‘Come on, Whero, honey,’ I urge her, ‘let it out …’
I hear the volcano purr of it, that clear rumbling big voice, no sides to it, man, a Milky Way of sound pouring across the darkness:
Here in the darkness the punters are loving it. Some of them must be bloody Kiwis come to see a New Zealand girl making good in London.
I’m hyped up, proud to be Whero’s mate. People say we look like sistahs … and it’s freakin’ true, you can’t tell us apart. And we are smokin’, man! But we haven’t even reached the climax of the song and … then what happens? Whero walks off the stage! Without a word. Stops singing. Leaves me stranded there.
Just. Like. That. Yup.
Shit.
The back room is dingy and dull.
‘So what the freakin’ fuck was that all about?’ I ask Whero.
She has the gall to pretend that nothing happened. ‘What?’ She shrugs, plucking at her guitar, defiant, trying to stare me down.
‘Unbelievable.’ I shake my head. ‘Did you see the audience? Did you hear them? They were loving our ass.’ Not that they’re happy any more. I can hear them baying for our blood. ‘And you just walk off. You, Whero Davies, the Kiwi wannabe queen of music and lyrics. You left me, Red, your mate, to the lions. What’s your damn problem?’
It sounds like the punters are breaking up the place. Dermot, our manager, must be tearing his red Irish hair out trying to placate them.
Is Whero concerned? Na. ‘Maybe I don’t wanna be the queen of music,’ she says.
I laugh, incredulous. ‘But you can’t do that. Walk off. This is London, not Eketahuna or Gore, for fuck’s sake. We’re this close —’ I hold up the fingers of my right hand ‘— we were this close to signing up.’
‘Red, I gotta love your confidence,’ she says.
I gasp for air. Man oh man, there are times … ‘The record label guy — Bob, Ben … Benjamin …’ I shake her, trying to force her to get a grip.
‘Karl. His name’s Karl Jeffs.’
‘He was out there tonight. And he saw you walk off the stage!’ I try to explain in words the bitch will understand. ‘Isn’t this what we came to London for? Sistah, I dragged your ass here. I was the one who had the balls to get us on the plane, got you to leave the comfort zone of Auckland so you could be a rock chick in London.’
Oh, I give up. Let Whero explain her actions herself to our faggoty little manager.
At that moment, over all the ruckus, I hear a knock at the door. Maybe it’s Dermot himself. I open the door. ‘She’s all yours,’ and a loud blast of angry noise follows him in.
But it isn’t Dermot.
It’s some guy, dark, and at first I think he’s Arab or Hindu but then he steps out of the shadows and looks right into me. I know he’s Maori and that he means trouble.
‘Fuck off,’ I snarl at him. ‘Whero’s mine.’
‘Oh, is she now?’ he replies before pushing me aside. He’s dressed in a slightly awkward colonial-boy-come-to-the-big-smoke kind of way, like he’s a cow cocky from Te Awamutu. The look he gives Whero speaks of charm and humility but I know it’s all bullshit. Bull. Shit.
‘Hello Whero,’ he begins, ‘my name’s Petera.’ He waves his hands in a friendly manner. ‘Buggah me, you had that crowd in the palms of your hands, girl. God knows where you took them, but you had them all right. And then, well, there was that bit where you walked out. You left the place a war zone, eh.’
I try to warn Whero against him. ‘Don’t let him get to you, mate.’
It’s too late. ‘What do you want?’ she asks.
‘I want to know you better, eh, shake your hand and — ’
‘Why? Cause we’re from New Zealand? Cause we’re both Maori?’ She says the words with sarcasm and my heart leaps: maybe she’s onto him. ‘You need a place to crash, eh. You heard a Kiwi accent over the microphone, saw a brown face and thought, “Sweet as”, two Maoris got themselves lost in Europe, and maybe she’ll help me out. Think I’ll just take advantage of some good old Kiwi hospitality. Well, that ain’t gonna happen. Cause I ain’t a Kiwi, I’m an Aucklander, and Aucklanders eat Kiwis for fuckin’ breakfast.’
Oh, but he’s a snake, this Petera.
‘Kia ora for that,’ he answers, ‘but I already got myself a hotel so I will politely decline your invitation.’ Then he moves in. ‘Look, I haven’t been completely honest with you. My last name’s Davies. I’m related to you on your dad’s side. And since I’ve been here in London I’ve been looking … for you … mostly.’
Whero backs away. ‘What for?’
I can tell she’s scared. I mean, fuck, I’m scared too.
‘Your mother, my Auntie Anahera, told me to look you up. After all, your dad only died last month, eh.’
Whero’s eyes brim with tears. ‘I rang her. By the time I got the message that he’d died, it was too late. I wanted to get on the plane and go to the tangi but when I phoned Mum she said, “No, stay in London. Kotare would have wanted it that way. His little girl … trying to make it as a singer.”’
‘Kei te pai,’ Petera answers, ‘I’m not here to judge you. Your mum loves you and the whanau understood. Anyway, I said I was coming over to London and Auntie Anahera asked me to see how you’re coping.’ Awkwardly he hugs Whero. ‘You play a mean guitar — the ole fulla would’ve been proud.’
‘You play?’
‘Hey, I’m Maori, aren’t I?’ He laughs, oozing more charm and pretending that he’s offended. ‘I’m staying at the Sanderson on Oxford Street — pretty flash, eh?’ He takes out a pen and small notepad and writes on it. ‘It’s um — it’s a cab ride from here. I’ll be in London for a bit, taking in the scenery. It would be choice to catch up.’ He tears the page out of the notepad. ‘Till next time, eh?’
I step in his path. I’m not going to let him get away without making sure he knows I’m ready to take him on. But he looks at me as if I’m of no consequence, as if I’m not even there. ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ he says.
When he’s gone, it takes me a while to get my breath back.
‘I don’t like him,’ I tell Whero. ‘He could come between us.’
Next morning, I’m breathing easier.
Whero’s asleep, completely out to it, and Dermot appears to have forgiven her. But I’m still worried about last night: her walking off the stage and, of course, Petera.
What does he want?
I slip out of bed and, tiptoeing to the window, open it slightly. Not enough to let the whole world in, but just enough so that I can take out a ciggy and have a smoke. God, I wish we had enough dollars so that we could have our own flat. Still, we were lucky that Dermot came up with a solution.
‘Why don’t you come and stay with me and Tupou?’ he’d said. ‘We’ve got a spare room. We could split the rent. It would make it easier on all our pockets, eh?’
Earl’s fuckin’ Court. We come to London and where do we end up? The Aussies could claim it as the next Australian state. And Kiwis could do the same, raising the Tino Rangatiratanga flag. All you hear around here are the colonial accents:
‘Gidday, mate. Kia ora, cuz. Put a shrimp on the barbie. All Blacks forever.’