastermind of the Alpha Operation which he’d come to investigate. His body tensed. His handsome face became cruel and savage. He patted at his hair, wrenched the door open and threw himself in.

‘Oh James!’ a voice cried.

It was beautiful blonde Natasha, standing next to the big double bed. James Able ran his eyes over her long, sleek body. She was wearing a see-through negligee, and what he saw, he liked. Underneath, she was naked …

‘Jeez!’

‘Don’t stop, Fats! Hurry up!’

‘Okay, okay!’

… James Able walked purposefully over to the girl, cowering and panting to herself. He gripped her by the shoulders and she screamed.

‘What are you doing here, Natasha?’ he asked dangerously.

‘You’re hurting me, James!’ she answered, biting her beautiful and luscious lips.

‘Tell me!’ James Able insisted.

Natasha leant against him and he could feel her warm ripe body against his. She was wearing ‘Dangerous Desire’ perfume.

‘The Spider sent me here to kill you,’ Natasha sobbed. ‘I’m a Russian spy.’

James Able recoiled with horror. ‘Not you, Natasha! I trusted you!’

‘Yes, James!’ Natasha wept. ‘But I couldn’t do it. You see, I love you. Oh, James, James, James, James …’ she whispered over and over again.

‘You know what this means?’ James Able whispered.

‘Yes, James,’ Natasha nodded. ‘You must kill me.’ And she ripped off her negligee. ‘Kill me quick!’

She stood there, naked.

The sight of her blinding beauty made James Able sick …

‘Hang on, boys. I have to turn the page.’

… of his mission.

‘I can’t do it, Natasha,’ he said. He stepped up to her, looked down into her violet eyes, and kissed her brutally on the mouth. She went limp against him.

‘Oh, James, James, James, James’, she whispered over and over again. ‘You’re hurting me, James! It’s so big! I can feel it protruding.’

James Able threw away his Smith and Wesson.

‘That’s better,’ Natasha the Russian spy sighed. She pressed his head against her breasts and moaned as he kissed them. Then James Able picked her up in his muscled arms and carried her over to the big double bed. He was raging with desire. Natasha reached up and began unbuttoning his tailor-made shirt. He shuddered as her cold hands caressed his manly chest. Her fingers came lower and lower and began unbuttoning his trousers …

‘Jeez.’

‘Don’t stop, Fats!’

… and he felt her well-manicured fingers caressing his thighs.

‘Oh, James,’ Natasha whispered. ‘Why do you need a gun?’

‘Quick, turn the page!’ … The next day, James Able awoke and Natasha was gone. He got up, showered, put his shoulder holster on and …

‘Hang on, Fats. What happened in between?’

‘Yeah! What happened?’

‘That’s all, boys.’

‘That’s all? You mean there’s no more? Scrag him!’

‘Hold on, boys! Hold on! Jeez, can’t you fellas use a bit of imagination!’

‘Aah, let him go, fellas,’ Jackie Smith says. He gives Fats a shove to send him on his way. ‘These Intermediate kids!’ Jackie laughs.

‘Yeah.’

The group laugh with one another. Then Jackie, the big man of the school, signs for attention.

‘Listen boys. Here’s a story for you, and this is for real. Me and Sam here were down at the river last weekend.’

‘Yeah, that’s right! We were too, and we saw …’

‘Who’s telling this story, Sam? You or me!’

‘Sorry, Jackie.’

And the story begins, with the boys sitting rapt, beneath the willow trees at school.

At thirteen, Hema Tipene knows all there is to know about sex. He has been well grounded in the theory of the matter and is looking forward to the time when he can put his fantastic knowledge into practice. His thoughts are healthy even if they are slightly colourful, and are certainly not dirty. Sex is so much a part of adult life, and now that he is a man, it seems only natural to know all there is on the subject. It must be important, mustn’t it? Why else would girls and boys go through puberty! There must be some purpose to that great rupture in a boy’s life. What use is it, if you don’t take advantage of the possibilities it grants you. With such a gift, you could rule the world.

