Pounamu Pounamu

The Child

‘Haere mai, mokopuna,’ she would say.

And always I would go with her, for I was both her keeper and her companion. I was a small boy; she was a child too, in an old woman’s body.

‘Where we going today, Nani?’ I would ask. But I always knew.

‘We go down to the sea, mokopuna, to the sea.’

Some people called my Nani crazy, porangi. Whenever I heard that word, my heart would flutter as if a small bird was trapped in there and wanted to get out. My Nani wasn’t porangi, not to me.

But always, somebody would laugh at her and play with her feeble mind as if it was a kaitaka, a top which you whipped with flax to keep spinning. They would mimic her too, the sudden spasms that shook her body or the way she used to rock her head when her mind was wandering far away.

Dad, he told me that those people didn’t understand or that they were only joking. But I’d see the sharp flints gleaming in their eyes and the cruel ways they lashed out at her. I would yell, ‘Stop! Don’t you make fun of my Nani.’ I used to hate them all.

I loved my Nani. I would pat her on the head and hug her close to me. And she would whimper and put her arms around me too.

‘Where my kete,’ she would ask me. ‘Where my kete?’

And I would help her look for it. I knew always that the basket would be under her bed, but Nani liked playing pretend so I’d play along with her.

‘I don’t know, Nani,’ I’d tell her as we searched in all the dark corners of her room. ‘Is it in the drawer? No, not there. In the wardrobe? No. Might be in the corner, eh? No. Where you put it, Nani? Where?’

And all the time, she would answer me in a vague voice, just like a little girl.

‘I don’ know, mokopuna. I don’ know where I put my kete. It’s somewhere. Somewhere here, somewhere.’

We’d play the game a little longer. Then I’d laugh.

‘Here it is, Nani! Here’s your bag!’

Her eyes would light up.

‘You found it, mokopuna? You found my kete? Ae, that’s it, that my kete.’

I would put it in her hands.

‘You ready to go now, Nani?’ I’d ask. ‘We go down to the sea now?’

‘I put my scarf on first, eh,’ she would answer. ‘Might be cold, might be makariri.’

Those other people, they never saw my Nani the way I did. And some of the kids at school they used to be funny to her. Willie Anderson, he would make faces and act all crazy. He would follow Nani and imitate the way she walked. His father caught him once, and gave him a good hiding. But Willie didn’t feel sorry; he only hated Nani more. And he told lies about her. We had a fight after school one day. He was tougher than me and he won. But I didn’t care, not even when he told some other kids I was porangi too.

I had my Nani; I didn’t need anybody else.

‘You fellas just leave my Nani alone,’ I told them. ‘Don’t you touch her even.’

Willie, he just laughed and threw dust at me.

But he was only jealous, because he’d thought that when Nani was staring in the sky, she was looking at nothing.

‘No! I’ve seen what she looks at, Willie Anderson, I’ve seen her world. She’s taken me there.’

Willie didn’t like that. He never liked being left out of things. That’s why he was jealous.

‘Come to me, Nani,’ I would say.

And she would come and lift her head so that I could put her scarf on her. She would sit very still and very silent, and her lips would move without saying anything. The words were soundless.

‘Yes, Nani,’ I would answer. ‘We’re going down to the sea soon. Just wait your hurry. No don’t say bad words to me. Nani! I heard what you said that time! You’re a bad girl!’

My Nani, she knew when I was angry with her. Her eyes would dim and she would fold her hands carefully in her lap. Sometimes, a small drop of spittle would trickle from her mouth.

‘I’m sorry, mokopuna,’ she would whisper slowly.

I’d wipe her lips.

‘Don’t cry, Nani. I was only playing. Don’t be a crybaby, don’t be a tangiweto!’

And her eyes would light up, and deep down in them I’d see a little girl beginning to smile.

‘You’re cunning all right, Nani!’ I would say. ‘Those are only pretending tears! I know you, Nani! So no more cry, eh? Come on, we go to the sea now. Haere mai.’

And she’d put her hand in mine.

My Nani, she used to be all right once. She never used to be porangi all the time. And she had another life, another history, way before I was born.

‘Your Nani was with Te Kooti the prophet when he took the people to Ohiwa,’ Dad told me. ‘She’s one of the morehu, the Ringatu survivors, of the Pakeha wars. During the 1918 flu epidemic she took all the children into the bush and didn’t bring us out until it was over. If it wasn’t for her we wouldn’t be here today. Over all these years she has protected and nurtured the seed sown at Raiatea.’

‘Where you going, Tawhai?’ Mum would ask.

And I would tell her, sometimes afraid that she might say, ‘No, you and Nani stay home.’

‘Me and Nani,’ I would answer, ‘we’re going down to the beach for a little walk. Won’t be long, Mum.’

