I look out the window of the plane. My club foot is throbbing badly; I shall blame Aunt Hera. It’s because of my foot that the Australian customs authorities provided a wheelchair for me at the air bridge. The other passengers had to wait as I got in it. Mr Pasty-Faced Overweight Englishman voiced his irritation. Perhaps Australia is his final destination, in which case they thoroughly deserve each other. Of course Diamond Lil also remonstrated at what she considered to be my privileged treatment. I rolled up my left trouser leg and took the sock off to reveal my ‘cloven horse’s hoof’ — the sight of it would put anybody off their breakfast. I was about to show her my right foot, where the condition is not so severe, but, gasping for air, she quickly passed me by, clutching her paste diamonds to her pneumatic chest.

  I fully meant to make her day, but her reaction took me back to childhood. When I was born my unsuspecting parents were absolutely shocked by my deformity, especially my father, who was a highly regarded sportsman in Māori tennis, rugby and wrestling. As for my mother, Rewa, she took the blame on herself, but loved me unconditionally. She wasn’t prepared to accept that I would always be like this, and I began a correction therapy known as the Ponseti method. At six weeks I had an Achilles tenotomy, an incision in the tendon, on both my feet. At three months, a special type of splint called a Denis Browne bar, otherwise known as a foot abduction brace, was attached to my feet. I wore it nearly full time for three months and then at night and during naps for the next three years. My mother liked to tell me that I was a brave baby and hardly ever cried when the splint had to be periodically realigned. Perhaps my stoicism dates from boyhood.

  Mum’s persistence enabled me to eventually walk, albeit with specially built shoes and a cane. I don’t blame my father, Isaac Senior, for not bonding with me. The sight of his first male child stumping along on his ankles, calling ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy’ must have seemed grossly unfair. I would never be the sportsman son to kick a football around with and he would never be able to stand on the spectator line watching me as I scored a try.

  As for my cousin Georgina, she was my heart’s companion. She was the eldest child of my father’s eldest brother, Aaron, and his gentle wife Auntie Agnes. She should have been a boy though, not a girl — you know, eldest son of an eldest son — and so had been as unwelcome to her father as I had been to mine. No wonder we became each other’s special friend. When we were infants Georgina protected me from all the roistering, loud, bullying children, both male and female, in the community. At five years of age she took to coming around to my house on her tricycle, leveraging me into the tray on the back, and taking me for long rides to the marae. If anybody ridiculed me, she gave them a bloodied nose. By the time she was eight, she piggybacked me from schoolroom to playground.

  I still have a startling memory of a game of baseball at school. Much to my chagrin, Georgina picked me to play on her side — usually I would have been propped under a tree along with Big Wallace or Four Eyes Sally. But no, Georgina insisted that I play and that was that. By then I had a cane to help me walk and when the umpire said ‘Batter up!’ I hobbled up to the plate, balanced, swung once, swung twice, and then in a fit of exasperation swung really high and hard — and my bat connected with the ball. ‘Quick!’ Georgina yelled. I jumped onto her back and she was away, running like crazy to first base — and we made it! From there, we stole a run to second base and although she carried me to third base, Georgina was tiring. ‘You’ve got to help me run home,’ she panted. ‘I can’t carry you any more so we’ll just have to do it three-legged. If I strap your bad leg to my leg with my belt, and you lean on me, I can run for the both of us.’

  My heart was thumping like mad. ‘What if I fall down? In front of everybody?’

  ‘You won’t fall down,’ Georgina said grumpily. She draped my arms around her neck and said, ‘Hold on tight.’ We were lucky that Hiria Jones was the batter. When she hit the ball it soared over the fence into Mr Haddock’s backyard. ‘Come on, Isaac!’ Georgina cried.

  I will remember every bone-wrenching, juddering, excruciatingly painful step we took until the day I die. I can still hear my cousins and classmates yelling out to Georgina, ‘Drop him! Run by yourself! Quick!’ From the corner of my eye I saw Kepa Karaka retrieve the ball and throw it back towards the diamond. But most of all I remember Georgina’s face, intent, focused, dragging me along with her. ‘Dive, cuz, dive!’ she yelled.

