When we arrived at Dulcie’s that night, she was waiting for us in the driveway. She yanked open the car door and pulled my grandmother from the car; ‘Oriwia, come, come. This is your grandson. This is Daniel.’ Her eyes took in every piece of me. She kept on talking as she hugged and kissed us and led us into the house. ‘Isn’t he just … isn’t he just It. His father’s height. His mother’s complexion. Dear Daphne … I can’t wait to hear. Daphne, the darling, the princess, and the gown … The cake … We did three tiers didn’t we? The bottom one, the biggest ever. It cut up into a hundred and twenty pieces, I remember that. Handed round. Everyone got a piece. Gave the middle tier to Dorothea, and the top one to Dad to take back to Auckland to Hermie and Kurt. Talk about “coals to Newcastle”, giving Dad wedding cake. But it couldn’t’ve been better, the cake or the decorating. Dad said he couldn’t’ve done better.’

Dulcie had cooked a wonderful roast dinner. Her husband, who came in just as Dulcie was taking the meat from the oven, was as reserved as Dulcie was talkative.

After dinner, Dulcie brought out the correspondence between Harry and his family that had taken place during his internment. The letters were fascinating. While we were there Oriwia copied the ‘flying star’ letter, which I reproduce here, without the little drawings of course.