THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS A STORY BY BARRY MITCALFE Illustrated by Mary Mountier Eruera saxton stood up, brushed the hair back from her eyes. Now, if ever, was the time to speak. Her son was almost out of the gate. “Matiu, I want a talk with you.” Her voice didn't sound her own. He didn't hear. She shrieked, “Matiu”. It shocked them both. For a moment she didn't know what to say. Then, “Come here boy,” she wheedled. He came as far as the gate and leaned on it. She walked slowly down the path, a short, stout body of a woman. “Don't push too hard, you'll lose him,” the thought came, nagging at her resolve, but she thrust it aside. “He's your son, there's things he should do and things you should do.” She set her shoulders but her face betrayed her feelings, made more violent by her efforts to conceal. He did not bother to hide his impatience. “Matiu. You not going with that girl, are you?” Well, you never knew, did you? Wonder who told her? Probably heard it down the store months ago. “You've got a voice … well … what you got to say?” He lit a cigarette. “You're only seventeen, you're not a man yet.” There, she hadn't meant to say it, but it was out. He'd probably go now. She knew it wasn't really badness, he was just trying to prove he was a man. “When you goin' to stop tryin' to prove you're a man?” He didn't trust himself to speak. He wanted to go. Why did she have to make trouble? He didn't want a fight, but gasped out, before he could stop— “Okay. So you want to know. I'll tell you. Going away. Got a good job in town. Get married soon.” None of which was true, but it served. “A pakeha girl, Matiu? No, not a pakeha, Matiu—” So that was it, not this ‘you're too young’ but ‘pakeha, pakeha’, the same old song. “What's wrong with a pakeha?” “Don't you speak pakehas to me. You hear?” Despite himself, he recoiled from her anger; then deliberately raised his hands, took a long draw and blew out a great cloud of smoke; he was a man, wasn't he? He could please himself. “Anyway, she wouldn't have you.” “You think so? You think so?” he sneered and stalked away. The motor-bike roared and gravel fell in a fine splatter around the gate, but the woman just stood there. Sometimes she hated the boy. He was his father all over again. She closed her eyes tight, but she couldn't shut out his lank, indifferent from. Only his father had been fair where this boy was dark—the pakeha, the best catch she'd ever get, said Maggie. The worst. Not for her, never again. Her back began to ache. Kidney-trouble. That's what kids did for you. A cup of tea and a little lie down, that's what she needed. ⋆ ⋆ He leaned into the last corner and came roaring on to the main and only street. Jim's old truck was outside the bar. “Whee-heee!” He let go with a screech that set three old pensioners on the pub verandah shaking an dnodding like flax-stems in a wind, but the little kids loved it. They wanted to play with his bike. “Don't let it fall. Else you'll be the meat in the sandwich,” he said and left them to it. “Howzit man?” Big Jim turned. “Who d'you think you are? Hopalong Cassidy?” but he was grinning. That made it all right. He took Jim aside. “Get us a carton for tonight, will you, Jim? Put her in the truck. Okay?” And he slipped Jim the necessary. “She right boy. Now on your way. This is where the men live—” and he gave the boy a friendly belt on the backside. He'd take that from Jim—nobody else. Jim was his boss, the best man ever. The bike roared into life first kick, the kids yelled and scattered, but he was gone. Once clear of the town, he realized he had nowhere to go. On the off-chance Billy was home for the week-end he called at Kereru's but there was only the old lady and the kids. He listened to the old lady for a while, killing time. Then he went round to Davies' place, but nothing doing, they were all down at the pub getting primed up for the night. Although he knew there'd be nobody there, this