‘What about Uncle Tom?’ Naomi prompted.

  ‘Yes, trust Uncle Tom too,’ Peleiupu replied.

  ‘Now go down to the wharf with Mr Brant,’ Tavita instructed them.

  Peleiupu insisted on accompanying the children and the two men down the gangway onto the crowded wharf. The sun was sinking swiftly over the gulf and sending a thickening darkness, like a steady wave, over the harbour, wharves, the city. Tavita and Naomi stood at the deck railing, watching them. They saw Peleiupu and her children hugging as a group, then she broke away and started backing onto the gangway. They saw Bart hurrying to her; they saw her hesitate, then she kissed him on the cheek. Tavita’s belly clutched momentarily. Jealousy? Suspicion? And he thought he heard Bart calling, ‘Don’t worry, it will be done properly.’

  On their second morning out of Auckland, their ship caught in the still, humid heat of the tropics, Naomi woke them up and got them to follow her into the sitting room. There, on the side-table in front of the urns, was a chocolate cake with one white candle burning in the middle. The urns shimmered in the candlelight. ‘It’s Dad’s birthday today,’ she told them. ‘I got the chef to make this.’

  ‘I’m sorry we forgot,’ Peleiupu said, hugging her. ‘He was away for so long …’

  ‘He said Samoans don’t celebrate birthdays but Mum and me always insisted on a chocolate cake — his favourite — and one candle,’ Naomi explained.

  ‘Naomi, I’m glad you remembered.’ Tavita kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘May I say a karakia?’ Naomi asked. Tavita nodded. They bowed their heads, their reflections swimming on the casings of the urns. ‘Te Atua, as you know this is Dad’s birthday. I know he was not a righteous man, that he did things that were sinful and evil, but when he met Mum he tried, he really tried, to follow Your ways …’

  That evening, while they were dressed in their best clothes and enjoying the special birthday dinner that Peleiupu had arranged with the dining room, their waiter brought them a telegram for Naomi. She read it aloud to them:

  MY BELOVED NAOMI STOP BART AND I AND SOME OF YOUR DAD’S MATES HAD A BIG PARTY TODAY TO CELEBRATE YOUR DAD’S BIRTHDAY STOP WE MISSED YOU VERY MUCH BUT KNOW YOU ARE SAFE WITH YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE STOP SOMEDAY SOON WE’LL MEET AGAIN STOP TELL YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE THAT WE DID EVERYTHING ACCORDING TO YOUR DAD’S PLAN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY STOP HE WOULD’VE BEEN PROUD OF US STOP IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM STOP BART SAYS JAKE HEART AND CATCH ARE FINE AND SEND THEIR LOVE STOP SEE YA SOON STOP TOM

  ‘What was Dad’s plan for his birthday?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘For Tom and some of his friends to go out to their favourite pub and celebrate,’ Peleiupu lied.

  Tavita glanced at Peleiupu. She was pale, trembling visibly; her face shining — with relief? Happiness? But why tears? She reached over and grasped Naomi’s hand.

  Return to Niuafei

  It hadn’t rained in the three weeks since they had returned, but clouds were now sliding in from the horizon and massing on the mountain range. Peleiupu’s throat and body tingled with the expectation of the cool, quenching feel and taste of it. Yes. She waited for the rain, for Apia now felt small, oppressive and unimportant compared with Auckland. The mail she’d been expecting hadn’t arrived either, and her life was standing still because of it. She was pleased with most other things. Naomi still woke at dawn, crying for her parents, but she was fitting into their aiga and the sisters’ school well. Their aiga and community and Pili were healing her with their boundless love. Naomi loved Pili, her ‘orphan’, and took care of him whenever she was home. Poto, Semisi and their other Satoa relatives had come to welcome them back and took Naomi into their hearts. They believed Arona had been a successful sea captain who’d traded and travelled to the four corners of the earth, and had died, tragically, with his proud and regal Maori wife, in a car accident. Their sacred ashes were now in urns made of real gold, in a special shrine in Peleiupu’s sitting room. Many had visited to pay their respects and marvel at the sight of all that gold. Some had asked if the ashes were going to be buried or scattered. Peleiupu had avoided answering.

