One incident comes to mind that shows Sophie wasn’t easily fazed. Church services on a Sunday morning were regular features with our family and when Sophie was five or six years old, and for a reason that escapes me now, Lesley and I took separate cars to the service. We left the church to drive the short distance home, both believing the other had Sophie. On realising our mistake we raced back to the church to find her wondering where we had got to but otherwise quite unconcerned.
I always regarded Sophie as a level-headed kid. As a 16-year-old she flew to Kaitaia to spend a few days with me, and she used my car to drive to her cousin’s house in Kerikeri, over an hour away. Sophie had only been there once, but was confident she could get to Kerikeri and back without trouble despite the route being somewhat difficult for a novice. Although there was plenty of petrol in the car, Sophie had done more running around in Kerikeri than anticipated and while returning to Kaitaia at dusk the petrol warning light came on. It was unlikely in that fairly remote location that she would find a petrol station open. She phoned to say she might run out of petrol and I suggested bringing a can of petrol by taxi to rescue the situation. But Sophie realised of her own volition that if she drove at 50kph her available petrol would be conserved and she made it to a petrol station that used swipe cards. To me Sophie had taken a sensible and commonsense approach which impressed me.
If there was something Sophie was a whiz at it was technology and, like many of the younger generation, she was savvy when it came to such things. I’m sure many people of the babyboomer generation can testify to the difficulties experienced with setting up computers and the like despite instructions that came with the appliance. If I asked Sophie for help on the computer it was always forthcoming, but she would go so fast I’d have to say, ‘Slow down, Soph, I can’t follow you.’ She would become exasperated with me and say, ‘Look, Dad, don’t worry about it. I’m always here and can do it for you. Besides, you’ll never get the hang of it.’ We bought a DVD player, which Sophie set up with explicit instructions on how to operate it. But it wasn’t just me who had difficulty with complex equipment. Lesley made the mistake of asking Sophie to write out some basic instructions on setting up and using a mobile phone. Sophie did as she was asked and produced three full pages of instructions.
Sophie’s caring nature came to the fore in 2005 when I had heart surgery. I was in hospital for 10 days and Sophie visited every day, even during my stay in intensive care. When I was convalescing in the cardiac ward Sophie would come in with her hair, bags and books flying and talking flat out. That was my Sophie, always energetic and full-on. I know that the other men in my shared room looked forward to the Sophie whirlwind.
Sophie’s loss was devastating especially in the way she died, compounded by the very public court case that followed. All we have now are memories of a beautiful daughter who possessed such a sensitive and caring nature. Sophie died in her own bedroom, a place that was a sanctuary for her; I know that she always put great faith in her ‘own room’. When she was about nine we moved from our old villa to a more modern home in a peaceful woodland setting. Sophie was positive about the move but at the same time sorry to leave the familiarity of her house and specifically her bedroom. On our last day in the old house Sophie went into the garden, picked some roses and scattered the petals around her bedroom floor. This is what Sophie was like, gentle and sensitive. I had to choke back tears wondering if I’d done the right thing in wanting to move.
Sophie and I got on well as father and daughter. We often walked up the hills behind our new home, sometimes climbing all the way up to the Signal Hill monument where we would gaze out over Dunedin city, the harbour and the Pacific Ocean in the distance. Sophie loved those moments and I treasure those memories.
To this day I can’t fully comprehend what happened or why. Sophie was the most beautiful, caring and loving daughter and sister any parent or sibling could ever want. She was the light of our life and when she was so cruelly taken that light went out and an awful darkness descended. Sophie was one of life’s genuine treasures. I believed that then, I believe it now, and I always will.
Nick’s memory of his sister is as follows:
My first and last impressions of Sophie couldn’t be more diametrically opposed yet at the same time so closely interwoven that they make this whole tragedy so unfathomable. I recall vividly, as an 11-year-old, standing in the dining room of our Dunedin home willing the phone to ring. Like my brother Chris, four years my junior, I was dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown hoping the news we expected would come before our bedtime. Eventually the green plastic phone on the wall rang, bringing news that Mum had just delivered us a baby sister. We were ecstatic and danced around the room in delight. Grandma took us down to the hospital to see and hold Sophie, this cute little baby all wrapped up. It was quite a big deal for us two boys and I remember it as a fantastic experience.
From then on my memory becomes rather hazy because by the time Sophie was ready for school I was 16, more interested in cars, mates and girlfriends than a little sister. In many ways Sophie and I were alike despite the age gap, both pretty headstrong with boundless energy. Of course this led to some good arguments but I had to admire this little girl because even at six or seven she would hold her ground. I left home at 18 to go flatting. With my circle of friends, and especially living in a university town, I took little notice of a sister who was still at primary school. When I was in my mid-teens I had other priorities, the least being Sophie. This does not imply that I neither liked nor loved her.
One thing I do remember, however, is Sophie’s energy and drive. She would talk at a hundred miles an hour and once when she was about 15, I said, ‘Soph, for God’s sake, stop hypervocalising.’ I don’t know how she managed it but I’m sure she lived in a world of 25-hour days. She had energy to burn and could fill in a day with activities, socialising, studying, working, playing sport and still have time to write it all up in her diary.