And so Hema waits, with brimming excitement. He’d be the last to say he had a one-track mind, and it wouldn’t be ‘dirt track’ either. No, he is just curious. After having lived thirteen years ignorant of sex, he has finally discovered it. His expectations are a little too hopeful, poor boy. Like his heroes of fiction, he expects to smile at his heroine on page three and bed her on page four. He disdains the idea that it can be more difficult than that. He has a lot to learn about the whole absurd business of courtship and the crafty wiles of women. The next few years will burn him to a frazzle and he will emerge from his campaigns utterly exhausted and empty-handed. At the moment, however, he feels very optimistic. Even if he is only five foot two and a quarter inches tall, he is handsome (in his own estimation), sexy and best of all, available. He’s not getting married in a hurry! And there must be thousands of girls just waiting to get at him!

‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’

‘Oh, he’s so handsome!’

‘I must make him mine.’

‘Oh, those sexy legs. Those eyes. Those lovely rubber lips. Mmmmm. Those feet, those toenails, those muscles, those hips. Mmmm, do what you wish with us, Lord!’

Hema gives a delicious sigh. It’s all going to be so very, very easy. And he will stride manfully past those entreating figures, pointing his finger at each one and mumbling:

‘Eeny, meeny, miney, mo.’

Yes, girls have suddenly become important in his life. Previously, he has been utterly uninterested in them. At first, as far as he was concerned, the difference between himself and girls was that he had one and girls didn’t. As he grew, however, he noticed other subtle differences. Girls had long hair, they wore dresses, they played with dolls, they couldn’t climb trees, they were cissy, they cried a lot. And worst of all, boys weren’t allowed to hit girls, but girls could hit boys if they wanted to. That just wasn’t fair!

But the really important difference hadn’t hit home to him until he was told he had to take a bath separately from his sisters.

‘Why, Dad!’

‘Because you’re getting to be a big boy now and Georgina is a big girl.’

‘But we’ve always had a bath together before!’

‘Well things are different now.’

‘How different?’

‘Lord preserve me. Georgina is growing up, and she’s getting shy. She just doesn’t want to have a bath with you any more. Anyway Hema, you’re always complaining about Georgina taking all the room in the bath, so what’s your worry?’

Thereafter, the differences between boys and girls seemed to multiply until he finally took them as a matter of course without really understanding why. But one other thing he discovered in those early years was that women had babies and men didn’t. That was very puzzling. He also discovered what his thing-that-girls-didn’t-have was for. Not only for having a mimi, true! But he wasn’t the least interested in its other function. He was too busy playing with his trucks. He never batted an eyelid when he saw animals together in the paddocks, he cast an uninterested eye over his sister without realising she was growing a bosom, and was utterly bored at his father’s apoplectic efforts to explain about sex. Oh, he was such a dumb kid! But now, aha, things have changed. He’s not that same stupid kid any more.

For instance, this isn’t the same kid who guffawed at the sight of his uncles swimming nude in the river. He will no longer creep up on kissing couples in the movies and screech: Eeeeeee! Nor will he think girls weren’t good for anything. That kid’s name couldn’t have been Hema Tipene. Hema Tipene was born only two weeks ago! Girls are marvellous, girls are fantastic but luckily, they’re not out of this world! Not for Hema Tipene the secretive making love with his hands. Nor for him, the oglings of cissy Dick Simons. And if any bloody kid ever creeps up on him and a girl in the pictures, he’ll give that kid what-for!

Yes, Hema Tipene is ready to straddle the world. In preparation for this big step, he has begun to mould his personality and character to fit the required earth-shattering image. The kid who once used to be careless about his appearance will soon spend a half an hour combing his hair. Not any longer the ‘once through the hair and that’s it’ trick. Oh, no, this lad will comb every strand into place, worry whether it is windy outside, and regard any fall of dandruff as a certain sign that he is going bald. If he is tackled in a rugby game, the first thing he will do is whip out his comb and too bad if the other side scores a try. He won’t wash his face only once a day, but as often as he can to rid his complexion of excessive oiliness. He will read that it is oily skin which causes pimples and an imminent pimple will be, for him, a terrible disaster. His clothes will have to be pressed every day and even then, he will walk like a wooden soldier so that the pants don’t get creased. He will inspect his face every day, sometimes marvelling at the profile and then moaning because of his big nose. He will be sometimes confident, but the slightest suspicion of not being able to measure up will make him miserable.

