Jake's Long Shadow (20 page)

Words which, defining you, could set you truly free.

A single individual’s good cause is what I am living for and none but me will know it. Watch (this space) me.

HE'D NEVER CRIED like this before, or not that he could remember. He'd cried for brother Nig's death and Grace's. Now he was crying for himself, for the man he had almost become, was so close to growing into, only for it to end like this. (Violence claimed me. This is Jake's legacy.)

And now the bitter irony, of knowing his stand against ever reverting to violence again could not last here, in this place. (I've walked back into a past, of kill or be killed. Here where none questions the very behaviour that befalls most of them.) For violent challenge, malevolent stares, threat glaring cold-eyed, on fire, were at every turn in this concrete and steel hellhole. Someone was going to find how to light his fuse, nothing was surer. (They'll want my reputation, like McClutchy's bar patrons wanted my old man's.) Violence defined these people. It was their only means of measuring and expressing, of being.

(They'll find me. And then I'll cut loose and in here it'll have to be as desperate, but more so, as what put me here. So things'll compound, my
sentence will lengthen, I'll use up my parole days, the same way they'll eat up my soul, squeeze out every drop of goodness and desire to be something better. The collective, it always claims you. And when it has high concrete walls topped with razor wire and steel bars over windows, over light, steel grilles and solid steel (bedroom) cell doors, the claim is complete.

A man had but one glimmer of light: his appeal to the Court of Appeal. (For mercy, Your Highest Honours. For your combined eyes to look upon me and see a good young man. That's all I ask. For if you don't, then I have to become far worse than my father whose genes have never stopped stirring in me. If I don't, I'll die.)

I have just to not wake up every day with the desire to
punch someone
, I have to go and do it, every day it's required and a few more on top to let my fellows know, Don't be messing with me. I'll shape my whole existence here around my fighting prowess, since nothing else — nothing — matters. Oh, what a life this is, what a mess I'm in.

EVEN THEY STOOD for a while to gaze wordlessly at the sight, these tough hombres, pig and deer hunters yesterday, innocuous gatherers of watercress today. One a bar brawler not so many years ago he'd forgotten, Jake Heke taking in the sight of broad, six-metre sheet of waterfall, and so peaceful with the wrap-around of trees and trill of birds. His two closest mates, Gary and Kohi Douglas, a silent two-brother chorus at the beauty. Simple men. Birds. Insects. Water. Sunlight. Food.

The shifted perspective, of Maoris appreciating the bursts of
emerald-green
watercress, removing sneakers, wading into the knee-high flow and to begin expertly picking the plant at the waterline, stuffing the bunches into sugar sacks. Gary noting its young sweet growth, his brother grunting his same gladness, and Jake saying it was perfect timing to find this favourite green vegetable in its prime.

Ever the hunters, they glanced around for signs at the bank edge, of pig rootings, deer hoof marks, antler rubbings against tree bark; sniffed the air
for the scent of wild game, distinct and pungent and answering some inner call of nature — when you got to know it.

Gary started singing an old number, from the era of a man turned fifty; a Stylistics song, sung in falsetto. His brother joined in and so did Jake, not a bit self-conscious, just expressing. There may even be a sense of spiritual connection with the Maori past, but none would ever have said so. They weren't into the culture stuff, yet had awareness of being distinctly, and
separately
, Maori. Not confounded, struggling Maoris, but hunter-gatherers, and happy men, glad to be doing this in each other's company. Men to whom singing came naturally, like laughter, a teasing banter, self-deprecating wit.

The sugar sacks filled in no time, bursting at the seams with the green growing wild, introduced long ago by English settlers and adopted by Maori to boil with the cheap meat cuts, given they were in the less well-paid jobs: beef brisket bones, pork bones, bacon hocks, mutton chops, added potatoes, pumpkin, kamokamo marrow, kumara, dough balls, all in one pot.

