I work in tertiary admin' which brings me into contact with international students from around the globe. Their sense of the world as a community is a note that really appeals to me. Their powerful inclusiveness has never been more evident than this week in the wake of the great storm on the American continent. The devastation wrought leaves no one untouched, but in the midst of the it all we have an opportunity here to demonstrate at state, national and international level that All are One. In this little country - no bigger than the footprint of that storm- we hold all weather beaten ones in our hearts. Know that you are not alone and we will give whatever help we can.



Chapter 7 begins:

Rhona breezed in to work on Thursday a picture of positivity. Not all of it was forced. A certain amount of tension had left her when she walked away from Bill’s place. They were so volatile together.

She called out a cheery hello to her employer as she came into the studio. Her first job of each day was to pack up any orders that were filled and organize their delivery. Paul usually had everything sitting waiting for her attention but today he was slumped at the packing bench in a confusion of paperwork and product, staring vaguely at the lap top screen.

Rhona laughed “Oh good, things to sort out- very therapeutic.”  She came around to join him behind the counter and stood leaning lightly on the bench. She noticed he was checking his mail.

She told him how she had the Salvation Army truck at her place the day before. Paul glanced up at her looking concerned “Charlie told me about…” The comment tailed off as Rhona smiled and raised an eyebrow.

“Bill? Oh that’s only part of it. I still had all Sarah’s junk and John’s stuff. Then there were all the things I had hung on to for years, just sitting in cupboards and drawers. I had a good purge.”

She started moving briskly about, finding her packing supplies and lining up paperwork. “I tell you it feels terrific to get rid of it all.” She paused “Are you all right?”

 Paul made a pouting face as he scrabbled about amongst the papers on the bench. “Oh it’s nothing- well domestic issues, but nothing really. I want you to take my van and do a sales call for me.”

She looked pointedly down at her jeans and knit top. Paul caught the unspoken query.

“You’ll be fine. I want you to visit a Mr Petersen at Devonport. Apparently he has seen my work on line and is interested in retailing it.”

“You mean Claus Petersen?”

“Good. You’ve met him then have you?” Paul was blinking at her as if he was trying hard to concentrate. He aimlessly lifted and replaced packing slips on the bench as Rhona described her visit to Devonport. At last he found what he was looking for and passed her a sheet of paper.

Rhona scanned the email quickly. “I guess a selection of different price brackets would be best. He’s not very specific is he? Still at least I’ve seen the gallery.”

Paul was wandering off to the kitchen, but stopped and came back. “By the way you have driven a car lately haven’t you?”

Rhona nodded. “I had the use of a friend’s car to collect her children from tennis lessons on Monday afternoons. I’ve been doing it for three weeks so far.”

Some friend, he thought. Out loud he said “You’d better not tell Charlie that. He already calls you Queen Charity as it is.”

Charlie happened to ring just about the time Rhona drove off. It was fortunate timing because his latest scheme involved her. He had heard from an old friend Justin Clarke, a couturier working in Japan. He briefly explained the circumstances to Paul. Justin was looking for a petite mature model, a fresh face for his final collection which he wanted to shoot in New Zealand. Charlie had sent some photos of Rhona and they had liked the look of her. Charlie was enthusing about her future.

Paul didn’t say much, though he had some misgivings about the propriety of putting her forward for the job without telling her. That, and the prospect of one of Charlie’s former intimates turning up in Auckland made his response to the project rather lukewarm. Charlie didn’t seem to notice. He was giving Paul his instructions.

“Just don’t say anything to Rhona yet. Leave it to Justin to get in touch with her. See if she bites at the offer or not.”

Charlie rang off in that abrupt way he had and Paul went back to his email. He sat reading the message from Philip over and over, chewing the nail of his ring finger. Philip was reassuring him that the agreement they had come to with the Museum Shop was secure. He explained that the shop was separate from the Museum itself and therefore not affected by the recent drastic changes there.

“But I knew all that” Paul muttered under his breath. Philip mentioned Charlie had called in and discussed that, along with some other follow-up from the opening. That was the sticky bit. It read like Philip knew that Charlie hadn’t let Paul know he had gone to the gallery.

