‘Ia ora na i te mahana ‘āpī. Hello in the new day.
Every day is a new day.
Allow me to share with you, in English, a Tahitian proverb.
The shell of Woman is Woman. It is from Woman, Woman is born.
The shell of Man is Woman. It is from Woman, Man arrives in the world.
I am fifty-three and I have three sons, Genji, Heimanu and Toriki, and a daughter, Turia.
My belly was their shell.
In May 2011, Genji married Angela. Both wanted children, but not straightaway.
My daughter, Turia, was in the prime of her life. She and Michael felt ready for a baby and hoped for a boy. We were having the conversation in the car, on our way to Turia’s graduation, three hours’ drive to Sydney from the South Coast. She and Michael said they liked the name Billy.
‘Billy?’ The tone in my voice from the back seat said it all. How could my mo’otua be named Billy?
‘Our child, Mum,’ said Turia. ‘You gave Genji a Japanese name.’
‘What about the middle name?’ I asked. It was a hypothetical conversation—about Billy Moana Hoskin.
Four days after her graduation in September 2011, Turia was caught in a bushfire during a hundred-kilometre marathon for which she had trained hard. She was in Intensive Care at Concord Hospital, Sydney, not expected to survive. I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to the Ancestors.
I even prayed to Billy Moana Hoskin. ‘Billy Moana Hoskin, you must be born…One day. Your mother must live.’
In North Sydney, weeks before, Genji and Angela had moved into their two-bedroom apartment. Michael and Genji went out to buy a bed for the spare bedroom. We were all thrown into the chaos. On the balcony, I’d be bawling my eyes out. How could you do this, God? My daughter is a good person. Genji said he didn’t believe in God. Could I please stop talking about God?
All that happened over the next six months while Turia stayed in Concord has already been well documented. Turia’s survival was a miracle. We all love miracles. Miracles make good stories.
‘Mum. We’re all going to the pub,’ Genji said.
‘The pub?’ Was my son serious? Did we have something to celebrate? ‘I’m not going to the pub.’
‘Mum. We’re all going to the pub. Turia is going to survive.’
I should have been rejoicing, but I was still too upset about Turia’s last operation.
At the pub, Genji played the comedian. He told a story about Billy and Tamatoa, cousins who, one day, would grow up together on the South Coast. Billy would have blond hair flowing in the wind, and would ride his bike with a cockatoo on his shoulder. Billy would come around to see if cousin Tamatoa was keen to surf. Billy would also have his surfboard on his bike. But Tamatoa, with a short military hairstyle like his father, would have to make his bed first, as if he was in the army. We all laughed at Genji’s vision of my imaginary future grandchildren.
Three years later, Genji called from North Sydney.
‘Hey, Mum, how do you say boy in Tahitian? And how do you say girl?’
‘What?’ Why? Was there something I should know?
‘Can you just tell me,’ said Genji, urgently. ‘We’re at the vet. Ange and I bought two puppies.’
‘Tane, boy. Vahine, girl.’ Genji must have forgotten his language once I stopped talking to him in Tahitian, when I was trying to teach myself English.
‘How do you spell them?’
‘T-a-n-e. In Tahitian, the e is pronounced é as in café. V-a-h-i-n-e.’
‘Thanks, Mum!’ Click. He’d explain later.
The dogs were for Angela, to keep her company. Genji was often away with his job as a clearance diver for the Australian Navy, leaving for classified missions, even overseas.
Tane and Vahine, brother and sister from the same litter, a cross between pug and cavalier. They became the grand-dogs of Ma’u and Pa’u.
I’m Ma’u. Grandma in Tahitian, pronounced Ma-ou. My husband John is Pa’u, pronounced Pa-ou.
Genji and Angela went to England for Christmas, to see Angela’s family, so the grand-dogs stayed on the South Coast and had a ball at the dog-friendly beach.
When was Genji moving to England, asked Angela’s mother, Anne, in 2017. She missed her daughter. Genji and Angela said they would try for a baby, then move to England with Tane and Vahine, Angela’s babies. Angela wasn’t leaving her babies behind. In five years, they’d all come back. In the meantime, they bought an investment property in Mollymook, in Tallwood, around the corner from Michael and Turia in Donlan, which is around the corner from John and me.
