Honouring Life

Plane Trees at Purewa, Auckland, New Zealand

A new friend wrote to me yesterday – lovely. He mentioned respect. I am rather leery of that word. To me it implies something given conditionally, suggestive of a divide between those worthy of respect and Others. I prefer the word Honour, used in its traditional sense. I honour my friend without condition- as I honour all life- and already value his integrity beyond price. Some awesome pen-friend!

more of Chapter 11 - do we have any flow yet people? Fearless editors gather round & help me adjust the pace please!

Back at Philip’s apartment the two men made themselves comfortable on the leather chesterfields, taking one each, on either side of the low table. Some headway was made into the port as they lay stretched out, glass in hand watching the city lights over the water. There was a smallish parcel on the table and Bill nudged it with his toe, now freed from shoes and socks. “You still haven’t opened that pack of books. Go ahead and examine your loot.”

Philip shrugged lazily. “I don’t like to salivate over my latest acquisition with guests in the house.” He leaned over to top up Bill’s glass. “I’ll look at it tomorrow while you’re having a lie in.”

There was no question of a lie in. Bill explained he planned to get out to Glen Innes and get some of his furniture out of storage. “Furniture, note you, not books. God, you’re as bad as Rhona with your books everywhere. I swear that cabinet by the wall was empty last time I came here.”

Philip said, a little sharply, “No it wasn’t. What do you mean as bad as Rhona?”

Bill, lying full length, with his head firmly supported by the back of the chesterfield looked lazily in his direction. “I forgot. You haven’t seen her library have you? She’s another one keen on the classics.” Philip smiled in a rather disbelieving way but Bill was becoming too relaxed to notice. He was adding “not the Jane Austen Omnibus either,” as he stretched himself even further, with his feet hovering well past the edge of the arm rest.

Philip saw the port had hit the mark and suggested they stop at this one.

“No”, Bill went on oblivious to the comment, “no- more Catullus - that sort of thing. Now who was the other chap? …”

Philip put his own glass down and pulled himself upright. Turning and leaning forward he regarded his friend’s profile a minute in silence before saying “You’re bullshitting Billy.”

Bill sat up too, though more slowly. “No it’s God’s own truth. She’s a scholar and how intimidating is that?”

Philip sighed. “Why don’t you just ring her up instead of talking about her all the time?”

Without waiting for an answer he stood up and went to the window, staring out at the view, saying he might call it a night.

Bill put his glass down suddenly and Philip winced as it hit the table top. “I don’t know what you do for women Phil, and I’m not going to ask…but I can tell you that one is high maintenance.”

Philip put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the window, facing into the room. Bill was shaking his head, as if to clear it. He pushed his hair back behind his ear as he said quietly “The worst part is she doesn’t understand what she’s asking of you.”

Philip shrugged and suggested in a matter of fact sort of way that Bill should talk to her about it. “I’m out of my depth, as you say.” He coughed adding “I might call it a night.” When he received no reply he moved off the door frame and into the room, where he started to clear up. From the kitchen he said lightly over his shoulder “Jung would have a field day with you two.”

Bill answered the comment with a grunt “You know she mentioned him? Some crap about anima or animus or some such. I didn’t follow half of it.”

Philip returned to the door way “I expect she was talking about projections. It’s one possible explanation for the chemistry between you.”

Bill looked at him defiantly. “Meaning it’s an obsession, is that what you’re saying?”

Philip made a wry smile. “Come on. I’m locking up. You know where the spare room is.”

Bill started to say something more but Philip interrupted him “Don’t Bill. It won’t help.” They went to bed with an uncomfortable distance between them.

A few days later Rhona was sitting on the beach at Cheltenham watching the gulls. They were gliding and skimming on the air currents around the promontory of North Head where it fingered out towards the deeper water. This weekend was another first for her. She had agreed to house sit for Valerie’s sister who had gone to Melbourne.

A spaniel was whining and snuffling around her feet. The dog was named Mario and he was her main charge for the weekend. He pushed his dark snout against her hand, showing clearly his opinion. They had sat around for long enough and he was hungry. Rhona had already discovered he was seriously fond of food. Gracie would have loved his antics this morning, begging at the breakfast bar, but she was away for the long weekend with her friend Francie’s family at Omaha.

Mario turned resolutely off the sand as soon as they reached the park half way along the beach, clearly heading for home by the most direct route. Rhona slipped his lead off, confident that appetite would dissuade him from any ideas of escaping his minder. Sure enough, in a final burst of energy he increased his pace to a steady trot, making a bee line for his own cream coloured picket gate which could now be seen on the far side of the green space. By the time she arrived there Mario had collapsed on the tiled back porch, his flanks heaving. Rhona laughed at the dog grin she received as she unlocked the door to let them both in.

The two storey villa was immaculate both within and without. Valerie’s sister May, and her engineer husband Leon, employed a cleaner and a gardener. There were no children and the home had the atmosphere of a set piece for executive living. With her love for architecture Rhona had been eagerly anticipating her stay here. Exploring the building unsupervised had been a rare treat.

As she moved from one room to another, looking in at each, she heard the voice of Mr Bates in her mind. How he would have loved to accompany her on this exploration. She imagined him explaining the cultural significance of these copy book villas. He would have touched on the aspirations of the colonists. He would have highlighted for her the relevant artistic and intellectual interests of the era. At the end of the hall and the top of the kitchen stair she did hear him speak. “Note the machine turned balusters here Rhona, quite adequate for the back stairs but not yet acceptable in the front rooms. This was always a merchant’s house, oh yes.”

May and Leon’s kitchen table became her workroom for the long weekend. Apart from regular walks with Mario she spent all of her daylight hours working up her drawings into a series of skeleton sketches for her paintings. As they started to take shape she noticed the arch-types taking definite forms. An increasing vocabulary of symbolism appeared. She packed away her sketch block with great satisfaction on Sunday afternoon, before she rang for a taxi to Devonport. It held working drawings for four paintings- exactly meeting the first target she had set herself.

At home Rhona found the Renault salesman had left a message on her answer-phone. Her car had arrived and was ready to collect. It was well timed. She needed a vehicle in order to execute the next part of her plan.