WRITERS IN THE LIBRARY
a selection of prose and poetry
St Heliers Writers' Group
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010
Each author and/or poet asserts his or her own moral right to be identified as the author of his or her work(s).
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book contains both fiction and non-fiction contributions, and the views of the authors and/or poets are not necessarily those of the publisher, the editors or the writing groups, who are not responsible for the accuracy of any statement contained herein. Each author and/or poet certifies that their work contained in this book is original and their own work. Each author and/or poet reserves the right to publish elsewhere their own work, as included in this book, if they so desire.
St Heliers Writers’ Group
To order printed copies of this book please email pbjafa@yahoo.com
AM Publishing New Zealand www.amproofreadingnz.com
Cover artwork: John Ewing
Cover design: John Ewing and Adrienne Morris
Soft crimson petals Unfolding in the hushed dawn Greet the day’s promise. Likewise my heart opens to Receive new encouragement.
Tanka: Noel Rogers
Table of Contents
I HATE CHRISTMAS: Trevor Jones
THE BALLAD OF STAGGER LEE: Johnny Odiusson
HAIKU THROUGH THE SEASONS: Noel Rogers
DIVING FOR FLOATERS: Lisa A Lewis
IN SEARCH OF TUTANKHAMUN: Maureen Spencer
FITTED SHEETS: Johnny Odiusson
SUNBATHING IN THE GARDEN: Diana Tormey
SERIAL NUMBER 1-781-936: Coralie Fennell
GORILLA GIRL: Kerrie Anne Spicer
THE GIRL WITH THE BIG HAIR: Matthew Co
FULL METAL JACKET: Rosemary Ayers
THE LIVELY GARDEN GNOME: Maureen Spencer
DOG DAY AFTERNOON: Peter Buckton
SIEGE OF THE TICKS: Johnny Odiusson
JUST PASSING THROUGH: Roberta Hema
ZIGGURAT AND COMBUSTIBLE: Diana Tormey
LET'S CALL IT A DAY: Netta Hennessey
I LOVE CHRISTMAS: Trevor Jones
Foreword
It has been my good fortune to be involved in a small way with the collection in this book.
I was asked to look at the stories submitted by the Writers’ Group and make some decisions as to what should be included and what should be sent back to the writers for further work. It was not an easy task as there were over sixty entries with plenty of good work that could be classed as ‘work-in-progress’. What I found most exciting was that there was such a wealth of material, and I think the reason for this can be placed at the hands of those people who have instigated and maintained this writers’ group.
Throughout New Zealand many groups of people come together to talk about their writing and to read what they have written. Not all are as active and interesting as the ‘writers in the library’. As well as running twice-monthly meetings, they have arranged and funded weekend workshops with an exciting programme of speakers. This is a group with the energy and desire to give people a window on how to write better and to improve their storytelling.
Five people have been involved in putting together this publication, making sure that all is correct and soothing those members whose work didn’t make the cut this time. Congratulations to Diana Tormey, Peter Buckton, Maureen Spencer, Lynette Hedrick and John Ewing for their vigour, commitment and fascination with the world of the written word.
I wish the Writers’ Group a long and happy life in encouraging and helping writers find their voice and create worthwhile and interesting literature.
Rae McGregor
Acknowledgements
Iain Sharpe, Manuscript Collection Librarian of Special Collections at Auckland City Library, who introduced us to the concept of meeting as writers in the library. Immeasurable gratitude for his generosity in giving his time, knowledge and encouragement on several occasions at St Heliers Bay Library.
The librarians at the four libraries who have patiently welcomed us, tolerated the space we take up, our occasional outbursts of laughter - St Heliers Bay, Remuera, Onehunga and Mangere Bridge.
The speakers who have addressed us over the years - Dr John Reynolds, Maggie
Maxwell, Sandra Morris, Rae McGregor. We have learned so much from you.
Creative New Zealand who sponsored our Workshops 2010. Your direction, your support, provided an unforeseen impetus to the energy of our group, with far- reaching outcomes not only for attending writers but also our speakers and workshop leaders.