This boy will also become ‘one of the crowd’. It will be a great relief because it will mean he is socially acceptable. Like the crowd, he will shuffle around with his hands in his pockets. He once used to run, but from now on everything will be done slowly: that way, it looks sexy. He already wears his cap at a rakish angle and his school socks round his ankles. When addressed, he grunts. Maybe he smiles, but only for a while, as it might crack the carefully cultivated sneer on his face. He is always seen with the boys and one of their favourite topics is girls. But would he ever talk with a girl? Never! Oh no, for the sad truth is that this boy quails at the impending approach of any girl. Excluding his sisters, who don’t count. But he does not shuffle and grunt in vain. All this is practice, and is designed to impress the girls. It is his ‘public image’ emerging. But away from the public eye an astounding change takes place, and he becomes Hema Tipene, the hick-town Hori, again. For the next few years, his personality and appearance will change time and time again like a barometer gone wrong. In the end, he may strike a happy medium of carefully cultivated carelessness. Better still, he just might see the light and decide the effort just isn’t worth it. For the time being, he plays it by ear. He is half-man, half-kid and some days he is all one or all the other. Misery!

But another beginning has been made in Hema Tipene’s life during the last two weeks. Not only has he discovered sex and girls, but he has also fallen in love with one of the species. He regards this phenomenon with great relief for it should lead soon to his next discovery. Hema Tipene is thirteen years old and has never been kissed! The girl’s name is Claudia Petrie, called ‘Claude’ for short because she is such a tomboy. In Hema Tipene’s opinion, they were made for each other. Ah, Claudia.

To be fair, Claudia Petrie is not ugly. In fact, she has rather a charming smile. Hema sees great potential in her development. She is the next step onward from his previous infatuation with toy trucks. Claudia is the daughter of one of the teachers at Hema’s school. She loves riding horses, a passion which is decidedly in her favour as far as Hema is concerned. It doesn’t really matter that she is three inches taller than he is; he’s not going to be five foot two and a quarter inches tall all his life! And anyway, she is the only girl so far to take any interest at all in him. At the last school dance, she actually strode over to him and asked him for a waltz. How his heart thundered then! He held her at arm’s length, gritted his teeth and whispered to himself: one two three, one two three. And he was sure that everybody was watching! Mum and Dad had seen him, and Dad had nudged Mum. Hema’s face had grown longer and more embarrassed. But Dad hadn’t laughed. No, he’d kept his face straight all the time and it had only been Mum who’d giggled. Oh, they were proud of him! After the waltz, Dad had even come over and given Hema some money to ‘buy a soft drink for your Pakeha girlfriend’.

Before that dance, Claudia Petrie had just been another girl. After it, she was the one and only. And Hema would watch her playing basketball during lunchtime and be in absolute agony.

‘Claudia, I love you.’

He would never ever think to tell her of his love. For the time being, he loved her from afar, because she, apparently, had forgotten all about that tumultuous waltz. Her flippant ‘Gidday, Hema!’ whenever she saw him was both sheer ecstasy and sheer pain. Couldn’t she see how he was being tormented? Oh, the pain of loving and not being loved in return! Often, as Hema was watching her, he would think:

‘When her friends have gone away, I’ll go up to her. I’ll say: “Claudia.” And she’ll whisper: “Yes, Hema?” And then I’ll ask her: “How’d you like to come to the pictures with me next week?” And she’ll look up at me with tears in her eyes and say: “Oh, Hema.” And then she’ll give a little nod of her beautiful head and maybe our hands will brush and if they do, I’ll take her hand and hold it and then we’ll belong to each other. And then I’ll wait for Saturday to come and I’ll say to Dad: “Dad! I need some money!” And he’ll ask: “What for?” And I’ll say: “Because I’m taking Claudia Petrie to the pictures.” And he’ll say: “Oh, that lovely girl you were dancing with?” And I’ll say: “Yes, Dad. That’s the one.” And then, because I haven’t got a licence, I’ll ask Dad: “Will you drive me down to the pictures?” And he’ll say: “Of course!” Because Dad himself thinks that Claudia Petrie is the best looking girl in town. So I’ll get dressed and maybe by Saturday I’ll have some long pants, and then Dad will drive me into town and drop me off outside the picture theatre, and Claudia will be there and she’ll be so beautiful. And I’ll take her hand and whisper: “Hullo.” And she’ll whisper back and hold my hand. And I’ll ask her: “Do you mind if we sit in the cheap seats because then we’ll have enough money to buy icecreams at interval!?” And she’ll say: “Anything you say, Hema, darling.”’

And so Hema would continue to dream. But by the time he finally worked up enough courage to ask Claudia, she would have gone. Misery.

In the last few weeks, Claudia Petrie had driven Hema to the depths of despair. What’s the use of being a man if you haven’t got a girlfriend? His mother and father aren’t much help either.