“Why meddle and keep it secret? Why go in the first place – God what am I going to say to him?” Paul gestured at the screen as he talked to himself. “What is glass art anyway- another product like a new line in shampoo?”

 Philip also asked for Rhona’s contact number.

“There’s no way I’m giving you private numbers buddy. Ask your mate Bill Egan if you really want to know.”

Now he had to think of a reply. What he wanted to say was “That’s nice but glass is my baby not Charlie’s” but what he typed was

“That’s good news re museum orders. Will give Rhona the message.”

Rhona delivered a few parcels on her way and arrived in Devonport humming a Verdi aria. Claus was busy with an elderly American couple when she entered the gallery. Leaving her plastic crates of samples tucked away beside the counter, with Paul’s card on top, she took the opportunity to explore the premises once again. There were several fresh displays since her last visit.

As she browsed she listened with admiration as Claus closed the sale on a turned kauri bowl. He was carefully explaining the technical challenges involved in working with swamp kauri, a speciality of the Coromandel based artist.

 When the satisfied couple left at last Claus called to her from the counter.

“Ah that was prompt. You are from Mr Witherspoon then?” Rhona turned from the far corner and came towards him smiling. He looked crestfallen for a minute.

“Wait”, he said rubbing the crown of his head. “I have met you before.” He blinked into the middle distance as she came closer. “Oh, of course. The lady artist, Rhona isn’t it?” He beamed and looked delighted with himself. “You didn’t mention your job did you?”

Rhona laughed and shook his hand. “I didn’t have a job last time I met you.”

He gestured to her to come behind the counter as he gallantly collected the crates from the floor. “Let’s take these out the back where you will have some room.”

The next hour sped past. She acquired a good profile of his customer base and benefited greatly from watching a man of Claus’ experience as he assessed the pieces she had brought to show him. She left with a creditable order sheet to take back to the studio.

Beltane

I an in a rather philosophical mood this evening. There is a full moon tomorrow and a quarter day straight after. It seems a good time to take stock. What have celestial events to do with my suburban world?

The 31st of this month is Beltane Eve in our hemisphere - the light festival that marks the start of  summer. At this quarter day the Sun has reached adulthood and, united with the Earth, brings forth burgeoning growth.

Many cultures have such festivals in this season. I photographed this paisley shawl when I was at Highwic. It encapsulates the story in symbols - from a country that celebrates Diwali at this time.
Traditionally on this night in Europe the hearth was extinguished after the evening meal. It was relit at dawn the next day from the renewed communal fire. The following "May Day" celebrations could get a little racey. Maybe that is why Beltane is the only festival not appropriated into the Christian calendar - just a bit too earthy?

I'm all for a party, but to me a hackneyed reconstruction of a past culture is an empty ritual- unless it can be charged with some meaningful intent. What is there about Beltane or Diwali that resonates in our own age?
In our time we are at last free to arrive at  personal understanding without restraint of rigid orthodoxy. We are free to create our own rituals and call them routines.
But I am wary. Doing the same thing over and over leads inevitably to the same results. This could be a good time to spice up the stale habits and toss the empty ones away.
Which is where I get to philosphy of sorts.
As mature adults we have ideally learned to balance our instincts and our aspirations -combining spiritual intelligence and life force in an abundant life. There is an element of service to Beltane which implies Wholeness is both magnetic like the Earth and radiant like the Sun- and every individual hearth or heart counts in creating a healthy community.

So - three things I wish for you friend: Light, Love and Abundant Life Force throughout the year.


Today I include an extra big chunk of the story - the rest of Chapter 6. My thanks for your patience while I was away from my desk these last couple of weeks.

Drawing from Life Chapter 6 Continues:

Bill had a good run, that first day on the road. Reaching Whangarei about one in the afternoon he left the car at the motel and ambled about until he found himself at an old Hotel. He had a cold beer there and a tired ham sandwich left over from the earlier lunch trade. It was deathly quiet, with only a couple of pensioners for company, but he sat there for an hour or so thinking. Back at the motel he flopped down on the bed and fell asleep. It surprised him when he woke to find it was just before seven. He had been aware of irritation but not tiredness. 

