Conrad Cooper's Last Stand ePub (8 page)

Mum's new electric Sunbeam frypan broke last night. It's lying on the bench in three pieces, and when I ask what happened, Mum doesn't say anything. She just wraps it in newspaper and carries it out to the rubbish.

I follow her and watch as she stuffs it into the rubbish tin. She puts down the metal lid with a bang and stands back for a second, like she's paying her respects. Mum really liked that frypan. No wonder this feels like a funeral.

‘Mum?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Did you drop it or something?'

‘Sort of.'

How do you sort of break something? Either you do or you don't. And someone must've dropped it, 'cause things don't smash by themselves.

‘Well, did Gaz break it, then?'

‘What?' She turns, blinking. ‘Don't say stuff like that.'

‘Why not?'

‘Assuming Gaz broke it. Honestly, you're as bad as Nana.' She's cross, I can tell; she folds her arms and walks back into the house.

I follow her and think, okay. She's doing her angry face. I've broken a rule and it's important to check which one. So I ask, ‘Mum, you don't like people saying bad things about Gaz, do you?'

‘No, I don't.' Mum storms into the kitchen and starts slapping pieces of bread onto the bench. ‘Well, don't just stand there. Get that school bag packed while I'm making toast, or you'll be one star short on the chart. Hop to it, Conrad.'

We're definitely not allowed to bad-mouth Gaz to other people. But now I know another rule – I can't say anything to Mum, either. I guess that makes any thoughts about Gaz top secret, just between you and me, Tane.

But … who
did
break the frypan? And come to think of it, she never said Gaz didn't break it. Of course, he's always saying mistakes are Mum's fault, but this time I'm pretty sure it's him. Which makes me wonder – what about the other times? Was he being honest?

‘Now, please, Conrad. Gaz'll be out of bed any second.'

She's right and Gaz likes to do ‘spot checks' in case I'm breaking rules, like leaving fruit loose in my school bag. I hurry off into my bedroom, hoping I can find the
School Journal
Part 4 under my bed. Miss Cody doesn't
need a star chart for good behaviour. If kids forget their reading books they spend their lunchtime copying out stories by hand.

If you ask me, sometimes there's too many rules.

Okay, it's late and you're probably asleep, but not me. Um, if you're not asleep … aw, I'd better do this right.

Um, dear Tane,

Is there a god in charge of dreams? If so, can you have a word with him? I keep having the same one, and it's weird.

I guess all dreams look strange and some are quite cool. I like the flying one, even if I do get too close to the sun and start melting. At least there's space travel, just like
Star Wars
! But this other dream. Well.

Nothing really happens. It's always different, like I'm on the bus or at home. Last night I dreamt I was in class, and then it happened. I started screaming.

Not for real, just in my dream.

I know, it doesn't sound bad. It's not like anything really terrible happened to me. Nobody else seems worried, either. Miss Cody keeps teaching her reading group, Jasper's eyes stay focused on building a fort out of pencils and the rest of the class do worksheets. No one looks up.

See, that's the bad part.

Nobody notices I'm screaming. I dunno why I'm
making such a racket, I've just got this urge to yell. My voice grows louder and louder, until my throat feels like I swallowed a mouthful of Weet-Bix without milk. And still, no one notices.

Why?

Then I wake up and my heart beats fast, like a set of drums, and there's this sinking feeling in my chest like something terrible happened. Something so bad, I can't explain it. Which is weird 'cause nothing
did
happen. How can I have a nightmare about nothing?

Anyway, I'm sick of this dream.

So, like I said, any ideas? Maybe we could replace it with more Space ones. I'd like to land on Mars and find it's made out of Mars bars, so I can live there forever and never get hungry.

Yours sincerely,

Conrad.

