Unit 11.1 Introduction to Communication Topic 2: Short stories

Transcription

Unit 11.1 Introduction to Communication
Topic 2: Short stories
The short story is another way in which we can comment on the world around us and share
our experiences, feelings and thoughts. This Topic provides material for the reading, study
and understanding of short story texts. It includes:
• General notes on studying short stories – plot, setting, style, character, theme.
• Case study – In the Rubbish Tin by Apirana Taylor.
• A selection of short stories – Marylou and Fact or Fiction both by Joe Kanekane, We are
Tukes by Jack Lahui, Grandmother and the Mat by Mona Matepi Webb.
Introduction
A short story can be rewarding to read and study because it offers a lot of information and
insight into characters and issues that may interest or concern us, without using any
unnecessary information. It usually centres on a single main event, and one or two main
characters. The plot is organised to give the reader a sense of a single, completed experience.
Little time is spent introducing the setting or the character(s) – dialogue and conflict help move
events along swiftly. Use of language is often deliberately chosen to shape our view of events and
the character’s reaction; this often challenges the reader’s values and beliefs.
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The range of styles,
approaches and
techniques
encountered will
stimulateand influence
your own writing skills.
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The range of form and
content makes it
extremely likely you will
find short stories
that appeal to you.
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Advantages of
short story studies
Short stories can be used to show
aspects of a culture. Reading them
is a good way of developing a
deeper appreciation and
understanding of the attitudes,
issues and concerns of
Papua New Guinea’s past
and present.
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Their brevity means you
can read a range of
them with relative ease
to select ones that
you enjoy and are
interested in studying.
There is a wide range of
collections of short stories available.
They are published
in author collections and
anthologies selected on the
basis of subject, theme, type,
country and even style (eg
collection of humorous stories).
What is a short story?
Short stories share basic features and techniques with novels. However, there are also special
features and requirements particular to short stories.
One of the best attempts to define the short story was made early in its history. Edgar Allan Poe,
one of the great practitioners of the form (his stories are worth looking at if you enjoy tales of
the supernatural), wrote in the 1840s that a short story was:
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• A ‘short prose narrative’.
• Able to be read in a single sitting (between a half and two hours according to Mr Poe).
• Aimed at a ‘single effect’ created by carefully selected and strictly necessary details.
This definition has provided the basis for later development and extension.
Short stories vary in length from one printed page to a size that blurs with the short novel or
novella. Poe’s definition generally holds true however – a short story should be able to be read
at one sitting.
Although there are no hard and fast rules on how short a short story is, the issue of length is
at the centre of all distinctions between short stories and novels. It influences decisions in two
crucial respects:
• What effects the writer hopes to achieve.
• What elements/incidents are chosen to achieve the desired effects.
Features of a short story
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Consider all of the following aspects when you analyse and respond to a short story, but a
short story need not include them all. Writers often focus on one or two of the features and
may ignore others altogether. Identifying the main features of a story will help you respond
intelligently to it.
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Plot
Typically, the plot of a short story only contains a few condensed incidents, neatly woven
together, giving significance to everything that happens or is described. Often, the beginning
of the story dictates the emphasis of the plot, focusing the reader’s attention on the issue
immediately. Often, there is a central conflict or an obstacle that the main character has to deal
with leading to the climax or moment of truth near the end, with very little time being given to
denouement or resolution. Alternatively, the story may have an unresolved climax, after which
the reader is left not knowing what will become of the character. Tension is achieved by using
descriptive and emotive words to show stress or conflict within a character, between characters,
or as part of the background.
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Unit 11.1 Activity 2A: Plot
Using two texts you have studied, answer the following questions:
1. What is the basic situation described in the story?
2. What is the focus of the story at the beginning? How does it end?
3. Is there any clear relationship between the beginning and the end?
Setting
A short story is usually set in one place, and for a brief period of time. The setting is rarely
described in detail, nor is it generally of any particular significance; however, it can provide
an important backdrop in terms of social values and environment, shaping both character and
theme. Where there are details of time and place, they are carefully selected to provide the
maximum effect. Often a non-specific era in terms of time and location helps to make the story
more universal, suggesting it could happen anywhere, or at any time.
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Unit 11.1 Activity 2B: Setting
1. Where is the short story set? Consider location, time (era), country and culture.
2. What impact does the setting have on the plot, character and themes in the story?
Character
Character development is often limited to one or two main characters. This narrow focus
increases the intensity of the short story. It is often difficult to study minor characters in a short
story, as very little information is given – consequently they do not ‘stand out’ by themselves.
Often the main character (the protagonist) has to learn a lesson, so they can grow and work
through issues and challenges. Relationships between the main character and minor characters
provide insight to themes.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2C: Character
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1. What personal qualities, behaviour and attitudes are shown by the main character(s)?
2. How are these qualities shown? Consider dialogue, thoughts, actions, reactions.
3. How does the main character change from the beginning to the end of the story?
4. Do we understand the character better at the end?
5. How does the author want us to react to the character? Consider emotions such as
sympathy/anger/admiration/disgust…
Theme
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Short stories tend to have one or two main themes (messages or ideas which express the writer’s
view of some aspect of life). The theme of a short story is usually stated only in the most general
terms; it may be hinted at subtly through repetition of certain words or phrases, or through the
title. With such intense writing and examination of character, a short story usually has a theme.
The theme can relate to the main issue or challenge faced by the main character or the social
setting of the story. Length is no barrier to the weight of the ideas considered. Short stories
provide an excellent medium for the illustration and discussion of big themes.
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Unit 11.1 Activity 2D: Theme
1. What idea, problem, experience or social issue does the story illustrate?
2. How do the different relationships shown in the story and the way characters behave and
treat each other help to suggest themes?
Style
Put simply, style is ‘the way something is written’. An author’s style may be formal or informal,
clear or unclear, simple or complex, sharp or dull, depending on the words chosen and the way
in which the words and sentences are put together. The words used and the care taken to put
them together creates a complete package for the reader. The way a character is presented is very
important; the words they say, the language used to describe them, and how the plot unfolds,
are all elements of style. The tone of a short story influences the way the reader feels about the
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subject matter or the characters. Symbols are used to illustrate an idea without using too many
words. All these elements contribute to the writing style used by the author.
Words commonly used to describe style
biased
elegant
illogical
ornate
sentimental
colloquial
emotive
impartial
passionate
succinct
convoluted
formal
informal
realistic
technical
descriptive
formulaic
melodramatic
reasonable
unique
dull
fresh
morbid
repetitive
whimsical
Unit 11.1 Activity 2E: Style
Using two texts you have studied, answer the following:
1. To identify the author’s style, find examples of repeated sentence structures, unusual/
interesting vocabulary and figures of speech.
2. What does the style add to how we see the character(s)?
3. Identify and explain any symbols or significant objects in the story.
4. Choose ten of the boxed style words (use a dictionary if necessary) and write a definition
of each.
5. Choose three of the styles from the box above and write a sentence or two using that style.
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Mood
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Mood or atmosphere is particularly important in many short stories. The setting (the time and
place, the physical environment) helps create the mood (the feeling, the atmosphere).
Writers choose elements (events, setting, characters) and style (sentence construction, word
connotations, imagery, etc) to conjure up many different moods (eg apprehension and menace,
childhood innocence, comic anticipation), or any other variation that suits their purpose. One
key task in understanding – and enjoying – a short story will be recognising the relationship
between the mood created and the writer’s purpose.