It was getting late when he emailed Philip. After advising his whereabouts and immediate plans, which were few, he mentioned how he might look at buying a place out of town. The idea had only come to him as he was eating dinner.  Any way the scheme sounded good so he spent a bit of time surfing the real estate sites to see if anything appealed.

The next day Bill checked out, shopped for food and drawing gear and then took the road out to the Heads. He had his wet suit in the boot so he took the chance for a swim at Parua Bay. Afterwards he sketched a bit on the beach, so it was late morning by the time he was heading back to Kamo.

He was driving at a steady rate when the back left tyre blew. Managing to stay on the road he limped to a wide driveway a few metres ahead where he could stop clear of the open road. When he climbed out he noticed a wooden sign above his head, swinging from a T-bar post. The legend read Antiques and Collectibles but he could see no one about. He figured he wouldn’t be in the way if he used the drive to put on the spare. He was smiling to himself, despite the inconvenience of it all. It was a good while since he had done enough driving to be in this situation. He whistled an old Armstrong standard as he fiddled about getting the car jacked up and the mess off the back wheel, replacing it with a spacer he found in the boot. So long as he made Paihia tonight he would be happy.

He about to tighten the last two nuts when he saw a chap coming down the drive from the house. The thought that he may have been under surveillance made him chuckle because he hadn’t dressed for company. His damp hair was pulled back in a rough pony tail and his dark sleeveless T shirt left part of his dragon tattoo showing on his left shoulder. Standing up as the homeowner came nearer, Bill stepped forward to shake the offered hand. The man was about his age, fit and solidly built.

“Niven Marsh.” The man had a pleasant manner and Bill decided he had come to be sociable rather than clear the property of vagrants.

“Bill Egan. I won’t be much longer.”

Niven leaned comfortably against the car “Oh, no problem, we’re closed anyway, until October. Just do the weekends, you know.”

Bill didn’t know, but he could imagine the off season at the Heads would be pretty quiet.

The man was looking skeptically at the wheel. “Come from Auckland eh? Those spacer things are only good for getting out of the mall car park.”

Bill knelt down and finished the job, seeing his visitor was in no hurry to get away. They had a brief chat about Bill’s travel plans as he stowed the tools away again and let the car down off the jack.

Niven said “The missus sent me to let you know we were having a cuppa on the porch if you want to join us.”

Bill threw the jack in the boot with the rest. Accepting gratefully he cast a doubtful look at his black hands. That made Niven snort and grin. “She’s seen worse. You can clean up under her supervision.” Bill had some misgivings as he followed his host up the drive to the white bungalow set back a good way from the road. He needn’t have worried. Niven’s wife, Beryl, was a hyperactive- seeming woman, but very friendly. She had a surprisingly warm smile that lit up her square freckled features when she laughed.

Bill and Niven were soon ensconced in cane armchairs on the front verandah, chatting about changes in the North. Bill explained how it was ten years ago that he was last up this way. Beryl was working at a table just off the verandah, in what looked like a stock room. She told him she was preparing for an antiques fair in Hamilton at the weekend, which brought them around to the subject of work.

When Niven asked him about his job Bill decided to be candid about it. The guy seemed pretty easy going but he was no fool. Beryl stopped what she was doing to drift out and listen as he told them what he did, or had done, up until last week.

Both husband and wife were genuinely interested in the situation surrounding the redundancies. Bill explained he had deliberately kept clear of the media. He hadn’t even bought a morning paper since the weekend. Niven was able to add a few details he had read in the morning Herald. Another colleague of Bill’s had gone, along with quite a few of the casuals and part timers. Beryl deftly moved the subject to a more general discussion of educational entertainment after that.

In the companionable silence that followed Bill realised he should make noises about going. Niven anticipated him though and enticed him to stay on a bit.

“I’ve got something here you might be able to help me with. I want to get a valuation, hang on- I’ll fetch it.” He went into the house and returned with a leather briefcase.  “Our neighbour Jillian, up the road, her husband died recently of cancer. She’s moving back to town. Her husband was an art teacher for years. He taught at the High School for a long time.” He sat holding the briefcase on his lap as he explained. “Beryl and I dealt with the furniture and ceramics. This stuff in here though”, he jabbed the vinyl case with his finger, “well it’s not in our field.”

