Seeing her and Hahona made me think again of Ngaio. How strange to look at someone you have known for a long time, and suddenly see a different person. I shook my head. Time will tell.

I stood and untied Strawberry. The smell of fresh bread drifted from the house. Aggie, John and Hahona were laughing, while Hahona’s young man stood by, shy but proud. Magpies warbled from the bush; the world glittered in early morning sunlight.

I gazed around me, then lifted the brimming pail and set off towards the others. Someday I may search for those other treasures, I told myself. In the meantime, this will satisfy me.

DUNCAN 1918

My mother looked at me and smiled as I set out this morning. She does look, even though she can’t see me. Her eyes are blind, yet they seem to gaze into people. She lost her sight when she caught scarlet fever on the voyage from Scotland to New Zealand. (They came in a ship which had sails; can you imagine that?) She was just a girl then, and she learned to do everything without her sight: cook, sew, make her garden. My father, John, says she can somehow feel the colours in flowers with her fingers. She plants them always in perfect patterns.

Mother smiled at me even though I was in such a black mood. I had argued with my father last night. ‘You don’t need to go, Duncan, lad,’ he said. ‘The war will end soon; the Germans are on the run. There’s no need to be rash. Your mother would—’ He stopped himself.

I knew what he meant, even though Mother has never spoken to me about how she feels. But I heard my voice rising. ‘Other blokes from around here have gone. I don’t want to be a coward!’

We got louder. My young sister, Jess, sat and said nothing. It’s a rare thing for Jess to be silent; she and her friend Lily Sheffield have all sorts of strange ideas — learning to speak Maori, or women being in Parliament — and usually she’s all too ready to tell the world what she thinks. But last night, she stayed quiet.

Father and I were polite to each other at breakfast. He drove off in the truck, sitting straight like he always does, as if he were riding a horse. You see fewer horses in our district now. Thousands of the poor creatures have been shipped overseas to pull guns and wagons in the terrible battles of the Western Front. And a truck can do the work of six horses. I told Father so one time; said we had to look to the future. ‘A horse doesn’t get punctures, Duncan,’ he went. ‘It doesn’t run out of petrol.’ And then — then he went out and bought a truck to carry his flax and other goods.