There were more speeches, and Pania made some joke about how pleased she was not to hear any bagpipes this time; don’t ask me why. Then we all had lunch, and I tried to think of something cool to say to Melody.

So today, I headed for the bridge. Nobody was up at the cemetery. Nana and Mum have been working up there a lot, these past few weeks, tidying up the graves. Meg helped sometimes, which was pretty good — for her.

When I was in Year 6, our class did a history project on the cemetery. The very first people from our family, who came out from Scotland in the 1880s, are there, though it’s hard to read their names now. One of them, called Aggie (Aunt Maggie was named after her) went blind on the ship bringing them out. How could you live like that? The same way Aunt Maggie lived with her cancer, I guess. I wonder how those first people felt, coming halfway across the world to our valley? Wonder how I’ll feel if we’re the last ones to live here?

We’re thinking of moving because it’s got harder and harder to make a living from farming. People here have tried everything: alpacas, goats, deer. A few do OK: the market gardens that Melody’s Vietnamese grandparents started mean some jobs. But most places struggle. Mum and Dad tried turning Great-nana Beth’s farm cottage into a bed-and-breakfast, but not many people came. We’re too close to town, I suppose. Dad drives the school bus to earn a few extra bucks. Mum works part-time for a rural women’s welfare thing.

The river slid by beneath me, in its shingle bed. A truck crashed through our bridge into the water one time, nearly fifty years back. Great-grandad Alan and his friend Tipene got the driver out. They were real heroes for a while. Wish I could do something like that.

I had to hurry over the last part of the bridge. This car came onto the deck behind me — fast. A black one with tinted windows. It didn’t slow down when it saw me, so I ran the last few metres and swung myself up onto the rails at the side. I could just make out two guys inside as the car hooned past. I think they were laughing; I didn’t recognise them.

There’s some tricky people around Waimoana now. The ones on the new lifestyle blocks are friendly enough, even if they’re a bit snobby. But everyone knows there’s dope being grown in the bush away up at the head of the valley. Farmers or hunters find it sometimes. The cops send out choppers to search for it. I stared after the black car as it barrelled on around the corner. I thought about giving it the fingers, but decided not to. If we do leave the farm, I’d sooner leave it alive.