Bill started to explain he wasn’t a valuer. Beryl had stepped out on the porch again with three stubbies of draught beer. As she passed them around she explained that she didn’t want to be stumbling around Auckland not knowing what she had, or who to see about it. It was just an opinion they were after.

Niven opened the case and swiveled it towards his visitor relating how the lady had never seen her husband take it out of storage. Bill picked up one of the manila folders. It certainly didn’t look like it had been handled much. There was a sketch book inside the folder and some loose sheets. They were drawing exercises mostly and what looked like some compositions and roughs for a larger work. Bill put them to one side.

Niven handed him the next pile with an apprehensive look on his face. These were mostly small sketches of anatomy – hands, feet, shoulder muscles and some profiles. Possibly they were materials or examples from a classroom situation. Next in the case was another folder. This one was tied with a fraying black ribbon. These were all finished drawings mounted on card. There were some beautiful charcoal sketches which Bill took some time to admire. Niven pointed at one as Bill was holding it. “That’s Jillian I think. And that study of the infant under it would be their eldest boy I’d say.”

Bill knew it was good stuff, not particularly saleable though. He suggested they should go to the son.

Niven pulled out two further folders. One had a bunch of newspaper clippings protruding from it. The other seemed to hold more mounted drawings. Bill opened the last one and froze. He whistled softly. Niven sat forward, pointing at the top drawing. “It’s a cracker isn’t it? That balustrade is a beautiful piece of draftsmanship. What about the girl though eh?”

Bill just stared at the image without answering. It was the upper torso of a young woman. She was leaning against an ornate stone balustrade, supporting herself on her wide spaced arms. Her head was thrown back as if tipped up to the sunlight. The lips were slightly parted and the mouth turned up becomingly at the corners. Her curly hair was long and cascading down her arched back. The figure was drawn with a compelling surety of line, portraying energy and sweeping movement in every curve of the sensuous form. Clearly she was pushing herself off and, in a second, would spin around in laughing delight. The young woman was Rhona.

Bill put the drawing down carefully on the open briefcase, exhaling as he did so. He reached out for a cigarette and lit it before dropping further back in the chair. Niven was looking at him with a sharp expression. Beryl came and sat on the step. Bill noticed husband and wife exchange a quick glance.

Bill leaned forward on his elbows and looked from one to the other. “It’s good but not good. I know the subject.”

Beryl jumped to her feet “See Nev’. I was afraid of this sort of thing.”

Niven ignored her. “There’s about eight more in there. All beauties and all of that one girl. Some society lady is she?”

Bill drew on his cigarette carefully before answering. “Tell me was his name Drago, this mate of yours?”

Niven looked over at his wife disappearing back into the house.

He asked quietly “You know a bit about it do you?” Bill leaned forward and flicked the folder of clippings saying “so would you, if you’ve read that lot.”

 The man was embarrassed now and Bill could see he was wishing he had mentioned the background first without trying to bluff through it.

Niven shrugged. “That’ll be why they came here for a start. I haven’t told Jillian about these yet. I don’t really know what to say.”

Bill just nodded. He was preoccupied trying to think what he could do about it. Unless Niven was careful about how he sold them the whole sorry story would do the rounds all over again. He hardly noticed when Niven left him alone on the verandah. Glancing down he saw that the briefcase was tidied away and just that one drawing of Rhona was left on the table beside him.

When his host came back a few minutes later Bill had come to a decision.  “I’ll buy it – that one of Rhona. I’d rather do that than see it in circulation quite honestly.”

Niven was looking uncomfortable but Bill said “It’s for sentimental reasons shall we say.” He automatically started to dig in his pocket for a business card before he remembered he didn’t have one anymore. He stood up. “I’ll leave you my number ...”

Niven was shaking his head. “Just hold on. You have another beer and I’ll ring Jillian. Then you can have her answer before you go on with your trip. Stay here a minute I’ll be right back.”