  Their business was doing exceptionally well under Siniva’s and Mikaele’s management, so Peleiupu was leaving it to them while she waited. Tavita was now too busy in the newly formed Citizens’ Association, which was leading the opposition to Governor Dickinson and the New Zealand administration and fighting for self-government. As more and more people joined that opposition, it was not going to be good for business. She had told Tavita that but he’d refused to drop it. He argued that he was fighting for Sao and all the people killed in the New Zealand-introduced epidemic, and against racism. And had she forgotten how they called them half-castes — ‘the dregs of civilisation’? She couldn’t argue against that because she knew he’d accuse her of selling out to papalagi rule. So she was leaving him to it. He came home late and was sometimes quite drunk. She refused to believe the rumours that he was also having affairs — she couldn’t conceive of it.

  She had agreed with Tavita, Lefatu and Ruta to take the ashes to Satoa to Lalaga’s grave and then to the sacred palm grove, Niuafei, in Fagaloto, to be buried with Mautu. But she kept delaying … She continued to wait for the mail and, as she waited, her hunger for mangoes turned into a craving. She went to the market with Pili early in the morning and picked out the fattest, juiciest, sweetest ones, filled a large basket and brought them home where, while the other members of her family ate their usual fare, she and her son gorged themselves on the ripe fruit until she was almost bursting with the richness of it.

  Are you pregnant? some of the women asked. She was highly offended but they reminded her that only pregnant women got intense cravings for particular foods. No, I’m not pregnant, she told them, but she was empty — yes, utterly empty — and wanted to fill that emptiness with the sweetest, smoothest taste on earth … fill it until she was almost choking and drowning in it.

  ‘How come you’re crazy on mangoes?’ asked Naomi who wasn’t fond of the fruit. ‘It’s terrible — like dead, sweetened porridge,’ she claimed.

  Peleiupu told her the story of her first mango pressed against her cheek by her father so long ago. ‘I’m a descendant of the mango,’ she told Naomi. When Naomi raised her eyebrows in disbelief Peleiupu laughed. ‘It gives me the runs,’ Naomi said. She was right, but what was a little dose of the runs compared with the enjoyment of a splendid addiction? Besides, it kept you ‘filled’ while you waited for the mail.

  It was Friday lunchtime, Peleiupu was belching and round-bellied with mango when her secretary brought in the box of mail and placed it on her desk. Her heart quickened; her hands shook with anticipation. The secretary rushed off for her lunch. She waited, afraid yet dying to rip into the mail. Quickly her fingers scrambled through the letters, searching for it. Three letters from her children — she’d read those later. Bills and more bills. Business letters and useless advertisements. Near the bottom of the box was a large brown envelope, fat with papers. Up and out and she was tearing it open. The contents tumbled out and spilled across her desk. Newspaper clippings. Large black headlines and photographs, demanding her attention. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably; she wanted to know and she hoped and hoped.

  A note in Bart’s handwriting:

  Dear Mr and Mrs Barker,

  Tom and I thought you’d be interested in these. Please let us know if you want us to do anything further.

  Arohanui, Bart.

  It was front-page news in nearly all the main New Zealand papers.

  PHILANTHROPIST BUSINESS LEADER AND WIFE DIE IN FREAK MOTOR ACCIDENT.

  There were photographs of Blundell and his wife at a recent fundraising function, and two photos of the smashed car lying among thick bush in a ravine …

  SLIPPERY ROAD CLAIMS LIVES OF BLUNDELL FAMILY

  More photos showed police examining the badly smashed vehicle; the car being winched from the ravine; the Blundells with their two grandchildren …

  She flicked through the rest of the clippings, her heart singing. Went to her door and locked it. Returned to her desk and started reading the articles. Even her eyesight was heightened, magnifying every word, every picture. Most of the articles said that the Blundells, one of the first families to own cars in the country, had been on their way to their holiday house in the Coromandel when the accident occurred. Passing motorists had noticed the break in the roadside fence and had stopped and found the vehicle at the bottom of the ravine. It had been a very wet and windy Saturday morning. Difficult driving conditions. Some articles were short histories of Blundell’s life: all were tributes that presented him as a dynamic, generous, patriotic Christian father, husband, business leader, who’d risen from poverty-stricken circumstances on a small Waikato farm to be a sailor and captain and then an import-exporter …

