Dad told me that when the police realized from his name that Rangi was a part-Māori boy, they told her that he was probably off with some gang, up to no good, that he was probably trying to avoid the upcoming exams. Auntie Georgia showed them the teacher’s note he had left on the kitchen table, to prove that Rangi wasn’t a gang member. He was a lonely boy, she’d said. The police questioned where his mother was, why his aunt was reporting the boy as missing. When she was forced to reveal Rangi’s mother’s name, Celia Parata, the officers looked at each other. Dad thought she was probably a prostitute because of the way the police smirked. They suggested Rangi Parata would show up, eventually. Dad said they didn’t take it seriously. They didn’t even write anything down or ask for a description.

Dad was gleeful, relating this to me. I was disgusted with him, with myself. I wanted to tell Auntie Georgia that Rangi was dead, that she should stop hoping, stop waiting for him to come home. He was never going to come home.

Before the week was up, Rangi’s bloated body was found at the other end of the lake, closer to town. I was never questioned. The Daily Post reported a tragic drowning. Auntie Georgia didn’t look me in the eye as she came and went. A police car dropped her home twice, once on December 18th and again the next day. I could hear her wailing aloud into the night from my bedroom and I wanted to console her, to confess and explain that it was an accident, that it was my life or his and that I had to choose mine, and that he had been my best friend.

Christmas Day in our house was strange. Dad pretended that everything was normal. We ate outside on the porch, toasting the day with Coca-Cola. Dad bought me a record player and I’d bought him a book on Māori culture. I found it in the bin a few days later.

35

Sally

My shopping expedition the day after Uncle Donald’s funeral was not entirely successful. Sue parked in a vast underground car park and we emerged into this blindingly bright, dizzyingly high, cavernous building with neon signs everywhere, piped music and, for a Tuesday morning, lots and lots of shoppers. I had seen shopping centres on TV, but I hadn’t expected this scale.

‘I don’t like this, Sue. Please may I go and wait in the car?’

‘But the whole purpose is to get you kitted out with a brand-new wardrobe!’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Here, hold my hand,’ she said, ‘I have an idea. We will go to one shop with a huge range. You can go straight to the fitting room, and I’ll bring you a selection of things to try on.’

I had recently found that hugging or holding the hands of friends was somewhat comforting. I allowed Sue to lead me into a shop called Zara. She spoke to an assistant while I stood, trying not to tremble, as people manically picked out random items on hangers, discarding them across the rail without re-hanging them, pulling at sweaters from the middle of a neatly folded pile and throwing them down again. I had once thought of working in a clothing shop, but my jaw hurt from the clenching of my teeth. I would not be able to stand this.

Sue came back with a young and beautiful shop assistant. They took me to a large changing room, with full-length mirrors on both sides. I sat dutifully and waited. Within ten minutes, Sue came back, laden with armfuls of clothing. I thanked her and began to try on sweaters, culottes, jackets, boots, jewellery, waistcoats, blouses, overcoats, T-shirts, skirts short and long, trainers, jeans, cardigans. Sue would check in with me every few minutes, exchange sizes for things I liked but didn’t fit, and return things I didn’t like. There were six times as many things in the changing room as there were in my wardrobe at home. The shop assistant took some of them straight to the till. I was dazed by so much choice, the silks and cottons and suedes and denim and sparkles and fur. I liked what I saw in the mirror. All the different versions of me.

I bought everything I liked. I passed over my bank card while Sue pirouetted with excitement. ‘Just one more place I have to take you,’ she said.

I was exhausted and the shopping bags were heavy.

We exited the lift on the top floor and Sue took me towards what turned out to be a beauty salon. ‘Hair, nails, facial, lashes, eyebrows, make-up – I think you should do the lot.’

We were outside the door. I stopped. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful, but wouldn’t you like to see what you look like with a different hairstyle, a few blonde streaks or a curly blow-dry? I don’t even know what your hair looks like when it’s loose. Is it very long? Facials are so relaxing. This is a way to pamper yourself.’

‘No thank you, Sue, I don’t mind changing my clothes but I don’t want to change the way my head looks.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘No.’

‘Oh Sally, please? Let them style your hair. If you don’t like it, you can pin it straight back up. Treat yourself.’

I could feel myself becoming agitated. I raised my voice. ‘I said no.’