Huia Short Stories 10 (9 page)

A Good Friday

Kelly Joseph

The last rays of the sun wink in the cracked window of a small cabin. The cabin's corrugated iron roof is pitted with rust, and kawakawa and pikopiko grow to the very edge of its lop-sided porch. Nearby, a stream teems with fat eels and watercress. Three small shadowy figures suddenly burst from the cabin's door, sending birds scattering from their roosts to fly upward into the darkening sky. The three shadows begin to run down a gravel road that unfurls towards the horizon. This is Rangitoto district – dominion of the Hohepa boys.

‘Āpi! Wī! Wait for meee!' says Pāpu, a small boy with a dirt-smudged face. He scampers after his two older brothers as they race down the middle of the road. The sound of their quick breathing fills the air. Their dust-coated bare feet are tough and resilient to the gravel underfoot. Running down the steep hill to Te Kuiti, they skid on the stones, but they don't slow.

All three boys have unkempt mops of hair. It has been a long time since their last haircuts; since before their mum left. The eldest boys are both wiry, but Āpi, the oldest, is taller and more solid than Wī. He runs slightly ahead, and Wī strains to keep up. Mist begins to rise from the cooling paddocks and envelop the surrounding bush-covered hills. The boys' clothes – long-sleeved denim shirts with worn elbows, and shorts with rips that reveal the brown skin of their bums – barely keep out the chill. They rush onwards.

‘Waaait for me, bros!' cries Pāpu.

Āpi slows down and then finally stops. He waits beside the road silently. Wī runs on. Pāpu is on the verge of crying.

‘Come on Pāpu, you're too slow, man. We're gonna miss the 8 o'clock showing,' says Āpi.

Pāpu rubs his feet and snivels. ‘My feet are cold and sore,' he says.

Wī runs back to his brothers. He sighs loudly when he sees Pāpu's face.

‘E, come on, baby! Be tough … like the Lone Ranger,' says Wī. He waves a pretend cowboy hat and rides an imaginary steed around Pāpu. Pāpu's lips quiver.

‘E, don't be a pissy-pants crybaby,' says Wī.

Āpi shakes his head at Wī and says, ‘Remember the cowboy code bro, Number four.'

Wī scratches his bum as he thinks, then shrugs. ‘Can't remember that one.'

‘Cowboys must be gentle with children,' says Āpi.

Āpi lifts Pāpu onto his back and opens up a gate into a nearby paddock. He lowers Pāpu's feet into a steaming cow patty. Pāpu smiles and wiggles his toes. He closes his eyes, dreaming.

‘I wish we had a horse like those cowboys,' says Pāpu. He opens his eyes suddenly and rubs his tummy. ‘My guts hurt.'

‘That fulla's always hungry. Must have bloody worms,' says Wī.

Āpi frowns at Wī. ‘We'll get something later, eh. Let's get going,' he says. The three boys run onwards down the road.

Halfway down the hill they pass Mr Bennett, a leathery Pākehā farmer, fixing a fence in the failing light. He smiles at the boys as they run by. Āpi stops and leans on a post.

‘Come by tomorrow, Āpi. I need help with the drenching,' says Mr Bennett. The farmer is good to Āpi, giving him jobs. Āpi often helps drench the sheep or do other work around the shearing shed. Now and then the farmer's wife has Āpi do a spot of gardening or cleaning or odd jobs around their house.

‘Will do, Mr Bennett.' Āpi waves, runs to catch up with the other two boys. Wī is shaking his head as Āpi approaches.

‘What?' says Āpi.

‘Nothing. Just reckon you shouldn't be that cocky's bloody slave. And what about school?' says Wī.

Āpi stops in his tracks and glares at Wī. He looks like he might punch his sibling, but instead he puts Pāpu on his back and begins to run again, this time faster. He leaves Wī in his dust.

‘E, wait up, bros!' calls Wī.

As night falls the boys run into Te Kuiti – a flourishing town on the main trunk line. But tonight it is eerily quiet, except for the sound of their feet on the footpath and their breathing. They rush through the streets, not noticing that shops are closed and there are no cars parked on the street. Āpi sets Pāpu down.

‘Hurry, you fullas. It's probably started already.'

They quickly approach a grand building. It is decorated in posters and flanked by a ticket booth edged with gold paint. A large sign above reads ‘State Theatre'. It is unlit. The boys finally notice something is amiss.

‘Hey, where's all the people?' says Wī.

Āpi looks around, confused. He walks up to the double doors and tries to open them, but they are locked. He peers inside. It is dark.