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Purpose
Why did the writer choose to write on this particular subject in this particular way? Most – if
not all – writers seek to entertain their readers. They may also have a variety of other purposes –
to instruct, amuse, frighten, to make us see things in a different way, etc.
Types of short story
Short stories are a flexible form of writing. Some distinctive types of short story can be
identified, but many short stories cannot be clearly categorised. Many short story writers use
combinations of these forms. The following broad categories will help the reader understand the
form and purpose of short stories.
‘Slice-of-life’ short stories
‘Slice-of-life’ short stories deal with events from everyday life in a limited time frame. The focus
of these stories is narrow and often domestically based. ‘Slice-of-life’ stories sometimes seem
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without plot, where small and trivial incidents are related without obvious pattern – but when
these incidents are combined they create an impact or effect through mood. The endings of
‘slice-of-life’ stories are often inconclusive, leaving the reader to make up their mind about what
the story means and what ‘really’ happened or might have happened.
Narrative action stories
Narrative action stories often deal with unusual, exciting, or supernatural events. They are
often written to entertain rather than to make the reader think deeply about issues and/or
relationships. The ending is satisfying, drawing the events to a natural and logical conclusion.
Narrative action stories sometimes use a ‘twist in the tale’ ending. These types of conclusions are
always surprising and sometimes shocking. The writer will have dropped clues to this ending
throughout the story, so that even though the reader is surprised, the ending still makes sense.
True-to-life stories
These resemble narrative action stories in form, but have a more realistic content. These stories
build up solid and realistic pictures of ‘real’ characters who are facing some sort of crisis or
important decision. A strong theme is an important feature of these stories.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2F: Types of short story
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Using texts you have studied, decide what type of short story they are, based on the three
types of short story above.
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How to analyse a short story
The first step for all methods used to analyse a short story is to read the story carefully and
thoughtfully (preferably more than once). That does not mean to read it so clinically and
ponderously that you spoil your enjoyment of it. It means concentrate on reading it – picture the
scenes, ‘hear’ the sounds, ‘smell’ the smells, absorb the atmosphere. Set a time and a place aside
specifically to read and you might be pleasantly surprised at just how much will be revealed.
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Having read the story you need to begin organising your impressions of it. The methods that
follow are suggestions – modify them to suit your needs.
Note-taking method
This method is thorough. It provides a structure you can use to compile detailed and uniform
notes on a variety of short stories.
Analysis categories
Plot, Character, Themes, Purpose, etc are broad starting-point categories for analysis. They are
not fixed. Adapt the categories to fit the aspects you wish to focus on in your analysis of short
stories.
Title
Titles are never chosen at random. They may provide very useful tips to plot, character, theme,
writer’s attitude, etc. Do not overlook or dismiss them.
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Beginning
Because a short story depends upon selection of material, there is limited space to build
background detail and seize the reader’s interest. Both responsibilities fall upon the opening
paragraphs of the story. Look carefully at how they achieve their purpose.
Middle
Short stories are lean and mean. They cannot afford to have ‘flabby’ middles. Examine how
writers select incidents, dialogue, statements and all other elements to have the most relevance
and impact.
End
Note if and how matters are resolved. Many short stories end very abruptly once their climax
has been reached. Whether or not you find the ending satisfying – and the reason for your
response – is a crucial element in analysis of the whole story.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2G: Analysing a short story – note-taking method
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Make notes based on a close reading of your short stories, and fill in a grid, as shown below,
for each story.
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Story one
Title:
Title:
Author:
Author:
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Plot
• Main events.
• Structure – chronological/climax/key
moment.
• Ending – twist/complete/incomplete.
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Setting
• Where?
• When?
• Importance to story.
Main character(s)
• Profile – appearance, personality,
values, actions, etc.
• How do they relate to other
characters?
• How are they shown? Description,
dialogue, actions, setting.
• Credibility?
Story two
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Themes
• What messages/ideas do the stories
convey?
• How are the themes shown? Through
action, characters, authorial voice/
point of view?
• Are the themes obvious or implied?
Mood
• What is the atmosphere of the story?
• How does the writer achieve the
mood/atmosphere?
Style
• What point of view has been used in
the stories?
• What language features are used –
imagery, symbols, figurative language?
• How formal is the language used?
• What use has been made of dialogue?
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Case Study – In the Rubbish Tin by Apirana Taylor
Apirana Taylor’s short story In the Rubbish Tin is a chilling story tracing the relationship of three
family members struggling to survive in a world full of problems.
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Unit 11.1 Activity 2H: Pre-reading – In the Rubbish Tin
Before reading the story In the Rubbish Tin by Apirana Taylor, consider the following questions:
1. What three things are essential for our survival as human beings?
2. What difficulties do parents face when bringing up a child?
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Keep your answers to Activity 2H in mind as you read In the Rubbish Tin.
In the Rubbish Tin by Apirana Taylor
Phillipa’s Dad was away. Mum had gone to town and forgotten to lock Phillipa in the house.
Phillipa opened the front door and sat on the front step as she talked to Chubby.
‘Don’t you forget Chubby, we got to be good ‘cause today’s my birthday,’ said Phillipa, ‘and
don’t you say it’s not.
‘Oh, it is so, Chubby. I’m…’ She held up her hand and counted her fingers. ‘I’m that old. I’m
one two three fivety-two. It’s my birthday. Mum’s getting me a bike.
‘She is so, Chubby. Don’t argue. You’re just a stupid rag doll.’ She leaned over and punched
Chubby in the eye. ‘There, Chubby. That’s what you get. Just like what Dad does.’
Then she gathered yellow flower petals and pulled up bits of chewed chewing-gum off the
pavement which she wrapped in old lolly paper. She added some tar, some grass and then,
walking up and down the pavement, she searched for and found three shiny stones. All these
things she arranged in piles on a plastic plate.
Feeding Chubby was a new thing. Mum did not always feed Phillipa every day and it was
not until Phillipa had been in the Home and seen big people feed little people three times a
day that she learned to feed Chubby every day.
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‘One for me. One for you. Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.’ She loved
this song but did not like the Home where she learnt it.
By buying less food, Ruth managed to get into town at least three times a week. Once off
the bus she walked up the street. She did not stop to look in shop windows. She knew where
she was going. She was in a hurry. ‘Bastard,’ she cursed as she waited at the intersection till
the lights signalled her to cross.
Once in the pub, after the third beer, she put fifty cents in the juke-box and selected three
songs. When the music started she walked up to the bar and ordered a Southern Comfort. It
was early and she was the only person on this side of the bar. She drank quickly and ordered
another. Later, not long after Lionel walked in, she went over to him.
‘Okay,’ he said, ’but remember next time they’re five dollars each.’ She held her hand out
beneath the table and he placed three pills in it.
The pills she swallowed, and the Southern Comforts, eased her into a calm and peaceful world.
The music sounded better. Shona and Cheryl walked in the door. She called out to them.
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As the day darkened into night people strolled into the bar alone, or in twos and threes. The
girls stood together around a table. Ruth bought two more pills and swallowed one. She put
the other in her pocket.
