Friday, December 17, 2010

from - Burying Me

North London  2000
He reaches for her and she runs around him, down the path between the bushes. Muttering to himself, cursing under his breath, he follows. She squeezes through the slackened wires of the broken fence. Immediately, she wishes she'd not come this way. The narrow sheep track slopes downwards to where she knows the waves crash onto unforgiving rocks. She feels a pounding in her chest, spray on her face. Trailing her left hand along the bank, she edges down the path. On her right she feels nothing. Clutching at a sheaf of flax she stifles a cry as razor sharp leaves slice into her hand. Eyes straining against the darkness, she reaches out for tufts of grass. Listens for him. Licks at the warm, sticky mess coating her palm. Above the thumping in her head she hears the crashing of waves. Sees the moonlit foam far down below. The white tipped crests out to sea. She crouches low, clinging to the broken stump of a tree. Sees him.

Maureen Tiller woke with a start knowing full well that the man she’d just buried was not her husband. Heart pounding, face damp, she lay still, breathing heavily, waiting for the familiar images to recede. The curtains were still drawn but a shaft of late afternoon sunlight defiantly slipped between them like a laser beam. It lit up the dust in the air, bounced off the edge of the dressing table and petered out at the foot of the bed. She settled into the pillows and closed her eyes. After a few minutes she turned her head to gaze at the empty space beside her. Greg hadn't slept there for months, but still she couldn't get used to the expanse of undisturbed bedding. She tended to sleep on her side and hardly encroached onto his space at all, except to feel the cool emptiness with her outstretched hand. The sheets had been changed so often that she couldn't even smell him anymore. The scent that she associated with him now was a mixture of disinfectant, hospital food and chemicals. The taste of him, when she thought of brushing her lips over his swollen cheek, was metallic.
At the end she'd begged him to let go. I'll be alright, she'd whispered to him. Let go, my love. Don't fight it anymore. It's funny, she thought now, squeezing back the warm wetness that ran slowly down her cheek, how you have that desperate urge to stop the suffering. But you can't imagine how you are going to feel when they've gone. When it dawns on you that there's no coming back. Then you feel like saying you didn't mean it.          
The last guests had left. Are mourners guests? Maureen wondered. A few colleagues from her office,  some of Greg's friends from where he used to work and one or two neighbours. Not a huge gathering. A card had arrived from Canada. Sandra wouldn't be able to make it, but that was understandable, she'd only met Greg once.  A flying visit on a business trip with her husband. You couldn't really call us close sisters, Maureen thought. A card at Christmas and birthdays. A phone call now and then. But we must have been close at one time, when we were young. If she hadn't gone off to Canada...  would things have been different? There was no one else left. And certainly no one on Greg's side.
It used to upset her that Joanne had no aunties and uncles around. No cousins or grandparents. She felt they might have been closer if their relationship had been less intense. If she'd been able to share her with other people. Right from the start they'd seemed destined to walk different paths. And she'd never blamed Jo. How else was a hungry babe supposed to feel when her mother couldn't feed her? Thirty eight years on, she hoped Joanne understood that this traumatic start to their relationship was never intentional. And it hadn't stopped her loving her. She was just not very good at showing it. How can you make up for something like that? Of course, now women get help. Greg had tried. He'd been a good father. They'd always  enjoyed being with each other. Maureen had envied them that.
The sound of voices drifted up the stairs. The tone, not the content. Joanne's voice rising and falling, fielding offers of help and gestures of sympathy. A car started up in the drive. The front door closed and she heard Joanne talking to Dylan, the clatter of the cutlery drawer. They'd forgotten all about him. He'd spent the afternoon out in the shed. She knew that as soon as the hall door opened he'd come bounding up the stairs looking for her. He'd leap up at the bed, his little Corgi legs unable to make the height, and make laughing noises in his throat until she reached down and put a hand underneath his bottom to help him scramble up. Then his whole body would quiver as he licked her neck and face. Already he'd accepted Greg's absence. 
She must get changed. She didn't want dog hairs all over her black skirt. As she swung her legs off the bed she noticed a pair of Greg's slippers poking out from underneath the valance. Old ones, with splatters of white paint on them from when he last did some decorating. She remembered buying him new ones to go into hospital. But these were his favourite. With her foot, she nudged them out of sight. That chore was yet to come. Sorting out his stuff.
In front of the mirror she took off her skirt and blouse and stood looking at herself, black slip straining slightly over hips and thighs. Just a gentle thickening, she told her reflection. Only to be expected at her age. She could do something about it if she wanted to. Her hair, cut short and lightly tinted, was still her best feature. Her upper arms were beginning to sag a bit and there was nothing she could do about the neck.  As she studied herself in the mirror she trailed a hand over her shoulders, down her arms, over her breasts. She missed the intimacy. She was nearly sixty and on her own. Whenever she thought of this fact, and she did so often despite her efforts to suppress it, she felt a sudden draught coming over her shoulder, from behind somewhere.
                The dog could be heard bounding up the stairs. As he pushed his way into the room, Maureen bent to greet him. She scooped him up and tossed him onto the bed where his whole body took on the action of the absent tail, gyrating from side to side.
A voice called from downstairs. "Sorry about that, Mum. I couldn't stop him."
"That's alright. Come on up, I'm just getting changed."