‘What’s wrong with you, Hema! You’re always mooning around the place. If you haven’t got anything better to do, go and chop some wood.’

Why can’t parents understand? Here he is, Hema Tipene, just wasting away and all they can think of is getting him to chop wood. It just isn’t fair! Life is harsh. Life is one long longing after a skinny, tall Pakeha girl called Claudia Petrie.

In his more desperate moments, Hema would go into the bathroom and look at himself in the mirror. And there, amid the toothpaste and bath soap and scrubbing brush, he would whisper: She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not.

‘Oh say that she loves me!’ he would entreat the mirror.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ the mirror would intone.

‘But she must, she must.’

‘Why must she? You ain’t no raving beauty.’

‘Neither is she, but I still love her.’

‘She’s better than nothing, but what do you know about love? You’re only a kid!’

‘I am not either. I’m a man.’

‘You listen to me, Big Ears. You’re only a kid still and you better believe it. Anyway, that Claudia Petrie wouldn’t take a second glance at you.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause she’s taller than you, and Pakeha too. And you, you’re as black as they come and only five foot two and a quarter inches tall.’

‘Can’t you think of anything better to say? Why are you always pickin’ on me! I’m going to crack you one day!’

‘Boy, you better not! If you do, I’ll give you seven years of no girls and that won’t do your manhood no good!’

‘Wrap up and go bite yourself.’

‘And the same to you doubled,’ the mirror would sniff.

Poor Hema! Nobody likes him, everybody picks on him and the only girl in the world doesn’t love him. But wait, is that she, calling from afar? Oh, how beautiful she is, running in slow motion with a Hollywood orchestra playing behind her!

‘Heeemmmaaa!’ she calls. She lifts her hand to wave slowly to him. Along the fenceline toward the cow bail she comes, oblivious of the cow pats. Her hair streams behind her, her hat blows free from her hair and is gone with the wind. And he, Hema Tipene, rises from his seat and lifts his arms to receive her. Onward and onward she comes, her long gingham dress flowing and curling softly around her skinny legs. The orchestra thunders, the clouds go by, red sails in the sunset, and suddenly she is there, swooning in his arms. She palpitates against him and there are joyous tears in her eyes. He pulls her to his manly chest. And she lifts her head to receive his lips.

‘Kiss me as you never have before,’ she cries.

And he does as she commands.

Right smack bang on the bristled behind of Queenie who kicks him back into the sad, sad world of reality.

It just isn’t fair!

A voice calls from far away:

‘Hema! Hurry up with the milking, we can’t wait all day!’

It is Mum and she is her usual grumpy self this morning. Hema pokes his tongue in the direction of her call. It elongates, sidles through the trees, over the gate and along the path to flap rudely at her. Nobody’s going to shout at him any more!

‘It’s all your fault,’ Hema says to Red. ‘You and Queenie are mean to me and just look at this mess!’ He points to the large pool of milk, spilt from the bucket by Queenie when she kicked him. What will Mum say? There’s not much milk left in the bucket because Red has refused to give. Oh well, he’ll top it up with water and Mum won’t know the difference.

Hema finishes milking, stands clear and allows Red to sway out of the cow bail. Gosh, he is very late this morning. Worried, he picks up the bucket and hurries back to the house. But before he goes, he casts a murderous glance at the two cows.

‘You fellas better be waiting for me tomorrow,’ he warns, ‘or else! You hear me? You hear me you dumb cows?’

Then, muttering to himself, he walks quickly along the pine trees, through the gate, and forgets to breathe deep before passing the outhouse. The smell is foul and he staggers as if asphyxiated. Oh, when are they going to have modern plumbing around here!

‘Hema!’ his mother calls again from the depths of the kitchen.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ he screams. He takes the milk into the wash-house, strains it into a large can, looks furtively around before running cold water into it, and then carries the can onto the back verandah. Off with his gumboots, and another quick wash before opening the door and placing the can on the floor.

‘Got you!’ someone screams behind him. It is Georgina, and she is livid with anger.

‘Lemme go, lemme go!’

‘Dad! Da-aad!’ Georgina yells. ‘Here he is, here he is!’

‘Lemme go, Gina!’

Georgina bares her teeth and whispers to him:

‘I’ll teach you to spy on me when I’m in the lav, you little shit!’

Then she calls again to her father.