The three of them laughed and smiled as they held each other and danced to the juke-box
music. Ruth danced slower than the others and she was out of beat. Outside it began to rain.
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The rain was not in a hurry. It came in low over the city. It was not here to stay. Raindrops fell
here and there and then the rain got thick and it rained everywhere. A drop splashed off the
side of a building and then another and another until street by street the city was soaked in rain.
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‘Rain,’ called Phillipa as she cupped her hand and held it up to the sky. She watched a
raindrop fall and splash in her palm. ‘Twinkle twinkle baby rain, how I wonder what you are.’
‘C’mon Chubby,’ she called. ‘Let’s play in the rain.’ She held Chubby in her arms. She looked up at
the sky. She darted and weaved and tried to dodge each raindrop as it fell. ‘Tra la la la,’ she sang.
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‘Who gives a *** about the rain,’ laughed Ruth.
Mingled with laughter and slurred talk of the pub crowd, the music from the juke-box
floated up and drifted with curls of cigarette smoke that rose up into a blue cloud just above
the heads of the drinkers in the bar.
Work had finished. The construction-site workers had been in the pub for an hour. They liked
to drink as much as they could and always tried to do as little work as possible. Half the pub
was full of these: chippies, steelies and labourers. They’d pulled up five tables around which
thirty of them stood drinking. The girls had joined them.
‘Rained off,’ said Mac. ‘About time to… hey Henry, who’s that one?’
‘Oh, that’s Ruth. Stay away from her mate, her husband Rolf is bad news.’
Mac was sure Ruth had winked at him. He watched her walk out of the bar and go into the ladies’.
‘Who’s that bloke sitting opposite me, Cheryl?’ asked Ruth.
‘Oh, he’s new on the job,’ came the reply. ‘Anyway, you’re married. You know what Rolf…’
‘Rolf’s gone, and bugger him. There’s no harm in talking… Shit, listen to the rain. It’s pissing down.’
‘C’mon Ruth, let’s not spend all day in the loo. Let’s get back to the bar.’
The wind slammed the door shut so hard it locked and Phillipa could not get back into her
flat. She pressed herself up against the door and tried to take cover beneath the eaves but
the wind swept the rain into her face.
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‘Mr Chubby, what are we going to do? Yes that’s a good idea, Chubby. We’ll get in our
hidey-place. It never rains in there.’
Once inside the empty rubbish tin she pulled the lid down and sat in darkness. Inside the tin
it was dry. She listened to the thrum of raindrops on the lid.
‘Ha ha, Chubby. Nobody knows we’re here. All the world’s a castle. I’m a fairy princess and
you’re a magic bear.’
A lady in the Home read her a story about a magic princess and magic bear and now she
and Chubby chased the magic ball of gold which, when caught, turned into a flying horse
upon upon which they flew away to a city made of diamonds.
‘Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are. What are you little star? Little star,’
she sang. ‘Little star. Up above the world so high. What are you?’
The rubbish tin, though emptied the day before, stank of rotten spaghetti and cat-shit but
Phillipa and Chubby landed atop the tower of the castle of roses whose bricks were made of
cinnamon bread.
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She did not know what cinnamon bread was, but she was sure it was nice. All shiny like the
new painted Home which she did not like because Mum and Dad had not been there.
‘It’s the brat’s birthday,’ said Ruth. A few moments later she added, ‘I never got her a
present. We can’t afford them.’ She swallowed the last pill.
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‘You’re selfish,’ said Shona. ‘I shouted double rums and you get us singles.’
First one eyelid, then the other, slipped down over Ruth’s eyes. It was a struggle to push
them up. The booze and pills slowed the working of her brain. It look a long time for Shona’s
words to filter through the particles of pill dust swirling about in the ocean of liquor that
circled and washed over the island of Ruth’s brain.Then the words had to sink down to the
sea bed before reaching a part of her mind that still worked properly.
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As the words sank, the pills and booze ate away at them so that by the time she received
them, though she heard the words clearly, their meaning had almost completely dissolved
in her. When the pills and booze had eaten the words, they returned to nibble away at her
brain. She only just understood what was said. Yet she was not sure what Shona referred to.
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A minute passed before she raised her head and placed her hand on Shona’s shoulder. She
tried to speak but no words came out of her. ‘Your shout,’ said Shona.
There was always an aching power burning in Rolf’s fists. There were moments when he was
gentle, but the viciousness in him was so powerful that it exploded out of him and he could
not control it.
In the back of the taxi he sat and from smouldering sullen eyes looked out on the world in the way
he almost always did. He kept his head down and looked up. The taxi driver waited for the lights to
turn green and then he eased his foot on to the accelerator and drove across the intersection.
In the pub Ruth was slumped over the table with her face in a puddle of spilt beer. She raised
her head and moved her mouth and then her head dropped back down on to the table.
In the cold, stinking rubbish bin Phillipa awoke. The flying horse was gone. ‘It stinks in here,
Chubby,’ she said. ‘I want to go home but the doors are locked and it’s still raining.
‘It’s my birthday. Mum’s got me a bike. Dad will come home ‘cause it’s my birthday and
when they’re both home we’ll have fish and chips like we always do.
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He Rau Aroha
‘My Dad is good. He is so, Chubby. Don’t argue.’ She leaned across and punched Chubby.
‘You know what Chubby, when we grow up you and me will be like Mum and Dad.’
It was near closing time. Cheryl and Shona leaned on the table to stop themselves from
falling over. Ruth was half slumped on the table and half curled around Mac who was the
first in the bar to meet Rolf that night. For one moment Mac was seated and the next he lay
on the floor and blood spurted from his head.
Then Rolf grabbed the hair at the back of Ruth’s neck. He wrenched it and held it in more
than a vice-like grip. He dragged her out of the bar and around to the back of the pub.
‘No,’ said Cheryl as she reached across and grabbed Shona. ‘Leave them. As it is he’ll just
kick her around a bit, but if you interfere he’ll kill her.’
Phillipa was stuck in the rubbish tin. The rain was still falling. She pushed up on the lid. It
would not move. ‘Help,’ she called. But no one could hear her. Because of the rain.
Apirana Taylor
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Plot and climax
The story examines the fragmented pieces of a dysfunctional family, dealing with each member
separately, as they have no contact with each other during the day.
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The climax of the story is when Rolf enters the pub and assaults his wife. Her friend’s words
offer no comfort to the reader. This tension is closely followed by the problem of the trapped
child. This is a story that ends without resolution and we are left wondering what will become
of mother and child.
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Unit 11.1 Activity 2I: Plot – In the Rubbish Tin
1. Piece together each character’s activities for the morning, afternoon and evening (the
beginning, middle and end of the story) to get a complete picture of the family.
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Structure
Phillipa
a.
Beginning
Morning
Middle
Afternoon
It starts to rain,
the door slams
shut – Phillipa is
locked out. She
climbs into the
rubbish tin for
shelter.
d.
End
Evening
Ruth
Rolf
Ruth walks into
town to the
pub. She buys
pills rather than
food.
b.
c.
Rolf has been
away all day.
e.
f.
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2. How does the author manage to fit the pieces of the family puzzle together so that the story
makes sense?
