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Te Ao Hou, June 1967, Page 17

he knew so much about them. I said to this Pakeha, “O.K. I'll see you later.” ‘But you know, that Pakeha he knew a thing or two and he told me that he would call for me in a couple of days time at the Y.M.C.A. in Wellesley Street at 5.30 in the evening. I thought he was a bit porangi. Fancy having dinner at night instead of the middle of the day. Then I remembered my Kani Papa telling me that Pakehas called the main meal dinner. “These Pakehas have a cup of tea in bed first thing in the morning, then breakfast, morning tea, then lunch—what we call dinner—afternoon tea, dinner, then supper. They seem to be eating all the time but they never get fat like us.” ‘Well I said “yes”, because I didn't want him to think that I was ungrateful. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. But I've found out over the years that it doesn't hurt him at all if you say “no” in the first place, instead of saying “yes” then not turning up. ‘I'm sure I was the whitest or greyest Maori in Queen Street. I was scared out of my pants. “Never mind,” I said to myself, “the old man reckoned they were only people.” The chaps I worked with seemed to be alright. ‘I tried to look sick. I thought of getting hurt on the job, thought of walking in front of a tram, but didn't have what my Pakeha cobbers call enough intestinal fortitude. ‘At 5.30 there was this Pakeha in a big flash car. He said to me, “Good evening”, but it was raining cats and dogs. I still can't figure this business. I got into the car and started to think of what the old man had said. “Don't forget. The safest thing to do is to say ‘yes’, and then ‘no’, and sometimes the things you think he would like to hear.” ‘So I said “yes” … “no” … “you've got a beauty car—you must be a very rich man. You look like the real rangatira.” I think he really liked that one—no different from the Maori—all chiefs, no Indians. ‘We arrived at his big flash house. He didn't knock or walk in, but pressed a button. As we waited for the door to be opened, I started taking my shoes off. Then I remembered what the old man had said, “You wipe your shoes on the mat and you keep your shoes on.” ‘Boy that was close! My grandfather's pearls of wisdom which he had cast—I mean that he'd told me—started coming back to me like bees to the hive. “You don't just walk in as we do at home. Even the man of the house has to knock at the door or ring the bell. You wait at the door until the lady of the house comes. Don't worry when you see her all dressed up. She's not going out. This is just for you. You will be introduced to her, and don't forget to say, ‘Pleased to meet you’, even though you might be feeling unhappy. The host will probably say, ‘This is the wife’. You don't shake hands unless she puts her hand out first.” ‘Sure enough Mr Spencer, (that was his name), said, “The wife, she won't be long.” ‘“Of course,” I thought to myself, “she would be Mrs Spencer.” ‘She came to the door, said “come inside,” and she was dressed as if she were going to church. ‘The old man had warned me that I would find it a little strange because the women and kids would do most of the talking, and they certainly did! “The children won't sit back and be quiet, but will sit up at the table and join in the conversation. They will ask a lot of questions. The wife won't be standing up serving you—she will also sit up at the table and monopolise the conversation.” ‘He had also warned me to watch which knife, fork or spoon they used, but not to fall into the same trap that had been set for his older brother when he had gone to a posh Pakeha house. ‘Kani Papa's brother had followed every move of the host … using a fork for the soup … putting sugar on the roast … cutting the steamed pudding with a knife and fork … then to top it off copying the host in dipping his forefinger into the mustard pot, eating it and smacking his lips in enjoyment. My Kani's brother didn't know that his host had only pretended the eating and enjoying. Much to his discomfort, his mouth started burning, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he realised too late that his host had put one across him. ‘The host politely asked Kani's brother why was he crying, and without turning a hair he