‘What’s up! What’s happening here?’ Dad moans.

‘Dad, Hema was spying on me!’

‘She swore at me, Dad!’

‘Stop trying to wriggle out of it. You were watching me. Dad! I want you to give him a good thrashing.’

‘Dad, she swore at me. She called me a little ess-aitch-eye-tee!’

‘I did not!’

‘You did so, too!’

‘Stop telling lies. Dad, giving him a hiding.’

‘You did so swear.’

‘I bloody well did not!’

‘Ooooo! Dad! She swore again!’

Georgina wails. Dad doesn’t like swearing.

‘But Da-aad. Hema started first with his spying.’

Dad gives a sigh.

‘Lord preserve me. Quit it, you two! Have pity on your suffering father.’

‘Yes, quit it!’ Mum also growls. ‘No time for quarrelling today, we’re running late as it is. Hema! What took you so long? Did you have to make that milk!’

‘It was Gina’s fault, Mum,’ Hema says. ‘She didn’t set the fire for this morning and I had to go out and get the wood myself.’

‘Oooo! You big liar. Let me get at him, just let me get at him!’

Mum grabs Georgina and thrusts her into a chair by the table.

‘Oh no you don’t, Gina,’ she says. ‘You just sit at the table and have your kai. And you too, son! Where’s that Hine? Hine, stop trying to make yourself beautiful and come to the table!’

Hema sits at the table opposite Gina. She tries to kick him underneath the table and he mouths taunts at her without saying the words.

(Ha-ha, ha-ha, you-missed-me, you-missed-me.)

(Not that time I didn’t), Georgina mouths back. She smiles with supreme delight at the sight of Hema’s pain. He bares his teeth at her.

(I’ll fix you, Ugly)

(Listen to who’s calling who Ugly)

(You bee-eye-tee-see …)

‘Hema!’ Mum yells.

‘Yes, Mum?’ he answers. His mother is looking suspiciously at the milk in the can. Hmmmm.

‘You been putting water into the milk again, haven’t you!’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you!’ Mum says. She comes over to the table and rolls back her sleeve. ‘Next time you put water in the milk, you’ll feel my hand good and proper!’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Hema answers meekly. His mother turns her back and he pokes his tongue at her.

‘You do that again, Hema,’ Mum says, ‘and you’ll feel my hand right now!’

Hema gasps. How did she know?

‘I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,’ Mum informs him.

Hema shrivels, but Georgina is delighted.

‘He’s doing it again, Mum!’ she says.

‘Oooo, you liar!’

But Mum doesn’t hear.

‘Put your kai where your words come from!’ she snaps.

The children settle to having their breakfast. Hema says:

‘Pass me the butter, Gina.’

‘Pass me the butter Gina what?’ she taunts.

‘Pass me the butter Gina please!’

But Gina just stares at him and doesn’t bother.

‘Mum!’ Hema yells. ‘Gina won’t pass me the butter.’

‘He never asked for it,’ Gina answers.

‘I did so!’

‘No you didn’t. Mum! Hema’s reaching across the table!’

As quick as a flash, Mum is back and she slaps Hema’s fingers with the flat of a knife. Ow!

‘Now ask for the butter!’ Mum says. ‘We’ve got manners in this house! And you better remember it, boy.’

Hema scowls.

(Well?) Georgina mouths.

‘May I please have the butter, sister dear?’ he says sarcastically.

And Georgina gives a huge triumphant smile.

‘Of course, brother dear!’

She passes the butter and he slaps it onto a piece of bread, still with his eyes peering furiously at his sister.

(I’ll fix you!)

(Oh, yeah?)

(Just you wait, Tutae-face)

(Blacky)

(Piss-pot)

(Stink-bum)

Hema picks up the bread. He eyes it and his sister dangerously, pretends that the bread is her, and bites her head off.

‘Have I got heathens for children?!’ Dad roars. He has come from the bedroom and is tucking in his pants. ‘In this house, we say grace first. And we all sit down together for our kai!’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Hema mutters.

‘Mum! Hine! Come and sit down. Right! Now I’ll say grace.’

The family bow their heads. Dad begins.

‘For what we are about to receive and-Hema-if-you-touch-that-piece-of-bread-I’ll-crack-you-over-the-head may the Lord make us truly grateful Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the family intone.

‘So what’s everybody waiting for?’ Dad enquires. ‘Hoe in!’

