He’s sensible, too. When Whina and I and a couple of other girls asked if we could play rugby, and the rest of the boys laughed at us, Robert said ‘Why not? Whina can run faster than most of you blokes!’

Whina pretended not to hear what I’d just said. She opened the sugar-bag and began checking the plums. ‘There’s magpie poo on some. We’d better wash them in the river.’

‘Half for you, half for us,’ I went. ‘Mum and I will make jam.’ Whina nodded. ‘Us, too. Dad loves it.’

Whina’s father, Rawiri, has been Dad’s friend since they were kids. He brought over all sorts of plants and stuff to put on my father’s leg after he nearly cut it off (eugh!). Whina’s mum, Ahorangi, comes from the place where Nana Hahona’s people used to live, years and years ago, so everyone was really pleased when Rawiri and Ahorangi said they were getting married.

Nana Hahona gave her the beautiful little greenstone bat to wear. When Nana Aggie heard about Ahorangi wearing it (she couldn’t see it, of course, though she somehow notices almost everything), Dad says she smiled and said, ‘Yes, this is the time.’ Then she took off the silver bracelet that she’s worn forever, and gave it to Mum. I think that’s marvellous. I hope Whina and I will wear them some day.

We picked some more plums from the low branches of other trees, until the sugar-bag was just about full. A few more magpies told us off. We started out across the riverbed, carrying the bag between us. The stones were warm and smooth. The sun felt soft on my back.

I always felt a bit sad when I was on this part of the riverbed. Great-uncle Niall died here. He’d been going to see Nana Hahona at the pa, taking some food from him and Great-aunt Ngaio. That was before the bridge was finished, and people still had to ford the river. His horse came back a couple of hours later, without him. Mum and Dad found him lying peacefully beside the water; he’d had a heart attack.

Just about everyone from the pa and from other farms in the valley came to his funeral. The older Maori women had leaves around their heads, and they sang in voices that made my back shiver.

Great-uncle Niall’s horse that day was the grand-daughter of the one he took to the South African war. The one he meant to take, anyway. When he joined up with the mounted rifle company — the Rough Riders — he rode his big black Chieftain all the way down to Wellington. Chieftain was put in a corral with other horses, waiting to be loaded onto a troop ship.