We start with the kitchen cupboards. Adrian hands me an empty box and I carefully pack various spices and dried herbs. There are a few remaining clothes, a stack of flowerpots and some building materials to put in the car. We work happily together for a good hour, an unspoken contentment between us. “Delphine didn’t lift a finger to help when I moved up here,” he said. “Thank-you for your work and all your enthusiastic ideas. Let’s sit by the sundial. I’ve brought some hummus and crackers, {wheat doesn’t agree with me, so I avoid bread}. We can help ourselves to my salad leaves from the garden. How perfect is that?”
Perfect indeed. I couldn’t agree more. We sit together in the midday sun; eating off rustic plates with an ocean theme; raised starfish and shells sit around the edges of the blue and stone pottery in an original design. I watch my handsome Friend pack his car with all the clobber. Like me he is a hoarder. We keep finding many similarities; even our fragile digestion is the same. While Adrian is busy I sweep out the buses and close their doors. I notice a broken peg basket hanging on the washing line and an Australian Magpie shows off noisily in the Wattle branches nearby. The time runs out all too quickly and we drive back to school for three o’clock collection and Adrian’s guitar lessons.
We have decided to open a bank account for the workshop initiative. The donations are insubstantial but an account would be sensible. Cordelia’s departure for a ten-week trip to Europe and South America is imminent, so Adrian and I will be running the show alone. “We should open a Kiwi account; Credit Union or Kiwi Bank—all the others are Australian owned. I try to support our national businesses whenever I can——do you agree? Shall we go this afternoon?”
I wait in the bank while Adrian parks the van. I like him driving my vehicle; somehow it feels right. Five minutes later he walks in through the glass doors to join me. We are beaming at each other——feeling daring. “For goodness sake,” I tell myself, “it’s only a business account!” Our personal banker, Octavia, comes from the English Midlands. She is helpful and efficient; infected by our mischievous grins. “So, give me your names for a joint bank account; are they different?” “Oh, yes,” we answer hastily. “This is a business account for a workshop project.” Hmm——I feel like a naughty schoolgirl buying alcohol, planning to run away with the music teacher. We bounce along the pavement together afterwards. “Goodness, I feel as if we are eloping or something!” I laugh. Adrian takes my hand as we drive back to school. The gesture promises tantalizing embrace and fills me with happiness. I haven’t felt this joy-filled in many a long year.
NAUGHTY ANGELS
We’re a pair of Naughty Angels, you and I,
I’m sure we’re here to work and conform,
Not flit and play in the Rainbow sky.
You catch the twinkle in my eye and I catch yours,
Instant recognition, mischievous suggestion;
What next? Where to?
There must be something we can do today,
To send us spinning, delighted and high——
We’re a pair of naughty Angels, you and I!
The following Workshop sees us tackling Form Drawing, an important element in the school curriculum. The children follow Adrian’s instruction carefully, copying repetitive designs in lovely colours onto their paper. We have a new family with us today—an interesting Maori man with his American partner and her ten-year-old son. During lunch he tells us about the Lawyer Service he offers Maori and Pakeha alike, avoiding laws such as car licensing and national tax through biblical reference! He is totally convincing, but Adrian tells me quietly that his previous partner’s father was involved in something similar. “I wouldn’t go near that again,” he warns.
We visit the local auction rooms when The Workshop session ends——all three of us; Adrian, Cordelia and I. What fun we have——wandering the aisles and browsing amongst the different treasures. Adrian particularly enjoys the old tools while I hunt out the better pieces of furniture. To my English eye, the supposed ‘antiques’ are more like the junk shop finds back home. I have learnt where to find the bargains in town through my recent house-furnishing project. Cordelia doesn’t stay long. My gang are out for the evening.
