Legacy Page 5

  Riki sees a small convoy of cars approaching. They all look like the car from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

  There is no karanga, but there is a wero – three of the men from the haka group approach the convoy with taiaha and greenery. The guests arrive and the pōwhiri begins – a haka Riki recognises from school. He always liked this one; everyone shouting – Te waka! – together.

  It is about pulling a waka to shore. Riki remembers his kaiako saying that in a pōwhiri it meant that they were pulling their guests to the marae.

  Ā tōia mai,

  Te waka!

  Ki te urunga,

  Te waka!

  Ki te moenga,

  Te waka!

  Ki te takotoranga,

  I takoto ai,

  Te waka! Hi!

  It does seem as though the haka is drawing the visitors in. An order to present arms is given as the visitors enter, and they are given a royal salute. A band plays and all the men sing ‘God Save the King’ and ‘God Defend New Zealand’, then the generals inspect the men and – at last – tell them to stand at ease. Riki wishes that he could sit down; there will be speeches now, there are always speeches at things like this, and who knows how long they’ll take.

  The men from the haka are back amongst the rest of them now. There’s a bit of chatter as everyone waits for the speeches to start.

  ‘This is a good spot,’ Jack says. ‘I want to have a good look at them.’

  ‘Who?’ Riki says.

  ‘The men who are going to decide if we fight.’

  Riki can see that Jack is right – they are in a good spot, only a couple of rows back from the front where the whaikōrero will happen.

  A man stands up to address the crowd. He is older than most of the men in the Contingent, probably by a good ten years or so; maybe twenty in Riki’s case. He is tall and has an oval face, his large eyes wide-set. His black wavy hair is clipped short at the sides and parted to one side. Riki has seen many photographs of this man, and has always admired the proud look of him. Seeing him here, he realises that the photographs did not capture his charisma, nor his gravitas.

  ‘Te Rangi Hiroa …’

  ‘Do you know Captain Buck?’ Jack whistles through his teeth, and nods at Matatau. ‘An officer; the company the little lord keeps, eh?’

  Riki raises his eyebrow at Jack: does Jack not know who this is? Sir Peter Buck – he’s a great historical figure; doesn’t everyone know him? But maybe not now; now he’s just Captain Buck, and everything that he will do and will become is ahead of him and uncertain.

  ‘I wish you’d stop calling me that. I don’t know Captain Buck, but I’ve heard of him …’ Riki whispers.

  The guy in front of them turns around and hisses, ‘Well, I’d like to hear him now, if you don’t mind.’

  Jack raises both his hands as if he’s surrendering to the guy.

  Captain Buck speaks with the confidence of a man who is used to public speaking. Riki tries to remember if he had already been a member of parliament before the war. He must certainly be a doctor by now.

  Buck speaks of the loyalty these men feel towards the Empire, and he says the word empire with awe – to Riki’s mind that word has always sounded evil.

  Riki remembers Te Awhina talking about this speech. Which means he’s right about the date. Same as at home, just a hundred years too early. She was frustrated that Te Ariki Mikaera had recorded so little detail in his diary about it. ‘All he says,’ she said, ‘is that “Captain Buck gave a fine speech”. The speech that was pivotal to the participation of Māori in the war, and all Te Ariki says is “a fine speech.” He talks more about his tea than he does about this speech!’

  Riki can understand now why Te Ariki Mikaera hadn’t gone into too much detail. It is hard to concentrate in this heat; most of Riki’s energy is going to keeping on his feet. He can’t remember the last time he felt so tired. He’s been up since dawn and in the sun all day. He wants to listen to the speech, but he can’t stop his mind from tuning in and out.

  Buck speaks passionately about the Māori being a fighting race, and says that these men ought to be able to show their mettle at the front; to face the same dangers as their Pākehā counterparts.

  ‘He’s right,’ Jack says. ‘We’ll go home in shame if we are confined to garrison duty.’

  ‘Why is there shame in it?’ Riki says. ‘To return home without a scratch?’

  ‘You think it will be safer for us? Do you think the Hun is going to cease fire while we dig a few trenches?’

  The guy in front swivels around again. ‘Shh!’ Jack and Riki look at their feet like they’re little kids who’ve been scolded.

