‘But we are coming into the story,’ he quipped. ‘Into their fiction!’ She bumped her hip against his and laughed. ‘And, boy, you really storied them tonight about Freemeade!’ he added.

  Over the years she had tried to interest him in reading fiction and poetry but he’d not taken to it, preferring to listen to her clever and gripping renditions of the stories and poems — and learning from them. ‘I want my squat Samoan feet anchored firmly in the earth,’ he’d once declared to her.

  As they undressed for bed, he caught the concern in her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much, dear,’ she said.

  ‘I only had three drinks tonight,’ he insisted.

  She slipped into bed and turned off her bedside lamp. He got in beside her. She turned around and kissed him. ‘Goodnight,’ she murmured.

  He couldn’t sleep: the heat and the dark were saturated with Bileen Griff. Wildly saturated. Throughout their marriage he’d never been unfaithful to Peleiupu, even though he’d often been sorely tempted. Bileen as ‘temptation’ was the most overwhelming he’d experienced. Now his sinful lust and covetousness — yes, that was his description — were overpowering, but he resisted and resisted.

  Arrival and Search

  They couldn’t sleep properly and were up and dressed and out on deck as dawn started radiating in a series of pale yellow waves across the sky and the entrance into what Iakopo told them was Waitemata Harbour. In their uncomfortable new clothes they watched the waves of light nosing back the darkness, expecting to see forests covering the headlands and hills, and long white clouds, the whole island. But there were no forests or clouds. ‘It is all grass,’ Maualuga remarked. An inane, innocent observation, Peleiupu thought, but as she concentrated on the landscape, she had to agree with her daughter.

  ‘New Zealand is meat and grass,’ Iakopo said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Tavita asked.

  ‘The palagi have turned the forests into grasslands …’

  ‘Paddocks,’ Maualuga interjected.

  ‘… and now have millions of cows and sheep and cattle feeding on the grass …’

  ‘And people feeding on the butter and mutton and beef and the wealth earned from those,’ Maualuga completed it. ‘I read that somewhere, Papa.’ Maualuga was, academically, the brightest of their children. She consumed knowledge and information in huge, sometimes frenzied gulps.

  Once through the heads, their ship slid neatly through an almost still sea that was luminous with dawn light. As the light intensified, it revealed Waiheke, Rangitoto and the other islands of the gulf. Peleiupu saw rivers of houses and buildings sweeping towards the centre of the magnificent city. Auckland. Larger even than she’d imagined. What a challenge! So much to learn and use …Her fears diminished.

  They emerged from the ship and Peleiupu sucked in the air of the new country; it hurt her lungs with its unfamiliar coolness and weight, and its taste of smoke from numerous chimneys and towers. They said goodbye to Father Tomasi at the top of the gangway. Then the purser escorted them down ahead of the other passengers, and took them through Customs and Immigration. The children and Tavita refused to look at the faces of those around them. The unsmiling officials were curt and formal and so pink, Peleiupu thought.

  They couldn’t see any Polynesians in the crowd that was roped off from them, but out of it, just in front of them, stepped a small bespectacled man in a neat black suit. ‘Mr Barker?’ he asked. When Tavita nodded the man shook his hand. ‘Welcome to Auckland and New Zealand, sir. I’m Matthew Service of your law firm Awrie and Service.’ Peleiupu recognised his name from their correspondence.

  After Tavita had introduced her and the children, a young blond man stepped forward and was introduced, by Mr Service, as Marcus Pierce, a junior partner in their firm. ‘We have a company car and a coach-taxi waiting,’ Mr Pierce said. ‘We’ve arranged for your luggage to be taken to those vehicles. You just need to identify your suitcases.’ Peleiupu asked Iakopo to go with Mr Pierce.

  As they followed Mr Service through the crowded sheds Maualuga whispered to Peleiupu, ‘Why are they staring at us?’

  ‘They’re not.’ But she was feeling it too. She glanced at Tavita and Lefatu and knew they were feeling the same way.