I think the first time I took a real interest in her was when I was about 17 and I was persuaded to go and watch Sophie in one of her first ballet performances. I guess in reminiscing about my sister in this way I should make a confession. I didn’t actually go to watch you, Soph — I was hoping to see some of the older girls dancing! Ballet and Sophie’s love of dance went on to give her a gracefulness that I admired. You could see that in the way she moved.
In 1999 I moved to Australia where I got work driving heavy earthmoving machinery for construction companies. I could only afford to come home once a year for a 10-day holiday and for some reason most holidays coincided with Sophie’s studying, either at secondary school or university. She was an achiever and to get the results she did there was a fair bit of stress involved. More often than not the two of us would argue. Mind you, that was largely my fault. By nature I’m a bit rebellious and I used to wind Soph up and loved watching her rise to the bait. I likened it to starting a small two-stroke chainsaw — give a wee pull on the cord and away she’d go.
There is one precious moment I had with Sophie that I will always treasure — such a simple moment with my sister. On one visit home Sophie was for once not stressed. A warm summer’s night beckoned and the two of us went for a drive down to the long stretch of beach between St Clair and St Kilda. We walked along the beach then lay down in the sand dunes, watching the sunset and the stars slowly emerging. For over an hour we lay there talking about relationships we had had, life generally and our aims and dreams. We also had a lot of laughs. It was then I realised that here was a truly gifted and special girl about to become a beautiful and graceful young woman. This was the first time Sophie and I had ever had a long, earnest discussion — just the two of us, brother and sister, shooting the breeze. That is a moment I want to remember always.
Then in November 2007, just weeks before she died, Sophie came to Australia with her friend Jess for a holiday. This was a well-earned break after four years of university behind her and her first full-time job ahead. Befo
re coming to see me in Sydney, Soph spent a week in Melbourne with our brother Chris. I recall the text message he sent me prior to her arrival — ‘Hurricane Sophie is on her way’. When she arrived I was confronted with this beautiful young woman — no longer the school kid or uni student I had been so keen on winding up. Here was a confident, mature woman, despite being only 22. We had great adult conversations (though still at hypervocalising speed). She only mentioned Weatherston once, referring to him as her psycho ex-boyfriend. I didn’t want to dwell on negatives so we avoided discussing him. When I was at work Sophie and Jess did the shops and at other times I took delight in showing them the sights of Sydney. They loved the usual iconic sights like the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. We went as a group to a couple of nightclubs and I found I was in beautiful and mature company. It was a most enjoyable experience. We had an absolute ball and Soph and I really clicked. The rosebud that had been Sophie had suddenly bloomed and I can honestly say I saw her in a totally different light. When Sophie left Sydney that November I felt then that we were destined to be the best of friends. Wherever we might be in the world we would always visit and stay with each other. Sadly, a few weeks later this was all shattered.
My memories of Sophie now are mostly centred on that last time we were together. I never realised before, but do now, just what an incredibly gifted person she was. I do believe she was that special type of human that could and would make a difference. And that is perhaps the saddest part of losing Sophie.
When Sophie died in such horrible circumstances I lost my motivation. At the time I was enjoying my job, but that enthusiasm seemed to evaporate. My sense of humour deserted me and the joy seemed to go out of life. I’m only now beginning to regain some of the happiness that should never have left me.
Personally I have lost my sister and that is substantial beyond words. But New Zealand has lost someone so very special — a woman with that elusive X-factor. That little baby I recall holding in my arms grew into an intelligent and beautiful woman. I know she would have been a great partner for someone and a loving mother. Sophie was special. She was going to make a difference. She was my sister.
Because Chris was at home longer during the time Sophie was growing up, they had a close bond. This is how Chris remembers his sister:
I was seven when my sister Sophie was born. Mum and Dad went to the hospital and my brother and I stayed home with Grandma to wait for news of the birth. I remember it was a good night all round because not only did I get a new sister, we got to stay up and watch the Billy T James Show, which was normally on too late for us.
Sophie apparently suffered from colic so cried a lot as a baby. I don’t really remember but according to Mum I used to rock her in the bassinet until she stopped crying. Movement seemed to calm her down. Once, when she was still a small baby, I carried her down to the end of our street to wait for Dad to appear from his walk home from work. It’s always exciting as a kid when your dad comes home and I thought it would be a nice surprise for him to see us there waiting, except it all went wrong. I must have been shifting Sophie’s position in my arms when I somehow lost my grip and she fell flat on her face on the footpath. Not surprisingly she started howling and there was a lot of blood pouring from her nose where some skin had come off. I was horrified and wanted to curl up and die. I was so upset my parents didn’t have the heart to tell me off much. Sophie had a small V-shaped scar on her nose for years after that, and although it became a family joke, I never found it very funny. I always felt terrible whenever I saw that scar.
