The moon’s an albino hedgehog this morning nibbling on the sky A lone seagull flies low like a stalling Cessna over the Vellum paper sea, as the 83 motors by followed by a red New World truck telling me I can save every day
neighbours are out walking their dogs on the beach, out of reach as I swim in the cool fresh water (the salp have gone for now) and there’s a light show of reflections on the wharf’s wooden piles
the crowds haven’t arrived yet with their blankets and chilly bins even the wind hasn’t arrived (yet) and the traffic is light, it’s going to be a scorcher they tell us, we’ve waited for this a day to savour in the bay
Our local korimako has set up shop to taunt us with their melody Insistent, tuneful, repetitive, hiding we think in the giant macrocarpa we spot tui dancing from pohutukawa to cabbage tree and eucalypt
a breeze lifts so that leaves lift too and sunshine obscures our view fat wood pigeons (the kereru) fly drunkenly low almost acrobatic but our local korimako makes more noise than any of them, show-off
I creep up the driveway toward the macrocarpa, the way I do at night when our local morepork is hooting and tooting and talking to me they also hide and I’m certain detect my silent footsteps, so stop
And instead, I whistle back to the korimako, and considering I rarely match proper pitch with pop songs, it’s surprising that they hear me but they do, and we whistle back and forth, friends for an afternoon
A Tuesday morning crossing the harbour led to a compelling conversation. I was seated next to an ‘elderly’ man, in a suit. We were both using our gold cards to travel free across the sea. He made the comment ‘It’s not bad being old,’ or something like that. I’m a succour for a chat. Some would say I am an incurable chatterbox and I will admit I am an over-sharer.
So, it was not long before this elderly chap in a nice suit and I were chatting like old friends. I am good at asking questions. He was crossing the harbour for lunch with some other chaps who like hunting and fishing. I mentioned I was meeting a friend who I had shared 8 years at Arohata with. I like to test the water when I mention my 8 years at Arohata before I finish ‘running a book group’. Somehow from this, we segued to me asking this chap what he used to do for a living. It is called ‘small talk,’ we Kiwis are good at this. He said he had gone to university really young and ended up in a Law Firm where his father worked. His Dad spent 60 years with the firm, and this chap had managed something around forty plus years. Do not ask me how we moved to this next topic, but soon he was telling me that he was a lawyer who dealt with all the pretty young things who were giving up their babies for adoption back in the sixties. I was riveted. Just that morning on Facebook I was reading about Barbara Sumner, herself an adoptee, who is an advocate for adopted children and her planned book Bastards. She is crowd funding. She is passionate and rightly so, angry that New Zealand adoption laws give more rights to the adopting parents than to the adopted child.
I imagined this still quite handsome but now elderly man (I mean everyone with a gold card aged between 65 and 85 starts to look the same, so how old was he … ), as a good looking, privileged (went to Scots College he told me) young lawyer, dealing with distraught pretty young things. He told me he always had a hanky at the ready because they were always weeping. This is not hard to imagine (the weeping). He sounded as if this made him a caring, kind young man and I am guessing it did in his mind, and I am still deciding in my own mind. He said he really admired the Matron of the Alexandra Home for Unwed Mothers at the time. He went on to tell me there was one really pretty young thing for whom he felt really really sorry. And he gestured to show me she had a cute little cleavage (do not judge I say to myself, he is a man of his time). The Matron told him not to feel sorry for this young girl because according to the Matron, below her midriff, under her dress or whatever, she had tattooed Pay as you Enter’. He seemed to consider this was a mitigating factor and looked at me as if to say, see, they were not all innocents, expecting me to agree. I responded with polite fury … ‘You don’t think a girl that young chose that life?.’ I spoke about my experience with the young women I met through the years at Arohata and just how often abuse lay at the heart of things. I scrolled feverishly through my phone to find Facebook and show him this upcoming book by Barbara Sumner Bastards insisting he really should read it. He agreed it looked like a book he should read – although whether he meant that or not, who knows.