‘Okay, but you look after Nani, eh. If it gets cold, you put your jersey around her. If it starts to rain, you bring her home straight away. And don’t get up to any mischief down there.’

‘All right, Mum.’

And I would turn to my Nani.

‘Come on, Nani. It’s all right. Mum said we could go. Come on, come to me, Nani. Give me your hand. Don’t be afraid.’

And together, we’d walk out of the house.

Sometimes, my Nani she’d be just like she used to be, as if she was waking up from a long moe. She’d laugh and talk and her body wouldn’t shiver all the time. But after a while, her mind would go to sleep again.

When she was asleep like that, I’d have to help her do things. Nani couldn’t even feed herself when her mind went away!

‘Come to me, Nani,’ I would say. And she’d sit down, and I’d put a tea towel around her neck to stop the kai from getting on her dress. ‘Open your mouth, Nani. Wider yet. That’s it. There we are! Wasn’t that good? This kai’s good eh!’ And she’d nod her head and make her moaning noises which meant she wanted some more. So I’d fill her spoon again, and she would smile to show she was happy.

‘What that thing?’ Nani would ask as we walked along the road.

And she would point to a house, a tree, a car or an animal grazing in a paddock. She liked pretending she didn’t know what things were.

‘That’s a horse, that’s a fowl, that’s where Mrs Katene lives, that’s a kowhai,’ I would tell her.

And she would repeat my words in a slow, sing-song voice.

‘A tree, a manuka, a fence, a horse. No, that’s not a horse, that’s a hoiho, mokopuna.’

‘That’s right, Nani!’ I would say. ‘You’re cleverer than me, eh! You know all the Maori names; I don’t, Nani. Your mokopuna, he’s dumb!’

And she would giggle and do a little dance. Sometimes, she’d even sing me a song.

And her quavering voice would lift its wings and circle softly in the air.

Nani liked to sing. Sometimes, she’d be waiting at the door for me when I got home from school, and she’d have the guitar in her hands. Kepa, my brother, he gave me that guitar and learned me a few chords. But I didn’t know how to play it properly. Nani didn’t mind, though. As long as I strummed it, she was happy. We’d sit on the verandah, she’d press my fingers to the strings, and as I played she would sing, one song after the other.

And sometimes, Dad would come and join us. ‘What a racket!’ he would say. ‘Here, give that guitar to me.’ And he would tune it and say to Nani, ‘Come on, Mum, we sing your song, eh? Ready, steady, go!’ My Dad, he could play that guitar! And him and Nani, they could sing as good as anything.

That was Nani’s song. Her Pakeha name was Violet, and everybody called her that name because her Maori name was too long. And my Nani, she was just like a violet; shy and small and hiding her face in her petals if the sun blazed too strong.

‘We’re almost there now, eh, mokopuna,’ Nani would say.

And I would nod my head.

‘Ae, Nani. Almost there. Almost at the sea.’

Nani always said that same thing every time we reached the short cut to the beach. She’d hurry along the road to the gate. Beyond it, a path led through a paddock and down the cliff to where the sea was. Nani, she would run a little ahead of me, then look back just to make sure I was following. She didn’t like being alone.

‘Haere mai, mokopuna!’ she would yell. ‘Hurry up! The sea!’

And she would cock her head to the wind and hear the waves murmuring. Then she’d run along a little further and flutter her hands at me to hurry.

I used to pretend not to hear her, and just dawdle along.

‘Eh, Nani? What you say?’ I would call.

And always, she would flutter her hands and lean her head into the wind.

My Nani, she loved the sea. She and Nani Pita used to live in a house right on the beach. But when Nani Pita died, she came to live at our place because Dad was the eldest of her children. Dad, he told me that Nani wasn’t really porangi; just old and lonely. He didn’t know how long she’d stay with us because she was as old as Nani Pita.

‘What is the greatest thing that we can do as a family, son?’ he asked. ‘It is to love and care for each other. Your Nani has loved us all her life, looked after us and fought many battles for us. It is only right that now she is old our turn has come to look after her. By loving her we honour her. By looking after her we truly begin to understand how painful as well as fulfilling love can be. Many people are not given this great gift of loving someone as old as she is. So while you have her, you love her, eh?’

I told him I would make Nani so happy that she would never want to leave. But Dad, he didn’t understand that I knew my Nani wouldn’t go away. He just smiled sadly and put his hands around my shoulders. ‘Some day,’ he said. ‘Some day.’

Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear Nani crying because she was lonely. I’d creep softly down the corridor to her room and brush her tears away with my hands.

‘You’re too old to cry,’ I’d growl her. But she’d keep weeping, so I’d hug her for a while. ‘Turi turi, Nani,’ I’d whisper. ‘I’m here. Don’t be afraid.’

And sometimes, I’d stay with her until she went to sleep again.

‘Here’s one, mokopuna!’ she would yell. ‘I got one!’