3. Why is the story like a jigsaw puzzle?
4. What is the effect of leaving the family situation unresolved at the end?
Setting
This is a universal story that could take place in a neighbourhood anywhere, at any time; only
the Maori language ‘He Rau Aroha’ confirms that it is set in New Zealand. We can assume that
Phillipa’s family struggles financially and that Ruth and Rolf are young parents who resent their
child. The Home is a welfare institution, not the house they live in; Ruth lives at the pub during
the day, Phillipa hides in the rubbish tin and Rolf ‘just isn’t around’. The title offers the most
significant setting – the rubbish tin.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2J: Setting – In the Rubbish Tin
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How does Phillipa’s background influence the way she sees the world?
Style
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Language
Apirana Taylor uses a direct, gritty style to show all three personalities of this family. Phillipa’s
language can be cute and realistic, “I’m one two three fivety-two”. Ruth, Phillipa’s mother,
swears and is very blunt when talking to her friends at the pub. The narrator’s voice is used to
give a careful description of the drugs Ruth takes ‘to escape’, suggesting contrast and conflict
within this character. Rolf doesn’t actually speak; however, his actions leave no doubt that he is
a violent man. This is reinforced by Henry, who says “Oh, that’s Ruth. Stay away from her mate,
her husband Rolf is bad news.”
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Symbols and images
The title of the story is very appropriate; it is not only the setting of Phillipa’s temporary shelter,
it is also a metaphor for how her family treat her like rubbish.
At first the rubbish tin appears to be a safe refuge for Phillipa; however, the realisation of the
dangerous consequences is evident when she cries for help. The contrast with the protection she
feels at first and the dream world she lives in is dramatic. ‘The rubbish tin, though emptied the
day before, stank of rotten spaghetti and cat-shit but Phillipa and Chubby landed atop the tower
of the castle of roses whose bricks were made of cinnamon bread.’ This metaphor has a final
ironic twist at the end. Physically, she is trapped by her own innocence; and metaphorically, she
is trapped in an adult conflict she may never escape, just like her parents.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2K: Style – In the Rubbish Tin
1. Find an example of Taylor’s style by quoting a sentence that reflects Ruth and Rolf’s
personality. Identify and explain the personal characteristic shown by their language.
An example for Philllipa follows.
Phillipa: “I’m that old. I’m one two three fivety-two.” Her language changes to imitate child
speak to show how young and innocent she is.
2. Identify and explain the metaphor used when describing the effects of drugs on Ruth.
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Character
Phillipa, the main character, is young and impressionable. This story shows the harm a lack of
communication and love can have on all family members. Phillipa is caught between the conflict
of her parents and is an innocent victim who is powerless to alter the outcome of events. The
characters during the story do not change; however, the focus is on relationships and how the
characters react to their problems. This narrow focus increases the intensity of the short story.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2L: Character – In the Rubbish Tin
1. The following diagram gives quotations relating to Phillipa. Copy and fill in the boxes by
answering these questions:
i. Who is speaking?
ii. What problem are they facing here?
iii. What is the impact of this problem on Phillipa?
a. “You know what Chubby,
when we grow up you and
me will be like Mum and
Dad”
b. “ ‘Help,’ she called. But
no one could hear her.
Because of the rain.”
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i. Speaker:
ii. Problem:
iii. Impact:
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Phillipa
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c. “ ‘Ha ha, Chubby. Nobody
knows we’re here. All the
world’s a castle. I’m a
fairy princess and you’re a
magic bear.’ ”
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i. Speaker:
ii. Problem:
iii. Impact:
i. Speaker:
ii. Problem:
iii. Impact:
d. “It’s my birthday. Mum’s
getting me a bike.”
i. Speaker:
ii. Problem:
iii. Impact:
e. “Mum did not always feed
Phillipa every day and it
was not until Phillipa had
been in the Home and
seen big people feed little
people three times a day
that she learned to feed
Chubby every day.”
i. Speaker:
ii. Problem:
iii. Impact:
2. Produce a similar diagram for both Ruth and Rolf. Select at least three quotations from the
text.
3. Describe how the relationship these family members have is determined by their individual
weaknesses.
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Themes
The themes in the story directly relate to each character’s problems and the way they cope. From
reading the story carefully and examining the characters and language, the following themes can
be identified – dreams, responsibility, power, role models.
Dreams
Phillipa uses her imagination to disguise the truth. While in the rubbish tin she creates a
dream world where she is loved, safe and secure. “I’m a fairy princess and you’re a magic bear.”
Although it is natural for a young girl to enjoy fairytales and to have an active imagination,
Phillipa uses these ideas to escape her reality of neglect and rejection. It is unlikely there will ever
be a happy ending for her. Dreams give her hope and comfort to survive the present situation.
Responsibility
Ruth ignores her responsibilities as a parent. On Phillipa’s birthday, she only thinks of herself and
how she can escape the reality that she is dissatisfied with. Instead of fairytales she has drugs.
“When the pills and booze had eaten the words, they returned to nibble away at her brain.”
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Power
Rolf not only has physical power but emotional power over others to draw them to him or push
them away. He manipulates his family through force.
A
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Phillipa is powerless and innocent, she is the victim of her parents’ inability to resolve their
conflict and take responsibility for their lives. Ruth has lost her power because of drugs and her
violent relationship with Rolf.
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Role models
Phillipa is young and impressionable. The only adult behaviour Phillipa usually sees is from
her parents. “My dad is good. He is so Chubby. Don’t argue. She leaned across and punched
Chubby.” Phillipa is learning social behaviour from her parents and is too young to know any
different. Contrast is shown when she goes to the Home and learns that people eat three times
a day, but even though she is hungry, Phillipa can only make play food out of rubbish to feed
herself. Unfortunately, she is powerless to change her situation and is confused by the routines
of the Home.
SA
Unit 11.1 Activity 2M: Themes – In the Rubbish Tin
1. Dreams
Why are dreams important to these characters?
2. Responsibilities
a. What future can there be for Phillipa?
b. Does the story suggest that parenting is a natural or a learned skill?
3. Power
a. Who is in control of this family situation?
b. Who is to blame? Explain.
4. Role models
How significant are role models to young children? Explain.
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Model question and answer
Question
Describe the main idea or purpose in In the Rubbish Tin.
Explain why the idea or purpose helps you to remember the text.
Annotated model answer
Introduction states
purpose – effect of
relationships
The main idea of the short story ‘In the Rubbish Tin’ by Apirana
Taylor is the impact an abusive family relationship can have on a child,
Phillipa. Taylor deals with the concepts of responsibility and power in
relation to the abuse.
P – point is made.
D – development of
the point.
R – reference to the
text.
The idea of the effect of abuse on a child is shown through Ruth
ignoring her responsibilities as a parent. On Phillipa’s birthday she
only thinks of herself and how she can use drink and drugs to escape
the harsh reality of her life. “The booze and pills slowed the working
of her brain.” This idea helped me remember the text as I realised that
abuse can result from ignoring a child and not putting the child first.
Last sentence
responds to the text
and the question.
A
P
E
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Conclusion restates
the central idea and
answers the question
clearly.
SA
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The story also explores the idea of how power works in abusive
relationships. Rolf has physical and emotional power over others.
He uses this force to manipulate his family. We see this control when
he hits Mac for talking to Ruth in the bar. Phillipa is powerless and
innocent, she is a victim of her parents’ abusive relationship.
I remember this text because of this idea. It has helped me understand
how power can be used negatively and the devastating impact it can
have on family members.
