The Visitors

Te Ao Hou, March 1962, Page 5

The Visitors by Hineira Our home was an old home that had withstood the many moods of the way-ward weather. Once it was my grandfather's home, but as he grew too old to manage it he gave it to my father. My father had it renovated with the help of the Maori Affairs Department. Then it became our very own. The faults of our home were glaring and many, but when we complained to my father he firmly replied, “At least we have our own roof Live with relations of three generations and you'll soon realise how much better off you are now!” A passage ran right down the middle of our home, dividing it into two. On one side were the sleeping rooms and on the other were the living rooms. My brothers, as they grew older, said that the house was badly planned and I agreed fervently. The back door opened to the sea, restless, boisterous and smouldering when it chose, and that was where the passage ended. The front door looked to the graveyard, and that was where the passage started. I did not like the front door at night. It flew open suddenly to those omnipresent tombstones, and when the moon sharpened the whiteness of the stones against the dark of the night I was filled with terror at the sight of those ghostly things. No! I did not like the front door. My brothers had a different reason for their dislike of the house. Wind and rain often beat on our back door and forced their way in. And my brothers were ever at their mercy … “Put up a lean-to on this side of the door,” says my mother. “That will keep the rain out.”

But the rains came in. “Find that old tank down the bank—the one that the school got rid of. We'll put it on the storm side of the door so that the rains will never come in!” orders my mother in desperation. But the rains still forced their way in. Yes! My brothers did not like the back door. Our sleeping rooms were generous, large in size. There were only three of these and there were twelve of us. Five brothers slept in one room. Thank goodness it was a large one. My two sisters and I slept in the middle room. The rest of my brothers slept in a two-roomed hut at the back of the house. My father and my mother had a room of their own at the front. It was the biggest of the rooms. My mother had most of her babies delivered there by my father, so they needed lots of room. Out kitchen was our living room. We ate there. We sat and talked and laughed there. My father's brothers told stories there. My mother called out home the ‘Wayfarer's Inn’. We always had our uncles and aunts calling in; to wait for a bus or a taxi to town; to eat a meal with us whenever they could. Sometimes my mother grumbled at the frequent visits, as she was always very busy, but more often she was greateful; for they always brought something to eat—a piece of meat, a bag of fruit or vegetables. They always liked the smells of her cooking, and they didn't mind if the kitchen was untidy. Our kitchen was the best place of all. A huge double-sash window opened out to an orchard which was once used by my grandfather to keep his horses in. Then it was rescued by my mother so that we could see the fruits ripen instead of having them squashed by the horses. Just beyond the orchard was our hay paddock with its smells of warm summer grass and its glow of autumn brown. We were very fond of this window that opened to the orchard and all the mellowness of autumn and the freshness of spring. It was large enough for two to sit in. You could see all kinds of things in all kinds of weather. When the rains came, especially in spring, the trees glistened with water drops and at night the air was heavy with the scent of apple blossom. On warm days in summer the window was crowded with the red and yellow of ripe fruits, of early apples, plums and a few nectarines. Then, too, you could lean right out to wave to people riding on their horses, or just walking by. We had what is called a sitting-room. But we seldom sat in it except when we had special visitors. My mother furnished it very lovingly. It took seven years to save up enough money for the furniture. When it arrived there was great excitement. The pakeha school teachers next door had to be consulted—about how to lay the congoleum square and how to keep the furniture clean. Oh, there were such a lot of things to be learnt. These people were used to congoleum squares and stuffed sofas and beeswax and chromium things. They showed us what to do. The congoleum square was patterned in brown and gold. My mother would have had a carpet but that we couldn't afford. But when she saw the square she thought it was just as lovely and besides this would mean one floor less to scrub. On Saturdays we polished it with beeswax till it shone twice as new. The sitting room suite was green with touches of rust and gold. It reflected all its softness in the glow of the square. We loved to walk on the congoleum square. It was like walking on cool silk after treading on a bare floor. The chairs of the suite were covered with a rough cottage weave. They were springy and comfortable compared with the wooden chairs we had sat on for years and years. But we were not allowed to sit on them for long. My mother always had a fear that we would ruin them before we had important visitors to call. Seven years had been a long time. The wall paper was faded. My mother had some ornaments and photographs of historic importance. We covered the walls with these, especially where there were patches of paper worn bare. Above the mantelpiece over the chimney we hung a portrait of our illustrious ancestor. He was my mother's pride and glory. He was a chief, so she said. I did not like his arrogant face chiselled into severity with fierce tattoo. I thought he was ugly and he frightened me. On the other walls were more ancestors of varying importance. They were the descendants of the chief in the front of the chimney. A patu of whalebone was placed on the wall nearest the passage. My mother said it would fetch fifty pounds if she sold it to an antique shop. But a pakeha told us it would never fetch a penny; for its value lay only in sentiment and not in itself, so he said. There were photographs of my father's family on the opposite wall to this one. His family was not very important. There was a pakeha among his ancestors. Our house grew older, we grew older. The wallpaper faded even more. The suite lost its spring with the passing years. The kitchen paper peeled off and borers ate the floor. My mother complained a little, but my father did not reply. He was satisfied that the house was our own. One day a telegram announced visitors. My father, in his vague way, had invited people to stay. They were pakehas—very old friends of his that were kind to him in the city. Never was there such a commotion! My father was delighted that they were coming to visit us. My mother was worried, anxious and annoyed with my father's hasty gesture. She tossed and turned in her anxiety. It was not that she didn't like visitors. She loved to sit and talk. It was just that the house was not good enough for pakeha visitors to call. If they'd been Maoris it would not have mattered. Maoris were used to simple homes. But pakehas! She would never forgive my father for this foolish invitation!