‘What's this say, bro?' says Wī, pointing to a sign on one of the doors. Āpi clears his throat.

‘It says “No showing today due to Good Friday”.' Āpi shakes his head, disappointed. Pāpu's lips quiver.

Wī spits a gob on the footpath. ‘E, No pictures! Good Bloody Friday!'

All three boys press their noses up against the glass door of the theatre and look in longingly.

‘E, bloody no pictures alright man,' says Wī.

Posters hang in the side windows of the theatre. One shows Roy Rogers and Trigger. Wī ogles one featuring the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Āpi goes up to another poster and looks at it with awe. It shows his favourite, the singing cowboy Gene Autry, riding his white-maned horse, Champion. Āpi smiles up at his hero.

He is pulled from his reverie by a tugging at his pants. It is Pāpu, rubbing his tummy sadly.

He says, ‘My guts hurt, bro, and this is boring as.'

Behind them WÄ« is riding his pretend steed again up and down the empty footpath, with an oily handkerchief wrapped around his neck.

‘Hi ho, Silver. Wahoo, man!'

Āpi leans down to Pāpu and whispers in his ear.

‘Let's be cowboys on the lookout for Indians. Maybe they left some kai behind, eh?'

Pāpu nods. Āpi finds his own dirty handkerchief in his pocket and ties it around Pāpu's neck.

‘Wī is the Lone Ranger, you're Roy and I'm Gene,' says Āpi.

Āpi begins to swagger up and down the street a few times, trying to act tough. Hands on the hips, at the ready to pull out his pretend gun. Pāpu giggles. Wī sees him and joins in. He puts his hands on his hips too. Āpi dives behind a rubbish bin and begins to shoot at invisible Indians in the night. He looks inside the rubbish bin and sees a half-eaten hotdog. He leans over to Pāpu.

‘Look – the Indians were so scared they ran off and left their kai behind!' says Āpi. Pāpu's face lights up and he digs into the rubbish. ‘Look! Injuns are coming,' says Wī.

Across the road, a group leaves a church service. A woman wearing a silver fox fur around her shoulders crosses the road, pulling along an anaemic looking boy about Wī's age. She notices Pāpu with his hand in the rubbish, and recoils when he draws out the hotdog and begins to eat it with gusto. She wags a gloved finger at him. ‘That's filthy!' she says.

Pāpu continues to eat, finishes the hotdog and smiles up at her, meat caught in his teeth. The woman looks around. She spots Āpi standing sheepishly on the footpath.

‘Where are your parents? Get home, the lot of you!' she says.

Wī appears from behind her, riding his steed. He whips out the pretend pistol and points it at her. ‘E, piss off, you bloody old bitch,' he says. He bends over and gives her a brown eye.

The woman's son stifles a laugh. The woman pulls him away from the heathens, up the street. WÄ« giggles and swaggers some more; shoots his pistol at her back.

‘Pishaw! Pishaw!' says Wī.

Āpi smacks the back of his head, and Wī jerks with surprise.

‘E, what'd you do that for?' says Wī, rubbing his head, his pride injured. His lips begin to quiver.

‘The code, man. Number nine. A cowboy must respect women,' says Āpi.

‘E, you're all talk. What about Number one, bro?' Wī rubs his head again. ‘Never hit a smaller man?' He wipes his watery eyes. He puts his pistol back into its hip holster and storms off into the night. Āpi watches him, remorse flitting across his face.

‘Hey, wait up! Bro! Wī!' calls Āpi. Wī disappears around a corner. Āpi grabs Pāpu's hand and they race after their brother.

They find Wī sulking on a wooden seat on the platform of the train station. Pāpu sits down beside him and sidles up close. Āpi stands nearby, awkward, with his hands in his pockets. Wī is looking off into the distance, where the tracks meet the horizon.

Pāpu looks that way too, trying to see what Wī sees. He puts his hand around his brother's shoulder. Wī begins to talk to no one in particular.

‘I reckon I might hop on the next train that comes by.'

‘Yeah, me too,' says Pāpu.

‘How you gonna pay for a ticket?' asks Āpi.

‘Just sneak in, like we do at the pictures,' says Wī.

Pāpu nods wisely. ‘Yeah, just like the pictures, eh,' he says.

‘No you won't. We can't. What about Dad; who'll look after him?' says Āpi.

‘Shut up,' says Wī.

‘Don't tell me –' says Āpi.

‘Shh!' says Wī. The boys are quiet. ‘You fullas hear that?'

