My Aunt writes a fabulous letter. I came home this afternoon to find one from her in the mail box. When this happens I like to put work things aside, serve myself scented tea in fine china and- finally- slice the envelope and savour the contents.
There are some qualities of communication, such as the ritual of correspondence,  that can not yet be replicated online.  Today's letter from Darwin is a model exemplar. The stationery is of a satisfying weight; the decorative border is both pleasing and restful. The script depicts the character of the writer - generous and expansive, but restrained by life experience and consideration for others. Today her letter is reflective, the paragraphs are measured prose interlaced with memories of incidents now past - touchstones of connection between us.
Her closing wish for blessings on the recipient is both familiar and fresh - a formulaic framework for the deep affection which, for her generation, could not be otherwise expressed.

As I sit down to compose my reply this evening I am considering the wider role of rituals in life. What I once saw as stale, rote activity seems now to hold great creative opportunities. Setting the table for dinner, preparing for bed I wonder- could those humble routines find new grace?  Is it the "present in the moment" loving quality of Aunt's letters that elevates her regular news into a prose poem I shall keep? Or is it intent?


More of Chapter 5

Why Bill asked to see Rhona a few days later, he could not say.  He was amazed at himself for bothering over her. She made a show of decent reluctance, of course, but she went along with it, meeting him at the little cafe beside Philip’s gallery.

They were wary of each other at first. After the refills of coffee came to the table she told him that her husband had left after last Saturday night. Bill nodded. He preferred not to be involved. It would complicate things anyway. She declined another evening out. The husband had turned up at home several times without warning. Bill said it was a bullying tactic and suggested she change the locks and get on to a solicitor. At any rate she refused to get a sitter in to stay with Gracie, or leave the girl on her own.

At the start of the following week there was better news.  Paul Witherspoon had offered Rhona regular work one day a week. She offered to bring a picnic up to the Museum to share with Bill in the Domain. He turned up to find she had made friends with the wino who slept on the bench in the Sensory Garden.

Bill disapproved of the way she talked to anyone regardless of her personal safety. The next thing he knew they were knee deep in a ridiculous quarrel with the homeless person blearily watching the sideshow.

When he pointed out she might get robbed or assaulted hanging out with that sort of company she had just laughed. Her flippant remark that robbery was more likely in the corporate world than in a rose garden just made him livid. He made it plain she was completely devoid of common sense-after which she got to her feet and left him to it.

At least Rhona rang the next day and apologised. She mentioned, rather too casually Bill noticed, that now the school holidays were over she had just one last free Thursday left. He offered to take a long lunch hour for that day. It was the best he could do. He considered it a truce.

They met by the Domain tennis courts at midday. When he came around the corner Rhona was there before him. She was facing away from him, wearing a denim dress that was fairly fitting. When he called out to her and she turned around, Bill saw it was a button through dress with top-stitching down the front and around the pockets.

It was only a few paces to his place from there. When they were almost at his door, he collected her in a fireman lift before she could do anything about it. She was shrieking with laughter as he went around the back way and unlocked the French doors. He had to put her down to take off his jacket. She just dissolved giggling on the sofa in the lounge where he threw her.

As he stood over her taking his tie off and looking down at her Bill decided to reschedule the lunch plans. He dropped to kneel beside the sofa. There was no sign of discouragement as, starting at the top most button, he steadily undid his way down the dress. He found, as he made progress, that Rhona had invested in a chocolate brown satin and lace corselet. He let out a low whistle. She was watching his face with a little smile on her lips but uncertainty wavered in her eyes. “Do you like it?”

He had his mouth on her throat and didn’t answer. Working his way to her ear he asked quietly “Were you planning seduction Rhona?” She gasped as his fingers found the domes on her lingerie. He stood up and began to deliberately unbutton his cuffs.

 “Couldn’t I be doing that?” she asked languorously.

“No woman”, his voice was getting harsh. “I haven’t got all day.”

It seemed only a little while later that he felt her stir. They were tangled together on the rug in the lounge. She kissed his eyelids. “Wake up Bill its 1.30. When do you have to be back at work?”

He stretched and groaned without opening his eyes. “Oh, two o’clock or something.”

