Author Archives: Philip Garside

Free Sample Chapter – Greens and Greys by Rosalie Sugrue

Dark Encounters

Year two rolled on. Christchurch and College continued to fascinate and educate. Smug in senior superiority we hardened hostellers, swaggered around the first years oozing worldly wisdom, and tempting fate with blind dates, risqué adventures and dabbling in the occult.

To be precise, we organised a couple of dance dates, a set number of girls from our hostel and a boys’ hostel, and lucky-dipped for partners. Esther is still married to the guy she met on one of these dates 50 years ago.

* * *

Two late passes per week were the maximum allocation, an 11 o’clock, and a 1:30. 1:30 seemed pretty liberal but there was a catch, it couldn’t be taken on a Saturday. Being the Sabbath there was a 12:15 curfew. The hostel was locked at 10:30 each night by the ‘duty Deac.’ Then the poor Deac had to stay awake and open the door for those on late passes.

Talking was my downfall. 10:30 creeps quickly during a good discussion. If caught missing the deadline, late passes were suspended.

The three fire escapes were raised five feet from the ground. An ineffectual twist of barbed wire decorated each bottom rung. An apple-box hidden in the hedge provided the initial boost. Life was easier for the girls who lived downstairs, several windows gave easy access, but we upstairs dwellers couldn’t risk creaking up the stairs past Miss P’s room. I could rely on Esther to cover for me, as I did for her. I didn’t do it often. I was uneasy about breaking rules.

That year it was fashionable for boys to prove manhood by bathing in a girls’ hostel and souveniring the plug. Only one plug went missing from our hostel but our lives were spiced by the continuing hope of intercepting some intrepid, naked intruder. At that time only a séance held more fascination.

* * *

Chopsticks belts from the piano, a sure sign Miss P is out. The common room fills. A wireless is plugged in and turned up. Maureen and Vera stop murdering the piano and join the twisters. Bodies gyrate to the end of the hit parade then someone suggests a séance.

Pious Patricia wonders if it is right. “We shouldn’t dabble in witchcraft. You know, it could be evil,” she falters.

“Witchcraft be blowed! All the hostels are doing it,” says Maureen. “My mate Theresa told me the Rosary House girls are really into it. They haven’t made contact with the dead or anything but they sometimes get answers to questions and its super spooky.”

“I don’t know if I’m game,” mutters Twitch.

“Don’t be batty, it is only a game,” says Pam.

“My Welsh Aunt believes in it,” says Jo.

“Ridiculous! Stuff and nonsense for the gullible,” scoffs Esther as we scatter to find torch, glass, pen and paper. Smug Esther deigns to watch.

Gullible eh! An idea sprouts. I move to the telephone in the passage and dial the number for Bishop Julius, the Anglican hostel, a mere five-minute bike-ride away. A brief conversation takes place with Beth Brown, ex-Secret Six member, code number 6.6.

The lights are out when I slip back into the common-room. Jo is pulling faces with a torch under her chin. “I heard you calling from the grave,” she wails. “Ask me what you will.”

“Can you act your age?” asks Esther.

I join the huddle round the alphabet-encircled glass. Pam is adding an opposing yes and no for speedy replies. Jo quits mucking around and directs the torch at the upturned glass. Muffled giggles snuffle to silence. Seven fingers rest lightly on the glass and slowly the glass takes on a life of its own. Questions are suggested. Yes, Maureen will pass the maths test. Vera will to get an A for her art assignment. No, there won’t be ice-cream for pudding tomorrow. Waipuna will win a beauty contest. Jo will have lots of lovers. The questions become more complex. Jo’s lovers will be foreigners. Pam’s boyfriend will propose before the year is out and she will have four children. “Is anything strange going to happen?” ventures Twitch.

The glass gathers momentum and sweeps like a dodgem-car. Yes, indicates the first curve. A dark stranger bearing strange tidings, spells ‘The Force.’

“Does the stranger have a name?” I ask.

B-E-T-H the glass replies.

With the lights on feelings range from spooked to sceptical. I take a philosophical stance and declare, “Anything is possible.”

“And how many flying pigs have you met?” inquires Esther.

Twitch starts to say something as the doorbell sounds.

“Someone for Molly,” calls the duty Deac.

“Who is it?” I call back.

“Someone called Beth.”

The gang crowds into the passage.

“Dark hair,” observes Jo with a direct stare at Esther.

“Dark hair,” echoes Twitch.

“Do you have a message for us, asks Jo, “Any strange tidings?”

“Strange tidings? You lot are totally strange!” Twitch has a fit of nervous giggles but is silenced by an icy look from the Stranger. “It so happens I did see that Matron of yours as I came through The Square. She was going into the picture theatre with a rather distinguished looking older-man.”

Shrieks of amazement are followed by a volley of questions but Beth has nothing more to say on the subject. “I have some special news for Molly, but there is something I would like to know?”

“What?” asks Pam.

“Why the pentacle?” Isn’t the pentacle a symbol of witchcraft?” All eyes follow the visitor’s gaze to a red star on the front door.

“Five points,” says Jo.

“Blood!’ gasps Twitch.”

“Your hostel is weird,” says the visitor. I’m not hanging around here. Molly, can you come for a coffee at The Cauldron?”

A few days later I return the favour, though my pentacle got no closer than the gatepost of Bishop Julius Hostel.

“Why didn’t you put the pentacle on our front door?” Beth asks, tucked away in our favourite corner of The Cauldron.

“I would have but…,” I doodle sugar into my cappuccino. “It has been a sweet week. Everyone is talking about Miss P’s distinguished gent, and even better, Esther pestered me for the news you brought. I told her I am likely to be given two tickets for West Side Story. She is doing everything I suggest – our room has never been so clean. And, she’s taken out a heap of library books on the occult. I skim them when she’s out. She thinks I’m some sort of authority and actually asks my opinion. Had I been caught your Matron would have told our Matron and the game would be up. Besides, I don’t care to incur Miss P’s displeasure – she was hopping mad over the lipstick on our door.”

* * *

Beth and I promoted a rumour that West Coasters are known for being psychic – caused by proximity to many ghost towns, we said. But I lost my appetite for dealings with the ‘other side’ in a major way. For this year too brought trauma – unbelievable and indelible trauma, the death of my father – Ernest Austin Sinclair, in his 54th year, at his home, suddenly, no suspicious circumstances (they might as well have put it in capital letters BY HIS OWN HAND) leaving a wife and three children.

* * *

Dad hasn’t come in for tea. It is a ‘Dad and Dave’ night. Along the Road to Gundagai blares over the airwaves. No one likes missing the favourite serial, especially Dad. He grew up on a farm. I hold the button longer this time. The intercom is Dad’s own two-valve invention that links his shed with the kitchen. It works really well, but not tonight apparently. Nathan runs out to the shack and finds him.

26th of August, the day after Nathan’s 15th birthday, a never to be forgotten date. Dinner the night before had been the traditional family party – cake, candles, presents, followed by board games. Dad had been on a winning streak, winning two out of three games of Cluedo.

Dad didn’t use rope, dagger or candlestick. He used electricity and water. He didn’t leave a note. An accident? He was meticulous to the nth degree. We couldn’t even pretend. The coroner’s report in The Grey River Argus took care of that.

How could anyone do such a thing? How could he? Why did he do it? It was so stupid! So hurtful… so wrong!