Our home was an old home… Why! They had never seen our house with its faded wall paper and its borer-eaten floors. Whatever would they think when they came to stay? No decent beds! No congoleum covered bedroom floors! “Trust your father to invite those pakehas! He doesn't care if they see my bare floors! He doesn't care if the bathroom tub is worn! I care a lot! ‘What a housewife!’ they will say. I have no nice things to show except my whale-bone patu and my ancestor on the wall.” I felt sad at my mother's lamentations. I hadn't realised that she felt so deeply about the way the house looked. She had never complained as much before. Now that she had spoken I too felt that the house looked shabby. ‘If only we could sell the whalebone patu for some nice congoleum squares,’ I thought rather sadly. My father remained unruffled during my mother's complaining. “My dear,” he said, “what do you want all these things for? I told Harold to take us as he finds us. I know old Harold will never notice what's lacking. Why! He's just like me. He doesn't know the difference between a carpet and a bare floor! I should never have asked him to bring his wife to stay, if I knew he couldn't sleep in our beds and share our little home.” The day came. The house was scrubbed clean. My brothers milked the cows early and they brought home some cream. My mother baked some apple cake, some plum cake and delicious scented bread. The kitchen was hot and filled with smells of wonderful home cooking. We thought it was like having Christmas though it was now the middle of January. They arrived just as the chicken went into the oven. My mother was very busy so she couldn't go to the door. My father, in his evening best, went out to greet them. “Oh! How lovely!” said the lady friend. “I do like antirrhinums.” My mother rushed out. “Hello Mrs Hemi. What a lovely garden you have at this time of the year.” My mother beamed from ear to ear. “Tena koe,” she said, “I'm glad you've arrived. I do think it's so much worse expecting visitors, than when they do arrive. Come in and make yourselves at home.” And they all came in, chattering and laughing as thought they were old friends. We were watching from the back door. My brothers snorted in disgust. “Hell!” said Hiri. “Didn't daddy say they're on their honeymoon on something? He must be