Joanne Tiller hesitated at the foot of the stairs. There was an awkwardness now that her father was gone. She didn't want it to be that way, but there you are, it just was. She'd already decided to leave next day. No point in dragging things out. But she'd not mentioned it to her mother yet. Moving back to help with her father's illness had seemed right at the time but it was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. They'd been very understanding at her school but she needed to pick up the reins again. And she'd be glad to get back to her own place. Chrissie, her housemate, had come to the funeral today. That was nice of her.
             Maureen was hanging up clothes when Joanne walked in. She didn't turn. Jo sat on the end of the bed and struggled for something bright to say. "The hat looked good. Bridget from Dad’s office couldn't resist trying it on just now."
"What was she on about?"
"Oh, you know...  'Go and have a hot bath, get an early night, life must go on...,' that sort of thing."
"She means well."
"I know she does. But I can do without it."
"I know."
Joanne watched her mother pull on a pair of track suit bottoms and a shocking pink I've been to California sweatshirt that screamed at her, it was such a contrast to the sombre clothes she was wearing herself. And anyway, Jo knew she hadn't. Been to California, that is. 'Colour lifts the spirit', her father used to say. ‘It makes up for the grey skies’. And her mother went out of her way to please him. So Joanne had learnt to hide her embarrassment at the school gate where her mother always stood out from the crowd. She'd been forced to become a 'colours of the world' child and had embraced a quietly Gothic look ever since. She wore her deep auburn hair long and loose despite everyone telling her that at her age she ought to do something with it. Today there was a Munch look about her. Dark and drawn. She wore a long slim skirt that reached the top of her black ankle boots. Her hair was caught up at the back in an elasticated 'scrunchie'. A long loose cardigan covered a low necked top that made her skin seem paler than usual. She had a habit of gripping the cuff of her sleeve between fingers and thumb, stretching it downwards to cover her hand. 'What's the matter,' her father used to say. 'Are you cold?'    
"Are you hungry?" Maureen asked. "I can't face anything myself, but what about you?"
"No, I'm not hungry."
"Are you sure? There’s stuff left over."
"No, really, let's just chill out. Finish off the wine."
She lay back on the bed. The dog crept up to rest his head on her arm, his little back legs stretched out straight behind him. Joanne never worried about dog hairs.
The late news was finishing on BBC1. The rest of the world was going about its business unaware that someone important had just been buried. More than anything, it seemed to Maureen, that showed how insignificant we all are in the grand scheme. She left the picture on but turned the sound down. Somehow the moving images were comforting.             
           They were into their second bottle of wine and tears came easily. Maureen lay full length on the sofa, glass in hand. Joanne stretched out on the carpet. Beside her was an old chocolate box of photographs and some albums. Slowly, they were working their way through their family history. There wasn't much to show. The photograph albums reflected Maureen's preoccupation with clean surfaces and order. One or two prints to a page, neatly captioned. Holidays, year by year. Me and Jo... Greg and Jo.... And later, Me and Greg, taken by Jo. Hand in hand, arms around each other, sometimes headless but always close. Stiff school photographs, year by year. And now and then, a formal family group taken at a studio.
The chocolate box represented life before Joanne. Maureen slid off the sofa and sat on the carpet with the box between her outstretched legs. One by one she picked out photos and passed them over to Joanne. Sepia-toned formals, black and white holiday snaps, edges curling and creased. A small girl astride a grey donkey on a grey beach. Not grey in her memory. There the sun is shining. She can smell the shrimp nets and candy floss and feel the sensation of sitting astride the donkey in wet knickers because no one will listen to her when she says she needs to go to the lavatory. You see... she's not laughing, she's crying. And afterwards the donkey man had scowled at her because the saddle was wet. Her father had tugged at her arm roughly as they walked back to the boarding house. She knew she'd spoilt the day.   
"That's me." Maureen pointed at the image. "Southport. We used to go there regularly."
"And who's this?" Joanne had seen them all before but couldn't remember the names. And anyway, it was nice to get her mother reminiscing. She didn't do it very often.
"Oh, God. What a sight. That's Janice's wedding. Will you look at that hat!” She looked thoughtful. Picked up another photograph. "There's me and Sandra. Must be at a dance somewhere. We used to go regularly." Two young women, arms linked, grinning into the camera. There, you see, we did do things together. But Sandra always went off with an older group when they got there and Maureen would lie to their father to cover for her. She passed the photo to Joanne. "Soon after that was taken Sandra went to Canada and met your Uncle Chas. You've got cousins there you've never met. Me neither. Maybe one day, eh."
"There're no old ones of Dad."
"Yes there are, look at this. That's us in Bournemouth. He must have been about twenty-seven then. I was pregnant with you." Maureen peered at the photograph. Wiped the dust off it with a screwed up tissue.
"But no childhood ones of him?"
Lost, her father had said. In various moves.
"No." Maureen changed the subject. "Will you just look at this!"
"You didn't have much of a wedding, did you? Is this all there is?" Joanne picked out a black and white photograph of her parents standing side by side in front of a group of trees. Her father is wearing a suit and her mother a knee length coat and pill-box hat. She's holding a small posy of flowers. There was another of her father carrying her mother on his shoulders, cave-man fashion. They're both laughing. She'd seen them before. As a child it had disappointed her that they didn't have any big, formal wedding photographs, like her friends' mothers had. These were no more than snapshots. On Ealing Common her mother had said, after they'd been to Acton Registry Office. When she'd asked her father who took the photos he said he'd forgotten. 'Ask your mother,' he'd said. But she couldn't remember either.
Maureen didn't respond. She was deep in thought, trying to put names to faces.
"What's this then?" Joanne reached for a brown envelope at the bottom of the box. It looked old, fragile even, unsealed. Carefully, she pulled out a bundle of postcards, amongst them, a few black and white photographs. A group of dead fish on a beach. The day we went to Piha, it said on the back. A wooden colonial-style house with a verandah - Izzie and Warren's place. Waitemuku – 1961. A group at a beach - she recognized her father immediately, young and brash, posing laddishly in swimming trunks. But the inscription said - Frank at the beach, Piha. Another one, on a verandah. An older man with his bandaged leg propped up on a stool  -   people behind him, in the shadows, and a dog walking out of the picture. Someone is drinking from a bottle, face obscured by hair. And there's her father with a guitar. On the back it says  -  Frank at Warren's place, Waitemuku. "Mum, look at these."
Maureen didn't answer. Joanne flicked through more photos. At the Domain, Auckland. Rangitoto in the background. Dig the hairdo!!! Two young men are standing in what looks like a park. Behind them the land drops away. Rooftops, dockyards, the sea. There's an island in the background, long and low, rising to a peak in the centre. But it was the men who held Jo's attention. Identical. Different clothes, but identical features. It was like looking at two images of her father.
"Mum, look at these." She held up another. Frank and me, 1961. There's her mother, slim with shoulder length hair. Skirt just above her knees, white gloves. She's standing beside her father who has his arm around her shoulder. She's smiling at the camera. Confused, Joanne tugged at her mother's sleeve. "I didn’t know you’d been to New Zealand.”
"What?" Maureen was suddenly alert. She leaned sideways, snatching the photos from Joanne. Her eyes darted across the images. Her forehead creased in pain. "No, no," she cried. "He shouldn't have kept these. He promised."
"Mum, what is it?"
On her knees, Maureen reached for the chocolate box and frantically collected up the photographs. She struggled to see without her glasses. The wine had made her unsteady and as she tried to get to her feet she lost her balance. The box slipped from her hands and the photographs slid across the carpet. Desperately, she gathered them together, scooped them up, clutched them to her California sweatshirt.
"Leave them, leave them alone," she cried. "They're nothing. They're private. They're not something you should see."
And then the sobs. Hopeless, despairing sobs that made her whole body shake, so that she had to steady herself on the arm of the sofa. 
Joanne stared, shocked and embarrassed, as her mother tried to force the photographs back into the envelope. She was all fingers and thumbs.
"Mum, you'll ruin them, let me help."
"No, get away. These are private," Maureen sobbed. "Go to bed. Leave me, just leave me alone."
Maureen sat rocking backwards and forwards, her face wet with tears. Eyes closed, she pressed the bundle of photographs to her chest. They shouldn't have started the second bottle, Joanne thought. Too much emotion, too little food. She could see that her mother was not prepared to share whatever was troubling her. She'd check on her later. Perhaps she really did need some time to herself. She'd seen this before. Not the tears and nothing to do with photographs, but occasions when Maureen had shut herself off from them both -  from her and her father. She'd just ignore them. And they'd learnt to give her time to snap out of it. That was the best way to handle it, her father had said.
"I'll go upstairs then,” Jo said. “I think we've both had too much wine."  Maureen didn't look up. Just nodded.  "I'll see you in the morning then. Okay? Mum? Don’t stay up too long.”
Suddenly weary, Maureen sighed. She didn't notice Joanne leave the room. She leant against the arm of the sofa, loosened her grip on the photographs and watched them slide to the floor. It had been a long day. She tried to imagine when Greg might have put the envelope in the box. They'd agreed there should be no reminders. She picked up a photograph and peered closely at the image. A young man on a beach in swimming trunks. He's piling sand onto a mound from which a head is poking. The head is thrown back laughing. The faces are identical. Maureen turned the photograph over and read the inscription. Burying me. 

                                                                  Copyrite: Christine Stanley

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Missing my pups.

I don't have any baby photos to post so I'm sharing my pups with you. I just LOVE being a puppy walker for Guide Dogs. The only downside is having to give them back. Oh yeah.... that hurts.

But we have such a lot of fun while we have them that it's all worth it. And we know we're doing something useful. These little ones have to mature before the trainers can do anything with them. Our job is to socialize them, do basic obedience, introduce them to all the sights & sounds of town & country. Trains, buses, lifts, theatres, schools, shops etc.

Oh, my goodness. Will you just look at that face. This is Sparky. And what a really bright spark he turned out to be.

Eager as a beaver.

With my first pup I wrote a fortnightly journal - novice puppy walker, novice guide dog pup -  that I read on Talking News for the Blind. It was very popular with blind Guide Dog owners. That was many pups ago.

If you're interested, look up www.guidedogs.org.uk  -  they're always recruiting.

Or if you're in NZ, the Royal NZ Foundation for the Blind have details. rnzfb.org.nz

A book worth talking about.... The Spare Room

The Spare Room, by Helen Garner, is a perfect little gem of a book. About friendship between women, it's set in Australia and tells the story of one woman's efforts to help her dying friend. Unsentimentally, she prepares her spare room.  Anyone who has cared for a seriously ill person will recognize the tiredness and sense of being overwhelmed by events and emotions while trying to keep your own life on an even keel.  She does what she has to do. As we do.

I love this book. It raises women onto a higher plane.

