Julie & Kishore

By Carol Jackson

Julie, a self-confessed freckle-faced plain Jane, wonders if she will ever find love. Then she meets Kishore, a guy from India who has been in New Zealand for only two years. They date and love blossoms, but she has doubts, as interracial marriages are not common in New Zealand in the 1980s. Kishore is determined to choose his own bride rather than have an arranged marriage, traditional in his birth culture, and when he meets Julie he is smitten. He is certain they can weather any prejudice against their choice, even from her friends and her family. When the couple becomes engaged and travels to India so Julie can meet Kishore’s family, she is overwhelmed at the sights and sounds—and worried whether she can be accepted into a family and culture so different from her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781509219308

Carol Jackson

Carol Jackson is a former television broadcast professional who started in TV in 1977 and left the field in 2012. She has done studio camera, audio, news video tape editing and Master Control. In college she was an intern in a TV newsoom. She also has been working part time as a certified nursing assistant since 2000. She has been married to a television maintenance engineer since 1996. They have 3 cats. Carol also has a custom car, a 1969 Mercury Comet she has owned since 1976.

Book preview

book.

Chapter One

Auckland, New Zealand, 1980s

The Hindi word for gidday (hello) is namaste.

In 1984, the big news of the world was the famine in Ethiopia. In December, the hit song by Band Aid, Do They Know It’s Christmas, raised thirty million dollars for Africa.

New Zealand was settling into its new Prime Minister, the youngest of the twentieth century, Mr. David Lange. He had a reputation for a cutting wit, which was sometimes directed against himself, although he had a certain eloquence. His government implemented far-reaching free-market reforms; his legacy, a nuclear-free country.

For Lady Diana Spencer, 29th July 1981, the date of her fairytale wedding, was the day she became a princess, her innocence, her vulnerability, and that sweet, shy smile on show for the world to see.

I was sixteen years old, and even though it had been three years since that extraordinary day, I still replayed the enchanting scenes of her wedding over and over in my head like it was yesterday.

Doesn’t every girl dream of a big white wedding? I certainly did—my wedding day, the day I had fantasized about my whole life.

Sitting on my bed, my eyes closed, I embraced my pillow as I saw myself walking up the aisle, the familiar Here comes the bride tune playing in my head…da, da, dada…da, da, dada…

Just like Diana, in my imagination I was dressed in an exquisite white lace gown that was beaded with delicate pearls, plunged to a heart-shaped neckline, and gathered at the waist. My vision was slightly misted by a white lace veil that covered my face, and my red curls peeked through a diamond tiara that had been delicately placed on my head. In my hands I held a posy of red roses dotted with tiny white baby’s breath flowers. Yep, I definitely had imaginative, detailed dreams about my wedding day.

As I continued my walk up the aisle, ahead of me waited at the altar the most stunning man I had ever seen.

My groom was beaming at me, and as I stepped closer he mouthed, I love you.

His stylish tuxedo accentuated his handsome features, and when I reached him we stood facing each other with clasped hands and proclaimed our vows of commitment and love. My heart beat faster as I visualized the part I adore the most of any wedding, when the priest pronounces the couple husband and wife and the groom is told, You may now kiss the bride.

As I continued my dream, my newly announced husband let go of my hands and romantically lifted my veil to gently give me a tender kiss—unfortunately, it was my poor pillow that was the recipient of my sloppy lips.

I clutched my pillow tighter as I wished with all my heart in real life, not in my fantasy, I could be that bride standing next to the handsome groom.

But, as we were proclaimed Mr. and Mrs. for the first time, I began to wonder—Mr. and Mrs. what? Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, or even Mr. and Mrs. Walker. I never thought in my wildest dreams that my husband-to-be wouldn’t be the man from my imagination, he was so real to me. Little did I know what actually lay in store for me was a life-changing event so completely different from my dream that at times I could hardly believe it myself.

If I had gone to a fortuneteller and she predicted the journey I was about to take, never in a million years would I have considered it. I would probably have gone so far as to say that she was speaking a load of absolute rubbish.

Chapter Two

New Delhi, India, 1980s

The Hindi word for family is pariwar.

The Prime Minister of India in 1984 was the country’s youngest Prime Minister ever, Mr. Rajiv Gandhi. He came into power at the age of forty, after the assassination of his mother, Mrs. Indira Gandhi. This political son and mother are no relation to the famous peace-loving Mr. Mahatma Gandhi.

