The End of the Rainbow

Te Ao Hou, 1972, Page 43

The End of the Rainbow Freddy came to live at Te Hauke with his Uncle Jack somewhere about 1949 and he brought with him his young wife Martha. They had both been raised in the seaside district of Kawhia within the realm of the mighty monarchs of the Waikato, now the domain of Queen Te Atairangikaahu, direct descendant of Turongo and Mahinaarangi, their revered ancestors. The young couple were not strangers to Te Hauke, or the Poukawa Lake, a beautiful gem, viewed from the heights of the Raukawa range that gave a picturesque background to this bastion of tribal history. Poukawa lake abaundantly filled with and famed for its vast supply of tuna, kakahi and variety of bird life, was the early playground of the celebrated Mahinaarangi who was wooed and won by the chief Turongo many centuries earlier. Mahinaarangi, ‘Moonglow of the Heavens’, was indeed a figure of charm and poise, skilled in the arts of her people, and admired by all. Uncle Jack extended the hand of welcome to his nephew saying, ‘E te tau naumai, haeremai, haeremai, ki tānei taha o tātou. Me noho kōrua ki konei, kanui te mahi, kanui te ora o tātou i mahi ai i runga i tēnei whenua ātaahua, i roto i te riu o Heretaunga. Heretaunga ara rau, Heretaunga haukū nui. Heretaunga of Arcadian pathways, Heretaunga of lifegiving dew, Heretaunga the foodbowl of Aotearoa. Our man Fred was a modest Maori, not well educated academically, possessed of a deep resonant bass voice that could be heard from a long way off, physically well endowed, and with a happy-go-lucky nature that showed in the continual smile he wore on his face, a smile that exposed the gleaming whiteness of his teeth. A charming manner hid the power of his muscles and sinews, which he used with rhythmical grace in the calling that so many of our folk have followed. Eagerly as hundreds before him, Freddy donned the apparel of the shearing profession, the blue bush singlet and rweed trousers tied at the knees Aussie bowyang style, placed his feet in bale-top moccasins, wrapped a large sweat towel around his neck and with his hand piece that cost him his last ‘bob’, walked onto the shearing board and in due course made inroads into the flock of bleating animals that occupy the lush acres of Heretaunga, the acres that are the reason for the prosperity of Hawke's Bay. Soon with the dexterity of a ‘gun’ shearer he divested the animals of their fleeces, the ‘golden’ fleeces that are a symbol of the wealth of many in this district and a reminder of sweat, toil and pain of aching muscles to others. Martha learned the art of being a shedhand — to pick up a wool fleece, throw it up on the wool tables like a sheet when making a bed, skirt the fleece, separate the necks and the locks, class and stow into bins, sweep the floor, pick up the dags, trim the best, and work from daylight till dark. The weight of each fleece can be twelve pounds and in a long day they make an arduous and wearisome task for the stoutest heart, and more so when the shearers move at high speed. * * * Life here is never dull. Your nostrils inhale the smell of animals, dags, and dirt, your ears are filled with the barking of dogs, the never-ceasing bleating of sheep, the hum of the engines, and now and again a shepherd's curse. Your eyes behold the hustle and bustle and the sweat rolling from the shearers' brows, the worried look on the boss's brow as he tries to show an air of nonchalance about the quality of the work, which reflects in the price received on the brokers' table, and the programme of operation he may be able to plan from the mentally calculated financial return. But for Freddy, white spots are beginning to appear before his eyes. It's getting

near 3.00 p.m. and dizzy spells are affecting his vision for he sees more white spots and more visions. Like the boss he too adopts the air of nonchalance but those spots, those spots, ‘Ah thank God they're not spots at all, darn it, they're sheep, and more sheep. Am I dizzy? No, not any more’. The bell has gone for smoko. But he muses like the boss again. ‘By the time the season is over, I could be as good as the number one man. My tally should be 10,000, perhaps 15,000 and at so much per hundred my-oh-my. What's that story about the rainbow? Man, am I allowed to dream. Ah those white spots again, they're changing colour like the rainbow. No, no, that's not the story. ‘Bang! There goes the bell — 3.15 p.m. Smoko is over. Oh hell. The last run to home base, two hours to go, fancy allowing myself to dream at this time of day. That can wait till tonight when I go to bed dreaming, with my eyes open too. Not those white spots again. Ah — wool, wool away….’ The machines are humming again, the shedhands begin to sing and some of the weariness falls away. Freddy finds himself singing too and the rhythm is good, the mind is reacting, the body is loosening and the sinews and muscles are moving smoothly in co-ordination. That last run, the best one. ‘Don't hold me back,’ he shouts, ‘Rouseabout! Wool-away, woolaway!’ From where did that reserve of energy emerge? That beat, the rhythm. ‘The bell… gee… what's happened? The boss is counting out my pen. I can't believe it… the day's over. I could have lasted another hour. The white spots are gone. That's a change, hooray,’ Freddy takes off for the shower — ‘get rid of dirt and sweat, put those stinking clothes in the wash tub, change into clean fresh ones, and then I must lie down, a half hour wait for kai — and then off to bed. Rest those weary aching bones and muscles. Two weeks time they'll be conditioned and then I'll double that tally. Oh rest and slumber, tired and weary — gosh, those sheep are climbing into bed with me, or am I dreaming?’ The gang consists of eight shearers, eight rousabouts, including the two pressers and sheepo and the children, the Gang Boss, his wife who is the cook and their son who is only a loafer anyway, but they say he is going to university. What for? With a body like that he could be a crack shearer in no time. The kids today are getting it too easy. Make ‘em work. Those little kids are worrying Freddy though. Why aren't they at school? Well they can't be left at home, they'll set the place on fire, so out they come to the shed. ‘The teacher won't miss them anyway. Maybe he'll be happy without them,’ say the parents. This disturbs Freddy but he does not know what to say — after all they are not his kids. The Gang Boss makes a big impression on Freddy who says to himself that in five years he could be a big boss too, and since hard work never killed any man, this short experience should be enough to give him the managerial efficiency needed to run his own gang. ‘Do I need money? It'll come. Four or five years, that will do for a start, my farmer bosses will give me advances. I don't need to join the Shearing Contractors' Association. They can set their prices for the year, and I can set mine, and that way I will get away to a good start. Borrow money? How? Where? Do I need to do that?’ But Martha demands to know how they are going to obtain equipment, vehicles, and so on, and so on, ‘Freddy, we'll want a truck, pots, pans, cooking gear and all that.’ ‘Once the Farmers know I am a contractor, they will supply all those things, and our cheques will be paid through the firm. Food, groceries, anything we need. You see Martha.’ ‘What about the deposit, Freddy?’ asked Martha. ‘What's that you say? We don't need a deposit, heck. You make me tired. I know all about finance.’ ‘You mean money, don't you Freddy?’ ‘Yeah, the same thing.’ ‘Don't we need someone to take charge of our affairs? Like a secretary? You know Tom Jones at Omahu, he's got a bloke who counts all the money and pays all the wages for the gang.’ Martha cunningly added, ‘He's got a big home, a big car, two trucks and a tractor and he runs two gangs. Maybe we should have a counting-up bloke as well, just like that too.’ ‘Tom Jones, bah, he knows nothing. He's the one I was telling you about, the one

who set up the Shearing Contractors' Association to control the prices. That's no good to me. He's made his money and now he wants to keep the cream for himself.’ ‘Well what is the price per hundred, Fred? I see in the paper the award rates set by the Contractors’ and the Labour and Employment Department are so much but I can't remember exactly. But they are pretty good too this year.’ ‘I'm not a member of the Association so I fix my own rates, see? I'll get the sheds at my price, see, no control, no rules. You cook and I shear with the gang and that way we'll soon hit the top.’ ‘What about insurance, wages tax, social security, and all those things?’ ‘That's my worry Martha, you leave those things to me.’ * * * So in 1952, after three years' shearing, another hopeful contractor entered the competitive ranks of this hurly burly industry. Certainly 1951 was the boom year for the wool industry, the like of which had never been seen before or since by mercantile firms, farmers, business houses, shearing contractors, shed hands — the lot. The Government ‘froze’ the farmers' cheques to protect the country from inflation, but for fellows like Fred it didn't mean a thing, and nobody thought of protecting him, not even from himself, although Martha did try. The anticipation of lucrative seasonal returns looked good. Equipment was easy to get, and sheds were not so hard to come by. Then the big talk hit the news. ‘Second shearing, Martha. Look at this, twice a year shearing the same sheep! We double our tally just like that. All the year round shearing, non stop. The biggest job will be to get a gang.’ Notwithstanding the competition for shearers, Freddy and Martha got a gang together and launched forth into industry, doing the rounds in a smart-looking newlypainted yellow truck of three tons capacity, equipped with two klaxon horns that were too large to fit under the bonnet, and were attached to the top of the cab where they could blare forth to announce the arrival and departure of the gang. With the pride of achievement, Martha was looking forward now to the prospect of her own home. After each season was over, they had been living in the tumbledown shack with big-hearted hospitable Uncle Jack and his wife, equally hospitable and kindly disposed. They did not appear to have very much, but somehow they all managed to survive. ‘We can't get a home yet,’ said Freddy. ‘We'll leave that till later. John Kiwara at Korongata has just bought a brand new car. Maybe next year we will get a house in Hastings. Now we can live in the shearers' quarters with one of our bosses, so let's get the car first.’ ‘But Freddy, we have the truck, we don't need the car.’ ‘You leave that to me,’ was Freddy's reply. But fame and fortune are not made that way, and destiny has a say in the future of man. On the highway after the Hawke's Bay Show at Tomoana in October just a few miles south of Hastings city, Martha and Freddy, passengers in a friend's carlate at night, met with an accident. Martha lost one eye, and Freddy was mangled badly, and had a broken leg. He became dangerously ill, but survived. It was back to Uncle Jack again and twelve months on a sickness benefit for the two of them, with uncompleted contracts, unpaid accounts, no funds in the bank, no insurance to cover the accident, financial embarrassment, ill health and little hope of recovery from a very depressing situation. Time, the greatest of healers, saw convalescence and patience produce full recovery for Freddy, but with his sudden cessation of activity, he reached twentytwo stone. He still had possession of the now somewhat dejected truck, still painted yellow in most places, but was still without the house needed more urgently than before, as there were no funds to acquire one. Uncle Jack was no longer able to extend hospitality, because he had passed beyond Te Reinga, and this made life a real hardship, but Freddy still wore his smile if nothing much else. Home now became the truck plus a tent they could use as a shelter wherever they could pitch it. The basic needs of man can be easily obtained anywhere in Aotearoa but in no place better than Te Awanga, for generations the source of the food supply for the descendants of Kahungunu living in the fertile valley of Here-

taunga. There were karaka berries, kaeo, karengo, paua, kuku, and all the delectable varieties of sea foods, inanga tuarenga, ngaore, tuna, heke and fish of all sorts. So Freddy pitched camp on this beach, happy in the knowledge that the cost of living would be at a minimum, and rent, free. ‘After all, the old folk lived this way, and I'm not afraid to turn the clock backwards to make another start,’ he said. Freddy seemed doomed to a life of misfortune, as calamity struck again. One warm balmy night at 11.00 p.m. the god of the sea, Tangaroa, expressed his wrath, maybe because Freddy was attempting to turn back the hands of time. No, it might have been the god of earthquakes, Ruaumoko, or did they both combine to show their displeasure at the impertinence of this human? Across the ocean of Kiwa many miles away in Hawaii, tidal waves lashed the shores of the Polynesian Islands, arousing a terrific oceanic upheaval that lashed with an unwinding spume of angry water twenty feet in height to completely engulf the truck, Freddy and Martha and all their worldy possessions and whisk them away in the receding wash. The story could have ended here with a coroner's note of ‘loss by misadventure’. but the ancestral home of Te Hauke where Freddy first