He heard her laughing softly as she said “Come on sailor it’s time to go.”

 “Where did you learn that expression?” Lazily he watched her perfectly contoured form as she scouted about for clothing. Suddenly he reached out and dragged her back towards him, laughing at her surprise. “Shall I phone work and cry off?”

“Certainly not, I have to go home.” Rhona pummeled him on the chest. “Shift. You have twenty minutes to get to work. Shall I lock up for you?”

“All right all right.” He rolled into a crouch, leaning over to kiss her playfully. “Just pull the front door closed when you leave. I’ll lock the French doors on my way out.”

Offering a hand, he pulled her up to stand with him. Before he could speak Rhona’s glance at the clock made him check the time again. “Blast.Fifteen minutes. Excuse me, I have to dash.” She grinned at his panic and shooed him off.

Over the weekend Bill found himself thinking about Rhona whenever his mind was idle. He knew she had family responsibilities and other calls on her time but it chaffed with him, being unable to see her whenever he felt like it. When he met Philip for a drink on Saturday afternoon Bill told him how he hated being “fitted in”. “Makes me feel like a blimmin’ gigolo Phil’- what can she possibly have to do that’s more important than being with me?”

Philip could usually be relied on for good counsel in these matters but in this case he was irritatingly philosophical about it. It was obvious from his tone that Phil had something on his mind. Bill knew him better than to ask what it was. So it surprised him that the subject of Rhona was raised again as they were parting outside the Exchange. Just as he was leaving Philip said “By the way, Paul tells me Rhona’s having a rough time at home right now. You might want to bear that in mind.”

Bill shrugged and said casually “She never mentioned it to me.”

Philip just looked at him a moment before saying “I see” in an odd sort of way. Afterwards Bill wondered what he meant by it.

Today I spent time with a close friend - one whose views I respect and whose spirit I admire. We came together to celebrate her birthday and those ties of relationship which connect us.
To  share a meal, impressions  and ideas- these are special friendship things - and we had fun.
We share a family relationship too, which layers the time we spend together with a bond of deep affection. Happy times.

Our day closed with  wildlife, good coffee and baking cosy-sticky with comfort flavours. Awesome.

and the ancient ones said:
three boons for a friend: let them be to you a second self; let not their misery estrange you from them; do for their memory what you would do if they yet lived.


Chapter 5 continues:

They were still laughing when the taxi dropped them off in Domain Drive. Bill’s key in the latch changed everything.

“Go on through” Bill tossed his jacket over the hall stand hook and turned to set the deadlock. It was very still in the apartment. Mutely he guided her to the next doorway with a light hand on her back. They came out into the sitting room. It was flanked by French doors, opposite them now, which opened into a small courtyard. Garden lighting there threw a potted yucca into sharp relief.

Rhona remained standing in the middle of the room, clutching her evening bag.

“Come through”, he gestured to the right towards another door. “I’ll fix us a drink.”

She followed him through to the kitchen. He placed a chilled sauvignon blanc and the glasses on the table.

“Look, come and sit over here. The view is nicer.” He moved the glasses to a high backed settle facing the window and gestured to her to go first. She had to go past him and slide into the seat.

“Hold on.” he said, flashing back to the sitting room. He returned with a burgundy bakelite ashtray.

His attention was on opening the wine now. “Yes– shall I pour?”

She nodded and he did so, studying the operation as if he had never previously performed such a feat. He lit a cigarette and passed it to her, lighting another for himself

Finally he turned to look at her, lifting his glass and saying “I wanted everything to be perfect but I …” He didn’t try to finish the sentence because she was smiling at him with her glass raised in a toast. She said softly “Good health and long life.”

Later Rhona was fingering one of the wooden netsuke grouped on the table. It was a ball shape, carved with lifelike intertwining mice. She remarked how much Charlie would like it. Noticing the way Bill visibly bristled she took his hand and put the netsuke into it as she said “Charlie and Paul have been partners for ten years or more Bill. He’s not interested in women.”

 “Sorry, I guess I just assumed after Philip said…” He replaced the netsuke in the group and began rearranging them, avoiding her gaze.