The man I was to meet from India, Kishore, was born and raised in a very traditional family in New Delhi, India. His family were devoted Hindus and as such were extremely religious, praying daily, which was a natural way of life there. Almost everything everyone does in India rotates around the many Hindu gods. Worshipping can be done at home, where families create a small shrine to their choice of god somewhere in their house. If they do go to a temple to worship, which is known as puja, Hindus wash thoroughly at home before prayers and when they reach the temple (mandir) remove their shoes, which are considered impure.

Worshipping involves all of the five senses—touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing—and also the five basic elements—light, fire, earth, air, and water—meaning the whole soul of the being is involved in praying. Divas (little clay lamps) are lit, as the purity of the flame is part of the cleansing process.

Hindus consult priests or astrological charts when making a decision, whether it’s a career move, marriage, or regarding children. They see the universe in terms of karma, which means they will take on life in another form on earth in order to resolve whatever relationships or mistakes they leave uncompleted before, in another life.

Kishore’s father and mother, Chandra and Roopa, were immensely proud, reserved, respectful people who loved their son dearly. His father, being the head of the family, was stern but knowledgeable and always ready to give wise advice. His mother, a warm and caring woman, worked extremely hard, devoting her life to her husband and children. In her time, women were only meant to be obedient housewives, bear offspring, and regard their husbands as gods. She shared his karma and his destiny, while her husband provided for his wife’s needs, her security, and her social status. Giving birth to sons enhanced her status even further. The qualities most admired in a Hindu woman are modesty, shyness, and self-effacement.

When Kishore woke each morning, his mother was there to tend to every need of anyone in the immediate family: Kishore, his siblings, and his father. It was her duty to be up before anyone else, prepare a cooked breakfast, and ensure each member of the family received whatever they required. They lived a simple life, better than some in India but worse than others. Their home was the typical set-up for a dwelling in the bustling metropolitan city of New Delhi, consisting of a small apartment with only one bedroom. The flat was comfortable; it also contained a sitting room, kitchen, and bathroom. In this small but modest home, Kishore’s mother and father raised four children.

During his childhood, jam and eggs were regarded as wondrous treats, and with young children in the house these items didn’t last long. Kishore’s family didn’t own a car, a washing machine, or a television, not because they couldn’t afford these things but because in those times in India people managed with what they had. Appliances and cars were considered new conveniences and were not available to everyone; they were also thought of as luxuries and were not deemed necessary for everyday life. Their belief was to not pity themselves for being unable to have things other people did. Poverty was immense in India, and they were grateful to their god for everything, even the smallest things.

Despite status it was always important to look your best. No one in Kishore’s family would dare to ever leave the house unless they were dressed smartly, modestly, and in clean and ironed clothes. In Indian society, this proved just by appearance alone that a person came from a respectable family.

Their eldest son attended Delhi University. As a young adult, Kishore always had a feeling of being on the verge of a change in his life; he never felt settled, always knowing something different was in store for him. Although at school he was aware of girls, he never found himself to be interested in anyone.

Studying came relatively easy for Kishore; he practically coasted through university, graduating with a degree in commerce, always bearing in mind he wanted a career as an accountant. After receiving his degree, he obtained employment in a small accounting firm; his grandfather was a bookkeeper, and his father worked in a bank, so he was eager to carry on the tradition. Kishore enjoyed working, he was smart, savvy, and learnt quickly. He had his own office, with a peon—a young boy servant who is appreciative of work even if it’s simple tasks such as making tea, fetching water or putting staples in the stapler—and was extremely busy. Most importantly, now he was earning, he followed the plan that had been always in the back of his mind: after giving some of his wages each week to his mother, the rest he saved. He knew he had a lot of expenses ahead. Although he was polite to his fellow colleagues and occasionally went out with them to a cafe for tea or coffee, he didn’t want to make any real friendships, as he knew as soon as he could he would be leaving India.

Before Kishore was born, his Aunt Bhamini (on his father’s side) and Uncle Harilal immigrated in 1956 as newlyweds to New Zealand, having a yearning to settle in another country. Canada, America, or England was usually the first choice for immigrants. Like most settlers, Bhamini and Harilal wished to give their intended children the chance to achieve—the main drawing card of each of those countries. When researching for their desire to resettle, they were told of this new land near Australia, a country so far away it was near the South Pole, a country that promised great prospects and welcomed immigrants. Bhamini and Harilal decided to choose New Zealand as the place to start their married lives together; it sounded to them like a land full of abundant opportunities.