My own father, a happily married man; he had no vices, no worries, a good job – supervisor of the telephone exchange. No one can understand it – police, neighbours, workmates, or Labour Party associates.

Why Dad, why? You didn’t have enemies. You didn’t owe money. You didn’t drink, smoke, or gamble. You loved us and we loved you. How could you do this to the people you love. If something was going wrong for you why didn’t you tell us! We would have helped. You know we love you. Didn’t we tell you… maybe we didn’t tell you? If we didn’t tell you it was because we thought you knew.

Something must have been going very wrong. But whatever it was, how could we be better off without you? We need you. Mum needs you. It hurts. If only there was a reason. If only you had left a note or given some clue. If only!

* * *

Dad left everything in order, possessions tidy, bills paid. Luckily it was the start of the holidays, we had time to cope. Luck… or carefully planned? Dad was meticulous by nature and knew the Scriptures. “He set his house in order and hanged himself.” 2 Samuel 17:23.

Is he safe on that Beautiful Shore? The question was never voiced. Everyone was kind, especially the church folk. Mum wrote copious grateful-thanks notes. We kept out of her way knowing she was stressed-out on humiliation. The church had standards. Not that anyone said so but the words sat silent on each blank sheet – ‘Suicide is a sinful and cowardly act.’

We suffered the classic symptoms of grief, since learned from magazine articles – shock, denial, anger, guilt, fear, hostility, plus an extra one – shame. Feelings weren’t named in those days. Our grief was silent, personal and self-blaming. That’s how it was – pain smothered to smoulder, cankering the soul until semi-forgotten.

A decade passed before we shared our silent guilt. Nathan regretted his adolescent indifference, but despite a full-on teenage lifestyle schoolwork and chores usually got done. He was a good all rounder, popular and enterprising – ice-cream boy at the pictures by standard five, a Press paper run at 14. I’m sure Dad was proud of him.

Mum felt she should have spent more time with Dad, but they had different interests. Separate pursuits suited their relationship.

I was convinced I’d brought trouble with the train crash. Rail workers were strong among the party faithful. I had caused a Greymouth man to lose his driver’s job. Even so our railway neighbour gave us a bag of coal and said he was really sorry, Ernie was a good chap, a good worker for the Party.

* * *

We didn’t talk about Dad much. Neither did anyone else. What could they say? The usual platitudes – a blessed release from suffering, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, a terrible accident, safe in the Lord, his number was up, God calls his own, and so forth, just didn’t apply.

Dreams bother sleep, the old complicated dreams – Deaconess House, miles of passages, lost on a ship below deck, the three-headed dog, the steaming train plunging from grey gorge to grey hospital and always a bell ringing. And new dreams – me causing indiscriminate death or finding Dad sitting zombie-like in his chair, having to tell him he was dead and didn’t belong here; interpreting his hurt as betrayal.

In the absence of reason I searched for memories to hoard – conjuring up his slight figure singing in the garden, hunting for reading glasses, radio tinkering…treasuring special times in his shack – speaking into the microphone, hearing crackling replies from ‘hams’ in faraway places.

When I was ten Dad helped me build a headphone crystal-set, and tried to teach me Morse code. I never mastered it. Mum had though, back in courting days, when he was going for his wireless ticket. Dad told me they went on picnics and sent each other love messages with Morse keys; so romantic, and so unlike them.

Dad was a bit of a loner, being a non-drinker in our neighbourhood. He spent summer evenings in garden or shack, and winter nights listening to the BBC or reading by the fire – wireless magazines and Yates Garden Guide. Truth and Man Magazine stayed in the shack. Mum’s house was not to be sullied. She tolerated his taste in humour with mock despair and head-shaking as he chuckled over cartoons and booklets such as Pigs Is Pigs. His favourite funny was The Specialist, about a man who applied much thought as to the best location and decor for his privy.

I saved memories like shining magazine pictures but couldn’t dignify them with order and theme. I hoped for light but found only shadows, uncomfortable shadows. I recalled his gait, a slight limp – something I hadn’t noticed until a 12-year-old classmate commented, “How come your Dad walks funny?”

On ANZAC Days my father’s poppy bled in solitude on his dark suit. He stood with head inclined as medalled peers paraded. Maybe not drinking helped! My dad could never share the camaraderie of contemporaries embellishing war yarns at the RSA.

I glimpsed the unspoken shame of polio; his hating of sports day at school, compulsory age races, where he always came last, a deliberate tripping, broken arm and weeks of plaster and sling. He told the story lightly saying his big mistake was breaking his left arm, had it been the right he could have got off writing as well as sport.

Nathan appeared to get over it. He was a logical lad, not given to sentimentality. “A great support for your poor mother,” remarked those who had to say something. He wore the responsibility of garden, lawns and firewood as a mantle of maturity. I was proud of him, and didn’t suspect cloaked feelings.

Mum missed Dad but she was a woman of inner strength, not one to weep, or accept ‘pills to help’ rumoured available from the doctor. Devout Christians had to cope. To be seen not coping was a betrayal of faith.

Despite clearly defined co-operative roles my parents were independent souls. Mum learnt how to write cheques and deal with insurances, and lengthened her formidable list of church and community good works.

I returned to Deac House for the final term and every time I looked at my radio I thought of my father and wondered why.

* * *

Years later Danny told me why. On his last visit before emigrating, Dad and Dan had talked as never before. They’d hugged and cried. I’d never seen my father cry, nor hug a son past baby stage. Danny told of his love for Archie and the problems of leading a double life. He shared feelings of rejection and coming to terms with being different. In return, Dad bared his soul, confessing a lifetime of feeling inadequate. He didn’t want to cope with physical problems any longer. Life wasn’t worth it. Inadequate! Physical problems? Dad never complained about anything!

True, Danny agreed, Dad wasn’t inadequate and never complained. He seemed fine but polio left him with deteriorating weaknesses. Nagging arthritis pain wore him down. He gave it a name, CC, Constant Companion.

Then, I remembered Aspro boxes…Dad carefully unwrapping white pills and rolling the waxed-paper strip, just something he did, like shaving.

Danny told me Dad was frustrated with his eyesight – myopic all his life, dealing with additional reading glasses was almost beyond bearing. Surely not! Lots of people need two pairs of glasses. Danny equated increasing disability with loss of self-esteem, said anyone can cope with one problem, multiple problems compound and knock the ego. He reminded me of Dad’s slight hearing loss, not a problem one-to-one, but enough to make him feel foolish in some group situations. Dad feared it might affect his job. However, these inconveniences merely contributed to Dad’s private misery. The real problem was too humiliating to talk about, too humiliating to write about – a bowel condition, prognosis, loss of control. He didn’t want anyone to know.

Danny understood. He had considered taking his own life. He felt he’d been cursed until he met Archie. He’d tried talking Dad out of it but had said goodbye, just in case, and agreed not to tell anyone. Dad told Danny he loved us dearly. We had all brought him joy. Life had been good. He intended it to stay good.

* * *

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Free Sample Chapter – Never to Return Home by Fraser Boyd

Part Three — John and Mary

Chapter 13

When John had been working on the farm for several months, he came in from milking one Thursday morning reflecting that these monthly trips to town may become more interesting in the future. Mary, the girl from McGuiness’s farm, had said in the course of conversation at the kitchen door that she would be going to the city next Monday with her employers, and how wonderful it was to have employers who were willing to let her take advantage of this opportunity. She had said before, bubbling over with enthusiasm, how generous they were in allowing her to share in some of the family activities.

