‘What Chappy enjoyed most was to work alongside Paa, who he revered. I mean it Grandson. He loved Paa with all his heart. Grandmother Nunu, too, but she’d died by the time war started. They were the ones who had adopted Chappy, giving him a name and a new life. Remember I talked about Aki being your uncle by double adoption, the first adoption being when my sister and I became his siblings? The second adoption was when Aki’s grandparents made your grandfather their whāngai. It was a true adoption in the eyes of the people. Chappy became Paa and Nunu’s true son, to be treated equally with Dorothea and her brothers.’

While working alongside each other, whether it was in the gardens, eel trapping in the creek, or hauling and cutting wood, Paa would tell Chappy – and others within earshot – the news of the world. This was a retelling of the BBC news from London of the night before, which Paa tuned in to each evening on his battery radio. In those days the news was all about the war in Europe, though Oriwia said it didn’t tell it by half.

Though what I’ve written up in this chapter has taken just a few pages it was a whole day in the telling, because every so often my grandmother would remember a photograph or some item, go off to find them, and we’d peruse them together.

There was a faded newspaper photograph of Oriwia driving the horse and cart through the township. Underneath was the caption: ‘Maori woman with her cartload of vegetables.’ Another photograph shows her posing at her stand, a baby in one arm, a cabbage in the other. When I asked where Chappy was when the photo was taken, she told me he would never allow himself to be photographed in case it led to his deportation.

Other photographs were studio ones that I had seen before, of my grandmother and the little girls.

‘Look closely,’ Oriwia said. ‘If you want to know what Chappy looked like, have a good look at your mother and aunt. My little Japanese daughters.’ To please her I studied the photographs, though it was plain to see that neither of the girls took after their mother. They were small and delicate looking. Oriwia was big boned with a broad face and strong features. Her hair was thick and curly, her hands, clasped in front of her, were large and veiny.

‘I’ve often wondered,’ Oriwia said, ‘if anything would have turned out differently if my daughters had taken after me.’

She went on to tell me what had been happening to her friends at Krauss’s Bakery – which to my disappointment was taking us away from our present discussion and didn’t seem relevant. I wanted to get back to my grandfather and the khaki-coloured bike which, it seemed, had something to do with his disappearance.