They travelled by ship, which took three months, and upon arrival they were to discover they were among the first Indian immigrants to arrive in this strange country. There was no one to greet them, and they knew no one. Bhamini and Harilal struggled for acceptance in a country where Indians were relatively unknown. They could not find anywhere that sold Indian spices or clothing, or a place to gather to celebrate Indian cultural activities. To their dismay, they found people shouted at them in an effort to make them understand English, regardless of the fact they had been taught the Queen’s English at school (Harilal knew more English than Bhamini) and they were certainly not deaf. They soon realized the Kiwi (New Zealand) accent and adaption of the English language was totally different from what they had been taught.

They settled in a small suburban street in West Auckland. Despite the immense differences between India and New Zealand, they enjoyed the lifestyle and knew their children would have a good upbringing. Their first baby arrived quickly, followed by another and another. As they became involved in their children’s kindergarten and school activities, they began to make friends and life improved; even so, they still knew they were outsiders.

Over the years, as many more Indians immigrated to New Zealand, the need grew for shops that sold Indian spices, food, fabrics, and accessories. Soon such places started popping up in various communities, and people of Indian heritage regularly gathered to celebrate Indian cultural festivals.

During Kishore’s childhood years, Bhamini and Harilal occasionally travelled back to India with their New Zealand-born children to visit his family. Kishore marvelled at his cousins’ funny accents and listened intently to stories about their lives in a far-off country. His aunt and uncle brought gifts from their new homeland—kitchen cloths for his mother, shirts for his father, and for the children biscuits and sweets they had never seen or tasted before.

Kishore’s eyes became wide with excitement, and he was filled with amazement when his aunt told them they shopped in a place called Foodtown. Foodtown! How could a whole town be full of food? It was beyond his imagination, but a seed was planted in Kishore, and as he matured he became more determined to join his aunt and uncle in that foreign land.

When the time was right, and with his aunt’s encouragement and support, he decided to follow in their footsteps. During his numerous calls to her on the phone, she told him the correct procedures he should follow and all the papers he would require. Finally, in June of 1984, after two years of arranging his funds, his passport, all the appropriate documents, and a plane ticket, he was soon to be on his way, filled with excitement and more than a little trepidation. The most challenging obstacle he had faced was convincing his parents he was doing the right thing.

His father advised him moving to a new country was not as easy as it sounded. You will have to start all over again, he said. Here in India you have all you need—your family, friends, an education, and employment. You will have to find work in a foreign country, make new friends, and begin a new life. He cautioned his son that life in New Zealand would be totally opposite to anything and everything he had ever experienced. Despite this, Kishore was determined to go, something more powerful than he was told him it was his karma.

In the days leading up to his departure date, Kishore’s family and friends became increasingly sad. He knew he would miss them all a great deal, but being as close as he was to his mother, he knew he would miss her the most.

It was still dark on the morning of the day he was to begin his journey. Kishore kept himself busy with his morning routine. As the sun rose, it promised a fine day, although the early morning showed a mist covering the city.

Once he had bathed, dressed, and eaten, he double- and triple-checked he had all that he required for his journey. When at last he considered himself ready, he gathered up his luggage and stood in the sitting room before his weeping mother and father. Kishore was, after all, their firstborn son. They had been without him for too many of his childhood years, when he stayed with his grandmother, and now they were going to lose him again, not knowing when they would next see him. In their hearts, they desperately did not want him to go. Yet for his sake, they spoke only words of encouragement.

Kishore’s mother held his cheeks in her hands and said through her tears, "My bayta (son), you must eat properly and call us as soon as you are able."

His father shook Kishore’s hand and then embraced him tightly. Kishore, remember who you are, and be wary of strangers, he advised. Sorrowfully Kishore nodded in agreement to each of their requests. He picked up his suitcase and said his final goodbyes. Although he did feel sad, excited anticipation of what lay ahead overpowered any thoughts of unhappiness.

As he strode downstairs to the waiting taxi, he did not look back.

Chapter Three

Auckland, New Zealand, June 1983

The Hindi word for hair is baal.

I was glued to the TV as I watched the New Zealand model Lorraine Downes being crowned Miss Universe. As she waved delicately at the camera, I thought no one on earth could come closer to being a Barbie doll brought to life, with her blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a smile that dazzled. You may have heard the saying Plain Jane. Well, that’s me, except replace the name Jane with Julie. When I studied my reflection in the mirror, I would say to the Julie staring back at me, Well, my dear, there is nothing exciting about you; this is as good as it gets. And what did I see staring back at me? Red hair, freckles, and ordinary boring brown eyes. Would I ever find a man who thought I was a Lorraine Downes, a Miss Universe? The answer was a downhearted, despairing…No.