The speakers who addressed our workshops: Graham Reid - Travel Writing; Siobhan Harvey - Poetry; Nalini Singh - Fantasy; Yvonne Lindsay - Romance; Joan Rosier-Jones - Writing the Short Story and Writing the Novel; Melinda Szymanik - Writing for Children; Jan Gow and Joyce Irving - Memoirs and Genealogy. People bubbled with infectious enthusiasm for weeks after attending these seminars.
Rae McGregor and Siobhan Harvey who assessed the prose and poetry submissions, respectively, for this book. Their generosity with their time, their enthusiasm for the project, their advice and encouragement were just what we needed when facing what seemed a daunting task.
Adrienne Morris as our publisher, for her amazing and invaluable advice and support. She has done the work of three people in the proofreading, editing and layout and answered above and beyond the call of duty. We are indebted to her for the contribution she has made in the final preparation of our book for printing. The style and presentation are in no small measure due to her efforts.
Also to all those who persevere with their writing and share their work with us - the touches of wisdom, the mistakes, the fantastic discoveries and intriguing insights they bring to our circle. The humour, the drama, the pathos and the courage. Sheer entertainment.
Introduction
The librarians had prepared a wonderful array of snacks, tea, coffee and wine. Rows of chairs were arranged, and Iain Sharpe (Manuscript Collection Librarian of Special Collections at Auckland City Library) stood waiting for the expected rush of avid readers, eager to listen to favourite passages, new pieces and great ideas. Seven arrived. Only seven were prepared to brave the gales of that evening.
That stormy Thursday in St Heliers Library in August 2006 all seven sat mesmerised by Iain’s brief commentary on the simplicity of poetry, the way words push meaning beyond expectations, the sheer enjoyment to be had from reading and reciting another’s deepest (or not) thoughts. Some had brought their own manuscripts to read aloud to the group. Some brought nothing but themselves, bundled in heavy jackets. No one went away without having actively participated.
A book of poetry was placed in my hand, and I opened it arbitrarily, reading the poem that started on that page. Not to be outdone, Bryon Farrelly read another poem from the same book and a second from another collection. Loretta Larkin read the first chapter of her current novella.
By the end of the evening, the three of us had agreed to start a writers’ group, meeting there in the library on a fortnightly basis. We would invite everyone we knew who had an interest in writing to come along and help the group grow.
Grow it did. The first meeting was attended by five. More came, one by one, to other meetings, some dropped away, some stayed for months - some still meet after four years, hardly missing a session. Others branched out, forming groups in other libraries: Remuera, Onehunga and Mangere Bridge.
An average of seven regular attendees expanded to over twenty. A mix of ages, skills and backgrounds makes for unlikely but lasting friendships. It also makes for some stimulating writing. We influence each other, urging each other on with the odd prod and shove. But whatever happens, we help move each other along the writer’s path.
The ultimate objective of any writer is to be published. The idea of us producing a book of work from our Writers’ Group was tentatively broached several times.
When our application to run a series of writing workshops for the community was approved by Creative New Zealand, a new energy surged into the group. The workshops required the dedication and energy of many: a bank account had to be arranged, a suitable venue found, speakers sought and invited, a programme set, flyers and tickets designed and printed, a web page built. The committee was driven and tireless. Our worst fears were nowhere near realised. It was tremendous, yielding increased enthusiasm and a greater awareness of what can be done when a good idea is allowed to materialise. Not to mention the improvements to our writing.
So from the success of the workshops, the book idea was now a possibility. A race ensued. A race to produce work good enough for publishing. A race to find outside assessors to objectively rank a growing pile of submissions. A race to assemble, edit and transform a bundle of papers in brown envelopes into a book-like form, from the diverse writing that emerged from our group of writers.
We believe there is something for everybody in these pages, something memorable, something to make you laugh, cry or quiver in fear.
Perhaps you, too, will join us in a library near you.