“He said you preferred older men, basically. That’s what all that fuss was about back then wasn’t it- that Dean and the other guy?”

Rhona spoke quietly to the little wooden group on the table. “”What possible relevance can it have?”

“Look, I’ve read the old papers. I saw you with that guy Drago.”

“I see”. The flatness was back in her tone. 

She looked at him as if he was a cabinet specimen. “Are you listening? I am only going to say this once: it was a life drawing class.”

Bill gave it a few seconds before he asked “One more question?” She didn’t reply, so he pressed on. “Why did you make out you couldn’t draw?”

 “Because I can’t”

He stood up then and moved away from the settle, to stand facing the garden. “For God’s sake” he said in a disbelieving tone. Glancing over his shoulder he said “I read  you were the most talented student of that year.”

Rhona sat dragging her hands through her hair. She spoke as if to someone severely retarded. “I can’t draw. I haven’t been able to draw for twenty-five years – not since that time. … Oh, it doesn’t matter”

Bill came bounding back when he heard that. “Yes it bloody matters.” He was leaning aggressively over the table at her. Rhona slid out of her seat and said in a tired voice “I am going home now.” He grabbed her wrist as she made to pass him. “Tell me or it will be there all through everything.” Her fists clenched. He reached down and took those two fists in his own hands. She flexed to resist him, showing immense strength for her size. He shifted his grip to her forearms, forcing her loose sleeves up her arm.

Under his right forefinger Bill felt a ridge on the inside of her arm just above the wrist. It was a ripple running horizontally there. He found the same ridge on her other arm. As she gathered herself to snatch them away he forced her wrists over to the light behind him. They were old scars, badly stitched.

He tried to breathe more calmly. “I’m going to talk. I’m not letting go. You hear me?” She closed her eyes and stopped resisting him. Shifting his hold to embrace her from behind he said in a quiet even voice.

“I was right. It does matter. You had a breakdown over that fiasco, didn’t you? He had his mouth on her hair. “Christ I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”  She remained passive under his hand until he said “It’s after one o’clock. I had better call a taxi, unless...”

“No. I’m ready to go home. I’m sure you understand that.”

It wasn’t quite how Bill visualised the climax to their evening, but he saw her into the taxi and waved her off. He supposed she would be all right. 

Heritage at Highwic

A few days ago I re-visited one of Auckland's heritage houses I know very well - Highwic. Officially I was there to look at a display of historic dress - on the hunt for more design ideas.

 I like to create clothes that reference a previous era rather than slavishly reproduce a costume- plenty of tinder there for creative kindling. 

As I walked along the narrow upstairs hall I paused by these french doors. Old glass ripples and distorts a distant view. I suspect we look at past times with similar occlusions. 

Starting Chapter 5

On Saturday evening Rhona appeared at the door wearing wide floating trousers made of black satiny fabric.  With them she wore an emerald green top that rouched itself around her to end in a wide cumberbund tie. This was not the same woman Mr Egan had first seen in a plastic raincoat.

As Bill had arranged, the taxi drove slowly to St Heliers and along the Tamaki Drive to Cin Cin’s on the waterfront. They were shown to a table on the seaward side. Pre dinner drinks arrived and the food was ordered.  Rhona looked comfortable and she was smiling at him as if he had delighted her. As he talked Bill watched her expressive eyes made deeper green by the colour of her blouse.

After a few moments conversation Bill noticed she was looking at him with great amusement but none of what he was saying was that funny. He was about to ask her to let him in on the joke when she leaned forward and said confidentially over the table “Have a look two couples behind you and tell me what you see.”

He turned discreetly, wondering what she was up to. “You mean the merchant banker type with the young asian girl? What about them?”

Rhona was sipping her wine and controlling her hilarity with effort. “They have just arrived. That’s my husband and his secretary.”

“Streuth,” Bill saw his careful plans going out the window. “Do you want to leave?”

Bill had a vision of her creating pandemonium and himself getting charged for the damage. “He’ll see you won’t he? Bloody hell.”

She said cheerfully. “Oh look. He’s coming this way.”

