We turned down another street. The crowd grew thicker as we walked. I glimpsed a line of blue along one footpath. Police, in helmets and plastic face-visors, standing with hands behind backs, watching everyone who passed. From their belts hung batons nearly as long as my arm. I’d heard about those from the TV news; they were for jabbing people in the ribs if they didn’t move, whacking their hands and heads if a fight started. I decided I’d stay very polite, like Grandad Matiu had told me. There were about twelve police, plus some clowns and a bumble-bee.

Bumble-bee? I gaped. A girl, about eighteen or nineteen, wearing a striped black-and-yellow costume. She stood at one end of the police line, hands behind her back, too, a serious expression on her face, just like the police. She saw me staring, and winked.

The policeman next to her glanced down, made like he’d just noticed her, snapped to attention, and threw her a salute. The bumble-bee girl put two black-and-yellow arms around his waist and snuggled up. The crowd laughed; some clapped. I felt myself relax.

‘Good, eh?’ The throng of people had brought us to a stop, and Robbie was beside me. Suddenly I felt pleased I’d worn my new jeans. I mumbled something.

‘The main march is gonna come past here,’ Finola announced. ‘How about we wait and join it then?’ We leaned against a brick front wall, while others poured by. A couple of hundred metres away, at the end of the road, square shapes gleamed in the low winter sun. The steel rubbish skips, as big as garden sheds. Barbed wire lay coiled in front of them. Police and guys in white coats were checking tickets before they let anyone through.

‘See that?’ Robbie pointed at the next wall along. A garden gnome sat on it. No, a concrete frog, holding a sign. We eased through the crowd to read it: DON’T SIT ON THE FENCE. STOP THE TOUR.

We both laughed. ‘You been on any other marches?’ my something-cousin asked.

‘No, just this one. You?’

‘Went on one through town a couple of weeks back. Only about twenty of us. There was this woman on the footpath watching us — looked a bit like my mum. She called out “Stupid fools! You deserve a good kick!” So Dad went: “You mean like black people get in South Africa?”’

I laughed again. Then I realised Robbie had gone silent. A bunch of young guys with STAND UP FOR RUGBY badges on their jackets had stopped nearby. They’d been watching us as we’d laughed at the frog and its sign. Now one of them said something to his mates, and they started towards us. My stomach lurched. I felt my fists clench. Mum and Dad and the others were about twenty metres away. They hadn’t noticed.