That afternoon, to the low tide, the sea gave a different sense of self and belonging. Out on the tidal flats in channels thick with cockles, backs bent, hands working swiftly in the sand, they grabbed the shellfish, hearing them clatter in the bucket, the smell of sea, of salt and seaweed and organic decay not offensive to the nose. The wash and crash of surf out beyond the sand bar joined the gulls screeching and oyster-catchers after their share of the sea's bounty, and the sound of children enjoying, discovering, delighting in fear of tiny crabs, or some object of fascination in the water, or in their
imaginative
young minds. Sight of others, Maoris, like you three, and the two brothers' combined seven boisterous children, playing more than gathering food.
Kaimoana
, food of the sea. Kaimoana, state of being Maori. (That's what we're doing. We're being Maori.)

Further up and closer to shore they moved then to the pipi beds, the shell tongues sticking out from the sand, a different feel to pulling cockles up, these
slid
, a cockle
pulled
. And of course they tasted different, made a different sound against each other in more filling buckets, a higher pitch. But still the music of food out here gifted free by nature was the music of being Maori.

Jason and Hata, two more of the family brothers, were out snorkelling for mussels and kina at a rocky spot, filling a sugar sack attached to an inflated rubber-tyre inner-tube, you could hear them laughing from some distance, just boys being boys even if past forty. Maori boys, happy to be gathering food from the watery wild. Eight, ten metres, a little more if necessary, they
could dive, and over a minute hold breath to swiftly pluck the spiny kinas from their sucking grasp of rock, tear mussels away from their rope-like hold, flick a knife beneath the suction underside of paua. Maori boys gathering kaimoana. At one with nature.

From sea to fresh lake, an hour before dusk, out in a preposterously small aluminium dinghy to hold such a trio of large men; rods flicking lines out with carefully chosen lures to attract a trout. No life jackets, as they'd swim if the boat sprung a leak. And laugh about it over a few beers, the thought of drowning was inconceivable.

A line tightened. There was instant excitement at whoever's line had gone taut. Playing the fish, they had to be careful, skilful, experienced: a trout was an admirable prey, not a guaranteed catch until it was on the boat bottom, gasping in its shock encounter with air. They had seven fish between them before the sun dropped, catchers teasing the empty-handed all the way home, wishing they had brought some cold beers.

Yesterday, they'd been up in the hills yonder, far end of the lake, the farmer had let his mates hunt a block of native bush on his land, as long as he got a leg of pork or same of venison. A decent bloke, Tom the sheep farmer. The dogs got onto a pig within minutes of arriving, bailed it up in a tight ravine, it ripped one of the dogs, took twenty minutes before the hunters could get in close enough to grab its back legs and flip it on its back and for Jake to stick it as it was his turn, and, like with a wife, you never took another man's turn at sticking, they did laugh amongst themselves even as they meant it. Took the rest of the day before they found the deer whose hoof marks had taunted them eight long hours.

Gary downed it with a perfect shoulder shot, a hind about three years old, so it was a good weight; they gutted it on the spot and Gary lugged his own kill back to Jake's jeep, whose turn it was to use his vehicle. Hacked a hind leg of venison, a back leg of good-sized pork — a sow who must have topped a hundred kilograms, which the guys called killograms and marvelled in their unspoken way how the addition of a single letter could change the entire meaning of a word. From a weight to a mortal event.

Another event was made in presenting the two selections of wild game to Tom the farmer, who gave them laughing warning there better be no sheep carcass added to their kill in the back of their jeep on the way out. He didn't mean it for a second and the boys would never have dreamed of doing it. Not to a good bloke.

Back home at the Douglas family enclave, after the second day of
gathering
food, the brothers teasingly mocked Jake in preparing their trout for smoking, with turned backs and whispers about not letting Jake know the secret recipe.

The other brothers, Jason and Hata, prepared the hangi, just the same as it had been done for a thousand years. A big fire burned to heat special river stones, which were lifted out by a shovel and put into a hole. Except it wasn't human meat placed in the wire-mesh but wild pork, venison and bagged watercress, potatoes, kumara, pumpkin, all piled on to the stones. The bottom of the basket had been layered with cabbage leaves to stop direct burning, wet sheets then sugar sacks were finally added over the top to create steam, then an earth covering to let it cook for three, even four hours. And now the drinking could start.