The Spare Room won several Australian Prizes and was nominated for the Commonwealth Writers' Prize. It's a quick read. Read it

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Blogs for Writers

I’m new to blogging and have been astonished at the number of writers’ sites offering advice to writers. It’s quite interesting to compare sites by visual artists. They’re much more engaged with putting their own work out there and describing their creative motivation and processes than in outright teaching of wannabe artists. They’re not consumed by the selling process. The difference being that painting, photography, sculpture, etc offer instant gratification… you create something and it’s there for all to see and appraise… and hopefully purchase. They don’t have to scale the hurdle of attracting an agent and a publisher before their work reaches the general public. No one expects them to be hung in a ‘proper’ gallery before they’re worth looking at and available for purchase. Artists can sell work at all levels. The purchasing public come with pockets in all sizes. But even the most dumbed down of writing has hurdles to scale before it reaches the reading public. There’s an investment of time involved in reading a manuscript, and it seems that only other writers understand this… so we pass bits of writing back and forth to each other in blogs and websites because any acknowledgement is better than none at all. And we jolly each other along in an effort to convince ourselves that what we’re doing is worthwhile, on a personal level, if nothing else.
Marketing is a very different skill from writing and quite at odds with the creative process. And now, I think I’m going off to do some painting. I can hang them along my garden fence.

A book worth talking about... Relief

This is Anna Taylor's first book, published after gaining an MA in Creative writing at Victoria University in New Zealand. A good creative writing course and these are good stories. What will be surprising to readers from the UK in particular, is that a new writer managed to get a collection of short stories published straight from school, so to speak. But that doesn't seem to be so unusual in New Zealand, a country which has a long tradition of short story appreciation. The Maori people are steeped in an oral tradition.  Television came late to these shores and radio stories were the norm. Plus there's a long history of writing letters to relatives 'back home'. Letters full of the stories of immigration and settlement... right up into the 1950s and 60s. I'd go as far as to say until the birth of emails and Skype usurped the familiar blue aerogramme. So, New Zealanders are used to telling stories.

Books, however, are a different matter. When I was at school in New Zealand, 'proper' books all seemed to come from Europe or America.  And the stories within them didn't represent New Zealand life at all. So I can understand the backlash that arose when New Zealand publishing houses got off the ground. They wanted books that showed New Zealanders doing Kiwi things and representing this country rather than England or America or anywhere else overseas. It was seen as an important element in the shaping of the nation that New Zealanders should represent themselves to the world and especially to each other. 'Overseas' became a foreign place.  Well, that was all well and good and certainly had its place in the struggle to shape and define New Zealand's identity. But goodness, it was a bit stifling, wasn't it? It was the reason many writers moved off shore and never came back.

It's still the case that New Zealand book publishers and magazine editors like to see that a writer has a connection to this country, but it's refreshing to see that they are not as strict in their guidelines as they used to be. It seems that people like Fleur Adcock and Lloyd Jones can still be claimed as New Zealanders while pursuing their careers elsewhere - as indeed did Katherine Mansfield.  Overseas is not as foreign as it used to be.

So, it's very refreshing to find a collection of stories by a young New Zealand writer who doesn't hammer home the fact that her characters are in New Zealand. There are few clues to locations beyond descriptions of fairly generalized landscapes, and it doesn't matter. The stories are about people going about their unexceptional lives and in the main, muddling through. The situations are universal and arise from misunderstandings and human frailties. A guest who chooses to fast for Christmas; an intruder foiled by a bee; a sister's determination to stand by her accused brother, even in the face of small doubts; a boy who trusts his father to put things right.

Taylor's language is straightforward and unassuming, poignant and comic.

Not all the stories worked for me, but those that did worked very well indeed. Many have inconclusive endings which I particularly like, but you are not left completely in the lurch. A pervasive tone at the end of most of the stories is a sense of relief... hence the title. It's not a book of New Zealand short stories. It's a book of stories by a New Zealand writer.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

A book worth talking about... Room

I've just read Room, by Emma Donoghue, and found it quite disturbing. I guess that was the intention of the author. However, what disturbed me most was not the story, but the sense of voyeurism it created. Perhaps it was written just too close in time to the real events involving the abduction and imprisonment of young girls in Austria and America. The media had a ball with these stories and speculation was rife. But how much time is a decent amount of time before such a highly charged personal ordeal becomes public property -  a story up for grabs - hot, because the real event is still pretty fresh in people's minds? After all, fiction writing is not journalism. A good fictional story doesn't really go cold... except, perhaps in terms of topicality and the short term memory associated with marketing. Are we now in for a glut of abduction stories? Are readers being force-fed fiction as fashion? Anyone who writes is always on the lookout for a writing prompt, but hi-jacking someone else's traumatic experience and turning it into loosely veiled fiction... well, I'm not sure about that. But that's just me. The Man Booker selection panel were not deterred. Any thoughts?

Room is written from a child's point of view. Jack has never experienced the world outside of the room in which he was born. It's a fascinating conjecture on the ability of the brain to normalize a very unusual situation. For me, the really interesting story is how this child might adapt and mature, or not, in the outside world. There have been many instances of children kept in unnatural situations and most have experienced cognitive and developmental problems. Jack had a loving mother with him who, within the confines of their room, created a world of facts and fantasy for him. He had no sense of loss or victimization.  However, as he matures, his priorities and values may turn out to be very different from his peer group... and therein lies another story.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

from - Burying Me

Izzie and Warren's place – Waitemuku 1961

"Get this bloody dog out of my kitchen!" a woman's voice shrieks. "I'll not tell you again." A black mongrel, young and full of cheek, bounds out of the back door followed by the wet end of a mop. "Little bugger's been at the compost bucket again. Warren, you get down here right now, or else!"
     In the sanctuary of the ramshackle workshop that clings to the side of the barn behind the house, Warren Keating sighs. He puts down the new handle he's shaping to fit the axe and hitches up his pants. Reluctantly he steps out into the scorched yard, takes off his hat to wipe sweat from his balding head, replaces it firmly pulling the brim down to shield his eyes. He stands for a minute to have a scratch. Underneath his navy-blue singlet his belly is warm and wet.
     "Jesus Christ, Izzie," he calls. "It's only Frank coming. Dunno why you're getting into such a state about it." He roars at the dog. "Garth! Get in here, you Maori mongrel. In here!" Then quietly – "Come here boy, here boy. Good dog. There! You little bugger. Now you'll have to stay tied up." The dog wriggles with glee, turns on his back to have his belly tickled, jumps up and winds the chain around the man's legs. "God, dammit!"
     Two other dogs, Kelpie cross types, snooze in the shade of the lean-to which houses the tractor. Now and then their chains rattle as they twitch and shake off flies. Warren crosses the yard to the back porch. The earth's baked so hard Izzie can sweep it clean as concrete. The water tank by the house is nearly empty. In fact, he's taken advantage of the prolonged dry spell to get up and paint some of the roof. Patch up some pipework. Bloody hot that corrugated iron was, but Izzie said it had to be done. They couldn't afford for the rain to run off. They needed it in the tank. She complained when the level got low. Said water came out of the taps looking more like cold soup. They plan to sink another bore hole next year. Had that old Maori geezer, Wiri Romati, up to take a look. He said there's plenty of water down below. They just have to get to it. They're well off compared to some, Warren reckons. At least they've got the creek to fall back on.
     Kicking off his boots, he unhooks the screen door and pulls it shut behind him. Connie Francis is on the radio.
                           "Where the boys are, someone waits for me,
                            A smiling face, a warm embrace..."

