From Under the Overcoat (18 page)

I thought of Tū, his desire for conflict charading as noble loyalty. That one was easy. Did it ever rain on his military parades? Always.

Mostly, though, I thought of Tāne. I played out, over and over in my head, the night he called us all together, then split us all apart. I thought about him carrying on championing the wildlife cause. I would think about it, sitting on the front porch, looking way into the distance. I would sit and look and think and soon I would see it: the haze of a bushfire drifting across the horizon.

Over time, the news came that my brothers had married and had children. It was only then that I came around to understanding that our family would have just died away if we’d all stayed together, alone. I still wasn’t happy about things, though. I still reckoned we could have worked things out a different way.

T WHIRI-MY-NAMESAKE IS SMILING.

‘You understand, don’t you,’ I say, and he nods.

‘Shall I continue? You want me to continue the story of how I became a weather presenter?’

The boy shrugs his shoulders.

Everyone is back, each child standing exactly where they were before, the two men still glancing at Carole. The long black second hand on the clock has just started moving again.

‘
THERE’S AN OLD RUMOUR,’
says Carole. ‘Tāwhiri’s been here so long, he can predict the weather. And that’s how he came to be a weather presenter — one of the first ones.’

‘You don’t want to believe those silly stories, Carole,’ I say. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it, kids?’

Ugly sneers from the boys at the front of the group, mutterings
Stupid old dick
, impatient shuffles.

‘No no,’ I carry on, ignoring the boys. ‘It was nothing as mysterious as that, a far more ordinary story, I’m afraid.’

I tell how a young man with a passion for watching the clouds moved from the country to the city, got a job at the television station and worked his way up to become a weather presenter. The children are bored, who could blame them? I’m bored, too, with that talk.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. An old man in a suit that’s too big for him. Look how my shoulders fail to fill the jacket. And the trousers, sagging in the backside, pulled tight by a belt on its last notch. At the end of my talk, I look to the back of the group.

Tāwhiri-my-namesake isn’t there. I search the faces. He’s nowhere.

Carole has been listening, too, perched on the edge of her desk.

‘Tāwhiri, can I have a quiet word?’ she asks. ‘I just wondered, do you want to read the weather today?’

‘Why?’ I ask her.

‘I’m not feeling that well,’ she says.

‘Are you sure you’re not well enough?’ I can tell she’s fibbing.

She looks at me, grinning. ‘Actually, that’s rubbish.’

‘Thought so.’

She feels sorry for me, having to perform in front of these rude school groups. I won’t accept pity, and I’m about to tell her so, when I change my mind.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘You take over here.’

THE MAKE-UP GIRL IS
new, fresh out of training. Her long black hair is clipped back and coiled into a shiny eel bun. Her name is Wanda, she tells me brightly.

‘Kia ora, Wanda, I’m Tāwhiri,’ I say, reaching forward in my chair to shake her hand.

For a moment we look at each other in the wide mirror: one ancient, crevassed face and one new pale canvas. Wanda puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘So, Tāwhiri. What do we usually use for you?’

The fat little make-up pots with the black lids line the heavy glass shelf under the mirror. There are ten of them, identical in size and shape, each containing liquid of a different skin tone. They graduate in colour: an alabaster white to the sunkissed
tan in the middle to a syrupy black oil on the far right.

I shrug my shoulders, remembering a time long ago. ‘It doesn’t seem to matter, Wanda, which one you go for. Once it’s on, it always turns out the same.’

Wanda’s neat, pruned eyebrows knit in confusion, then relax.
Silly old fella
is what she is thinking. ‘Okaaay,’ she says politely, and goes over to Reina.

‘Reina, what do we use for Tāwhiri?’ she whispers.

Reina is distracted, filling bottles at the bench. ‘Take your pick.’

Wanda giggles. ‘Alright then,’ she says. She runs a finger down my face, as though checking for dust. ‘Let’s try this one.’

She reaches for the alabaster white. They always do.

The smooth, thick liquid sits on my skin. Wanda’s hand moves quickly — more and more of it scooped from the pot, dolloped on. The brush swirls like a feather duster over my closed eyes, my nose, down over my cheeks and lips. I feel the heaviness of the cream hanging off me, and Wanda’s mutterings.
Jesus, man, weird
.

When I open my eyes, the job is done. It’s heavy-handed, but the exact shade of my skin. Wanda’s pretty cupid bow of a mouth is hanging open.

‘I don’t get it,’ she says. ‘What happens, under the studio lights? What does it look like onscreen?’

