He had come three times.
After Dan and Augi had left, she rose slowly and walked around the back of the house, into a wind that had picked up — sharp and insistent. It tugged at her shawl, carried the smell of salt and seaweed, lifting sand into brief, stinging spirals. She kept walking, beyond the low stone wall, out to where the dunes rose unevenly and the sand whipped around her ankles.
She closed her eyes. She had played in this exact spot the year before she’d started school.
It had been her favourite place. Away from the grown-ups and their watchful eyes and, at times, distressing arguments. She had made worlds here — carefully constructed, entirely her own. She brought her dolls, planted grasses like gardens, stacked stones to form walls and boundaries. Tamati had cursed when he stubbed his toe on them, but Ngaire had only laughed and told him to leave the child be.
‘She’s got imagination,’ Ngaire had said.
But it hadn’t been imagination that day. It had been hot and sunny, and she’d known her mother Hope would be calling her in soon. But she’d stayed there anyway in that magical place, secure by the house, with the ever-changing sea and vista of people walking along the sand. It was her in-between place, her liminal place — close enough to the house to feel safe, far enough away to feel alone.
She could hear Ngaire singing in the kitchen — a Maori song, melodic and mournful. Her mother, Hope, had called her once or twice, but Kate had ignored her. She’d wait until Ngaire called, because that meant dinner was ready. When Hope called it usually meant something needed tidying, or that Kate was in trouble for something. Hope was more anxious, more needy, than Ngaire. And it was Ngaire who always had the last word.
Kate had been focused on her work, shifting sand back, stacking stones to hold it in place. She was building a small marae using twigs and flax leaves, just as Tamati had shown her — low structures like the houses of his people. She hummed along with Ngaire’s song as she worked.
Then she felt it. A prickling at the back of her neck.
She looked up and saw a man standing there, watching her.
‘Hello there.’
She jumped to her feet — not to run away. She usually knew the people who wandered down this far, and this man wasn’t familiar, but something in his voice hadn’t frightened her.
‘Hello,’ she’d said.
She’d wanted to ask who he was, but Ngaire had taught her manners, and so she waited. His American accent stirred her curiosity, though MacLeod’s Cove had its share of American visitors. Everyone knew about the Marine camp during the war. People still spoke of it. But none had ever come to her house.
He smiled, but his gaze lingered too long — as if he were searching her face for something he recognised.
‘You look busy.’
She glanced down. ‘I’m making a marae for my babies.’
‘A marae, eh?’ His voice softened. ‘That’s Maori, right?’
‘Yes. Maori.’ She frowned slightly as she crouched to adjust a leaf, brushing sand away from its base. ‘And this area here is where the manuhiri enter.’
‘Manuhiri?’ he repeated. ‘Who are they?’
‘Strangers.’ She looked up again. The sun was still high and bright enough to obscure his face, but she could see he was old — white hair, white beard — and dressed neatly in a proper suit. Only then did she notice the flowers in his hand. ‘It’s the Maori word for strangers,’ she added. ‘Strangers like you.’
‘Yes,’ he said after a long pause. ‘I guess I am.’ He spent time studying what she was doing. ‘And I take it you’re not a stranger.’
‘No,’ she said proudly, jumping up. ‘I’m tangata whenua. That’s what my grandfather says.’
‘And he is?’
‘Tamati.’
‘Ah yes.’
He took a seat on the bench which Tamati had made for Ngaire, and glanced at the house. ‘And your grandparents live in that house with you?’
She nodded. ‘But Grandad Tamati is upstairs in bed. He’s sick.’
There was silence during which she adjusted her toys, aware of how quiet he’d become, but not having the confidence to break the silence. That’s what grown-ups did. So she waited, but he was so quiet for so long that in the end she looked up at him. Adults usually talked a lot. But this one wasn’t saying anything. When she looked up at him, she realised his attention wasn’t on her at all.
He was staring towards the house. Towards the sound of Grandma Ngaire singing.