A wet mop stops him in his tracks.
     "Watch where you're walking, I've just done that bit." Izzie Keating slops the mop into her bucket. Bending forward, broad backside blocking his path, she squeezes out the head of the mop. Her faded red hair is encased in large rollers. A pink chiffon scarf holds them in place. Bare feet, cotton frock tucked up in her knickers, she's worked her way through kitchen and bedrooms until the lino gleams and you can't see the scuffs. The carpet runner that bisects the house has been out on the line for a beating. In the lounge, where the rich gold kauri floor frames a worn and faded carpet, she's hoovered cat and dog hairs off the sofa, flicked a duster over stuffed ducks and mounted antlers. Ancient shooting scenes, Scottish grouse and highland cattle, grace two walls. Above the cast iron fireplace, rosettes and trophies from agricultural shows. Best in Show 1945, Waikato & District; Best in Show 1946, Bay of Plenty A&P; First Prize, Dressage. Hawkes Bay A&P Show, 1946. There are more in a glass fronted cabinet. And photographs of a younger Izzie, Isabel McGregor she was then, in her twenties, on smartly turned out horses, jumping hurdles, accepting trophies, posing with prizes. A long time ago.
     The bedrooms are at the back of the house with a bathroom tacked on beside the porch, opposite the wash house. Warren prefers the privacy of the outside long-drop where a large fig tree straddles the entrance. It had been good enough for Izzie's parents, and her grandparents before them. He can sit in there with the door open and not be seen. Izzie says he's welcome to it.
     Viewed from the front, the house seems to nestle on a cushion of foliage and flowers. Native plants, swordlike flax, red kakabeak and purple koromiko mingle with brightly coloured dahlias, phlox and deep blue delphiniums, all semblance of order long since abandoned. A deep verandah provides shade. Set cornerwise, eight wide steps lead up to it from the driveway and the curving handrails rest on stout newel posts. Lacy fretwork and chaotic clusters of rambling roses soften the edges. The front door stands open to catch the breeze, its coloured glass panels lending an air of faded gentility. The haphazard roofline bears witness to numerous additions over the years as families expanded and funds allowed. Warren's newly painted sections stand out clearly against the old, faded green.
      Not as grand as some old homesteads, but the kauri floors and original fireplaces will be a selling point one day, a real estate agent has told them, if they ever get around to selling. Warren can't see it himself. Blistered white paintwork, dried crisp – he's always telling kids off for picking it. He thought Izzie had made it pretty damn clear to the young feller that they weren't even thinking of it. She was polite, told him she understood why he was on the lookout, he had a job to do. Though neither she nor Warren can see these old places becoming as popular as he predicted. Too much bloody painting for a start. Then the young smart aleck got Izzie's back up by saying that if the Maoris got their way over land, well, they could miss out altogether. 'Search me,' Bill Puutu had said when they'd asked him what he could have meant. Bill works for Lands and Survey so he should know. That was months ago.
     Warren sidesteps the wet patches. "You want the dog out, you've gotta keep the screen door shut. I keep telling you."
     "What do you mean only Frank? He's bringing his new wife, remember."
     "Oh, yeah. Jeeze, what did he want to go and marry a pommie for, eh? He had enough girls after him here without going all that bloody way to find a wife."
     "Ours is not to reason why, and you remember that," warns Izzie. "We're going to make that poor girl welcome. She doesn't know a soul."
     Warren picks his way to the kitchen and sniffs at the peanut brownies and the slab of shortbread cooling on the bench. Bugger me, Izzie's really going to town, he thinks. A banana cake and a pavlova. The little beaut.
     "Don't even think of it!" Izzie roars as he's about to scoop up a fingerful of whipped cream from the edge of the pavlova. "Get yourself something useful to do and bring me in some kumara. Then you can get out of those clothes and run a bath. I'll get in before you. They'll be here soon."
     The pork's already in the oven. He shot it last week. Bloody big boar. A treat because pig's getting scarce in this area. It's mainly deer these days. So when the dogs flushed out this boar he was onto it. Not like the old days though. He picks at some shortbread crumbs. Back then he wouldn't have used the rifle. The dogs would have brought it down. Tough on the dogs but more fun. Everything's gone a bit soft now. Can't find pig-dogs like you used to get. Tough buggers, You'd have a finder-bailer who'd go in and flush out the pig. Bark at him and keep him there till you caught up. Then the two holders would take over, one on each ear, till you got there to stick it. Many a dog he'd had to stitch up. Waxed thread and a darning needle.
     The smell of roasting pork is beginning to waft around the house. His finger hovers over the pavlova again.
     "The kumara!" Izzie yells.

They eat in the dining room at the long table Izzie's grandfather had made. A dartboard hangs on the wall above the sideboard. Over the fireplace a large mirror faces the front window which opens onto the verandah. Tucked into the edges of the frame are reminders of things to be done and people to be contacted. Bottles and tubes of veterinary medicines sit amongst the pottery figurines on the mantelpiece. Decoy ducks line up along the cream painted pelmet above the window and the faded curtains are printed with English hunting scenes. A drop front desk fills an alcove beside the fireplace, its surface littered with papers and copies of The New Zealand Farmer. On top the desk stands a lava lamp that no longer works and beside that, Izzie's library books: Peyton Place and Catherine Marshall's A Man Called Peter. She's just seen the film at the new cinema in Kawerau.
     Frank has brought some beers. He's introduces his wife, Maureen – pale girl with shoulder length dark hair, teased a bit and flicked up at the ends – sprayed stiff, like they do these days. Delicate hands. Slim. Her dress stops just above the knees. No waist, no sleeves. Izzie's seen something like it in the English Woman's Own. And Jackie Kennedy wore something similar when she saw her on television in a demonstration in Farmers. She's not talked to Warren about ordering one yet. A television that is. Not that anyone can get a reception down here. There's talk of putting up masts at Manawahe. It's alright for people in Auckland. Has a look of Jackie, this girl, Izzie thinks. English accent. Opens her mouth when she speaks. At least she's put on sensible sandals.
     The pavlova goes down well, but not the kumara. "It's just a sweet potato, love," Izzie explains. "Don't you get them in England?" She takes some dirty dishes out to the kitchen and returns with a tray. "We must seem a bit strange to you. A bit different from London, eh? But you'll be fine when you get to know a few people - get settled in a place of your own."
     Maureen nods shyly.
     Frank throws an arm around her shoulder and draws her awkwardly towards him. "Too right she will. No going back now, eh."
     He smells of beer and Old Spice. The pencil thin tie he's arrived in didn't last long. Just for show, Izzie thinks. That'll be Maureen's influence. He's let his hair grow long and floppy at the front. She's seen that look in films. Giant. Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean. That's it, James Dean. That's who Frank reminds her of now. About the same age too. Except he's dead now, of course. James Dean.
     "Here," Izzie gestures to Maureen. "Pass me that plate, love."
     Maureen pushes back her chair and collects up some dishes to go on the tray. Izzie notices her eyes brimming.
     Warren opens another beer and offers the bottle to Frank. "Got some bloody good home brew, you know," he says. "This bought stuff is alright but it blows you up a bit. Wait till you taste my brew."
     Izzie leads the way out of the kitchen then takes Maureen's arm. "Come on outside, sweetheart. Leave the men to themselves."
     It's cooler on the verandah. Izzie pushes a cat off the bench and sits down, resting her back against the wall of the house. She pulls a tin of tobacco out of her pocket and a packet of papers.
     Maureen leans over the verandah rail and gazes into the distance. Beyond the big jacaranda that drops blue petals like confetti over the scorched lawn, a few sheep graze on hillocky paddocks. Most lie resting, pressing themselves into the limited shade provided by an occasional tree.
     Izzie points out the cone shape of Mount Edgecumbe to the right on the horizon at Kawerau. Putauaki the Maoris call it. A faint trace of smoke at the base of the mountain drifts upwards. "That's from the paper mill," Izzie says. "Frank worked there once after he and Warren had a row over something." That was not long after he'd come to them. Warren had told him to 'shape up or ship out'. So he had done. Till he got sick of the canteen and the single men's camp. Came back with his tail between his legs.
     "Did you adopt him?" Maureen asks.
     "No, love. He adopted us."
     Scrubby manuka, tiny white blooms long gone, lines the dusty track that winds its way from the house down to the road. Here and there, tall spiky cabbage trees stand out like monuments. Beyond the road the land flattens out into a patchwork of small farms filling the basin of the plains through which the Tarawera and Rangitaiki rivers flow. If it wasn't for the poplar trees, Izzie tells Maureen, you'd be able to see Whale Island, down there to the left. And the Pacific Ocean.
     Behind the house, grass gives way to native forest. Tree ferns, lacy parasols, stand out against a background of totara, red blossomed rata and tall rimu. Near vertical hills and deep ravines that form the eastern edge of the Rotoma ranges. Despite the stillness, the air is electric with the sound of cicadas.
     "Want one?" Izzie offers the tin.
     "No thanks, I don't."
     Izzie runs her tongue along the edge of the paper. "Good for you."
     A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Izzie stands up and peers down the track. "Looks like we've got more visitors."
     A stream of dust half a mile away, and a horse cantering towards them. A dog keeps pace beside it. Maureen watches them draw closer. The rider waves.
     "It's the Puutu kid from over the hill," says Izzie. "They're our nearest neighbours."
     Pulling up sharply, a young Maori boy slides from the bare back of the horse leaving the rope reins dangling. He wafts away the dust he's churned up and squints towards them.
     "G'day Mrs Keating. Mum sent me to tell you we're all going down the dippy pool tonight, when it's dark. She said you've gotta bring your visitors." He flicks a fly off his bare chest and lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Are you gonna come then?"
     Izzie scratches at her backside. "Well, I don't see why not."
     The boy grins at Maureen. "You've come from England, eh?"
     Maureen nods.
     "I know about England. We read about it in school. The Queen lives there, eh?"
     "Yes, she does," says Maureen, trying to appear relaxed. "And she rides. But I bet she can't ride bareback like you."
     The boy draws a shape in the dust with his toe and grins at her. He takes hold of a handful of mane and swings up onto the horse's back. Gripping with his bare legs and feet he leans forward, underneath the horse's neck to retrieve the reins. "Oh, yeah, and Mum said can you give us a lend of your 'lectric fryer 'cos the aunties are coming tomorrow?"
     "What's she going to cook" asks Izzie.
     "I dunno." He turns the horse. "Food."
     Izzie laughs. "Tell her we'll bring it tonight."
     The boy digs his heels into the horse and they take off at a canter with the dog trailing behind. "Don't forget your togs, Mrs Keating," he cries over his shoulder. "Yahoo!" He waves both hands in the air.
     "That was Jackie Puutu, "Izzie says. "Nice kid. He's twelve. They have five kiddies. Jackie's next to the oldest. Don't suppose you brought any togs with you, did you?"
     "You know, swimming cossie."
     Maureen shakes her head. "But I don't mind, I'll just watch."
     "Mine'll fall off you, that's for sure." Izzie laughs. "Frank doesn't usually bother with any. You could do the same."
     Maureen colours. "Oh, I think I'll be okay watching. I don't like cold water."
     "Well, this'll suit you then, because it's warm."

