though it was always so brief. I think they were a bit wary of us – they called us ‘the Australians’– but, nevertheless, I felt a sense of belonging that was . . . almost . . . tribal. Cousin Anne (my Auntie Polly’s daughter) would join us from time to time, and so would various neighbourhood chums. We’d take turns lying in the garden hammock, and playing vinyl records on Auntie Sally’s portable gramophone player. We all acquired the art of winding that contraption up via the handle on the side and, when the music began to sound a bit scratchy, we knew exactly how to replace the old needle. My cheeky older cousin Alistair teased me mercilessly, but I loved it because he was the closest thing to a brother I ever knew. Older boys, I decided, were really a lot of fun.
Sometimes we all travelled north to Kerikeri to stay with Auntie Edna and Uncle Robbie. Edna was a blousy, good-humoured, chain-smoking woman with leathery skin, dark curly hair and a voice like an automatic rifle. I remember her sitting outside in her apron, gathering up my sisters and me to help her shell the peas. Her husband Robbie was a salty, taciturn man who was rarely without his sweet-smelling pipe. Very patiently, he taught me to make wonderful shell boxes, using cigar boxes, sand, varnish and small, delicate shells we found at low tide. Every now and again he would take us fishing on his wooden launch. Out in the bay, my cousins and I would dive from the boat and pick up crayfish or lobsters – well, my big cousins would pick them up; I was too afraid to touch those spiny critters with such peculiar eyes. As the sun was setting, the grown-ups would build a fire on the beach to cook them. Lobster is still my favourite food, and not because it’s swish; it reminds me of the most idyllic times of my childhood.
At low tide we would gather in shallow water and ‘do the twist’ in the sand. When our feet met something shell-like, we’d bend down and pick up one of a variety of live ‘pippies’ (a bit like cockles), toss them in a bag, then steam them in a pot over the beach fire. Roaming around the Bay of Islands, even for those few days we had, was bliss; although such times were in sharp contrast to our normal life. They always reminded me of what we were missing out on, growing up in the Australian inland without frequent access to my benevolent aunts and uncles. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Sydney is a gorgeous, vibrant city that I appreciated more and more as I grew older – but early on I really envied my New Zealand cousins. They seemed to be happier and far more relaxed than we were.
In those days I never knew that I was of both European and Maori descent. I am proud that my great, great grandmother was a Maori woman but my family never mentioned it to me when I was young. Although, looking back, I had some rather brown aunts, which should have offered me a clue. Auntie Sally was my favourite. She never married and seemed to devote her life to caring for others. She lived with her mother until she died. I remember her as short and roundish, with wise, empathic brown eyes and badly fitting dentures that she nervously sucked in and out of position. As a young adult she had been a school teacher. She wore sensible skirts and blouses, and lace-up shoes and, throughout the day, would add layer upon layer of white face powder on her nose, forehead and cheeks (now I wonder whether she was consciously disguising her naturally dark complexion). But, most importantly, she was clucky, sweet and endlessly kind. In contrast to what I sensed from my parents, I knew she loved me unconditionally. Sitting at her tea table, wolfing down her thinly sliced bread and butter, her perfect scones and her springy date bread, I briefly felt the world was a safe place. Under her ample, benevolent wings, I could just be me.
Some children grow up feeling that it is unsafe to reveal their true selves. They come to understand that their job is to be what others
Sometimes we all travelled north to Kerikeri to stay with Auntie Edna and Uncle Robbie. Edna was a blousy, good-humoured, chain-smoking woman with leathery skin, dark curly hair and a voice like an automatic rifle. I remember her sitting outside in her apron, gathering up my sisters and me to help her shell the peas. Her husband Robbie was a salty, taciturn man who was rarely without his sweet-smelling pipe. Very patiently, he taught me to make wonderful shell boxes, using cigar boxes, sand, varnish and small, delicate shells we found at low tide. Every now and again he would take us fishing on his wooden launch. Out in the bay, my cousins and I would dive from the boat and pick up crayfish or lobsters – well, my big cousins would pick them up; I was too afraid to touch those spiny critters with such peculiar eyes. As the sun was setting, the grown-ups would build a fire on the beach to cook them. Lobster is still my favourite food, and not because it’s swish; it reminds me of the most idyllic times of my childhood.
At low tide we would gather in shallow water and ‘do the twist’ in the sand. When our feet met something shell-like, we’d bend down and pick up one of a variety of live ‘pippies’ (a bit like cockles), toss them in a bag, then steam them in a pot over the beach fire. Roaming around the Bay of Islands, even for those few days we had, was bliss; although such times were in sharp contrast to our normal life. They always reminded me of what we were missing out on, growing up in the Australian inland without frequent access to my benevolent aunts and uncles. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Sydney is a gorgeous, vibrant city that I appreciated more and more as I grew older – but early on I really envied my New Zealand cousins. They seemed to be happier and far more relaxed than we were.
In those days I never knew that I was of both European and Maori descent. I am proud that my great, great grandmother was a Maori woman but my family never mentioned it to me when I was young. Although, looking back, I had some rather brown aunts, which should have offered me a clue. Auntie Sally was my favourite. She never married and seemed to devote her life to caring for others. She lived with her mother until she died. I remember her as short and roundish, with wise, empathic brown eyes and badly fitting dentures that she nervously sucked in and out of position. As a young adult she had been a school teacher. She wore sensible skirts and blouses, and lace-up shoes and, throughout the day, would add layer upon layer of white face powder on her nose, forehead and cheeks (now I wonder whether she was consciously disguising her naturally dark complexion). But, most importantly, she was clucky, sweet and endlessly kind. In contrast to what I sensed from my parents, I knew she loved me unconditionally. Sitting at her tea table, wolfing down her thinly sliced bread and butter, her perfect scones and her springy date bread, I briefly felt the world was a safe place. Under her ample, benevolent wings, I could just be me.
Some children grow up feeling that it is unsafe to reveal their true selves. They come to understand that their job is to be what others
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