I was up early the next morning, as usual. Even at holiday time the cows have to be milked, the calves fed, the cream taken out.

This last was my newest duty, for I was now trusted to drive our battered old Ferguson tractor out to where the cream stand marked the entrance to our farm road. I liked to drive and although I wasn't strong enough to lift full cream cans off the tractor tray I could park it right alongside where the cream truck driver would have no trouble getting to them. Later in the day, while I was at school, Mum or Dad would usually return the tractor to the cowshed with the empty containers.

Julian must have been woken by all the activity for he appeared in jeans and tennis shoes, energetically wiping the monster glasses as he came into the kitchen. I looked away. He looked exactly the same as yesterday. Yuk.

"Hi!" he said, and Mum smiled a hello back at him. Dad had already gone to get the cows in, we could hear him 'hallooing' and the yap of the two dogs.

"Hello, Julian, did you sleep well?" Mum followed up.

He nodded.

"Sure. Where are you all going?" he asked, watching me sitting on the step to tug on my gumboots.

"We have to feed the calves and put the cream out," I finally answered. "Mum comes over a little later and helps. We have breakfast afterwards."

"Feeding calves? Can I come too?" He seemed pathetically eager, his eyes bright and so humble in manner it almost made me sick.

"Why not. Cat will take you, Julian." I glared at her. "What about boots? It's very muddy and the calves step on your toes. Cat, get those old ones of mine, they'll be a little loose on you, Julian, but they should do the job. Go on, Cat, they're in the laundry, behind the door."

I gave her another glare and stomped out and around the house. It wasn't the having to fetch and carry so much as the cheapening of my name. Soon this... this monster would be using it as familiarly as my own family...

The part of the house we call the laundry is a long, low building huddled up alongside the main part of the house, its weatherboards twisted and warped with age, its roof a dignified series of sags now bright with rust.

Mum does the washing here, and we store a lot of things that can't really be put in the house. Somehow there's always room for more junk.

When Julian had put the gumboots on we walked on over to the cowshed where the milking had by this time begun.

The cowshed is about two hundred yards away and on a slight rise, with an enormous macrocarpa tree overhanging one corner, its drooping branches revealing great age or long suffering, I could never decide which.

I used to have a treehouse in it once, but one Christmas not too long ago I fell out of it and broke my right arm, so now I only climb it to find the moss-lined nests of the chaffinches that 'plink' and stutter from the topmost twigs.

"Why do you milk cows?" Julian's question drove me from my comfortable memories. I flashed him a look of scorn.

"For milk, of course! Why else would we do it?"

"But what do you do with the milk? You can't drink it all, surely?" He persisted, his voice quietly insistent.

I stopped walking and looked at him carefully. He wasn't joking, I could see that then, he simply didn't know anything about cows and farming and milking. He was simply ignorant. Stupid.

"Where have you been all your life?" I demanded. "We milk the cows and separate the cream to send away to the dairy factory to make into cheese. Don't they do that in Canada?" I turned and resumed walking towards the shed.

Julian frowned and followed.

"I think so," he finally admitted, "but not where I live. Lived." he amended hastily.

Now it was my turn to hesitate. I wanted to ask him where that had been, but wasn't ready to admit my own ignorance so let the chance slip by. We were at the shed by then and conversation was impossible with the mechanical wheezing and chuffing noises from the milking machine.

Dad was putting cups on down the end row so we waited until he worked his way nearer, Julian watching with interest as each cow's teats were washed and Dad's big hands went out to grab the octopus-like affair that makes up the suction handpiece. With one fluid motion his hand would grab the whole thing, his fingers expertly flipping the cups under the frame where the hoses were pinched just enough to stop the horrible sucking noise. With the other hand he then guided each receptacle to its target teat and let it slide on to begin the gentle action that steadily removed the milk from the cow's udder.

I wondered what it felt like, wearing horrible sucking things like that, I mean.

Julian took it all in, his mouth slightly open, his head held on one side like a thrush after garden worms. His eyes were flicking from one thing to another.

When I glanced at him and saw the expression I got an idea. It came to me in a flash, a plan so brilliant it almost dazzled me. Julian's unfamiliarity with my world could be used to my advantage if I did things the right way.

Instead of cursing him for being there and subtracting from my time, from my holidays, why not take him with me. Everywhere. As far as possible, and then when I was too late for milking I could blame him. It would be his fault, too, for if he was such a city boy that he'd never seen a cow milked or even knew what was done with the milk, then he'd tire pretty quickly, I might even get to do all the things I liked in the three weeks ahead.