Bill paced. He could hear the couple discussing it all in the kitchen. Beryl came out on to with another three beers in her hand.  She told him how much of a shock it had been to her, reading about what had happened at the University. “Jim was such an honourable man, always. I just couldn’t picture him…” She broke off there. They sat outside making small talk about other things until her husband flopped back into his chair.

 Beryl shifted around on the step to face him, asking if Jillian had known about the sketches. Niven applied himself to his beer, taking his time to answer.

“No. She wanted to burn the whole briefcase, and its contents, rather than talk to anyone about the good old days.” Niven shook his head at Beryl’s unasked question. “I’m not going to do that.” He sipped his beer and looked at the floor before he said “I’ll just give you the gist of it Bill – she said you can have the drawing and god help you if you know the subject.” He had more to say obviously. After a moment he went on. “What she had to say about that girl Rhona wasn’t pretty. I was shocked, I honestly was.” He lapsed in to silence a bit longer until Beryl commented that it was reasonable to be still upset about an affair.

Niven blew his cheeks out. “She said he didn’t have an affair with the girl. She said she could have forgiven him if he had.”

Bill understood the woman’s point of view immediately. It surprised him that Beryl didn’t too. She couldn’t see the problem if he was faithful.

Niven shrugged, clearly uncomfortable going into it further. “It was some matter of principle with him. Jillian feels he put that principle before his duty to her and his son.” He gestured to the drawing lying on the table. “Any way that drawing is yours Bill.

He reached over and they shook hands.

Bill stood up and passed Beryl the scrap of paper he had written his contact numbers on asking her to look out for any good treen, early bakelite or wood working tools. “If I’m on holiday I may as well indulge my hobbies.”

Beryl smiled told she knew he was a collector just looking at him coming up the drive.

Niven walked with him down to the car and saw him off.  Bill gave him a wave out the window before he glanced over at the drawing on the passenger seat. The artist had known and loved the subject- that much was obvious. Poor mortal Mrs Drago would have had no show of competing with a girl with that quality about her… a perfect life model.

Even in his own case it was the way Rhona moved when she was animated that had first caught his attention. He suddenly realised she had walked away from him on Saturday without once raising her voice or losing her temper. Was that how she had survived? So why had she made no move to independence? What was she afraid of? It was academic anyway. She was probably back with hubby by now and happily ironing his nasty polyester shirts.

Bill made it to Paihia without any further delays. As soon as he was booked in to his room and settled, he checked his emails. Philip has sent one early that morning to say he had heard of a deceased estate at Waiheke about to come on the market. That was quick work and Bill was intrigued. There were a couple of fuzzy photos attached. The place was one of the original cottages near the water at Oneroa. Bill got up to pour himself a beer and stood over the lap top gazing at the pictures.

Bill had a gut reaction to this property that reminded him of Rhona asking him once about an art purchase. She kept saying “Yes but how did it make you feel. Do you love it or not?” At the time he told her professionals couldn’t rely on feelings. What he hadn’t told her was that when he was younger, working in London, he used to rely on that feeling all the time.

The coincidences attached to this proposal were too noteworthy to ignore. Philip had gone there to see an elderly client who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come to him about a purchase. This cottage was next door and Phil’ said he just happened to strike up a conversation with the agent on his way back to town. Apparently the property was genuinely in original condition. Philip said he knew Bill had building experience and an interest in historically authentic domestic architecture, so he figured that a restoration project might be what he had in mind.

Standing at the window of his motel room, Bill looked out across the harbour to Russell. He realised he had no intention of going back into the corporate or institutional world.

Originally he had been thinking of buying somewhere in the North, but he had no inclination to sell his Parnell place. He wanted to keep a base in town. A property nearer Auckland, but well out of the urban environment could suit him.

Returning to the table Bill typed his reply. It probably qualified as financial lunacy but he decided to go ahead. He described the figure and terms he had in mind, adding that he would return to town in the next couple of days unless his presence was required sooner. That done he relaxed. Philip could be trusted absolutely.