Reina joins her behind me. She rubs my shoulders.

‘Tāwhiri doesn’t usually do the broadcast, Wanda,’ she says.

I lift my old bones, rearrange myself in the chair for comfort.

‘Reina’s being kind, my dear,’ I say. ‘This old man has nothing much to do and the network keeps him on to talk
to rowdy schoolkids. Except for today. Today I get to present the weather.’

I smile at the silliness of it, at the pity on both their faces, that kind, sad grimace reserved for the aged.

‘Ah, go on with you both!’ I say, chuckling under Reina’s hands. ‘Where else can an old koro get a free massage from beautiful young girls?’

‘Excuse
me
,’ Reina says. ‘Old man getting a free massage? Who else would put up with those little shits? He’s the man, Wanda,’ she says, laughing. ‘I mean it. You deserve more than a massage, Tāwhiri.’

‘More than a massage, really? If you’re offering …’ I wink at her in the mirror.

I sit back to let Reina and Wanda trim my eyebrows and spray my hair into perfect silver waves.

IT FEELS STRANGE NOT
holding a pointer. Oh, I know things have moved on, but still. That pointer was lovely to hold, smooth, cool, like a taiaha. It kept the nerves at bay.

Now I have this gadget, this tiny clicking thing.
Just hold it in the palm of your hand,
they told me.
When you’re ready for a new screen, just push the button. Simple!

So I stand, waiting, in the studio as the sports presenter finishes his bit.

How different everything is. The light-hearted banter between the presenters, as though we’re all sitting comfortably in someone’s front room, chatting about world politics, who’s winning the golf. It’s a big, bright, friendly moment.

‘We’ve a special treat for you tonight, folks — a face from the past … Did they have televisions back that far, Tāwhiri?’

Ha ha, the the wit of it all! That’s my cue.

‘Thank you, and, yes, they did. Grainy old black and white screens, but televisions nonetheless. None of these television remotes, though, just an old wooden pointer …’ I wave the remote towards the camera, give a great big presenting smile.

‘Well, good luck then, Tāwhiri. Let’s hear what tomorrow brings, weather wise.’

Weather wise indeed.

I begin.

The forecast is good for the whole country, I say, clicking my little button to move the images behind me.

Up the country we travel — south to north these days — how smooth it all is, as though we are birds passing over the land. I do the right thing, remember to warn about strong sunshine, remind everyone to slip, slop, slap, cover up.

On we go, across Cook Strait — calm seas, people, put the boat out — and on to the North Island. I pause the graphics over the East Coast.

There will be rain, I tell the camera, a slow, steady fall that will go on for days. There will be significant breaks — time to get a load of washing dry before the next shower, time for the parched land to absorb the moisture before the next downpour.

All the time I’m talking, I remember the dry dust clouds, dying cattle and devastated farmers of decades ago. It feels good to settle that debt.

Up the country, nearly done. The camera man is moving towards me, zooming in on my face, and I remember what Carole said about ending the segment:
Finish on a personal note
.

I look calmly into the camera. I am talking to millions of people, but I can see only one person staring back at me down the lens.

Tāwhiri’s schoolteacher.

His hard face, smug at having bullied a little boy, excited about his big beach birthday party with the generator pumping, music blaring, coloured lights swinging from the pine trees.

As though you’re there with them, in their homes. It’s like you’re part of the family these days, Tāwhiri. So personalise it, as much as you can
. That’s what Carole said to do.

‘Tomorrow night, folks, the place to be is Auckland — just north actually, up there at that beautiful Orewa Beach. That’s the place to head to, if you’re planning a big birthday party. The weather will be fine, perfect.’

The vision in my mind is in black and white. The electrical storm will be one of those rare, freak events touching just a tiny pocket of land, leaving the surroundings untouched. So small, it never featured on the computer screens before we went to air. The storm is hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth mentioning, so I don’t.

If I closed my eyes, I would hear a man screaming, ambulance sirens in the background. I would smell it, too, the smell of burning. But I leave my eyes open, stick to the cues. Smile into the camera, until the signal is given that we are done.

GEORGE CLARKE JUNIOR

…
D
on’t you look at
me
like that, you idiot; you can easily see the gallows, being at least the height of my father. Impossible — one fat head moves, another one in its place … Perhaps if I’m polite —

‘Excuse me sir, do you mind? You’re taller than me, after all.’