A glance back assured Bill the bald man had risen from his seat and was moving down the aisle to their table. “Shit. Are you OK Rhona?” Bill straightened his cutlery and smoothed the table cloth.

“Oh don’t worry” she said calmly. “What can he possibly do here?”

Bill kept his voice as quiet as possible, aware of the adjacent diners. “Jesus woman you have balls if I may say so. I never thought…”

She interrupted him brightly saying “Hello John what a lovely surprise.”

Rhona was wide eyed and sparkling an outstanding smile as the husband materialized at their table. Mr Manners wrinkled his nose at her companion as if to imply that some ordure had come in on his boots. Bill watched him lean down over Rhona and start hissing at her. The man was working at keeping his voice down too but Bill heard him say “Just what are you playing at?” He was certain that the nearby tables could hear it. Rhona was still smiling as if a dozen cameras were on her, giving a pat to the arm gripping her chair.

 “Can’t you guess? Just the same as you and Jasmine probably.”

Bill winced at how clear her low pitched voice sounded in the sudden surrounding silence. There was an art to vocal projection and she seemed to have learned it somewhere. The husband put both hands on their table saying “I don’t know what you’re game is Rhona but I’m not having you make an exhibition of yourself. Do you hear me?”

She was still smiling but there was tension around her jaw line now. Bill had seen that recently in another restaurant and could only guess at how much effort was going into that bright façade. He braced himself for fallout as she cut in to say with perfect clarity “Isn’t it a strange coincidence John? Did they cancel your conference in Rotorua? How disappointing for Jasmine.” Her husband seemed completely oblivious to the vitriolic undertone that raised a smothered titter from the young couple at the adjacent table.

The guy was overweight and Bill could see a slightly bluish tinge appearing around his clean shaven lips. As he took in the close clipped fingernails and shirtsleeves battened down with gold cufflinks he noticed the podgy fingers now rested on her sleeve.

He found himself on his feet, with his stomach clenching. Rhona caught his eye with a warning look so, rather than weighing in immediately, he just stayed standing near enough to force the peasant to move back from her. He had the satisfaction of calculating that his own dark grey suit complemented his well toned frame better than the strained navy polyester in front of him. He held himself at attention, in such as way as to emphasise that he was the taller by a good eight inches.

“Well?” The husband was back to hissing. Bill knew his hands were clenching but when his eyes found Rhona’s he saw her give the slightest shake of her head as she looked past them up the restaurant. She pouted in a theatrical way and said with assumed concern “Oh John, poor Jasmine looks so uncomfortable. Please don’t leave her there all on her own. Why don’t you join us?”

Bill could feel his eyes bulging, but she was winking at him as her husband turned to look at his table. The man adjusted his shiny tie and said “we will discuss this at home” in a tone Bill could imagine him using on his kids in the past, before striding back to his mistress.

Bill resumed his seat and waited a decent interval, before raising his glass to her. “Superb Rhona.”

“Thank you.” She was looking suitably demur. The younger couple next door had also raised their glasses and she acknowledged their salute with a becoming blush. Everyone then had the immense pleasure of turning to watch with a sympathetic expression as the husband and his partner made a swift departure from the restaurant.

They sat enjoying a moment’s triumph until Bill returned to the subject. “I thought you didn’t want to break up your daughter’s happy home.”

“I didn’t,” Rhona said, “but I’ve talked to her about it … well recently… She actually encouraged me to come out tonight. She felt I should find out if you were boring or not.”

Bill grinned. “That so? Am I?”

“Not yet. But then it’s probably too early to say. There have been diversions after all”.  

There is something about old luggage that really appeals to me. Yesterday my father gave me a suitcase that he had stored away. It was the case he took when he left home as a youngster to travel to another city and start his training as a pharmacist, around 1944.
I have filled it with a collection of neck ties - the raw materials for the braided rugs I make. These ties are collected in charity shops: pre-loved special occasions in patterned silk. They look right at home in a young man's first suitcase don't they?