A week ago today our Mother left her physical form to walk the Path of Return. We have been celebrating her life this week, forging new and stronger relationships over shared food. Memories and stories are the condiments to this process of adapting our recipe for life to fit the new conditions.
Before she left I reminded her that I welcomed any contact she wished to make. Yesterday she did so with bright clarity. Her perceptive humour and common sense came shining through to help me as I tidied some of her belongings. Once again she has saved me from taking myself  too seriously. She was never an angel but wore no blinkers either. There is no one who could beat her for the well timed, telling phrase that made clear where effort could be best applied for optimum outcome. Today I am taking her advice to pick up dropped stitches and engage again with the fabric of life.
My thanks to everyone who sent message of support and kind thoughts during the last few weeks when I was unable to post any writing. I really appreciated your light touch. G's comment: worry and writing are poor companions- well, it was right on the mark, as usual. It is nice to be back and active within the circle of seen and unseen friends who share a creative way of being. Thank you cyber friends.

We had just got under way with Chapter 6 of the story before the break, so lets pick up again from there with just a small section.
I feel this pivot point of the plot needs reworking myself, but the mechanics of how to do that aren't clear right now. Maybe the personality aspects of redundancy could to be handled better. Any suggestions?

Chapter 6 continues:

By Monday evening a rental car and an itinerary were organised. Bill had decided a holiday up North in early spring was no bad thing. Putting Marsalis on the stereo, he made himself a scratch tea from the fridge. Later he mooched around considering whether he would take any carving gear with him. It might fill in an evening somewhere.

In his spare room Bill hit his toe on the boxes from work. He had thrown them in there when he got back from Philip’s place on Saturday. The top box teetered and fell off the stack, coming open at the flaps. Righting it, he stood staring down at the collection of memorabilia and stationery. The personal papers off his desk were all in a plastic sleeve, poked down the side of the carton. He took them out and stood idly leafing through them. There was a shirt to be collected from the dry cleaners across the road. He could do that before he left, but there wouldn’t be a lot of call for business shirts for the next little while.

Bill slid down to sit on the floor, leaning against the stack of boxes. He shook the rest of the papers out, to spread them on the floor beside him. One pink slip fluttered further away so he reached out to collect it and put it on the pile. Turning it over he saw it was the one from Rhona, last Friday morning. She never called his mobile in work hours. She always said there was no need to interrupt him. She would rather leave a message or email. She was like that. He screwed the paper into a tiny pink ball and ground it into his thigh.

Bill nearly got up to ring her then. Instead he put his head on his knees, trying to sculpt his eye sockets with his kneecaps. Some time passed before he sat up and smoothed out the note, flattening it as best he could. He pushed the rest of the papers out of his way and got up stiffly.

Over at the dresser where he kept his wood working tools he got out the set of chisels Rhona had given him. Unwrapping the chamois roll he ran a finger across the ash handles, stained with use. He noticed she had even had the edges honed for him. He hadn’t seen that before. Pushing the note inside an outer pocket of the roll, he rewrapped them with careful deliberation. That note said nothing important, just Ring Rhona please- with the date and time. Bill collected some other tools as well and put them all into his carving bag. He was ready to go.

In a Corner Suite

I apologise for the long gap since my last post. My mother is seriously ill in hospital right now - due for an upgraded vehicle. Her 80 something year old physical form is disintegrating around her- but she is a battler.

The positive news is that the community of extended family which surrounds her have set aside their individual concerns to support and honour her spirit. Healing is happening all around- especially when we remember not to take ourselves too seriously. We smile at the synchronicities: Room #7 in Ward 77, a corner suite with a regal view, and the wonderful nurse named Gloria. The All has all in hand.

Drawing from life Chapter 6

On Friday evening one of Max Bruch’s Violin Concertos was on the stereo. It was a CD Rhona had brought to Bill’s place with her. He confessed he rather liked it, even though it wasn’t the sort of thing he chose to listen to himself. He had ordered Chinese and while they waited for it to arrive he sat in the lounge sketching her curled lazily at one end of his sofa. Over dinner they planned how they would spend their first weekend together.

Rhona gave him a set of antique chisels. Later he spent some time showing her a few of his better pieces of carving. He had never really done cosy before and was surprised at how much he liked it. He told her he wanted to get her a key cut so she could come and go from his place whenever she liked.