  I fell forward, falling home, falling with Georgina in a tangle onto the home plate.

  ‘Safe!’

  Georgina was laughing and laughing. ‘You did it, Isaac, you did it!’

  Not I did it or we did it.

  You did it.

  Ah, memories of small victories are sweet when you are a handicapped child. Remembering that baseball game has obviously put a beatific grin on my face, if the responsive smiles from passengers following me back from the first class lounge onto the plane are anything to go by. Not so Madame Cubic Zirconia; I wish I had Dewey’s trick cushion, the one that emits a fart when compressed, to put on her seat as she settles down. Instead, as the plane rises across the morning sea, I try to think higher thoughts and turn my loving memories to Georgina again.

  By the time we were teenagers we were still very close. My mother approved of the relationship even when it looked suspiciously like love. ‘Between cousins is all right,’ she said. As Georgina entered puberty though, she traded in her tomboyishness for beauty and, therefore, testosterone-driven boys started to crowd me out, driving me insane with jealousy. At that point we were catching the school bus to high school in the nearby city, however, so the pursuit of a higher learning began to mitigate my raging hormones.

  Did I enjoy high school? Did I what! I compensated for my physical deficiencies by providing evidence of my intelligence. I grabbed at every scholastic and cultural experience available, getting excellent grades in all academic subjects. I entered speech contests, joined the stamp club and successfully auditioned for the annual Gilbert and Sullivan dramatic production — I was a pegleg sailor in The Pirates of Penzance. By such means did I distinguish myself with the academic triumphs that are the last bastion of the nerdy student in The Also Ran Competition of Life.

  Still, Georgina and I could never really let go of each other; or, at least, I could never let go of her. While there were always other boys, I was the one with whom she shared a romance, chaste yes, but heart driven. What she loved most was when I would read to her the dreadful romance novels she loved like R.D. Blackmore’s Lorna Doone, usually in the suitably wild river setting just behind the marae. On another occasion, after I had read to her Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham, she arranged that we should play truant from high school and go and see the film with Laurence Harvey and Kim Novak. The main character played by Harvey, you will recall, has a club foot, and has a doomed relationship with the Novak character who, eventually, leaves him. Well, a club foot can never be romanticised and, give me a break, maybe Harvey could get away with it being incredibly handsome, but I could not. Even so, Georgina burst out, ‘I wouldn’t desert you, cousin, not ever!’ And I, with a lump in my throat and welling up with unaccustomed sentimentality, vowed I would love her forever.

  Yet, Georgina could be such an idiot. On one occasion she asked me, ‘Did you know that Lord Byron had a club foot?’ as if that would make me feel better. Why, oh why, did she then have to spoil it by adding that Joseph Goebbels also had a club foot and wore a metal leg brace for most of his life? Georgina had found his name on a list of people with club feet and had thought he was a German film star.

  Remembering, I lift an imaginary champagne flute to my lips. ‘This one’s for you, my gorgeous, funny, exasperating cousin. If I was to admit to loving anybody, it would be you. I loved you, I idolised you, I was loyal to you.’

  Yes, indeed I was. Then Auntie Agnes, Georgina’s mother, died of emphysema — and I could do nothing to save Georgina.

  3.

  It’s usually a thrill to arrive in New Zealand again, but my excitement has been undercut by this gloomy business involving Talia, my granddaughter. And as I disembark, I realise that I actually loathe flying.

  At least I have the comfort of parting ways with Mrs Faux Diamonds. As I go through customs I watch her walking ahead. Aha, she has been stopped by a customs agent. I wonder how much she will have to pay for trying to enter the country with the half-eaten banana and biscuit I managed to secrete into one of her carry-on bags?

  Victorious, I know young Dewey would only roll his eyes as I sail past her and out into the public waiting area. There, I see Sefulu, the young driver for my company. You can’t miss him. He’s a big brute of a boy who used to be a sumo wrestler in Japan.

  ‘Hello Mr Tairāwhiti,’ Sefulu salutes. ‘The car’s just outside.’

  We speed along the motorway into the city. I call up Talia and, although I am usually irritated when her singsong answerphone clicks on, I am relieved not to have to talk to her personally.