I would never find love. Who would or could love me? Makeup couldn’t hide my freckles, so I hardly bothered even trying to attempt to wear it, a smear of lipstick was my idea of makeup. As for my hair—don’t get me started. It was wavy and hard to manage at the best of times.

It was even harder to look at myself in the mirror on rainy, muggy, or humid days when my hair was all over the place like a mop, seemingly having a mind of its own. It frizzed with the humidity, which made it bushy and boofy, while depression fell over me like a mantle. On these days I would avoid the mirror as much as possible, hurriedly brush my hair, and tie it up in a ponytail, with a bundle of hairclips firmly pinning each strand onto my head. I only hoped no loose curls would escape to stick out and wave in the wind, triumphantly proclaiming, Ha, ha, we are free!

My despondent mood grew worse as I foolishly compared myself to the singer Crystal Gayle. As I watched a rerun of her singing Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue, I was more captivated with her hair than her sultry voice. Boy, did she have a lot of hair, straight, shiny, glossy, and exceptionally long! As a girl who wished for hair just like hers, I recklessly put my hand on my heart and hastily vowed I would never cut my hair again. But in reality I knew my hair would never be blonde like Lorraine Downes’, and as it seemed to grow out rather than down, I would never have hair as long as Crystal Gayle’s.

I was slim—at least that was a good thing—and of average height, petite, with simple, ordinary features. All that once again added up to me being a Plain Jane; there was nothing about me to stand out in a crowd. I got called all of the usual things at school: carrot-top, ginger-nut, freckle-face, and oh, yes, once I was even called a pixie. No man on the planet would ever fall in love with a plain, boring, freckle-faced, redheaded, pixie.

Since I was the youngest, my siblings, Andrew and Sarah, had already paved the way for me on some things. Over the past few years I had watched on the sidelines as they travelled through adolescence. They waded through all manner of trials and tribulations that are part of a normal teenager’s existence. Quietly, I had observed as first Andrew and then Sarah left home.

I was four years younger than my sister. Mum had not planned on having any more children after Sarah. Then, unexpectedly, four years later along came a surprise—me! My brother and sister had brown hair and brown eyes, the complete opposite to me; they looked like siblings, they looked like our parents. When I was born, Mum was astounded as she caught sight of the tuft promising red tresses. At family gatherings, as I was the only person with hair the color of fire, the discussion invariably ended up being about my possible heritage. Jokes were made about the milkman being a redhead and just what else had he been doing when he brought the milk? Someone else suggested maybe my coloring was a throwback from some Scottish ancestor, but really, no one knew.

During my childhood, my family occasionally attended our local Anglican church. We would all arrive on a Sunday morning adorned in our best clothes. Sarah and I would wriggle and complain, as Mum had dressed us as lookalikes in matching itchy frocks. White, with lace and frills and a baby blue ribbon tied at the waist, these special clothes were not allowed to be worn on any other day of the week—they were kept for Sunday best. After the main church service, all of the children were ushered off to a separate part of the church hall to attend Sunday school. Church was firstly a place to worship, but it was also a place to gather and meet with the residents of the neighborhood, to gossip and to organise baking stalls and market days.

As I matured, I didn’t technically follow any religion seriously, though I did find solace in praying at night before sleeping. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up, I would quietly place my palms together and softly whisper. I believed in being positive, so I prayed for peace on earth and the end of famine and poverty. But most of all I fervently prayed to meet a man: someone who was kind, sincere, loyal, and honest.

Was there anyone out there who would take me on?

Chapter Four

Auckland, New Zealand, Tuesday 12th June 1984

The Hindi word for life is jeevan.

Kishore shook with nervous anticipation as the plane carried him on his way toward his new life. He tried to calm himself by watching the onboard video showing scenic pictures of New Zealand. The unfolding scenes of the country’s landscapes, mountains, snow, and rolling pastures mesmerized him. The narrator’s voice hypnotized him with words like the land of milk and honey and welcomed him, as it did all immigrants, to this diverse country where anyone could literally walk off the plane and into employment.

