I know all the people in our cemetery’s new part. In the old part, there are some names that don’t live in the valley any more — Smale, Sheffield (though Great-nana Lily was a Sheffield before she married Great-grandad Duncan). I guess people gradually get forgotten after they die. Grandad Robert says that’s one reason he’s writing his history, to save as many memories as possible. I suppose people will forget me when I’m dead, though that’s hard to believe. It’s even harder to believe I’ll ever die!

As I finally came across the bridge and back into our home paddock, I could hear loud voices. I sighed. My brother John was back and having another argument.

No, he wasn’t. He stood on the front verandah of our farmhouse, calling across the road to my father, who was helping Grandad Matiu prop up the branches of the peach trees they’ve planted beside the cottage. ‘Cup of tea, Dad! And Nana and Grandad, if they want.’

Grandad called out that they were just off to visit Nana Whina. They’re all helping Grandad Robert McDougall work on his history. (I think they like remembering the old stories together.) Dad said he’d be a minute. Have you noticed that for men ‘a minute’ usually means quarter of an hour?

John saw me, went ‘Hi, Shorty’. I usually get annoyed when he calls me that, but there’ve been too many rows in our family these past weeks, so I just said ‘Hi’.

‘Thought I’d better make sure you’ve got yourselves organised before you head off to be silly sods in Auckland,’ my big brother went next. Now my face started to get hot. We didn’t need smart comments from him. I opened my mouth to tell him so.

Mum spoke first. ‘Thanks, love. Dad says you’ll drop in and do the milking while we’re away. That’s great.’ She shot me a quick look, and I knew she was telling me to stay quiet. ‘Dad moved the cows down to the river paddock this morning, so there should be plenty of feed.’

John nodded. ‘Not a problem.’ He glanced at me and said ‘Look after your mum and dad and the others, OK?’ Suddenly, I realised he was worried about us. For a moment I felt nervous; then I felt glad he trusted me — sort of.

‘I will,’ I told him. ‘Thanks for coming.’

John shrugged. ‘No big deal. Gotta go, Mum. Can I take a couple of scones with me?’ Next minute, my mother had four buttered-and-jammed scones in a bag for him. He left just as Dad appeared: ‘a minute’ had meant only five minutes today.

‘OK?’ my father asked, as soon as he came in. Mum nodded. ‘OK.’ I glimpsed the relief on their faces. Yeah, must be hard for them to have their family split over the tour.