Looking Back

I have started researching a new local history topic. Originally I set out to write historical fiction, based around the lake on the North Shore, Auckland. By some synchronicity the period I had chosen - 1845 to 1870 - has very little coherently ordered material available. So I am poring over old newspapers and family files to piece events together for myself. All good - but there is that ever present snag there for historians: we tend to look at the past through a distorted glass, coloured by the subconscious attitudes of our own time. Let's hope I can see clearly enough to pick out the defining features of life by the Lake two centuries ago- and go a little way to imagining what the colours and textures of the community looked like from their eyes.

Meanwhile we continue in the 21st century with Chapter 9 of Drawing from Life

The next morning Mr Bates ushered Rhona in with his characteristic charm. He seemed in unusually high spirits. While she sat forward on the edge of her seat, fiddling with her sleeve cuffs, he seemed to exude confidence and energy. Even his voice had the strength of a younger man. When she asked him what there was to be so chipper about he told her how happy he was that she had called him. “You salved my conscience you see.”  Even though he hadn’t known she was the subject in his painting he explained that he had known who she was from the first day they met.

Rhona asked with an edge of suspicion in her voice “How do you mean?” Here was more intrigue, as if she hadn’t had enough already. She stiffened when he explained he had worked closely with her father for many years. He went on, apparently oblivious to her unease. “Our arrangement came to an end because we differed over business practice. That is to say, I refused to be involved in his personal vendettas.”

All she could say was “I see.” There was a familiar sensation of entrapment, strangely at odds with her surroundings. He was elaborating anyway and not expecting a response. She listened to Mr Bates describe his last six months as a consultant to the Chalmers group. When he mentioned that her future husband was a new graduate recruit to the media group at that time her hands clenched into tight fists on her lap.  He was genuinely surprised she hadn’t known that.

She thought how simple minded she must seem to him not to have realized. Her remark “I thought it was just the families were old friends,” seemed lame even to her own ear.

Apparently John Manners hadn’t left the company until just before their marriage- when it was understood he would be managing her affairs. Her father had obviously arranged it all. “I wasn’t even living at home. I had nothing to do with them. ”Rhona forced herself to breathe deeply. “You remembered all that? On a bus ride?”

“Not all at once, but the name struck a chord. The rest fell into place later.”

Rhona asked why he hadn’t said anything of this connection before, adding “Why couldn’t you be straight with me?”

He leaned over to place his hands over her tightly bound arms. “I saw little to gain in such a disclosure and…much to lose.”

Rhona could not bring herself to return his display of affection. “And?”

“And I saw an opportunity to do something of tangible value for you.”

Rhona went to the beach-side windows, still holding her arms around her body. Eric was saying “I was waiting for you to share the whole of your concerns. I wanted you to trust me with everything.”

She thought how odd it was that she had come here to escape those very thoughts and concerns he was referring to.

Rising slowly from the sofa, he came across to join her. He spoke softly. “We cannot deny malice exists Rhona. It makes its home where ignorance abides.”

Eventually she blew out her cheeks and threw her arms out wide. “Yes willful ignorance. You are right Eric. Well. How serious we are. Show me your worst Mr Bates.”

He tucked one side of her copper mop behind her ear and turned her around playfully. They returned to the sofa where there was a plate of ham sandwiches on the tray and a folder beside them on the table. She helped herself to both. He sat back eating in silence watching her flick through the paperwork he had assembled.

 It was quite a dossier she saw. There was information about the trust. He had gathered data on several properties around Auckland and elsewhere, more concerning a share portfolio and bank account details she did not recognise. It all testified to the illusionary construction her marriage had been. Inside that phantasm she had raised her children and lived her life. The rest was evidently fiction.

She closed the folder, her eyebrows signaling a question mark as she looked across at him. Mr Bates smiled cheekily “I am waiving my usual fee. This one was for you and for Roger. Marcus Bearing will collect it this evening.”

Rhona placed the dossier back on the table saying “Dissembling aside, I could never begin to thank you enough for it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to start.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a little wrapped box, placing it in the centre of the folder. “I would like you to open this, with my fondest regards.” He sat back looking pleased with himself. She stood and came around to his side to sit with him, picking up the box as she came.

“Eric…” He placed his hand over hers in a strong grasp where she sat holding the parcel.

“Humour me.” There was urgency in his voice now. “I am literally twice your age, more even. I know what I am doing. I want you to have this.”

 Inside was a brooch constructed in platinum. The open-work wings of the butterfly in flight sparkled with tiny diamonds. Its segmented body and antennae were formed of graduated sapphires and aquamarines. It replicated precisely the form of the drawing on her card.

As she met his questioning eyes she said “It is magnificent. Thank you” He touched her cheek, then held her chin in his finger and thumb. “I have both met my ideal woman and done her a service. What else could a chevalier desire?” He took up the brooch and pinned it to her shirt.  She knew what he was telling her when he added “I shall go on from here a happy man.”

Marcus rang Rhona on Wednesday to let her know that he had spoken with her husband. He made no reference to Mr Bates. He told her negotiations were continuing on her behalf, without elaborating further. She emailed Mr Bates on Thursday morning to bring him up to date with these developments.  When he had not replied by the evening Rhona attributed her anxiety to her general state of nervous tension. By nine o’clock she found herself ringing him to make sure. There was no reply.

She went to bed convincing herself that he may be out at bridge, or perhaps having an early night. At 2am she woke thinking of him and lay staring into the dark, hearing his voice saying “Fly little one.”

The funeral was, ironically, on the next Tuesday morning. Rhona walked down to the cemetery chapel and sat near the back with the young couple who had done twice-weekly domestic work for Mr Bates. She left immediately after the ceremony, skirting around the back and into the side streets, avoiding tea and cakes and polite inanities.

Several days later she received a call from solicitors acting for the estate of Mr Bates. He had left a wrapped parcel on his bedside table addressed to her, evidently intending to post it. They would send it on.

 When the package arrived it was clear that it had been opened and re-taped. At least the letter inside had not been tampered with. Rhona took the picture and the note to her room. Mr Bates had long ago chosen a plain oak frame for Roger’s oil. Neither the genre nor the subject was to her taste but she propped it up on the pillow and decided the frame enhanced the small size of the painting, with its intimate subject of metamorphosis. The enclosed note read:

My dear Rhona

 “We still remain we”, as Robert Graves said.

The picture I entrust to you. I would not have it exposed to the eyes of those who know not the privy place it holds in my heart.

Eric

She restored everything to the packaging and placed it at the back of her wardrobe. It was her most privy place.