The next morning Rhona woke to the sound of the phone ringing. She heard Bill answer it in the kitchen. When he finished his conversation she got up and went out to him on dancing feet. He was bent over the kitchen table, standing with his palms flat on its surface and his head dropped down. His hair had fallen forward to hide his profile. She laid her left hand on his right shoulder, peering around to see his expression, saying “Bill?”

He pulled his head up with effort and turned, slowly enveloping her in his arms.

“What is it?” Her voice was hushed in response to his distress. He pulled her in closer and pivoted her around to face outwards from him, holding her tightly.

 “Nothing”. He lifted his head and crossed his arms over her body, pressing her spine to his chest. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She stood silent, waiting. Finally he said “I have been fired- restructured- ten years ...  longest I’ve ever stayed in one place.” Rhona remained quiet as he turned her around to face him. He sat wearily in a dining chair, pulling her doll-like on to his lap.

“I have to go up there this morning,” he sniffed in a disapproving way. “Harsh though eh? Letting me go on Friday night- without a word- then calling this morning- 8am on a Saturday morning- on my own time. Can you believe it?”

She sat listening, a finger moving gently across the back of his hand, hearing the unsaid words with the spoken ones. He looked at her now but with shuttered eyes. “This will be in the papers next week. You of all people know how they work.”

Rhona followed her own breath in and out in absolute silence. She could hear him in the background now. He was saying it would be better all round if she just left and let him get on with the PR for a few weeks. Maybe they could see each other at some venue or other- to catch up.

On second thoughts, Bill was saying, it would be best for him to go away for a while. Have a complete break. He was starting to sound as if he was losing control. Rhona stood up slowly and he bounded to his feet. The chair was knocked over backwards in his sudden release of energy. Still she didn’t speak. Now Bill was saying how the show was over now and she would have to find some other lucky fellow to assuage her boredom. There was more, but she had stopped listening by then.

“Bill.” She managed a low pitch to her voice and a calm tone. He ignored her. He had begun ranting that it was useless for her to want to discuss it. There was nothing to discuss. She heard a sing-song, rehearsed quality to his speech. It really wouldn’t work long term, he was saying.

“Bill.” She spoke firmly, expecting a response this time. It set him off again.

“What is wrong with you woman?” He was yelling, demanding a fight. “Look, I’ve explained. Finito.”

Rhona calmly returned to the bedroom to dress. When she returned, her shoes squeaking on the wooden floor, Bill was still at the table. He sat with his head down on his folded arms, with his face in to the table top. He didn’t look up. She let herself out on to the street, pulling the door behind her with a soft click of the deadlock. It was a beautiful clear morning. She crossed over to the petrol station and hailed the taxi that was just pulling away from the forecourt. There was no need to look back.

The severance meeting at the Museum was over in no time. Bill had expected some debriefing procedure but there was none. It took more time for him to clear his personal stuff out of the office. He flinched at the thought of someone else going through his desk when he saw the business paperwork had already been removed. He was not left alone in the room at any time.

He drove Phil’s van back, just under an hour later, and stacked his removal boxes on the kitchen table.  There was ten years of work reduced to a few cartons and a severance cheque smaller than he had expected. Philip had said the van wasn’t needed until after midday but Bill decided to return it promptly, before opening time. Later there would be too many people about. He would be seen and have to explain.

Naturally Philip wanted to know what was going on when the van came back so soon.

Distracted, Bill ran his hand over his hair and explained he had been given the push. Philip asked carefully “Cost cutting?”

Bill shrugged and stuffed his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Only partly. Art curating is out Phil. Event management is in. It’s not my thing anyway – multi media. It’s probably just as well.”

Philip nodded. “Any plans?”

Bill blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know yet. Go bush for a while. Have a holiday maybe.”

He could see Philip approved, but when he asked if Rhona knew about it Bill became impatient. His jaw flexed before he told him it had nothing to do with her. Philip only raised his eyebrows.

Bill turned to go. “I’ll be in touch when I know what I’m doing. Oh, if I go away can I redirect my mail here for a while?”

Philip had wandered to the street door with him as they spoke. He stood on the footpath, leaning against the door frame. “You know it’s no problem. Just don’t ask me to pay all your bills.” Bill made an effort to smile at that. “I’d better push off.”