Tane, I've been thinking about what Mr Kelly said, about me needing a mirror. There's clearly more to becoming Maori than I realised. I need to talk to an expert on changing nationalities. So after school, I go next door to ask Mrs O'Leary about becoming a Maori, but I can't get my question out straight away. She keeps splashing dishes about in her sink and asking about last night, saying she heard a lot of yelling. I must've been asleep and of course I can't tell her about the frypan, seeing as Mum said we mustn't bad-mouth Gaz. That'd be doing a bad thing.

‘Oh,' I say, ‘that was, um, the telly.'

She gives me a long look and says, ‘I think we both know it wasn't the TV.'

I just stare back at her and she looks down, rubbing her fingers. I can't help noticing how the knuckles stick out of her hands like knobbly tree stumps. Hey, I wonder if old people are like trees; if you count the wrinkles, can you find out how old they are? Maybe I should ask …

‘Conrad, was anyone yelling at you?'

‘Me? No.'

She looks up, staring at my face like she's forgotten my name. Then her eyes drift away, checking the room, left and right. ‘Well,' she says to a potted fern on her kitchen bench. ‘I suppose that's all right.'

I dunno why it's better for Gaz to yell at Mum, instead of me. But now I've got too many questions, so I stick with my first one. ‘Mrs O'Leary, do you reckon I could become a Maori?'

‘What?' She grabs the kitchen bench, her knuckles glowing like new moons. ‘No … oh, no. I don't think so.'

‘Why not?'

‘Uh, well, your skin's a different colour.'

‘But Ravi isn't white and he became a New Zealander.'

‘Yes, but he's still Indian, changing nationalities isn't the same as changing cultures. Even if it was, this isn't a Maori country, it's part of the British Commonwealth.'

‘How come?'

‘Well, the English came and settled it.' She gets a funny look on her face, she often does when we talk about British people. It's something to do with history and England taking over her Island. Mum says it's 'cause she's from a republic, whatever that means.

‘Mrs O'Leary, did the British take over New Zealand, like they did your island?'

‘I … well … that's different.'

‘How's it different?'

‘Well … I suppose that's a good question.'

Mrs O'Leary stands over her kitchen sink and digs her fingers into the bubbles, rocking a teacup under the water. Steam rises up, fogging the bottom of her kitchen window, and the little statues on the sill drip like they're sweating. It must be messing with her glasses because she pulls the plastic glove off her left hand and wipes the lens on her sleeve.

‘Conrad?'

‘Yeah?'

‘My point is, you can't be Maori because you're white and if you go around saying you can, you're going to upset lots of people. Not just the European ones, either.'

I'm not trying to upset anyone, but I've noticed it's easy to make people mad without trying, especially grownups.

‘Why?' I ask. ‘What's wrong with being Maori?'

‘Nothing …' She sighs and reaches out with her gloved hand, fiddling with a statue of St Christopher. She's probably dying to clean him, his face needs a good wipe with the Ajax. ‘But I don't make the rules, Conrad.'

‘Rules?' I get a faint kick in my stomach. ‘Hang on, no one told me there were any
rules
.'

‘Look, I'm not saying anyone is better, I'm just saying wanting to be a Maori won't make you one. People will laugh at you, or worse.' She shakes her head. ‘This isn't a
good time, Conrad. Did you hear about the Maori land marches, just a few years back?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Some of them aren't very happy with white people right now, especially as their land might've been stolen.'

‘So someone
did
nick their land? Same as on Bastion Point?'

‘It looks that way … a long time ago.'

‘Has anyone told Gaz? I mean, he's a cop. He could sort it out.'

‘What … oh, no.' Mrs O'Leary clears her throat. ‘I know this is hard to understand, but the government are the ones who might've been stealing and, well, the police work for them.' She puts another china cup in the water and it sinks slowly, touching the bottom with a thud. ‘If what they're saying is true, well now's not a good time to get ideas in your head about being Maori. All right?'

She nods her head towards the window, in the direction of Bastion Point.

‘But –'

‘Let me hear you say it, Conrad. You are
not
a Maori.'