This short story looks at the nature of relationships as a main idea.
The idea helped me remember the text as Taylor explores negative
aspects of relationships which can destroy people.
Unit 11.1 Activity 2N: Writing about texts
Use In the Rubbish Tin to write another answer text for this question. Base your writing on the
annotated model answer.
Describe an important individual or character in the text. Paragraph 1: Select a character central to
the action and discuss their personality and attitudes in depth. Describe the character in detail.
Paragraph 2: Explain why this character is important. Explain how they change or how their
relationships with others are challenged or how they cope with an issue and what you learnt
from this example.
When writing answers about texts you will be expected to use correct grammar. In Topic 1:
Poetry you learnt some facts about sentences. Here is some more information for you to use.
The parts of sentences have to agree with one another in time and number.
The subject and the verb must agree in time and number:
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Time agreement
• Yesterday, I yelled at the dog when he dig in the garden.
The time is indicated by ‘yesterday’, which is in the past, so the past tense verb dug must
be used.
Number agreement
• The mangoes on my tree tastes so sweet.
To correct this sentence, you must identify the subject. Ask: what tastes? The answer is mangoes.
But mangoes are plural and there should be no ‘s’ on taste. The error has arisen because the
writer was influenced by the closer noun ‘tree’. Other words separating the noun and verb can
distract the writer and lead to mistakes.
• The students who are in the same class reads the same novel.
Find the verb (read) and ask who or what does that: students read.
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A selection of short stories
Marylou by Joe Kanekane
Marylou was born prematurely, at 7.30 p.m. on a Monday evening. She had arrived earlier
than expected, so the doctor had put her into the incubator. Although I was worried, I
couldn’t help feeling happy and excited about the birth of our first child. I had a smile on my
face from ear to ear as I arrived at the hospital.
L
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A
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Hazel and I had been married for six years before Marylou was finally born. I was now losing
my hair, so Marylou’s birth was a great joy to me. At the hospital I met the doctor.
‘Hello Paul. Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. But you’re late. You should have
come to see the birth.’
‘I know doctor. I’m sorry I missed it, but Marylou surprised us all.’
SA
‘Yes, she certainly arrived early. We’ll keep her at the hospital for a while, until she gets stronger.’
I felt disappointed with this news. I was looking forward to taking Marylou home and taking
on the role of father to my new daughter.
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I walked into the maternity wing of the hospital and looked for Hazel. Her bed was located
in the new wing. Hazel looked tired and weak. I sat on the bed and we both smiled at each
other. I gave her hand a squeeze. I could tell she was worried and I wanted to ease her pain.
‘Don’t worry Hazel. Marylou will be fine,’ I whispered. ‘You get some rest.’
My mother had arrived from the village to take charge of her new grand-daughter. She
already had seven, so she was well experienced.
For the next week I was in a merry mood, smiling to everyone at work and singing at every
opportunity. Hazel and the baby were still at the hospital, and mum was staying with me
at the house. Every evening I went to the hospital. I couldn’t wait for Marylou to gain her
strength so that I could at last hold her in my arms.
As usual, on Friday night I went to the hospital. Doctor Vince was waiting to speak to me.
‘Paul. Can I have a word with you please. It’s about Marylou. The baby is having breathing
problems. It’s because her lungs were not properly developed when she was born. She’ll
have to stay in hospital for another two weeks at least. You’ll have to be patient for a bit
longer.’ I felt the tears filling my eyes, but I knew I had to be brave. I nodded to him and
went into the ward to see Hazel.
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‘Did the doctor tell you about Marylou? I want to take her home, but the doctor says no.’
‘I know. We’ll just have to be patient.’
A
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E
We walked out of the hospital together. It seemed so strange to be leaving without the baby.
Hazel was stronger than me when it came to controlling her feelings. She didn’t seem to
be that worried about Marylou. It was just her way of handling the problem. Perhaps she
thought if she stayed happy then the baby would be all right. I was worried sick, every
minute of the day.
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The days turned to weeks and eventually to months. It was now three months since
Marylou’s birth and she wasn’t getting any stronger. She was still in the incubator. I visited
her three times a day. I consulted a private doctor to get a second opinion, but there was
nothing they could do.
SA
Finally, I took two weeks leave without pay, to attend to our daughter. Hazel and I spent all
our time at the hospital. My mother was there as well. On the Friday night, as I looked at
Marylou, lying in the incubator, I knew I had to pick her up. I asked the nurse if I could hold
my daughter. She gently picked her up and gave her to me.
Marylou felt as light as a feather. This was my first time to hold my daughter. I gazed into her
little face and she gazed back. I’m sure she knew it was me and she gave me a smile. Then
she closed her eyes. The nurse put her back in the incubator.
When I got back to the ward, Hazel was resting so I decided to go home and get some food
for us. An hour later, I returned to the hospital. Hazel and my mother were both sitting on
the bed holding hands and quietly sobbing. They couldn’t speak.
The doctor saw me and came over.
‘Marylou passed away as soon as you left the hospital.’
‘No, it can’t be,’ I told myself. It must be a mistake. Marylou was still alive. It must be
another baby that had died. I went into the nursery to look in the incubator. She was still
lying there. She looked asleep. I held onto her tiny hand. It was cold. I kept hoping she
would open her eyes and give me another smile. But I knew she was gone.
‘Why Marylou? Why did you wait all this time to give me a smile and then leave me?’ I
whispered.
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A hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was Doctor Vince. He moved his head to give me the
message to follow him. We walked out of the nursery. A moment later, a trolley covered with
a white sheet came past us on the way to the morgue. It was my little princess, Marylou.
The next day, Hazel and I went to the village to bury Marylou. I went to the cemetery and
chose a spot. We buried her at three-thirty in the afternoon. I planted a bougainvillea bush
on her grave.
Two days later, we went back to the city. As I walked into the house, Cindy our spotted cat
came and rubbed her body against me. I lifted her up and gave her a pat. She had lost weight.
Signs of Marylou were everywhere. Clothes, nappies, and baby powder were unopened.
Everything was still new. Marylou was gone for good. Hazel and I had to get on with life.
Marylou made us realise that life’s journey is not an easy one. Marylou will always have a
place in our hearts.
Joe Kanekane
Fact or fiction by Joe Kanekane
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Back in 1995, a strange tale hit the streets of Port Moresby. There was a rumour that a
strange character was making mysterious appearances in the small hours of the morning, in
front of innocent motorists and taxi drivers. Harry was one of the city’s taxi drivers, but he
was doubtful that he would ever confront the mysterious figure.
A
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‘If I see it with my own eyes, then I will believe it. Otherwise, I’ll continue to think that it’s
just a stupid story that a few idiots are spreading about town.’
However, one Friday night in the month of April, something happened to make him change
his mind.
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He received a radio message asking one of the drivers to pick up some passengers opposite
the Port Moresby general hospital. Since he was dropping off another passenger within the
vicinity of the hospital he drove to the location.
‘I’m going that way. I’ll attend to it,’ he responded to the radio operator.
SA
It was payday and he knew that a lot of people would be requiring the services of taxi
drivers. He knew he could make more money than usual, if he was prompt in attending to
the calls.
From the street lights, he was able to see the two passengers standing at the spot where the
operator had described. He slowed the car down and stopped near the two passengers. He
could see that one was a young woman and the other a man. They were both dressed in
disco clothes.