We carried on chatting amicably until the boat docked. And then, we connected yet again on the return ferry ride. Friends almost, and he had had a couple of wines I suspect over lunch, and I had had a wonderful affirming coffee lunch with a woman I really admire and who admires me back – the sort of fill-up that wine cannot compete with. I was happy to sit and chat again. I’m incorrigible really.
By now, I was most intrigued by this chivalrous chap. How do I know chivalrous? He let me get on the boat first and insisted without words that I disembark first. We were old friends by now and as we went our separate ways, I reached out to shake his hand, as I’d enjoyed the chit chat even if a part of me was judging and disturbed by aspects of our conversation. He leaned forward and pecked my cheek (not quite a kiss) and said self consciously ‘I suppose I can do that.’ Ha, of course he could. And no, I did not mind. I chuckled to myself and guessed that back in the day, those sixties when I first came to Welly, I would have found him quite a catch. Chivalry I hear you. What is it? Well, it is the patriarchy of course, but hey, I’m a child of the 50’s and I want it both ways. I demand equality but I don’t mind getting off the boat first if it makes an old chap feel good. Yep, my book club friends are going to frown at this. Indeed, I’m frowning myself as I type this.
Well, roll forward to book group. I am an inveterate storyteller, and of course I had to regale the group with this compelling encounter. One of the more staunchly feminist (well, we all are really), women, commented ‘Oh, Maggie, I bet you encouraged him. I bet you thought what a nice chap.’ And in my defence, I pointed out how horrified and yet how compelled I was by the conversation. Should I have been rude right away when he mentioned those pretty young things? I felt defensive. Was I encouraging him? I saw him as a man of his time. Am I wrong to make an allowance for this? Should I have ended the conversation immediately to show my reproof? How would I have heard his account if I had not engaged in a convivial conversation, even if the topic were confronting and discomforting? Her next comment was words to the effect ‘I suppose you think/thought he’s a good chap.’ Well, indeed, she had me there. I can see that in his mind, back in that time, he may well have been one of the ‘good’ chaps. He told me he never forced them to sign and always told them not to rush to make up their minds. Did I believe him? Yes, I did, I do. I saw a man of a certain age from a certain background in a certain situation, with this extraordinary power. I can look at it through both lenses. Both now and back then and maybe a better young man would have eschewed such a responsibility. I wondered why more senior staff were not overseeing this legal area. Why did they throw a new graduate in his early twenties into the mix, to deal with distraught pretty young things? Something so powerfully life changing and this young man dealing with it as a routine legal procedure, but caring because he always kept a hanky on hand. Were there no women lawyers? Perhaps the women, if there had been any, had refused to carry out this work.
I have a dear friend who has written a book ‘Don’t ask her name?’ which her own story of adopting two children from two different birth mothers. It is a heart-warming story about loss and love. Both children reconnected with their birth mothers. It feels like a success story. But there is deep grief from one of the mothers who is not reconciled to her loss. And then there is my deceased friend who had a baby in the late 60’s early 70’s and she was sent away in shame to Napier to give birth. Her family never spoke again about this. Roll forward 32 years, and her baby that she ‘gave away’, found her and my friend was now a grandmother. Sadly, she died one year to the day of her daughter finding her, of a brain tumour. I always remember the anger she felt when her family, suddenly were delighted to embrace this newfound granddaughter. Times had changed. They now had two great grandchildren. But my friend had carried this secret, silently, painfully without any support for thirty-two years. I have always felt her brain tumour was a metaphor or even direct result of the internalised trauma she had carried unacknowledged.