bloomin’ near fifty and she must be about the same! Fancy being suckers at that age!” But I heaved a sigh of relief, as I was pleased with my father's choice of friends. “Never mind, it's much better than having a younger couple,” I said. “They won't expect so much or be too critical at that age.” “Now who was worrying about that silly?” snorted Hiri again. “I only wanted to see if the lady was good-looking.” Really! He was most annoying. I hoped he wasn't going to be rude to the visitors. “You women are damned silly!” he went on, “I'm like daddy. I don't care what people think about the house. Besides, that's not everything. All people want is a jolly good feed and a quiet room to sleep in. Peace and quiet and a full stomach! That's all we men want. But you women! Always worrying about something not worth anything. All these women round here are the same. As soon as they see a strange car at the gate, they want to know who's in it. If it's a Maori he can come in even if the floor's dirty. If it's a pakeha they fly around and shut up all the bedroom doors so he won't see the torn wallpaper and the bare floors. They even throw out the food they're eating if it isn't plum pudding or an awful piece of cake. Then the poor bloke can hardly be comfortable because you women are so tongue-tied with worrying about what's behind the door, or what the pakeha's going to say if he's offered puha and pipis. We pride ourselves on our hospitality. Well! You might as well go and bury the world! Hospitality be blowed!” I was certainly getting an earful. Hiri could be most exasperating. I felt like boxing his ears. I was worried in case the visitors overheard the flow of words. He would never understand. He just didn't appreciate beauty in new things. No love for anything nice. That was his trouble. They were still in the kitchen. They were still laughing and talking. My mother had relaxed and already she was telling her usual repertoire of funny stories. I hoped the visitors weren't going to be bored. Mrs Mills was enchanted with the garden. She also admired the house. “Did you say you had twelve children? You keep your floors so clean. Mrs Hemi.” “Call me Horiana. It's much more friendly.” said my mother. She sounded so pleased with everything! It looked as though we were going to have a lovely evening. Mr Mills was a Maori scholar. He was very interested in my mother's photographs. “I've seen this portrait in the museum,” he said, referring to the chief over the chimney. We popped up at the windows where they couldn't see us. We listened to everything they said. My older brothers scorned such childish nonsense. “Fancy listening to other people's conversations!” came the scornful voice of Hiri again. But my sisters and I took no notice of him. The visitors had eaten. It was time for our dinner. While we ate they watched us. They had never seen a family so large. “How on earth do you manage to feed them all?” the lady gasped. “Oh,” said my mother, all calm and collected, “it's just like feeding one, when you get used to it. Besides they can pretty well feed themselves by now. They're quite a help you know, especially the older ones.” She beamed at us in pride. “The older boys milk the cows and the girls help me with the housework.” We were all very shy. We couldn't eat very well while they looked on. We said silly things like: ‘No thank you’ … ‘Pass me the knife please’ … ‘Yes please’ … It was a dreadful meal with those pakehas looking on. My mother had a warning look on her face every time we took a bite. ‘Don't put your knife in your mouth’ … ‘Don't put your elbows on the table’ … She just couldn't keep quiet. The onslaught of the storm was: “Natana go outside and blow your nose you dirty little tike.” My mother was most apologetic. “It's terribly difficult trying to teach them manners.” “Oh,” said the lady, “I think they're very polite. Such a charming shyness too. Such beautiful black eyes and such gorgeous skins!” Twelve pairs of black eyes started at her in disbelief and amazement. My mother was fully consoled by the compliment. I liked the lady because she was so generous with her compliments about us and the house. So now I wished that she were younger so that my brothers could like her too. But she was just too old to be admired by them. Her hair was almost white. She wore glasses too. My brothers had such rude names for people who wore glasses. She had a very long neck. She sat quite straight and she always clasped hands when she was not doing anything. She had such a large bosom that I was sure it would reach out over the plate. And when she talked she looked like a turkey with her large bosom and her long neck. No! My brothers would never approve. Mr Mills wore glasses too. He looked very severe when he was smoking his pipe. When he stood up he made our kitchen look very small. He was a teacher, but he didn't talk about children. His face was very red and his hair was very thin. Every time he clutched his pipe I was sure he'd be strict with children. But my father thought he was wonderful. He knew such a lot of things! He knew some Maori legends I had never heard of before. Then I began to wish they'd leave the kitchen, for we were still very hungry. My sisters and I had thought the lady was very nice and now we thought she was very silly. She kept on saying such nice things about us and my stomach was going in and out. We hadn't eaten plum pudding

since Christmas and my mouth watered so. And this lady kept on talking, talking—gobbling like a turkey. At last they went into the sitting room and we gobbled up the food. They stayed with us for two days. They picked up our names one by one. The lady fell in love with Natana. She thought it was a pity he was always sent outside to blow his nose. She liked my little sister too. She said, “Marino has such lovely eyes—just like almonds.” My brothers thought she was carrying her compliments too far. She taught my mother a lot of things … how to make mats out of old scraps of material … how to arrange flowers and leaves on an old cake plate … how to grow daffodils very quickly … My mother looked refreshed and relaxed. She looked as though she were on a holiday. It was such a refreshing change for her from the tiring job of cooking. My father argued with the man about the importance of the Maori language. He looked so pleased when he mentioned the word ‘verb’ or ‘noun’. It sounded so learned. Then they would talk about politics and education in general and the days passed suddenly. My brothers and I sighed. It had been a pleasant visit. We never got told off except at the tea table. And really that was all right, for we had such nice things to eat. They departed early on the third day. My mother was very sad to lose such charming visitors. My father was very happy. He puffed on his pipe with pride while Mr Mills made speeches about the generosity of our hospitality. The car disappeared down the dusty road. We walked into the house very slowly. My mother reached for the old cake plate with its symmetry of leaves, and her eyes sparkled at the thought of the things she would show her relations … how to arrange flowers on an old cake plate … how to make mats out of old material. “Did you notice what Mrs Mills said about the house, dad?” my mother asked happily. But my father did not reply. He too was dreaming—perhaps of what he could contribute to the field of education … things he had picked up from his learned friend. I crept into the sitting room to look at my ancestor with his arrogant face. Ah! Mr Mills liked him. I sat on the faded congoleum square. Did the lady mean what she said? Did she really like the floors? Silly questions. They were so happy they couldn't have cared at all. “Come and wash the dishes!” shouted my mother. “I've got a lot of things to do.” ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ Miss Ruia Morrison, of Auckland, four times New Zealand's women's tennis champion and the most successful New Zealand woman player in recent years, has announced her engagement to Mr K. Davey, a chef in an Auckland hotel. Miss Morrison is a hotel receptionist.