unit 11.1 introduction to communication topic 2: short...

Unit 11.1 Introduction to CommunicationTopic 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.

IntroductionA 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.

There is a wide range ofcollections of short stories available.

They are publishedin author collections and

anthologies selected on thebasis of subject, theme, type,

country and even style (egcollection of humorous stories).

Short stories can be used to showaspects of a culture. Reading them

is a good way of developing adeeper appreciation and

understanding of the attitudes,issues and concerns of

Papua New Guinea’s pastand present.

Their brevity means youcan read a range of

them with relative easeto select ones thatyou enjoy and are

interested in studying.

The range of form andcontent makes it

extremely likely you will�nd short stories

that appeal to you.

The range of styles,approaches and

techniquesencountered will

stimulateand in�uenceyour own writing skills.

Advantages ofshort story studies

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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28 Unit 11.1 Introduction to Communication


• 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 storyConsider 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.

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.

Unit 11.1 Activity 2A: PlotUsing 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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29Topic 2: Short stories


Unit 11.1 Activity 2B: SettingUsing two texts you have studied, answer the following questions: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: CharacterUsing two texts you have studied, answer the following questions: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 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.

Unit 11.1 Activity 2D: ThemeUsing two texts you have studied, answer the following questions: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

colloquial

convoluted

descriptive

dull

elegant

emotive

formal

formulaic

fresh

illogical

impartial

informal

melodramatic

morbid

ornate

passionate

realistic

reasonable

repetitive

sentimental

succinct

technical

unique

whimsical

Unit 11.1 Activity 2E: StyleUsing 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.

MoodMood 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.

PurposeWhy 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 storyShort 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 storiesNarrative 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 storiesThese 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 storyUsing texts you have studied, decide what type of short story they are, based on the three types of short story above.

How to analyse a short storyThe 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.

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 methodThis method is thorough. It provides a structure you can use to compile detailed and uniform notes on a variety of short stories.

Analysis categoriesPlot, 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.

TitleTitles 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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BeginningBecause 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.

MiddleShort 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.

EndNote 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 Make notes based on a close reading of your short stories, and fill in a grid, as shown below, for each story.

Story oneTitle:

Author:

Story twoTitle:

Author:

Plot• Main events.• Structure – chronological/climax/key

moment.• Ending – twist/complete/incomplete.

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?

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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?

Case Study – In the Rubbish Tin by Apirana TaylorApirana 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.

Unit 11.1 Activity 2H: Pre-reading – In the Rubbish TinBefore 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?

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.

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.

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.

‘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.

‘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.

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.

‘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.

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.

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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Plot and climaxThe 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.

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.

Unit 11.1 Activity 2I: Plot – In the Rubbish Tin1. 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.

Structure Phillipa Ruth Rolf

Beginning

Morning

Middle

Afternoon

End

Evening

a. Ruth walks into town to the pub. She buys pills rather than food.

b.

It starts to rain, the door slams shut – Phillipa is locked out. She climbs into the rubbish tin for shelter.

c. Rolf has been away all day.

d. e. f.

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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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?

SettingThis 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 TinHow does Phillipa’s background influence the way she sees the world?

Style

LanguageApirana 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.”

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 Tin1. 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 Tin1. 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?

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.

i. Speaker:ii. Problem:iii. Impact:


b. “ ‘Help,’ she called. But no one could hear her. Because of the rain.”

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.’ ”

d. “It’s my birthday. Mum’s getting me a bike.”

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.”




a. “You know what Chubby, when we grow up you and me will be like Mum and Dad”

Phillipa

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ThemesThe 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.

DreamsPhillipa 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.

ResponsibilityRuth 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.”

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.

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.

Role modelsPhillipa 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.

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

QuestionDescribe 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.

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.

Conclusion restates the central idea and answers the question clearly.

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 textsUse 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.

A selection of short storiesMarylou 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.

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.’

‘Yes, she certainly arrived early. We’ll keep her at the hospital for a while, until she gets stronger.’

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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.

‘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.’

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.

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.

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

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.

‘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.

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.

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

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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.

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.

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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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.

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

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.

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.

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

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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.

‘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.’

‘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.

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.

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,

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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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.

‘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,

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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.

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.

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.

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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.

‘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.’

‘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.

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 well-worn 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.

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.

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.

‘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

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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...

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