'Kit's been in Dublin. He's an artist, and he's just had his first exhibition.'

'He must be rushing back?'

Fearful tears burn my eyes. 'That's the awful thing. He doesn't know yet . . . I'm still trying to get hold of him.' I don't want questions about when Kit's due to land, what flight he's on, so I deflect them. 'Oh! Those finger bruises. I've solved the mystery. Finn slipped in the bath last night. I grabbed his arm to try to stop him.' I reach out my hand, s.n.a.t.c.hing at an imaginary child. 'He bruises very easily.'

The social worker looks non-committal. She's storing the explanation away, ready to write up her notes. No doubt she will talk to Sutherland and the giraffe, and ask if my story holds water. 'How long have you lived in New Zealand, Martha?'

'A year. We've got a lifestyle block out at Torutaniwha.'

The silver brows rise a fraction. 'Oh! Way out there? Unusual, for an English family.'

'It's beautiful.' I tell her about the little school, and the beach, and the river. She listens carefully, laughing when I describe Bleater Brown, our pet lamb. And even though I know she's merely doing her job, establishing rapport, I find myself giving her my life history. Well, some of it. The concise and abridged version.

'It sounds as though you haven't looked back,' she says.

'Not too much.'

'Got any family here?'

I shrug regretfully. 'Just the five of us. I'm very close to my sister and father in England, so we talk a lot on the phone.'

'You must miss them.'

'I do. Of course I do. It's been a ma.s.sive upheaval.' Suddenly, I'm tired of this game. 'And yes, we're very homesick sometimes. Yes, we're isolated. And yes, sometimes it's b.l.o.o.d.y hard. But no, you're wrong if you think I harmed my own child.'

She watches me without comment.

'I'm sorry,' I say, rubbing my forehead. 'I'm very, very tired.'

'Could you take me through what happened on the balcony?'

'Um, do I have to? It's so . . . awful.' My hands shake at the memory, and coffee slops onto the table. I'm like the old man in the corridor, trembling. I imprison my hands between my knees.

Go on, go on! begs Mum. Here's a nice, kind, sympathetic person.

'Okay,' I whisper, and swallow. 'The balcony's very long, you see. It runs the whole length of the house. All the bedrooms on that side open onto it. Kit and I are at one end, then the twins, then Sacha. We've an old sofa out there, beside our bedroom door. Last night I couldn't sleep, so I went and sat out there. I was looking at the stars.'

For pity's sake, Martha! Throw yourself at her mercy.

Kura fishes in her handbag and hands me a tissue. 'Why couldn't you sleep?'

'I'm a bit of a night owl. I was enjoying the peace. I heard a door open and Finn came pottering out from his bedroom. I wasn't surprised because he often sleepwalks. I once found him curled up in the dog's bed. m.u.f.fin was most disgruntled.'

Kura smiles. 'So Finn came out . . .?'

'He walked down to the far end where there's a rail at right angles to the long one. It was so dark, I could hardly see him at all. I stood up. I was planning on taking him back to bed, but I wasn't rushing. It doesn't do to make sudden movements, you know? The next moment I realised he'd climbed onto the rail, right at the other end-maybe thirty, forty feet away from me. It all happened so quickly. I ran, I ran and I screamed at him. Then he was falling . . . oh my G.o.d, he was falling, he was falling, and I heard him hit the ground.'

I feel the thud. It knocks the breath out of me.

Kura waits as I curl in on myself. She doesn't try to touch me, doesn't invade my grieving with her own need to console. She gives me time before she speaks again. 'How high is the handrail?'

'Oh, I don't . . .' I hold up a hand. 'Waist height to an adult, even a bit less than that. It's old. I think they're made higher nowadays.'

'So Finn's about the same height?'

'Um. Bit taller, maybe.'

'And it's made of what? Metal?'

'No, no. It's all the original wood. Turned posts. Finn climbs anything, just like a monkey. He knows not to play on the balcony rail normally, of course he does, he's not stupid. He wasn't awake. Poor little guy . . . I should have locked his door.'

Kura has horizontal lines on her face, like a child's portrait of an old person. 'Martha.' She leans closer, searching my eyes. 'Are you safe?'

'Am I . . .? Of course I'm safe. It's Finn whose life is in danger.'