Diana Tormey
I HATE CHRISTMAS
Trevor Jones
I hate Christmas. Oh, it was okay when I was a kid. I got just as excited as anybody else at the thought of getting a free gift from some stranger called Santa. It was a bit odd that Mum’s rule that I shouldn’t take gifts from strange old men didn’t seem to apply on this occasion. But the thrill and the magic was lost once I’d worked out that it was really my Dad trying quietly to place toys on the end of my bed, while I lay with half-closed eyes watching him. Santa was never the same after that.
When I got married, it was a relief to find that my wife Joan wasn’t a Christmassy person either. After a working week, all the effort to produce ‘special meals’ and decorate the house just didn’t seem worth it. We preferred to surprise each other with little gifts on Christmas Day - gifts we had usually chosen ourselves to avoid disappointment. Then we headed off somewhere nice for a week’s holiday of relaxation and rich food. Not a bad way to get over the stress of another hard year.
This year was different. Thanks to the wonderful American economy and its desire to share its bad news with the rest of the world, both of us have had to work a lot harder for a lot less reward.
I had to take a cut in salary to keep my job. As if that wasn’t enough, the annual bonus was cancelled because of lack of profit. Nearly twenty staff were given the push, so who’s supposed to handle the extra work? You got it - me. Frankly, it was touch and go at times whether I hung in or told them to stick it, but where would I go? The late hours, broken sleep, ongoing stress and financial worries took their toll. There was no spare money for meals out. We hadn’t managed any long weekend breaks, and we had to cancel our usual Christmas holiday.
Christmas? Just another excuse to spend money we don’t have on things we don’t need. I couldn’t help thinking that, at our age, life should be getting easier, not harder. Watching all the merriment on television brought it home to me that I wasn’t doing as well as I should have been.
When we were first married and a lot younger, we tried all that. Invites to the few family members we had, perhaps some business acquaintances and neighbours. It wasn’t that I wanted the big jolly gathering. No thanks. The house full of people I didn’t really like making a mess of the lawn, consuming masses of food and drink at my expense.
Afterwards, we made the same resolution each year - to lose all the weight we had put on over the last week and never to repeat the torture. Overseas hotels were a much better plan.
Well, there’s no chance this year. No money, no patience, no interest.
This year will just be Joan and I. We want to pull up the drawbridge and relax, feel safe and isolated in our little world where we can vegetate together with a welcome glass of wine and let the rest take care of themselves.
Who needs Christmas?
Well, the big day came and went. We pottered and tried to make the most of our enforced leisure without thinking of which holiday resort we were missing the most.
I decided to get some work papers from the car. Might as well make a start, and it would keep me busy for a while. That’s when I saw my next-door neighbour, Kim, collecting his mail from the letterbox.
He looked lost and confused as he sorted the letters, and I felt a rush of guilt. We should at least have dropped in a card or made the effort to wish them Season’s greetings. Oh well, not too late I suppose. With a deep breath and a fixed smile I went outside.
Kim had moved in about four months earlier. We saw the removal truck backing in as we went to work one morning. By the time we returned home, lights were on and we assumed that they had moved in all right.
Now, I’m not what you’d call a nosy neighbour. I don’t care who you are or what you do, as long as you don’t throw noisy parties that keep us awake at night. If there is a serious problem and you need a hand, then we will gladly help; but otherwise, well frankly, we like our privacy and respect other people’s. Hope they do the same.
So it was with some reluctance, and constant pushing from Joan, that I had agreed to go around and give them the official welcome to the neighbourhood. It took a few minutes for my knocking to be answered.
Kim, as he introduced himself, is an Asian guy, though I’m sorry to admit that I found it hard to say where he was from. It’s the same with Europeans. I find it just as hard to tell an Englishman from a German or a Frenchman unless their clothes or accents give a clue. Kim stood about five foot six tall - or short, if you prefer. He wore a sweatshirt that looked several sizes too big and hung loosely on him. His trousers matched, just as baggy, bunched around his ankles. Either he had lost a lot of weight, or he was expecting to grow very quickly.