said to him that he had never enjoyed such rich food in his life and that he was indeed deeply grieved that his wife, his children and all his relatives were not present to partake of such a wonderful feast. ‘That Pakeha was a real hard case, and they were good cobbers after that. ‘The Spencers’ meal was fit for a king, but not for this warrior. My mouth watered for brisket and puha and a few kumaras. This was before that crowd in Hokianga started selling them and then the blight came along. ‘I soon learned, just as Kani had said, that the purpose of a Pakeha meal is to talk, not what I had been used to—sit up, eat up, shut up and get up to make room for the others. ‘We talked about everything … how sad it was seeing the young people leaving home and other things. Mind you I kept to the “steady does it” policy of “yes” and “no” until towards the end of the meal. I had put together in my mind a beauty sentence but couldn't use it. They wouldn't ask me the right question. ‘As we were leaving the dining room one of the children said to me, “Did your grandfather eat anybody?” I said, “I'm not sure, but I heard he only had the gravy.” Mrs Spencer looked pretty pale. I was now feeling much more confident. I had a new look policy! ‘The old man's voice seemed to be there with me and everything was going just as he had predicted. “After ‘pudding’ you won't pack up your plates, but just sit until the wife gives you the signal to move out into another room. You must be careful to wait until the lady of the house sits down—not like with us, when the ladies have to wait until the men sit down. Anyway with us they'd be busy cleaning up the dishes and feeding the children. When you go to the other room the host will not stand up and make a speech of welcome, so you won't have to worry about having a reply ready, as you do when you visit some of your kinsmen. You must keep awake. They are not like us. With them it is rude for a visitor to fall asleep. And you mustn't sit on the floor either. You will have to join in the conversation. Even if you do not understand what it is about, give the impression that you do. When you have something to say, make sure it is important. Try to steer the conversation round to things you know, because the ‘yes—no’ policy gets a bit boring.” ‘We started talking about diving for kinas, koura, and paua, and about line fishing. Mr Spencer was a good talker. Mind you if I had had what he had to drink, Parliament would have had nothing on us—but remember, I was only a youngster, and the strongest I had that night was iced lemon drink. Mr Spencer was such a yarn spinner that Ripleys would find it hard to match him. ‘I thought to myself, “Alright Mita Peneha, anything you can do, I can match it.” So I told him a yarn about a ‘make up’ tupuna who was diving near Kerikeri and found an old lamp that looked as if it came off a Spanish galleon. It was covered with barnacles, and eventually when the barnacles were cleared away, a light was still flickering. ‘Mita Peneha looked very hard at me and he said that he had been fishing that morning and had caught an eight foot tamure. I smiled at him and said, “I think that's a long one.” ‘You know he came back at me and said. “You blow the candle out of the lamp, and I'll cut my fish in half.” These Pakehas, they haven't got a sense of humour. ‘Not long after that defeat I heard the rattle of dishes and the squeaky sound of wheels. “My word”, I thought, “That's right, this is the Pakeha way of saying ‘go home’ or ‘we want to go to bed’—just like what the old man had said.” “After you have been talking for a while, usually between 9 and 10 p.m., the lady of the house will rise, say ‘Excuse me,’ and disappear. By this time of course the children will have long since been taken off to bed—not like ours, who stay up until the bitter end. She will return either carrying a tray or pushing a trolley. The end of supper is your signal to leave. You must thank the lady of the house first, then your host, not like us, when you thank the eldest first and then your host.” ‘We drank our tea and had some kai, had more talk, then I waited for about a minute, stood up, and repeated the magic sentence that had been taught me. I said thank you to Mrs Spencer first, then Mr Spencer, and I looked around to say thank you to the kids. Then I realised they had gone to bed. ‘I reckoned I was doing grand. After ex-

pressing my gratitude I said I must leave. Then Mrs Spencer interrupted me and said, “Please stay a little longer.” The old man hadn't clued me up on this one, so I resumed my seat and sat on until well past midnight. ‘I caught a taxi back to the Y.M.C.A., wrote a letter to Kani Papa telling him of my debut, and was eagerly awaiting my next visit to the Spencers. ‘The weeks went by, the months, and it wasn't until two years later when I returned home and was telling Kani about that wonderful evening, that the truth was revealed to me by my Kani. ‘“Aue boy, I should have told you that when Mrs Spencer said ‘Please stay a bit longer’, she was only being polite, and what she was really saying was, ‘the sooner you leave the happier I will be’.” ‘ My relative looked at me and said, ‘Well, that was in the olden days. Things are much different now and I think the Gov's got something.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘See you later. Be around Sunday with the Missus and kids. I'm off. Got to get the double.’ —Na ‘Townie’