‘Get in the car. Where are you two going?’ he asked. The two passengers got in the car, but
didn’t answer his question. He fastened his seat belt and started the car.
He looked into the rear vision mirror to get a glimpse of the two passengers but it was
impossible to see them clearly. He started driving down the dimly lit street. He did, however,
notice a strong smell of perfume. It was a familiar smell.
‘Er,’ he cleared his throat.
‘Are we going to town or should I turn to Boroko?’ he asked, as they approached the three
mile traffic lights.
The two passengers remained silent. All they did was sit in the car, and stare straight ahead.
Feeling frustrated, Harry stopped the car at the PNG Motors driveway and tried to get out of
the taxi. He was feeling very uneasy.
He tried to open the driver’s door. He pushed and punched with all his might but the door
remained shut. He turned around to look at his passengers. To his surprise he found there
44
was no one there. He reached over to the door at the back and tried to open it. The door
was locked.
He then climbed into the back seat to open the other door, but that was also locked.
His heart beat increased in tempo as he reached over to the radio to call for help. To his
surprise, he noticed that the radio was dead and not a single sound came out of it.
While he was assessing the situation, he suddenly noticed someone in the driver’s seat. The
car was starting to move.
In the passenger seat, he noticed another figure. He tried reaching over to touch the driver
but discovered he was unable to move. It was almost as if he wasn’t there! He tried calling
out, but no sound came from his mouth.
The other cars driving alongside didn’t appear to notice anything strange going on.
He observed the speedometer rising from 100 km an hour to 180 km an hour. Harry now
felt himself losing control of his emotions. He felt the panic rising up through his body as his
heart beat increased and his mouth became extremely dry. He felt that he couldn’t breathe.
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Eventually, the car slowed down to a more respectable speed, and almost came to a stop in
front of a large metal fence. The driver turned his head and Harry got a glimpse of his face.
Harry just about died from shock.
The face of the driver was familiar, but it had a look of decay about it. It was as if the bones
were visible through the skin. In fact, Harry realised that he could see straight through the
face. It was the most horrific sight that he had ever seen in his life.
A
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E
He turned to look out of the window in order to avoid the face. The other passenger looked
at him and smiled. Again, it was a familiar face. The face looked at him intently, and for a
moment Harry felt a strange sadness creeping over his body. But he couldn’t understand
why. He closed his eyes, as he struggled to regain his sanity. He told himself he was having a
bad dream. Then, he heard voices of people enjoying themselves, as if they were at a party.
He could hear music in the background.
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SA
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He tried to wake himself up from his dream. He didn’t like this feeling of confusion.
Eventually, his mind started to wander as he continued on his dreaming journey. He must
have then fallen into a deep sleep, because the dreaming stopped.
The next morning, when Harry woke up, he found himself at the Bomana war cemetery. He
had no idea how he got there or what he was doing there.
When he got home, his house was in chaos. All his relatives were there, crying and sobbing.
His wife informed him that his sister and her husband were killed the previous night in a
traffic accident and their bodies were now in the city morgue.
Rushing to the morgue, he asked to see the bodies of his sister and her husband. He wanted
to check for himself that they were really dead. He froze at the sight of their bodies in the
morgue. He experienced the same strange sad feeling he had experienced the night before,
when the woman passenger had turned to look at him.
The morgue attendant handed him a bilum. It had been retrieved from his sister’s body.
He looked inside the bilum and spotted a bottle of perfume. He opened the bottle. He
immediately recognised it as the same smell from the night before.
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The memories came flooding back. Had he travelled into the spirit world, the night before?
Was that his sister and her husband in the car? Why had he gone to the Bomana war
cemetery? Or was it all just a silly dream?
Joe Kanekane
A
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We are Tukes by Jack Lahui
It was not very often that the Tukes drank beer. Karoho and Kokoro had little money
to spare. Since the formation of the band two years before, they had had only two
opportunities for drinks.
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Even then the drinks were provided by friends. The first was during an end-of-the-season
village-league social and the second was during the birthday party for a girl who claimed
to have turned twenty-one. For reasons unknown to Kokoro, she was a girl Karoho fancied
from a distance. So the drinking was an excuse for Karoho to get within talking distance. But
nothing resulted from that initiative.
SA
Karoho, sitting on his bed in the dark of his bedroom, thought and thought. The problem
was getting the carton of beer through the living room without raising Baru’s suspicions.
He realised the great odds, with so many relatives seated in the outer room, in particular his
brother Pune and his uncle Vagi. Their immediate view was none other than the entrance to
his own room. And there was the more risky problem of the ever-pressing milling relatives
inside, outside and down on the landing. One way was to wait until the crowd had eased
a bit, but then that might mean keeping to his room until it was too late. Karoho gradually
grew tired of sitting and letting time pass, so he rose and opened the door. He had to talk to
Kokoro and tell him his plan.
The layout of the Baru residence was such that Karoho’s room formed one wing. The only
windows were on the eastern side. They were the push-out type without mesh. There was an
immediate drop from the window of about seven feet to the sand below.
Karoho found Kokoro and gave his instructions. ‘I will return to my room while you loiter
and bide time hereabouts near the landing. I will find an old rice bag, place the carton in it,
tie it to a rope and lower the bag down to you. You know what I mean?’ Karoho gave a low
whistle, to be used as a signal and, when Kokoro had no more questions, he assumed it was
‘all systems go’.
After finding a rice bag, Karoho entered his room and set to work silently pushing the carton
into it. That done, he pierced the two top ends and inserted a rolled end of his bed sheet, and
46
then bent out the window to study the movement of the crowds below. All seemed well, so
he sounded the low whistle. Moments later, Kokoro silently materialised out of the dark and
stood directly below the window, straining his eyes upward as Karoho spoke. ‘Ready, Tukes?’
‘Yes, I’m ready. You?’
‘Here it comes. Nurse it good,’ said Karoho.
Kokoro received the carton and quickly undid the end of the sheet, and then made for the
darker area away from the glare of the Coleman lamps. In a moment, he became one and
the same with the street crowd.
Karoho found Kokoro in the open street some twenty minutes later and the two left in the
direction of the unfenced school beach-front, some hundred metres short of the boundary
to the old village cemetery. Both were in a good mood for talking. They passed through
the village primary-school yard in silence. ‘You didn’t think we’d make it, did you?’ asked
Karoho, to break the silence.
‘We could’ve done this hours ago,’ said Kokoro.
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‘But? You were the hardest person to find this afternoon, and why did you have to fight?’
‘Ha! ha! ha! Tukes,’ Karoho laughed. ‘I needed exercise.’
‘Say, what was that fight over?’
‘I don’t know exactly. All I know is that Merabo’s sister, Kaia, was trying to humbug with our
nakimi Morea but Lucy found her out.’
A
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‘My word, that’s not right, Tukes. Morea is now married to our sister Lucy. What does Kaia
want anyway?’
‘Yes, shame on her. What do they all want? My main reason was to give Merabo a good
knockout,’ Karoho said bitterly, and he demonstrated with a balled right fist and melodious
laugh.
