By afternoon, Ela’s strength was low and she’d sleep for an hour or two. Oriwia would help Ela’s mother prepare a meal, the two of them all the time trading languages. Every few days, she’d purchase ingredients and bake biscuits, small or large cakes and ginger loaves for snacks and suppers to take to Ishy and Malia’s, or for when the sister and brother-in-law came to visit. In the weekends, she’d make scones, pikelets and fry bread.

‘I like it here,’ Oriwia said to her husband one day. ‘I could come more often, or stay longer. And you could come home during spring and summer.’

‘I have to return to my family and my father’s land,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful for the work I have here, but someone else can do it. A good garden and a small stand where people can drive in for vegetables …’

Those days are gone, Oriwia thought to herself, though she could see that Chappy needed to return. But what did it mean for herself, her tearoom, if they were to go back to working the land? Chappy drove off to work, and she was left questioning herself about what was more important – her husband’s health or his peace of mind? His health or his happiness? Her own peace of mind?

Most evenings, whether at the old house or at Ishy and Malia’s, began with card-playing but ended up late at night with singing and dancing – songs Māori and Maoli, learning these from one another. In all her life, Oriwia had never felt so free, so unburdened, and if it hadn’t been for thoughts of the grandchildren, Dorothea and the family, and for wondering how Marianne and Dulcie were managing, she could have extended her time in Hawai‘i.

Oriwia was not a real card enthusiast, though cards had been part of her upbringing. Whenever people came together, hands would be dealt and she would be obliged to join in. She could enjoy this for an hour or two, after which time she’d want to hand over to someone else so she could get back to the shop and read the weeklies. But reading was considered unsociable when people were together. Euchre and 500 were rowdy and funny in those days, just as they were now.

One night, they were singing a love song that compared love to flowers, carnations in particular, held close to the heart:

Putiputi kāneihana e

Māku koe e kato e

Mehemea ko koe

Taku tau pūmau

Piri rawa i tēnei uma e

After they’d been through it a few times, Aki, Oriwia and Chappy had everyone stand to learn the actions, before going on to another old favourite. It was in the middle of this next song that Chappy stopped singing, held carnations to his heart and said, ‘Flowers which smell lovely by the door.’