Kirkpatrick Mariner. (Photo supplied)

Kirk Mariner was born in Masterton to Sāmoan immigrant parents. He’s seen a lot of New Zealand and its people over his 52 years and is recollecting stories from his life for his children and mokopuna. We’re sharing some of them on E-Tangata. Here’s one about a Pālagi woman from his childhood, whom he nicknamed Lady Muck.

My mother’s superpower was cooking. If she’d ever been on Master Chef, she would’ve won.

Mum had a way of replicating a recipe and making it taste better than the original. We loved it. She’d receive praise from all corners of the universe.

She also attracted offers of work for her culinary skills from all over the country and was asked to cook for all sorts of people.

One of her regular customers was this posh white woman who overapplied her makeup and was always dressed up. The woman, who I called Lady Muck, would give Mum a recipe from a magazine. Mum would then make it exactly like it looked in the picture.

Lady Muck would walk into our house without taking her shoes off. She always had this haughty look as she came into our kitchen. She spoke with a plummy accent and always demanded a receipt. Every time she collected her food, Lady Muck paid the exact amount, not a penny less or more. She’d also take the receipt, fold it neatly and place it in her purse alongside other receipts.

I didn’t like Lady Muck. She was so pretentious. And I never understood why Mum cooked for her.

Kirk and his mum Sita in the 1990s. (Photo supplied)

One time, Mum worked all night to finish an order. In the morning, there were plates of beautifully presented double-decker gourmet sandwiches laid out in the kitchen. Mum was exhausted.

Lady Muck turned up to collect the sandwiches with plastic trays. As usual, she demanded to see the receipt before paying Mum. She then folded it up and put it in her purse.

That same day, I was invited by a friend to attend a lunch at a church. Once the formalities were over, we made our way to the hall where trestle tables had been set up. They were covered by tablecloths, and underneath were all sorts of delicious goodies: hot and cold nibbles, savouries and sweets.

There was also a selection of gourmet sandwiches which looked exactly like the ones my mother had made, only they were on silver serving plates. These sandwiches, as well as the sausage rolls, disappeared quickly.

When I went to get a drink from the kitchen servery, I heard a couple of familiar voices coming from out the back of the kitchen.

I peered out the window and saw Lady Muck in an apron with a smoke in her mouth. Mrs Hope, one of Mum’s friends, was talking to her.

Mrs Hope: “Those sandwiches are going quickly.”

Lady Muck: “That’s good. I had my chef prepare them.”

Mrs Hope: “Your chef?”

Lady Muck: “Yes, my personal Master Chef.”

When I heard her comment, I accidentally dropped the glass in the sink. It made a loud sound which I took as my cue to leave. I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping by Mrs Hope and Lady Muck.

When I arrived home, Mum was making dinner.

Me: “Why do you do orders for Lady Muck? She thinks you’re her personal chef.”

Mum looked at me and laughed.

“It’s all good, son. Nothing is as it seems.”

I didn’t get it at first.

Kirk’s mother Sita Pepe Mariner in late 2000 at a church function. (Photo supplied)

The next day, after school, Mum was having a cup of tea with Mrs Hope. They were laughing. I tried to listen in, but Mum closed the door.

When Mrs Hope left, I asked Mum what she’d wanted. She told me that she’d come to thank her for the sandwiches. Mum wouldn’t say anything else and just smiled at me.

Mum continued to make sandwiches for Lady Muck until she passed away a few years later. When that happened, I reluctantly accompanied Mum to the funeral where I found out Mrs Hope and Lady Muck were cousins.

Mrs Hope told us a bit about Lady Muck’s life. She’d had a long history of mental health issues and a hard upbringing. Mrs Hope was grateful that her church family had helped look out for her. With the help of people like my mum, they’d created a support network around Lady Muck that provided some normality in her life. Some had even played along with the façade that Lady Muck had created, to minimise disruption and stress in her life.

Mrs Hope talked about how Lady Muck had a thing for receipts because she’d been accused of stealing when she was young and had been punished harshly. She also had an interest in the Victorian era which explained some of her quirks.

I learned a bit more about how Mrs Hope managed things and cared for her cousin. For instance, she’d give my mum money so she could buy ingredients for her cousin’s orders. The money Lady Muck paid to Mum would then be returned to Mrs Hope. Mrs Hope literally organised wraparound support for her cousin like a Whānau Ora provider would. It included a host of different people who’d do the lawn mowing, cleaning, cooking, and shopping.

When I heard all of this, I felt so stink. I’d been so judgmental and had no idea what this woman had been through. In fact, it didn’t even take the whole eulogy before I realised that I really needed to stop calling Mrs Hope’s cousin Lady Muck. It was disrespectful and harsh. I’d never bothered to ask anything real about her life, and I’d even been mad at Mum for being part of this amazing group of people who’d showed kindness to her and enabled her to live with dignity.

When the service finished, we went to the hall for a kai. A trestle table had been laid out with all of her favourite foods, including gourmet double-decker sandwiches.

As Mum liked to say, nothing is as it seems. That’s worth remembering. As is this line from Ephesians: “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as Christ God forgave you.”

Rest in love, Mrs Faith.

Ti’a Kirkpatrick Mariner is the son of migrant parents from Sāmoa. He was born in Masterton and grew up in New Plymouth and Auckland. He now lives in Whakātane with his wife Rawinia, near her hapū and their mokopuna.

E-Tangata, 2024