  ‘Talia? This is your grandfather speaking. You must already have gone into university, but I just wanted to let you know that I am back from overseas. I know you are hurting over what Whaea Hera has told you. Why don’t you come over to the Herne Bay house tonight. And afterwards we can go to dinner?’

  Then I call Makareti. As soon as she hears my voice, she bursts into tears. ‘Oh, Dad, I’m so glad you’re home. Talia has been absolutely terrified, screaming, crying, trying to get the truth out of me. I can’t keep stonewalling her.’

  ‘But you’ve kept denying the story, haven’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  I close my eyes with relief. Then, ‘I’ll go over to see Whaea Hera as soon as I’ve dropped my bags at the house. Once I know what she’s done, that will make it easier for me to know what to do when Talia comes to see me tonight.’

  I disconnect the call. I see Sefulu looking anxiously at me. ‘So we have a job later, Mr Tairāwhiti?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘In Manurewa.’ That’s where Hera lives with her gang of boys. ‘It could involve some rough stuff. I hope you’ve been working out today.’

  Now, I should introduce you to my great, passionate, flawed clan. As I’ve already mentioned, Uncle Aaron, Georgina’s father, was the oldest, and head of the extended whānau. My father, Isaac Senior, was the second in the family. Following them came my uncles Joseph, David, Abraham and Solomon — though their names were disguised as Hōhepa, Rāwiri, Aperahama and Horomona. Rounding out the whānau were Leah, Rebecca and Hera (Sarah). If you’re wondering about their biblical referentiality, blame the early Christian missionaries; they totally blitzed Māoridom with their bibles and baptisms.

  Although I speak of them grudgingly, when I was growing up my father and his brothers were all larger than life and super-human. Having saintly names could not sublimate their sexual personalities — they were smiling, physically imposing beings who strode through life with careless charm and abandon. As young men they had all been notoriously phallus-driven, creating the template by which my own weedy masculinity could only be measured in the negative.

  Uncle Aaron’s amatory exploits were legendary. He was indulged in his escapades by his brothers and doting sisters: Hera forever proclaimed that women were always throwing themselves at him — it was their fault, not his. When he married Auntie Agnes, the whole family breathed a sigh of relief. Yet when she was carrying Georgina in her womb, and Uncle Aaron had his first extramarital affair, the family, despite professing the Christian values of fidelity, forgave him. Apparently he was too much of a man for one woman — and it was more convenient to accept that this was his natural condition.

  Indeed my father and uncles were more like the god brothers of Māori mythology. That was their default position. Around Uncle Aaron, a particular arrogant mythology developed. He was Tānemahuta, god of forests, but he wished to create a race that was in his image: humankind. To do this he needed to create a woman. Accordingly he asked the Earth Mother, Papatūānuku, to help him. ‘Haere atu koe ki a Kurawaka,’ she told him. ‘Go to Kurawaka, my sexual cleft, and from the red clay you find there, make a woman to mate with.’

  The woman Tānemahuta created was named Hineahuone, Woman made of clay. He took her in his arms, pressed his nose to hers in the first hongi, shared his godly breath with her, and she passed from inanimate to animate being.

  She opened her eyes and sneezed, ‘Tihei mauri ora!’

  Hineahuone’s role in the narrative was to become the mother of a beautiful daughter, Hine-tītama, Girl of the Dawn. After she gave birth, having served her function, Hineahuone disappeared from the story; I’ve often wondered what happened to her.

  Meantime humanity became Tānemahuta’s marvellous playthings. Just like the god, Uncle Aaron was granted immunity for anything he did with them too.

  It’s all related, this business of Talia, her mother Makareti and my dear cousin Georgina — and it all began with Georgina.

  At the time that her mother, Auntie Agnes, was hospitalised, I was fifteen and dux of my high school. On the recommendation of my headmaster, Mr Burns, I was awarded a fellowship to a prestigious Christchurch boarding college with an excellent upper school. When Mr Burns mentioned it to my father, he surprised me with his pride; Mum’s tears were heartfelt.

  The one desolating aspect was that I would have to say goodbye to Georgina. I arranged to meet her at the wild river in the hills behind the marae. She sensed my reluctance to leave her.