Izzie drives the old Pontiac. Bottles of beer rattle around in the boot and towels and things. She's packed some peanut brownies for the Puutu kids and some pikelets that want eating up.
     Warren sits in the front and tells her where the potholes are as the car lurches down the unmade track to the road. "Jesus Christ, woman, you're gonna have us in the ditch before we get to the road if you don't slow down."
     Frank and Maureen are thrown from side to side on the back seat. Maureen grips the strap beside the door. Frank offers her a swig of beer but she turns away from him. Beer slops down the front of his shirt. It's smoother when they hit the road but that doesn't last for long. It's only three miles to the Puutu's turn off and then the lurching begins again. Izzie keeps apologizing and Warren keeps on cursing. There's nothing but blackness to be seen through the windows. Maureen clings to the strap.
     Eventually the car swings to the right and they rattle across a cattle grid. Maureen jumps and grips Frank's arm. He laughs and pulls her to him. "Cattle grid," he says.
     "Right through your bum it goes," laughs Izzie. "Sorry, sweetheart. I should have warned you."
     Lights appear up ahead.
     "Bill Puutu's a farm labourer for the Lands and Survey," Izzie explains. "Stockman really. They're lucky, a state house comes with the job."
     Smaller than Izzie's and modern, every window is lit up. Curtains hang at rakish angles. To the side of the house, a car up on blocks. The rotary line is still full of washing. T-shirts in various sizes, shorts and underpants.
     They pull up behind an old truck in front of the barn. Three dogs of indeterminate breed jostle for position to greet them, tails wagging. Warren leans heavily on the door as he gets out of the car. He opens the rear door for Maureen. Frank lurches out of the opposite side, bottle still in hand. Izzie eases herself out from behind the wheel.
     "Bloody dogs," Warren mutters. "Hey, Bill, Jackie... come and get these dogs! We've got a lady here from England. Not used to all this."
     The Puutu children push and shove their way out of the house. Three girls and two boys, all younger than Jackie. Barefoot, some of them are already in their togs, towels around their shoulders.
     "This is my sister and my cousin," Jackie tells Maureen as he pushes two giggling little girls towards her. "She's five and she's four." He grabs hold of a boy by the arm. "And this is my brother Ricky. He's seven. And that's Mick, another cousin. He's the same as Ricky. And this is my sister Makera, she's ten." He grins at Maureen. "Rawiri's not coming," he adds. "He never comes."
     The glow from the porch light dances on chubby cheeks, snot smeared faces, shy grins. The smallest girl leans into Maureen's side and takes her hand. Gazes up at her with enormous eyes. The others look her up and down for a few seconds, then, nudging each other, they run off giggling and flicking towels. Jackie follows them.
     Bill comes out to greet them. "Izzie, Warren. And Frank! Bloody good to see you again, mate." He flings his arms around Frank. "And this is your new missus I guess." He takes Maureen's hand and grins broadly. "Brave lady to take on Frank, eh?"
     Maureen blushes. Izzie comes to her rescue. "Take no notice of him, sweetheart. Come and meet Ketia." She takes Maureen by the arm and introduces Bill's wife who wipes her hands down the front of her dress before offering to shake.
     "Gee, you've come a long way, eh," she says, twisting her long wavy hair into a roll which she fastens up at the back with a pink plastic comb.
     Maureen smiles and nods. Frank leans over her shoulder, grinning. "Ketia Puutu," he slurs. "Yer still as beautiful as ever."
     "And you still drinking as much as ever." Ketia looks heavenward and accepts his slobbery embrace. "Poor Maureen doesn't know what she's in for."
     Jackie yells at them to hurry up. "You guys, come on. Us kids are going ahead."
     Bill slings a car battery in a harness onto his back. Warren carries the lamps. He hands Maureen a torch. "Maybe get ourselves some crayfish further along the creek." She looks at him blankly. "They get dazzled by the light." She nods, but looks puzzled. Mmm, he thinks. Frank's got his work cut out, that's for sure.
     It isn't easy walking the track in darkness even when you know the way. Izzie watches Maureen stumble along holding onto the back of Frank's shirt. He sways from side to side. The trees cast eerie shadows. Ferns brush their faces and manuka twigs scratch at their arms and legs. Giant moths, attracted by the torchlight, dive at them like kamikaze pilots. A morpork calls. A startled pheasant shatters the quiet with its raucous cry and frantic flight. Maureen jumps, letting out a squeal that excites the dogs. They leap at her, tails wagging. Izzie shoos them off and takes her hand.
     "Don't suppose you get much wildlife in London, do you," she says. "There's nothing here that bites. No snakes. May come across a weta or some other big bug but nothing to worry about." She laughs. "Jeezes girl, you're shaking like a leaf."
     The track opens out into a clearing and in front of them a creek winds its way around ancient tree stumps and volcanic rocks. Maureen puts her hand to her mouth and nose. "What's that?" she gasps.
     Izzie laughs. "Rotten eggs." She waves a hand in front of her nose. "It's the sulphur. You get used to it."
     Bill fixes the lamps to a tree and suddenly the clearing is floodlit. The children are already in the water, splashing and squealing. A rope hangs from an overhanging branch and little Puutus shimmy up its length then drop off into the deepest part.
     "Watch out for the possums," Bill calls to Maureen. "Bet you don't get possums where you come from, eh."
     "See, it's warm," says Izzie. "Comes out of the ground just here. Cold upstream, cold downstream, but just here it's warm. Bloody good for the aches and pains." In one move she slips out of her frock and pulls up the straps to her swimming costume. "Now you kids quit splashing," she calls, to no effect. "You little buggers. Wait till I get my hands on you." In the darkness, squeals of delight.
     Maureen sits with her back against a tree. Bill is in the water with the children and Warren too. Ketia eases herself in beside Izzie and they settle on a submerged ledge with the water up to their breasts.
     "Bit quiet for Frank, isn't she?" Ketia whispers.
     Izzie looks across to where Maureen is crouched, her hand covering her nose. "Aw, she'll come around. Give her time. She's a city girl, you can tell. Probably feels more comfortable back in Auckland."
     "She's got a real pommie accent, eh."
     Izzie leans back and closes her eyes.
     Ketia watches Maureen shoo the dogs away. "Can't see Frank wanting to stay in Auckland."
     "Me neither," says Izzie, shifting her position on the ledge. She slips deeper into the water so that it laps over her shoulders. Moving her head from side to side, round and around, she lets the warmth work on the stiffness in her neck.
     Since Frank left for his trip overseas they'd managed on their own. But it seemed to get harder every year. Warren had missed him, she knew that, as much as if he'd been his own son. The two men shared a passion for hunting. As it turned out, neither of them could work up the same passion for farming. It was mainly left to her to notice what needed doing. Booking the shearers, dealing with the stock agents, hiring hands. And it was getting to be too much. The place was going to wrack and ruin. But she'd known Warren was no farmer when she married him. It wasn't her land he was after, and she loved him back for it. After all, she was no oil painting and he could have had his pick of the local beauties. He was handsome back then, in a quiet, rugged sort of way. Shy. A friend of her brothers, he'd always just been there, in the background, keeping an eye out for her. Helping with the horses, running her to shows when her father was tied up. She was thirty-four before he plucked up the courage to pop the question.
     "That man came around again yesterday," Izzie tells Ketia.
     "What man?"
     "That feller wanting to know if we were interested in selling up."
     "Oh yeah, and what did you tell him?"
     "Told him to bugger off, what do you think."
     Suddenly the children start squealing and yelling. Sounds of splashing drown further conversation. Frank is in the water, half dressed, throwing himself forward and diving to reach for the children's feet. They kick out at him, laughing. On the bank, Maureen stands up to see what's going on.
     Frank calls to her. "Come on in." She shakes her head. "What's the matter? Not good enough for you, eh?"
     Izzie looks up.
     "Fuckin' stuck up bitch," Frank mutters.
     Everyone hears him.
     "Frank, that's enough," says Warren. "No need for that."
     "Oh, shit," says Izzie, under her breath.
     On the bank, Maureen stiffens. Izzie can't see her face. Ketia sinks deeper but turns to look at the English girl.
     In the water, the children turn on Frank."Shut up, Frank. You shut up, Frank," they chant, still laughing. "You're drunk, Mr Frank. You're drunk," they squeal, kicking water into his face.
     "Too bloody right I am," Frank yells. "Gotta be drunk to get close to her majesty there."
     "Frank, cut it out," says Warren. "There's kids here."
     "Kids don't mind me," Frank counters. "Don't mind me, do you kids?"
     "Frank's drunk," they squeal, laughing and splashing to get further away from him.
     Izzie looks at Maureen and wonders how well she knows Frank. Bloody men. She knows how charming he can be.
     "Come on sweetie," Frank taunts. "Let's see what you're made of."
     Bill wades up to Frank and puts an arm around his shoulder. "Hey, cut it out, man. Leave the girl alone, eh?"
     "Bill, you're bloody lucky to have your Ketia. She's a good sport, eh, your Ketia."
     "Come on mate, you need to sober up a bit."
     Frank pushes him away, roughly. "Piss off, man. I'm going to get my wife."
     Bill turns to the children. "Okay kids, come on. Time to go."
     "Aw, not yet Dad, it's too early. We've got no school."
     "Too early yet, Dad," echoes Frank.
     "Out!" orders Bill.
     "Look kids, farting bubbles," Frank calls.
     The children squeal with delight. "Frank's farting," they laugh.
     "Out!" yells Bill. "Ketia, see to them."
     Izzie closes in on Frank. "You're showing yourself up, you bastard," she hisses at him. "Why can't you grow up?"
     "Leave it out, Izzie. We're having a good time." He heaves himself out of the water and picks his way over to where Maureen stands against the tree. "Come on, babe," he croons, draping his wet body against her. She turns her head away. He puts his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against him. She struggles to free herself, wet now, all down her front. "Aw, babe," Frank whines. He pulls at the should straps to her dress, dragging them down her arm.
     She struggles to replace them. "Frank, don't. The children..."
     "Bugger the kids, they don't mind." He presses against her, his lips searching for hers. The smell of beer mingles with the sulphur and the sultry steam that rises from the water. He tugs at the buttons down the front of her dress. Reaches a hand down to the hem of her skirt.
     "I'm going to be sick," Maureen hisses. She puts her hand to her mouth and turns away from him. With her other hand she struggles to re-arrange her dishevelled clothing. He continues to press his wet body against her, kissing her neck and shoulders. Suddenly a dripping brown body careers into him, knocking him sideways.
     "You just leave her alone, you drunken bastard." Taken by surprise, Frank steps back. Jackie Puutu head-butts him in the stomach. "Leave her alone."
     Frank is winded. "You little shit!" he cries.
     "Jackie, get out of the way!" Bill shouts from the water. "Leave him, son, leave him." He leaps up onto the bank and runs to the boy, pushing him aside. But Jackie faces Frank and glares at him, arms folded, then on his hips, then folded. Izzie can see that he's a bit surprised at his own boldness, breathing heavily and close to tears.
     Frank backs off and stumbles back into the water. "Okay, okay, I give in. Where's everyone going?"
     Bill puts an arm around Jackie's shoulders and shepherds him towards his mother. "Come on, tama," he says. "Come on, son. He's just a crazy pakeha."
     Ketia bundles the smaller children into towels. They are stunned into silence. Wide-eyed, they stand beside their mother, gazing up at Jackie.
     Izzie is out of the water now and pulling on her frock. Frank stands looking at the general retreat and shrugs helplessly. "What? What did I do? Tell me... what did I do?"
     "Oh just shut up, Frank," Izzie snaps. "Save your breath." She catches Maureen's attention and casts her eyes heavenward. "What are we gonna do with him, eh?" Maureen straightens her hair and forces a smile.
     Warren is still in the water. He takes Frank by the arm. "You dumb sod. You never know when to stop, do you. It's about time someone really kicked your arse."
     Bill throws some clothes at Frank. "Get dressed, mate. The party's over."