Here is the final part of Chapter 4:

The next morning Bill went in to work early. He hadn’t slept well. Deciding to attack his paperwork, he started with the pile left in his in-tray during the week. About half way through he pulled out the pink slips, the ones his PA used to record non-urgent phone messages. Flicking through them quickly, checking for anything needing action, Bill glanced again at one near the bottom. On it was written “Wanda” crossed out, then “Linda” with two question marks beside it. Then: “Personal. Lady will call again!!!” Obviously Sue trying to be funny. A lady caller? It had to be her. It was dated last Friday 4.30 pm and there was a return number. Bill immediately rang down to despatch and booked a vehicle to be ready in ten minutes.

He walked into the gallery just in time to see Rhona, Paul and Philip shrieking in gales of laughter, completely enveloped in the big banner photograph they were trying to move to the other wall of the gallery. At least he thought that was what they were up to. By the time he got down the steps the three of them had collapsed on the floor under the canvas in senseless paroxysms. The gallery was a mess, with packing cases and bits of palm fronds everywhere.

Bill waited until the shrieking died away and all that could be heard were a few exhausted groans before he made his presence felt. He realised he could have been anyone walking in and none of them seemed too bothered.

“Christ Philip”, he said loudly, “Hell of a party. You’re still going strong the morning after.” Three faces emerged from various strategic points on the floor. Rhona was laughing so hard she had tears running down her cheeks and Paul was leaning across her wheezing like an advanced case of emphysema. Philip crawled out, being the first to come to his senses. He cleared his throat as he dusted down his trousers. “Just the man. Give us a hand Bill. Neither of those two clowns are tall enough to help me fix this above the windows. We need a bit of daylight in here.” He was wandering about as he talked, looking like the lead character in a farce. Now he prodded his shoe at Rhona’s leg. “Come on, shift yourself.  You and your side-kick are in the way. Good thing we packed the glass away first Paul. Imagine the insurance claim.”

Bill had been trying to catch her eye but Rhona wouldn’t look at him. He gave Philip a lift with the banner and held it clear while he was on the ladder. They had the thing fixed in no time. While they were occupied with that, order was being restored around them by the other two. Bill came straight to the point while Rhona and Paul were dragging packing cases out to the back of the gallery.

“Phil lend me your Wonder Woman for a few minutes will you?

“Oh really?” Philip was studying him with a disbelieving expression. “She’s not your type is she? Tell you what, you’d better hurry up and do it just to save me.” He wasn’t laughing now and Bill noticed he sounded unusually flippant. He started to explain.

but Philip waved it away. “Stick to the shortened version. We’ve got to open this place at midday and I want the circus gone by then.”

Rhona came with Bill when he called out to her, slapping the dust off her jersey and jeans. She was still flushed but sobering by the time he sat her down in the courtyard and handed her the pink slip with her message on it saying “I only just saw it this morning. Do you still want me to call you? “

She smiled with a big open expression and handed the slip back, nodding.

“Done. Now you have to get back so… by the way, your friend, Charlie, I met him last night. Tell him his tip was a winner.”

He ruffled her hair and dashed off, waving back to her as he went.

Bill rang Rhona as soon as he got in from work that night and told her briskly how surprised he was to see her the other night. “The art school training would help I suppose.”

There was a silence on the line and a slow breath during which Bill asked why she had rung on Friday.

“To tell you I wouldn’t come to you on Monday but I would be at the gallery if you wanted to come to the opening. I didn’t know you knew Philip see.” Her voice on the phone reminded him of a Marlene Deitrich recording he had.

 “Why not Monday?”

“Because I wasn’t ready.  Because….”

He swallowed hard in the ensuing silence and asked her what she had decided about her home situation. She told him her daughter was away at a sleep over the following weekend - a sufficiently encouraging reply for him to ask her out to dinner.

Later, while Gracie was changing after netball practice, Charlie called in with Rhona’s cheque for the gallery opening. He was much amused, watching her dancing around the kitchen waving it in the air. Eventually she sobered enough to thank him.

After extricating himself from her enthusiastic embraces he explained he wasn’t staying,  but wanted to know how the morning went.  Rhona was so animated. It was a long time since he had seen her in such high spirits. She said “Philip is so lovely, just as you said. He’s always so considerate. Oh and Bill called in. He said to tell you thanks for the tip. What was that about?”