John wondered why he hadn’t met Mary accidentally on the three trips he had made to Dunedin so far, but hoped that he might be able to engineer a meeting. He would give it some thought in the next few days.

As Mary had been in Portobello for much longer than him, she might be willing to show him around more than Michael did. Michael was good company, and had helped him immensely on both the farm and with local social customs, but had his limitations. John knew that respectable women didn’t go into hotels in New Zealand, which meant that he and Mary would have to find somewhere other than the tavern to sit and talk. John said nothing to the others, but wondered how he might find Mary in Dunedin, without making his intentions the subject of good natured mockery by Michael and the others.

What John didn’t realise was that people had been watching and waiting for the next step in the relationship. Even after such a short time, people could see what was going on before John had even recognised that there was a relationship.

Mary’s parting remark after she had got her billy filled with milk, had been, “see you all in town.” John hoped that that would be so, but didn’t have the courage to suggest a meeting.

The McKenzie and McGuiness wagons set out at about the same time, but not together. John was thinking about how he might accidentally meet up with Mary. Mary was thinking that she could meet with Jane, have lunch, and talk over yet again what had happened to them since the voyage out. This never palled. Mary was finding that Jane had a much narrower existence as a lady’s maid than she did, which meant that Jane did little except cater to the personal desires of her mistress. There were no children to brighten the place, and when her mistress decided to put on an afternoon tea for the neighbours, it was Jane who did all the work. “And somehow, something always goes wrong,” Jane had said with a shudder at a previous meeting. “Last time I had to bake in a hurry, then rush out to get cream, and whip it up and put it on the cakes, which turned out not to have cooled down properly. The cream ran everywhere both on the tray and on the clothes of the few people who did have the courage to try one.”

Unlike Jane, Mary had been able to learn a great deal about running a house, such as cooking and sewing some of her own clothes, and was respected by the whole family as a person. She was called on to look after the children when required, allowing Mrs McGuiness to visit her neighbours from time to time. She was also willing to get the milk each day and run various other errands. So far as she knew, she had not made any serious mistakes. Her energy and capacity for work was enormous, and she was becoming much more than just domestic help.

Jane, on the other hand, was finding the whole business constraining to say the least. “I came out here to broaden my horizons,” she told Mary, “but I am finding that my employer is telling me what to do in such great detail that I’m not able to try anything new, or use my brains to make things easier or better.”

“Wait until your year is up,” Mary counselled, “by then you will know a bit about New Zealand and be able to pick and choose who you work for and what work you do.”

Mary was also growing in physical strength and self esteem. While still conscious of the limits of the relationship between her and her employer, she had become a person with whom Mrs McGuiness was happy to discuss matters relating to household management, and how best they could work together. On the wagon that Monday morning, Mary started to think that she might have the skills to run a house of her own. She was well aware that she was doing things that were the exclusive preserve of Mrs McCann back home, and many more that the senior domestic staff in the Hanratty household guarded jealously as their own. She was coming to realise how cosseted the upper classes were in her homeland, and probably in many other places, including no doubt parts of New Zealand.

While aware of John’s interest in her, Mary was not really sure if she felt the same. As she learnt more about running a home, she often thought about where that home might be and what it might look like, and even who might live in it. Several men had approached her with offers to “walk out” together, but she wasn’t ready and had shown no interest in them at all.

Mary could now discard ideas about this country that she had formed in Ireland, like protecting her home against savage attacks, or having a little house in the forest where you had to be careful before you went outside in case there were bears or wolves lurking. She now understood a little more about the Maoris. There were some horrendous stories coming from up North about the battles between the settlers and the Maori people, but there was no strife in this area of the country for anyone to worry about. There were doomsayers around, who talked of the need to go home before we all get our throats cut, but nobody paid much attention to them.

The two men did their shopping, and the tasks that Mr McKenzie required of them. After they took their packages to the stables for safe keeping they had nothing to do for the rest of the day. Michael, as always, suggested the tavern, but today John was interested in the many building projects around the town, and wanted to study them more. He decided to have lunch with Michael, then excuse himself for a couple of hours until it was time to go back to the stables for the ride home.

Michael mentioned to John that they would see more of their neighbours in Dunedin than they ever would in Portobello, except at times like haymaking. “Everyone goes to town on that Monday,” he said. “A thief with a fast horse could rob just about every house on the Peninsula on the first Monday of the month.”

“Mondays,” mused John, “seem to be very important here. Maybe even more so than the Sabbath.” He hoped that today might be the day when he would meet a particular neighbour.

After a drink or two and lunch, John suggested that they part company for the rest of the day, but somewhat to his dismay Michael said, “I would like to take a walk around with you if I may. I should find out more about this place too. I haven’t really looked at it very much.”

As they left the hotel and turned left down the street towards the wharves, John nearly missed Michael’s remark, “There’s that Mary from McGuiness’s sitting in a tea room with a friend.” By the time he had woken up to what was going on, John had been steered to the open window of the tea room and both men were being introduced through the window to Jane, “my friend off the ship. We meet here on Mondays whenever we can.”

John was tongue tied during the introductions, and quite uncharacteristically had little to say, until Mary asked, “Have you men had lunch?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Michael. “We have eaten well and done all the shopping we needed to. What are you planning to do now? What about a walk up the hill?”

This all came as a surprise to John, but he soon agreed, and somehow the couples just paired off, with John and Mary in the lead. John and Mary were puzzled by how slowly the other two walked. No matter how much John and Mary slowed down, the other two never caught them up. In the end John and Mary set their own pace, and the two young Irish people found they had a great deal to talk about.

Michael confided to Jane that what they were seeing on the road in front of them looked very much like a good match. Jane confided to Michael that she was delighted to meet John, about whom she had heard so much from Mary. She was, though, disappointed that it looked as if she was going to lose her only friend in Dunedin.

“Apart from my Mondays with Mary,” Jane said, “I have little time off and don’t have the opportunity to meet or make other friends.”

Michael was not sure if this remark about a lack of friends was a hint or not, but settled it with the ungracious comment that he felt that he had too many things to do with his life to tie himself up with a woman just yet.

As they sauntered through the town, into areas John hadn’t previously seen, he was surprised by the how many of the wooden buildings were built in a style that looked as if they were trying to pretend that they were stone. The one that stood out most was Knox Church, perhaps the biggest wooden building he had ever seen, complete with a spire. “There just has to be work here for someone who knows how to use stone,” he thought, and continued to study these wooden buildings to see if he could understand their design and construction. He knew he was a long way out of his depth. “I might get there in the long run,” he thought regretfully, “but for the moment maybe all I am good for is those rock walls and shaping stones in the quarry.”

Mary was aware that she didn’t have John’s full attention, but accepted that there were so many things for him to take in on his exploratory visits to Dunedin that he couldn’t focus on any one thing for long. While she didn’t want to be tied down, Mary was deliberately taking steps into this relationship and eagerly looking forward to getting to know John better.

Neither John nor Mary had any experience of “walking out” as they had observed with older brothers and sisters and their friends. So, much of their talk was about work on the McKenzie farm or in the McGuiness household, especially the McGuiness children, or John’s thoughts about the use of stone as a building material. Inevitably, Ireland also came into the discussion, and the differences between working at home and working here in New Zealand. Mary made John laugh when she told him of her first day working on the farm, and how the men had tried to turn her into a farm labourer almost before she had set foot on the shore.