  One of his ‘dearest and closest friends’ described him as ‘a fair dinkum, unassuming New Zealand bloke who loved God, king, and country, and who gave to all those in need …’

  Only two articles, one in the scandal-mongering True and one in the Communist Party paper the Red Flag, challenged that saintly image. Both papers claimed Blundell had been twice under investigation, early in his career, for tax fraud and the illegal importation of drugs but said the investigations had been terminated because of Blundell’s influence. True hinted that Blundell had led a double life, secretly consorting with young prostitutes of both sexes, and using drugs and alcohol. The Red Flag accused him of being ‘a capitalist roader whose companies exploited their workers, heartlessly and unscrupulously’. He was also alleged to have been involved with hiring thugs to break up any strikes in his businesses.

  Peleiupu learned from the clippings that the Blundells’ only child, a son, had been killed in a skiing accident ten years previously. That son’s children — a boy and two girls — had become ‘the centre of their grandparents’ life and love’. They must have been about the ages of her own children, Peleiupu speculated.

  She folded the clippings, pushed them back into the envelope, resealed it and locked it in the office safe. She decided Tavita should not see the information. Not yet. Though Naomi knew her parents were killed, she didn’t know anything about the Blundells, so she needn’t see the clippings either. Not until she was older and stronger.

  There was no one in the sitting room when she entered. She moved up to the small shrine — a teak table covered with a white silk cloth. The two urns on it were adorned with six sea-shell ula that Ruta had made specially for Arona. She reached out and straightened the ula and smoothed down the tablecloth. Then she stepped back and sat down on the sofa to contemplate the shrine, the urns. She drifted into the swimming gold of the urns …

  The Lady Poto turned into the entrance into Fagaloto Bay and was soon free of the turbulence of the open sea. Naomi and Pili were in the pilot’s cabin, with Mikaele teaching them how to steer. A few Satoa relatives were playing suipi on the deck. Peleiupu was feeling more hemmed in — even the sea seemed a wall to her desire to be out there in the wider world. She’d spent yesterday and the previous night in Satoa. She’d taken the urns to Lalaga’s and Mautu’s graves by the church, and, in a service conducted by the pastor, had celebrated Arona’s (and Areta’s) final return to their parents. Most of Satoa had turned up, many weeping and congratulating Peleiupu on fulfilling her promise to her parents of bringing home the beloved prodigal son.

  Now it was the final phase of Arona’s return. Peleiupu walked up to the prow of the boat. The slight chill in the wind penetrated to her bones but she let it, for the discomforting cold distracted her attention from Tavita’s inexplicable refusal to accompany her. He had claimed he had to be at the trial of two Mau leaders, but she suspected it was more than that.

  ‘Look, look!’ Pili called to Peleiupu, pointing at the sky ahead. There, hovering over the centre of the village, were three frigate birds, glistening black M-shapes. Peleiupu recalled the story of Ume and how he was killed by their ancestral frigate, in revenge for betraying his sister. She persuaded herself that, in a profound way, her revenge for Arona was that of the frigate. And now she was bringing Arona back to Niuafei, the heart and shrine of Fatutapu and the frigate. One day she too would be returned to Niuafei and buried beside their father. ‘Are we going to see Lefatu and Ruta?’ Pili interrupted Peleiupu’s thoughts. ‘Naomi’ll love them.’ He came with Naomi and stood beside her.

  ‘Your father used to love coming here,’ Peleiupu told Naomi. ‘This is where our Aiga Sa-Tuifolau began, hundreds of years ago, and where the guardians of our aiga still live today.’

  ‘Is this where Fatutapu lives?’ Naomi asked. Peleiupu couldn’t believe Naomi knew that name. ‘Dad used to tell me about Fatutapu, our aiga’s atua.’

  ‘What else did your father tell you?’

  ‘That one of the reasons he left Samoa was because he didn’t want to be a pastor and he couldn’t say no to your parents.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Fatutapu?’

  ‘He said he always felt that Grandad Mautu became a pastor because his mum and dad wanted him to.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If Mautu had had his way, he would’ve been Fatutapu’s guardian. But they chose Aunt Lefatu for that.’

