Under the Skin

Te Ao Hou, 1973, Page 51

Under the Skin by M. White The summer Old Tupeka died was one of those that only seem to crop up occasionally; long, hot, dry days that go on week after week. We were living close to the beach at the time. I was going to college and after school I'd spend the afternoon with the other kids in and out of the water until the last of the sun had gone. Even then we were reluctant to leave the beach and usually only our stomachs or the threat of unfinished homework drove us home. I remember I'd come in early that night. I can't recall why exactly; perhaps the tide was out. Anyhow there weren't many of the kids about. I kicked around on my own for a bit but it wasn't much fun so I headed out of it. When I got home Dad was dressing to go out. ‘Ben Tupeka was killed at work yesterday.’ my mother told me as I opened the frig. ‘Your father is going out to see them.’ I loaded my plate, remembering Old Tupeka. I don't think I'd given him more than a passing thought these last few years. I really never knew him very well. The family used to live next door to us in a house that was due for demolition; in the meantime the landlord was milking it for every penny before it was pulled down. Tupeka, with his large family, hadn't much choice and he paid through the nose for the old dump. He worked all hours God made to try to keep ahead of it so we didn't see much of him; but we were very conscious of his presence all the same and the kids treated him with the greatest of respect and made sure he didn't find out what they knew he'd disapprove of. He ruled everyone with a rod of iron, and that included his wife. Mum and Mrs Tupeka became friends and the kids were in and out of our place as if it were their own. They called Mum ‘Auntie’ and seemed to think they had a right to my things. I wasn't used to sharing. All the same I don't think I'd have minded too much if only they'd put them back. It was no use complaining to Mum. She'd just say, ‘Never mind, you have plenty, and anyhow you can get it again.’ But it didn't always work out that way. so I took to hiding my stuff; which was a nuisance because I wasn't all that tidy and it meant I was always putting my things away. So I didn't have many regrets when they got a Maori Affairs house and moved away. It wasn't long after that we moved to the beach. ‘I'll go with Dad, if you like,’ I said. I wasn't so hungry after all. I sat next to Dad on the way out. Once we were on the motorway the run was fast and easy and we chatted quietly. That was one thing I liked about him, you could sit and talk or just be quiet. It was a comfortable relationship that put no strain on either of us. It was dark by the time we reached the house. I'd never been to a Maori house where there had been a death. I'd heard that relatives came from miles around and there certainly seemed to be a lot of cars. There was a bus parked alongside the kerb, North-landers. I thought, and cars kept arriving as we walked up the path. All the same, I wasn't prepared for the solid mass of people who spilled out of the house, cramming the front porch and standing in little knots round the outside. Dad and I hesitated but a way was made for us and we moved on into the front room. We were the only Pakehas. It was like a state house, and the living room had been designed for a good-sized family. Still, it didn't seem possible to squeeze another one in, but somehow a space was made for me. I lost Dad in the

crowd. I guessed he was behind me somewhere. I only knew it was hot. The coffin was on the floor in the middle of the room, a photograph at the head, a candle at the foot. A coffin in a church is a pretty familiar sight to me-I'd been marched into class rosaries all my school days-but I've never seen one that looked so right before. It's hard to explain, but somehow it seemed as though the old man was at home with his family. Maori relatives sat round the room, backs to the wall, feet straight out in front of them while a priest said prayers. I knelt, not understanding a word. Opposite me sat Joe Tupeka. I don't think I ever particularly liked Joe. He'd been much bigger than I was when we were kids, though we were the same age; he was tough and could throw his weight around if he liked and it seemed to me that he often liked. He didn't look at me. I wondered if he knew what the priest was saying. I knew he couldn't speak Maori, but his parents did and he must have caught something now and again. I glanced at the other faces nearest me. They were shut tight, grieving for their own and resenting the Pakehas who intruded on their sorrow. I could feel it hanging between us like a heavy curtain. I wondered if Dad felt it too. I was sorry I'd come. It was stiflingly hot. I shifted my position and pushed my bare arms out in front of me, resting them on my brown knees. Idly I thought, ‘I'm the same colour as the rest of them.’ Through the droning of Maori I heard my name. The priest said, ‘Now I will say in English what I have just said in Maori. Tonight we have Pakeha friends with us. Peter and Brian White from Titirangi. Pakehas often join with us in rejoicing but they seldom come to share our sorrow. We make you welcome.’ It's difficult to describe feelings, to explain how everything changed. Without another word spoken the whole atmosphere cleared and I was drawn into that group of mourning people. I could see the masks come off and I was one with them. The prayers were over, Joe nodded his head to me. ‘It's good to see you after so long.’ he said, and led me to his mother. Mrs Tupeka, her face bruised with grief. sat in a chair at the head of her husband. I remembered her as nearly always sitting in a chair. I think she must have been the big-best woman I've ever seen and movement was difficult for her. She left the running of the family to her eldest daughter and what Mary said the rest accepted. I suppose they were used to it, but I'd just like to see my sister try to boss me around like that! Whenever I saw Mrs Tupeka she had kids round her, her own, her grandchildren and some whose relationship I never worked out. Whatever was happening gravitated to her. She was like a queen whose bulk filled every inch of her shabby throne. She never read a book or did knitting or anything like that; she always seemed to be free to talk to anyone who wanted her. her brown eyes ready to dance with laughter at the least excuse. Everyone adored her, including me. If I'd had a battle with Mum, I'd squeeze through the hedge into the place next door, sidle up to her and she'd put her great arm round me. After a while I'd feel a lot better. I looked at her in the flickering candlelight and I was glad when she put her arms round me again, big fellow that I was. ‘Poor dear, poor dear,’ she murmured, and I never knew whether she meant me or herself. It's been years since I last saw the Tupekas. I may never see them again; yet I know I lost nothing through having known them. I remember Dad and I drove home that night, the Maori speeches still ringing in our ears. We didn't speak; each of us was shut in his own little box of silent thought.