As the plane touched down in Auckland, one thought hit him pretty hard; in fact, it hit with such a jolt he felt like he had met head-on with a train, I am here, I have made it! He was excited and nervous in equal measure, and he almost muttered out loud, Well, Kishore, this is it: no turning back now. All he had in his wallet was twenty dollars. Telephone calls to Aunt Bhamini, immigration papers, and his air ticket had been terribly expensive, but he was determined to use that one note as a stepping stone to a fulfilling future.

His first taste of being spoken to in a Kiwi accent was when the immigration officer asked to see Kishore’s passport. He had to listen carefully to understand what the officer was saying, his accent being very strong. As Kishore collected his luggage, various words in the same accent assailed his ears. Of course he spoke English, but the sound of people talking here seemed so odd.

He walked into the International Arrivals area, searching for a familiar face. He grinned as his eyes locked onto someone beaming back at him. Akarsh, his cousin, his aunt’s son, had come to the airport to collect him. Kishore was relieved to see a recognizable face amongst the crowd. As the cousins approached one another, there was a great reunion. They had not seen each other for years and by this time had grown into men. With big silly grins they slapped each other on the back and punched each other’s shoulders.

As they made their way to the exit, Kishore watched people rushing here and there, travelers leaving to go on a journey or coming back, friends and families meeting in Arrivals or seeing each other off in Departures, and uniformed airport employees going about their business.

Once outside and with Kishore’s luggage stowed in the boot of Akarsh’s tired-looking white Vauxhall Viva, they climbed in. Akarsh told him to buckle up his seatbelt, something Kishore was not used to because it was not law in India.

Kishore spoke in Hindi, Oh, no, it is okay; I trust your driving.

The law is strict here, mate. You have to wear your seatbelt. I don’t want to get a ticket, Akarsh replied in English.

Kishore, for the first time in his life, obediently buckled his seatbelt.

They left the airport, and as they approached the motorway Akarsh indicated his intention, maneuvered into an empty lane, and then pressed his foot hard on the accelerator pedal. Kishore was quiet. He was amazed at all the greenery and cleanliness but surprised by the lack of other cars and people.

Where are all the people? he asked, again in Hindi.

Akarsh laughed out loud and replied in English, You’d better start speaking in English, mate. There are not as many people here as there are in India, but today everyone is at work or school.

Kishore smiled as he remembered a line from the video on the plane stating New Zealand had more sheep than people. Although he knew before he arrived that English was the spoken language in Aotearoa (New Zealand in Maori, translated as land of the long white cloud), his cousin’s admonition made him acutely aware of the reality of his situation. He was now in a foreign country and had better start speaking in English as much as he could in order to grasp the strange accent.

He was also soon to discover the cultural differences were huge. The Kiwi accent was one thing, but the clothing, mannerisms, and the way society worked was another. He was to realize his greatest challenge was all things Kiwi, including words he had never heard before, such as mate—his cousin had already called him mate twice—chilly bin, fish and chips—pronounced fush un chups—pavlova, stoked, awesome, and aye or eh at the end of a sentence. Why would people use the word aye? He came to understand it was a term commonly used after asking a question, when you want the person to agree with you, such as, It’s nice weather outside today, aye?

As Akarsh drove, the needle on his car speedometer never wavered, remaining firmly on the speed limit of 100km per hour. Kishore, lost in his thoughts, nevertheless caught sight of the road signs on the other side of the motorway as they flashed past—Mangere, Onehunga… He wondered how on earth those names were pronounced. He soon found some words didn’t sound as they were written, which absolutely confused him, such as: chemist, picturesque, island, knife, photo, and pharmacy.

They exited the motorway and entered a suburban area, where the car finally slowed to a more moderate pace. Kishore was intrigued by the pedestrians walking along the footpath. It was winter, but men wore wrinkled shirts and shorts with jandals showing their splayed bare feet. He saw women with pink painted lips squeezed into short skirts and tiny T-shirts. Kishore wondered why people would go out of the house looking so casual and immodest. Why didn’t they iron their clothes, and weren’t they cold?

Finally Akarsh drove into the driveway of Kishore’s aunt’s home. Kishore was happy to see his aunt and uncle but even happier that now the wheels of the next stage of his life could begin to turn. He had crossed the biggest hurdle: he was here.

He was surprised to see their house. It seemed so big. In fact, it was a typical Kiwi house, made of brick, with three bedrooms, a garage underneath, and a big back yard. Once inside and after being shown to the room he was to share with Akarsh, he was eager to take on his next big challenge, securing employment. Kishore, determined to find a position in accounting as soon as possible, asked his aunt for the Situations Vacant section from the newspaper. Aunt Bhamini said, You must take a few day’s rest, Kishore. You may suffer from jet lag. Get yourself settled first.