  Tavita and the girls got into the company car — a Studebaker — with Mr Service. Peleiupu insisted on accompanying Iakopo and Mr Pierce in one of the taxis. ‘I hope you had an enjoyable voyage,’ Mr Pierce said as they left the wharf area. She assured him they had — and marvelled that he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. ‘Mrs Barker, we’ve booked you into the Reynold Storm, the best hotel in Auckland,’ he informed them as they drove up Queen Street.

  She trembled, every pore and cell totally alert to the fabulous world they were entering, wanting to understand and absorb it all: the tall buildings walling each side of the street, clock towers and spires pointing at the sky; shop after shop, business after business, any kind you wanted to imagine and learn the latest business methods and ideas from; the unbelievable stream of traffic — trams, horse-drawn carriages and coaches, carts and cars — the newly mass-produced model T-fords; and footpaths alive with people sporting fedoras and cloches, furs and gloves. Though she’d read so much about that world out there, she could not now match the actual size and scope of it with what she’d read and imagined. And her ambitious heart and mind wanted to reach out and encompass it all, using it to shape her family’s future in its image …

  In front of the hotel, when Iakopo moved to unload their luggage, Mr Service told him to leave it to the hotel porters. ‘One thing you must learn early, sir, is when you pay for service let the service do their work!’ He grinned. ‘The hotel staff will see to it that your luggage is delivered to your quarters.’ With that he led them through the impressive marble and glass entrance, up a sea-green carpet that was so thick Peleiupu wanted to take off her shoes and walk barefoot but didn’t because she was suddenly aware — and was immediately uncomfortable — that they were being observed by the many people in the lobby. Her daughters pressed closer to her.

  They reached the massive front desk and the three male receptionists behind it. The most senior, a bald, stick-like man with large teeth, looked at Mr Service, who cleared his throat and said, ‘These are Mr and Mrs Barker and their children.’

  ‘Welcome, sir and madam, to our humble hotel,’ the receptionist declared. ‘Everything is ready. You’re on the top floor, in our Majestic Suite, our Waitemata Suite, and our Governor’s Suite. Your registration has all been completed by Mr Service. Just sign here, sir.’ Tavita signed. ‘Now I’ll escort you to your quarters, sir.’

  They tried to appear ‘calm and collected’ — Iakopo’s description, later — as they got into their first lift. The girls clutched Peleiupu’s hands behind her back. As the lift crunched upwards and sucked the solidity out of their bellies, Peleiupu swallowed her fear repeatedly and envied Tavita, who was again disguising his insecurity by talking confidently with Mr Service. We’re not going to fall … not going to fall …

  They kept pretending they were well used to such expensive surroundings as the man showed them around. Even in her reading, Peleiupu had not come across such wealth and splendid comfort. The children kept their hands pressed to their mouths, suppressing their cries of wonderment and surprise.

  ‘How much is this going to cost us?’ Tavita whispered as soon as the door had shut on Mr Service and the receptionist.

  ‘We can afford it, sir!’ she mimicked the receptionist. ‘Who’s being frugal now?’

  ‘Do we need it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Having money puts us out of the reach of much of the open racism, darling! Look how far up and away we are from the horse-shit on the mean streets of this fair city.’

  ‘I’m a European, darling,’ he joked. ‘I look European. It’s you and your native, sun-tanned children who’ll be splattered by the shit!’

  She hugged him and, pressing her mouth against his ear, whispered, ‘Yes, but how do they view Europeans, their kind, who marry natives?’

  ‘That’s the problem with you blacks — you’re too bloody perceptive!’ They laughed and he lifted her up and carried her out onto the balcony overlooking the city.

  Right after lunch their lawyers returned. Mr Service explained their business itinerary and the arrangements for the children’s schooling, and then said, ‘There is one unresolved matter: the matter of Mrs Barker’s long-lost brother.’ He went on to summarise the ways they’d used to try to find Arona and proving why it was so ‘expensive’. ‘And as I’ve written to you, we decided to hire the most respected firm of private investigators in the country — Bartholomew Brant …’

  Mr Service appeared to have assumed that Peleiupu couldn’t speak English: she was Samoan and female and the letters she’d sent previously had all been under Tavita’s name. ‘We would like to see Mr Brant tomorrow at two after we return from delivering our children to their schools,’ she interrupted. An emphatic, utterly self-assured instruction in perfect English, an instruction that now put her firmly in her lawyers’ reckoning.