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From accounts of the fight, Karoho had not got a chance to even touch Merabo, although
his vicious heckling was of such intensity it would have tired any man of average build. It
was unfortunate for Karoho that the intervening man was none other than the solidly built
eighteen-stone Kohu Gaudi of Gunina clan. Karoho was dwarfed by the Goliath Kohu. Kohu
felt the need for peace, so held Karoho in an armlock until the worst of the struggling was
over, and then he led him home.
SA
Karoho and Kokoro reached the beach-front and found a grassy spot beside a beached canoe.
Kokoro unfurled the top of the carton, revealing a neat row of bottles. He reached for one and
tried to open it with his teeth. He had it open with little effort, and passed it to Karoho while
he collected another for himself. Then he held his own towards Karoho in the manner of a
good toast. ‘Very good cheers to you my Tukes bro,’ cracked the enlivened Kokoro.
‘Cheers to you, Tuke. Good luck to you my bro forever,’ toasted Karoho in return.
‘Merry Christmas to you, which is one month away,’ replied Kokoro.
They started to drink noisily and voraciously. Their day-long thirst made it easy for them to
go through their first bottle. They then had their second. After drinking two bottles each,
the earlier quiet of their settling-in now gave way to noise. Kokoro was narrowing in on the
subject of genealogies and family ties. Now it was Karoho’s turn.
‘You see, Tukes, my father is Baru Mataio. You know, he’s a deacon, very important. He’s one
of the powers in the village. He’s also one of the family heads in our Botai number-one clan
of Porebada. My grandfather was known as Mataio Vaburi and my great-grandfather was
also called Baru, but his other name was Karoho, my namesake. He was Baru the Terrible,
47
and for that they gave him the name Karoho. My great-aunt was Kone Baru, who, my
mother told me, married your great-grandfather Kauna Gau or somebody by that name, and
he begat your grandfather who in turn begat your mother Manoka.’
‘Very clever, my bro,’ Kokoro said, surprised.
‘Yes, Tukes. So what I mean is that you are really my brother properly.’
‘Momokani, Tuke! You are sure that is the way we were born?’
‘Honest.’
‘But I did not know.’
‘Didn’t you ask your mother or father?’
‘Put it here, my brother. We are brothers.’
They shook hands.
‘No wonder my father came to your house once for the dava kara hebouna many months
ago. I do remember that, Tuke. But today they just paid the bride price, eh? Tuke, you are
very lucky and rich.’
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‘You think so? But no. No. I think you are wrong. I think my father Baru is wrong in calling
many relatives and friends. I know tomorrow they will come and collect everything, the toeas
and moni. I fear I may not get the bus I marked.’ said Karoho sadly.
The mention of a bus sounded most interesting to Kokoro. ‘A bus, hey? Like the one we
climbed into some moons ago? That was a long, long time ago. Somebody has probably
bought it finish.’
A
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E
‘Then I will get another. If Father does not get it, I’m going to get it some way. You know that.’
‘No, Tukes. It’s all right for small cars, but buses, they are like houses. You cannot easily hide
them in bushes. By the way, you ought to be thinking of finding a partner rather than a bus.’
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‘A partner? Definitely not. I’m still a boy. I’m only twenty now. I know one thing, though.
When you marry, you become a slave to Woman. I’ve seen it. I’m not joking.’
‘But, Tuke, what I’m saying is that you will eventually get married. You must get ready while
you have some money. And, of course, when you are ready, tell me so that we can make a
muramura to hook her very quickly,’ said Kokoro, boastfully.
SA
‘Ah ha, I don’t think I’ll need any help in that. I’ve got a plan. As soon as I’m ready, I will tell
Bubu Virobo to let me try the most powerful muramura she has!’
With that Karoho reached for his third bottle and passed one over to Kokoro.
‘This is a very beautiful night for animase, honestly. Very quiet, and not a sound coming
this way. But keep your voice down. This is a schoolyard. We should have brought the other
carton too.’
‘Shut up. Leave it for tomorrow, Tukes,’ Kokoro said as he reached for a fourth beer. He
was trying to get the note for the start of a song. He started singing the song the two had
composed for their band, the Tukes of Porebada.
Ihareha ogogami. Emai orea
binai. Mai hemaraimi ida
anemu, a lolo isimu Tukes.
The song ran into a second stanza with a slight variation, which went:
Tukes of Pore, lalo namo,
hetura dainai,
48
Emai orea binai mai mainomai
ida anemu, a lolo isimu Tukes.
The last stanza was an extended version of the second stanza, worded as follows:
Tukes memero of Porebada,
ihareha, ogogami,
Emai orea binai, mai lalo namo
ida a anemu,
a lolo isimu tuke
A lolo isumu hosana!
Mr Taravatu Bodibo, the deputy headmaster of Porebada Primary School, heard singing
from his study in his staff residence while finishing off Monday’s lessons. Mr Bodibo had just
completed the write-up and was preparing to retire for the night. He usually remained in
the school over weekends. It was his fashion to ensure that no strangers were on the school
grounds. The headmaster often entrusted this duty to him when he himself went away. The
singing sounded too close to neglect. Mr Bodibo put out the Coleman and lit the storm
lamp. He took it into the bedroom where his family, his wife and two children, lay fast asleep.
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A
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Outside, the duo were repeating the last stanza. Bodibo, who had taught two years in
Porebada, knew the song well, but could not identify the singers. It was a very popular song,
one that village youths had on their lips everywhere they went. My Bodibo stood on his
verandah to accustom his eyes to the sudden darkness, and for some time tried to figure out
who owned the voices. When Karoho and Kokoro reached the finale, Mr Bodibo ascertained
the direction and the distance of the singers. Bodibo felt duty-bound to make the celebrants
establish their business.
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SA
He set off in the direction of the singing. The school area was cast in premoonrise darkness.
The heavens were star-cast and lit the way ahead. After some twenty metres, Mr Bodibo
noticed the flicker of a naked flame as a match was struck and held ready before a face. The
glowing embers of a lit cigarette appeared as the flame went out.
A voice shattered the silence with a shout of ‘Smaha!’ Mr Bodibo was now five metres away
and an audience for the dark forms ahead. There was an exchange by the Tukes, followed by
a clash of bottles. Mr Bodibo spoke: ‘Hey, dahaka . . .’
Karoho dropped the newly lit cigarette, turned and shot up as he saw the dark, wide figure
approaching, He made a hasty grab at the carton, but snatched only two bottles while
Kokoro shot up with a drink in his hand and went off, already in full flight.
‘What do you villagers think you are doing here disturbing the peace!’ shouted Bodibo
behind the disappearing forms.
‘Hey, you! You! You!’ Bodibo made as if in hot pursuit of the scurrying shadows, but then
felt something against his leg. He stopped and looked at the spot where the two had sat.
There was the carton! He bent low and looked inside. He saw the glowing yellowish tops
and the intactness of at least ten bottles of beer. As many as ten empty bottles were strewn
about carelessly. He collected the empties and tried to fill the carton but found it four short.
Bodibo carried the carton toward the main assembly ground. He could see from the village
the distant glare of as many as five pressure lamps. He felt a little frightened, even though he
had his earlier daring. He turned and carried the carton to his residence.
49
Karoho and Kokoro ran into the street at full speed, heavily panting from the strenuous
sprint. They settled down to recover but could not talk.
Karoho finally spoke. ‘Tukes, can you guess who that was?’