But that same year, Genji and Angela broke up. The day I learned of the separation in a phone call from Genji, I remembered Angela had written possible names for children in a love heart on a page in one of my notebooks. I found the notebook straightaway. I couldn’t believe it. There they were: ‘Tamatoa Christopher Pitt and Leilani Georgia Pitt.’ If that had been a sign, it was no longer true…Genji and Angela moved out of their apartment and went their separate ways. Angela took her babies. They remained friends.
In 2018, I was at Donlan to say ia orana, hello, and have a cup of tea with Turia. Over tea or a meal, we’d talk about many things, have a few laughs. She’d say I was funny. She was too. We’d tell each other we should have our own comedy show.
‘Hey, Mum,’ said Turia that day in the kitchen. ‘Could you get me the yellow scrunchie from my bedside table.’
‘Sure.’ Too easy.
I looked for the scrunchie. Nowhere to be seen. ‘Turia! I don’t see a yellow scrunchie!’ Did it have to be yellow? Surely not.
She marched to the room, retrieved something from the bedside drawer and showed it to me.
‘What’s this?’ Is this what I think it is? Two lines on a pregnancy test. ‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘AH!!!!!!’ I screamed the roof down. ‘You could have asked me to sit down!’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t see it, Mum.’
‘I wasn’t looking for a pregnancy test,’ I said. ‘So I didn’t see it. Have you seen a doctor, darling?’
‘I did four pregnancy tests.’
‘Four?’ One would have sufficed, maybe two.
‘I wanted to be sure.’
I hugged my daughter tight. ‘I’m so happy for you, darling, so happy.’
Michael came into the bedroom. He had gone along with Turia’s scheme for me to find out, but it hadn’t worked. No drama, he was still smiling.
‘Group hug!’ said Turia.
The name Hakavai means Dance of the Water. He arrived in the world in the season of the gardenias, after the summer rain. I met him twenty minutes after his arrival at Wollongong Hospital. He looked a bit freaked out:
Where am I?
You are in the world. Who are you?
Feeling the love.
‘Ma’ou.’
My son Toriki, the youngest in the family at twenty, but the tallest, lived in Wollongong, where he was studying electrical engineering. We all gathered at his share house. Genji and Angela had driven to Wollongong, bringing their DJ brother Heimanu.
‘Hey, Mum,’ said Heimanu. ‘How does it feel to be a grandma?’ Big hug.
‘How does it feel to be an uncle?’
I then hugged my daughter-in-law. ‘Hello, Madame Pitt.’
‘Hi, Mummastine. It’s good to see you.’
‘Hey, Mum.’ Big hug from Genji. No one really knew if he and Angela were back together, but she was here, and that said a lot to me.
At the hospital Genji and Angela had hogged the baby.
In Mollymook, the season of the gardenias returned after the 2019 summer rain. Genji called. They were now back living together in the eastern suburbs of Sydney.
‘Hey, Mum, what are you doing for your birthday?’
‘My birthday is eight months away.’
‘Do you have any plans for your birthday?’
‘Why are you talking to me in riddles?’
‘I’m talking in riddles, am I?’
‘Yes, you are, darling.’
‘It’s just that…around your birthday…you’re going to be a grandma again.’
‘Oh my God! Is it true?’ I heard Angela chuckle. I was on speaker.
‘Hello, Madame Pitt!’
‘Hi, Mummastine!’
‘I’m so happy for you both! I’m crying.’
‘Ange got pregnant straightaway.’ Once they had decided on a baby.
‘That baby has been waiting years to be conceived!’ I was yelling with unrestrained joy. But the move to England was now real. They were leaving in six months. Angela would give birth in the English summer.
Genji asked if they could store some stuff in my garage. He was thinking ahead.
‘Of course, darling,’ I said. ‘From here it’ll be easy to transfer your stuff to Tallwood in five years.’
Genji chuckled. I don’t miss a beat.