  Captain Buck has not raised his voice; his movements are sparse. Yet it feels like a crescendo when he says, ‘Man should die fighting hard like the struggling ururoa, and not tamely submitting like the lazy tarakihi, which submits without a struggle. Though we are only a handful, the remnant of the remnant of a people, yet we consider that we are the old New Zealanders. No division can be truly called a New Zealand Division unless it numbers Māoris amongst its ranks.’

  It is like everyone has held his breath until now. The applause is like a release. Riki looks around and each man he sees seems more animated, more alive. Even the contingent who stand as guard are applauding.

  ‘Kia mate ururoa! Kei mate tarakihi,’ Matatau says, and nods.

  Captain Buck continues to speak to the guests as the applause dies down, but all Riki catches are the words: ‘Give us a chance.’

  6

  4 APRIL 1915

  ‘We can’t let you go to war with only one pair of boots,’ Jack says in their tent after Sunday service. Only Jack, Riki and Matatau are here; Rewai and the Mos have already retired to the wet canteen. They wanted their usual spot; since the trouble at the Wazza on Friday night a lot of the men are staying in camp to drink.

  It is a surprise to Riki how quickly the extraordinary can become just ordinary. He woke again this morning to reveille, woke again to find himself in this tent with these men, but something had shifted in his mind. Not quite acceptance – he still assumes that his situation is merely temporary – but resignation. He can’t be on high alert all the time about everything; it is too exhausting. Matatau has been keeping his distance from Riki; it’s like he’s hoping that in ignoring Riki he will go away. Riki is glad – Matatau is creepy. He has resolved just to go with it, to go through the motions, to obey the orders so that his mind is free to figure out how to get home.

  ‘I won’t be going to war,’ Riki says now.

  ‘Now, you heard Captain Buck’s fine speech yesterday,’ Jack says. ‘How could they not be swayed? Why would they dishonour us?’

  Matatau snorts and speaks in a low voice. ‘You give the Pākehā too much credit. They dishonour us at home, they will dishonour us here.’

  ‘But we’re the best.’ Jack is ever optimistic. ‘The first sons, the high-born, the hope of our whānau …’

  ‘And all they see are labourers and workhorses at best. Dangerous and untrustworthy crooks at worst.’ Matatau’s gloom fills the tent, and for a moment Jack has no answer.

  ‘This is our chance, then, to change how they see us,’ he eventually says.

  ‘The price of citizenship.’ Riki remembers his mum using the phrase.

  ‘What?’ Jack says, like he’s just remembered Riki is there.

  ‘My mother would say: “Why is it our job to educate the ignorant?” She reckons that they ought to educate themselves.’

  ‘With respect to your mother, Pūweto, that is a silly thing to say. How are the ignorant to know that they are ignorant if we do not tell them? Why would they “educate” themselves if they believe that they are correct?’ Jack says.

  Matatau sneers. ‘Blue stocking suffragette …’

  ‘Hey, Mata, show some respect,’ Jack says. ‘Whatever her fanciful ideas, she’s still Pūweto’s mother.’

  Riki can imagine Te Awhina tearing strips off these tw
o.

  Jack stands up. ‘Enough of this useless talk. We need to get your kit sorted, Pūweto. You need another pair of boots and some putties. A shirt and a tunic.’ Jack smiles. ‘And I have a plan to get them.’

  Riki follows Jack through the camp. Jack has asked him to wear his hoodie and slip-on shoes – though he calls them ‘that Gypo shirt’ and slippers. Riki feels almost like himself again, but he wishes he could pull his hood down; the afternoon heat is stifling. They catch a train to Cairo, then a tram out of the city, and then they are on foot. Jack still hasn’t told him the plan, and he made Riki bow his head low on the train and tram. The most amazing place Riki has ever been and all he saw was the floor.

  ‘Hey Jack, can I take this top off? Just till we get there.’

  ‘No, keep your hood on and your head down. You’re in disguise. And try not to talk to me in English.’

  Riki struggles to remember his elementary te reo, trying to find the kupu for where are we going? ‘Kei te haere tāua ki hea?’

  ‘Te maunga.’