‘I dunno, could’ve been a vada tauna or an evil spirit. Remember the school is not far from
the old cemetery. Or it could’ve been the headmaster. Who knows? If it was the headmaster,
he would’ve carried a torch or something. I’m sure he was not an ordinary person. You
know, perhaps we were sitting above some old grave.’
‘The beer. Shall we return and collect it?’
‘I’m afraid, Tukes! I still feel my legs shivering. I don’t dare!’
‘We should have been more daring, like the way Homoka and Tara acted to Councillor
Nohokau.’ The old councillor was returning from his garden at Taurama and saw Homoka in
a coconut tree. It was a very hot day and the old man fancied a drink. He thought he’d chase
the youngsters away and help himself to what they’d gathered. Homoka, who was up in
the tree, saw the intention of the old man. By then he was near and was in a rage. Homoka
climbed down quickly to tell Tara of his observations. The whole thing did not happen the
way the old man expected. Homoka and Tara stayed put and drank as if the old man did not
exist. Councillor Hohokau pelted the two with all the merciless Motuan curses he could think
of, calling them thieves, crooks, trash and dogs. He emptied his mind and left, warning them
of the consequences of their stubbornness in later years.
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‘This is not funny. Whoever that was, a spirit, a vada tauna or the headmaster, is going to
have a good night with those beers.’
‘Forget it, Tukes. We mustn’t think too much about it. I have the last beer still in my room.
We must select a better place next time.’
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‘Oh, well,’ said Kokoro. ‘I managed to collect two bottles in our hasty retreat.’
The wide sandy windswept street of Porebada is one which experiences a peak traffic hour
between 7 p.m. and midnight. At weekends the traffic goes on into the late hours, especially
when the moon is full. It is then that the young people start to roam, sing and walk the full
length of the oval-shaped street. By midnight a few daring youths remain to keep the vigil.
After midnight the street is left to the ghosts and the dogs to patrol until the next sunrise.
SA
For this Saturday night, the normal pattern had been broken. There was some traffic of
late-night socialising from aivara makers in different parts of the village. With the shift of the
lahara into a mirigini from the Kokoro mountains, there were families taking full advantage of
the cool inland breeze. Karoho and Kokoro had finished their beer and found themselves in
the quiet mood of the village. They too rose and made for their separate houses. It was well
past midnight. The smell of Sunday was already in the late night air.
Jack Lahui
Grandmother and the mat by Mona Matepi Webb
She sat cross-legged on the bare concrete floor, her slight frame bent over the pandanus mat
she had been weaving for the past hour. Her aged fingers moved with practised ease along
the fresh row of criss-crossing pandanus strips, the right thumb pressing the pandanus down
as the index finger of the left hand swept up a handful of pandanus strips with lightning
speed.
The room was sparsely furnished: a little table stood in one corner. On top of it was a wellworn Bible. The binding had come off at one stage; it was now held in place with row upon
row of sellotape. Beside the table was a single bed. The kapok mattress that had once been
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on it was now replaced by a new spring mattress. A mat similar to the one the old woman
was making covered the floor on that side of the room.
In the still of the afternoon, only the rhythmic clip-clipping of the pandanus strips could be
heard in the old house. While her fingers weaved intricate designs on the border of the mat,
the woman’s mind wandered as she reminisced of her youth gone past.
The only daughter of a family of six, she was the favourite of both parents. She was also the
envy of the girls in the tapere for she never had to tramp inland to weed in the taro patches.
Not once did she have to wade knee-deep in mud to get mamio for the family meal. She
was one of the lucky ones. The loving yet strict upbringing by her parents prevented her
from partaking in the village gatherings of the mapu. Her beauty attracted many suitors, but
all were to no avail. Only the best would be considered for the hand of Tetonga’s daughter in
marriage.
Pre-marriage courting was frowned upon in those days. If a man desired a woman, it was
the correct procedure to approach the parents concerned for permission to marry. The old
woman smiled whimsically, as she recalled the first day her late husband had approached her
parents’ house. He brought with him an a’ai, which, he explained to her parents, was a gift
for their daughter, Makitae.
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During the days that followed, he paid regular visits to her parents’ house, always with
some kind of offering in the form of food such as pork or chicken cooked and still hot
from the umu, a kit of mamio and an a’ai, for he was a reputed fisherman. The old woman
shifted slightly to ease the cramp in her legs. She sighed and muttered, ‘Yes, he was a great
fisherman’, and with that her thoughts lapsed again into the past.
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It was about a month after he had first brought the fish for her that her mother had allowed
her to speak with her benefactor. But only for a short while. Out of all the mapu in the
village, he was the only one that had awakened her interest, and the following day her
mother told her of the forthcoming marriage to him. There would be a lot of work involved
and much feasting. She remembered her mother’s words before the wedding.
SA
‘E ine, we have watched over and protected you for twenty-five years. You have been a good
daughter, but now it is time for you to leave us. Tomorrow you will have a new parent. He is
a good man, he is strong, he is clever. A lot of the village girls would give their right hand to
be in your position, for you are a lucky girl. You must not disgrace us, you must be a good
wife for him: cook his meals and keep him clean, for that is the duty of the wife.’
Then the obedient answer — ‘Ae, e Ma.’
She remembered being carried on the pa’ata from the church to her new home, her
husband’s home. A fleeting smile stole across her lips as she recalled the speech her father
gave at the wedding feast that followed. He had addressed her husband — ‘E unounga,
akonoia tau tamaine, are i topapurumu!’ The old woman chuckled at the memory. Her
wizened eyes cast a saddened look around the room. Within these walls were imprisoned the
memories of her youth and a happy marriage.
‘Now I am on my own, Nga is gone.’ She did not realise that she had spoken out loud.
‘E Ma! E Ma!’ The voice of her youngest grandchild floated into the room. He was calling to
her from outside. The old woman chuckled again.
‘Tera tamaiti, e Pa, do you remember our son at that age? Aue, teia mai!’
The grandson toddler leapt into her arms, tangling himself in the strips of pandanus on the
unfinished mat.
‘Why do you sit in here making those stupid mats, Grandmother?’ he demanded in his
childish voice. ‘My mummy bought a new mat today, it’s made of plastic and it’s easy to
51
clean! Come and see it, Grandma!’ He tugged at the old woman’s arm. But she shook her
grey head at him, smiling in her gentle way.
‘No, my child, I have seen the new plastic mat; but this,’ she held up a roll of the dried and
flattened pandanus leaves, ‘toou arikiriki teia, the pandanus is your mat, the plastic one is
imported. Now, you look at this mat,’ she patted the one she’d just been weaving. ‘Your
grandfather was born on a mat like this one, and his father before him. Even your father was
born on a mat like this. It is one thing you can hold and say it is truly yours. But the plastic?
No, that is the papa’a mat. Not yours, not the Maoris’.’ She fingered the stripped pandanus
leaves lovingly. ‘This has been here since the beginning of time and here it will remain and be
known.’ Then she looked into the puzzled eyes of her mokopuna and dropped a light kiss on
his forehead. ‘Run outside and play, child. Someday I will tell you the meaning of the mat.’
As the grandson ran off, the woman returned to her reminiscings, her old gnarled fingers
once again busy, weaving.
Mona Matepi Webb
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Unit 11.1 Introduction to Communication Topic 2: Short stories

Transcription

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