received a welcome was too the birth place of Te Hapuku, the paramount chief of Heretaunga, signatory to the Treaty of Waitangi for the Heretaunga tribes, philanthropist to the early European settlers of Hawke's Bay, and he, like the great fish that gave him his name, once more, in spirit fashion, came to the rescue of his hapless relative, and steered him safely back to the sands of Papatuanuku, devoid of all belongings except the yellow truck, and after such a battering it too was a liability and might just as well have gone the same way and been declared lost at sea like the other possessions. Penniless, homeless, sadder and wiser, Freddy and Martha began again in the spirit so aptly described by Kipling in his poem ‘IF’. Not dreaming any longer, they realised that the rainbow was aeons awav. Experience had prepared them for realities, and made them aware of the need to look carefully at the future. No longer interested in the elusive speculative return from unclothing animals, nor in the doubtful realm of the successful contractor. Freddy sought for himself a job in a factory, and Martha found happiness in a home provided by the state. With their new but more stable outlook in life, again with the use of their hands they began to rebuild their place in the community. Freddy's natural ability with things mechanical soon won for himself a position as driver of a lovely new yellow truck; not his, but it gave him joy and pride wherever he was required to go. Back to twenty stone, he began to reduce weight by taking a course of gymnastics, and one of those ‘diet fads’ for he was keen to get those beautiful muscles back in trim again, if not by shearing then in his spare time at the YMCA. He was successful in his endeavour, because in twelve months he managed to reduce to twelve stone, his normal working weight. Fit and active once more he was persuaded to accept an invitation to invest in an insurance scheme. Although he had no knowledge of its purpose or its value, like thousands of other Maoris, he accepted because, as he said, ‘If those Pakeha blokes take out insurance, it must be all right.’ Duly examined medically fit, he assigned ten shillings per week from his wages to look after the premium payments. Meanwhile, Martha found herself sufficiently strong despite the one eye handicap to work to supplement the family income, and so life moved along quietly, but more securely. They learned too how much better life could be with less bustle and worry, and without the hard grind of the shearing shed. Freddy no longer had white spots before his eyes, or suffered the mad rush from shed to shed, the worry of the rain that caused delays in work programmes and raised the costs of feeding the gang — ‘No work, no pay, but we still have to eat’. He no more worked by the sweat of his brow for money that seemed to pour through the fingers like sand, with an aching back and sore muscles, chasing that elusive season's tally — 10,000, 12,000, 15,000 — and no better off at the close. Philosophically, Freddy still agreed that hard work never killed any man, and maybe he'd have another go later on. He didn't tell Martha about the insurance policy either, because she would have laughed at him, especially since he had

boasted of his financial prowess and ability to manage his own affairs in the ‘leave it to me’ style. She would have said, ‘Those silly Pakeha blokes he works with got him insured, but he couldn't see what for.’ Now he'll never know, because Freddy died not long ago. It wasn't hard work that caused it, nor, directly, the misfortunes that dogged his life, but dieting too heavily in too short a time. That's what they said at the inquest. Martha said something about a crashing diet, and that was all she could remember. After all the bills were paid, including the funeral expenses, Martha had a tidy sum left over from the insurance, with which she has furnished her state rental house, and this continuously reminds her of her man Freddy. The state house was theirs and there she is happy to remain. Funnily enough, I know the man who sold Freddy the insurance policy, and he said that he likes paying out on a claim because this does seem to make people happy as they realise its value, and he told me too that his boss feels the same way. But somehow I reckon Freddy is. the happiest of all, because Martha will benefit from his search for the rainbow. That elusive fortune will never be his, but what does it matter. Makes you wonder doesn't it? by Matauoterangi Rongoiti