“Just a sporting conversation we had the other night. I’m glad it worked out.” His glance drew pointed attention to her tired looking cardigan. “You’d better get out and spend some of that cheque on yourself hadn’t you?”

Rhona pulled the offending knitwear around herself and made a coy face. “I never pictured you as Cupid before Charlie.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” He sobered her enough for her to listen to his advice to open her own bank account. He told her firmly to keep the details private.

Rhona screwed up her nose at that. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic? John wouldn’t even notice an amount like this.”

Charlie sighed “Just look ahead a little way honey. You need to learn to take care of yourself.” It was timely advice.

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.

There was ice on the footpath where I waited for my bus this morning. A good hard late September frost. At work the air conditioning was set for summer so we sat huddled in our jerseys, tying to thaw out from our cross town commutes. Yet the view across the city was razor edged blue. It was worth it.

Sometimes we need a blast to bring our vision into focus.

When I got home I noticed these brave little dendrobium orchids in flower. They reminded me Ostara - the spring equinox- is just a week or so away.

I thought you might like to see them.

How are you finding the story so far?

Chapter 4 begins:

The Gallery opening was packed. By the time Bill Egan arrived at 7.30 there was a crowd in the courtyard as well as inside the gallery. Philip Kerby was a generous and a reliable agent. His openings were always well supported. Bill was about to turn back from the crush when he saw his host wave from the floor with two beers in his hand, gesturing that he was coming out to him.

While Philip made his way through the crowd, Bill pulled up one of the wooden benches belonging to the café next door. They perched on it and Philip said “Hey. Here’s a story for you.” Bill sat sipping his drink while Philip talked, discreetly keeping his voice down. “The new artist, Paul Witherspoon, brought in a contact of his to do the set up for this one. I found the woman he hired this morning, on her hands and knees, covered in what looked like grass clippings. She was going through my stock!”

 Bill was grinning at the idea of suave Mr Kerby being presented with such a homely scene. He gestured with his drink for Philip to continue his tale.

 “She had this awful jacket on Bill…. Anyway we got over that and she showed me later what she’d done. They’re all raving over it in there. Suffice to say she’d over-ridden all my suggestions.”

Bill was starting to lose interest. Philip was a consummate professional who dealt with this sort of thing all the time, but now he was saying

“Roger came in before- from Anderson’s Gallery over the Shore. You know Roger.”

“Mmm.” Roger was a weasel Bill was thinking.

“He recognised this art director woman”.

Bill shifted uncomfortably on the bench. It was unlike Phil to pass on gossip. Philip dropped his voice even more. “Roger tells he hadn’t seen her in years- since some senior staff at Elam lost their jobs because of her and…”

Bill had jerked himself upright barely hearing the words “Pity, because she might have come by a few commissions tonight if it wasn’t for the background.” Philip paused, studying his friend. “Are you OK? You look a bit peaky. You museum people have the hatchet team on the job up there, though. Must be awful. Tell you what”, he stood and pushed the bench back where it belonged. “Come on down and give me your opinion on the show.” Philip pressed his way back into the gallery, exchanging light banter with the guests around him as he went.

Bill was struck by the transformation in the main display space. The light was eerie, like a garden in moonlight, but it was a bush scene. In the palms fronds and ti-tree branches in front of him he spied a skewed urn shape in turquoise glass. It was lit up from underneath-an ethereal iridescence  in the undergrowth.

There was something surreal about the crowded room and the staged effects. Together they produced an atmosphere more like a themed party than a gallery opening.  There was a huge mural photograph on one wall. It completely blocked the window that was usually an asset to the gallery in the day time.

 Once his eyes adjusted Bill saw that the smaller spaces leading off this main room were staged in increasingly brighter variations on the same theme. Even after years in the business he still enjoyed seeing creative work like this- simple but clever. Odd that Rhona had made no mention of work when he talked to her.

They were virtually beside her before Bill turned his attention back to his host. Rhona had her back to them but she turned to respond to Philip, excusing herself from the lady she had been talking to. Bill watched her holding a platter of savouries in one hand and looking up at Phil with an amused, patient expression.