He had a friendly, round face and an equally pleasant smile. The effect was rather spoiled by the black-rimmed, oversize spectacles perched on his nose. The thick lenses threw his eyes out of focus - from both sides. It seemed he had difficulty seeing anything more than a few feet away so had to work them down his nose to peer over them at me. As I stand over six foot tall, this didn’t work too well. Kim tipped his head back to look up at me, causing the glasses to slide up his nose. He moved his head down and pushed the glasses lower, peering over them. Then he tipped his head up, the glasses slid and the performance started again. He reminded me of Mole in The wind in the willows.
Behind Kim, I could see a family room that was dark and uninviting. The blinds were closed and only a diffused light from a small side lamp gave any definition. I introduced myself as his next- door neighbour.
“Just wanted to welcome you and make sure you know about rubbish day, et cetera. If there is anything you need, please call on us.” Or not, as you please.
“Thank you. You are very kind. My name is Kim, and this is my wife Lily.”
I was more than a little surprised. Firstly, Kim had no trace of a foreign accent. It was a strong, confident voice. Secondly, I had not seen the frail figure in the shadows behind him. As I peered into the gloom I saw a small figure in a wheelchair. Lily also looked Asian. She seemed very pale. Even in the dark, her skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat. She wore a knitted hat, and a blanket covered her from neck to ankles. There was no sign that she knew I was there. She didn’t speak. I felt a shiver and decided it was definitely time to leave. With a few more standard platitudes, I made a hasty retreat to discuss the whole experience with Joan.
Over the following months I occasionally saw Kim collecting his daily paper as I was heading out to work. A brief ‘Good morning’ or
‘Nice day’ had been enough.
This day, as I left the house and walked over to Kim trying to be neighbourly, I attached a smile and tried the standard approach.
“Hi, Kim. Did you have a good Christmas?”
He peered up at me. No smile. No recognition. He looked very tired. When his eyes began to focus, he spoke in a quiet, shaky voice.
“No, Jack,” he said. “I didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
What an idiot I was. I had assumed that everyone celebrated Christ’s birth without thinking that probably half the world’s population didn’t even believe in Him, but actually celebrated somebody else’s birthday. Trust me to put my foot in it. My own fault for trying to be Christmassy.
I really hate Christmas.
Before I could apologise or work out something to say, Kim looked at me and said, “Lily died on Christmas Eve.”
I was stunned. What could I say? Nothing seemed right. “I’m so sorry, Kim,” was all that came out.
My brain was full of questions. How? Why? What happened? Was it an accident? Unexpected? But I couldn’t say anything. Some answers you just don’t want to hear.
Again, Kim seemed to understand and filled the silence. “She had cancer for a long time. It was only the painkillers that kept her going.”
“I’m so sorry.” And I was. I just couldn’t grasp it. I’d only seen her once, but it wasn’t something I’d wish on anyone.
“We’d been married for over forty years.” Kim wanted to talk, and I wasn’t going to try to stop him. It seems Kim was Chinese but had moved to New Zealand with his parents when he was only two.
“We met in Wellington, married and settled there. I taught at school, and Lily looked after the home. Our two sons are at university in Auckland now. That’s why we moved here. Lily wanted to be close for her final months.” There was a catch in his voice but he continued. “They are good boys and spent a lot of time with their mum. They have been a great help to me with all the arrangements.” He looked up at me and tried to smile. It didn’t work.
“It’s for the best. She’s at rest now and no longer in pain.” Behind the oversize glasses I could see tears forming in his eyes,
and I felt the same stinging reaction in mine.
I don’t know what made me act the way I did. Perhaps it was his bewildered look or his bravery in trying to put me at ease when he was obviously in so much pain. Whatever the reason I reached out and pulled him to me.
“I am so, so sorry, Kim,” I repeated yet again, this time with tears in my voice and on my face. My head was bent down close to his - God knows what anybody passing by or looking out of their window would think. Two grown men, one tall, one short, hugging and crying in the street. Make your own guesses. All I know is that it seemed the right thing to do.
After a while we both straightened. “Is there anything I can do, Kim?”
“No thanks, Jack. The boys will be around soon. What I really needed was that hug. Thank you, it means a lot.” With a last attempt at a smile, he turned and shuffled towards his empty house and I returned, sadly, to mine.
