GOODBYE by TIROHIA “Aue! Where is my blanket?” moaned Granny. “Those Pakehas hurry, hurry all the time.” “Well they have to be on time with a bus, and they won't wait for us,” replied Koro. “E Tuhou! Hurry up boy; your bus will be leaving soon. Put your cases in the back of the car.” Tuhou laughed. He had been ready for ages and his bags were already in the car. He looked at his watch—a present from the Headmaster at the local high school—in 10 minutes his bus would be leaving and he would be on his way to Auckland and thence to Dunedin. Today was the day he had been waiting for. Tuhou was going to be a doctor. Ever since he had been in hospital when he fell off his horse—about ten years ago—Tuhou had wanted to be a doctor; it had been his one ambition. He was a gifted child and at school had worked well, passing all his exams. Now he was going down to the University to study. “No more cow-spanking for a while,” he thought as he straightened his tie and ran a comb through his well-groomed hair. Granny came in, her favourite blanket wrapped around her, and her long black hair tied below her shoulders. “My you look nice,” she said. “You're a man already boy—just like your father.” Granny was smiling—a sad smile that seemed to make her wrinkled face shine. Poor old Granny; she belonged to another world—a kind, peaceful world not infested with clocks and timetables. Her youth had been spent in the far North in a small village with little Pakeha contact. Often she looked back on those days and sighed longingly. Somehow she could not get on with the Pakeha way of life—she was too old to say goodbye to the Maori ways to which she had been accustomed for 71 years. She greatly resented the fact that even her own children and grandchildren were speaking Pakeha instead of Maori. “Everyone is becoming a Pakeha,” she would complain. And now she felt that she was losing her favourite mokopuna to the Pakeha. She did not like it. “Come on boy—your father's waiting.” Together they walked out to the car—Granny with her rug and long hair, Tuhou with his new brief case and neat sports clothes. “Any more bags, son?” asked Tuhou's father as he closed the boot of the car. Rangi wasn't too happy just now. He felt he was losing his son—his dearest interest since the death of his wife some twelve years earlier. He thought it would never be the same when his wife died, but Tuhou was with him and together they had overcome their loss. Rangi worked on his father's farm now and his son and he lived there with the old folk. At last Koro was ready and they all climbed into the car. Rangi was driving and Granny was with him in the front seat. Koro and his grandson were in the back. The car drove past the cow-shed and out towards the road. Tuhou felt funny inside. He tried to laugh at his father's joke, but was only half successful. Even the cows seemed to sense he was leaving; some of them slowly raised their heads, stopped chewing their cuds and mooed. Dreamy animals. Tiny, Tuhou's horse, neighed and galloped towards the fence. The sheep rose and ran from the path of the car. “Just as well we got that hay in,” said Rangi. “Might get a bit of rain tomorrow.” The smell of fresh hay drifted pleasantly into the car—only yesterday they had been “flat out” stacking it. The car stopped and Tuhou hopped out to open the gate. He looked back at the old homestead and the cow-shed. His stomach seemed to rise. Suddenly he wished that he were not leaving this dear place. For the first time in his life he liked the cows—they seemed to remind him of something—something he didn't understand—something that made him tingle all over. Now they were driving down the narrow road towards the bus stop. “Ah at last they've started pulling old Timoti's house down,” broke in Koro as they passed an old house standing back by a clump of trees. Koro had known this area for 69 years—when it had been all bush and had belonged to his family. He remembered well the times, when as a child he used to play in the bush—sometimes staying out all night. Why it didn't seem that long ago that he had gone to school—a church school it was, near the coast. His grandfather had been one of the first Christians in that area and they had all been brought up with a religious background. They used to ride bareback to church once a month in those days. Koro used to take a short-cut through the bush and across the river, thus beating his two late brothers, Timoti and Walton.