She was wearing a simple black jersey dress and silver ballet shoes.  Bill knew any other woman would have pulled out killer heels for this event. Her only jewellery was a necklace of graded millefiore glass beads. Those vibrant colours echoed the art glass on display.

Bill started to step back but Philip was turning to him, gesturing.  Unaware of his companion until then, Rhona turned right around. Her eyes and mouth made full rounds. Philip caught the tray before it fell on the floor. She apologised profusely and took it back holding it in two hands in front of her. Philip was introducing them but neither noticed.

Rhona looked magnificent. The dress had long sleeves and a modest scalloped neckline but the bias cut of the skirt fell in a way that emphasised her tiny waist and trim hips. She had done something different with make-up. One side of her hair was swept up and held in a small pewter comb. In the dark light her skin was pale, reminding Bill of a mime actress. Philip was looking at him oddly and covering the silence with a bit of harmless patter.

 A well dressed man of about sixty materialised at Rhona’s side and relieved her of the tray by unpeeling her fingers from the edge. “Everything all right sweetheart?”

"Oh Charlie - thank you"

That was it, Bill could free himself.

Rhona slipped through and away to one of the other rooms. Philip looked a question at this Charlie person with the tray and followed her, which left Bill with the dapper chap. The guy just stood there, inspecting one manicured hand while he held the tray in the other. He was making no effort to move away so that Bill could get out.

“So”, Bill said, affecting supreme patience, “you seem well acquainted…”. He was gesturing in the direction Rhona had gone.

“Yes. We’ve been friends many years.” There was a pause in which the man transferred the tray to his left hand and held out his right.

“Charlie Rivers”

Bill took it in the spirit offered but found his hand held just that second too long.

“Are you a card player Mr Egan?”

“Cards?” Bill realised his tone was brittle. “Well socially.”

Bill watched him pause to remove imaginary lint from his immaculate cuff before continuing. “Sometimes it’s best to sit on a hand Mr Egan. Wait and watch, rather than discard too soon.”

“Really.” Bill had done his best, but now he had to get out. “Please excuse me.” He made to move past. Rivers failed to get out of his way. When they were nose to nose the old man said “Mr Egan?” quietly.

 Bill made no attempt to hide his animosity this time. “Mister Rivers” he replied deliberately, drawing himself to full height. Charlie looked faintly amused, bored even. He said “They will be here until eleven tomorrow, setting the gallery to rights. Just Rhona and Paul” and he stared at Bill with that steady, amused gaze. Bill realised he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly.

Yeast

Yeast is such an amazing organism. I always find a sense of awe when I work with it. Traditionally no metal tools are used in the mixing of yeast. It seems to share some properties with more elemental beings and cold metal upsets it, so wooden spoons and spatulas are much preferred. It is also a creature that grows at the same ideal temperature as us. Once in contact with fluid at blood temperature it thrives.

Knowing this brings a new relationship to the process of creating dough: Flour, a pinch of salt (with a little over the left shoulder “for luck”), the warmth frothing creature yeast in it’s liquid bath, and energy as supplied by the cook – forceful rolling waves of motion that transform these materials into a strong plastic substance that rebounds after touch. These are the ingredients with only the final one required- that of patience. Having formed and shaped this new substance one must wait for it to reach its full potential.

Approached from this time honoured perspective the production of the essential food that is bread resembles a ritual enactment of life’s unfolding. The push from behind, knocks on the head, the both gentle and brutal blows delivered to a newly moulded form, have a transformative effect on us too as we are shaped and perfected by life’s events.

The uses for the resulting dough are limited only by the extent of the cook’s creativity: pizza or loaf, knotted roll, plaited, savoury or sweet? A process such as this we each encounter daily as we choose our thoughts, select from a range of optional behaviours and manipulate our world to create new forms.

There is a playfulness about bread making that we would do well to emulate in our lives outside the kitchen. The joy of the child rolling his play-dough sausage, modelling little creatures, playing with great lightness of heart but in complete engagement with his activity. No other thought intrudes upon his Great Game and no distractions are permitted to penetrate his awareness.