She commented on how she found her present job much more stimulating than the very narrow life she had led as a housemaid in Ennistimon. They both delighted in having this little bit of real leisure time to explore ideas and their personal stories, rather than a necessarily brief and public early morning, “How are yous?” when Mary was getting the milk.

“It’s the people,” John said many times over. “Here, labourers are as good as their masters if they put in a good day’s work, and masters are as good as the labourers because they also put in a good day’s work. I doubt that I’m going to make my fortune, but I like it here. There is so much I can learn and I am being given the opportunity to do so.”

Mary thought she knew what John meant. “Like Mrs McGuiness doing the cooking, and how we share jobs rather than me working from daylight to dark and never finishing.”

“People seem to change when they come to a place like this. They have to, to survive. There’s no way they can sit back, because success doesn’t just happen. I like the way there is no gentry as we knew it. Everyone is dependent on someone else.”

They reached a vantage point where they could see Dunedin laid out below them. Neither were sure what the name of the hill was, but it appeared that the citizens of Dunedin saw it as an obstruction, as there was a cutting through it, and men were working to remove the east side of the hill. They later learnt that the rise was known as Bell Hill, and was seen as a major obstacle to the development of the city to the south. It was being removed so that a road to the south could be built right through it.

From this position they could see some of the smaller settlements on the southern side of Dunedin, such as Green Island and Tomahawk. Along the harbour edge to the east they could see Port Chalmers with its wharves, warehouses and the tangle of masts. After commenting that Green Island wasn’t an island, John asked Mary about the name Tomahawk. Mary said she had learned that the name Tomahawk was given by the Maori people, a tomo being a kind of cave. John was interested to see that Mary had such good local knowledge. When he remarked on this, she told him about her introduction to the local natural environment, and how the children got so excited about the things they could do in the bush and on the beach.

“They give the children time to be children here,” Mary said. “At home it was work from daylight to dark, and very little fun, no matter how hard I tried. Here, even though I am sure they are just as busy, the children get some time to play every day.”

“The excitement hasn’t died down either,” she told John. “The children still go exploring through the bush and around the coastline, and every time they bring back something that no one has seen before. We all study it and try to learn what we can about it. One of the men who sometimes comes to our place,” John smiled at the use of the term ‘our place,’ “is studying New Zealand plants, so he can often help with a name and a story about how the Maori people use it.”

She went on to explain to John some of the things she had learnt from the children about kelp on her very first day at Portobello, and what she had learnt since about the healing properties of plants. John found this fascinating, partly because he did actually find it interesting, but also because he could see how Mary had adjusted to this new, strange country and very different way of life. He wondered if he was ever likely to get as excited as Mary about such things, although he hoped that he would get as involved in the life of the colony.

Mary said that the McGuiness children were soaking up all the new experiences they could, and sharing them with anyone who had the time to listen. She commented on how much better this real life learning was than trying to learn in the little old school back in Ireland. “Because,” she said, “at least what I am learning here is about real things. You can use a lot of the knowledge, and what you can’t use is fascinating anyway. I used to think that everywhere was like Ireland, and what wasn’t like Ireland was probably not as good. Now I know better than that.”

It occurred to John that, for all the talk about them, he hadn’t seen a lot of evidence of the Maori people. He found it interesting that European settlers were adopting parts of the Maori language that suited them, like the mysterious word “forry” he had encountered on his first day. “I find the idea of these people interesting,” he told Mary, “but have not yet even seen one, let alone had the opportunity to meet one. And everyone here seems to speak well of them. They are apparently not the ‘savages’ that we were given to believe back home.”

“Everyone does speak well of the Maoris,” Mary said, “and I have seen a number of them, usually working as hired labour or around the streets of Dunedin, although I believe some of the Maori women work as domestics. The thing that I wonder about them is their tattoos,” she continued. “At first I thought it was paint on their faces and hands, but I have been told that the patterns are actually carved into their skin, with a dye forced into the cuts. Getting them done must be very painful.”

John, by now, had lost himself in the landscape. It was the first time he had seen the whole area in which he lived. From the top of Bell Hill he could see the flatter harbour side areas, where people were clearing parts of the bush to create both grazing and planting land, and closer in to the city, housing for the merchants and professional people. He noticed the wharves and could get a better idea of their development from this vantage point. He wondered whether the development of the port might mean the end of Port Chalmers as a centre of business. He could also imagine all the people hard at work down in Dunedin while he was enjoying his afternoon off way up here.

Could he really pretend that he was a builder in stone and get away with it? Maybe he could find a tradesman to work with? That would give him the training he would need. He would soon be found out as a fraud if he tried to pass himself off as a tradesman. His walk around Dunedin had shown him how little he knew about actually building in stone. Taking masonry up as a trade looked like a good idea, but maybe it just wasn’t practical, or even sensible.

He didn’t want to start an apprenticeship at his age. Did they even have apprenticeships here in New Zealand? Maybe he could get away with his limited trade skills if he worked by himself? He could then take on jobs which he was confident that he could do, such as stone walls, and grow his skills gradually. Where could he ply this trade, whichever option he decided on? Certainly not in Portobello, there just wasn’t the work. It would need to be a city like Dunedin, or at least a town like Port Chalmers.

Mary could see that he was dreaming of either his past or his future. So she concentrated on her dreams and what her future might be, and how it might change because of meeting up with John today.

Mary and John had become so immersed in their own thoughts that they had completely lost touch with the other two members of the party. Then Michael suggested that it was time they went back down. “We don’t want to hold up our people,” he said. He added a comment that someone had to take charge of things while others were dreaming their lives away. This caused a giggle from Mary and a shy smile from John.

As they reached the bottom of the hill John found himself wishing that something might happen to keep him and Mary together for a bit longer, but this was not to be. When they arrived at the stables the McGuiness’ wagon was harnessed up, and the family was climbing on board. Mary quickly joined them. After goodbyes, Michael said, “Come on John, we will harness up, our horses are better than theirs. If our family aren’t too long we might even beat those people home.”

John helped get the horses out and into their harness. Just as they were completing the job the McKenzie family arrived, complete with parcels, with the young children sucking on sweets and smearing them liberally on their faces and clothes.

In both wagons the journey home was quieter than the journey out, as, except for the apparently irrepressible Michael, they were all tired. The children rolled themselves up in blankets. Everyone else sat, more or less in silence, thinking about the events of the day. For a few minutes Mr McKenzie discussed with the men the difficulties of obtaining supplies, and noted that he might need to see if any of their neighbours had surplus hay because there was a shortage on the local market. John offered the throwaway comment that he hadn’t seen a lot of wet weather so far, so there should be a lot of hay around. Nobody was really interested in answering, except to say that more land needed to be cleared so they could grow more grass. The men warned John that it would not be long before he saw some real weather.

John mused that he had enjoyed a walk up a hill without begrudging the loss of an afternoon at the tavern. He had gone down to the ‘Portobello Tavern’ with Michael a few times since he had been here, but wasn’t sure about this New Zealand beer. It seemed a bit too different to what he was used to. He did, however, realise that anything new is an acquired taste, and was happy to work to acquire it. However, the Irish pub he had been taken to in Dunedin had its own version of Guinness which he found was much more to his taste than the local beers. A day a month was not sufficient for him to really sample the local brew, investigate the layout and form of the buildings in this new town, and now, court a young lady.