  Mountain? What mountain? And then Riki sees that they are walking towards the great pyramid.

  By the time they get there, he is drenched in sweat. He thinks he must be becoming dehydrated, because he has the nag of a headache.

  ‘Jack, can I take it off now?’

  ‘No. And what did I say about speaking? Stand there, and when someone comes pretend to speak Gypo.’

  Jack sits down next to Riki and unties the top of his putties, unwinding the fabric a little from his calves. He holds the fabric in his hands, waiting, and scans the surroundings. Riki feels the throb of his blood in his temples; the heat is beginning to be too much.

  ‘We don’t want just anyone that comes along,’ says Jack. ‘We want boots that’ll fit, and good quality too. New Zealand boots, preferably. And their owner needs to be on his own – I’m not taking on a whole group.’

  Jack dismisses the men they see as they walk past – too tall, too short, a Tommy.

  At last: ‘He looks about your height, Pūweto.’

  Riki lifts his head and peeks out from under his hood. A young man is coming towards them; his face is ruddy from the heat. He must have pale hair under his hat – blond or strawberry blond – because his eyebrows seem to have disappeared with his high colour. If it wasn’t for his eyes, Riki thinks that he would look like a comic-book hero – his jaw is heavy and square, but his eyes are deep-set and close together, so it looks as though he is forever squinting.

  ‘Hello, chum!’ Jack calls.

  ‘Hello there.’ There is hesitation in his voice: perhaps he is shy, or weary of strangers.

  ‘Start your Gypo talk,’ Jack hisses at Riki. ‘Ah, a fellow New Zealander! Hey chum, come over here.’

  Riki doesn’t know what to do, so he just starts speaking gibberish as the soldier walks towards them.

  ‘My name is Jack.’ Jack holds out his hand to the soldier, who looks at it rather than taking it. Jack puts his hand down. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Bill.’

  ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bill. Where you from?’

  ‘Leeston.’

  ‘I don’t know Leeston.’

  ‘It’s about a day’s ride from Christchurch.’

  Jack whistles through his teeth as though he’s impressed by this. ‘South Island, eh? I’ve never been: too cold for a boy from Rotorua.’

  ‘It’s not too cold in Canterbury.’

  ‘Have you seen inside the Great Pyramid yet?’

  Bill shakes his head.

  ‘I’ve just been. Thought I should have a look before we leave. I might not get the chance again.’ Jack looks down and winds his putties onto his calves. ‘Once in a lifetime, eh? And to think, I wasn’t going to go in.’

  ‘Why not?’ Bill frowns. His eyebrows pinch together, making his already small eyes almost disappear entirely.

  ‘You have to take your boots off to go inside. Like on a marae at home. Have you been on a marae, Bill?’

  ‘N … no.’ From the sound of Bill’s voice, Riki’s not sure if Bill even knows what a marae is.

  ‘Anyway, the only way you get to have a look inside is if you take off your boots. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, because’ – Jack beckons Bill to come closer and checks left to right as if he may be overheard – ‘I’ve heard there’s some unsavoury types that would steal a man’s boots if he leaves them unattended.’

  Bill raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘But you went in anyway?’

  ‘It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Bill; once-in-a-lifetime. So I found myself someone to mind my boots while I was inside.’ Jack points over his shoulder to Riki, who starts his gibberish again. ‘Just a few piastres and he’ll look after them for you.’ Jack flips a coin to Riki. ‘I gave him half when I went in and half later. Just to make sure he’d still be here.’

  Jack finishes tying his putties. ‘I will remember that place until my dying days, I tell you. Such things I have seen! Well, I don’t have the words to do it justice.’ He stands and smiles at Bill. ‘Some things you just have to see for yourself, eh chum?’

  Jack dusts off his shorts as he waits for Bill to bite.

  ‘Do you think he’ll look after my boots?’

  ‘I’m sure he will, Bill. Just give him a piastre or two.’

  ‘He won’t take them?’

  ‘What would a Gypo do with your boots? They get about in sandals or slippers – look at his feet.’

  Bill comes right up to Riki and looks him over. He speaks to Riki in a loud voice. ‘You,’ he says, pointing at him. ‘Look’ – he points to Riki’s eyes – ‘Boots.’ He points to his boots. ‘Yes?’

