‘I told you I only wanted to have a small wedding,’ Amiria said. ‘I also told you I didn’t want to have any kids at the wedding. How do you think Tyrone’s parents will take all this! They’ll think we’re like Indians having a pow wow.’
‘If they haven’t been on a marae it’s about time they did,’ Dad answered.
‘Dear,’ Mum tried to explain, ‘the real problem was that the Starlight had no place where your father could put his hangi.’
Amiria went into overdrive. She’d lived so long with passive Pakeha friends in Auckland she’d become accustomed to getting her own way.
‘Look. Read my lips. When we first discussed this wedding, Mother, we agreed that it would be silver service, with knives and forks —’
‘There’ll be knives and forks,’ Dad interrupted. ‘We haven’t used our fingers for years. Do you think we’re cannibals or something!’
‘I wanted it to be like — like — a Pakeha wedding! With waiters and a band! You promised me! When I rang from Auckland you said that —’
‘We do have waiters, dear,’ Mum said. ‘Your cousins are getting dressed up in their flashest clothes and Uncle Bimbo is bringing his karaoke.’
Amiria’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s it!’ she screamed. ‘The wedding is off. Off, off, off.’
It was Dad who had the last word. ‘Amiria,’ he said. ‘What kind of Maori are you!’
I decided to extricate myself with a quiet escape to the front room. I flipped the cellphone open. Dialled Wellington.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’ It was Saturday afternoon but Jason’s voice sounded smoky and half asleep. I thought of him in bed, the sheets slipping from his chest as he reached for the telephone.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Jason said. ‘Hang on a minute. I was out clubbing. Didn’t get in until late.’ There was the sound of creaks and sighs: muffled mysteries. ‘So you’ve arrived safely then? How goes it?’
‘I’d forgotten what families are like. A Mum and a Dad and a sister. The usual screaming matches.’
‘So you’ve told them.’
‘Not yet. There hasn’t been a chance. Soon.’
There was a pause. A hesitation. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t go through with it,’ Jason said. ‘If you don’t want to, don’t do it.’
‘That’s a change! After all these months of pestering me!’
‘Yes. Well —’
‘I miss you. I wish you were here.’
‘I know. Listen, when you get back, let’s talk. In the meantime, enjoy the wedding.’
Just before dinner tempers were still flaring. I was in the middle of the firing line.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with your sister,’ Mum said. ‘Talk some sense into her. She’s always listened to you.’
Not today.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Amiria said with some sarcasm. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side and help me against them.’
There were eight for dinner: Mum and Dad, Amiria and Tyrone, Tyrone’s parents, myself and Dad’s elder sister Auntie Pat.
‘Kia ora, Nephew,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘You better hurry up, your sister is leaving you behind. Or maybe you’re waiting to grow up to marry me, eh? And don’t you dare answer that question!’
‘It’s not that I wouldn’t marry you,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m not the marrying kind.’
‘Michael, dear, you say the sweetest things. I’d quit while I was ahead if I was you.’
I gave Auntie Pat a quick hug. She never seemed to like close physical contact. How she’d managed to cope among such a tribal people as ours I’ll never know. Perhaps that’s why she had moved from Waituhi to a flat in nearby Gisborne city soon after Grandfather Arapeta had died.
‘Don’t forget,’ Auntie Pat whispered, ‘we have to behave for the prospective in-laws. So we better sit beside each other and make sure we are good.’
The in-laws in question, Mr and Mrs Henderson, were standing in the lounge where Dad was showing them the Military Cross awarded to his father, Arapeta. The family were still reeling from the shock that Amiria, who had met Tyrone while he was on a surfing trip to New Zealand, was marrying into a family of Texans who owned a casino in El Paso. No wonder Dad, for whom such things mattered, was trying to impress the Hendersons with facts that implied that our family history might not go back to Davy Crockett and the Alamo but was at least as distinguished.
‘Arapeta was one of the first of 146 Maori trainees to go to Army School at Trentham. That was in 1939 and few had any previous military training. Dad relied on the warrior blood of his ancestors — their intelligence, their cunning and their ability to lead — to get him through. He was only 20. When he landed in Egypt to fight against Rommel, he had risen to sergeant. He was wounded at El Alamein where he was commanding his platoon. He arrived in Italy and fought at Monte Cassino as a major under Pita Awatere. By the time the war was over he had risen through the ranks to lieutenant colonel. He was only 23 when he was awarded his Military Cross.’
‘Wow,’ Mr Henderson said. ‘I’ve heard that the Maoris were formidable foes.’
Dad nodded. He loved talking about Arapeta. ‘When my father came back he married my mother, Florence. My sister was the firstborn and I was second. Dad named me after the battle at Monte Cassino — people call me Monty. I think my Dad was hoping that there would be a war for me to fight in, but I was just a little young for Vietnam. Had I been older I would have volunteered. Nevertheless I joined up in peace time and was three years in the Army as a gunner. Dad came to see me graduate and it was one of the proudest moments in my life. He told me that I had’ — Dad took a quick glance at Auntie Pat — ‘restored the family honour.’
Mr Henderson turned to me and smiled.
‘And you, son? Have you kept up your family’s military tradition?’
‘Michael’s the only one of the family to go to university,’ Dad answered. ‘He’s taken after his mother’s side. Anyway, there are no wars for him to fight.’
‘So what is your degree qualification?’ Mrs Henderson asked.
Dad intervened again. ‘I wanted Michael to go into viticulture and to take over from me, but you know what boys are like! They’ll always do what they want to do.’
‘Like my boy, Tyrone.’
‘Michael’s always liked the arts. He’s set up a consultancy. If people want advice on Maori or bicultural art he helps them. You work closely with government, don’t you, son?’
I nodded. It was easy to become mute around Dad.
‘Oh?’ Mr Henderson said. ‘Sounds pretty impressive, but what does it mean?’
‘Whatever it means,’ Dad answered, ‘it sure as hell sounds easier than working with grapes!’
While everyone was laughing, Amiria arrived with Tyrone.
‘Tyrone,’ Amiria said, ‘you’ve not met my brother Michael.’
He was all white teeth in a bronzed, open, face. He laughed, ‘So you’re the twin and it is true. I’ve seen photographs but never realised. You and Amiria do look alike.’
‘Except I’m prettier,’ Amiria said, ‘and the gap between my front teeth is not as wide as Michael’s.’
Mum had excelled herself with the dinner. Three courses, good wine and not a pork bone or pot of puha in sight. Every now and then I could see Amiria looking across at Mum and beaming a silent thank you. By the end of the second course, the dinner party could be counted a success. Dad and Mr Henderson had taken off their ties and were now on first-name terms. Mum and Mrs Henderson were walking down Memory Lane, swapping baby stories about Amiria and Tyrone. To top it all off, Mr Henderson had given the famous Alamo war cry.