John was also looking forward to his next turn on the milking, in a little over 12 hours’ time.

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6 — Ruth

Tuesday, 10 March

“Now it came to pass in the days when the judges ruled that there was a famine in the land … So begins of the Book of Ruth.”

Kat slides in beside Jen. “Got held up,” she mutters.

“In ancient Hebrew literature, ‘There was a famine in the land’ equates to our ‘Once upon a time’ — a phrase that indicates a story will follow. ‘There was a famine in the land’ was a way of moving a character from where they were to somewhere else, the humdrum of ordinary life being no basis for a good story. ‘There was a famine in the land’ catches attention. The situation requires resolution, and thus a plot is born.”

Jen wants to think on this but can’t because Kat is whispering again. “Excellent Parts has a prime seat today.”

Jen notes Darlene scribbling notes in the centre of the front row, and wonders if today’s blue t-shirt bears a logo. She also wonders just how excellent the girl’s parts are. It is so effortlessly easy for the young.

“This is a story of three strong women making decisions for themselves. Sixty-five percent of the Book of Ruth is dialogue. With speech being, as it is, in the present tense, the action is pulled into the now. This increases the liveliness of the characters. In a time when women who could not claim a father or husband disappeared, here is a remarkable story of strong women, decision makers, women taking charge of their own destiny. It is likely that this story was originally told to women by women. It is the one Bible book in Scripture that may have been developed by women.” Sarai moves to the whiteboard, marker poised. “What are the ways this story can be read?”

“A love story,” ventures Ms Serious.

“Why?” asks Sarai.

“Verses from Ruth are often read at weddings.” Philippa Tombs’ father is a member of the University Council. Philippa takes her studies seriously.

“As history,” volunteers the guy who isn’t Steve. “It is set in a defined time, when the Judges ruled the land.”

“Loyalty and generosity,” pipes up Darlene. “Ruth was loyal. Boaz was generous.”

Sarai’s direct gaze bores into the Maori student. “Miss Tainui?”

“Survival — marginalised women struggling against the odds.”

“Quite so. Any other suggestions?”

The class remains still. Sarai returns to the lectern.

“Ruth is an exceptional book in many ways and not least in that it is the only book in the Old Testament without a word of condemnation for anyone. Beginning with a famine the text moves from the barrenness of Moab, its barren land and its barren women, to the renewed fertility of Bethlehem, a good harvest, marriage, and the fertility of a son. The first intended audience would have been shocked to hear of a Hebrew couple moving from Bethlehem to Moab, and worse, allowing their sons to marry Moabite women. The tribe of Moab originated from incest.

“Naomi is widowed — and justly so, in the minds of the listeners. With few options, like the prodigal, she decides to return home. Her daughters-in-law start to go with her but she reminds them they have mothers of their own and the possibility of remarriage. The women weep, kiss and cling. Orpah obeys Naomi’s wish and returns to her mother’s house. Ruth utters a speech of undying loyalty, to which Naomi has no response.” Sarai considers the faces before her. “The text implies they walked on in silence. What possible reason could there be?”

The students lower their eyes, each hoping they will not be cornered. Unfazed, Sarai continues. “Chapter one ends with the tantalising words, they came to Bethlehem at the beginning of the barley harvest. Soon Ruth is gleaning in the fields behind the barley reapers. Naomi has directed Ruth to the field of a kinsman. The Hebrews considered all foreigners promiscuous but Moabites despicably so. Naomi does not warn Ruth about the local men. Does Naomi see molestation as a way of acquiring a husband? Was a Moabite daughter-in-law an embarrassment to an Israelite from a land-owning family? The traditional view is Naomi harboured the hope that Boaz himself would notice the good-looking young woman, as indeed he did. He even kept a paternal eye on the stranger, suggesting she stay near his female workers and drink from the well-water drawn by his men — an interesting reversal of the usual Biblical male-female meetings at wells. Name one?”

Jen forgets to avoid eye contact. Luckily Rebekah comes to mind. Kat supplies Rachel. It is her grandmother’s name and her story has stuck.

“Any others?”

“Zipporah, wife of Moses,” says Darlene.

The ‘excellent’ reply causes Darlene to hide her face in her hands.

“Boaz,” resumes Sarai, “invites the foreign woman to share his own bread and wine. This is tantamount to welcoming her into his family. Loyal Ruth keeps some of the food offered her to take home to Naomi. After the meal Boaz instructs his reapers to leave larger than usual gleanings. In chapter three Naomi masterminds a plan and Ruth appears to be a willing participant. At the end of the harvest party a merry Boaz lies down on the hay and Ruth curls up at his feet. Feet as used here is a biblical euphemism for genitalia. Boaz commends Ruth for not going after the younger men and spreads his cloak over her — more euphemistic symbolism.

“After the threshing-floor incident Ruth is no longer described as foreigner, servant or handmaiden. Boaz calls her a worthy woman. Naomi calls her daughter and the narrator calls her woman. A closer relative than Boaz is willing to honour the law regarding widows and buy the field owned by Naomi’s husband, until he finds it has a condition attached. A condition imposed by Boaz: with the land parcel comes the foreign woman. The kinsman has no wish to marry a Moabitess and forfeits his claim. Thus Boaz is able to legally acquire both the field and the woman.

“The matriarchs of the town are generous in their good wishes. Their blessings make references to Leah and Rachel. We know skulduggery was rife in that household. They also express the hope that Ruth will be as Tamar, presumably a fertility wish, as Tamar bore twins, the result of seduction and trickery. The text implies that Naomi’s friends know and approve of what has happened. The harvest-hints of fertility come to pass: Boaz and Ruth produce a child, whom the women call a child born to Naomi. How might Ruth feel about this? It is the women who name the baby: Obed, meaning sought-after. Baby Obed becomes the father of Jesse, who is the father of David. The child of a Moabite woman is destined to be the grandfather of King David. The greatest of Israel’s kings was not of pure blood! Set against the barley harvest, the Book of Ruth carries a premonition of David’s reign being blessed with fertility and plenitude.”

Sarai returns to the whiteboard. “Ruth may be a testament to loyalty and generosity, but also to … ” she writes compromise. “The story is not a simple tale set in the time of the Judges.” Non– is added to historical. “Its content is political and devised at a later time, possibly during King Solomon’s reign. Placed here it explains the importance of the genealogy connection to King David, as it could support the international marriages of his insatiable son, Solomon. If written, as is considered more likely, during the time of Ezra and Nehemiah this story is protest literature. Post-exilic laws enforced the divorce of all foreign women. Imagine that!” Sarai’s arms spread with visualised horror. “Families torn apart, women and children driven out with no one to provide for them.” Her expression is so dramatic a collective shudder ripples through the room.

“Are there other ways of reading this story?” asks the rhetorician, and answers, “Of course there are. Ruth speaks the language of Covenant Israel. She denies her own culture. The subscript could be an underlying goal of turning Moab into Israel.” Sarai adds assimilation then propaganda to the list. “But perhaps it is also a personal story.” Love story is underlined. “Not a story of personal fulfilment, but rather the story of a young woman prepared to do anything for the one she loves.” Sarai twirls back to the board, writes, then exits the room. Her final red-lettered words are unrequited love.

