Asking about the cost of baking for a large number at a not-too-distant wedding. Ruihi hinted that she would be able to supply a quantity of fresh eggs at a cost to be agreed on later. Certainly she would be happy to cater for the cakes, and to take as many fresh eggs as possible, said the cheerful Dalmatian wife. ‘But you make a de sure de eggs are all a fresh. None of dis Maori bizness like a de eggs for fishing de eel,’ she called with a good-natured flourish, as Ruihi laughingly bade her goodbye. When a meeting to discuss the wedding plans was held at the marae, it was an easy thing for Ruihi to get herself appointed to do all the kai arrangements. No one objected, for they knew that if anyone could obtain a few extras from the storekeepers, it was she. All smiles, Ruihi was the image of politeness as she charmingly thanked the committee for choosing her. Yes, she assured them, of course she knew where one could get juicy fowls at five shillings less than the usual twenty shillings Mr Long charged. Cakes, and eggs for everything, she would be able to procure at cut prices. All the simple souls present marvelled at her knowledge of these things, while ever-present in the thoughts of Ruihi was the red velvet suit and its trimmings. Now, Rangi's brother Rewi had a herd of swine of which he was very proud. Two of the best sows were well on their way to littering, and the rest would be away to the freezing works in a month or so. Since Rewi was a close relative of the bridegroom, custom said that he must donate at least one of his pigs to the hui marena. This he accordingly did. But this was not enough for Ruihi the troublemaker, and she started up over the teatable. ‘That stingy old brute of a brother of yours has only given one pig. Selfish and mean, that's what he is.’ Then, as Rangi helped himself to a second helping of pudding: ‘He ought to be ashamed. With all his goods. One lousy pig and a sack of kumaras. I don't know what this district would do without the help of my family.’ ‘Well what can I do about it? They belong to him, not me.’ What his wife had to say to this made his heart beat twice as fast, in fact he felt as though it might have stopped a couple of times. He went out to smoke his pipe and think things over: maybe by the time he came back the missus would have changed her mind. But no: she was at him again. After a solid week of ear-bashing for the sake of peace he finally agreed, as both had known he would. Saturday night. The marae was a scene of activity, for the next day the bride and her people would arrive, also a large crowd of manuhiri related to both bridal parties. In the whare kai a group of men was preparing the meat, sweating from the heat of a vast open fire. Women busied themselves making up clean beds that smelt sweetly of newly-cut hay, and working at the hundred and one other jobs still to be done. The walls of the hall were covered with punga fronds, waewae koukou, green flax and branches of red and white manuka, while strips of multi-coloured crepe paper criss-crossing the ceiling gave a rainbow brightness to the place. On the stage a young schoolgirl vamped a tune from the halfway-to-the-century piano, whilst a ring of shiny small faces scaled the notes of popular songs. Ruihi had produced two jars for the men, saying that her husband had shouted it since he was unable to be there tonight, as one of the children was not feeling too well. But both she and Rangi would be along bright and early in the morning. Meanwhile, Rangi was making his way to his brother Rewi's pig pen. Quietly quietly, just a little sucking noise with your tongue and out from the pen they'll come. Pigs can tell when someone's about. Sure enough they had smelt him and out they came, just as Ruihi had said they would. Now to give them a sniff of what's in the bucket. That's it you beauty—carry on down to the cowshed. The stage was set, and hungry pigs need no prompting. Straight down to the drum of skim milk they grunted. The overflow from it went into a big drum that was buried in the ground. Quickly Rangi lifted its wooden cover, careful to make it appear as if the pigs themselves had done so. Squealing and grunting, the six pigs plunged their snouts into the tasty curdled whey. Don't be hasty. As soon as the milk empties a little lower they'll bend their front legs—he'd never hear the end of it if he mucked this up. Right, the black one: the biggest, as she had said. Continued on page 53