bliss which included giving birth to four lusty boys early in their marriage, being secretary of the local branch of the Maori Women's Welfare League, and weaving tāniko belts and spectacle cases for church bazaars, the great opus moved but slowly, sometimes untouched for months at a time. ‘It took her fifteen years to reach this point here. You will notice these are aramoana and allied patterns and in the main, classical work and well executed. Then these diamonds are the two-mouth design—they were done after the birth of their second child. Later we see a tiny alphabet when the eldest boy started at his father's school. You can read there the story of their life that it has been good—the days calm, and what sorrows had come coped with by the family, a well-wrought vessel sailing over life's ocean path. ‘But now—what happens? See! on the back in the middle: a knot. Aahua has misjudged the length of yarn needed for a red weft. And here are three warps missed, in this and the next row.’ ‘Oh well, everybody has their off days,’ said Margery. ‘But then comes a proliferation of new patterns. An extra colour is brought in as a beautiful ornamental weft. ‘This was the moment when Brendan Lynwood came to Papakirango. Son of a prosperous city manufacturer, his wife of twelve years had left him just before they were due to fly for three weeks to Sydney so she could stock up on clothes and he could take a look at the Snowy River Scheme. Now he felt a backblocks holiday, shooting, fishing and reading, would tide him over. A friend in the Electricity Department arranged for him to live in a cottage belonging to the department and not far from the schoolteacher's home. Both were set apart from the other houses of the township. ‘One sunny afternoon Brendan Lynwood burst out of the bush and ran down the grass slope towards the boundary of his domicile. As his eyes adjusted to the light, they fell upon a wondrous scene: Aahua in a bright cotton sundress, her hair moving in the breeze, her arms full of flax flowers, bullrushes, and sweetscented karetu. ‘Immediately Brendan lost all memory of his pretty though rather waspish defaulting wife. ‘Aahua in her turn marvelled at this tall young god of the forest, his corncoloured hair a lighter gold than the skin of his body where the sun had kissed it. Neither the bloodied hunk of vension sticking out of his pack and covered with his shirt nor the dirty bleeding cut on his shin detracted from her amiable first impression. ‘Aahua spoke first, her voice not quite steady but filled with concern. “You've hurt your leg. I'll fix it up for you. Come with me.” ‘As they went through her gate, she snipped off three long red roses and put them with the grasses she carried, putting the whole collection into a silver ewer when they entered the house. ‘No other soul was present, Ati being on a teacher's course, and the boys at a Scout Camp, but warm hearts wait not on etiquette. Aahua cleaned and bandaged Brendan's wound, and an hour later they were eating fresh grilled venison steaks, followed by strawberries they'd plucked together from her garden. ‘The two found they had much in common and she offered to lend him a book, a cherished volume kept in the front room. ‘It was then he saw the tāniko as it waited for its creator to continue. Brendan was interested in weaving, having built a loom for a friend of his mother's long ago in his schooldays. ‘He returned the book on the morrow, and thus began the golden days that were left to them. They talked or were silent, content in action or in stillness. They sauntered through the bush, lay in the sun, swam in the pool Pungarehu under the waterfall at the edge of hill or settled at their ease in front of a log fire, Aahua working often at the tāniko, Brendan watching her deft movements. ‘What wonder that love should strike root in their hearts and as swiftly burgeon? A love that was quite unlike the soft steady moon of her marriage but flaring and searing as of the sun and as hard to withstand. ‘Look now at the weaving of the tāniko.