As they file out Darlene stops in the lobby, apparently lost in thought. Percussionists usually do it standing announces her shirt. “Hullo, Darlene,” says Jen, deliberately disturbing her reverie, “are you a percussionist?”

“No,” Darlene looks blank. She gives herself a slight shake and follows Jen’s eyes to the logo. She smiles. “I’m a cellist. The youth orchestra is fundraising with these t-shirts. I’m majoring in music. This is an interest class for me and I’m really enjoying it.”

“Me too,” says Jen.

~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

Kat arrives at the motel early. She doesn’t usually work Tuesday afternoons but has a new client to fit in. She decides to take the opportunity to check out the Ruth story. Is it a love story between an older man and a young woman, or is Ruth a lesbian? Kat has no leanings toward lesbianism. Such words were not spoken in her grandmother’s house, but it was known around school that such a person was running a business in Hokitika. The kids weren’t too sure of the facts and there was confusion between lesbian and transgendered.

City life had broadened her education considerably. A friend in the sex business had suggested she have a go at tipping the velvet but it hadn’t turned her on. Didn’t take long to discover Christchurch has lots of queers. Kat quickly concluded that, like in all minority groups, some individuals are nice and some aren’t. As she said to Jen, Darlene seems a Decent Sort of Dyke. Both had grinned at the alliteration, and since then refer to her as Triple D, though agreed it doesn’t describe her bra size.

Kat had thought homosexuality a modern thing but Jen maintained the ancient Greeks wrote plays about it, so presumably all the ancients were into it. Jen had related that back in her Bible Class days the kids used to snigger about King David being bisexual, he was a great one with the ladies but the love he had for King Saul’s son Jonathan was described in the Bible as ‘passing the love of women’ — what else could it mean?

After rereading the four-page Book of Ruth, Kat feels the ‘noble-older-man-meets-pretty-but-poor-young-woman’ story is the romantic tale she prefers. But Ruth is unnaturally keen to do all she can for her mother-in-law, to the point of not being her own person. If Kat had a child she wouldn’t let any mother-in-law claim it and name it. Any child Kat gave birth to would be hers to the full.

A knock causes her to shove the Bible back in its drawer. Why do they come early? She admits the new client and is charmed by his easy casual manner. He gives his name as Fish and looks at her with warm appraisal. “You’re a good-looking chick, Amber. Delighted to meet you,” he extends a hand and gives hers a no-nonsense squeeze.

Amber places his age at around 50, dark red hair, no sign of receding. Untamed beard, bright eyes, and lean figure. Clothes ‘flamboyant casual’, she decides. “Like the hat,” she comments.

Fish is in no hurry. “Good little pad you have here, discreet back street but not far from the city centre.” He sinks into an armchair, extends his long legs and gazes around. “Paintings, not prints, I like that. A view of the Waimak I would guess, not brilliant, but definitely original, probably done by an art student.” He stands. “See here, paint applied with a pallet knife, technique not perfect but good general effect.” He roams the room. “Homely ambience, that’s the thing about these older motels, lounge separate from the bedrooms, built for people not for profit.” He continues his tour. “A full kitchen and well stocked.” He looks at his watch. “Almost three, smoko time. Do you fancy a cup of tea or coffee? I’m sure you deserve a break.” His eyes flick from her cream carnation hair-slide to her cream high-heels, and he flashes a smile. Amber feels warmed. Perhaps I’m one of those women who is drawn to older men, she wonders.

“I sure could do with a cuppa,” says Fish. He glances at her with eyebrows raised. “No worries, matey, I’m in a quick-bonk mood. I’ll be gone by three-thirty.”

“Well, OK then,” says Amber. “I could go a coffee.”

She stands to get the jug but Fish is already filling it. “I did a stint as a motel cleaner once. A good bit of elbow grease has gone into this jug, I can tell you, and those copper-bottom pots. Look at them, beautiful! I can’t stand those crappy plastic jugs.”

Sometimes clients stall because they’re nervous, but Fish doesn’t fit that category — too relaxed. She wonders if he has some kinky fetish that he wants to discuss, but dismisses the idea — too open and friendly. Perhaps he genuinely likes a three o’clock cuppa.

“I haven’t been in Christchurch for a while,” he says. “Been down South Canty for a couple of years. I like to go bush every now and then, but you can have too much of good thing, I say. I like to maintain balance between the heartland and the hub.”

“What do you do?”

“A bit of this and a bit of that, I don’t believe in getting stuck in a rut. Hunting, trapping, shearing, painting, shop work, liquor barns … townie jobs are my form of retail therapy.” He grins.

“So Canterbury is your home?”

“I like Canty but no, I’m not fenced in by boundaries, my home is anywhere in the South Island. You wouldn’t catch me in that rat race up north. Hell no!” He pauses as though letting the horror of the thought digest. “Let the Wellington weirdoes and the Jaffas have it,” I say.

“I gather you don’t have a partner.”

“I’ve had many, my dear, but not for long. Women have this urge to claim a man. When I see the apron-strings looping my way, it’s time to sever the ties. I had seven kids last time I counted, could be more, keeping track is not my thing. I’m a free spirit and I like a good bonk. Let’s get on with it.”

He sweeps up her empty cup from the floor, dumps the two cups in the kitchen sink, swings back to the lounge, and drops his trousers. The pro hasn’t moved.

“Ah, you like a guy to shower. OK. I’m fast. I’m used to improvised water supplies. Be with you in a couple of secs.”

The pro appears frozen. Fish steps out of his trousers, takes two steps toward the shower and stops. “Hey, what’s up, kiddo? You’re not going frigid on me are you?”

Kat can feel her innards churning. The words don’t want to come. With effort she forms the sentence. “Were you at Ross in 1987?”

“Yeah, could have been around then, spent a couple of years in those parts. Oh God!” He cuts off and stares. “How old are you?”

Kat is on her feet, hands clenched to knuckle-white. “You don’t care about your kids. You don’t care about your women.” Her voices rises to a scream. “Get out!”

“Hey, hey, baby, baby, hush.” Fish hauls up his jeans with the speed of a shotgun order.

“Don’t touch me,” she fights off his attempted hug. “I’m not your baby. You never treated me as your baby when you should have.”

Fish steps back and holds up both hands in surrender. “It’s not like that. I do care. I’m just not fitted to domestic life. I’ve got these gypsy genes. I loved your mother, I really did, but I wasn’t ready to be a father. I told her but I couldn’t get her to believe me.”

“Children need fathers.”

“Yeah, yeah, but you had one, your mother took up with someone mighty quick, so I heard. I even came back to check. You were a cute toddler. She had a man, I wasn’t needed.”

“You didn’t pay any child support.”

“Well, my lifestyle wasn’t conducive to regular income and payouts. Keeping records isn’t easy with odd-jobbing, money under the counter, you know how it is. Bet you don’t declare all your earnings. Paintings often sell for cash. I’m not one for permanent addresses and keeping accounts.”

“Your slippery book-keeping kept my mother tied to man she didn’t love. And he hated me. George was a monster but at least he supported his own kids. You say I’m not the only one. I’ve a horde of half-siblings out there? You’re worse than George. You can bugger off, right now. Go!”