Joan took one look at my face. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
I explained about Lily, and we both had another quiet weep. Joan, of course, wanted to rush over to see him, but I thought Kim would prefer some time with his family.
“There will be plenty of time to offer help later as the full loss of his wife finally hits him. As I know it will.”
That night Joan and I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Each exploring our thoughts, trying to get to grips with it all. I turned to Joan.
“I’m sorry.” Quickly becoming my favourite saying this
Christmas. “Whatever for?”
“This hasn’t been much of a Christmas, and you deserve better.” “Don’t be silly …”
“No, let me speak, please. This is important.” My words seemed to reach her and she grasped my hand, looking deep into my eyes. “I was feeling angry and depressed. I know I haven’t been good company, and I’m really sorry. All the money worries, the stress at work, it all got too much. I should have realised that you’ve been through just as much. Then Lily.”
I needed to take a deep breath before I could continue. “Poor Kim has reminded me of what I always knew. Just how lucky I am. I love you as much today as when I first met you. I couldn’t bear to lose you. We have had a wonderful life of ups and downs and, God willing, we have many more years to enjoy each other.”
Her grip was becoming painful, but I didn’t mind. “So that’s why I’m sorry,” I repeated. “For not taking the chance to celebrate all those great memories we have to share, and for not telling you often enough how much I love you.”
We hugged, and this time the tears were happy tears and led to us celebrating Christmas in the time-honoured way of people in love.
I really, really love Christmas.
~ ~ ~
THE BALLAD OF STAGGER LEE
Johnny Odiusson
It was Saturday afternoon in Collinsville, and a cold rain rattled in random bursts against the windows of Samantha Hoelenbrück’s old bungalow. Smoke from the chimney was whipped away eastwards in white wisps by a brisk, biting wind. The extra battens sealing the joints of the windows and doors proved invaluable.
Dark clouds overhead were sent scudding forever away into the distance, and the tops of nearby hills merged and disappeared into the leaden greyness. A lone macrocarpa tree ghosted mutely lower down on the slopes and longed to turn a hunched shoulder into the wind.
Drops of rain melded in clusters on the single windowpane of the Hoelenbrück frontage. The drops poised hesitantly until gravity brought them cascading down the pane in a serpentine spiral. The rivulets kaleidoscoped the already mangled view of the day’s bleakness, splintering it still further. The bitter weather outside appeared as fragmented shards through the glass, shifting and changing as the rain pounded.
Samantha gripped her shawl tighter around thin shoulders and took a lump from the coal bucket. A swirl of sparks floated upwards when she dropped it into the old cast-iron stove. She replaced the stove lid and moved her stool into place amongst the members of the Collinsville Literary Society seated around the heater. “Now then. You all have tea?” Samantha asked.
The clinking of cups accompanied murmurs of affirmation.
“Good.” Samantha shifted the tray of anaemic cucumber sandwiches closer to the centre of the wobbly card table then nodded to the very serious young man at the window. “Thank you, Keith,” she said. “We are ready.”
Keith stretched out two bony arms, freeing his hands from the warm sleeves of his pullover. He took a frayed green folder from under his arm and opened it with a subtle yet stylish flourish. He fluttered his fragile fingers down the first page, then down the next one. He stroked his brow and frowned slightly.
“Ah, perhaps … yes, this … this may suit.” Keith lifted his eyes to gaze dreamily into the space just over the heads of the Collinsville Literary Society for a moment, then bowed his head onto his shallow chest and put a knuckle to his lips.
Silently, almost prayerfully, he gathered his strength. He took several deep breaths, eyes tightly closed, brow furrowed. Then, thrusting the green folder out to arm’s length, he lifted his head and began to read.
I was hangin’ round the levee,
Along about the break of day,
When I hear two gentlemen arguing,
I listen to the words they say.
It was Stagger Lee and Billy,
A-gamblin’ awful late.
Stagger Lee he throwed a seven
But Billy said he throwed a eight.
A murmur of whispered delight tinged with awe rose from the women. Matilda’s eyes rolled upwards in a spontaneous surge of ecstasy, and Daphne’s hand went impulsively to her constricted throat.