‘But –'

‘
Conrad
.'

‘Okay, okay. I'm not a Maori. But I'm still going up there tomorrow.'

‘What –
no
.' She drops her cloth onto the bench. ‘Why
on earth would you do that?'

‘Well you said the Maoris' land was stolen, so protesting against that
must
be a good thing to do.' I point at the plastic saints on her window sill. ‘I bet they would've been right in there, waving flags and everything.'

‘They would
not.
'

‘Why?'

‘Because … because …' She sighs. ‘Look, these things are very complicated and I can't think right without a cup of tea in my hand. Let's talk about something else, shall we?'

I nod and she smiles. Good thing I didn't tell her I'd already been up to Bastion Point. That way, she can't tell on me.

‘Good boy. Now grab a tea towel and make yourself useful, while I see what's left in the biscuit tin.'

‘Mrs O'Leary, when the British people took over your country, did people protest?'

‘They did as a matter of fact.'

‘And what happened?'

‘Those dishes aren't drying themselves, Conrad.' But she stands there, holding on to the biscuit tin and staring at the dented lid with its psychedelic flowers.

I'm starting to worry she might forget about feeding me, so I say, ‘I
love
your apple tarts. I could
really
do with a tart, soon as I'm finished cleaning. Washing up makes me hungry, so if you
did
have any …'

And then she laughs, and whatever she's thinking, it's forgotten.

Hope you're okay with this, Tane, but it turns out Mrs O'Leary was right. I can't be a Maori. I checked with Mum, who choked on her cup of tea. She said definitely not, and never mention it to Gaz, not if I know what's good for me. I even checked with Miss Cody, who looked concerned and started writing notes in her black notebook, the one she keeps on her desk.

I hope this isn't going on my school report.

On Tuesday, I grab my Raleigh Twenty off the bike rack and tell Jasper I've gotta head home and clean up the yard for Gaz. Truth is, I turn left at the bottom of my street and head back up to Bastion Point, although technically it's down, around and then up, but somehow, everyone calls it ‘up the hill'. Maybe it sounds more interesting, like you're going somewhere different, somewhere out of town. And now there's a protest, which definitely makes it interesting, but no one goes there, not even for picnics. How weird is that?

This time the gate people let me in without asking questions; maybe they remember me. Mr Kelly's hanging out with some other men by the stone monument; I think they've been having a big talk because there's a lot of head shaking and people trying to speak at the same time.

Mr Kelly sees me and walks over real fast. ‘Conrad, what're you doing here?'

‘I told you, I'm here to protest.'

‘Yeah, well thanks, but you're a bit young.' He looks around at the shacks and caravans. ‘I know there's kids around but it's not a holiday camp. They've all got family up here.'

‘Okay.' I look down at the grass, long and wet against my jeans. ‘What if I just make a little protest, like for five minutes?'

‘Well …' He shrugs and then laughs. ‘All right. Five minutes, but you're staying right here.'

He points down at the grass behind a caramel-coloured caravan; it looks dry, so we plonk ourselves down.

Tane, how about this view? I can see the whole harbour, right out to Rangitoto Island. Yachts sail over the ocean and their white sails look like feathers blowing across a blue sky. Down below us the main road winds all the way past Okahu Bay and into Mission Bay, cars travelling up and down like colourful bugs on a twisted branch.

Mr Kelly says, ‘You know, there used to be a fishing village, just down in the bay.'

‘True? I didn't know that.' I yank up a long blade of grass, hold it between my thumbs and blow; the vibrating whistle hums against my lips. ‘The local fish 'n' chip shop
is
really good.'

He snorts. ‘Yeah, well it's not as good as it could be. The fishing beds were wrecked a long, long time ago.'

‘How come?'

‘Pakeha put a sewerage pipe under the bay and, well, that was that. It ruined all the fishing.' He scrunches up his face and rubs his chest; maybe he's hungry, it must be all that talking about food.