Suddenly pleased with myself I let a little smile play over my face and forgot that Dad was working his way towards us.

"Hello, you two!" he bellowed so suddenly I jumped.

"Cat, Dora's in the far stall, you can hand milk her now if you like."

I nodded and turned to get the bucket and seat from under the cream vat and set off down towards the far cow, with Julian following somewhat nervously, his mouth still slightly ajar.

Dora was the housecow. Dad always brought the bull to her last so that her calf was late and she produced milk over the weeks of the year that the others were dry. She'd had her latest calf only a few days earlier, and we couldn't let her milk go into the vat with the others just yet, it was much too thick and yellow.

I set the stool in place and sat down facing Dora's enormous mottled brown and white belly, then reached out to wash the projecting teats as Dad had done. Next I positioned the bucket so that my gentle manipulations produced a steady stream of warm, creamy liquid to rattle against the tin, one stream from each hand.

Julian squatted to watch the whole process, carefully avoiding Dora's restless back legs that occasionally shifted as if her bulk was too much to have to carry indefinitely. She would never kick me, but my newfound cousin didn't know that. No doubt he'd noticed that some of the other cows in adjacent stalls had their legs tied back with a cord to stop them ripping off the offending cups.

"Want to try?" I asked him, expecting a refusal, but he nodded, his face serious.

I had a good half bucket by this time, so I stood up and stepped back to let him take my place where he reached out uncertainly to the now slick teats.

"Use your thumb and two other fingers, just grasp and gently pull down, letting the teat stretch and slip slightly through your fingers. When you get to the bottom stop and grasp it back at the top again. That's right... not so fast... make sure the milk goes in the bucket, aim it as you pull... that's better. Now the other hand at the same time..."

He fumbled and managed to get a weak dribble from each teat, then as he gained confidence the flow increased. Every now and then his hand slipped off and he lost the rhythm, but he did better than I'd expected, for a city boy.

Soon after I took over again to get the job done in time. I'd done this for as long as I can remember, more usually out in the paddock with Dora still intent on some grassy tidbit just one step ahead.

That's where I learned some of the swear words...

By the time we'd finished Dora and returned to the machinery room Mum had arrived and was preparing the calf meal to be used with the skim milk. Feeding of the calves always has to wait until a good third of the cows have been milked, for it takes a while for the milk to be separated into heavy cream and foaming white skim milk. It's this latter that we use for the calves, adding meal as they get older.

Then the work really began. We filled buckets and carried them out to the wooden frames designed to let one calf at a time get to one bucket at a time, not that they didn't manage to bypass this arrangement.

Julian helped without being prompted, carrying the full buckets out to where I was placing them in the racks and daubing the brown backs with froth to mark them, identifying them for later when they tried to take a second helping.

Meanwhile Mum took the opportunity to feed the younger ones. There weren't too many of these left now, for it was getting late in the year for new births, and most of the calves had long passed the stage of hand feeding.

The process is quite simple if a little physical, and this is where the gumboots are vital. The young ones are in a different pen and have no idea that the racks represent food, so you have to go right in there with them, catch one, then back it up against the fence or something while you teach it basics.

The best plan is to straddle its back and take a firm grip on the shiny wet nose. It helps to dip your fingers into the bucket of milk first, then slip your fingers into its mouth. Almost immediately the calf will begin to suck enthusiastically, pushing its head up and outward, for that's the normal position when they're sucking at their mother's udder.

Getting the entirely new idea across that the source of milk is now down instead of up is no easy job and usually involves brute force as you force the head downwards into the bucket, fingers still in its mouth. As the animal gets the idea you can slowly ease your fingers out until they hardly do more than touch the nose, leaving the calf to guzzle on its own. Meanwhile your feet are being trampled and as the milk quickly passes through the system you have to avoid the mess generated at the other end...

Fortunately this training process is required for only the first few times. Calves are very food-oriented and soon get the idea. When their memories are reliable and they can compete well enough, we put them in with the older calves to fend for themselves.

Mum got Julian involved in one of the last three calves we were training in this fashion, leaving me to monitor the feeding of the rest, a process requiring sharp wits and a sturdy stick...

I saw him gingerly straddle one beautiful red-brown creature that immediately managed to put its foreleg down the overlarge borrowed gumboots and then butted forward into the bucket Julian was holding with his left hand.

He was caught completely unawares, having concentrated too much on the foot problem and so found himself balanced partly on one leg when the calf made its triumphant surge forward.