Keith, eyes closed, massaged his heart, inhaled deeply and continued.
Stagger Lee he looked at Billy,
Said, “You can’t get away with that.
’Tain’t enough you win my money,
But you win my lucky Stetson hat.”
Stagger Lee run home to his woman,
Said, “Fetch me my forty-four.
Gonna fix ol’ Billy’s wagon,
So’s he don’t gamble wrong no more.”
Gasps of delight and adoration trickled through the group. Samantha rose quickly and hurried from the room, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We’re going to need tissues!”
Keith breathed deeply and leaned against the table to compose himself. He deepened his voice and added a quaver.
Stagger Lee found poor Billy;
Billy pleaded for his life.
“Have some mercy on my children,
Have mercy on my darlin’ wife!”
Stagger Lee he shot poor Billy;
He plugged him in the side.
Then he kept on pumpin’ bullets,
’Til poor ol’ Billy died!
A chorus of half-suppressed sobs and moans rose from the Collinsville Literary Society. Daphne sank back in her chair, drained, staring at the ceiling through glazed-over eyes. Her arms hung limply.
“Water!” croaked Keith, reaching out desperately with his free hand. “Water!”
Samantha quickly filled a glass and pushed it close. Keith sipped delicately, blotted his lips with the sleeve of his pullover and continued bravely.
Well, they caught ol’ Stag next morning
They strung him up a tree,
And the women dressed in mournin’,
And cried for Stagger Lee.
Had a hundred-dollar funeral,
With Preachin’ Parson Brown,
Then the undertaker got him,
And stuck him in the ground!
Charlotte and Agatha looked at each other and shook their heads, sucking air in through clenched teeth. Matilda shuddered, clasped her folded hands to her bosom and stared at Keith, tears the size of walnuts glistening on her cheek.
But Keith, relentless now that the dénouement was at hand, was not to be denied. His voice rose an octave, and he forged ahead, terrifying in his intensity.
When the Devil see Stag comin’,
He holler, “Now listen to me!
Hide the money and the whiskey,
Cause Stagger Lee is worse than me!”
Stagger Lee grabbed hold of the Devil,
And threw him up on a shelf.
Said, “Your working days are over!
I’m a-gonna run the place myself!”
The Collinsville Literary Society tried to remain upright but was overwhelmed. The members slid to the floor, their heads clunking in unison off the rungs of their chairs. They lay prostrate, murmuring and moaning disjointedly about Keith’s work.
Between sobs Matilda blubbered, “Oh, those wonderful meta - metaphiz - those metathings! Simply wonderful!” She plucked a tear from each eye and fumbled with a box of tissues.
“That wonderful second, uh, layer, it was so - so - words fail me!” “Wonderful?” suggested Matilda.
“Oh, yes, exactly! Thank you. Wonderful. And in such a, uh, wonderful way! Pass the tissues, please.”
Daphne and Charlotte clung to each other, comforting, cooing soft words. “Poor, dear, wonderful Billy.”
“Wonderful use of, um, symbolism. Extremely wonderful, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely wonderful. And so, er, symbolic.” “Wonderful characterisations. Tissues over here, please.”
“Yes, and the parson - what was his name? - introduced the religious aspect so wonderfully.”
“Subtly wonderful.” “Yes, purely wonderful.”
Agatha struggled to get her words out, but her throat tightened and she could merely shake her head and let the tears flow. “Those wonderful … sob … women dressed in … sob … whatever it was they were dressed in - it was wonder … sob … ful!” … sob.
“Goodness, what big tears you cry,” said Samantha. “We’re out of tissues. I’ll get some cornflour. It’ll soak up the tears.”
“Keith’s use of the, uh, vehicular was particularly wonderful,” sighed Daphne. She blew into a tissue - Phooonk! - and tucked it up her sleeve. “Using the language of the, uh …”
“Oh, yes, it was really wonderful. Pass the cornflour, please.” Keith picked his way carefully through the Collinsville Literary
Society casualties and collected the envelope containing his twelve- dollar fee. He pinched its thickness happily and held open the pocket of his pullover to scoop in the remaining cucumber sandwiches. “I’ll be off now, ladies,” said Keith. “Anyone want to try to stand up?”
