for in this matter he might then be spared much responsibility. Auntie did not nod back. She did not do anything except hold her ground and peer across the counter. ‘Auntie can't write,’ said Mrs Heremaia, determined to be done with it. Mr Wellington-Crosby looked down at the enlarged peppercorn resting its chin on his high gloss counter, and was not surprised. ‘Auntie just made a mark on the title papers. Well she says she didn't actually, but somebody did.’ ‘Well if she didn't, who did?’ he implored. ‘Maybe my other auntie. That is, my great-aunties they are really. This one's sister. They can't write, none of them. So they make a mark.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Well this one, she says it's not her mark, she knows her mark, an' it's not her mark.’ ‘But surely the Maori Land Court has a record of whose mark it is?’ ‘Oh yes.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Yes. But that don't make any difference.’ ‘No?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh dear.’ ‘She still says its not her mark, an’ now her sister's dead. Mister you prove it is her mark. Some fellas have a handle you'd recognize anywhere, but all she's got is a mark. What's your name?’ There she stood, five stories high, handsome, waiting for her triumph. He blushed, he stammered, and at last he said it. ‘Wellington-Crosby, Alphonsus Wellington-Crosby.’ And waited, tense, geared up, ready to go on anger. He'd got her at last. She subsided, curiously soft round the big wide mouth. ‘All I mean, mister, is that we'll have to sort this lot out before we can sell. An' that could be a long time, eh Auntie?’ Only Auntie's chin quivered with agitation. ‘So what I mean is, I dunno mister. I just dunno mister who is going to pay them rates. Do you?’ She slumped, the effort of a hard night's bargaining plain to see. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Mrs Heremaia, I just don't know either.’ He shuffled his papers together on the counter, and checked to see that he had changed his date stamp. Through the glass he saw the familiar tormenting sun rising towards the ten o'clock sky, and he sighed again. Mrs Heremaia, and even Mrs Hatu, sighed too. At last, Mrs Heremaia gathered herself and the black bundle on sticks together, and made for the door. ‘See you man,’ she said, almost indifferently, over her shoulder. ‘See — er — see you,’ he said, and ate a peppermint. He was starting early today. Outside, Mrs Heremaia gently pushed Auntie into the battered blue Chev. With a crash and a rattle to show she was displeased, she reversed out of the council's parking lot and, accelerating fast, roared through town. ‘You ever seen this bit of scrub you and I supposed to own?’ she yelled to Auntie. Auntie shook her head. Mrs Heremaia slowed down, and looked thoughtful. More quietly she did an illegal U-turn and drove back towards the centre of town, then branched off to the most elite suburb the city could boast. She stopped the car in a neat avenue. Well — quite a neat one. Asphalt drives swept through wrought-iron gates, past well-laid lawns and flowering shrubs to big houses. Colonial styles and ranch styles, cedarwood and sundecks, and not only were they architect designed, but the architects themselves even lived in some of them. And there was this acre of land. This wild acre of land where the blackberry grew and the thistles proliferated and the puha thrived. There were clear patches in the wilderness where Protest Committees had been at work, but for the most part it was a jungle. High and low, wherever one looked, the blackberries shone, velvet, blue-black, hanging in great clusters. Auntie gave a snort. That was not all either. There were figures in this landscape. People. Bare brown legs twinkling among the bushes, quick fingers picking, picking, and small children cramming their mouths with berries till the juice squelched from the corners and ran down their Superman T-shirts. ‘Hullo there, that's Hine Ngata, my ol' man's cousin. You know her?’ Auntie nodded. ‘And her mate Molly that married