And breakfast proceeds. No more mouthings, no more bickering, because Dad is at the table. But as he is eating his porridge, Hema’s mind is racing. Shall I ask him now? Go on, don’t be afraid! But what if he says no? There’s no harm in asking! I’m scared. The showdown has to come sooner or later! Okay, I will ask him! And so Hema puts his spoon down and gives three very obvious coughs.

‘Have you got a cold, Son?’ Dad asks.

‘No.’

‘Are you sick or something?’

‘No.’

‘Well then, eat up! This is good kai and I won’t have it going to waste. Lord preserve me.’ And he continues eating.

Hema picks up his spoon. But then he suddenly decides that it’s now or never.

‘Dad, I’d like-a-pair-of-long-pants,’ he says in a rush. In the following silence, he takes a spoonful of porridge.

‘Pardon?’ Dad asks.

‘A pair of pants, Dad.’

‘What do you want a pair of pants for!’ Mum enquires. But Dad interrupts.

‘No, let the boy speak,’ he says to Mum. ‘He must have a reason for asking. Well, Hema?’

But before Hema can speak, Georgina butts in.

‘Maybe he’s getting cold knees,’ she giggles.

‘That’ll be enough from you, girl!’ Dad commands. ‘Speak up, Hema!’

‘Aw, Dad. All the other boys at school have got long pants and I’m the only one who hasn’t. And I’m thirteen now.’

‘That’s no reason, son!’ Dad says. ‘Being the same as the rest of the crowd, that’s no reason at all. You have to be worthy yourself of having long pants. You have to show you’re capable of wearing them, and wearing them well.’

‘Dad, I am,’ Hema pleads. ‘I’m a man now. I’m thirteen years old. Can’t you see?’

‘A man!’ Georgina guffaws. ‘How do you know, Hema? Have you got a girl into trouble?’

Dad gives her a steely glance.

‘Is that supposed to be funny, Georgina? That’ll be enough from you.’

Dad looks across at Hema. He sees his boy, embarrassed and pleading. And all of a sudden, he remembers what happened to him about this time. The memory is a shock and a revelation. It seems only yesterday that he was a boy; and now, here he is, a father, and Hema seems exactly like he was when he had first asked his own father for long pants.

‘Yes, I suppose you are a man,’ Dad thinks aloud. He looks at Mum. ‘We’d better have a talk about this, eh, Mum?’

‘Not with all these Big Ears flapping around the place,’ she answers.

‘Korero Maori?’ Dad asks her. She nods her head. And they begin talking on the subject in the Maori tongue. Hema looks at Georgina.

(What are they saying?)

(I dunno. But you won’t get your long pants.)

(Wanna bet?)

(You’re still a kid, you little bee-you-gee-gee …)

And then Dad interrupts.

‘Okay, Son, you can have your pair of long pants.’

And Hema’s heart leaps and pirouettes with joy.

‘When, Dad, when!’

‘On Friday, when we go into town.’

‘Oh, thank you, Dad.’

And then Georgina pipes up. She cries to Mum.

‘Mum, it isn’t fair! If Hema can have a pair of long pants, then I should be allowed to have a long dress. I’m older than he is.’

‘Me too!’ says Hine. ‘Share and share alike!’

And Mum groans.

‘See, Dad? I told you this would happen! Anyway Georgina, what’s wrong with the long dress you already got!’

‘It’s out of date!’ Georgina wails.

Dad sighs.

‘Lord preserve me, I’ve got a daughter who follows the fashions now.’ And he brushes Georgina’s pleas away. Then he eyes his son. ‘So you think you’re a man now, son? Okay, then from today, you begin proving it.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘From now on, I expect you to not only put in your work at home but also help out in the community. Being a man means being responsible not only for yourself and your family but also for your iwi. Nani Tama told me the septic tank is blocked down at the marae so, this afternoon, after school, you can help me to fix it. Speaking of Nani Tama, he needs somebody clever to help him rewrite the whakapapa that was lost when his and Miro’s house burnt down and to help him with our Treaty claim. You can go over to see him this evening and offer to do it. Who knows? You might learn more about being a man, and the obligations you have as a Maori, by doing that.’

‘All that as well as his usual work?’ Mum asks. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit much, Dad?’

Dad shakes his head.

‘No, Mum. Hema is a man now and he understands, don’t you son!’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Hema sighs dismally.

‘And from now on, we don’t just give pocket money; you earn it!’

‘He’s got to do the dishes too!’ Georgina spits.