To his astonishment he found himself sliding over the calf's head and down into the mud, unable to save himself because of the pinned leg. When it was over the animal calmly removed its foot from his boot and proceeded to lick his face with its coarse tongue, a process Julian seemed to find completely unattractive judging by his wildly flailing arms.

I hooted with laughter as he pulled himself upright, mud and milk plastered over him in nearly equal quantities. What a sight! Mum gave me a disapproving look and helped him regain the safety of the fence, clucking sympathetically over the damage and leading him over to the hose. There's only one way to get muck like that off...

By the time the milking was over and we had hosed the place clean Julian was nearly dry again. I was tempted to have an 'accident' with the hose as I blasted the muck from the stalls, but I caught a warning look from Dad and desisted. Never mind, it had been worth it all just to see that glorious moment when he'd disappeared into the sea of calves...

Later I went and got the old tractor started. We always park it on the little grassy hillock beside the cowshed because there's something wrong with the starter or battery or something, I'm not sure which. This way I can always get it started even if it's not so easy down at the roadside, but it's usually Dad who has to start it there, and he can use the hand crank if the starter won't work.

Hill starting is pretty easy. You turn on the petrol and the ignition and put it into second gear, then release the brake and let it begin to roll down the slope. At the right moment you let in the clutch and with a puff of smoke it splutters into life!

Of course you only get one chance at this, for there's about thirty feet of run and then the fence stops the roll, so you'd better have the motor going as you turn the corner at the bottom or you're really in trouble...

Once it's going it's usually pretty reliable. It's fun sitting up there and swinging the big wheel or carefully edging the throttle up or down. Mum objected when Dad first taught me... I nagged him unmercifully until he agreed... saying that it wasn't right that girls should drive tractors. She still dreams of having me grow up into a 'nice young lady' who wouldn't dream of getting her hands dirty, let alone drive tractors.

I've got news for her. Matè Babich was still living up the road at the time and he was allowed to drive their tractor. I can do anything a boy can do and I told her so. Furthermore, I can't see any difference when I grow up, if I want to do something I'll just go ahead and do it.

Julian was interested in the tractor. He followed me out when I went to start it.

"It's pretty old, isn't it?" he asked doubtfully, his eye on the rusting holes in the mudguards over the main wheels.

"Nah, it just looks it. That rust comes from going on the beach all the time. Just stand back a bit, will you... the other side, I'm going to turn up there!"

With great style I completed the startup process and drove it up to the shed where I turned it around and backed up to the concrete lip of the cowshed's separator room where the one and a half tins of cream were waiting to be carried down to the road.

Dad spun then onto the raised wooden tray and Julian hopped on afterwards, clinging to a handle as I set off for the road a few hundred yards away.

There I carefully parked it with the tray pointing outwards at the same height as the creamstand surface. If Dad needed the tractor for anything else he'd be able to transfer them over and then drive off. I didn't have strength enough to do the same, so I simply turned the ignition off and swung down to the ground to walk back to the cowshed and hence to the house.

Julian didn't say anything, he just looked around him in the same dumb way, as if everything was there to be devoured, absorbed into himself. Occasionally he rubbed his leg where the calf had bruised it and appeared to ignore my smirk.

When we were having breakfast, he asked me if it had ever happened to me.

"Of course not, silly, I always make sure my feet are out of the way. It doesn't take long to learn."

"Cat sometimes has problems with horses, though," Dad put in slyly and I scowled at him. We've got two horses... ponies, really. Pyg's OK, but the other always tries every nasty horse-trick it knows on me. The worst part of it is that I have to have Dad or Mum there to help me bridle him. Me! I like to do things for myself whenever possible.

"Really? Do you have horses, then?"

Dad nodded.

"Yes, but they don't get used all that much except for going over to the Ninety Mile for toheroas or maybe down the beach now and then. They have a pretty easy life."

Julian's face was taking on a somewahat blank look at the mention of beaches and toheroas, so Dad went on.

"Tell you what, how about we go down the beach today. The tide's about right, and if I can convince Alex to come we'll take the net. Could get some mullet." He looked enquiringly at me.

Fantastic! The beach isn't really all that far from the farm as the crow flies, over a swamp and through fern-clad sandhills, but to go there on the tractor Dad would have to go the long way round, to the Heads where the harbour met the beach right under the Mount. No walking for Katie!

"Oh, yes, Dad! Maybe there's something up on the beach."

He smiled at my eagerness.

"OK, I'll go over to see Alex right away. You help wash up the dishes and get some jars from your mother for tuatuas, we might as well do it properly."