I remember for Sophie’s first birthday my parents gave her a multi-coloured felt parrot sitting on a little wooden perch. The look of wide-eyed amazement on her face when she opened the present indicated that it was by far the best thing she had ever seen. Sophie’s expression of delight was priceless. She kept that parrot in her room for years.
We spent a few weeks every year on a family holiday, and always went to the same place, Moeraki, a tiny beachside village about an hour from home. On the car ride Sophie would invariably play music on a portable cassette player to pass the time. Trouble is she played it very loudly and sang along — also very loudly. I used to get annoyed at the time, but now I realise she only had it up loud because she wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the noise of the car — her headphones didn’t quite cover her ears. Sometimes when she ran out of tapes she would make up her own songs and sing them loudly and repetitively. When I think about it in retrospect, it’s pretty funny.
When Sophie was about 12 years old, I began university studies and moved out of home to go flatting. Afterwards I travelled extensively before settling down overseas. As a result I missed a lot of Sophie growing up and of her turning into a young woman. I always regret those lost years but if I had to do it over I don’t know what I could have done different. I was just doing what I needed to do at the time. She wouldn’t have wanted her dumb brother around cramping her style anyway.
A few months before Sophie was killed, she came to Australia with a friend, partly to visit me and my brother, and partly to have a holiday after finishing university in preparation for starting work. On the night she arrived I was playing a show with my band and she came along. When Sophie saw me she flung her arms around me. She stayed at my place and I took her shopping around Melbourne, something she really enjoyed. Sophie spent an hour in the bathroom one morning and when I asked her what she was doing in the shower all that time she replied, ‘I was only in the shower 10 minutes. And then I spent 50 minutes doing my hair!’ We both laughed. On one shopping expedition at a mall I commented on the ruching on a dress she was looking at. I could tell she was impressed that I knew the word ‘ruching’ and she said so. When I was with Sophie at that time I felt like a proper big brother; we naturally connected as adults, and as friends. I said goodbye to her near the train station and told her to be careful and to look after herself. I really meant it. That was the last time I ever saw her.
Being told my sister had been murdered came as a terrible shock and I flew home to Dunedin as quickly as I could. When we were staying in the motel waiting to be allowed back into the house, I didn’t know how it would feel to go back there — the house where my sister had been murdered, in her own bedroom, next door to my old room. I couldn’t see how my parents could continue living there and assumed they would try to sell the place. After we were allowed back my mum asked the dean of the local cathedral to come up. I’m an atheist so I didn’t really feel the need to have him there, but he had conducted the funeral service with dignity and proved himself to be a nice guy. We all stood together in Sophie’s bedroom and the dean said, ‘We must remember that although Sophie died in this room, she also lived here.’ I think that, for me, was the single thing that allowed me to feel comfortable being in my parents’ house again. Sophie loved that house, lived and died in it.
As the weeks and months passed, people would often remark on how strong we were or how well we seemed to be doing. How brave we were going back to work, getting on with things, clawing our way back to some semblance of a normal life. But I didn’t feel strong. I felt as weak as a kitten, like all the fight or will or whatever it is that keeps you going had been knocked out of me with one huge punch. I didn’t know what to carry on with or why I should even bother.
When I slept, which was not often in that first year, I often dreamed of Sophie. Far from them being painful, I really welcomed those dreams because for that brief time we were together again. And they were never nightmares; for that I was grateful. Some of the others in the family had nightmares. Sometimes in my dreams Sophie was a young woman, as she was the last time I saw her, and sometimes a child. Once I dreamed of her as a mixture of both, the skinny little girl she had once been but with a strangely grown-up face. She had long, platinum-coloured hair and was dressed all in white. When I went to lift her up she was as light as a feather. Towards the end of the dream, perhaps sensing I was about to wake, I looked back at her aware even in the dream
of the need to savour the moment, to look upon her freely as I would never again be able to do while awake. Was she an angel? Was she trying to communicate with me from the afterlife? Maybe dreams are just nonsense.
Some of the others in the family dreamed of her too, and they were not always good dreams. My mother even saw Sophie, and swore she was awake at the time and that it wasn’t a dream. My brother said he could feel her around us, even to the point of knowing where in the room she was standing. I never felt her, saw her, or heard her voice in my head, as much as I wanted to.
Sophie’s cat, Kade, was a big orange and white tomcat with bright yellow eyes, and his favourite sleeping position was flat on his back on the couch, legs fully extended. He was eccentric; not bad-tempered exactly but he did take a certain impish pleasure in swiping at everyone within range with razor-sharp claws. For some reason though, he never dared scratch Sophie. Whenever she picked him up, which was about every time she walked into the room, he became like a rag doll in her arms, weary resignation on his face and claws well hidden. As if determined to become part of some cheesy movie cliché, the cat died soon after Sophie did. He was born with a heart murmur so he never had much hope of a long life, and in the months before she died he had begun losing weight and sleeping a lot. But I like to think that it was losing her that tipped the scales, his weak little heart finally broken by the loss of his playmate, his tormentor, his photographer, his friend.
Sophie’s Legacy Page 11