Adrian and I sit together on an old bench, listening to the bidding. A garden table for the workshop sessions is keeping us focused. I am warmed from top to toe as I sit beside my Friend. I had forgotten how it felt to be truly happy, or perhaps I am experiencing it for the first time in my life. An old sea chest had sparked a conversation earlier about a cottage by the sea, {or ‘bach’ in Kiwi-speak——short for ‘bachelor pad’}; what fun it would be to renovate; we never run out of inspiration.
We place an absent bid for the garden table and a few other things we like—I really need to get home. I can’t stay until the end. The lady at the counter knows me; “Oh, shall I take your husband’s number as well?” Her eyebrows are raised. I know she is wondering about the identity of the interesting looking man at my side.
“You remind me of a busy, little Mouse,” Adrian remarks the next time we are together on The Mountain. He is relaxing on the sofa while I dash about, tidying up. “Yes, you are a Mouse——always scurrying about with a beady eye that never misses anything. You are so clever.” I smile and run the broom under his feet. My hair is a mess and I am wearing my apron from the Workshop session. We have the house to ourselves and the afternoon sun drenches the sofa with its reclining Prince. “Oh——and there is a Celtic Princess in there somewhere,” he continues; “with your blue eyes and curly, dark locks. You would wear deep red velvet and cream lace I think——without the apron. Mmm——”
Chapter 3 Embrace
The Laird is away on a College trip with Cedric; the Go-Getter has a friend to stay this evening and Cordelia is joining us at eight o’clock for a leaving get-together. She and her family fly out of Auckland tomorrow afternoon. Adrian hasn’t bothered going home after this week’s Workshop; “I might as well help cook for us all, eh?” He rolls up his sleeves to do the washing-up and I ask him about the copper band he wears on his wedding finger. “Oh, I don’t know really——it’s just a piece of metal I found in my car recently. I made it into a ring, thinking of Jules perhaps. Will she be mine one day? I hope to see her when I go to Europe in July. It’s because of her that I’ve decided to have a trip away myself——she’s studying in Germany for a few weeks. Cordelia will be back just after I leave, so you’ll be okay with The Workshops, wont you?”
Music making is on the agenda. My musical companion is rarely parted from his precious instrument and tonight we fall into easy song writing. A particular tune repeats itself and I find myself singing around the guitar notes. Some words appear too——“Burning Wings of Light, Soldiers of Fire”——the swords and chivalry of St. Michael lending inspiration. We feel especially close this evening, all three. We hold hands and bless each other with a beautiful prayer for the next few months. Cordelia gives us both a coin-sized, bronze disk depicting an Angel.
SOLDIERS OF FIRE
Burning wings of light, soldiers of fire,
Standing century through this ageless night.
I will send you swords of courage bright,
I can hear it; I can hear the mighty fight.
Tempting colours spin across my plane,
Shades of orange, pink and blue again,
Comfort beckons warmth, the easy way,
I can hear it; I can hear the battle fray.
Buried in the task, time leaves its mark,
Static verses spark, light turns against the dark,
I can hear it; I can hear it in this way.{Chorus}
Years go by, unchecked; how old am I?
Same deep desire burns across my sky,
Dormant passion wakes less often now,
I can hear it; I can hear the marching cry.
Fresh wind at my heels, now is the time,
Sunlight creeping through an open door,
I must make my move, it is a sign,
I can
hear it; I can hear it even more.
Buried in the task, time leaves its mark,
Static verses spark, light turns against the dark,
I can hear it; I can hear it in this way.{Chorus}
The finished song takes us several days to perfect and we complete it one wet, Saturday afternoon on The Mountain. By this time Cordelia’s overseas trip is well underway. Our Kiwi Orchardist friend Louise and her two daughters happen to drop in as we fine-tune the composition. They give us the thumbs up——good. I wonder if we will ever get to perform in public?
