sandals for me; some cotton frocks for my sisters. ‘You won't need much,’ she said. ‘It's summer and it gets hot at Nanny's place. Anyway, most of the kids up the Coast run around with no clothes on.’ That remark just about brought on a revolution until Mum said that we didn't have to take off our clothes if we didn't want to. We were very shy children then, and didn't relish the idea of showing our bottoms and you-know-what to strangers. We had to take a nap that morning; we always had to take a nap if we were going anywhere, even to the two o'clock pictures at the Majestic. But we couldn't sleep. The thought of going away from home, the first time, to a strange lady's place in the strange country, frightened us. ‘It's about time you got to know your relations,’ Mum said. ‘You kids are growing up proper little Pakehas. And Nanny Caroline's always asking me if she's going to see her mokopunas before she dies. Don't you want to see your Nanny?’ We were always respectful children, so we had to say, ‘Yes, we'd like to see Nanny.’ But we didn't really, because we didn't know her. Only what we'd heard: that she was very old, at least fifty, that she had grey hair and a moko. Oh, yes, that she was married to Uncle Pita, and had twelve children with names as funny as ours. Even longer than Mum's, which was Turitumanareti something-or-other. Nanny Caroline's children also spoke Maori. We couldn't, and we wondered how we would be able to talk to them. But I had been to Scouts and Kara had learnt some sign language from Janet, the Pakeha girl next door, who was a Brownie. But we still didn't like the idea of going; it was all Maoris up the Coast, no Pakehas, and we were used to Pakehas. Furthermore, the Maoris didn't even wear pyjamas to bed and we knew that was rude. But Mum said, ‘You'll like it up there and anyway Nanny knows you're coming.’ So we had to go, because it's not polite not to go to somebody's place after they know you're coming; just like the time when Allan had invited us to his birthday party and his mother got angry when we didn't turn up. Dad put our suitcase in the boot of the car and yelled out to us to hurry up as he didn't have all day. We kissed Mum goodbye and told her not to forget our toys. Pare started crying, so Mum gave her a lolly. We hopped in the front with Dad and he started the motor. ‘Goodbye, Mum,’ we cried, hoping that she would suddenly change her mind and let us go to Auckland. But she fluttered her hand and went into the house. We wondered if we'd see her again. We slept most of the way to Nanny's place. The heat from the motor always made us feel sleepy. But most of all, we hoped that when we woke up, we'd find that going to Nanny's place had just been a bad dream. But it wasn't a dream, because every now and then I'd make a small crack in my eyes and look out and see Gisborne going past, then Wainui, then Whangara. At Tolaga Bay, we stopped at a small shop and Dad bought some orange penny suckers. We had pointed out that it wasn't fair that Pare had a lolly and we hadn't. So for a while, we sat quietly sucking our lollies and watching the hills coming to meet us. Pare had a sucker too, and that wasn't fair either, because it meant that she had had two and we had just had one. But Dad wouldn't stop the car again. He said it was a long way to Nanny's place and he was in a hurry. Sometimes we sang songs, because Dad liked us singing songs while he was driving. He said it helped keep him awake. We wondered that if we didn't sing, perhaps he'd go to sleep and we'd never get to Nanny's place. We crossed our fingers. But Dad was wide awake that day. It seemed ages before we got to Tokomaru Bay. That was the furthest away from home we had ever been. We watched silently as the township slid past, over the edge of our world. After a while, we went to sleep again. We must have been asleep for a long time, because when the truck bumped to a stop. it was night. ‘Where are we, Dad?’ I asked. ‘Almost at Nanny's place,’ he said. ‘Hop out and open the gate.’ I opened the door and ran to the gate. It didn't have a latch, just a piece of wire wound round and round a batten, but I managed to get it untangled and the gate swung open. Dad drove through. Kara and Pare were awake, and we sat looking out the window, watching the head-