New Zealand winter weather can be wet and windy and we are glad of the wood-burning stove. A fresh chill makes us reach for jumpers and warm socks first and last thing. However, by lunchtime we find ourselves in shirtsleeves enjoying a sandwich in the garden; a total contrast in a matter of hours. What a lovely change after our English climate. Although mild compared to home we are surprised to hear that central heating is rarely installed. I am pleased we packed warm things and lightweight, spring clothes. This is definitely a climate for layers.
Now, Sally the dog has a concerning hatred for cats and other dogs——the reason for her inability to reside at a kennel while her family is abroad. Getting past the house at the end of the drive is interesting; crazy barking and pulling at the lead ensues while the neighbouring hound vents his worst through the thankfully high fence. Apparently Sally killed a neighbour’s cat last year, so we are on red alert. A group of unusual looking birds surprise us every time we walk down the drive; they have striking black and blue feathers, bright red beaks and a white bob of a tail. Strutting on long legs they remind us of our native coot.
I meet a friendly neighbour trimming his hedge one afternoon and ask what they are; “Oh——those——they are Pukekos, swamp hens——a national symbol. Yes, we have a lot around here. And you see those birds in the tree by the gate? The White Faced Heron, native along the coast; recognizable by their long, yellow legs.” The exotic plants, trees and unusual bird-song are wonderful. Driving around town I spy Bougainvillea, Camellia, Magnolia and laden Citrus Trees. Every outing proves a feast for the senses and I am enjoying every minute. Treasures abound at every turn.
My parents telephone most evenings. They feel so close and could easily be at the end of the garden instead of on the other side of the world. An elderly aunt has been seriously ill for many months and my noble Mother has been heavily involved. Sadly the aunt died a couple of days after our arrival in New Zealand, so we are keeping in close contact with home. I feel for my Mother; this extra trauma on top of our departure to the other side of the world is too much.
Flicking through the pages of the School Handbook I find a Cranial Osteopath and make an appointment. I do need to fix my neck. I leave the family for an hour and head off alone into the more rural area, driving into a range of hills that frames the southern end of town. The views are immense and seemingly endless. I look forward to exploring when we begin house hunting.
Carla is a honey——a kind-hearted person who embraces me like a loved relation. She has an eleven year-old son at the Small School and lived in Glastonbury for fifteen years before returning to her Kiwi homeland. Her warmth fills me with relief and I feel a pricking of tears as she sorts out my troublesome neck. How reassuring to meet a new friend, although being British and less able to show plain emotion I don’t actually cry on her shoulder. Spending time with Carla allows me to unwrap the enormity of this life-changing adventure; the exciting and shocking nature is granted permission to partially surface.
Chapter 2 Unwrap
A suburban road lined with orchards and new housing estates leads to the College gates. Term 3 begins soon and the Laird has already given us a tour and claimed his office. The site was originally an established kiwi-fruit orchard. The College buildings are single-storied and functional, constructed of sandy coloured brick. They are not especially attractive but the extensive planting around the grounds should soften the whole in later years. Cedric the Scowler is being stoic about the rigours of attending a new school. A trip to the town’s outfitters sees him kitted out in dark green, tailored cotton shorts, a white shirt with green and red tie and an attractive, dark blue jumper with a double red stripe following the V. neck-line. The students wear navy socks and black lace-up shoes in the colder months. Terms 1 and 4 see them in short-sleeved, white shirts open at the collar and open-toed sandals. The girls wear a dark kilt with a pretty white blouse and similar cardigan. The whole ensemble is smart.
After no uniform, long hair and first name terms with all his teachers in the U.K this is going to be quite a shock for Cedric. And on top of that we have missed our summer holiday. We only have two weeks to get over jet lag, settle into the town and sort ourselves out before we are launched, head-first, into the new term. I am unsure about a four-term year; the ten-week terms don’t include half-term breaks. The holidays give a two-week respite only, before the next term begins. We suppose everyone keeps going until the long holiday at the end of term four, which incorporates Christmas and the fine weather.