Yeast flakes are in the pantry too. Long beloved of vegan eaters they are used at home principally as a flavouring and condiment. Apart from the mild, almost nutty flavour, their medicinal benefits are legion. This rich source of B group vitamins gives a supportive boost to our body’s own balance of yeast-like micro organisms on which some medications such as antibiotics may have an adverse effect.

The brewer rests his livelihood on his yeast. I too rest my future bounty on it with the regular scrupulous attention to the ginger beer plant on the windowsill, imagining the scorched summer days ahead when the batch will be enjoyed from tall glasses in which cubes of ice crack and clatter on an effervescent ginger sea.

Here is the last bit of Chapter 3 - any comments or editing suggestions would be greatly valued. Thanks

The next time Rhona met Charlie for a walk he was full of news. Six months previously he had bought a pair of ex-state duplex houses in Point Chevalier and converted one of these into a glass blower’s studio, renovating the second to live in. His partner Paul had left his secure teaching job then, to work as a full time as an artist craftsman. Now there were sufficient pieces ready to exhibit his work. Rhona had only met Paul a few times. She found him a reserved person. It was hard for her to visualize that softly spoken man involved in such an elemental craft. She told Charlie as much.

He laughed “Paul hides himself well, like you do Rhona. Anyway” he continued, “A friend of his, Philip Kerby, has offered him space at his Parnell gallery. Will you help him set up?”

As they turned into the grounds of the local cemetery Rhona asked. “Are you sure this Mr Kerby won’t mind me being involved?”

Charlie nudged her playfully on to the grass. “Don’t worry there was no objection when I floated the idea. You’ll like him I think.” They walked behind the chapel and as Rhona hadn’t said anything further Charlie went on. “Philip is always perfectly groomed. Sandy-brown hair cut short- he’s a snappy dresser in the old money sort of way. Straight though. Paul tells me he’s a confirmed bachelor. He certainly defends his private time and I, for one, don’t blame him. He would be a good contact for you.”

They had nearly completed their circuit and were emerging into Gowing Drive with Rhona still mulling over this information so Charlie said “What do you say?”

Rhona shrugged. “It’s years since I did anything like that. It’s a whole different market now surely. I don’t know if I could do it.” Rhona knew there was no way out of this. It was a token protest.

“All you have to do is come up with an idea. Tell Paul what it is and what you need and he will see to the rest. You help him set it up the day before and modify it the morning after for a two week exhibit. That’s it. Oh, and you have to come to the opening night - that’s compulsory.”

 Rhona could see he had thought of everything. It had always been easier to go along with Charlie than resist. They agreed that she would visit on Sunday to talk to Paul. They were nearly back at the shops when Charlie asked “How did the drawing go this week?”

Rhona could hear the defensive tone in her own voice as she answered. “Oh I tried, but - I met that man again.”

Charlie grunted and said “That’s a weird coincidence. I don’t believe in them”

Rhona had her head down, her auburn hair hiding her face. “No. There was a terrible misunderstanding over it. He thought I was interested but -I couldn’t – you know why not.”

Charlie stopped in his tracks, scowling at her.  He said briskly “No I don’t know why not. Everything you do for that man of yours could easily be done by a housekeeper and the rest his secretary does for him.”

They weren’t so chatty after that. Before she left him Rhona said “I’ll do it Charlie. The opening I mean. I don’t know about the rest. I have Gracie to think of and I don’t like deceiving people.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie’s speech was uncharacteristically sharp. “But I ask you this: Who are you deceiving right now Rhona?”

Charlie made no reference to that conversation when he collected her on Sunday. Visiting Paul’s studio was a delight. As soon as Rhona saw the jewel colours and the arresting shapes of the vases, bottles and platters a scheme began to form in her mind. She could envisage displays arranged against dark forest colours- something primitive- a canvas printed backdrop and spot lighting in a dimmed room. His work had a distinctive note and she wanted the viewer to hear it.

Paul approved. The only question was the big backdrop. Rhona confessed she could probably help him out there too. She had taken wide lens photos at the Domain last summer for Gracie’s school project. One or two of those images she thought would enlarge well to banner size. So there it was – a simple design with strong local context. Done.