The garage was already chockablock with my stuff, stuff from my three sons, John’s sporty memorabilia, Genji’s military uniforms, which I couldn’t take to Vinnies because it’s a crime to impersonate a soldier. And that silly treadmill that Toriki had promised to ‘grab next time’.
Months passed, Hakavai was not only walking, but running, a bundle of happy energy. At fifteen months, he had strong legs from all the training at Mollymook Beach. I used to take the mini footy along, a birthday gift from Ma’u and Opa, on Hakavai’s first birthday, along with his blue flute and Rubik’s Cube. It’ll take Hakavai years to work out the Rubik’s Cube, but he’ll get there.
For years, John was Pa’u with the puppies, when he’d bring treats home in the grocery bag for Tane and Vahine. Guess what Pa’u got you? For three months, John was Pa’u with Hakavai, then Pa’u John had a rethink. ‘I’m half-Dutch,’ he said. ‘I should really be Opa.’
Hakavai liked to breathe in and out fast into the ‘upa’upa vaha, music music mouth, the mouth harmonica. And he sure loved to dance to the harmonica blues. He was a natural. Check the hips! Then it’d be book time on the couch with Ma’u, reading books that Hakavai had chosen himself at Ulladulla Library, with his own library card.
In England, Grandma Anne had installed the air-con in Genji and Angela’s bungalow, in expectation of their arrival.
Genji and Angela had found out that they were going to have a boy. Teiva would be his name. Prince of the Islands.
We come from many islands. The ocean, the world’s greatest temple, connecting us.
I’d think of Teiva being born, and feel sad. How could his ma’u, me, teach him Tahitian if he lived in England?
Hakavai already knew a few words. ‘Inu.’ Drink. He’d take a few sips of water from his sippy cup. ‘Amu.’ Eat. Omelette made with free-range eggs, fresh herbs from the garden, grated parmesan. ‘E haere tatou.’ Let’s go. Let’s go for an adventure on Mollymook Beach. See if we can find bird feathers on the beach. I had already woven pandanus leaves in the shape of a whale that now hung on the wall at home. Bird feathers also make excellent bookmarks and pens to draw with on the canvas of the sand. Now I took Hakavai’s beloved soccer ball along. Sorry, Opa Johnny Maguire, former rugby league great. Hakavai prefers soccer.
A surprise call from Genji: ‘Hey, Mum, we’re not going to England anymore.’
‘What happened?’
‘The airline rang. Tane and Vahine won’t survive the flight. They’ll die.’
So the family was moving to Tallwood.
Angela could continue her brilliant career as a financial adviser. Genji would take leave for a year and be a stay-at-home papa with Teiva. I told my son he had served his country well, both in the army and as a clearance diver.
Genji intended to put native trees in the garden at Tallwood. I immediately suggested lilly pilly trees. ‘I’ll make lilly-pilly jam.’ It was Hakavai’s favourite. He helped me pick the berries.
‘Yeah, I heard about your lilly-pilly jam! That’s good, Mum.’
‘Put in some bush tomato plants too, and some lemon myrtle trees.’ Hakavai loved the scent of lemon myrtle leaves. And sea rocket, and saltbush, and karkalla.
‘Ange would like a few apple trees,’ said Genji. ‘But what about the birds?’
‘What about the birds?’ I said. Rainbow lorikeets, cockatoos…
‘Won’t they eat the apples?’
‘The birds won’t eat all the apples! You want birds in your garden,’ I said enthusiastically.
Genji was also visualising a massive veggie garden, pumpkins galore.
Turia was so happy about her brother moving back to the South Coast. They could surf together like they used to as children. Hakavai and Teiva would hang out. Michael and Genji, mates since Ulladulla High School, would go diving for abalone and fish, and surf in the clear South Coast waters.
There is another mo’otua on the way.
It was Hakavai who passed the positive pregnancy test to me. ‘Ma’ou,’ he said to me, as he hung in his mum’s arms.
Turia and Michael were smiling.
I thought it was a thermometer. ‘What is he doing with a thermometer?’ I snatched it from him.
Surprise!
I hope she will be a girl, Clarity of the Moon.