“I managed to fill the new car with diesel,” I call to the Laird from the kitchen. “Aren’t the pump attendants friendly? They smile, ask if you would like your windscreen cleaned and don’t expect any tip! Now that is a definite improvement on home.” Our supermarket expedition this morning had been interesting. The friendly checkout lady greeted us with a big smile——she even packed our shopping. “Hello there and how are you? How is your day going?” We had been so surprised and wondered if she had met us before. Having lived in America as a teenager I am reminded of a similar, open friendliness between strangers, although the Kiwi version is less gushing. I am horrified by the high cost of our household necessities though; in one week we have spent the same as I would at home and we are on the equivalent of half our usual salary. I think our finances might get uncomfortably tight.
The new car is a joy to handle. The Laird headed over to a neighbouring town a few days ago to purchase a Toyota People-Carrier. An automatic, 7 seater it carries a powerful engine. Most of the cars are Japanese—many of them a year old and shipped over as almost new. He drove the hire-car back to Auckland two days ago, returning by air the same afternoon. Thankfully our town has a small airport. By the time you have bought petrol and taken into consideration the wear and tear on the vehicle it is probably cheaper to fly; the locals obviously agree as most large towns offer air travel. The children accompanied me through the less attractive commercial areas as I drove across town to collect their father in the new car. We passed several American-style articulated trucks; “Don’t they remind you of circus lorries with their big, chunky cabs?” I commented; “or grand Dinky Toys, brand new at Christmas.”
Negotiating our way around the industrial estates with their massive wood-yards and manufacturing plants was interesting. Despite a couple of wrong turns we were on time to meet the small aeroplane. Bright sunshine greeted The Laird as he disembarked after the thirty-minute trip; Rinky The Minx waving an enthusiastic welcome from the railings after her father’s five-hour absence.
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Enrolling at the local doctor’s surgery is next on the list; we accomplish that without difficulty before stretching our legs in a charming little park. “The Small School is further along the same road,” The Laird informs us. What a pretty, inviting sanctuary; I can see myself visiting often. ‘Tui Park’ announces itself from a blue board at the park’s entrance; along with various signs forbidding horse-riding but allowing boating and dog walking. A good-sized, grassed area bordered by small trees and mangrove swamp leads down to a bay with distant views of the main town. The children are keen to run about and they tumble out of the car with a Frisbee and their tired but ever-willing father. I enjoy the assortment of different trees and take a quiet stroll towards the water, deep in my own reverie. The exotic seedpods and unusual tree cones catch my imagination, my thoughts turning to my Mother who would share my fascination.
“I need the loo!” A familiar shout brings me back to the present, propelling us into the conveniently situated, concrete building at the edge of the park. Rinky and I are perplexed by the padlocked loo-rolls though, making it impossible to unroll any paper! A slow unwind is the only way to utilize the vital material. Laughing, we decide serious loo-paper thieves must prowl the vicinity.
The children have always been intrigued by my tales of a primary school in the 1960’s that I attended as a five year old. “You know, we didn’t have soft loo-paper in those days; only horrid stuff like tracin
g paper which was totally useless——everything just rolled off! And the paper wasn’t on a roll by the loo either; I had to go to my teacher, whose name as far as I knew was ‘Please Miss’. She would reach up into a wooden locker and give me two sheets of the ghastly, crinkle stuff. I was far too embarrassed to walk with it to the girl’s loo at the end of the playground, so I would stuff the paper in my knickers which made for a peculiar, self-conscious rustle as I walked!” I laugh as I recall the Hampshire school whose headmistress, Miss Trugnall, lived in a bungalow next to the classrooms. She had a shock of dyed black hair and black-rimmed, sixties’ style glasses. I distinctly recall the rows of neat pansies in her summer garden and the plume of smoke climbing from the chimney towards a benevolent, winter sky.