* * * * * * *
May brings the first wintry weather to The Mountain. Violent gusts buffet the sturdy chalet cabin, Cedric’s collection of plywood sheets are scattered over the side of the hill, held aloft by the grasping gorse, the trampoline net is ripped away, hopelessly buckled, and the French-doors are snatched from us and crashed against the sides of the house. This is windy country. I replace my preferred, wooden laundry pegs with the luminous pink variety from the supermarket; they have a super-grip that could withstand a hurricane. At night we hold tightly to our mattresses, praying we won’t be blown down the hill in our beds. And the rain——my goodness, when it rains——it really rains. The children get fed up with the curtailed, carefree life and we sometimes wish we lived by the coast instead of on The Mountain. The weather can often be fine and warm down there while we are caught in the driving rain and rough winds.
Adrian and I meet in his new basement room every Monday lunchtime to organize the week’s Workshop Agenda. Sometimes Big J. comes home for lunch and seems happy with our working rendezvous beneath her kitchen. She occasionally shares a sandwich with us and we chat about school life together. Adrian likes to sit at his computer desk with me beside him on his bed. We compose the weekly letter together, thoroughly enjoying our joint creativity. I rest my head on his shoulder as he types, suggesting seasonal snippets here and lunch requirements there.
“Hey, look at this, Friend,” he says, “I can highlight the heading in two or three colours——what about late autumn tones for this week?” He usually wraps me up in a spontaneous hug at the end of our literary session. Today we turn to face each other, satisfied with this week’s timetable. We let our jeaned thighs linger together——open, inviting, a promise of more. There is no need to say anything. The cold wind blows the window shut while the dog crawls back under the bed.
The Laird is excited; his father, sister and eight-year-old niece are coming to stay for three weeks. They plan to arrive in July while Adrian is away in Europe. Rinky The Minx is especially pleased——she hasn’t seen her cousin for a long time. I have been busy writing a simple song for my musical companion. I seem perfectly able to run things at home while engaging in a different world all together.
I think I am falling in love with my Elfish Prince———
PLAY ME ANOTHER TUNE
Play me another tune, My Smiling Minstrel, another tune,
Watching your fingers move, making melody here in this room,
Transport me; send me, one day he might lend me,
I’m heading for the stars,
Transport me; send me, one day he will lend me,
All this music magic it is ours.
Play me another tune, My Smiling Minstrel, another tune,
One that we can work on long, and late, and slow into the twilight gloom,
One that makes our souls sing, one that makes the bells ring,
I can feel it coming through,
Feed me with your magic art, then I can make a start,
This one’s just for me and you.
Play me another tune, My Smiling Minstrel, another tune,
Watching your fingers move, making melody here in this room,
Transport me; send me, one day he might lend me,
I’m heading for the moon,
Transport me; send me, one day he will lend me,
Oh, I hope you’ll join me one day soon.
Play me another tune—————
This evening I feel brave and sing to Adrian. I strum the basic melody, wondering what he will make of the lyrics. The Laird is away again and the children have friends staying. He stands beside the glowing wood-burning stove while I step over our undefined safety barrier. My handsome Friend looks taken aback as I finish singing; not sure what he should say. “Would you ever give yourself to me?” He asks quietly. His intonation does not convey a request; it is more a hesitant question. The children are playing in their bedrooms. It is time to switch off their lights. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. I give him a warm hug. “You are a beautiful man,” I tell him before heading upstairs myself. A fireside bed awaits The Smiling Minstrel——warmer than the caravan on a cold, mountain night. As I wave from the stairs I sense he is uneasy——unsure.
Adrian is quick to mention Jules the next morning——and his copper band. “I wouldn’t want to give you false hope or anything,” he says. “She seems pleased that I’m joining her in Europe, and anyway, you have your marriage vows to consider.” I don’t feel upset by his remark. I also carry a ring and can’t expect his ongoing attention. “What on earth was that peculiar noise last night?” I ask, changing the subject after reassuring my friend I have no expectations. “Did you hear it? I thought someone with heavy boots was running over the tin roof! And there was an eerie, rasping growl that sounded like an old man clearing his throat. What could it have been?”