The boys listen. In the distance, a whistle. Wī's serious face cracks into a smile. ‘It's a bloody train!'

A cloud of steam appears on the horizon. A train chugs slowly into view. The boys laugh and jump as it pulls into the station. Hissing steam fills the air. They peer into a nearby carriage.

‘Farrrr! Check it out!' says Wī.

It is cosy and bright inside, and there is a family eating at a table. They have a steaming thermos, thick sandwiches and biscuits with butter. Pāpu licks his lips.

Āpi notices a tall man hop off the train and briskly walk past them. He is greeted by his family at the end of the platform – the woman with the fox fur stole and her son.

The train sounds its whistle and begins to pull away. Pāpu's face is still glued to the window. His eyes drink in the sight of the family inside with their delicious spread. He begins to run beside the train.

‘Hey, wait! Wait … for me,' he says.

His calls are drowned out by the train's loud whistle. As he nears the end of the platform Pāpu trips, landing near the woman and her family. They look down at Pāpu, who is holding his knee and bawling. The son begins to go to Pāpu's aid, but his mother holds him back. The woman yells something in the tall man's ear, above the din of the train, and the man shakes his head. They turn and walk off, pulling their son along. The woman's son watches Pāpu sadly as he walks away.

WÄ« runs over to help his little brother. The whistle sounds once more as the train begins to roar into the night. The boys are surrounded by a cloud of steam and soot.

For a moment Āpi imagines he can see a white horse that looks like Champion, snorting and pawing at the ground in the steam. Āpi's face is suddenly harder and older. Wī has Pāpu on his feet, but the smaller boy is still crying and his knee is bleeding.

‘Give us a hand, bro,' says Wī.

Āpi walks over and uses his old handkerchief to wipe the blood away. ‘Those bloody rotten bastards!' he says.

Wī nods. ‘Yeah, mongrels. Didn't even stop …' He looks at Āpi, surprised. ‘Hey, you swore! E, what about Number eight of the cowboy …'

‘Stuff the code,' says Āpi.

A look passes between Āpi and Wī. Pāpu sniffles. ‘I'm hungry, bros,' he says.

Āpi ties the handkerchief to Pāpu's knee. He stands, his manner suddenly businesslike.

‘Come on, you fullas. I know where we can get some good kai.'

He runs off into the night. Wī pauses, then he lifts Pāpu onto his back. He follows after his brother.

Āpi leads the way back up the road they ran down, and stops at a big white villa set on top of a hill. It has panoramic views of Te Kuiti – the street lights below twinkle in the crisp night air. The boys pass the mailbox with the names of Mr and Mrs Bennett printed on it.

They stop at the shearing shed first. It smells musky from all the sweat and lanolin that have soaked into the wooden floors over the years. There are a few items hanging on pegs – a pair of woollen trousers, a singlet and a pair of long johns.

The boys stuff them into a hessian sack they find in the corner. Then they head for the house.

The villa has a large verandah, and warm light shines through the stained glass on the front door. The boys creep around to the back of the house. They sneak past the square of light leaking from a window where the curtains are not drawn. Mr Bennett is with his wife, a pink fleshy woman, eating a mutton roast in their dining room. Pāpu looks in longingly at the roast before being prodded by Wī to move. Āpi leads the way to a shed on the side of the house. He carefully opens the creaky door and slips inside. The other two boys follow.

Inside the farmer's store shed there is just enough light from the window to see what they are doing. Āpi moves towards a stack of boxes made of light wood lined up against the back wall. He opens a box carefully. Inside are beautiful, plump peaches. He opens another and inside are pears, each individually wrapped in white tissue. Āpi grabs the box of peaches and lays the hessian sack with the clothes on top. He indicates to Wī with his head to pick up the pears. Wī hefts it up. Pāpu fills his two shorts pockets with a peach and a pear. He goes to grab one more, but knocks over a crate. Fruit falls noisily to the ground. There is the scraping of a chair and the sound of footsteps approaching.

Mr Bennett appears suddenly at the shed doorway. Āpi lowers his crate and begins to throw fruit at the farmer. Wī joins in.

‘What the hell?' says Mr Bennett. He retreats back inside the house. ‘Run, bros!' yells Āpi.

Wī scampers around the side of the house, followed by Pāpu and then Āpi. Mr Bennett comes to the front door. He has a rifle. He sees the kids running off, and swears after them. He shoots his rifle into the sky. Āpi stops and turns around. Mr Bennett peers into the darkness. As he recognises the boy, his face flits from anger to disappointment.