  Behind Bill, Jack grins and nods in an exaggerated manner, and Riki follows Jack’s lead. Bill gives Riki a small coin, and then plonks himself on the ground to take off his putties and boots.

  ‘My parents weren’t that keen on me signing up; we’ve got a farm to run at home,’ Bill says.

  ‘We all need to do our bit for the Empire, eh?’

  ‘Quite right. And I never thought I’d see places like this. It’s been quite an adventure so far. This is a bit different from the old farm, isn’t it?’

  Bill puts his rolls of putties inside his boots and hands them to Riki. Riki, in character, bows his head.

  ‘I’ve not spoken to a Native before,’ Bill says.

  Jack smiles. ‘You’ve not bought oranges or grog from a Gypo?’

  ‘Not him,’ Bill smiles. ‘You. I’ve never met a real-life Māori before.’

  Jack’s smile almost cracks as he pushes Bill towards the monument. ‘Once-in-a-lifetime experience, eh? Something to write home about.’

  Jack and Riki wait until Bill has disappeared inside before they move.

  ‘You can take it off now, Pūweto.’

  Riki peels off his hoodie.

  ‘Take off your shoes too. And put those boots on – don’t worry about the putties for now.’

  ‘Are we in a hurry?’

  ‘What if Bill comes across some lads in there with their boots on? We should go as quickly as possible.’

  Riki takes off his slip-on shoes and puts on the boots. They fit well, but still feel sticky and warm from Bill’s feet.

  He picks up his shoes. ‘Leave those here,’ Jack says. ‘You can’t expect Bill to walk back to camp in socks.’ Riki is sad to leave his shoes behind. He had saved up to buy them, and they’re more comfortable than the boots he’s exchanging them for.

  ‘Pūweto, come on.’

  Riki ties his hoodie around his waist and follows Jack again. He’s sorry that he can’t go inside the pyramid. It’s something he’ll probably never get to see.

  Jack shakes his head. ‘For a moment there, I didn’t think Bill would take the bait. Did you see how he looked at me? He’s standing in front of one of the seven bloody wonders of the world, and all he can do is stare at me? “I’ve never spoken to a Native before” – would you credit it?’

  Riki
wants to tell Jack that a hundred years from now there will still be people like Bill. A couple of years ago Riki, Te Awhina and Jase went on a road trip around the South Island. They’d stopped at a campground somewhere near Nelson. It was packed with summer holidaymakers. Te Awhina and Jase had gone off to get groceries and left Riki to pitch their tent. In a crowded campsite you can’t help but talk to your neighbours; a family opposite had struck up a conversation with Riki. He had told them where he had been – struggling a bit with the names of the small towns.

  ‘You’re from the North Island,’ the father had said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Riki. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘If you were from the South you would know the places you’ve been.’

  ‘Easy to get places mixed up, if you’re new to them,’ Riki said.

  ‘At least the names are easy to say,’ the mother said. ‘Up your way they’re all those Māori names. How do you ask for directions to an unpronounceable place?’

  The family had laughed and Riki had turned away from them, bashing his tent peg with his mallet.

  ‘Have you ever spoken to a Pākehā from Leeston before?’ Riki asks Jack.

  Jack smiles at Riki. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Something to write home about.’

  Jack laughs and slaps Riki on the back as they walk back towards the tram station.

  On the outskirts of the camp the locals have set up a small service industry of sorts. There are men that offer themselves as guides – to the pyramids, to the Nile, to the local brothels. There is a man here now leading a young boy by the hand – he seems to be offering the boy for sale. Riki hopes it is for labour, but he suspects the boy is for hire. Why would Riki’s mind think of such a thing? It strikes him as too real. If he has truly imagined this place, wouldn’t it be like how history had seemed to him in the classroom? History there was not about people but about dates. The past was always presented as clean: a better time when people knew how to treat one another. To hear an elderly person talk, perversion and murder were an entirely new invention. Paedophiles were the result of a permissive society and the internet – such things had never happened before. Perhaps the past was more like those faded old photos Riki’s nanny once had on her wall; with each year that passes more of the detail is bleached out by the sun.