‘I thought I told you bloody kids not to leave your bikes in the driveway!’ came the shout as soon as Mereana turned into Gully Road.
Mereana smiled inwardly as she recognised the karanga transporting her instantly back to her childhood.
Karanga mai, karanga mai, karanga mai rā …
Gully Road was, unremarkably, the same as she remembered. State-built houses perched on the left of a narrow road and a steep bank climbed on the right. It was late afternoon, and each house was busily casting long shadows across the damp road, each racing to reach the clay bank opposite – where they would linger well into the following morning.
Growing up as a Gully Road kid, Mereana remembered that clay bank as the constant playground. They played for what seemed like hours, etching out stories and forging universes amongst the forever-yielding clay that always smelt a bit like dog poo mixed with the aroma of the onion grass that grew rampant.
That now all seemed like several universes away as Mereana started to walk down the tar-sealed footpath.
After the incident, as her mother used to call it, their family had moved away. This was the first time Mereana had been back.
Tēnei au, tēnei au … forged from the clay of my tīpuna, returning from travelling time. Returning with the wiri of wisdom of a life lived within my fingertips.
Almost instinctively, Mereana stretched out her left hand. A favourite habit from her childhood was to gently touch the fences with her fingertips as she walked past, enjoying the warming sensation and their distinctive qualities. The prickly hedge at number seven, the challenge of avoiding splinters from the wooden fence at number fifteen. And her favourite, the concrete-block wall at number twenty-three. As she walked past, fingers warming from the friction, Mereana was certain she saw sparks flying.
Mereana stood momentarily at the front gate of twenty-seven, the place where her childhood had left hurriedly during a hushed night of secrecy. It was a brief moment, but Mereana wasn’t counting right now. She observed the narrow concrete pathway leading up to the front door that was flanked by two solitary shrubs standing guard. The grass was well kept with its border poisoned orange.
Uncle was dying, and Mereana’s aunty had summoned her to pay her respects. Mereana didn’t really know why she had agreed to come. Maybe from a sense of whānau loyalty or misplaced Catholic duty, but there was something else beginning to ignite deep within her that Mereana was only just beginning to realise.
Mereana walked boldly up to the front door and knocked, she had never been allowed to do this when she was younger.
Aunty didn’t take long to answer. Standing there, she looked the same as Mereana remembered; only her skin seemed thinner. She had always worn a permanent frown; this meant her eyebrows, which were still surprisingly bushy, almost joined together above deep-set eyes of the darkest brown. A darkness where duty and denial could easily flourish unseen.
‘Maryanne,’ Aunty exclaimed, and Mereana quietly cringed. ‘How nice to see you, come in.’
She was ushered into the front sitting room. Perched politely on the edge of the couch, Mereana looked around the room. There were many mementoes on display; some familiar, some not. The smell of dying lingered like boiled cabbage.
‘Uncle’s resting just now, but I will check if he is up for a visit.’
Aunty fussed somewhat awkwardly and then disappeared. There was absolute silence, apart from the loud ticking of a clock on the Formica bookcase. Tick tock, tick tock, hoki mai, hoki mai … time to return to the living.
Not quite yet, thought Mereana, there is still something I need to do.
The door opened.
‘He is ready to see you now,’ announced Aunty.
Lying on a bed, Uncle was covered by a thick duvet. He was thin, grey and rasping. Seeing him now, it seemed strange to think she had once feared this man. Now more out of pity than fear, Mereana softly stroked his cheek with her fingertips. Flickering flames began to imprint where she touched. She looked deep within his eyes where panic was beginning to grow. Mereana then bent over him and kissed his thin, dry lips. This was not a quick kiss of courtesy but more of a lingering pout of promise, of fires igniting. The flames were hungrily licking the inside of Uncle’s eyes by the time Mereana had reached the door. She could hear Aunty wailing as the flames engulfed Uncle and he fell into his fiery hell.
Mereana exhaled calmly; her smile had turned outward.
Don’t turn back girl. Don’t ever turn back.