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Te Ao Hou, July 1973, Page 14

mother, who loved whisking up snacks, was disappointed. ‘Well, there's still cheesecake to come, it's delicious, a new recipe, really rose up beautifully,’ she chattered, cutting them slices. ‘It's fab, Mum,’ Sally said, trying it. She was starving. Piri put his down. ‘Not my thing at all.’ He pushed the plate away and stood up. ‘Finish yours,’ he said to Sally. ‘Then I think we'd better make tracks. It's been a long day.’ Sally glanced at her mother who wouldn't look at her. It was as much as she expected of her son-in-law, sooner or later, but she'd bound herself not to say so. Sally got up too, kissed her mother, and excused herself. Out in the car again, she said, with the sort of fury there'd never been between them before, ‘You did that on purpose.’ ‘What?’ he said evenly. ‘You know very well you didn't eat that cheesecake to pay me back.’ ‘Don't you hand me that,’ he said dangerously. ‘Look, I eat your stroganoffs and your pizzas, your shish kebabs and your curries, and your tortillas and vol-au-vents, and I even have an olive in my drink, and I damn’ well like it all. But I don't like cheesecake,’ he shouted. ‘What are you crying for, eh?’ he snarled, as she turned her head away without answering. ‘They said it wouldn't work …’ ‘Who said what wouldn't work?’ ‘Everyone. You and me.’ ‘Oh yes, it'll work all right, in your nice, clean fastidious, hygenic world. That's all I asked from you and that's what I got, and you go trying to muck it up with something different, that's all.’ She stared at her hands in her lap, covering them with falling tears. As she said no more, he felt fear, urgent as pain. She saw him look up and the car slowed down. Thoughtfully frowning to himself, he reversed back up the road, and stopped. ‘Now what?’ ‘You must be hungry,’ he said gently, through spent anger. Beside them stood a piecart. ‘Hop out,’ he said. At the piecart counter there was an as-

sortment of people; a Maori family, a young mixed couple like themselves, more likely counting than married, a couple of famished looking students, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman who could as easily have been Sally's mum getting ‘easy tea’ for Sunday night. ‘Chips, two pies, lots of tomato sauce, and two thickshakes,’ Piri ordered. When it was all ready, they climbed into the car. He gave the food to Sally to hold. They drove down past the wharves and parked. He took the food from her and after he'd opened it across their knees, they ate. After a while, he said, ‘Good city Maori kai, good city Pakeha tucker.’ ‘Did you like the hangi dinner?’ she asked. He was close to shy, like she'd been earlier that day. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But sometimes when the hangi's cooked for so many people it's not as good as if it were… just for a family say. I should have remembered that before I blew my stack.’ ‘Piri … I …’ she started, but he put his fingers across her mouth holding her lips together, like children do when they make each other say ‘a basketful of vegetables’ and she nearly choked on a chip. ‘When we go back to meet Eru's wife,’ he said … she wiggled her head—but he held onto her mouth … ‘We'll go for Sunday lunch when the bread's sweet and fresh and there's a nice mug of tea to go with it, and she's cooked for twenty and not two thousand.’ He let go of her mouth and kissed it quickly where his fingers had been. ‘And if you don't like that, I'll eat your share and have a big, cold, greasy pie waiting in the car to shove down your Pakeha throat.’ He took her hand. ‘Time to go, wahine.’ They smiled at each other, and, comfortable and replete—at last—drove companionably home.