Maureen sits in the front with Izzie. Frank flakes out on the back seat. Warren props him over to one side and squeezes in beside him.
     "Can't take his booze," Warren says to Maureen. "Silly bugger. Always been the same. He doesn't mean any harm."
     "He's a fool," says Izzie. "A bloody fool." She pats Maureen's knee. "He'll be fine in the morning, nice as pie, you wait and see." She glances sideways and sees Maureen's cheeks glistening. "Never remembers anything, that's the trouble."
     They leave Frank to sleep it off in the car. Izzie shows Maureen to the bedroom. "This is our room. We thought we'd give it to you two tonight. Too bad about Frank." She turns back the candlewick bedspread and smoothes the pillows. "You'll be fine in here and he won't wake until morning. He never does."
     Maureen nods and sits on the edge of the bed.
     Izzie perches beside her. "You've not known him very long, have you?" Maureen shakes her head. "Dear Lord," says Izzie, taking hold of her hand. "And you've come all this way."
     "I hate it when he drinks," Maureen says, fighting back tears. "But I do love him."
     "Of course you do," says Izzie. "We all do."
     "Why does he do it?"
     Izzie shakes her head. "If it's any consolation, I've never seen him violent. He just acts stupid. Embarrassing."
     Maureen blows her nose again. "It happened on the way over. On the ship. A couple of times. I had no idea he had this problem. He won't discuss it because when he's sober he's wonderful."
     "Yeah, that's the way it works, it seems. Look, if you ever need me, you just pick up the phone."
     Maureen nods.
     "With Frank, sometimes, it's like walking on eggshells. You have to learn to read the signs. We've known him a long time but still, there's things he just doesn't talk about. From his past down south. I don't know if he's talked to you about it?"
     Maureen shakes her head. "I feel so stupid. I mean, everything's so different here. I didn't think it would be so different. He never told me."
     "Things'll seem better in the morning."
     "It was a mistake to come. It's not what I expected." Maureen gets up and paces around the bed. "He's no job, I've no job. We've nowhere to live. We're just sleeping on someone's settee. I wish I'd never agreed to come."
     Izzie reaches out and takes her hand. Pulls her down to sit on the bed beside her. "But you've only been here a few weeks, sweetheart. Give him a chance. And you'll get work. A girl like you. Up in Auckland." She pats Maureen's hand. "Plenty of work for a girl like you. You'll see. What about your family? That'll be who you're missing."
     Maureen blows her nose again. "No, I only have a sister."
     "Oh, says Izzie. "Well, get some sleep, eh? A whole bed to yourself." She winks. "Make the most of it."
     Maureen smiles.

