THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

Te Ao Hou, June 1960, Page 45

THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS A STORY BY BARRY MITCALFE Illustrated by Mary Mountier Eruera saxton stood up, brushed the hair back from her eyes. Now, if ever, was the time to speak. Her son was almost out of the gate. “Matiu, I want a talk with you.” Her voice didn't sound her own. He didn't hear. She shrieked, “Matiu”. It shocked them both. For a moment she didn't know what to say. Then, “Come here boy,” she wheedled. He came as far as the gate and leaned on it. She walked slowly down the path, a short, stout body of a woman. “Don't push too hard, you'll lose him,” the thought came, nagging at her resolve, but she thrust it aside. “He's your son, there's things he should do and things you should do.” She set her shoulders but her face betrayed her feelings, made more violent by her efforts to conceal. He did not bother to hide his impatience. “Matiu. You not going with that girl, are you?” Well, you never knew, did you? Wonder who told her? Probably heard it down the store months ago. “You've got a voice … well … what you got to say?” He lit a cigarette. “You're only seventeen, you're not a man yet.” There, she hadn't meant to say it, but it was out. He'd probably go now. She knew it wasn't really badness, he was just trying to prove he was a man. “When you goin' to stop tryin' to prove you're a man?” He didn't trust himself to speak. He wanted to go. Why did she have to make trouble? He didn't want a fight, but gasped out, before he could stop— “Okay. So you want to know. I'll tell you. Going away. Got a good job in town. Get married soon.” None of which was true, but it served. “A pakeha girl, Matiu? No, not a pakeha, Matiu—” So that was it, not this ‘you're too young’ but ‘pakeha, pakeha’, the same old song. “What's wrong with a pakeha?” “Don't you speak pakehas to me. You hear?” Despite himself, he recoiled from her anger; then deliberately raised his hands, took a long draw and blew out a great cloud of smoke; he was a man, wasn't he? He could please himself. “Anyway, she wouldn't have you.” “You think so? You think so?” he sneered and stalked away. The motor-bike roared and gravel fell in a fine splatter around the gate, but the woman just stood there. Sometimes she hated the boy. He was his father all over again. She closed her eyes tight, but she couldn't shut out his lank, indifferent from. Only his father had been fair where this boy was dark—the pakeha, the best catch she'd ever get, said Maggie. The worst. Not for her, never again. Her back began to ache. Kidney-trouble. That's what kids did for you. A cup of tea and a little lie down, that's what she needed. ⋆ ⋆ He leaned into the last corner and came roaring on to the main and only street. Jim's old truck was outside the bar. “Whee-heee!” He let go with a screech that set three old pensioners on the pub verandah shaking an dnodding like flax-stems in a wind, but the little kids loved it. They wanted to play with his bike. “Don't let it fall. Else you'll be the meat in the sandwich,” he said and left them to it. “Howzit man?” Big Jim turned. “Who d'you think you are? Hopalong Cassidy?” but he was grinning. That made it all right. He took Jim aside. “Get us a carton for tonight, will you, Jim? Put her in the truck. Okay?” And he slipped Jim the necessary. “She right boy. Now on your way. This is where the men live—” and he gave the boy a friendly belt on the backside. He'd take that from Jim—nobody else. Jim was his boss, the best man ever. The bike roared into life first kick, the kids yelled and scattered, but he was gone. Once clear of the town, he realized he had nowhere to go. On the off-chance Billy was home for the week-end he called at Kereru's but there was only the old lady and the kids. He listened to the old lady for a while, killing time. Then he went round to Davies' place, but nothing doing, they were all down at the pub getting primed up for the night. Although he knew there'd be nobody there, this

time of the year, he went down to the beach, and lay on the warm side of a sandhill, smoking and thinking about the night and the girl and this place where he first met her. She was his girl all right, nothing but the best for this boy. He'd show them. Yet there was, even in the glow of possession, a sense of wonder and a growing uncertainty. It was too much to expect of a fate that had given him an old shack in the middle of nowhere, and a mother but no father. He felt somehow incomplete, not because of his father being dead, but because he'd never known him, could not remember, however much he tried. All he had was the name, not even a picture. Just the name. It was his mother's fault. He found himself thinking of Jim. But his old man would've been more like the Davies'. Even that would've been all right with him. If his Mum weren't such an outsider here, he could've asked somebody. But the only one who'd known his mother in the old place was his Uncle Hen and Uncle Hen never talked. They didn't get on too well. Uncle Hen expected him to pay the rent for that dead-loss place. Nobody else would have it—that's why he gave it—but that's typical, the meanest Maori in the whole district, his uncle. It was cold. The sun was nearly down. He got up stiffly, brushed the sand from his clothes, noticed with annoyance his trousers were creased, and stumped off towards the bike. ⋆ ⋆ Everybody was at Davies', even his uncle. The party was well under way. He'd never seen his uncle so tight. He was making a fool of himself, kept on trying to give a speech. He'd swear, and everybody would shut him up, and then he'd swear some more. It was as funny as a fight, at first. Then he began to feel ashamed. He tried to take his uncle out of there, but Hen. turned round, his eyes focusing slowly and his speech coming