Beer. By the keg as it was a special occasion: Hata's forty-second birthday. Lion Brown was the only brand for this family, except Jake who preferred DB. You got relaxed, then easy, the laughter flowed more freely, and you went into a state of feeling kind of alone, if you chose to. But you were always in the company — and, yes, comfort — of others, in this case family, close family, and Jake was considered without question a member.

They sang whilst the hangi cooked beneath the steaming earth, played cards and made every deal a drama, a melodrama of slapping down a trump card, of euchring someone, of taking the money, or just the delight of winning. And the food cooked, and brain and emotions got nicely mellow (if you had no devils to exorcise). And in this little village family no one did. Especially not Jake.

The mussels had been shucked and put raw into bowls with a marinade. The pipis and cockles were ready to be steamed. The kinas that looked like hedgehogs had been cracked apart and the sweet yellow roe slivers taken out from the black liquid goo, and put into bowls.

Children played by themselves, or at the feet of these big and powerful adults, who exploded frequently in loudest laughter at the non-stop stream of funny comments. They were in raucous uproar remembering their
childhood
, sitting watching a glass-fronted stove door, pretending it was a television screen, and each family member taking turn to act a part behind the stove door. Now pass the beer! Hahahaha!

Drank more, felt better by the bottle. The food cooked. The women pressed themselves on the men's company and the men minded not at all, not
in this camp, not around this fire. They brought their own humour, and threw the sexual comments back at the men and laughed and had them laughing at their own sexuality and funny incidents, especially the, um, male failed times. Children came in closer, some cuddled up to Mum, or Dad. Room by this fire for everyone.

The women's voices and sweeter harmonising added to the singing. The conversation? Well, none tried nor expected and maybe didn't even notice it get higher than a certain basic level. This wasn't a time to be talking serious, not issues, not of the decadent morality of the younger generation (and who are we to talk?), not of the intellect. Not even of those Maoris they knew were struggling, fighting furiously against the tide of this modern life.

The hangi was lifted, which was a performance in itself, of voluminous steam escaping from the earth and cloth covering, men's faces sweating as they raised the baskets onto a long wooden bench revealing a feast, steamed to perfection, meat falling off the bone, vegetables just right. The children were fed, and the women put them to bed. The adults' food under foil-wrap was kept warm in the oven, for they had more singing left, room for more beer.

Then, quite late, even seasoned drinkers had to eat but there was no pigging out like animals as Jake had known more of than not in his past life, bar a couple of members for there are always exceptions in even the finest families. Sure, they ate droopy-eyed and the words came out that if on paper would be smudged, the letters not straight, nor the sense meaning much, or in a logical context. Didn't matter.

Each ate her and his fill and then some, women and men tidied up. The real hard-doer drinkers tried to carry on, but got defeated by livers crying enough. Time to go to bed, whanau. (Includes you, Jake. You know that.)

Yeah, Jake knew that, that he had a bed here, in the garage — his reserved place — a single bunk where he could snore without disturbing anyone, when what male here didn't snore? Ask any of the wives. But they didn't mind, not when your man's a loving, decent man, who works hard all week and then shares the weekend like this with the family.

The night over, they all turned in.

One of them dreaming of his ex-wife. (Oh, Bethy.)

GUILT-RIDDEN, CONFUSED, disgusted with herself, Beth intended confessing her unimaginable sin to Charlie at the first opportunity. Except she didn’t figure on the power of routine, and Charlie’s Sunday-night playing bridge with his club mates. She usually enjoyed a documentary or three, for dramas were of little interest, not when your previous life had been a miserable drama. Or she might catch up with a friend at either’s home for a chat, a couple of glasses of wine, a habit that shocked her now she was comparing the Beth of old to herself of now. Two different people, and yet back with the same man — or was he? Not for a moment. (You’ve grown up, Jakey.)