I do not think this elderly chivalrous chap on my morning commute was ever a cruel person. But the fate of those young women giving up their babies for adoption, was cruel. He pointed out, that the pipeline stopped once the DPB came in …
Bikes are charged and waiting on the drive I’m applying my new Korean sunscreen Soon I’ll don my under groin padded shorts slip on fingerless gloves with pinhole patterns that I’ll secure with two neat Velcro straps
It’s a long cry from leaping onto my second- hand Raleigh (a gift from my maiden aunt) to cycle to the Appleby River and back or Rocks Road to fish off the working wharf or Edens Hole for a swim and sunbathe
Like my mother in her ballgown back in the day, cycling from Richmond to Stoke or further, ciggie in hand, anything for a whirl around the ballroom – and who knows what shoes she used to cycle
But it’s 2025, and I’m 75 and I have a battery on my bike and certain preparations required include a Hi-Viz vest, bright blue crash proof helmet my iPhone charged zipped in my pocket
Past the purple ragworth, the fisherman divers, families with chilli bins, walkers, smiling at other cyclists, some unpowered moving faster than me, and scowling at a family on the beach who’ve lit a fire
On the roadside is a sign that says Light No Fires and the ashy smell catches in my nostrils along with indignation as I imagine sparks flying from the beach to the bush
I cycle over newly laid aggregate which covers the injuries made by Cruise Ship buses as they hurtle along the Coast sending up clouds of dust and diesel
Each year a fresh crop of potholes uneven surfaces, and skid patches for wary cyclists … the trick is to pedal fast and sure seated like you did back in the day, unafraid
Stand on the pedals bum airborne as you cycle over the cattle stop arms rigid, controlling the battle over the bumps and down again flying briefly, well, almost it seems
Channelling that girl on her Raleigh no gears and back pedal brakes riding two abreast up Oxford Street arms folded, careless, carefree sans sunscreen or Hi Viz, and just a white Panama hat thank you
We used to meet in cafes, face to face Now I lie resplendent on fresh linen to scroll while Annabel is talking earnestly from France (to me), well not really, she’s got followers And she’s not the only one, there are women with the same intensity and earnest pleas wanting me to know about foundation for old skin like mine as they rub liquid in circular motions blinking, speaking, as if they are right here with me in my bedroom and I’m the only thing that matters It’s a new skill, this earnest, look at me, I’ve Something to tell you and no you are right I’ve never met Annabel in a café but You get the drift and drift I do from one reel to another, skipping over Middle Eastern Eye with all its subjectivity, voices from both sides carnage, each claiming their morality The carnage in the next presenter’s skin Is just fortunate old age and Annabel is now at a village BBQ somewhere in France with lambs on the spit and wait there’s a wine fountain, all you can drink It’s hard to think about the less fortunate almost seems churlish to do so
Elton John’s yellow brick road races across towards our house from Matiu Soames Mid Winter, the sun dropping in its usual show-offy way, exploding grey clouds I’m chopping a red onion that ought to be a shallot but I forgot and it will do the dill is waiting with the cream, the capers, the chopped garlic, zest of lemon
Tomorrow an eye surgeon will scoop out my old useful lens from my right eye someone described it as akin to a designer scoop for a delicate entrée of well, who knows, something that small, a small scoop and out comes my lens my faithful view from my right eye of the world, my perspective, a wee bit cloudy
I’m having a wee slosh of wine as the recipe demands a deglaze and I only have my favourite Pinot Gris with which to do this, so of course, I’m going to taste it too in the meantime a friend just emailed to say they had their cataract done yesterday And it was … challenging and everyone else had assured her it was a doddle
She emails back almost immediately to say she didn’t mean to scare me and that her eyesight is better already but you know she just wanted to be honest and her advice
You just lie back and let it happen as with so many things in life
I’ve warned the surgeon I sometimes get vertigo but now I’m practising lying flat
I will lie back as my friend suggests and think of England as the saying goes But there’s so much else to think of, eyesight aside, right now its Gaza and Tehran And I live at the bottom of the world where I can have a new plastic lens for my new view of the world safe inside a sheltered harbour nowhere near war
a curious half hour 