thickly, “You? What you doin' here? This no place for young buggers just turned sixteen.” He roughly pulled his uncle's arm. “Come on, we're goin' home.” “And since when—d'you think you can talk to me like that? You're not my bloody kid. You might be the boss's blow-by-night, but that don't mean you can push me round. Jus' the boss's blow-by-night—” and he laughed obscenely. The boy didn't know what he meant, but had a fair idea when he heard somebody titter. He flushed red. Old Meg came hustling up. “The boy's father's no fault of his. You hear? You shut your big mouth.” The boy did the best thing possible: stalked out, into the night. Hardly knowing where he was going, he groped over to Jim's truck, sat there, felt the carton by his feet, bent down and cracked one. Half-way through the second, he saw Hen. pause a shaky moment in the light and stagger out. Silent as a shadow the boy was out of the cab. His hands were shaking. He'd kill the pokokohua. He took his uncle from behind, wrapped an arm round his throat. “Wha' did ya say ‘bout my old man? Eh? Eh?” His uncle was clawing and fumbling, the boy let go, let him drop to the grass. “I want to know. who was my old man?” And he stood there with his boot ready. “Okay. You arst for it. Your ole man was the biggest bastard I ever seen. He left your ma when she was six months gone. If it weren't for me you'd never of been born even. An' this is all the thanks I get. A nice boy, she says. By Christ, boy, you only got one friend in the world—and that's the one you treat worst. Jus' take a look at—” but the boy was gone. Crouched over the handlebars, exhaust roaring at an indifferent world, wind whipping at his jacket, eyes slitted and peering into the hostile dark, he tore up the long road, houses slipping away behind him. But it was a dead-end. He chopped her to second and swung in a tight Uturn—too tight. The road slammed him on the side of the head. The motor was clattering crazily. He reached over, killed it and lay there. The dust settled and all was still. He forced himself up, painfully, raised a hand to his face, drew it quickly away. Just a graze. There was a tear in one leg of his trousers. Nothing else. Even the bike seemed all right. As if he knew exactly where he was going and

what he was doing, he brushed himself down, wiped his shoes with a piece of rag, raised the tips of his collar high and rode slowly down to the station. He was going to go in there and take Ellie to the dance. He'd had enough of this fly-by-night business. It was time they let her parents know. He knew it was right thing. They couldn't do anything about it. He walked right up to the door and didn't falter when he saw through the glass it was Mr and not Mrs Dashfield shuffling up the passage. “Hullo, young feller. What can we do for you?” “I've come to take Ellie to the dance.” Mr Dashfield gasped like a goldfish, and like a goldfish, no sound came out. “Er, I'd better go and see,” he said at last. He could hear them talking at the back of the house, Ellie's high voice, and then her father, getting louder and louder. “You tell him,” he heard, “you're responsible.” He couldn't catch her reply, but it was Mr Dashfield who came up the passage. “I'm sorry. Ellie's already arranged to go out with somebody else.” “Could I speak to her please?” “Er—I suppose so. Just hold on a minute.” He held on for two, three, four minutes and then Ellie came down the passage; “I'm so sorry,” she said, self-consciously patting a last curl, “but I was in the middle of getting changed.” This was a bit different from the Ellie he had known. If she had ‘gone to town’, told him to clear out, it would've been all right, but she was so remote, so distant, as if invisible doors had closed between them. He forced himself to say, “Ellie, I've got to talk with you. Can I see you at the dance?” “Aw, I don't know.” He flushed. “I thought you were going with me.” “I said I'd see you at the dance. I didn't say for you to—” “Who's it you're going with?” She bridled, “None of your business.” “I said who's it you're going with?” She recoiled, frightened by the look in his eyes. “Go away. You've caused enough trouble already. I didn't say I was going with you.” So that was it. So that's why she said “keep it a secret”. Not that he had. He was a Maori, not good enough for her. “If you really want to know,” she was saying, “I'm going—” but he didn't give her a chance to finish; “My father's a pakeha, same as yours. Better than yours.” She looked astonished. “You disgust me,” she said and slammed the door. Hating himself and the whole world he roared back, past the party, past the dance. When he came to his gate, he turned in. The lamp was still on. “Where you been?” asked his mother. “None of your business.” “In a fight?” “I said, ‘none of your business’.” “Where are you going now, son?” He wasn't going anywhere, just wanted to change his trousers, but he said “Out!” “Your tea's on the stove—Johnson called in—dropped off some wild pork—got three weaners—” the old voice faltered on while savagely he packed his clothes. He couldn't stand it, had to get away. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. But she pretended not to notice, went about laying his place: “You'll be hungry, son?” “I've eaten.” She didn't want to hear. “I got some puha. Never seen so much as this year. Must be all this rain.” Then, as he was closing his case, she faced him “Where you going, son?” Her voice was weak, as if it were already too late. “Away.” He felt his resolve weakening. “On my own.” In his weakness, he brushed his mother roughly aside. “I'll write.” And he roared up the white road. Where was he going? He neither knew nor cared.