After half an hour the sun disappears as quickly as it appeared and we make a dash for the car to avoid a violent rainstorm that surprises us from nowhere. It is time to leave the park and head for home——to light the wood-burning stove and tuck into crumpets for tea. Tomorrow we head over to the children’s school to inform the office of our arrival.
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“Look at this; surely these Baked Beans are ‘Heinz’? The label design is exactly the same, just a different name; Watties.” I take a closer look as Cedric helps unpack the week’s shopping; “yes, you are right,’ I comment. “The Australian company is part of the Heinz group.” In fact, reading other labels a number of items have come from our neighbouring country ‘Down-Under’——perhaps that’s why everything is so expensive. We have been surprised by the amount of similar, if not identical, foodstuffs that fill the supermarket shelves. An example is the Rose’s Lime Marmalade I had for breakfast this morning and the Cadbury’s Drinking Chocolate the children are pleased to have found. We are used to shopping organically but judging by the high cost of ordinary goods I imagine we won’t be able to afford the luxury. I have to say that the standard in the supermarkets is fractionally lower than we have been used to; our recent sampling of some savoury dips proved a disappointment and we are surprised by the small selection of New Zealand lamb available on the supermarket shelves. Of course, it’s all shipped to our European markets isn’t it? Judging by the local smallholdings and gardens, if you want lamb you grow it yourself.
The Go-Getter is engrossed in some experiment while we stack the larder shelves. A loud shriek from his accomplice/sister brings the family running into the garden. What on earth is he up to now? “It’s a vinegar bomb——I found the recipe in the library book I got yesterday. Just watch this!” We all watch——my goodness, how can one small boy make such a mess? There is balsamic vinegar and baking powder escaping from a bottle with alarming whooshing noises, much to the approval of the young chemist and his assistant. It is frothing with worrying intent and I’m not sure the outside table will ever be the same again. I find a disgusting conglomeration of coloured Plasticine blocking the sink——presumably part of the same experiment and a minor, domestic challenge to separate from another heap of baking powder. Whatever next? I hope we manage to keep the house intact; left to The Go-Getter it would either dissolve or blow up!
Today is Sunday so we head into town to check out the local church. The large modern building, standing on a main intersection in town, is easy to find. The Laird greets the College Principal and his wife and we are duly introduced. “Come over for lunch on Wednesday,” we are invited. The congregation is full and conservative and we are aware that several of the families present have sons and daughters who will come under The Laird’s teaching wing. Lucky youngsters——they have a treat in store as my gifted husband will inspire and motivate them beyond the usual parameters. The service is of a standard nature and we sink into our regular, Sunday rhythm. I spend much of the time looking up at the high ceiling with its trapeze of metal beams; the only features that really interest me are the suspended Angel banners hanging way above the altar. Are the Angelic Beings painted on fabric, I wonder? The colours are subtle. They are copies of well-known Renaissance paintings. I like them. They represent a more uplifting subject than the poorly-executed, stained glass window that tries to take centre stage.
We meet one or two members of staff when the service ends. The children and I leave The Laird to chat and head over to the statue of Our Lady to light candles for prayerful intention. Now, this is a tradition I enjoy——sending the dancing lights to higher thought and humble request is always uplifting. The small ones enjoy its reality and we wait our turn with one or two parishioners of senior years; plump ladies wearing their Sunday-best clutching prayer books. I often wonder why the men rarely light candles after church.
The weekend rolls by and we wake to a drizzly Monday morning. I linger in the master bedroom, looking out over the bay. The water is still. My eye travels to a small promontory on the left of the scene; I can see a large property with a tennis court and a couple of boats pulled up on the grassy bank. I yawn; this jet lag is knocking me sideways and I know it will be several days before I feel vaguely normal. It is time to make beds and tidy the house. We have unpacked the children’s things but our basic wardrobe remains in the opened suitcases. We are only here for a month and the first week has almost been and gone. We must start looking for our next home. Walking down the wooden staircase beside a large window I notice another rapid weather change is giving way to the ever-persistent sunshine. Should I move the washing from the utility room to the garden?