  ‘We will make sure Mr Brant is here on time, Mrs Barker,’ Mr Service replied, bowing.

  The school driveway was lined on both sides by newly planted rose-beds and single soldierly rows of pines. Ahead on both white walls of the impressive iron gates, in large bronze lettering, were signs announcing: ST MARGARET’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. Mr Pierce, who’d said very little as they’d driven through the wealthy suburb of Remuera, drove their car through the gates. The coach-taxi, with Tavita and Iakopo, followed them in.

  It was the school holidays so there were no students about. Around them were neat sports fields centring on a large complex of buildings with a steepled, red-brick chapel in the middle. ‘Looks very beautiful,’ Peleiupu tried consoling her daughters, but they remained tense and fearful. Mr Pierce drove up to the administration building.

  Peleiupu held her daughters’ hands and pulled them in to her sides as they followed Mr Pierce up the wooden steps into the school reception room and office. Tavita and Iakopo followed.

  The room had plush armchairs with school magazines and a vase of red roses on the coffee table. Framed photographs of previous headmistresses lined the walls, and a middle-aged woman at the counter greeted Mr Pierce, who introduced Peleiupu and Tavita. ‘Yes, Miss Long, our headmistress, is expecting you,’ the woman said. Opening the door behind her, she invited them to follow.

  The three women in the headmistress’ office got up and shook their hands, and Miss Long invited them to sit down.

  As Peleiupu observed the three women their delicate slimness, ramrod-straight carriage and dress reminded her comfortingly of Misi Ioana. She warmed to them immediately — yes, they were women she wanted her daughters to model their lives on. Peleiupu anticipated that Miss Long would talk to Tavita instead of her, and pressed her foot down on his.

  ‘We must thank our heavenly Father for bringing you safely to us, Mr Barker,’ Miss Long greeted them.

  ‘Yes, He has been kind,’ Tavita responded. ‘My wife will talk about our daughters.’ Unwaveringly, Peleiupu gazed at Miss Long.

  ‘So, Mrs Barker, are the girls fluent in English?’

  ‘Perhaps you can ask them?’ Peleiupu replied. The other two women, the matron and the housemistress, smiled.

  ‘We find your beautiful names difficult to pronounce,’ Miss Long said to the girls, who refused to come out of their wary silence. ‘Perhaps you can teach us how to say them correctly?’

  The girls maintained their silence. ‘Answer Miss Long,’ Peleiupu instructed them. Maualuga glanced up at her. ‘My name’s Maualuga.’ Then, looking at Miss Long, she pronounced, ‘MA — UA — LU — GA! Maualuga.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Miss Long.

  ‘Beautiful, what a beautiful name!’ echoed the matron.

  ‘Mar — uuuoloongar!’ The housemistress tried it.

  ‘Would you please say your name?’ Miss Long asked Lefatu.

  ‘Lefatu,’ she mumbled, her top lip trembling.

  ‘Speak up,’ Peleiupu urged. Lefatu did.

  As Miss Long, the matron and the housemistress detailed such matters as school organisation, rules, uniforms and pocket money, Peleiupu identified them as leading characters out of the romance novels of Janet Border — novels in which the heroines grew up in benevolent and inspiring Christian boarding schools, with keepers and teachers much like these three. She envied her daughters, who were now to enjoy and benefit from that life.

  Later, when the matron took them to their dormitories and showed them their lockers and other dorm facilities, Mr Pierce and Iakopo dragged in the girls’ massive trunks and placed them by their beds. ‘You must’ve packed even the sand from Satoa!’ Iakopo joked in Samoan.

  ‘You’re just weak,’ Maualuga said.

  They then toured the whole school, with Tavita and Iakopo growing more silent, and Peleiupu growing more loquacious in her praise of the school’s impressive facilities. They were going through the chapel when the matron said, ‘We don’t have other Saymoans in our school. And only three Meeori girls, from good aristocratic families.’ Peleiupu felt privileged, chosen, proud that they were the only Samoans who could afford such a school.