Shouldn’t even be down here in the stinking crowds. Me, George Clarke Junior, official translator to the condemned man after all … All right, one of two translators. So what if my oh-so-holy father claims me unreliable? Says he can finish the job himself … Ha! Finish the job: for a missionary he did a right job on Maketu’s final wishes this morning — making up the whole translation then kicking
me out for challenging him …

So hot for March, sticky too. Black clouds will empty for sure, maybe they’ll hold until after … What’s that smell? Know it … My father, that’s it, after weeks on the road, spreading the good word among the natives. Foul. What do the natives make of him, the stinking George Clarke? But this is worse, much worse. Soap and water, not hard to find …

Heat, excitement, like a fever … Putrid the smell, coming from under long-coats. Something else too … Can’t be … What’s that in that basket? Meat? No! Still hot, steaming … A picnic at a hanging? Maybe. Quite something … The first execution, after all. A brand-new country, so why not? Do what we want, can’t we, have a party! Meat … Hungry … Stomach aching … No … Something else … oh! No … Won’t be sick. Can’t be, can’t miss it …

Stop pushing! We can’t all be at the front. Behind me: push push … A woman? Can’t be. Hoops against my legs, yes, a woman, who? Won’t look … Guess … Ah, who cares … Doesn’t matter … Close, yes, go on, will you? Push harder, touch me. Lean back, can’t help it … Scent … Closer, nearly on top of me … ha! Won’t move … Fair excuse. God, I want — Father would thrash me, if he thought for one minute … Let him try … Forgets I’m seventeen, not a kid now. Give him one back if he does … Oh. Gone. Where are you, woman? Over there … there … let’s see who … you, from church, Mrs Hamilton. That hat, silly little feather arrangement on top of your head, bobs around, blocks my view of Father at the pulpit … Know it anywhere …

Children! Frederick and James, are those the names? Eight
and six, maybe younger … She’s pushing them forward … Little mouths hanging open, staring up at the noose, whisper whisper …
Let’s climb on it afterwards
…
we can play
. Who can blame them —?

‘Look!’

It’s only that prosecutor, Brewer, pacing the steps up … Back down again. He’s counting them? … Trust you. Showing off to the crowd. Think you’re a hero, Brewer, don’t you … Seeing the convict right to the gallows … What are you doing there, anyway? You’ve been hanging around all day. No reason for it; you’re not the hangman, not the jailer either … Yes, I see you, Brewer and you see me too, don’t you … You see me clearly and by that scowl on your pompous face you’ve still not forgiven me … For what? Doing what my father should have done? For giving a true translation of Maketu’s words? You’re a pompous swine, Brewer. You can forbid my presence in the jail but —

‘Excuse me … could you let me through? Excuse me … I need to speak to that man.’

More people … Like a wall … Won’t give up space, not for anything … Push … Brewer, shaking hands, as though you’re a great man … You’ve had enough of me … You’re looking for me, sure of it! See me waving — no, you’re just checking, aren’t you … Making sure I’m nowhere near … Relax, the crowd’s too thick, can’t get through. Can’t … Go on, Brewer, waddle back to the jail … Maketu’s axe right between your shoulder blades too … Blood running … Go back to George Clarke … Saddled with his name for ever … Change it when I’m older, can I do that? That’s what I’ll do … Go on, go back. Hear what you want to hear: my father’s lies …

Maketu’s last wishes … What a joke that was. Me, Father, Brewer and Maketu … Maketu’s head low, hands bound behind his back. What a scene … Trouble tonight, when this is all over … Not the first time Father and I have disagreed on the meaning of words. Right from the start … But this morning — too much … Too much —

‘Watch yourself there, sir, no, I’m sorry, but you cannot move in front of me.’

… The smell and the heat … Worse … Unbearable … Really, what are we waiting for? You again, Brewer — just can’t help yourself. What are you doing now? Not yet satisfied with the size of the crowd? How many now? One hundred, more … Back there … Natives. They’ve come to see what British justice looks like … Ha …!

… Oh Lord … It’s Maketu! … Can’t breathe —

‘
MAKETU!’

Try again, louder … ‘Maketu!’

‘Shush, son! Show some respect!’

… Who is this fool? No one I know … Fine clothes … Don’t care anyway … Time to speak up, speak my mind … Not a child —

‘Respect? For whom?’

‘Well, for justice.’

‘For whom?’

‘My word! So much to say, young man! Come now: justice for the woman — Elizabeth Roberton, I believe the name was, and her children. And of course, that poor soul, Thomas Bull.’

‘Four months since the trial; four months waiting to die
… no justice there, is there?’

