Peace is a Process

Glass ceiling in the former K Rd entrance to the Pitt St Theatre

I had planned to write this evening - only I find my mind empty of words except for one: peace.

There was a time when I thought I knew the meaning of it - then yesterday came. I stood on the beach, listening to water sounds as I watched a shag fishing. Incrementally the rich quietude that word really conveys crept in.

It appears that peace too is a process. It arrives in the flow of one aware moment into the next  - gold in blue, warm and clear: a surrender-sea of love light.

Peace be with you friend

Drawing from Life Chapter  16 continues

About an hour later Grace was interrupted by tapping. Her studio was entered from the garden through one of two sets of French doors set into the eastern side of the villa. She opened one of these doors and saw Bill standing out on the garden path. With his hair falling over his shoulders he reminded her of a Native American she had met in Toronto during the war. He apologized for interrupting her and asked if he could have a word. She knew why he had come, of course, and directed him to walk around her easel and take a stool at one of the large work tables set in the centre of the room. She returned to mixing paints while she waited for him to state his business.

 “I happened to notice Casey’s van outside this afternoon. He gave me a lift from the ferry earlier.”

Grace nodded, concentrating on diluting her colour. “So he told me,” she said in a disinterested way.

Bill coughed self consciously, watching her work. “He had someone with him.”

Grace looked up suddenly, catching him off guard. He was fiddling with a plaster on his finger and seemed uncharacteristically uncertain of himself. She stated firmly “My niece is resting- if it was her you came to see.”

Bill pushed off his stool and strode over to stand at the French doors with his arms folded and his back to her. “I didn’t know you were related.”

She smiled to herself and muttered “Evidently.” Out loud she stated “Rhona comes here to recuperate. She always has done. I understand her you see.” She was watching his reaction closely but his next question surprised her.

“So it was you she came to after the trouble at Elam was it?”

Grace wiped her brush carefully. “You seem to know a good deal of her history. Why do you ask?”

Bill turned around and came over to stand beside her. “Because I never understood.”

Grace studied his face closely.  He had always seemed a rather self sufficient person but it was obvious that seeing Rhona here had unsettled him badly. She gestured to the table. Once they were settled she said “The whole business was my fault from the start.”

Bill learned that Grace had studied art in Canterbury as a girl, where she met her husband Don Fielding. He was a Canadian and the young couple travelled to meet his family there, going on to London shortly afterwards where they were caught by the outbreak of the War. After Don was killed in France she carried on driving vehicles in and around the London area, medical transport mostly. It was there that she met Roger Burgess, who was hospitalized.” She glanced up at Bill. “You know who he was?”

Bill nodded. “Later Dean at Elam. Go on.”

Grace shifted on her stool and took up the story again. Being both from Auckland and both artists, she and Roger struck up a friendship.  They stayed in England after the war, both working and learning despite the chaos. Rationing and the rest made things soon made things seem very grim and so they came home. 

Grace bought her place at Waiheke, an isolated location in those days, where she carried on pretty much the life style she had become used to in Europe. She valued her independence and was committed to her painting. She and Roger continued to move in the same small circles of art connections. He and his wife stayed with Grace often, sometimes for extended periods to work.

Auckland in the 50’s was socially gothic, according to Grace. She described how alarmed her parents were at the reported “goings on” amongst her set.  Bill understood when she explained there was little acceptance in this country for the type of work she wished to do. He could imagine her use of young male models would have excited a great deal of feeling on the main land.

He was utterly absorbed in her story for its own sake, as well as the context it gave him of Rhona’s family background. He sensed there was much she was leaving out for the sake of brevity. 

They shared a wry smile when she described her young brother taking it upon himself to make regular sorties over to the Island- to benefit her with his advice and guidance. As time went on his attention became objectionable and there was the inevitable breach between them.

After the parents died in 1958 this brother eventually married – a rather passive young lady whom Grace suspected he bullied. They had only one child, who was Rhona. By this time she had nothing to do with him, but she read the papers and was aware of the child’s existence.

Her brother did well, establishing himself in a number of commercial interests. His driven approach to his work did not prevent him expending a good deal of his energy in attempting to stymie his sister’s successes though. Bill realized that was one of the main reasons she had never exhibited much here. Rhona’s father was a member of various influential organizations, which meant he was quite capable of stirring the puritan element to indignation over her work.

By the time Rhona was leaving school her father was a business magnate and a very influential man. He gave his daughter the best of everything and expected- probably received- instantaneous acceptance of his wishes in every regard. Grace was successful herself, financially and socially independent, and in every way anathema to him. At least Bill assumed that was the case by her remark “He had never ceased his obsessive desire to ruin me.”

“I’m surprised Rhona was allowed to go to Uni’ by the sound of him” Bill commented.

“Oh she wasn’t.” Grace explained how Rhona left home abruptly and went flatting. She applied for a scholarship under her mother’s maiden name and won it, so there was nothing her father could do about that in the public arena. Grace did not know her then but she was told he did the next obvious thing, which was to cut off her money.

“Hence sitting as a model?” Bill asked.

“Yes. Roger had been in charge at Elam a while before Rhona went there. I had been teaching there myself for three years- despite strenuous opposition in some quarters to my appointment. It was her circumstances as well as her talent which drew his attention to her in the first place. Once the twelve month scholarship ran out she was obviously struggling financially. He guessed at her situation and was particularly careful because of it. He pointed her out to me and we agreed it would be best if we could coach her to get overseas. That wasn’t to be of course.”

“Rhona had a great natural talent Bill, however unfashionable that expression may be today. She also had a huge capacity for hard work. Her success was actually her downfall – our downfall. She excelled in her second year and won a prize in her third, in my paper as a matter of fact. She didn’t know me then of course as anything other than a tutor and supporter, but it gave my brother the very scenario he had been hoping for. It allowed him to provoke and manipulate the scandal in which Roger lost his job.

Bill was afraid she would stop there so he asked what happened after Roger died, admitting he was aware of the media coverage. Her voice became less assured as she related how she had brought Rhona to Waiheke.  “As a friend, you understand- but I told her of our connection and who had been responsible for it all. It was a terrible error of judgment.”

“So she did have a breakdown – she wouldn’t say.”

Grace ignored him. “Before she was fully recovered my brother died suddenly. Her mother’s family took her from here before she was well enough Bill.”

She had taken his hand, as if willing him to understand this last detail. She wanted Bill to understand how they wanted the whole business hushed up, how the family closed ranks to ensure that Miss Chalmer’s future excluded both her aunt and any contact with art. Grace stated categorically that Rhona never drew again, or even doodled, so far as she knew.

Bill retrieved his hand with great gentleness before he got up, stretching. “Well”, he ran a hand over the back of his head. He smiled down at her, pushing his hair back behind one ear. “Thank you. It mattered to me you see.” He began to tell her how he had come to meet Rhona. He skirted around the issue of why they were no longer in touch, only emphasizing how much he admired her absolute refusal to be a victim to him, or anyone else. Grace’s story had shown him why she was that way.

He saw she was about to comment, but the inside door to the studio opened slowly and Rhona came in to the room. She had a rigid set to her body as she stood in the doorway. Her face was an expressionless mask of composure.

 “Bravo Bill.” She spoke quietly, in a level tone, as she moved across the room to hug her aunt -without really looking at her at all. “He is right you know Grace. I can manage just fine. This old stuff is irrelevant now.”

She flicked a glance at Bill “I’m sorry you were dragged into our little family saga. It must be of minimal interest to you.” She turned and walked automaton fashion to the door remarking that she was going to the beach. “I will see you later Grace.” 

He had seen her hard like that once before.