“Hey, hey, Amber … it’s not Amber is it … it’s … Katrina? You were my first baby girl. I’m sorry kid. I like you. I’d like to get to know you as a person. If you feel I’ve let you down I could try and make it up. If you ever want me, here’s my card.” He leaves a business card and a heap of $20 notes on the table.

Kat slams the door after him and locks it, sees the items on the table and dissolves into tears. After filling several tissues she dries her eyes and picks up the card. Kevin (Fish) Salmon, she reads, Artist. Bullshit artist!

 

Wednesday, 11 March

Kat spends most of the next day in bed. Yesterday’s meeting with her birth-father has left her drained. Part of her wants to process the reality of the encounter, but only a tiny part. Her dominant head-in-the-sand philosophy smothers what she doesn’t want to explore — keep your mind off difficulties, no point getting in a stew over something you can do nothing about. Gran’s homespun philosophy serves her well. Roll with the punches. Life’s what you make it. There is nothing a good sleep can’t improve.

Sleep is attractive, no clients to bother about today and there is the restaurant tonight. Waitressing has its pluses. She could manage financially without it but it is legit, a job she can name without explanation, a job that provides a measure of collegiality. Her self-employment is solo by choice. She has no intention of sharing her earnings with brothel or pimp. Waitressing is hard on the feet, the pay abysmal, but you know where you are and what to expect. Tuesday is the lightest of her three consecutive nights. Wednesday is unpredictable but she and Alison can handle it. Three table staff are required for the rest of the week.

Only four tables are occupied as her shift begins. Returning from the kitchen with a jug of iced water Kat is startled to see Sarai and another woman being ushered to a table by the maître d’. Well, I’ll be darned. Sarai here! And she’s got a girlfriend with her. Kat’s curiosity is aroused. She’s heard the rumours. How friendly are these two women? Could they be celebrating something special, or are they merely eating out? Kat skips explaining the menu to her couple and shortcuts to the blackboard specials.

“We’re celebrating 44 years of marriage,” the man beams.

Kat offers her congratulations and says she will fetch the wine waiter. Forty-four years, double my lifetime! Are they really as happy as they look? With the wine-waiter summoned Kat moves smartly to Sarai’s table and gives the formal welcome. “Good evening, I am Katrina your waitress for the evening.” Her smile has more twinkle than management requires.

“How lovely!” exclaims Sarai. “Pauline, this is one of my students.”

The other woman is younger than Sarai, Kat notices, but still old. Pauline easily meets her gaze and expresses pleasure. Kat is not surprised that they both order the vegetarian special. The friend, Pauline, has her back to the kitchen and is unaware of Kat approaching with the water jug. “Just like old times …” Kat hears her say. Sarai is smiling but Kat observes it as an indulgent smile. Sarai is sitting well back in her chair, whereas Pauline is leaning forward. Kat puts the jug down and sees Pauline’s wistful expression slide to mouth a perfunctory thanks. Mmm, thinks Kat, have I interrupted something?

However, when she returns with the mains both women are happily chatting over chardonnay. She keeps a wandering eye on them as she serves her other tables but detects not a hint of physical intimacy.

The anniversary couple are kneeing each other under the table. They are mildly tipsy by the time they decide to ‘go the full hog’, as the man puts it, and have the death-by-chocolate. “We didn’t have a fruit cake for our wedding,” confides his wife. “We both hate dried fruit. Under the posh icing was chocolate cake.” The memory sets her to a peal of giggles. Kat gives a polite smile, turns to do their bidding, and freezes. Standing by the maître d’ is … it can’t be … it totally can’t be … but it is … with a leggy young woman. Kat flees to the kitchen. This is something she cannot face. She gives the death-by-chocolate order and hangs around the kitchen, desperately hoping that Alison will arrive and she can ask her to serve that table. Alison doesn’t appear but the maître d’ does. “What are you doing? There are customers out there, move it.” Miss Hicks, as she demands the table staff call her, is not open to favours.

Kat edges through the swinging doors with her heart in her mouth. She sees Sarai look in her direction and heads for her table.

“Is something wrong, Kat?”

“Yes, actually there is.” How does she know? The rest comes in a rush. “I know you don’t want a dessert but please, Sarai, would you order something, anything. If I’m not serving you I’ll have to serve that table over there, and I … can’t face that man. I’ll pay for whatever you order.” The women look from Kat, to Fish, to each other.

“I could make room for an Irish coffee,” says Pauline.

“Why not,” agrees Sarai. “Two Irish coffees, and take your time, we’re not in a hurry. And Kat, we don’t need your money.”

~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

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“This wise and wonderfully comprehensive book … will benefit many who carry pastoral responsibilities” Review by Anne Priestley of Earthed in Hope.

Doing Funerals Well

Earthed in Hope:
Dying, Death and Funerals – A Pakeha Anglican Perspective

By Alister G. Hendery
Published by Philip Garside Publishing Ltd

EIH_front_cover_20141015_100w_BReview by Anne Priestley, published in Tui Motu InterIslands Oct 2015

“A quick scan of death notices in a newspaper reveals the fading influence of Christian faith in this country. Many funerals now are held at a crematorium or a funeral director’s chapel. Some of these funerals will be taken by a minister of religion; but increasingly funeral directors and celebrants have taken over the traditional roles of a minister of the church. We live in a world where there are multiple views on “what comes next” after death, mostly at variance with the theological witness of scripture. Even church funerals often celebrate the life which has ended, rather than proclaiming Christian hope in the midst of grief and death.

This is the terrain surveyed by Hendery, a Pakeha Anglican priest. His writing is marked deeply by his trust and hope in God’s grace and equally by his long pastoral experience.

He begins with sociology and theology, chapters which are most lively when earthed in contemporary New Zealand practice. The second half of this book has a strong practical bent, as Hendery discusses pastoral and liturgical issues in journeying with the dying person and in the stages before, during and after the funeral service. He includes thoughtful commentary on the rich resources of A New Zealand Prayer Book /He Karakia Mihinare o Aotearoa, the Anglican prayer book (this material, valuable for Anglican ministers, will be less useful to others). Here, as elsewhere, he provides ideas from a wide range of religious and cultural sources.

Hendery pays attention to the complexities arising from a death by suicide and to special questions concerning children and death. He is not afraid to criticise the Church for less than helpful theology and practice, both past and present.

Hendery’s theological commitments and generous pastoral instincts stand in unresolved tension — the tension of God beyond and God within. For me, this reflects a great challenge of funeral ministry: how to speak the language of the bereaved, in our changed and changing world, and also to proclaim faithfully the good news of God.

I also appreciated Hendery’s determination to be blunt. To say the words “die”, “death”, “coffin”. To face the fact of one’s own death. To accept that, facing death, we do not know everything.

This wise and wonderfully comprehensive book about funeral ministry in Aotearoa is not a quick read, but will benefit many who carry pastoral responsibilities.”

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Free Study Guide to Green, Ho! & Greens and Greys

A Free Study Guide by Rosalie Sugrue is now available for her books Green, Ho! & Greens and Greys.

The 9 page PDF guide is titled: A Novel approach to Bible Study: Personal Issues for Christians for Lent/Easter or whatever the Season.

Each of the 6 sessions looks at an important concept:
1. Values learnt in childhood
2. Faith in Youth
3. Sexual orientation
4. Suicide
5. Situation ethics and social justice
6. Mature faith

You will explore each issue by asking:
• Why did Molly do what she did?
• What would I have done in that situation?