‘Good gracious, what a tirade, and so young. Am I mistaken? It appears to me that you’re showing sympathy for this murderer! What are you suggesting? Are you saying we should
pity
him?’

… Should we? Should we pity him? … God, don’t know … The trial … The hard facts …

MAKETU IS IN THE
dock. My father stands at his side, whispering. Translating the judge’s words.

‘In November last year, you, Maketu Wharetotara, did enter the bedroom of Thomas Bull, at the time under the employ of, and living in the home of, Mrs Elizabeth Roberton, and whilst the victim slept you killed him by splitting his head open with an axe. Mr Clarke, would you kindly translate for the accused, ask him how he pleads, and reply on his behalf.’

‘He says he is guilty, Your Honour.’

‘Furthermore, Maketu Wharetotara, on that same night, you entered the bedroom of the aforementioned Mrs Roberton, and murdered her with an axe to the head. How do you plead?’

‘Guilty.’

‘And to the murders of the two daughters of Mrs Roberton, by the same weapon and in the same manner?’

‘Guilty.’

‘And to the murder of the granddaughter of the Ngapuhi chief Rewa, Isabella Brind, at that time living with the Robertons? Your plea?’

‘Guilty.’

‘Finally, Maketu Wharetotara, to the charge that you murdered a fourth child, the eight-year-old son of Mrs Roberton, by throwing him over a cliff as he tried to escape, how do you plead?’

‘Guilty.’

‘
I SAY, DID YOU
hear me? Are you saying this native shouldn’t pay with his life for those terrible crimes?’

… Oh God, help me … No sense … Don’t know … Maketu, seventeen like me. How could you? Savage, animal … Yet I like you … Look up, Maketu: look up, see me. Your head’s so low — chin almost on your chest — just like that first time we talked. Never forget
that
conversation, Maketu, the rage still burning inside you … Bull’s treatment … On and on … Taunting, insults, denigration of your people, the beatings.
I was a dog, according to him
…You said it to me, over and over … Finally, you avenged his beatings and insults, with your axe, raging … Next, the widow … Her children … Isabella the last victim and when you found out who she was, you knew you were a dead man. Turned yourself in … Chin down now, just as it was when you told me the story … You were showing me something, Maketu, remember? Maketu, look up! …Will he hear me if I shout —?

‘Maketu!’

‘Be quiet, won’t you!’

‘Maketu!’

… Your chin touching your chest now … How you expected to die — immediately, the blood of those children still warm. You turned yourself in … When we first spoke,
you were showing me, remember?
Now, now, now
— you said, remember? Blow to the back of the head … Utu … Justice … You knelt on the floor, hands behind your back, chin touching your chest … Showed me how it should be done. Do you feel me watching, Maketu? You won’t lift your head … You expected to die with your head hanging low … Expected to feel nothing, what was it you said?
I delivered no long-lasting pain to my victims; I wish for the same death myself
…

Your people, they thought you would die at the trial … That very day.
Kua mutu?
they asked, outside the courthouse …
Is it done?
Waiting to take your body back north. I had to tell them, no, not finished. Just beginning, this justice … The British way …

So quiet. Not a word from the crowd. Stifling … Stink … Listen … Those children asking when … The woman bending over the child … Maketu, did you … Before the murders? Should’ve asked, you would’ve told me at the end, liked me at the end … Did you? … Yes, no, maybe … Too late now … Must’ve crossed your mind: them asleep in bed, you mad with rage, already hacked Bull to pieces. Already a dead man, you … Standing over them … Widow … Young women too … Just one, maybe? … Nightgown up … Savage … God forgive me, stop it …!

… Rain? Hope so … Cool … Cool things down … You thinking about me, Maketu? … You thinking about that night? …

YOUR CELL, DARKNESS, JUST
you and me. My bag is on the floor,
at my feet. You ask to look inside it and I say yes.

You pick up the flickering candle, and move closer. You kneel and set the candle on the floor. The light shines on your brown skin and I see muscle, the strength of your body. I am small and thin and weak. We are the same age, but you are a man, I am a boy. You reach inside the bag.

‘What are you looking for?’

Silence. Item by item, every object gently handled, weighed in your hands, then placed on the floor.

‘What are you looking for?’

The bag is empty. You look up at me; tears roll down your face, I’m shocked — shocked by your dead eyes, your despair. Beside you, in a little pile, my copy of the Bible, a few more books, a photograph of my mother and father and a handful of coins. You stand up and turn away from me, then you kneel. Your back faces me, your head hangs low.