They returned to the discussion of rates concessions, and Pearly gave it half his attention, yet all of significance he would recall if necessary. His mind had become trained in that way. His thoughts were more of the old, two-roomed building on the creek flat of the Purvis farm, which was next to that of his own family. Locals always called it the clay cottage; historians called its composition cob. It was built in the early 1860s and was one of the oldest rural buildings in the province. The rusted tin roof with its considerable overhang wasn’t original, but the limestone foundations, the yellow clay walls and the timber-frame door and windows certainly were. In the dry climate it had survived all that time despite the gaps in the eaves and above the lintel, which allowed the birds in to nest, and the subsidence of some of the large, mortarless blocks of the base. The floor remains were of pit-sawn totara and would have been a sophistication at the time.

Pearly was familiar with the touch of it, the worn, muted colours caught by a slanting sun, the hollowness it gave to their voices, the smell of it that was like no other place he knew. He and Richie had gone often with their parents to the Purvis farm and played in the cottage with the Purvis girls before a growing awareness of gender difference had brought unself-conscious interaction to an end. In their childhood the clay cottage was just an abandoned shack with streaks of birdshit on the walls, gaping windows, a small black stove with no lid, sacks of dog biscuits and a back-pack spray unit in the corner of the main room. In recent years it had been discovered by a generation hungry for a visible history: a wire fence had been erected around it to keep stock away, a plaque had been set up on a plinth of concrete, a Heritage New Zealand designation had been assigned, and a controversy begun as to whether re-roofing and other repairs were appropriate. An MA archaeology student from Canterbury University came and fossicked about in the ground nearby, hoping to find a midden.

The place was so naturalised within its surroundings that it had become a topographical feature. Mrs Ransumeen’s drive for park amenities would pass quickly, as a gust of wind passes, but the clay cottage would remain, surely.

When Pearly was alone again in his office, chair swivelled so that the broad view from the high window was before him, he rang his brother. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d be having a whale of a time at the sports?’

‘Nah, too much to do.’

‘So what’s this about the clay cottage?’

‘Some prick torched the place.’

‘How can you burn a clay house?’ said Pearly in disbelief.