Warren is sitting outside on the verandah having a last smoke. He offers Izzie a puff as she sits down beside him. From out of the darkness a cat comes up to rub itself against their legs. The air is heavy and humid – scented with jasmine which covers the lopsided pergola. Wet towels hang over the verandah rail. Izzie slaps at a sandfly on her ankle. She lifts up one leg and drapes it over Warren's lap. Wafts her skirt between her legs to get a breeze up there.
     "Still hot," she says.
     They sit listening to the crickets.
     "Might take the dogs up the gulley track tomorrow. Clear out a few rabbits," Warren says.
     Izzie nods. "You'll need to check the girth on the stock saddle if Frank's going to use it. The buckle's dodgy."
     Another cat pads along the verandah and jumps up onto the bench to rub against Izzie. She strokes the length of its back and it tenses with joy. "That man called again yesterday," she says.
     "Who was that then?"
     "That real estate man, from town."
     "Oh, yeah."
     "I told him we weren't interested."
     Warren takes a final draw on his cigarette, squeezes out the stub between finger and thumb and flicks it over the verandah rail. "Good for you." He puts his arm around her shoulders. "Things'll come right," he says. "You'll see."

Copyrite: Christine Stanley

Monday, September 20, 2010

The Moon

Reach for the stars -  but if you don't manage that, the moon is no mean achievement.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Life Class with Cactus

"What's Cactus like then?" a spotty reporter asks. He thrusts a small recorder into my face.
     "Prickly as hell," I say, and turn away.
     Paul shoulders a path between critics and academia, all done up in their Sunday best. He presses another glass of champagne into my hand and kisses me on the cheek.
     "I think they're coming now," he says. "I think this is it."
I gulp the wine too quickly and cough and splutter into his shoulder. A woman in black with half glasses perched on the tip of her nose mounts the rostrum and stands in front of the microphone. She thanks the sponsors and prattles on for ages about the philosophy behind the competition and the influence it has upon the contemporary art scene. My mind wanders back to my first art class. A cold room, and Brian and the rest of the group whose names I can't remember now. But I see Brian as clear as day.

     The breasts take shape before my eyes. Grow to dramatic proportions as the hand moves, frenzied, across the paper. Ripe Galias responding to quick, deft strokes; each passionate mark loaded with intent. The tongue works feverishly around the lips. To the left, to the right. Left, right. Now pursed, the lips pursed. Air sucked in deep and slow. Eyes squinting at the end of the pencil held at arm's length. He steps back, arms folded. Nods in satisfaction.
     I look down at my paper. Look at his. Look at her. Lean towards him. "Brian," I whisper, behind my hand. "Her breasts don't look anything like that."
     He glares at me. Peers at her. Scrutinizes his work. "Yes they do," he says and carries on drawing.
I study the woman stretched out on the plastic sun lounger. 32A and no more I think. Pert little upturned nipples, rigid with cold as the heat from the two bars never reaches that far. Plums rather than melons.
     Later, in the pub, we have a laugh about it. Brian left school last year. He needs this A level to get into Art college; meanwhile he's working at Waitrose. I'm doing it because it goes down well at the Job Centre. They'd rather I did typing or something useful, they say, but this is better than nothing and one up on patchwork or Tai' Chi. I was hoping for a male model but now it doesn't bother me because I'm really getting into it and the teacher says I'm not bad. It's while we're having a drink that someone says they're looking for models at the art college on the campus in town. There's an advert on the notice board near reception. Five pounds an hour it says.
   I like being in art departments, I really do. Art teachers are so open and accommodating. They embrace difference, whereas other subject teachers seem to demand conformity. I like the mess and the clutter and the far reaching discussions, all in the name of 'Art'. Does that sound pretentious or what! I console myself with the thought that it's my body they're after, not my mind. They don't ask to look at my body but they're impressed that I'm on a course. At least I'll know what to expect, they say. I start on Tuesday.

     I can't believe I'm doing this. I've got a bag packed with my dressing gown and my flip flops. They said to bring a book to read, just in case, but I'm not into reading really. I picked up a Hello magazine at the paper stall in the bus station. Room 54 I'm looking for.
     I didn't know whether to wear my earrings or not. I thought it might look a bit overdressed, so I took some out. Just left my studs and the big hoops. I took the stud out of my nose. I thought it might look like a zit in a drawing. Taking my kit off is no big deal. What I'm worried about is whether I can keep still. They said they'd tell me the poses. But what if I get cramp, or the twitches? And what do I do when I've got my period? Uh oh, here it is.
      I peep around the open door. A man stands with his back to me. I cough, to attract his attention, and he turns, head tilted in query.
     "Hi, I'm Karen... er, the model."
     "Karen, you found us. Well done. Didn't change your mind then?"
     "No, no, I'm dead keen. Really." A bow tie! A fucking bow tie!
     "Super. I'm sure you're going to be a great asset to us. Come on through. I'll show you where to stow your bag. Do you want a coffee? I'm Paul, by the way."
     He looks young for a lecturer. Dark hair brushes the collar of his crumpled linen jacket, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, pockets bulging. And the bow tie, now I see it close up, is not one of those clip on types. It's hand-tied and covered with purple, pink and green splodges, like the painting of Monet's garden. It tones in with the stripe on his shirt.
     I follow him into a cluttered office. Three desks piled high with books and folders. Walls papered with posters, newspaper cuttings, timetables, sketches.
     "We all muck in here," Paul says. "Did you bring a mug? If not we're bound to have a spare. If it hasn't got a paintbrush in it, it's for coffee... but don't count on that."
     I drop my bag on the floor and hang up my jacket on a spare peg. He talks over his shoulder while making the coffee.
     "We pay into a kitty at the end of each month. Sally looks after it. Did you meet Sally?" He hands me a mug. "She's our studio technician. Keeps us all in order." Wipes a spoon down the leg of his jeans.
     The walls are covered with students' work. Nudes in various poses. Big, bold, bulging bits. Firm thighs and floppy penises. Wrinkled brows and breasts. Big feet stretching out towards me like the figures in the Michelangelo pictures we've looked at in my class. Way, way above our standard. There are some very large canvases propped up against one wall, work in progress by the look of it, and stools and easels dotted about the paint-splattered floor. I mustn't gawp, I think. Look as if you're used to it.
     "This is second year work," Paul says. "We don't usually leave stuff on the walls, it gets nicked, but we had crits late last night and we're finishing off this morning."
     I nod. "It looks fantastic." Christ, what a dumb thing to say.
     "So we won't actually need you until after lunch. It'll give you time to find your feet, get settled in."
    "Thanks," I say weakly. "Where do I get... er... changed?"
     "Well, Cactus uses the office, or sometimes she uses the loos down the corridor, first left then right."
     "Yes, she's been with us for years. Our most experienced model. Any problems, ask her. She knows as much as we do I reckon. Actually, it's her birthday today and we're all going down to the pub at lunch time. You'll come, won't you?"
     "Thanks, I'd like that." What sort of a name is Cactus, I wonder? Later, in the pub, she introduces herself.
     "G'day, I hear you're the new competition."
     She looks like Zandra Rhodes on a bad day. It's hard to tell how old she is, and no one's guessing, but not young. Australian. Henna'd hair, long, caught up on one side with a ribbon and some beads. Drop-out from a hippie trail that petered out in Clapham. Nobody knows why she moved to St Albans but she's been at the art college for years. Did St Martins and Goldsmiths and was hung in the National Portrait Gallery several times she reckoned. BP Portrait Awards, and it was true because I checked. Professional interest. If I was to learn from her I needed to check out her credentials.
     I tell her my first class is after lunch and she buys me a large vodka and orange to keep me warm. She says I'll need it the first time, and I did. I couldn't stop shivering. I didn't think I'd be bothered getting my kit off but as soon as I walked into that room and saw all those eyes directed at me I froze. If there'd been some music it would have helped I'm sure. I don't know why but the silence was deadly. That's a funny thing about life classes. They're always quiet.
     It's a short pose to start. Paul shows me what he wants then takes my dressing gown from me. If he hadn't I don't think I would have let it go. He's very good. Never lets on that it's my first time. Gives the students their instructions and then winks at me. All I can hear is the scratch, scratch of charcoal on paper. I just look down at my feet and try to calm the tremor in my knee.
     Later, in the loo getting dressed, Cactus bursts in from her class. I have my back to her and she's going on about some 'bloody little shit' in her class. I turn to say something and that's when I notice her breast. Or rather, the lack of it. Immediately I look away but she's noticed.
     "Aw don't let the boob freak you, kid. We're all used to it around here. Did you hear what I was telling you about that snotty little shit in Duncan's group?"
I'm a bit thrown, but collect myself together quickly and we go down to the refectory for a coffee. I don't mention her breast, but that night I can't get her out of my mind. Next day I have a word with Paul.
     "Let me show you something," he says and leads the way into a store room. He rummages through print drawers pulling out sheet after sheet. He clears a space on the bench and spreads out the contents of an old portfolio. "This work goes back years," he says, "before Cactus became ill. She always brought out the best in students, but after her op she was even better. Look at this." He points out a pencil sketch in which a younger Cactus is depicted curled in a foetal position. Another, lying on her back. One sitting reading a book. "Now look at these later ones", Paul urges. "Look at the face."
     I don't quite know what he's getting at but even my inexperienced eye can see that there's something different about the later drawings. It's as if the artist has tried to get inside her to show her thoughts and emotions. You could feel the life within the body. You could sense the artist striving to capture the essence of Cactus.
     "I've never known a model like her," says Paul. "She has the ability to make her body fluid and somehow the students respond to this. Whatever she's thinking is there in her face. And she can hold it without becoming wooden." He traces the outline of a sketch with his finger. "And after her operation it was as if the students were drawn to see more in her. More than the external features. She demanded their close scrutiny, and it paid off." He turns up some more sheets. "Look, fluidity. Age doesn't matter. Never do you see a sketch of Cactus that looks wooden. The scar doesn't matter. Our results soared."
     I leaf through the work, captivated by the images. Cactus with long hair... Cactus with no hair... Cactus with headscarf. Cactus with a trace of silver, light as a baby's breathe on a frosty morning. Applied with love.
     "We knew the op wouldn't stop her," Paul adds, "and it hasn't. She rules this place and she knows it."

