Early Keri Hulme —from the school magazine

Press, 21 December 1985, Page 19

Early Keri Hulme —from the school magazine

Keri Huhne’s old headmaster from Aranui High School, Mr W. J. A. Brittenden, has come across some prize winning prose and poetiy written by the school's most illustrious pupil in the early 19605, and published in the school magazine.

“My goodness, reading those bits from the Aranui High School magazine ‘Pegasus’ took me back a bit, in both senses,” said Keri Hulme when she was shown them. The Booker Prize-winning author ‘ who spelled her first name “Kerry” in those days, says she found it a little dismaying to realise that she had been dealing with, intrigued by, and writing about the same sorts of things for well over two decades now — fights, families in strife, and people under stress, “not to mention the grave and ghostly past that infiltrates us all.”

Agreeing to the reprinting of two of her school-day works in “The Press,” Keri Hulme added: “I hope any reader will then say, ‘Well she’s improved a bit,’ rather than ‘Hmm. What a shame about that early promise...’ ” Having her work published in the school magazine gave her an abiding confidence in her ability to write, Keri Hulme says. “It gave me a kind of quietly cocky belief in myself, so I could say later, ‘I know what I’m doing,’ when the basis for my ‘knowledge’ was really an inarticulate gut-sense and tu .t confidence.” She adds that she received some encouragement for her writing while she was at school. An English teacher told her, “You could probably learn to write quite well if you could learn to tone down that rather too lush poetic descriptive style — it’s probably from your Maori inheritance. Think about it.” But what she was really writing never appeared in the school magazine. It was at home, “and nobody was reading that stuff except me.” The prose piece entitled “The Fight,” which follows, was written in 1961 when Keri Hulme was a 14-year-old fourth-former. The poem, “Dolphin,” was written when she was in the sixth form. . . , , THE FIGHT “Look!” said Tuhi. “There.” His brown finger pointed to a small patch of dirt on the side of the track, almost hidden' by fern fronds. ■ , “Where?” asked Alan. “I can’t see anything.” Tuhi parted the fronds. “There,” he said again. Two of the big, brown nightbeetles were fighting there; fighting a battle to the death. The pale tree-filtered sunlight glanced off their flashing wing cases and their palpitating antennae; glanced off, too, the legs and pincers that were locked in mortal combat. Now one, now the other, was on top. “Gee,” said Alan. “What are they doing?” “Fighting,” came Tuhi’s laconic reply.

The two beetles parted, each with legs kicking furiously to free itself from the other. After scrambling backwards, for all the world like duellists, they blundered together, tearing, ripping at what was in reach.

As they rolled about, with the fury of the struggle, one beetle was dislodged from the other when it struck a small, projecting stone. It lay kicking dazedly on its back, while its opponent ambled over to kill it—if it could, leisurely. “Hey!” exclaimed Alan. “Not fair.” He brushed the stone out of the way and flicked the beetle to its feet.

Tuhi looked at him curiously. “We bet to see which one wins, eh?”

“Right,” said Alan. “Here, what about my skink against your skua’s egg? Fair?” “Fair,” replied Tuhi. They watched the struggle with renewed interest.

“You know,” whispered Tuhi, “I’ve seen a bird watch one of these fight and wait till it was over.” “What did he do?” asked Alan. “Ate the loser and the winner.” Tuhi chuckled. “Don’t see any birds about, though. Do you?” Alan glanced round. “No.” He looked back at the beetles. “Hey! Look! Your beetle’s lost a feeler. Mine’s winning! Mine’s winning!” Alan did a little haka in the centre of the track. He caught sight of Tuhi’s face and stopped suddenly, perturbed. < , “It’s your beetle that’s lost a feeler, not mine,” said Tuhi. ,“It ,is not!” ‘ “It is so! Heck, I can tell my own beetle!”' “You only want to keep your old egg. Yah! Your beetle is losing. Mine is the winning one.” t “My beetle has not lost.” “It has sb!” ? “Pommy! Bush whacker!” “Nigger!” The most scornful epithets in the hush language. Tuhi flushed. “I am not a ■nigger. I’m a Maori and proud of it.” He stopped, drawing circles with his big toe in the dust of the track. “You say that again, Pommy, and I’ll bash you till you’re like your own beetle, beaten!” He glanced at the miniature arena. “In anyway, look. Both of these bugs have lost a feeler, now. We can’t tell which.” Alan, embarrassed, said, “I’m sorry. I take back what I said.” Tuhi smiled suddenly. “That’s all right. I guess you can’t help being a Pommy.” They grinned at each other, the quarrel already forgotten. Alan pointed to the ground. “That’s the fellow that’s going to win. I knew it,” he said. One beetle had the barbs of its foreleg caught in the divide of the other’s - wing-case. Both had stopped moving. Suddenly, startlingly, one beetle moved. One half of the other’s wing-case ripped, over and back. While its crippled opponent lay helpless the other beetle moved. It seized the other’s head in its pincers, and as the boys watched spellbound, twisted. After satisfying itself that its rival was dead, or at least couldn’t live, the beetle ambled off, already forgetting its fight. Tuhi twisted to his feet and stamped on the winner. “Urk!”said Alan.

“Serves it right,” replied the unsympathetic Tuhi. Both boys' looked at the other beetle which lay, kicking convulsively, the life slowly ebbing out of it. ' “Stand on him, too,” saicl-Tuhi. Alan did, grinning when it squashed under his foot. “Come on,” said Tuhi, “it’s late.” • » » Two boys ran down the track, school bags bumping against their hips. The pale sun shone down on the two irridescent- smudges in the dust. ■ ; DOLPHIN Sea-people, sea-people, stridors of the waves, Grey people, real people,: whom freedom engraves; /• Glide out, ride out, slide through the sun, Live, people, love, people, you and 1 are one. Far beneath the water where the sunlight’s dim, . The grey arrows, death-to-sharks sea-people swim;. Flow beneath the hollows of the deep sea wave, • And glide on the knife crests, the sea foam shave. And twist and follow, glide and ■gleam, >' Hiss in the hollow of a swift sea-stream, v Laugh O people of the permanent smile, For I come with you, for a little while. Many leagues later in the trailing tvrack, ! / Laughing; the sea people: turn, to go back, ■ ■ ‘ No people, sea people, stay yet a while, Time has not grown weary, and I have need to smile. Twist in the sunlight, soar a rainspout tall, Flow again in hissing school, follow yet the whistling call, Do not turn, swim yet, for life goes far without A smile to turn it back again from fear and doubt I sing your praises, people of the sea, 1 I came with you once, when you had need of me, And if your need comes, I will come again. Sea people, free people, take me as a friend.