I heard Finola saying how there was barbed wire all around Eden Park, where the third test was going to be played, and rows of those huge steel rubbish skips were being lined up along some roads near the ground to stop anyone breaking through. Sounds like a war zone, I thought as I slid off to sleep. In some ways our little country was exactly that, as long as the tour lasted.

I felt churned-up at breakfast next morning. We’d brought eggs and stuff from the farm. (Real country people, eh?) ‘Big breakfast for a big day, love,’ Mum went as she and Nana Florence and Nana Whina cooked, and all eight of us somehow squeezed in around the table. But her face looked serious, and only a few people grinned.

‘All right, everyone,’ Grandad Matiu went when we’d finished eating. ‘We oldies have been talking about what we’re going to do. Everyone ready to hear their orders?’

We were going to leave the campground about ten o’clock. The game didn’t start until three, but Finola said the marchers would be forming up in their squads earlier. She’d meet us at a street a couple of kilometres away. ‘Best to park your cars where they’re safe,’ she told the others. I knew what she meant: after the game against Waikato was stopped by those protestors getting onto the field, some angry rugby fans smashed up cars that had STOP THE TOUR stickers.

We were going to march with the groups that didn’t intend to try and climb over fences or skips or anything. ‘We’ll only make the tour supporters angrier,’ Tipene said, and heads nodded. ‘Anyway,’ grinned Grandad Matiu, ‘it’s all I can do to climb over the stile at home these days.’ We’d do whatever the police told us to; stay polite. If any pro-tour people started an argument with us, we’d tell them how we all loved rugby (true!), but we wanted to show how we felt apartheid was wrong.

‘And I’ll tell them to be kind to an old bloke,’ went Mum. ‘Your father, I mean, Ailsa.’ Dad tried to look insulted.

We didn’t have any motorbike helmets, but we all wore thick jackets. ‘Even demonstrators can catch a cold,’ Nana Florence said.

Mum was undoing the gleaming silver bracelet from around her wrist. ‘Don’t want to lose this. Besides, if anyone grabs me, it could give a nasty cut.’ She looked across at me. ‘Here, Ailsa, love. You keep it in your pocket for me.’

Another hand reached out. Nana Whina held her glowing little pounamu bat. ‘Take this too, dear. They’ll both look after you. They’ll give you strength.’