  ‘There’s nothing here for you, Isaac,’ she said. ‘You have to make your way through life with your brains.’

  Life was changing for Georgina too, and not for the better. ‘I have to leave school,’ she said. ‘With Mum in hospital, Auntie Hera says I have to look after Dad and the boys.’ Georgina was referring to her two younger brothers Ramon and William. ‘Auntie says it’s a waste for a girl to be educated anyway.’

  On my last day in the village, before departing for Christchurch, I went to say goodbye to Georgina — and to Aunt Agnes who had, in the interim, been released from hospital as they could do nothing further for her. Uncle Aaron met me at the door. ‘Don’t stay too long with your aunt, boy, you’ll tire her out. And Georgina has her work to do, so make your goodbyes quick.’

  I paid my respects to Aunt Agnes and held her hand for a moment. She was hooked to a machine that gave her regular bursts of oxygen. It was awful hearing her gasp for air. In between one inhalation and the next she motioned me closer. I thought that it was so she could give me a kiss of farewell. Instead she whispered in my ear.

  ‘Your uncle is looking at her.’

  Forgive me, but at the time I didn’t understand the import of what she was saying. The remark slipped past me. After all — and I’m not making excuses — I was already committed to catching a train to Christchurch. At Lyttelton Harbour, I was met by my housemaster, Mr Fox, and driven to the school where I was enrolled in accountancy, mathematics, English and history. When Mr Fox enquired what sports I might like to take up, I surprised him by asking about the pugilistic art of boxing. On his part, noting the way I was nervously flicking my cane, he joked that I should take fencing instruction. I decided to take both.

  By the time I settled into boarding school and my lessons, my whānau, the valley and Georgina were receding from my consciousness. I was surprised and pleased that my fellow students were of a Southern gentlemanly calibre and did not draw attention to my club foot. Indeed I was treated as an equal and, in academic competition, I soon proved to some of the Cantabrians’ finest sons that I was a force to be reckoned with. In boxing, while my balance was an impediment, my reach compensated. I also soon valued my fencing instruction when, during a school visit into the city, some callow youths set upon one of my classmates; my cane became my épée and I drove them off.

  Then, a month after I had arrived in Christchurch, Mum wrote to me that Aunt Agnes had died. Mr Fox gave me permission to telephone from the school office. ‘Should I come home for the tangi?’ I asked.

  ‘Agnes has already been buried,’ Mum answered.

  ‘What’s Georgina’s phone number? I’d like to call her and ask if she’s okay.’

  ‘Your uncle doesn’t have a telephone in the house anymore,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll let her know you asked after her. Things are going to change now for Georgina. She will have to be the mother of the family. She is in God’s hands.’

  Again, I suppose I should have read the signs but I didn’t. Forgive me but I was frankly enjoying my schooling — making fond friendships with future professors, judges and captains of industry that have proved their worth by being sustained throughout my adulthood. I didn’t even notice when my mother stopped giving me news of Georgina in her occasional letters.

  At the end of the year I sat the examination for university entrance and, having done that, prepared to go home. I said goodbye to a friend I had become particularly fond of — Anthony Walcott, whose parents had a large high-country estate inland of Timaru — and caught the train to Picton. That evening I crossed over the Cook Strait by ferry and, in Wellington, embarked on the long, tiring train trip to Gisborne.

  The train arrived in the early evening and my parents were waiting on the platform. Mum cried sentimental tears; in the past they would have stained my shoulders, but now they left wet patches just below the breast pocket of my school blazer. ‘Goodness,’ she laughed, ‘haven’t you grown, son!’ She prodded my body to discern my musculature and pointed out to Dad the signs I bore of surprising adolescent strength. But all he was concerned about was my elocution.

  ‘Is that how they talk down in Christchurch?’ he asked. ‘Like an Englishman? Now that you’re home, we’ll fix that.’

  After dinner, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see Georgina.

  ‘Isn’t it late?’ Mum asked, exchanging meaningful glances with Dad.

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I wrote to Georgina telling her I was arriving today. She’ll be expecting me and, if she isn’t, then I’ll be a surprise for her.’ While in Christchurch I had found a poster of the Hollywood film, Lorna Doone, just the right present for her romantic sensibilities.