  She sensed that her daughters were on the verge of tears as they returned to the headmistress’ office.

  Soon it was time to take Iakopo to his school.

  ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said to her daughters, who just stood there, silent tears sliding down their cheeks. She gathered them into her arms. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine!’ she whispered in Samoan.

  Tavita behaved in a very un-Samoan father’s way: he embraced each of his daughters, tears brimming out of his eyes, while Peleiupu and Iakopo and Mr Pierce and the three Misses tried not to watch.

  Soundlessly Peleiupu cried into Tavita’s shoulder as they drove to Iakopo’s school. Soundlessly she sobbed into her son’s shoulder an hour later after they’d met the headmaster and housemaster, inspected Iakopo’s school and taken him to his dormitory where she’d tried to unpack his trunk and he’d ordered her not to. Soundlessly she sobbed in the corner of the back seat of the car, refusing to let Tavita console her, all the way back to their hotel and up the lift into their suite, where she locked herself in the luxurious bathroom and, at last, sobbed loudly and heart-rendingly into the marble walls, gold taps and ornate mirrors.

  When she refused to come out, Tavita called, ‘It wasn’t my decision to lock them up in boarding schools!’ He waited until her sobbing subsided to a pitiful whimpering. ‘And don’t forget that that detective is coming this afternoon to talk about your long-lost brother.’ Still no reply. ‘Anyway, why are you crying? We’re seeing them tomorrow and the next day and the next …’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ she shouted.

  Unlike their lawyers and her children’s teachers, Mr Bartholomew Brant didn’t bother to hide his New Zealand accent, and she liked the fact that as soon as he walked in, he included her in his reality. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Barker,’ he greeted her, shaking her hand before he turned to Tavita.

  They sat down and she noticed that he was holding a large file. He looked nothing like the detectives she’d met in her books. Slightly untidy, with unkempt black hair, no moustache — she’d expected one — inquisitive brown eyes, round face with a few pockmarks on his cheeks, absolutely no freckles, thick neck on hefty shoulders, large hairless hands with thick fingers, and a powerful body that he was trying to hide in a loose-fitting suit. ‘You’re busy people so I don’t want to take up too much of your time. You ask me questions and I’ll try to answer them fully. That way you won’t get information you already know or don’t want to know. Is that all right?’

  Tavita nodded. ‘To do that we’ll have to ask you the right questions, won’t we, sir?’

  Grinning widely, he replied, ‘Too right, Mr Barker. After all, you’ve paid good money for the information!’ They laughed together.

  ‘So here’s the first question, Bart. May we call you that?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please. I like informality — it’s the New Zealand way.’

  ‘Ever since Arona left Samoa years ago we’ve had to learn to live with his absence and the whole collection of stories about him, known in our village as The Tales of Arona the Sailor. So here’s my first question: have you located my real brother?’ she asked.

  ‘As you know, your brother has been missing for almost thirty years. There was no systematic search in twenty-five years of that time. You asked your lawyers to look for Arona four years ago, and through their agents in New Zealand, Australia, England, Europe and America they compiled this hefty file. Like the tales you’ve inherited, this file is rich with stories about possible Aronas. But all fiction — or possible fictions. I understand you’re a great reader of novels, Mrs Barker, so you’ll probably find this collection enthralling reading.’

  He went on to itemise two possible real Aronas who were in the file. ‘Aaron Sailor’ had come into the investigators’ reality in 1918, as a Samoan who’d fought in the British Army and had returned to Auckland with shrapnel-riddled lungs and a melancholy he couldn’t recover from. They’d traced his grave to Waiuku Cemetery, here in Auckland.

  ‘Aaron Navigator’ was first mate on the Blaste Shipping Line ships trading between Auckland, Sydney, London and Paris. He’d disappeared from the records in 1909. No one was sure whether he’d been a Samoan or not. His employers kept describing him as ‘a very reliable, intelligent, trustworthy member of the Polynesian race’.

  ‘So when they hired me a year ago and gave me Aaron’s file, I decided, on a hunch, to do something different.’ He waited — he clearly enjoyed the suspense, so Peleiupu indulged him.