Whatever, by the time Charlie came home and with that quiet look of a win, Beth had lost her courage. And rationalisation had crept in from
somewhere
. One routine she did know, Charlie was not a man who pressed for sex, which was as well. (How would I do it with him?) Conversation, though, he was on for twenty-four hours a day. So she had to force herself
to respond, even to give a supposed viewpoint on a political issue normally of interest but not in the circumstances; she could hardly think straight. She kept seeing Jake’s face in the place of Charlie’s. Her husband’s kindly smile, those warm, intelligent eyes, the soft deep voice as meaning so differently now. (Oh God, what have I done?)

In bed Charlie liked to talk until sleep claimed either of them, on all manner of subjects. Though it was almost an inevitability that he’d get onto the subject of near obsession for him: the Maori problems. An area Beth came into her own on, from having lived the life and able to comment from both sides of the fence, a position she felt privileged to be in — if not for the fact that often Jake was used as a reference, the model of how not to be.

Well, of all the nights Charlie brought Jake up in, asking if one reason Maori were failing so badly at nearly every aspect of modern life was that they had decided, consciously, not to compete since they had perceived they couldn’t compete with their European counterparts.

Charlie put to Beth, Do you think Jake just gave up without even trying, like a lot of his types?

Beth found herself responding irritably, Why Jake for your example, when there’re lots to choose from?

And naturally Charlie took her tone the wrong way, grinning at her and telling her not to be so hard on the poor man. Then he went on with his theory on indigenous races suffering a collective inner collapse, perhaps one of trauma, an unbearable cultural shock at going from top dog to bottom.

Beth muttered, Sounds like you had an overwhelming victory at bridge tonight.

Why do you say that? Charlie up on one elbow to puzzle out his wife.

Because you’re magnanimous. On an issue you’re usually hard-nosed about, she told him whilst avoiding eye contact.

I’m looking for answers, Beth. Then he touched her breast, out of the blue for him, and his hand lingered there. On her right nipple. And her response was almost one of revulsion. At herself, what she’d done; at her husband for breaking with the pattern, the routine, at a time like this. At everything.

Not tonight, Charlie. (Never thought I’d hear myself saying that. Not when I’m ready most nights.)

Oh, that’s a shame. Just when I was warming to the idea, what with you laying there with that little bothered frown on your lovely face.

Please, don’t go there, Charlie. Not tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m in a funny mood.

Five days later she found herself on the phone to Jake, What are you up to? Doing anything tonight? Want me to come over? But let’s just talk this time, eh? You promise? He promised.

Yeah, sure talk. He was willing, but she wasn’t and hadn’t been to start with. (What’s come over me? I’m behaving like a love-struck high-school girl.) Giving herself to him, taking turns at playing the dominant role, kissing (oh, the kissing), touching, riding him, making love how it should be made (and we knew our good times like this, despite the terribly one-sided
relationship,
there had been times of sexual ecstasy, or why else was a woman so easily back joying like this with the man?).

And afterwards, when he wanted to broach the matter of them being together like this, she’d not wanted to know. Let’s just enjoy this for the totally unexpected surprise and pleasure it is, Jake. And they made love again. And he had her giggling with his crude humour, yet not over the top; hadn’t giggled like this in — well, since him.

At home Charlie’s image seemed to change. He looked not just fat but doughy; the look of a sedentary man, an office blob who didn’t like sport. His lack of interest in sex became reason for Beth to justify to herself what she had done, was doing. (A healthy woman had to get it somewhere, somehow.)

She stayed at friends’ houses till later and later, not wanting to go home to Charlie’s incessant drone on yet another issue or, worse, the bloody
loser-Maoris
topic. (Why can’t they get their shit together like I did, like Jake has?) Wanting more and more to hear Jake’s voice. Yet knowing it had to rupture sooner rather than later. And then what? (Then what, Beth Bennett who thought this last decade she had never been happier?)