‘No, men don’t do dishes,’ Dad says. ‘It’s about time Hine started doing some work around here.’

‘Oh, Da-aad!’ Hine wails.

But Dad puts his hands up to stop the commotion.

‘I have spoken. So be it and all of you, get to it!’

The family sweeps into action. Georgina begins to clear the table. She glares murderously at Hema.

(You rat!)

(Ha-ha, ha-ha, Geor-giiinaa)

(I’ll get you for this)

Hema gets up. He goes into his bedroom and gets dressed for school. He may only be five foot two and a quarter inches tall, but he’s a man now. Dad has said so. And then he hears Dad at the door. Dad has a sad look on his face.

‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to be a man, Hema,’ he whispers. ‘When you’re a boy you can stay at the back. But when you’re a man you have to go to the front.’

Then he is gone.

Humming to himself, Hema checks his appearance and then goes to feed the dogs. And suddenly, he remembers all the chores he has to do this morning. And the new jobs that Dad has begun piling on him.

And as he goes down the steps of the back verandah, the vision of being a man becomes suddenly appalling.

Hema swears to himself. He is thirteen years old and now he has to do more work! What an awful thought! He already does enough around this blankety blank place. When he was a kid, life was free and easy. Now that he’s a man, he’s got more responsibility.

He wanders down the path and past the henhouse. The hens cackle and gloat about him.

‘Shut up, you bloody fowls!’ Hema rages. And his breath explodes upon the morning air.

Why is he thirteen? Who wants to be more than five feet two and a quarter inches tall! Everybody picks on him. They make him a man before he’s ready. The whole world is against him.

It just isn’t fair.

You can’t imagine what it was like to be writing in London through 1971, stuck in that bed-sitting room with the city shouting ‘Come out! Come out! Come and play!’ But I wasn’t writing all the time; I liked to play truant with the many friends Jane and I had made in the city and … well … I was lucky that I had discovered through my training in writing radio stories how to write fast, in the moment, and without thinking of what I was doing — the words just came up and out of me without hitting the sides. I think that having one leg still in one culture but the other leg now stretching to stand in London also helped to increase the emotion going into the stories; that further distance, I suspect, increased their sense of nostalgia.

Partway through our holiday, Jane and I made a mad dash to Paris, and we also bought a minivan and made trips around the countryside, coaxing the minivan through Wales to the Highlands of Scotland and back, sleeping in it on the way. I had a small notebook with me and was making notes for stories — writing through life rather than waiting for writing time to come along — and typing them up when we returned to London. By the time 1971 ended I had completed the stories and the novel, Tangi, packaged them up and sent them by airmail back to New Zealand.

‘One Summer Morning’ was in that package. It deals with the time when, after living for some years at Haig Street, Dad bought a farm on the Whakarau road, Te Karaka. Although we still kept the house in town at Haig Street, Mum and Dad shifted us out there when I was thirteen. By that time my sisters and I had been joined by my brother Derek. Two more siblings, Neil and Gay, were still to come, ten years later — making us eight all told, including a brother, Thomas, who died as an infant.

Although the work was hard, I loved living on the farm. Sure it was isolated, no electricity, no flushing toilet, but I had my sisters and brothers to play with and, in particular, a loving father and mother. I was also discovering, in the writing process, the ‘character’ — young, Maori, male, unafraid and with a huge moral compass — that I was to use later in my novels, such as Bulibasha, King of the Gypsies. Most of my young Maori male narrators, like Hema in ‘One Summer Morning’ or Tawhai in ‘The Makutu on Mrs Jones’, are adolescent, on the edge of adulthood, and about to make a discovery either about themselves or about the world they are walking towards. In a lot of cases that involves a sense of loss, but there is also a sense of expectation that they will meet the challenges that will face them. They reach their apotheosis in Simeon, the rebellious son in Bulibasha, King of the Gypsies. So, too, do the parents and siblings in ‘One Summer Morning’, who become Joshua and Huria and the daughters Faith, Hope and Glory in the novel.

I like to think that when Pounamu Pounamu did achieve success as a school text, ‘One Summer Morning’ put out a message that, hey, puberty was exciting and something to look forward to. In those days, New Zealand fiction didn’t find much in puberty to laugh about. However, it is also because of ‘One Summer Morning’ that Pounamu Pounamu was banned in one school district in the South Island.

My sister, Caroline, still lives on the farm today.