Click this link to: Download your free PDF Study Guide

 

“Church leaders and lay alike will find humble but passionate vision and wisdom here.” Review by Rosemary Dewerse of Weaving, Networking and Taking Flight.

‘Alifeleti Vaitu’ulala Ngahe
Weaving, Networking and Taking Flight: Engaged Ministry in Avondale Union and Manurewa Methodist Parishes 2006-2014

(Wellington: Philip Garside, 2014), 68pp.

Review by:
Rosemary Dewerse, Mission Educator, College of St John the Evangelist, Auckland.

(This review will be published in the December 2015 issue of the
Australian Journal of Mission Studies.)

“In our part of the world where practitioners significantly outnumber academics in the field of missiology, we often do not benefit from their wisdom because they are too busy “doing.” This is especially the case with Pacifica leaders. In this remarkable little book Rev Ngahe, a Tongan Methodist minister working in Auckland, New Zealand, does, however, take the time to pause and record his ministry strategy across 2006-2014, a strategy that because of its deeply contextual and outward-facing commitment exemplifies missional church leadership.

Ngahe’s strategy is straightforward. He seeks out visual images that can capture his own but also his people’s imagination and then explores their riches as he leads his community in building connections within and beyond their own boundaries in service of Christ and the people.

For himself as a Tongan the image of a Fala (a mat woven by one’s family) keeps him humble in reminding him that when he joins a community he joins a history and comes to contribute to that. It keeps him open as a Fala’s purpose is to invite family and others into talanoa (conversation seeking agreed solutions). It also keeps him mindful that when he moves on it is good for the people to be continuing to weave a closely interlaced Fala.

When Ngahe arrived in Avondale, Auckland, in 2006 he found the local icon of the Avondale spider. This got him thinking about the care with which a spider (in his imagination, God) weaves a web that despite the weather holds fast. The legs of the spider he saw as us all doing God’s work in reaching out across the community web through good and difficult times. Such thinking saw him lead the renewal of a rundown church building by seeking and welcoming help offered by likely as well as unlikely groups (eg the NZ Methodist Church, local businesses, the Mormons, the Department of Corrections). The congregation had a vision of being ‘Christ’s light to the community’ by running a homework club as a way to begin reversing endemic unemployment in the area; it was a vision others wanted to support, though there was some discomfort at first amongst parishioners with some of their partners. Though Ngahe left in 2010, the club, and other community activities, continue to this day in the refurbished church.

In Manurewa the image drawn upon was the name of the suburb: in Maori it means “soaring bird.” There, as Ngahe notes, “the listening and storytelling took pictorial shape” (p26). A mural on this corner church was painted with the help of local businesses, community police, local graffiti taggers, and MPs, as well as church members. They and nearly 40 other community groups now see “The Corner of Hope” (the name of the Church) as a place of welcome and belonging for all people. Hospitality and transformation are the two key theological themes underpinning all that happens there.

For Ngahe it is clear that finding a language that embeds God’s mission in the local context and in words and deeds that all people can understand and feel embraced by is crucial. It is exemplified not only in his approach to his ministry but also in the way in which he has written this most accessible book. Church leaders and lay alike will find humble but passionate vision and wisdom here.”

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“The psalms and a number of the poems lend themselves to liturgical use…” Review by Lynne Frith of The In-between Land

The In-Between Land: Psalms, Poems and Haiku
By Mark Gibson
Review by Lynne Frith

Published in Touchstone October 2015

“There’s an element of risk for the writer in publishing a first collection of poetry. How will it be received? Will it resonate with readers? Will it sell? Mark Gibson has taken those risks and more, with this his first published collection of poems. These deeply personal reflections on his spiritual journey from the time of the 2010-2011 Canterbury earthquakes carry with them the additional risk of self-exposure.

Not surprisingly, given the context, raw emotion is to be found in these pages. It is expressed in a way that will enable both those who have lived through and with the earthquakes and those without such direct experience to recognise and connect with the highs and lows, the despair, and the glimpses of grace and beauty.

The collection, as the subtitle indicates, is divided into three sections – psalms, poems, and haiku. The 15 psalms provide a prelude to the body of the collection – some 50 poems grouped thematically – and the haiku are almost a postscript.

It’s an attractively presented volume – the cover photo, presumably the poet’s own, though unattributed, draws us in to the natural world that features strongly in all the writing. The voice is consistent with the Mark Gibson many of us know, with his strong concern for ecology and the environment.

The psalms, in time honoured tradition, pick up themes of praise, lament, and hope. Take Psalm 3, for example: “when the sky is grey for days on end, / we praise you!” And, towards the end of the psalm, the phrase from which the book’s title is drawn: ‘O God, we praise you for your love / in this in-between and often graceless land.”

Psalm 8 cries out in lament: “how long will it take until the river runs clear again? / when will the inanga run once more.”

And Psalm 12 strikes a note of hope: “what unexpected joy can come / when we risk conversation with a stranger.”

The body of poems, with the unnecessary markers of place and date, gives the sense of being a journal. There are poignant lines in some poems. For example, in Twenty- Seven Reasons: “the kids have secretly / compiled a list with / twenty seven reasons / why we should return / to our old house.”

In other places, the essence of the poem is wrapped in too many words, as in No one comes: “open the doors / set out chairs / make everything ready / sit down and wait / anxiously watch clock / no one comes.” This would have been stronger if it had moved from “make everything ready” to “ no one comes”.

If I had edited this work, I would have placed ‘Torrent Bay Escapes’ at the end of the poems, inviting the reader to consider his or her place of escape to a safer, more harmonious environment, far enough away from the challenging realities of daily life. And there I would have ended the collection.

Whatever I might think about editing, the content of this collection does what it sets out to do, which is to tell the story of the people who lived through the earthquakes, to encourage appreciation for the natural world, and offer hope for the future.

The psalms and a number of the poems lend themselves to liturgical use, and I would expect that many readers will find a plentiful resource for their own reflection and nourishment.”

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“…insightful, and often deeply moving.” Review by Jim Consedine of The In-Between Land

Book review published on Tui Motu Interislands Facebook page 4 August 2015

The In-Between – Land, Psalms, Poems and Haiku
By Mark Gibson

Review By Jim Consedine

“Mark Gibson is a Methodist minister, a 6th generation Cantabrian, attached to the New Brighton Union parish in East Christchurch. He has been their minister right through the earthquakes and has been very involved in community re-building since. East Christchurch is the most damaged suburban part of Christchurch. Mark also leads the River of Life project and co-leads the Avon Otakaro Network – both based in the east.

These groups with others are struggling to maintain public access and ownership of red-zoned areas (earthquake damaged land where no building is permitted) between the city and the sea. They are struggling to make the Government and the local authorities hear what ordinary people from the grassroots say regarding their future. This struggle is reflected in much of the poetry.

In this, his first book of psalms, poems and haiku (small 3-line poetic observations), Mark shares with insight observations into the ordinary everyday things of life. One can feel the ground shaking as he describes huddling under the kitchen table, or being caught in his church, or being on the beach as the quakes rumbled. One can see the sunsets, hear the birds and wonder at the beauty of these parts. One can feel the creative Spirit of God echoing through the lines of this deeply spiritual man.

The In-Between Land is insightful, and often deeply moving. It carries the reflections of a man with a heart for justice and the soul of a real poet. Let’s hope we have more from Mark’s pen in the future.”

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