A soft chorus of negatives rose from the Collinsville Literary Society.
“Oh, I haven’t the strength …” “Give me another few minutes …” “I couldn’t possibly just yet …”
Keith tightened his pullover at the throat and opened the door a crack. “Well, goodbye then, until next time.” He tucked his head down into his pullover and slipped quickly out into the weather and sprinted, knees high, towards the pub on the corner.
The Collinsville Literary Society lay quietly, slowly regaining a measure of equilibrium. The breathing became normal after a while, and one or two members lifted their heads to peer around. They seemed surprised to discover that their world remained intact. Samantha reached across Matilda for more cornflour but suddenly sat bolt upright, her hands clutching her chest.
“Girls! Girls!” Samantha wailed joyously, her face aglow, eyes bright with happiness, hands fluttering deliriously. “What if Stagger Lee had used an axe!”
~ ~ ~
KORO
Roberta Hema
Pere pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders and cuddled up against Aunty Wai. It was cold here on the marae, but Koro was here, and it was the very last night they could all be together. Tomorrow they’d take him down to the urupa and he could lie with his nanny.
Koro had always been there; life just hadn’t existed without him. There had been three weeks last Christmas when they’d sent Pere up to Auckland to have a holiday with Aunty Lizzie and Uncle Wally. He’d hated it and had been miserable. Auckland was too big and too noisy - and so was Uncle Wally and all the kids. Aunty Lizzie had let him sit up late to watch the Sunday horror movie, but he’d fallen asleep and had bad dreams. They’d all laughed at him and said he was a baby.
There had been McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried, but it still wasn’t enough, and Aunty Lizzie got tired of him ringing home. Uncle Wally reckoned he had a face as long as a slapped bottom.
After a week they’d put him on the bus and sent him back. He’d grinned all the way home. When they’d met him off the bus, Aunty Wai had given him a whack and then cuddled him. She smelt just like home, and so did Koro. Koro was grinning but said it was because he knew Aunty Lizzie had put some Kentucky Fried Chicken in a chilly bag for him. Pere didn’t think that was the only reason. They all laughed about the Kentucky Fried because, although Aunty Lizzie had wrapped it up in tin foil and a tea towel, you could still smell it all the way home in the bus. Pere hadn’t minded and just grinned some more.
That night he’d walked down with Koro to get the cows. They had only two now, Blossom and Hazel, but they gave plenty of milk so there was enough for them and Uncle Henare and all his kids. Koro had told him he named the cows after two of his girlfriends. Aunty Wai had said he really shouldn’t believe everything Koro told him; it wasn’t always right. Pere liked to believe him, though; and the cows did give you that lovely warm feeling when you were milking them and put your face against them. Pere thought that Blossom had lovely big eyes like Aunty Wai.
Koro said, “We’ll all be better off if you don’t tell Aunty Wai.” Pere snuggled close to Aunty Wai for her warmth, and Koro was here, so here they all had to be - Aunty was warmer than the cows.
It had been really cold when he and Koro had gone catching eels down at the river. He didn’t complain. He closed his eyes and for a minute there was that lovely cold river smell.
One night they’d taken Teddy, one of Uncle Henare’s boys, with them. They were going to stay out all night so took some pillows and blankets. Aunty Wai had thrown in a mattress so they’d be really comfortable. They had driven all the way up to The Willows. There were no eels that night, and Koro had told them it was because he and Teddy made too much noise.
“Worse than a couple of hens.”
They were quiet after that because there was only one way to shut a noisy hen up; still there were no eels, so Koro told them to settle down and have a sleep. They’d try again later. There was no room left on the mattress for Koro so he wrapped himself in his big coat and settled down by the fire. ‘Starlight Hotel’ he called it. They all slept.
Later that night, Uncle made a terrible noise that woke them. Koro was leaping around in the firelight, and his shadows were so huge the boys thought that the taniwha had come out of the river and was going to get them. They both began to wail, and Koro told them to stop their noise or the taniwha would wake up.