And she would hold up a sea shell she had found.

My Nani, she thought I liked shells; I don’t know why. Maybe it was because when she first came to stay with us, she saw a paua shell in my room. Whatever it was, every time we went down to the sea, she’d wander along the beach, looking for shells to give to me.

‘You want this one?’ she’d ask. And she’d cock her head to one side and look into my eyes. Sometimes, she looked so hardcase that I’d laugh.

‘Okay, Nani! We take it home.’

Then she’d look very happy and drop the shell into her kete.

‘We taking you home,’ she would tell the shell. ‘We taking you home for my mokopuna.’

And every now and then, as we walked along the beach, she would let go of my hand to get another shell glittering on the sand.

‘I already got enough, Nani!’ I would yell.

But always, she would show it to me and cock her head as if she was asking a question.

‘All right, Nani,’ I would sigh. ‘We take this one home too.’

It used to be good just wandering along the beach with Nani. If it was sunny and the sea wasn’t rough, she’d let go of my hand more often, and wander off alone. I didn’t mind, because I knew Nani wasn’t really alone; she was wandering with Nani Pita on some remembered day.

But sometimes, a seagull would scream or cast its shadow over her head. Then she would stop and begin to tremble.

‘It’s all right, Nani,’ I’d say. ‘I’m here.’

And she would reach out for my hand.

‘You won’t leave me will you, mokopuna?’ she would say.

‘No, Nani,’ I would answer. ‘Turi turi now.’

And we would walk together again. Nani, she never left me when the sea was stormy. She used to be very scared and hold me very tight. Seaweed, it frightened her. She’d look at the waves and see the seaweed rising with them and whimper, afraid that she’d be caught by the long, black fingers.

And sometimes, she would make me scared too.

‘We go back home now, eh?’ I would ask her.

‘Ae, we go home, mokopuna. Home.’

And she’d clutch her bag closely to her, and the shells would clink and scrape against each other.

One day, my Nani, she wasn’t home when I got back from school. I looked in her room, I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find her. Mum got worried and went to get Dad. But I knew where she’d be.

I ran down the road.

‘Nani! Nani!’

I don’t know why I was crying. Perhaps it was because she had gone without waiting for me.

‘Nani! Nani!’

I heard the sea murmuring as I ran along the path, toward the cliff. I looked down to the beach.

My Nani, she was lying there.

‘Nani!’

I rushed down the cliff toward her. I hugged her to me.

In her hand was a sea shell.

‘Yes, Nani,’ I said. ‘That’s a good one, that’s the best one you’ve ever found for me. We put it in your bag, eh? We take it home. We go home now, we go home …’

But she didn’t answer.

Her mind had wandered far away, and my Nani, she had wandered after it.

‘Haere mai, mokopuna,’ she would say.

And always I would go with her.

‘Where we going, Nani?’

‘We go down to the sea, mokopuna. To the sea.’

This story is about one of my other grandmothers, Nani Puti, whom my mother Julia brought home to stay with us because she was suffering from dementia. It was inspired by a memory of taking Nani for a walk along Wainui Beach.

‘The Child’, ‘The Whale’ and ‘Tangi’ are possibly the most elegiac of all the stories in Pounamu Pounamu and, in my opinion, certainly the richest, most poetic and best written. But around 2002, thirty years after the first publication of the collection, I realised that whereas the majority of stories in Pounamu Pounamu were waiata aroha, these three (plus ‘Fire on Greenstone’) were tonally different, more like waiata tangi. For instance, you could ‘read’ the four stories subtextually as conveying a world — Maori rural life and traditional culture — that was in decline or dying. ‘The Child’ was about the changing of generations, with the great influence of the kuia in decline because of the discontinuity of memory; the whale in the short story ‘The Whale’ was Maori culture itself, dying because the people were being influenced by Pakeha ways; and ‘Tangi’ was a story in which the traditional society, as personified in the father, is changing and the young son must find his own strength within a non-Maori world. But since 1972, Maori had sought sovereignty, tino rangatiratanga, and there were all the signs of a culture in transcendence.

This was why I rewrote Pounamu Pounamu in 2003. And so, for instance, the story ‘Tangi’ now ends subtly (I hope) with the addition of a traditional proverb: ‘You are from a seed that was sown in Rangiatea and you will never be lost.’

I was like that seed, too, when Jane and I, after flying to Greece and taking a mad Tiki Tour bus trip around Europe, returned to New Zealand in early 1972. We arrived to the happy news that David Heap and Heinemann Educational had accepted Pounamu Pounamu and Tangi … and a third book. This third book had originally been ‘Village Sunday’, a novella which I had written for inclusion as the final story of Pounamu Pounamu. David, along with Maurice Dowthwaite, who was managing editor of Heinemann, considered that with an additional 25,000 words it could be published separately — which it was, with the title of Whanau.