Johnny Pokaka's Grandfather by Jo Friday have i told you the story of Johnny Pokaka's grandfather's deafness? No? It is an interesting story, though not amusing. Johnny's grandfather is a magnificent man, all shoulder and belly and wide-straddled knees, and with a wide twinkling smile creasing his brown, white-pricked cheeks. His eyes are twinkling too, and little and knowing. He looked at me one day with that knowing twinkle, and tapped the air with a hefty forefinger. ‘You're looking at my ears,’ he stated. ‘I am admiring them,’ I admitted. And well worth admiration they are too—every inch of their flapping expanses. Now he cupped one, and turned it radar-wise towards me. ‘They are very nice,’ I bawled. ‘They're big, ne!’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding violently so that I wouldn't have to repeat myself. ‘Looking at ears like mine,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘you wouldn't expect me to be deaf.’ ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head this time. ‘I'm completely deaf in one ear,’ he said. ‘This one,’ and his helpless right ear was grasped in a huge hand. I assumed an inquiring expression. ‘Do you know how I got deaf, boy?’ I shook my head. ‘It's an interesting story,’ he said. Johnny, on the other side of the table, shifted his weighty bulk in assent. ‘It's an interesting story, ne,’ he said. They both nodded, and I looked from one to the other with polite interest. Johnny's grandfather signed to Johnny's grandmother with an imperious paw, and she bustled forward, the boards creaking under her sturdy bare feet, and poured us more tea. It was cosy there, sitting drinking thick sweet tea like comfortable old ladies. It was a bit too cosy, as a matter of fact. The sun was blazing outside, yelling at us to come out with a banner of hot light flung through the window, and a fire was roaring happily in the range behind me. A cyclamen bloomed riotously on the window-sill: I wasn't surprised at it. However I was relaxed and comfortable, if moistly so, as I watched Johnny's grandfather munch scones, waiting for him to trudge out his story. ‘Haven't you heard the story of Pa's deafness?’ Johnny's grandmother demanded. I said ‘no’, and she clicked her teeth. ‘It's an interesting story, boy,’ she said. ‘You,’ said Johnny's grandfather thickly. I blinked for a moment, but then realised that the piece of scone in the huge paw was gesturing at Johnny. ‘No-o’, said Johnny, but his grandfather's look was full of silently powerful authority. ‘Well’, said Johnny. He thought for a moment, shifting weightily, shrugging himself into the mood of the story. The story happened on a black summer's night, as warm and hushed as a whisper. Johnny and his grandfather were mightily tired: they had been shooting up on the high spine of the country all day—had caught nothing, but were nevertheless wearily happy, full of the rare spirit of a man who is tramping a man's country with a man's weapon on his back. Still, it wouldn't look so good if they returned with nothing, and so they angled down from the tops, plodding down the ridges to the coast, making for the shack Johnny's grandfather had on the beach. They arrived there after dark and cooked up a rough meal over a hasty fire on the hearth, and then collapsed into a couple of the bunks, each of them tossed into a blanket, and not caring a single blessed thought for the hard boards and sulky sandy palliasses. ‘Ho-o’, sighed Johnny's grandfather, nodding slowly as Johnny paused to take out his tobacco tin and make a roll-me-own. ‘We surely were tired that night. Not a single warning I had, boy.’ The fire had flickered into short grey shadows and then collapsed into a pile of ash, rustling dryly. A morepork flickered past the doorway and alighted softly on the ridge-pole. Its shrieking cry, aw-w-ah, aw-a-ah, sawed through the quiet blackness, but Johnny's grandfather didn't stir. Crickets clicked and scraped in their idiotic way, clambering around in the hishing