Drifting by Patricia Grace They were up while it was still dark, running through the wet lupins with the tin of herrings, over the black stones to Uncle Kepa's hut. There, they put the tin under the step, pushed the door open and went in. Still asleep. But his morning wood was ready on the hearth. Mereana opened the grate and put the wood in on top of the crumpled newspaper. She lit the fire and moved the kettle over. Lizzie was mixing porridge. ‘Hullo my babies. You got our bait?’ ‘Yes Uncle. Plenty herrings.’ ‘Stoke up then. Your funny uncle will get changed.’ They heard him moving around in his other room, then he went outside and filled his basin at the tankstand. Uncle. He had a wash for going fishing, but just as well she and Lizzie hadn't wasted any time washing this morning, or brushing their hair. Just as well they'd slept in their clothes to make sure about being early, because Uncle had forgotten to wake up. Get up, straighten the blankets, out over the verandah and away. Now Lizzie was spooning porridge into three enamel plates. ‘Come on Uncle,’ Mereana called. He came in making the room small. The skin on his face was mottled with the shock of cold water. His eyelids were rimmed with red as though his eyes had been always shut and forgotten, but had now suddenly been slit open with a sharp blade to reveal surprised and bulging brown eyes, the whites all yellowed with waiting. His lashes too seemed as though they had this minute been put there, standing stiff and straight like glued bristles. Mostly Uncle's face was long and thin, with big folds of skin hanging down, but his cheekbones were round and jutting. His nose was hooked at the tip, with a big bubble of flesh at either side. He wore the top half of a football jersey with the bottom half of a black singlet sewn onto it; and he carried a billy of milk which he had brought in from the outside safe. The room swung back to its normal size as he sat down, and there was a grey light coming in through the one little window high up on the wall. Uncle Kepa leaned over his dish and stuck his bottom lip way out like a shelf, then rested the spoon with the hot porridge there and sucked. The spoonful of porridge was gone. ‘Ah. Ah, good my babies.’ Mereana stopped staring at her uncle and began pouring tea while Lizzie ran to rescue the bread that was toasting by the grate. The little bit of dirty sea in the bottom of the dinghy swung and eddied with each push. Then away, rocketing down over the stones until the bow crunched into sand at the tip of the water. One more big push and it was flying out into the lagoon with Mereana and Lizzie throwing themselves in over its sides. Uncle Kepa who had rolled his trousers up and whose legs were white stepped in over the back and sat down on the middle seat to take up the oars. They were soon through the channel, pulling out over the belt of brown kelp where the sea changed to a dull navy blue, then further still to where the water became thick and green. The day was alight now. Far away, back on the shore the sun was sending silver off the roofs of all the tiny houses, and streamers of smoke leaned from the morning chimneys. As they rounded the point they could see the large patches of brown rock below them in