'I think you know what I mean. Are you safe at home?'

I stare her down, my mouth pressed into the tissue. 'You're barking up the wrong tree. There's no villain. This was an accident.'

'I'm here to walk alongside you.' Her hand rests briefly on my upper arm. 'I'm here to help you to help yourself. If you need to get your other children out of that home, I can help. Tell me: what do you need to go forward from here?'

'I need . . .'

Help! Mum's actually shrieking. It's out of character. You need help!

'I don't know how I got here,' I whisper. 'I don't know what I'm doing here. I need to wake up now, please.'

Later, I sit in the chair and watch Finn breathing. He's so tiny, in that adult bed. Kura has found me a toothbrush. She's also given me her phone number.

She wants to help. I wish she could help.

Fourteen.

Following Ira's instructions, I drove halfway to Jane's cafe before turning off towards the sea. We b.u.mped our way down a rutted track until we reached a set of sandy yards where horses milled around.

The three children and I climbed out, dazzled in the strong sunlight. There were two men working among the animals, wearing broad-brimmed hats and dusty leather boots under their jeans. You could have filmed a western, then and there. I tried to look confident, but I wasn't. Even the twins were subdued. This wasn't our world at all. I wished I'd taken Kit up on his offer to come with us, but those blank canvases were calling him, I could tell.

One of the men looked up. It took me a moment to recognise Ira under the leather hat, though those waist-length dreadlocks should have been a giveaway.

'Dudes!' he cried delightedly, vaulting the fence. 'Great to see you. Hi, Sacha. Hey, this is my Uncle Tama.' He gestured back at his companion, who lifted a hand. I saw the hawkish nose and walnut-tanned skin of the shepherd in the rain. 'Come and meet a little fella,' said Ira, beckoning the children away. 'Just a week old.'

I was left to sit on the fence, watching Tama Pardoe's tall, spare figure. Thinking he hadn't noticed me there, I was trying to guess his age. The charcoal hair curling around his neck was liberally streaked with silver, but his movements were those of a young man. Flies settled on the horses' ears and swarmed into their eyes, making them throw up their heads. A scuffle broke out with a squeal and a kick, but he calmly ignored it. Horses followed him almost like dogs, nuzzling against his back.

He was lifting a hefty saddle from the fence when I heard his voice for the first time. He didn't look at me. 'You coming?'

'Me? No!' I realised I'd injected a girlish giggle into the word, and cursed myself. 'Definitely not.'

'Any reason?'

'Well, because . . .' I was caught off-guard. 'This isn't for me, it's for the children.' I watched as he placed the saddle on a horse's back and reached underneath for the girth. 'It's their turn to have adventures like this. I've had my turn. I'm just the mother.'

He smiled quietly to himself, and deep furrows appeared around his mouth.

'My job is to sit on the fence and wave,' I said. 'My job is to take the photos. And I'm a bit, er . . .'

He straightened. 'A bit?'

I heard myself burbling. 'I had riding lessons when I was small. I loved horses-typical little girl-but I could never get past my fear. When I was fourteen, a horrible bully of a horse pretended it was terrified of a windsock and bolted. I screamed blue murder and my teacher yelled, "Show him who's bo-o-ss!" Then the horse slipped in the mud and we both went down.'

Tama nodded unemotionally. 'Happens.'

'I broke my leg in three places.'

He looked across at my leg, and I stretched it out to show him. 'Here, here and here. I spent six weeks in traction. Never enjoyed riding again.'

'C'mon, Ruru,' he murmured, tapping the leg of a magnificent piebald creature.

'I've seen this horse before,' I confessed. 'And you. In the rain.'

'I know.' The great horse lifted a heavy foot and Tama cradled it against his knees, examining the underside. Ruru stood quietly, swishing his tail at the flies.

'No shoe,' I noticed.

'No shoes on any of 'em.' Tama grasped another colossal saddle and swung it effortlessly from the fence. 'These horses aren't like anything you've ever ridden before.'

I looked sceptical.

'They don't bolt,' he said.

'They would if I was on 'em.'

'No. They wouldn't. They're working horses. Now, Martha McNamara- just the mother-would you like to hop down here and give me a hand, or are you going to sit up on that fence like a fantail, and chitter away while I do all the work?'