“I slept too close to the fire,” he told them. “And my bloody boots caught alight.”
Koro had sworn. They knew then that he was angry so stopped their howling, and Koro kept his dance up. Now the boys knew there was no taniwha, they fell about laughing. Teddy laughed so hard he fell off the truck. They’d tried to look serious, but it didn’t work.
Because it was really wet and windy, Koro took them back to the farm, and Aunty Wai made them hot, sweet cocoa. They tried to tell her about Koro’s fire dance and his burning boots. No eels that night but, from the warmth of their bed, they could hear Koro and Aunty laughing through the night.
Going to church with Koro hadn’t been too bad either. Aunty Wai would make Pere sit still, and if he turned around she would pinch him. She always made him wear his good jersey that made him itch and want to scratch. Koro gave him big peppermints to suck and didn’t mind if he wriggled. Sometimes Koro would doze and told Pere if he started to snore to give him a shove. But he never snored in church.
They didn’t have church every Sunday because they shared the building with the Latter Day Saints and the Methodists. They were raising money to have their own church and that meant there was housie every second Monday. That was, unless the river was up. If the river ran high they couldn’t get across on the punt and Aunty Wai couldn’t go to housie as there was no road access.
Pere was always at home then, because he couldn’t get across the river to catch the school bus. All day long Aunty had him running down to check the river, even in the rain. He’d said to her once that even if he had two broken legs she’d make him run down to check the river. She’d given him a whack, told him not to be cheeky and go down and check.
He hated it when it rained on a Monday night. When it was fine, once Aunty had left for housie, he could run into Koro’s room, get into the big bed and Koro would tell him about the old days. One night Pere learnt he’d been born in that bed and wondered where his mother had lain. Koro couldn’t remember.
They always kept an eye on the clock because if Aunty Wai came home and found him still awake with Koro they’d both get it.
“Wipere,” she’d growl. She would use his full name only when she was cross. “Wipere, you keep that boy awake half the night, and I can’t get him out of bed in the morning.”
Pere would try to make a quick run for it, but he was never quick enough to get past Aunty Wai.
“You, boy. You should know better. Now - bed.”
No matter how he ducked and dived, the arm always got him, grabbed him by the ear and marched him back to his bed.
One night she’d been late coming home and both he and Koro had fallen asleep. Pere was about to jump out of bed, but Koro pulled him back. “No worry, boy. She’s called in to Uncle Henare’s for supper. She’ll not be checking your bed tonight.”
They heard her fumbling around for the light switch and then she swore. He and Koro lay there in the bed, grinning. Pere put his head under the blankets so she wouldn’t hear him trying to hold back his laughter. They lay there quietly until Aunty Wai began to snore. Koro told him not to be too cross with Aunty Wai. She was Pere’s dad’s sister and part of her had died too, in the accident.
Pere never quite knew what the accident was that killed his mum and dad - just that he’d be told when he was older. He’d always thought it would be Koro who would tell him, but not known for sure. He wondered which part of Aunty had died. Perhaps it had been her teeth because she had big white and pink ones now, that lived in a glass of water of a night-time. Tonight, though, up here at the marae, she’d have to keep them in her mouth. Pere hoped they wouldn’t hurt her too much.
Tonight, as he lay awake, he wished that only part of Koro had died instead of all of him. He’d lain up on the bed beside Koro, and Aunty Wai hadn’t even growled at him. Sometimes she had lain there with them. He’d said his prayers every night and sometimes even in the morning; but every day Koro seemed smaller and still didn’t wake up. He’d promised God he’d go to church on Sunday. He’d even go to the other services.
“Maybe,” Aunty said, “God has lots of things to worry about. And maybe Koro was just tired. He was ninety-three.”
He shouted at her. “Anzac Hemaras Koro was a hundred and still went eeling. If God couldn’t fix Koro, He must be dumb.”
Aunty Lizzie was poised to give him a whack, but Aunty Wai stopped her. “Leave him, Lizzie,” she said. “After the accident, Koro was all he had.”