‘Did you used to live there?'

‘Yeah, when I was a kid, back in the fifties. Now it's mostly a park.'

I let the blade fall, bent and useless, onto my jeans. ‘I'd love to live in a park.'

How cool would that be, Tane? Imagine all the games of tag and rugby. Bet they had loads of picnics. But he shakes his head and clears his throat. ‘Well, it wasn't a park back then. It was where we lived. There was a proper meeting house and everything.'

‘How come you left?'

‘We didn't, they tossed us out. The government made some laws and decided to take it. They didn't like the state of our houses, which wasn't surprising, and they wouldn't give us permits to fix them.' His voice gets smaller, like it's running away and he turns his head, looking back at the harbour. ‘I was out having a swim with some mates. But when my cousin saw the smoke we came in.'

‘Smoke?'

‘Yeah. Look, you're a bit young for this …' He stops for a second and shakes his head. ‘Let's not talk about it, eh?'

‘I'm not too young. I'm ten, nearly tall enough for the
big Easter Show rides.'

‘I was younger than you, back then.' He looks down at his thick, dry hands; the lines on his palms look like cuts. ‘Well, the truth is the truth. You really want to know why we're protesting?'

‘Yeah.'

‘That afternoon the cops burnt down our homes, one by one. They moved us up the hill, into state houses.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘Nope. The real kicker is they built state houses on our land, without permission, then acted like we were lucky to get 'em.' He shakes his head. ‘Does that make any sense to you?'

I shake my head.

‘Yeah, well I guess it made sense to someone.'

We both sit there, looking at the ocean. It's weird to think how it might've looked a hundred years ago, with canoes fishing and people gathering shellfish on the sand. I watch the waves and try to imagine coming home and seeing my house on fire … I thought stealing was against the law. But if laws can change, then what else could happen? People might start driving on the wrong side of the road and cause accidents or nick my new bike with the bright red banana seat. The whole world would be a disaster.

‘Mr Kelly?'

‘Yep?'

‘I know you've got good reasons for protesting, but what if you get arrested?'

‘I suppose that could happen.'

‘Yeah, but they might put you in prison.'

I look around at the land. It's really nice but I don't know if it's worth going to jail. Gaz never makes it sound like a good place. You've gotta ask permission to use the toilet, food tastes terrible and there's no TV.

‘Maybe we'll win … then again, maybe we won't.' Mr Kelly runs a hand over his head, like he's checking to see his hair's still there. ‘The thing is, it's not just about winning, not any more. Stuff like this puts our mana at stake; we've got to make a stand. That's all there is to it.'

‘What's mana?'

‘Jeez, don't you know any Maori words?'

‘I can sing “Oma Rapeti” and count to ten.'

Mr Kelly rolls his eyes at the sky. ‘Yeah, you're practically bilingual.'

‘Is that a joke?'

I'd better check, seeing as there's no punchline and he doesn't slap his knees like Gaz, so it's hard to tell. Grownups can have strange jokes; Jasper reckons it's 'cause they spend too much time being serious at work and forget how to have fun. Mr Kelly just looks down and me and says, ‘You take things literally, don't you?'

‘Um, maybe.'

I'm not sure what literally means, either. But I'm still
stuck on the first word and Mr Kelly says, ‘Mana means pride, only more than that, like dignity.'

‘Oh.'

I don't really get it, and he can tell by looking at me 'cause he waves his hand, like teachers do when they're pointing at a blackboard. He says, ‘Sometimes you've just got to stand up when things go wrong and say, No, I'm not going to even
pretend
that's okay. Otherwise a little piece inside you gets crushed and dies; that bit's your mana.' He shakes his head. ‘Nobody's got the right to take that away, unless you let them. And only an idiot would do that.'

I'm not sure I totally get it, but I know you can't cut pieces out of people and crush them. There's a lot to think about. So we sit there for ages, way longer than five minutes, until Mr Kelly says it's time to go.