One more stretch and big yawn——breakfast time——and then our visit to the children’s school. I am quietly excited. This is what I have been dreaming about for so many months; a step into the Kiwi-take on the teaching philosophy I know and love——my reason for accepting this radical opportunity to change our lives by stepping into the unknown.
NEW LIFE———UNEXPECTED
We need an adventure, why not?
Life can’t go on like this.
And so we pack, and leave.
What do we find?
New hemisphere, new continent,
New country, new climate,
New customs, new home,
New jobs, new schools,
New friends, new routines,
New life.
New Man——unexpected.
Today I meet him for the first time. It is calm; a still winter’s day and he leans against the verandah wall in the courtyard outside the school office, waiting to meet us. Our introduction is informal and relaxed in true Kiwi style——easy and natural. The Principal called him in when we arrived. “You will be in Class 3 and your teacher lives opposite the school. I’ll give him a buzz”, she told our apprehensive nine-year-old; “then you can be introduced before term begins.” We hadn’t made an appointment but they have been expecting us. As we shake hands I realize this must be the teacher in the photos that came back last February. A relatively tall man in his mid-thirties with a slim physique and fair complexion he greets us with an infectious smile. Wearing jeans and a baggy, green jumper he exudes a stylish charm. His lively nature and boyish enthusiasm engages the Go-Getter’s attention and we saunter off together around the school to find his classroom.
The classrooms are housed in a number of wooden, single-storied buildings perched along a ridge, below which an exciting garden and native wilderness make for a natural playground. The whole site exudes welcome and possibility. Attractive planting and meandering footpaths take us on a guided walk-about. The land on all sides is deemed ‘rural residential’. Situated close to town the school resides at the edge of the residential area with a distinct ‘country’ feel. The volcanic landscape is amazing; I love the rolling farmland on all sides; a spectacular banquet for the eye. I watch my two youngest; they are excited and so am I. We don’t stay long——term will begin next Monday. The Minx’s kindergarten lies at the further end of the school and we can be introduced there next week. She will begin gradually and not on the first day of term.
How lovely to meet some of the staff; they are very friendly and there is something about th
e Go-Getter’s teacher——I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Chapter 3 Utility
Where do I start? Furnishing a whole house for a family of five is a big deal. We travelled with the bare minimum and now we need to acquire ‘stuff’; or should I say ‘clobber’? The local bike shop is pleased with our family purchase and this initial spending spree triggers me into action and I begin the daunting task of kitting us out for the next few years. The list is long——from sheets to sink plungers, from saucepans to bedside lamps. I have never had to do this before; well, not in one big hit anyway. Hmm——from now on I take time to visit the local charity shops, {known as Opportunity Shops}, as well as the famous ‘Warehouse’ and another store called ‘Briscoes’. We will eventually need household furniture but for now I concentrate on the smaller items. Lunch-boxes for the children are first on the list; there is no such thing as school lunch in New Zealand so ‘yours truly’ will be on eternal sandwich making——worse luck.
Bath mats and drying wracks, stationery and baskets, rugs and coat hooks, towels and crockery——my, my——how exhausting but what fun! Luckily I enjoy this sort of thing. From the sale of household items back home, and a raid on our savings, we have put enough by to get us started. Here goes.
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My favourite haunt is a local Hospice shop, which sells everything——clothes, bedding, kitchenware and furniture. I quickly find a friend in one of the gentleman volunteers; he is happy to assist, putting aside any ‘special request’. His latest trophy is a glass lemon squeezer. “Oh these are very rare”, he tells me. “I found it for you yesterday. I’m afraid it’s expensive at five dollars”. I thank him appreciatively; even though it has a small chip in the rim I much prefer it to the plastic models readily available elsewhere. “Tell me your name,” I ask; “so I remember for next time.” Presuming he will say Frank or Ted, Tom or Dave I am amused when he announces with a flourish; “my name is Geoffredo!”
The Celestial Sea Page 5