Last weekend my cousin and I went to Devonport - Auckland's North Shore. We walked the harbour edge in clear sunlight and a keen breeze, taking the gentle pace of two ladies recovering from a week of work.

Our steps were punctuated with bursts of conversation as we each took out a current life event, examined it and turned it over to the other for comment. 

Wisdom comes in many forms. My cousin and I look at the world in different ways. Being able to listen and see things from that other angle helps us both to understand more and make our choices on the basis of a broader view.

Regular contact, and the friendship that builds, makes us both better grown-ups - besides, she is great value and laughs easily- the best of cousins.

On top of Mt Victoria we drank in the blue-on blue view, then played the fool amongst the toadstool vent covers. A good day.

Drawing from Life

Chapter 8

From the time of their first meeting Rhona and Mr Bates enjoyed an engagement of intellect. They discovered a common interest in music and classical literature. Flirtatious, clever play with language amused them both. Starting in a careful series of letters and visits, they became close friends with a regular Tuesday appointment.

Towards the end of one morning visit Mr Bates remarked “I am very grateful for the beat of a butterfly’s wing somewhere. You understand the reference I suppose.”

She was smiling at him recalling the apparent coincidence of their meeting. He laughed and added “I might chafe at the age gap between us sometimes, but on the whole I am grateful for that too.”

When she rose to go later he took her hand and kissed it gently, as he had done that first day.

Rhona began “Mr…”

“Eric”, he interrupted her gently. “My name is Eric.”

“I…” Again he interrupted her. This time he placed his finger on her lips and gently kissed her forehead. “Do not say it. I have little time and you have less freedom.”

He led her quietly to the door and, pressing her hand a final time, passed her out into the afternoon. “Fly little one. You will be late. Goodbye Mrs Manners.”

She could only nod mutely as she left.

Rhona usually wrote to him after every visit. It was one of their little rituals. In the six days between Tuesdays they exchanged thoughts by post and email. This time she made him a card. With her conscious mind focused on her affection for him she took out the new pencils and watercolours which Charlie had bought her in August. There was no resistance or anxiety, only quiet attention, as she created a soft mist of colour on ivory card. On this she drew a butterfly alighting on a sprig of rosemary. Inside she wrote:

 I fly free and you have plenty of time.

The following Friday Rhona received an invitation in the post- on good ivory card stock with  simple black type:

Mr E. J. Bates requests the honour of receiving Mrs R. Manners for lunch at home on Tuesday with Dvorak. 11.30am for 12, midday.

She showed the card to her daughter. Gracie looked it over. “It seems a bit special doesn’t it? Not like his usual Tuesday whatchamacallit”

“Conversatione?”

“Yeah-What she said.”

Rhona walked up the path to Mr Bate’s apartment on Tuesday in a fifties’ style dress she had made for the lunch. The full skirt and fitting bodice were cut from apricot floral cotton chintz that complemented her auburn hair and swished satisfyingly with her step. The three-quarter sleeves left her lower arms and wrists on view. He opened the door dressed in a dark formal suit and glanced appreciatively at his guest before guiding her to their favourite place in the front room.

The table was laid formally for two with flowers, candles and immaculate linen. More flowers adorned the sofa table. Rhona turned to him holding out her hands. “This looks beautiful. Gracie wondered if it was your birthday, is it?”

He shook his head with a wry smile. He was holding her hands in his, keeping her at arm’s length to admire her appearance. He said “Today we enjoy the benefits of out-catering Mrs Manners. Would an aperitif interest you?”

Rhona enjoyed this game. He played with formality.

Lunch duly arrived, provided by one of the Bay’s better restaurants. As promised also, Rhona’s favourite Dvorak violin concerto accompanied the meal. It was only afterwards that Mr Bates relaxed his role as host. They repaired to the sofa, where he sat beside her this time, rather than opposite. He seemed more serious as he poured and passed her coffee in silence. She knew to wait for him. He settled back before he said softly “We have never talked about art have we?”

 Rhona deliberately turned her cup in its saucer where it sat in her lap, giving the action her full attention, thinking that perhaps it was just as well they hadn’t.

“I watched you the first day you came here. Your eyes flew to the pictures first. I have wondered why you never asked me about them since. Then, when I saw your card, a number of things fell in to place.” He waited a moment or two, as if expecting her to comment. When she said nothing he touched her arm “You are an artist are you not?”

Rhona shrugged “Aren’t we all?”

He smiled at the evasion. “Creative? Certainly. It is the defining soul attribute of humanity. A professional artist, however, even one emerging from her chrysalis, is a rarity surely.”

Disposing of both their cups Mr Bates took her hands in his and turned her bodily toward him. There was such an insistence about him today. His thumbs moved across the top of her hands, caressing constantly. “In my spare room I have a painting given to me by a dear friend. I met him in London just after the war. It was at his suggestion that I settled here in later years. I thought of him when I saw your card.”

Rhona longed to draw her hands away but it seemed gauche to do so. He increased the pressure of his thumbs as he continued to describe his friend’s senior position at the art school, and the picture was given for safe keeping. “It is an amazing synchronicity you see, the painting is titled…

“The Butterfly”, Rhona whispered, clenching her hands under his.

She looked up at his face and words began to tumble out of her as if propelled under pressure, describing the dreadful circumstances, how good his friend Roger had been to her, how much he had loved his work.

He drew her to him waiting for her to settle a little before he explained that it was partly because of his profession that Roger had entrusted the picture to him.

“During the war I worked in the area of surveillance – intelligence if you like. He knew I was well qualified to keep it safe.”

Rhona moved to get up and he released her. It was unusual for her to smoke around him but she thought there was just cause for an exception in this case.

He switched easily back into the role of host and got carefully to his feet. He was gentling her through the swing doors and into the kitchen, teasing her lightly. “Perhaps you would care to see the back of the premises?” It was a reminder not to take life so seriously, a motto of his. “I keep an ashtray here especially for these formal occasions,” he was saying, “one moment.” He reached into a top cupboard.

Rhona ran one hand through her hair. As he turned back she saw his eyes flick to her wrist, but he made no comment. He guided her gently out the back door to his little paved courtyard. As she smoked he appeared to amuse himself inspecting his pot plants.

Her mind was a knot of memory, blocked a long time ago: of the painting and of posing for it. There were long hours of uncomfortable tedium - so tiring, even embarrassing sometimes. Later she had watched Roger work on the composition and listened to his eager talk of exhibiting it abroad. The persecution had started then…Rhona drew back from following the mental images further.

She watched him examine a camellia and asked “Did you know my aunt, Grace Fielding?”

“Many years ago- not recently.” He turned towards her. “I know many people as you are well aware.” She ignored the defense, refusing to be diverted.

“And my father?”

“Yes”, he replied with a look of care moving across his face. “I knew your father too.” She was hugging her middle and watching her shoes as she asked.

“Did you know it was me- in the picture.”

“No.” He came and stood directly in front of her. She stubbed out her cigarette and he gestured for her to precede him inside, but she stayed put.

“No?” she asked quietly.

“Not until the card came and I remembered the title. Then I went to look at it again and I saw it was you.”

“Is that why the lunch?”

“Oh no. The lunch was something else entirely, a personal celebration.” He was smiling and his eyes were caressing her with kindness.

She was still holding herself tight. “Yes, I’m sorry it was…unexpected.”

He touched her arm. “and painful. I did not realise it would be so painful. I would never hurt you intentionally.” He reached and held open the door. The subject was not referred to a second time.