     I didn't take to modelling. I surprised myself in that. I thought I'd be a natural and I tried hard for three or four months because I really liked the idea of it. Cactus thought it was funny. She tries to be helpful in her own inimitable way.
     "You're too tight-arsed", she says. "It shows in your face."
     She resolves to take me under her wing and I move in with her when her flatmate leaves. We go up to London to the galleries... Tit training she calls it. We look at lots of nudes. Work by Stanley Spencer and Lucien Freud. She met Freud once, she says. Knew one of his models, years ago. Henrietta somebody or other. Married a poet.
     She takes me around the back streets of Soho and shows me where the clubs were, where artists and models used to meet. Coffee bars where poets read their work. She's a mine of information, from erotica to high art. She once worked in Paris as a Bluebell girl she said. Not the Bluebells but like them. A poser rather than a dancer. But she never did stripping. She preferred a bit of class, she said. It was in Paris that she got into modelling for artists. Then she came back to London and phoned around the art colleges. She has loads of art books and posters and she's always being invited to private viewings where she takes me and introduces me as her apprentice.
     To Paul's relief I quit modelling. Saves him the trouble of sacking me. But I stay on, no pay, tidying up. And when I can, I join in the classes. The following year I enrol. I become obsessed with life drawing. I draw Cactus day and night. On paper she's... serene. So different from the exuberant creature she is to live with. And she transforms my life. Shows me possibilities I hadn't even dreamed of. Opens doors I didn't even know existed. And shoves me headlong through them, into situations like... this. Not the first, but certainly the most important award ceremony I've achieved...

...I feel myself being pushed forward. Gentle pats of encouragement. Smiles and nods of approval. An envelope is pressed into one hand and a microphone to the other. Paul throws an arm around my shoulders and kisses me hard. "You did it, babe," he whispers. "I knew you would."
     There's applause and the woman in black looks straight at me. "Congratulations, Karen. This is very well deserved," she says.
Someone brings Cactus and props her on an easel beside me. Cameras flash.
     Later, on the way home, Paul reminds me that we need to stop at the chemist for more morphine. They know us well by now. We sign for a box of capsules and pop in next door for some fish and chips.
     The nurse comes out to the kitchen when she hears the front door. "How did it go then?" she asks.
     "She did it," Paul says. "Just like we said she would."
     "That's fantastic." She hugs me. "Congratulations. She'll be so chuffed." She accepts some chips while putting on her coat. "I'll see you tomorrow evening. Janice will be here in the morning."
     "Great. Thanks so much for staying on a bit," I say. Paul sees her out.
     I go through to the front room which is being used as a bedroom. The single lamp on the bookshelf gives a warm glow and brings out the rich, vermilion in the curtains. Throne-like, a commode fills one corner, past its usefulness now but we just haven't got around to taking it back to the Red Cross. The table is littered with nursing paraphernalia, at odds with the pieces of sculpture which have been pushed to one side. Above the fireplace is a large canvas, unframed, acrylic. A woman reclining, nude. Part of my degree work. Paul's watercolours cover the remaining white walls. Landscapes from Tuscany, the Dordogne and Derbyshire. A bed sticks out from the wall at an awkward angle so that people can move around it. It hums, pulsating imperceptibly as the ripple mattress does its stuff.
     From the mound of pillows a voice, weak, yet cutting as ever. "You're back then. About bloody time."
     I lean forward and kiss the shrivelled cheek. "Yep. Brought some chips. Do you want some?"
     "Go on then... aren't you going to ask me how we got on?"
     "You'll tell me anyway." The eyes close and the head relaxes into the pillows.
     I take the wrinkled hand resting on the bedspread and into it I press the envelope, wrapping the fingers around it. "This is for you," I say. "We won."
    The eyes remain closed, but a slow smile creeps across the tired features. "That'll pay for the undertaker then," she whispers, pushing the envelope towards me.
     I flop into the armchair beside the bed. I'm weary too. There are not many nights that I don't get up to see to her. She still hallucinates. It's the morphine, the doctor tells us.
     Paul comes in with a cup of tea. "Do you think she's pleased?" he asks.
     "Of course she is," I answer, then louder, so she can hear me, "but she won't admit it. Prickly bugger." Her eyes don't open but she forces a smile.
     The tea is good. I doze. When I come to I can hear Paul moving around upstairs. Cactus is asleep. The automatic syringe driver whirs as it spurts another dose of painkiller into her frail body - more angles, now, than curves.
     Once, Paul asked me if we were lovers. I remember being deliberately vague. "Yes, I love her."
We came very close to being lovers I think, but our relationship was more sensual than sexual. On the surface she came across as a really hard case. Tough, brash, prickly as hell. Like her name-sake, not beautiful, but if treated right, given to rare moments of extravagantly lavish display. When Cactus flowered she held everyone in her spell. And she still has the capacity to surprise us.
     A couple of weeks ago I found her passport when looking for something she wanted in an old suitcase. It expired in 1975. She's probably an illegal immigrant. Geraldine, her name was... is. Geraldine Marian Short. Born Adelaide, 1934. Married. Maiden name Carpenter. There's a child on the passport too. A boy. Born 1956. Graham. Stamps from different countries. Malaya, Fiji, Singapore, India.
     "Dead," she says when I ask about the child. Then she turns away from me.
     "What about your husband?" I persist, feeling I ought to notify somebody that she's near death. She'd always said there was no one.
     "No husband," she says. "With the fairies."
     We can't get any sense out of her on this subject. She obviously doesn't want to be drawn. Within the pages of her old passport a very different life is hidden. One she doesn't want to share with us. An Australian childhood. A mother and father who probably went to their graves not knowing what had become of their daughter. How had they felt? What had happened to make her want to cut herself off so completely from her former life? We'll probably never know. In her work Cactus exposed herself on a daily basis but she only let people see the parts of her she was willing to share.
     The night she died I was with her, sleeping in the armchair. Her breathing has rattled for days, but I'm awakened by a change of pitch. I call Paul to come downstairs and we stand beside the bed feeling helpless, but strangely privileged. I pull up a chair and hold her hand. The rattling eases and we become aware that her breathing is slowing down. For a second I think, 'Oh, she's feeling more comfortable'. Then, like an engine coming into a station, it slows... and purrs... and comes to a halt.
     We sit for awhile, each with our own thoughts. Paul's hand shakes as I take hold of it. Gradually we become aware of the sound of the syringe driver still pumping morphine into her. We disconnect the pump and switch off the ripple mattress. The room is suddenly quiet for the first time in months.
     The funeral is a colourful affair. The front room reverts back to its former use. All her things get taken down to Oxfam as she wanted. Only the images remain. Photographs, sketches, paintings, prints. And my last drawing, completed the night she died... Still Life with Cactus.

Copyrite: Christine Stanley
First published in Peninsular Magazine
Sketches by Christine Stanley