The Tāniko Wall-Hanging by Dora Somerville ‘That's what they call tanneeko, Marge,’ said the woman in the orange hat. ‘The natives used to do it with two pegs stuck in the ground.’ Orange hat was a formidable weatherbeaten woman with a loud voice. Her companion, younger and softer and less didactic or more ignorant, gazed in silence for a moment. The Papakirango Community Centre was showing an exhibition of crafts of all kinds, Maori, Pakeha and Women's Institute. More people were beginning to drift in now. A few were Maori, or Polynesian anyhow. ‘I wouldn't mind a panel of that, Allie, for a feature wall in my lounge when I re-do it,’ Marge said thoughtfully. ‘But not those coarse colours. Red and yellow and black. I'd have autumn tonings and a teeny touch of green.’ ‘You'd do better to choose a nice painting. You'd never get them to do exactly what you wanted. Forget it, Margery,’ said orange hat. ‘You could be right, Allie. When I look into it—mind you, the actual work's quite well done—I see, not exactly mistakes—sort of changes in style—new patterns all the time. No order or system of repeats. I wouldn't want that.’ ‘And look at this bit—it's tighter than the rest.’ Allie sounded quite cross. ‘And some of it kind of faded. You'd think they'd appreciate the need for unity and conformity.’ They turned slightly to watch a lithe Maori woman go by. She wore a brown and gold fringed poncho and jeans and the two little girls with her were minor replicas. ‘I see you are interested in our tāniko wall-hanging ladies.’ The women swung round at the sound of a man's voice, deep, well-educated. They saw a good-enough-looking man of perhaps forty, either Maori or deeply sunburnt. He wore a tweed hat, fishing fly tucked in the band, sports coat, hairy turtleneck sweater, and, even more regrettably, plaited leather sandals on bare brown feet. He took off his hat and smiled at them. The voice and the gesture won out over the turtleneck and the feet and they half smiled back, only half as they were a little afraid he was going to try to sell them the tapestry. ‘You have observed that it doesn't hang together design-wise as you might have expected. I couldn't help hearing your comments.’ Allie bridled and Margery blushed slightly. ‘They were perspicacious, if I may say so.’ Both women looked gratified. ‘Modes employed range on this piece from classical through transitional to modern, with outcrops of free style and a pre-classical finale. It was crafted over a period of years by a Maori princess, Aahua Katau, and indeed may not yet be finished. ‘You may be interested to hear her story.’ It appeared they would, that is if he could spare the time. He wasn't selling, thank goodness. They all settled down on a wooden bench in front of the tapestry. ‘Aahua was the daughter of a chieftain, and not only had received an excellent education in a private school, learning mathematics, home cooking, languages not her own, and how to play piano up to grade six, but had been taught the Maori women's arts of weaving and plaiting by an ancient teacher who was both holy and expert. ‘When at eighteeēn Aahua became engaged to be married to Ati Raukawa, a fine upstanding young schoolteacher of equally good family, and like her of predominantly Maori blood, she began what she thought of as her lifetime masterpiece, a tāniko wall-hanging for her drawingroom. ‘But what with the usual duties of wedded