His sister resisted him at first, telling him to go away, but finally she turned into his arms and her hot tears brushed his cheeks. ‘What's wrong, ay?’ he asked gently. ‘She hit me … Mummy … ‘ ‘Were you a bad girl then?’ ‘No, I didn't do anything. Mummy, she hit me for nothing.’ And Janey had wept very hard. ‘She doesn't love us any more, does she Hema … ‘ ‘Course she does. You're just being stupid.’ ‘No she doesn't, Janey had whispered. ‘No she doesn't … ‘ And they stayed under the bed for a long time, holding each other very tightly. But in spite of their mother's moods, the children still loved her. They kept clear of her when she was angry and when she didn't want them around; they tried to anticipate her needs, to make her happy. As long as their mother was happy, they were too. Whenever Uncle Pera brought his mates to the house for a party, the children would clear up the debris when it had finished. They would sweep the floor, wash the glasses, stack all the flagons neatly in the kitchen and set the chairs in their places again. Sometimes, they would find their mother flaked out on a chair, her face haggard with beer. ‘Mum, come to bed, Mum,’ Hema would whisper. ‘Come on.’ And he would shake her gently. Her eyelids would flicker and then shut again. Sometimes, Hema and Janey would be able to get her to bed. Other times, she'd be too blind drunk to move, so they would get some blankets and tuck them in around her. And once their mother had looked at them and her face had screwed up with pain and she had said, perhaps to herself: ‘You kids are so good; I'm a funny mother to you fullas, ay … ‘ ‘No you're not,’ her children had answered. ‘You're good, you're a good Mum.’ Their mother had said that they could go to the afternoon pictures the next Saturday because she'd been so funny to them. They had tried to look happy, but they'd known that in the morning. Mum would have forgotten her promise. They were used to it. ‘How much further, Hema?’ ‘Not far to go,’ Hema said. ‘See? Almost there.’ He pointed ahead, to where the lights of the railway station were blazing. ‘Okay,’ Janey said. ‘You can let me down now.’ ‘Are you sure?’ Hema asked. He had given her a piggy-back along Featherston Street because she'd been tired. ‘Yes,’ Janey answered. She slipped from his back and began to walk beside him. The railway station grew larger and taller. A taxi swept past them and stopped at the entrance. Some people got out, and the children followed them through the entrance. The station was very crowded and noisy. It was half past eight and people were running or waiting to catch railway units back to their homes in the Hutt. Every now and then, the loudspeaker would crackle above the clamour announcing departure times, platform numbers, welcomes and farewells to passengers. Hema found a seat for his sister. ‘You wait here,’ he told her. ‘Where you going?’ Janey asked. ‘Just over there,’ he answered, and he waved toward the ticket office. He told her he wouldn't be long, and joined one of the queues. Every now and then, he looked back to see that Janey was all right, and she smiled and waved to him. He hoped she wouldn't cry too much when he put her on the train. He'd decided that would be the best thing to do; somehow he'd find a way to follow after her. Would she know when to get off? It was a long way to Taumarunui. Never mind: he would find a nice lady wh owas travelling on the same train and ask her to look after Janey. ‘Yes?’ The voice boomed at Hema from over the counter, and a bored face looked down at him. Hema stood on his toes and put his money on the counter. ‘Please, can I have a ticket please, to Taumarunui.’ ‘For where?’ the clerk asked him. ‘Please, Taumarunui.’ ‘When for?’ ‘Tonight, please.’ ‘The train's already gone,’ the clerk said. Hema heard the words and all his plans,