Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kate appreciated Augi’s sensitivity. She knew Augi believed she needed time — time to absorb the fact that she had a different grandfather, and that this discovery meant she could now claim the house as hers.
But it wasn’t that. Ownership was only a word.
A legal conclusion. Useful, perhaps, but it didn’t change how she felt about her home, or her family.
Kate had lived in this house her whole life.
She didn’t need paperwork to tell her where she belonged.
Nor did she need Tamati’s blood in her veins to know he was, and always would be, her grandfather.
What she needed time to process was something else entirely.
Augi had said that John Kowalski had made at least two visits to MacLeod’s Cove. One during the war, when he was stationed there as a Marine, and a second, undocumented visit after the war — when Kate’s mother had been conceived in 1946.
But there had been a third visit.
Kate hadn’t said it aloud. Had barely dared to think it. But the certainty had settled in her bones with a calm that surprised her.
John Kowalski hadn’t come to MacLeod’s Cove twice.
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 Māori 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 Māori, right?’
‘Yes. Māori.’ 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 Māori 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.
Kate followed his gaze but couldn’t see her grandmother, only the open door and a flutter of a curtain.
Yet the expression on his face had changed.
It had tightened like her grandmother’s did sometimes when she’d seen something which had shocked her, like when she’d found Tamati collapsed on the floor.
But she couldn’t see any fear in this man’s eyes.
They were bright and his mouth was open as if he were about to call out. But he didn’t say anything.
She looked away. It seemed rude to look at him while his expression was so vulnerable, so private — and she didn’t like to be rude.
‘Who’s singing?’ he asked at last.
‘Grandma Ngaire.’
‘And does she sing often?’
‘All the time!’ laughed Kate. ‘Mum always says she’s too happy by far.’ Then her laughter faded as she thought of her mother’s less happy temperament.
‘Right,’ he said faintly. ‘Right,’ again, this time a little stronger. ‘And your mother? What’s her name?’
‘Hope.’
‘Hope. Hm, that’s my sister’s name.’
She turned to him with a smile. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes. I loved her very much. She died during the war.’
The war. Kate had heard so much about the war and it bored her. Why grown ups were so interested in something that happened in history, she didn’t know.
‘I guess…’ he said. She waited for him to continue. ‘That your mum wouldn’t know about the war.’
She shrugged, not understanding the question.
‘I mean… she must have been born, when, in 1946?’
Again she shrugged. She didn’t know what year her mum was born.
But at least she now understood the question.
‘Mum had her birthday last week. Grandma Ngaire put 20 candles on the cake!’ Kate laughed as she remembered her grandmother joining two cakes together to make a space big enough for the candles.
‘December 1946, then,’ confirmed the stranger. ‘Does she have blonde hair like you.’
‘Yes! How did you know?’
‘Just a guess.’
‘Grandpa Tamati teases us that we’re changelings because everyone else has dark hair.’ She frowned. She didn’t like to be teased. ‘But we’re not.’
‘Of course you’re not. There will be someone in your family with blonde hair because that’s how the science works.’
Kate was silent because she didn’t know what science was but she knew the man was trying to be kind. Suddenly Grandma Ngaire began singing a different song.
The stranger closed his eyes. ‘I think I know that song. It sounds sad. What’s it called?’
‘Pōkarekare Ana.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said in such a low voice that it seemed to merge with the wind and low roar of the sea.
Kate continued in silence, putting the finishing touches to the marae, retrieving the small carvings from her pocket, and placing them at the entrance. She sat back on her haunches and admired her efforts. She could feel his eyes on her and waited for him to express his admiration.
‘I think…’ he began slowly.
She turned with a smile ready to accept the compliment on her handiwork in creating a home for her babies. Adults always said nice things about her creations.
‘Someone once told me that the words of that song were about longing,’ he continued.
Her smile dropped and she shrugged. He was still thinking about the song.
‘That’s the chorus isn’t it?’ he added.
‘Yes,’ she said begrudgingly.
‘What are the words?’
She felt like she’d always known the words, and was proud of her Māori accent which Tamati had made sure was correct.
‘E hine e, hoki mai ra. Ka mate ahau, I te aroha e.’
She was right. He did look impressed. ‘You know your Māori. Clever girl.’
Kate looked back at her creation with a shrug. Everyone knew the words, so she didn’t feel clever. But it was kind of him to think so.
‘So what do the words mean?’ he asked.
She closed her eyes to make sure she got the translation right. It was only ever sung in Māori. ‘The chorus means: Oh girl return to me, I could die of love for you.’ She shrugged again. She didn’t like the words. They were silly. ‘I like the Māori better.’
He cleared his throat roughly and she turned to see him swipe his eyes with his sleeve. Must have been the sand — it could sting your eyes.
‘Grandma Ngaire sings that song a lot. Mum says it’s a love song and that Ngaire sings it for Tamati.’