But Kishore was impatient. His new life beckoned him, and he wanted to get started.

Chapter Five

Auckland, New Zealand, 1970s & 1980s

The Hindi word for happy is khushi.

It was a wonderful time growing up in New Zealand (known as godzone) in the late seventies and early eighties.

The hippie era was ending and the emergence of computers, big hairstyles and even bigger mobile phones was beginning. A diverse range of cultures had just begun to arrive on these shores to make it a melting pot. New Zealand, still young and under the umbrella of England, was a country known for its peace and beauty but also for its own certain individuality with its unique icons: L&P, paua shells, rugby, tinned beetroot, swandris, and Watties tomato sauce.

The fond memories from my childhood were carefree and happy. Mum and Dad raised us three kids in a typical New Zealand middle class neighborhood. Quaint wooden Neil houses (a building company that built many new houses in subdivisions around Auckland) lined the streets of the community we lived in. With their combined savings, my parents bought one of the first homes to be built in the contemporary district, and as newlyweds, with suitcases in hand, they moved in.

Over the years, as the houses being constructed around them rose from the ground, the landscape changed from vast empty plots to the neighborhoods that exist today. Although the layout of each house was basically the same, each had a different appearance, unique in its own way. The area was designed for young families and was dubbed Nappy Valley due to the many white cloth nappies that hung on washing lines and flapped in the breeze.

Mum Helen was a housewife, while Dad Peter worked for the AEPB (Auckland Electric Power Board). I am not entirely sure what Dad’s job actually entailed. I only know he did something with electricity. When I was quite young, about three or four, he occasionally brought one of the company vans home. I remember being so excited as he opened the rear door, lifted me into the back, and under his watchful eye let me carefully open the little drawers which lined the walls. I liked to pretend I was a pirate looking for lost treasure as I opened each drawer and peered curiously inside at the array of wires, nuts, bolts, sockets, and screws.

Dad and Mum spent their Saturdays tending to the garden. Dad mowed the well-manicured lawn, while Mum fussed at pruning her blossoming roses.

My parents were not rich, but then again they were not poor. Being born during a splendid time in New Zealand, Andrew, Sarah, and I had a relaxed upbringing. With our neighboring friends, we happily attended the local primary, intermediate, and high schools, where as part of the school curriculum we were taught basic Maori language and culture. Being welcomed onto a marae with a powhiri, giving hongi, watching heart-pounding haka, and seeing beautiful wahine with moko on their chins dancing with poi was all part of a Kiwi child’s culture.

****

Andrew and Sarah had given in to my whining, and the three of us clambered onto the couch in the lounge room. I giggled with delight, as I had finally convinced my big brother and sister to play a game with me. In our wondrous childhood imaginations, the couch became our boat, the floor was the ocean, and the cushions we had tossed onto the carpet were the hungry sharks. With squeals of delight, we jumped precariously from couch to chair to couch, hoping not to fall and be eaten. I knew it was just a game, but as a four-year-old I definitely felt a real fear of falling into the ocean and being eaten by the sharks.

Another game we played started as we sat eagerly, spoons in our hands, at the dining table as Mum placed a bowl of hokey-pokey ice cream in front of each of us. With excitement rippling through our bodies, Andrew, Sarah, and I waited for her to shout, Go. As she did, we all used our spoons to quickly whip our ice cream round and round. The first sibling, usually Andrew, to have the creamiest, swirliest ice cream was the winner. During the long hot Kiwi summer, hokey-pokey ice cream was a delightful treat. Creamy vanilla with little golden nuggets of toffee was tastiest when it was whipped smooth, soft, and velvety.

****

It was the middle of the December-to-February school summer holidays. I had packed an overnight backpack with my pajamas, toothbrush, and togs. I did up the zip, then slid my arms through the straps and adjusted my bag so that it sat comfortably on my shoulders. At ten years old I was finally allowed to ride by myself to my friend Louise’s house. I climbed astride my blue Raleigh Twenty bike and waved goodbye to Mum, promising I would call her as soon as I got there. I peddled, making my way on the footpath, on a familiar route which would take me along three streets to get from my house to Louise’s house. Wanting to gain speed, I pumped my legs harder and harder, making the bike go faster and faster, and as I didn’t wear a helmet, I felt the wind