By the time Ira reappeared with the children, each self-consciously wearing a riding hat, I was doing my best to groom a honey-coloured mare called Kakama. Her foal, a leggy miniature of his mother, bounced around nearby.

'Kakama's for you to ride one day,' Tama had said, as he handed me the brush. 'So you'd better make friends.' Then he'd smiled his private smile, and left me alone.

Sacha stood beside me now, watching him lead two horses, a hand lightly resting on each. Dust danced around his boots. I felt her elbow jab my ribs. 'Eye candy, isn't he? As old guys go.'

'Sacha!' I felt myself blush, possibly because I agreed with her.

She patted my arm. 'I know, I know. You love Kit. But it's not a sin to do a little window shopping, is it?'

'Get away with you,' I said, smiling. 'Go on, go riding.'

One by one, Ira and Tama gave their pupils leg-ups. After a little girth-tightening and stirrup-adjusting the five began to wind their way out of the yard. Finn and Sacha looked elated; poor Charlie was terrified, clinging to the saddle and doing a fair imitation of a sack of potatoes.

'This probably isn't the kind of riding you're used to,' grunted Tama, flinging himself carelessly onto Ruru's back. He held the reins in one hand, and his stirrups were long. I noticed that Ira didn't even bother with a saddle. 'There's no bit in their mouths. How would you like to run around with a piece of metal on your tongue?'

'This saddle's like an armchair!' Sacha rocked back and forth.

Tama showed his little posse how to turn. 'These guys want to work with you. So you don't yank at the reins. You don't lean forward, you sit back.' He glanced at Charlie. 'That's it, my friend. Perfect.' Instantly Charlie's chin lifted and his back straightened.

I climbed onto the fence with my video camera, thinking of the film I'd send to Dad: Finn's ebony hair, blue sky, streaks of cirrus, two men who looked as though they'd been born on horseback. A flashing diamond of a sun, and dust in clouds around twenty hooves.

When the riders strolled away between the dunes, I resisted the temptation to follow on foot. I'd brought some work to do for the Maori culture paper, so I fetched it from the car and sat under a tree. The rest of the herd began grazing nearby. I could hear their strong teeth as they tore at the gra.s.s. I felt almost marinated in peace.

I think I'd dozed off when Finn's shrill chirrup heralded the return of the adventurers. He was telling Tama and Ira all about m.u.f.fin and how she had flown on a plane. They rode up bright-eyed, buzzing and wet.

'We swam in the sea,' piped Charlie. 'Our horses really swam! The waves came right over us. And Sacha and Ira galloped!'

The best sight of all was Sacha. Her cheeks were flushed, her tawny eyes glittering as she slid to the ground and kissed her horse's neck.

'How was it?' I asked, and she laughed breathlessly.

'That was the best hour of my life.'

I cornered Tama in the yard. 'They'll be back,' I said. 'Thank you.'

The following Friday morning Sacha lugged a backpack downstairs, clutching her flute in its case.

'Can you give me a lift to the bus?' she puffed. 'I'm late, and the driver's a complete jerk-won't wait ten seconds.'

'Sure.' I eyed the backpack. 'Got everything you need for the fireworks party?' I was about to ask for Bianka's address and telephone number when I checked myself. Sacha was sixteen, and she had her mobile.

Kit fished in his wallet. 'For a taxi,' he said, handing her two twenty-dollar notes. 'Just in case. If you don't feel right for any reason and you want to get out, you can always call a cab.'

'I won't need this,' she protested, trying to give the money back.

'Keep it for emergencies,' said Kit. 'And remember: you can call us any time of day or night. If you don't feel safe, we'll come and get you. We'll moan and complain like b.u.g.g.e.ry but we'll come and get you.'

Dimpling, she kissed her stepfather's cheek. 'You're a big leprechaun softie.'

'And you play your parents like you play that flute,' retorted Kit. 'With scary skill. Be good.'

Sacha drove as far as the road. She had to slide the seat way back and shot down the track, spinning the wheel one-handed before slewing to a halt by the letterbox.

'We start study leave next week, because of the exams,' she said. 'This is turning out to be a pretty cruisy term for me. We get loads of time off.'

I tweaked her ear. 'You're still wearing Ivan's locket.'