book the boxes got bigger and the pictures fewer, and the game became hard work. One morning I noticed Alice was looking pale and very glum. Her work in the kitchen was as good as usual but she dragged her feet listlessly and kept her eyes down even when I spoke to her. In the end I asked her what was the matter. At first I thought she wasn't going to answer, and then she burst out— “That damn dog, Rover! All night I tried to remember what he did when he jumped over the gate, but it was no good, I couldn't think. All night I tried to remember and I got no sleep and now I'm tired Jacko, tired tired.” And to my dismay the immobility of her face broke for the first time, wrinkled up like a child's, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “Oh Alice”, I said, feeling smaller and meaner and more helpless than I'd ever felt before, “you don't want to worry about a silly old dog or a book or reading or anything”, and I steered her into the corridor where the sharp kitchen clowns couldn't see her crying. “Look.” It's a lovely day, let's have a holiday this afternoon, let's have a good time. Let's pretend it's someone's birthday, it must be somewhere. Oh bother, we can't, its Sunday. What can we do, Alice? I waited while she struggled with her voice. “You do something for me, Jacko? You take me to church tonight, eh?” She was waiting for me after work. I took one look at her, closed my eyes, and opened them again carefully. She was looking happier and more excited than I had ever seen her, the trouble and tiredness of the morning had quite gone, but so had the neat uniform. She was wearing a long pale pink garment that looked suspiciously like a nightgown, and round her neck she had tied a skinny mangy length of fur that even a manx cat wouldn't have looked at twice. But it was the hat that took my breath away. I had only seen such a hat in old photos or magazines about Edwardian England. It was a cream leghorn, with a wide flopping brim, dark red roses round the crown, and a huge swaying moulting plume that almost hid her face. I didn't have a hat with me, but I reckoned Alice's would do for the two of us. “I think I'll go home and see Auntie for a little while. I've got some money for her and when I've fixed the farm I'll come back again.” She showed me her suitcase. “I'll catch the 10.30 rail-car tonight.” We were a little late for church, and as we crept in, all eyes swung in our direction, and stopped. That's right. I thought, take a good look, you'll never see another like it again. The summer evening sun streamed through the clear glass window, and showed up mercilessly, like strong electric light on an ageing face, all the drabness of the grey unadorned walls, the scratches on the varnished pews, the worn patches in the faded red carpets, the dust on the pulpit hangings, and the greenness of the minister's old black suit. “Remembered streams I could not keep”, I thought, seeing it all for the first time without a child's glasses. “For all the saints, who from their labours rest,” squeaked the small huddle of people like someone locked up in a freezer. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and leaned against the pew in front of me. Ahmmmah, droned Alice happily above everyone else, except the big-bosomed, purple-gowned, over-pearled organist who pulled all her stops out and clung to the top notes like a determined lover. Alice was holding her hymn book upside down. After the service I took Alice home for supper. She seemed a little lost and rather subdued in our sitting-room, and sat stiffly on the edge of a chair with her knees together and her hands gripping each other in her lap. I made several unsuccessful attempts to put her at ease, and then I noticed she kept glancing sideways at the piano that stood in the corner. “Would you like to play the piano. Alice?” I asked, remembering the natural musical ability Maoris usually have. She jumped up immediately with a delightful grin and walked over to the music stool. “Dadadaeedeeda,” she sang on one note, and thumped up and down the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later, she turned to me. “Pretty good. eh? I know plenty more. You like some more?” And she settled herself down for the rest of the evening before I could reply. My mother got up hastily and went out to the kitchen to make the supper. When the time came to go, Alice looked very solemn, and I feared a repetition of the morning crisis. But I was wrong. “I got something I want to show you, Jacko,” she said. “I've never shown anyone before.” And she handed me a folded piece of old newspaper. “That's a picture of my uncle He went away before my Auntie got me. My Auntie says he's the best man she ever knew and one day he'll come back and look after me and Auntie and get money to pay for the house and fix the farm. He's got a good, kind face, eh Jacko?” I peered at the blurred photo. A group of men were standing behind a central figure sitting in the foreground, and underneath, the caption read— This is the last photo to be taken of the late Lord Tweedsmuir, Governor-General of Canada, well-known throughout the English-reading world as the novelist, John Buchan. My mother looked over my shoulder. “But surely you've made—” I stopped her with a sharp dig in the ribs. “Yes, Alice,” I stammered, “I'm sure he'll come back, he's got such a nice face.” And immediately I was ashamed of the weak lies. If only one could sometimes find the courage to tell (Continued on Page 43)