Tui

This strange, happy land would never be home.

Smiles were spread on everyone's faces. The natural instinct to wave and acknowledge others was abundant. What was this strange place - were these people... happy?

Back home in England, it was hard to get a “Morning,” from people on the streets. Here, the smiles made the choir of birds seem to sing a little louder. The air was fresh and clean.

“NEW ZEALAND!” Someone shouted, interrupting my day dream, “The place where the greens are greener and blues are bluer!”

I shook my head, confused. My cases bumped across the gangway as I stepped off the ship and into the new land. New Zealand. It was too overwhelming.

My thoughts wandered, zoning out the happy hubbub of the pier. I thought of cramped, smelly, England. Already I noticed a difference. There were trees, so many of them. Bush, flax, pohutukawa and ferns. Was the man right? Were the greens really greener? Or was I just going crazy? It must be the air.

“Untouched paradise,” my mother whispered with a gentle smile. It was that smile again. The one that left ia sparkle in people's eyes. That contagious smile that spread like heated butter on my morning toast. All of a sudden I had a quiet grin that pulled my rosy, freckled cheeks up like a puppet. The virus had spread to me.

A man in the ship’s crew uniform looked at me and raised a black, bushy eyebrow, creasing his forehead. “Luggage to the left, now lassie, mind ye step!” He bellowed. An englishman from the boat, grumpy as always. I shook my head as if a bee had landed on my nose. Mother chuckled and found my hand as she guided me to our carriage.

As our carriage clip-clopped down the dirt road, I caught my first glance of the ramshackled cottage and a gasp caught in my throat. It was marvelous. Roses clung to the terrace with petals as sweet as sugar cubes, their pastel petalled faces gazing at the sun.

Cream weatherboards glowed with a vintage charm and geraniums sprouted from the pastel blue window boxes. Gleefully, I stumbled out of the carriage, Mother trotting along behind me.

The tin roof was rusted blue and brown.

Flax bushes tapped the windows.

Blue smoke wafted from the terracotta chimney pots.

It was absolutely perfect.

As we reached for our bags a bird flew over my head. Rich electric blues, vibrant ocean

greens and hints of purples flashed on it’s feathers.

“She’s a beauty, aint she? That tui,” a voice whispered behind me. I turned around, shocked, and saw a bearded old man gazing at the bird. He was clad in a sooty coat and wellington boots. “Oh! Sorry, m’lady - the name’s Bruce Walker. This is ya cottage, I’ll show ya around.” He smiled, and held a filthy hand out that looked as though he had bathed in soot. “Ah, scuse me dirty hands, m’lady, I sweep chimneys, ya see?” I smiled and shook his hand anyway.

“I’m Alice - Alice Lancaster. I’ll think we’ll get along just fine.” That New Zealand smile had crept onto my face again as I helped Mother unpack the cases.

That evening, as the copper rays of sun filtered through the trees, I watched the same tui land on a pohutukawa branch. His chest filled with air; his little white puff warbling as he burst into song. My memories of England seemed, dark and cramped compared to this abundant life in Aotearoa.

I didn’t miss it.

I knew now.

This strange, happy land was my home.

Amber Joyce Pringle