  ‘So some of this is not new to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘My dad told me lots of other things too. I loved his stories but I didn’t think the stuff in them was important to me.’

  ‘Now it is?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, because I’m in Samoa now, with my aiga.’

  ‘How come you don’t tell us stories like that?’ Pili interjected.

  ‘I will soon,’ Peleiupu promised.

  ‘What about now?’ he demanded.

  So as their boat headed across the bay to Fagaloto in the healing, welcoming shadow and gaze of the frigates, she started telling them about the atua who took the form of the frigate to come to earth and court beautiful Sina …

  Lefatu and the elders of their aiga and all the matai of Fagaloto were waiting in the faletele to welcome them. Lefatu insisted that Peleiupu come and sit beside her, and then pulled Naomi into her lap and, in greeting her, wept silently. She took Pili and cuddled him to her side. Peleiupu couldn’t see Ruta anywhere. Later Lefatu told her that Ruta had gone to prepare Niuafei. Mikaele brought the urns through the solemn silence and placed them at the foot of the fale’s centre post. The ava ceremony of welcome began …

  Peleiupu had once believed Lefatu would never age. Now as she observed her she had to admit she was old: long wispy white hair; her body, with ill-fitting skin and muscle, a bundle of folds and wrinkles; rheumy, cataracted eyes; her whole weight anchoring her to the floor as if she’d not be able to stand again.

  As the ava ceremony ended, Lefatu called, ‘He’s come home. Arona, our child, has come home at last. Bring him to me!’ Peleiupu bowed her head, took the urn and presented it to her. Kissing and caressing it, Lefatu raised it to her forehead, crying, ‘My beloved, my beloved!’

  Most of the women joined the muted wailing. ‘We want to greet him!’ some of them called. So Peleiupu passed it to the woman next to Lefatu.

  ‘Bring me Arona’s beloved wife,’ Lefatu said. Peleiupu did so. And Areta, too, was greeted and passed from elder to elder.

  Peleiupu noticed that many of them touched it briefly, warily, and then passed it on: it was not the Satoan way to cremate people and put them in small containers. Areta was also a stranger and you did not ‘handle’ strangers’ spirits in a familiar manner — it wasn’t safe.

  ‘We had them cremated because it was the only way we could bring them home,’ Peleiupu said, trying to allay their fears. ‘Otherwise Arona would’ve been buried in foreign soil.’

  ‘You did the correct thing, Pele,’ Lefatu ruled. ‘Foreign burial practices have also become part of our way. Remember we didn’t bury people in boxes before the palagi came. And I like this practice because it has allowed Arona, our prodigal son, to return to us.’ The elders agreed with her.

  ‘Where are Arona and his beloved wife to be buried?’ one of the elders asked. Peleiupu looked at Lefatu, who ignored the question and told her to tell them about Arona’s life away from Samoa.

  So, as the afternoon aged, Peleiupu gave them a laundered version. She had never considered herself a good storyteller but, as she spoke, more and more people were drawn into the fale. Their rapt attention held her, made her realise that perhaps she had inherited the gift from her parents and Barker and Stenson and all those books that had enriched her imagination. Through her telling, Arona and Areta would become rich, fabulous strands in the ie toga of life that was their aiga, Fagaloto, and the ever-moving present.

  Suddenly she felt an intense cold spot on her right cheek. It radiated out until the skin of her whole face was a thick mask of cold and, in trying to peel it off, she woke gasping. ‘It’s me!’ Ruta whispered into her ear. ‘It’s only a mango — your favourite.’ In the pale dawn light Ruta thrust the wet mango into Peleiupu’s hand. ‘I collected a basketful on my way back.’

  ‘From Niuafei?’

  ‘Yes, I tidied it up and got it ready for Arona and Areta.’

  The mango fitted perfectly into Peleiupu’s hand; she dried it with her sleeping sheet. ‘Has Lefatu decided when?’

  Ruta nodded. ‘She wants us to go now. She’s awake with the children, and ready.’

  ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Only the old lady, you, me, Naomi and Pili.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No, that’s what Lefatu wants. Besides, many of the new Samoans wouldn’t understand.’