Adrian laughs——“that would have been our old friend; Mr. Possum. I’ve seen several on your drive at night. They aren’t native; another, introduced pest that ruthlessly destroys our precious Bush I’m afraid. Farmers and conservation groups put down poison and lay traps to keep them under control. That’s why many Bush walks don’t allow dogs. Unlike Europe, we don’t have the variety of predator to gain a balanced population. Road kills help to a certain extent.”
Yes, we have certainly seen the dopey, lumbering creatures on our drive at night and many, squished victims on the roads. They have adorable faces like bush babies and their thick pelts are highly prized. The tourist shops display many possum fur goods; anything from bed-socks to cushions. I even heard a recipe for possum pie on the radio last week. “The only good possum is a dead possum,” we often hear said. Our orchardist friend, Andrew, left school at sixteen to trap possum. After a few years he had earnt enough to start his now booming, Kiwi Fruit business.
The fine weather returns the following week. It is Wednesday and Adrian and I run another successful Workshop together. We finish the session in the bottom paddock. “Let’s stay behind and continue with the pond digging,” he suggests. The towering pines stand as awesome giants above us. “I wouldn’t let anyone come down here in a high wind,” I tell him. “I don’t trust the broken branches and I wouldn’t want one of those heavy fir cones falling on me from that height.” We look up admiringly at the massive trees. They are nearing the end of their life and several branches are hanging, partially snapped. Apparently they only live for eighty odd years.
Adrian and I are slow to start any manual work. We would rather chat——and hum——and wonder. We watch the neighbour’s horses grazing over the fence and stop to exclaim at the success of Adrian’s gorse spike deterrent. Last week he planted baby lettuce and scattered the unfriendly prickles over them. “Well, look at that! Those pesky possum and rabbits haven’t touched one leaf. I think I am beginning to like the gorse. I know it protects young trees from being eaten; a nurseryman’s best friend.” After a contented silence Adrian casually asks if I sense our growing attraction? “Oh yes Sir,” I answer. “I most certainly do——alive and racing ahead of us.”
Distracting ourselves with the pond digging we work for a while before heading back up the hill to the house. Rinky attended the Workshop today and climbed the steep track earlier with the departing families. The sun is gloriously warm and we sit at the top in a cosy heap while she leaps down the drive to join us. I lay my head on Adrian’s chest and inspect the
laden spider sacks hanging in the gorse. There is a blackberry bush beside us I notice——a few of its leaves are turning red. “Come on, My Lady, I’m in need of a cup of tea and a snackerel, even if you aren’t.” My gallant Prince pulls me to my feet and we walk up the drive with our arms about each other. The Minx dashes ahead to fill the kettle. “Mmm——this is so nice”, says Adrian. “I’m going to want to marry you if I’m not careful.”
And so we gallop into June——“My European trip plans are finalized,” Adrian announces one lunchtime. “Would you like to see them?”
Adrian’s Trip Itinerary July 2006
1th July———Los Angeles / Chicago 8 days in Chicago, staying at the Christian Community Seminary. {Is the Priesthood for me?}
10th July———Chicago / London / Stuttgart 2 days at the Stuttgart Seminary. Also visiting the First Waldorf School and a German friend at the School of Eurythmy
12th July———Eurail Stuggart / Basel 2 days at the Goetheanum in Dornach. Hopefully Catching up with Jules.
14th July———Eurail Basel / Paris A half-day look around Paris.
15th July————Paris / Stockholm. 6 days with Cousin Joni. Then heading up north to visit more relations.
21st July————Stockholm / London / London / Dublin Weekend with another cousin and his new wife in County Laiose
24th July————Dublin / Gatwick Trip around England. Hopefully staying with Contacts.
3rd Aug—————London / Bangkok
5th Aug—————Bangkok / Sydney 4 days with my 2 sisters; helping out with handy-man tasks in their shop.
The Celestial Sea Page 13