Today I have spent time researching for a story about early Takapuna, Auckland.

I had a rough outline for a romantic novel but it is the economic landscape - and settlers responses to it - that seems to be driving my lines of enquiry.

The Lake there has developed as the central motif and what I started as a simple tale of romantic tension is developing into one of social tension generally. 

It may be the north easterly storm outside but I am reluctant to reign it in just yet.

I have some early photos of nearby Devonport taken in the period I am writing about. This one of the foreshore in the late 1860's seems to encapsulate the mood of the day.

What do you think of, looking on such a scene as this? The plate this image was taken from was deteriorating badly, but look at how much detail remains.

Imagine the photographer setting up on the shingle at dead low tide, patiently adjusting his instrument for the harsh antipodean light. He does not have long before this spring tide turns to jeopardise his position.

What is the focus of his attention? Perhaps it is that cradle of massive logs and the prospect of boat building activity on the beach, or maybe Mt Cambria behind, soon to disappear under the quarryman's pick. Possibly that cottage on the strand is his, but save your questions until he has his shot.

Wait with him through the long exposure time and walk home with him up the beach to prepare a printed image. There see - better than a sketch to send Home.

Chapter 4 of the Auckland story continues:

Once Bill got out of the gallery he moved instinctively, charging up the hill towards home. He got half way there before he checked his pace and, turning suddenly, he hailed a cab for a lift to Princes St. If what Philip had said was right then Rhona was bound to have been in the newspapers at the time. It might be prurient, but he had to check the microfilms.

Inside the University library Bill pushed open the swing door and saw one reader free. Taking off his leather jacket, he draped it over the chair before going to the stack calculating in his head from what that Carla person had said- twenty-five years ago approximately. He loaded the film for the third quarter of 1983 and started to scroll through. There was nothing in August, no mention in September. He was half way through October and on the point of rewinding the reel when he saw the first headline. It was a full half of the front page with a double height headline: “Sex Scandal Rocks Auckland Art School” then the sub heading “Accusations of Favouritism and Grade Fixing at Elam”

So she had made out she couldn’t draw but there was the fact. She had been at Elam. There below in the copy text was her name, Rhona Hagar she was then. A formal protest over grading of assessed work had been received by the University. Information leaked to the press implied an inappropriate liaison between a student and staff, chancellor’s office refusing to comment, Miss Hagar’s name connected to the affair.

He moved on to the next day’s edition. A statement had been issued by the Chancellors office that outlined the procedures that would be taken. An inquiry was to be held into allegations of irregularities in the assessment of work submitted by final year students at Elam. The spokesperson refused to confirm or deny the involvement of any particular student.

Bill leaned back and stretched. He expected to see the story relegated to the middle section of the newspaper from then on, but when he flicked to the next day he saw that hadn’t happened. It was the Saturday edition and another screaming headline announcing a Weekend Herald Exclusive. There she was on the front page photographed leaving a bar in town. There was a guy trying to shield her from the cameras with his body and hand. He was frantic and yelling something at the camera.

“Poor bastard”, Bill muttered. The girl beside him stirred and coughed. He hadn’t realised he had said anything out loud. He bit his lip and moved his eye down the screen. There it was in the text. Senior Fine Arts Lecturer Jim Drago with the student rumoured to be at the centre of a row over improper conduct at Elam.

Bill moved on to the following Monday. The story was back to page three. Dean of Elam to pursue a libel action against the NZ Herald for statements made in a weekend edition.

Tuesday nothing. Wednesday:  “Oh Christ.” He didn’t care if any one heard him now. Bill summarised the copy in his head: Senior lecturer suspended. Aggrieved wife interviewed. Miss Hagar not attending final classes.

“Excuse me” the librarian had come up beside him.

“Yes?” He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

“We close in ten minutes. Would you please finish up?” She moved away to switch off the readers in his row, which were now empty.

Bill rubbed at his eyes and flicked to Thursday where there was worse: Dean of Elam suffers massive coronary and not expected to survive. Then all of the allegations all over again, not proven but stated all the same.

Bill wound the film back and left it on the trolley. Grabbing his jacket he swung it over his shoulder and made for the door.

“Excuse me” It was the librarian again. “You’re not a reporter are you?”

Bill shook his head, holding the door frame so tightly his knuckles shone white. “God no,” he muttered

“I remember her …you know…Rhona Hagar. She was a really nice person.”

Bill looked at her then, as he seized the door handle and said “Yes. She still is.”

The librarian just nodded. It was enough.