"And not before time too," comes a voice from the back of the hall.
"Thank you, George."
Mrs Archibald-Jones whispers she has a surprise for me. And I will be pleasantly surprised. Indeed.
"To make you feel at home. You're practically one-of-us."
The whole valley, even some people from town are here, she says.
In this country hall, I make small talk with people who talk big and loud about next years crops, this year's purchases, and holidays overseas. I talk with people who've been here all their lives, who grew up here; the back-bone of this country people. And people who've come today to meet me, practically-one-of-their-own, to buy my book and have me sign it. Because on pages ninety-two and three there are two whole paragraphs about this place.
The place where I grew up.
"I remember a little old Māori lady, a Mrs Worryhere. She used to sit on the side of Mangatea Road and sell Kittys, just like that one you carry. It's so beautifully woven. But I don't remember you. Isn't that strange?"
Indeed.
"So hard to believe you grew up in these parts. Just down the road I hear," Mrs Archibald-Jones says.
Yes, just down the road, left at the cross-roads just after the bridge.
Where the smooth seal runs out and the gravel ruts.
First you get your fried bread. You break it apart with your fingers. It looks like an open book. You stuff it with hunks of meat from the bacon bones; cram in as much watercress as you can, pour on the tomato sauce. You squash the whole thing together; you lick the sauce that dribbles out at the sides. Back then, I could eat one of those Horotiu pies in two bites. And while I chewed that one, I got another one ready.
We all ate like that and we talked with our mouths full. We all got told to, "hurry up us grown-ups have to have kai too you know."
You had to pick it clean.
"Just grab a bunch and twist it all together to break it," Uncle Mana said. "The womens will clean it."
I'd filled my bag. Then I sat on a rock and threw lumps of dirt at the others. They picked theirs one by one. When we got back to the pa, we emptied our bags in front of Aunty Rita and the other ladies. I had to stand at the sink for hours and clean mine. The whole bag full. The others ran passed the window in the kitchen. They teased me, "Ana, that's what you get for picking it dirty."
"Supper."
Mrs Archibald-Jones says karakia, "in honour-of-our-guest-speaker."
The people clap when she finishes.
The ladies pursue me with their plates of home baked goodies.
"You must try my Lamingtons."
"You will love these darling Rum babas."
"Do try my Anzac biscuits."
"My date scones are divine."
"Ladies, please allow Mr Worryhere room to breathe. Now Mr Worryhere, may-I-call-you Tworay? Please try these Tworay; I made them just for you."
A huge platter of club sandwiches is thrust in my face.
"Surprise."
"Thank-you."
"I know you're just going to love these. They're to-die-for. Do enjoy."
I am a travel writer.
The stream next to the food caravan in Ngawi spilled over with watercress. I didn"t even get my feet wet. That night, I enjoyed it stir fried with the Paua I got from the rocks there.
At the edge of the Woodhill forest in the Kaipara district, I walked across a carpet of green that was at least the size of a football field. My nephew took me there.
"Not many people know about this," he said.
We picked enough for the two of us, we ate it with the mussels and Kina he'd dived for that morning.
Watercress grows everywhere. I pick it. Clean.
In the creek at the DOC camping grounds in the Waipoua forest; along the road that leads into Jackson"s Bay, in the drain by the railway tracks opposite Kelm Road just out of Ngaruawahia, and I spotted some in a drain out side someone"s house in Paraparaumu. I had that lot with whitebait fritters. I stopped on my way to Taranaki; just after the old garage on the lost highway and when I got to Opunake, Toni-Anne boiled it up with brisket. I couldn"t stop on the Motu road between Gisbourne and Opotiki, the road was too narrow. And in the creek behind the church at the old Kenepuru hospital grounds, I tipped my clean pickings out.
"There's an urupa up there," Jimmy had said.
In January I caught the Overlander from Hamilton to Paekakariki. The holiday people took photos; the Raurimu spiral, Ngaruhoe, the last spike, and what ever else the loud speakered voice indicated.
"To your left…to your right… just up a bit further folks."
I saw watercress out of the window that no one will ever pick.
Watercress grows everywhere. I pick it. Clean.
But none can compare in sweetness and none is as delicious as the watercress that grows here, just down the road, left at the cross-roads, just after the bridge.
Where the smooth seal runs out and the gravel ruts.
"There's no where in this world I haven't been to," George says to me. "I can't recollect none of the places you been to, but I've seen the world. You name it, I been there. Reckon I can write a book about where I been to? "
"Coffee, tea?" Mrs Archibald-Jones says. "No thank you, this water is fine. Really."
I am Turei Waruhia. I stand in the hall that was built here after my grandparents house was pulled down. After Uncle Mana sold the farm to pay all his debts. Just before nanny and grand-dad died.
Small-minded people talk big and loud. I nibble a to-die-for club sandwich. Shaved ham, tomato, and watercress. To-die-for. In deed.
Judge, Lee Murray's comments: A dark tale of small-town racism and erasure which relies heavily on symbolism, “My Watercress Kitty” is beautifully told in a series of fragmented, somewhat off-kilter episodes all framed around the return of a celebrated Māori author to the town where they grew up. The disjointed structure not only captures the enigmatic nature of memories, but each episode conveys a keen sense of place. For me, this piece is palpable with truth: after all, show me the New Zealander who hasn’t attended one of these take-a-plate events in just such a small-town hall, ‘where the smooth seal runs out and the gravel ruts’, with people like Mrs Archibald-Jones, the type who ‘talk big and loud’ but ‘don’t remember you’? It’s a story that is too loud to ignore and thoroughly deserving of its placing.