Southerly by David Haywood

I'd like to say that I don't give a toss about being a social retard. But I would be lying through my inarticulate teeth.

In reality, I'd do practically anything to be blessed with social skills. George Orwell once said that his greatest wish was to be "irresistible to women". I can certainly sympathize with this ambition. But -- for me -- the possession of even a small amount of conversational ability would come a very close second.

How I envy those silver-tongued people who can perform chit-chat with total strangers at parties. What on earth do they talk about? I literally have no idea. When I'm placed in such situations, every thought in my head abruptly vanishes. In the same way, I suppose, as happens to UFO abductees after they've been examined by alien proctologists in a flying saucer.

People always tell you that universities are a great places for the development of social skills. Not in my experience. When I started university (aged 16), I looked so young that people on campus would stop me and ask if I'd lost my mother. Apart from that, I don't think I ever managed to have a conversation with a single of my fellow students -- excepting a few people I'd known from high school.

I'd decided to major in 19th Century Literature. This choice was made on the advice of the chap at my enrolment interview -- coincidentally, a lecturer in 19th Century Literature -- who assured me that it would lead to a good job. The tutorials were populated by 19-year-olds from Diocesan School for Girls who used words like 'pedagogical'. Their parents had sent them to London for the holidays, and in six weeks they'd permanently acquired a full set of fake English vowels. They could even smoke in an English accent.

As far as I was concerned, 19th Century Literature was like a 13th century depiction of hell. Except that the demons torturing people with pitchforks had been replaced by débutantes who tossed around literary terms such as Bovarysme and Zeugma -- and a tutor who insisted that Wordsworth's 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud' was not about daffodils, but was, in fact, a celebration of Wordsworth's obsession with urine.

This last point, incidentally, was the only time I ever spoke in a tutorial. "A host of golden daffodils... fluttering and dancing in the breeze," my tutor intoned. "What was Wordsworth trying to convey? Does it remind anyone of the act of urination, perhaps?"

"Um..." I replied.

The dazzling sophistication of my fellow students -- who, incidentally, fully bought into this literary claptrap (or, as they would no doubt have described it, folie à plusieurs) -- only served to highlight my own plodding inferiority. I felt that my social inadequacy was emblazoned on my forehead like a huge flashing neon sign.

In an attempt to escape attention, I ate my lunch covertly in the library, where no-one would notice me. "Why are you always in the library at lunchtime?" asked a girl in my Shakespeare tutorial.

She had seen through my cunning ruse, and caught me red-handed being a social retard. "Why are you always in the library at lunchtime watching me?" I countered.

"I work there," she explained. Fair enough. I stopped going to the library, and started walking around Albert Park. "Why do you always walk around the park at lunchtimes now?" she asked after a few days.

I briefly contemplated the possibility of taking my lunch break in the student lavatory block, where at least I could be assured of privacy. But I was forced to reject this plan on the basis of my germ phobia. Sitting on a toilet seat covered with microbes would be unthinkable, and standing in a toilet cubicle for an entire hour looks so suspicious. In the end, it seemed simplest to stop attending my Shakespeare tutorials.

Years later, I worked with a woman who -- post-feminist in advance of the fashion -- described herself as a sex-obsessed amateur porn writer. In spite, or perhaps because of this, she'd experienced a few social problems. One of them being a strong urge to spend her university lunch breaks cowering in the student lavatories.

I kicked myself when I heard this. What a missed opportunity! Apart from the porn, we would've had so much in common. And I'm sure I could have learnt to enjoy porn -- you know, just in order to show a polite interest in my girlfriend's hobbies.

Eventually everyone sinks to their own level, and so I guess it was inevitable that -- in a slight sideways step from 19th Century Literature -- I would end up in Mechanical Engineering, the most socially retarded department in the most socially retarded college of the entire University. Before I knew it, I was doing a Ph.D., and was employed as a part-time lecturer.

The most enjoyable aspect of lecturing, I discovered, were the staff meetings -- which the Head of Department conducted as a sort of homage to avant-garde cinema (a genre to which he was excessively devoted). Plot and chronology had been abandoned years ago in favour of expressionist flow-charts and long, meaning-filled silences. At times, his presentations seemed to be taking place in sepia with French subtitles.

Surrounded by the most socially retarded people in a 100 kilometre radius, I experienced an exhilarating sense of eloquence. As my colleagues gazed at their laps -- carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone else and pretending to be invisible -- I found myself making erudite suggestions for the running of the department.

At one meeting, I casually dropped the word 'pedagogical' into the discussion. There was a murmur of approval around the table. At another meeting, the Head of Department asked me to assist with a party of 15-year-old school pupils who were touring the college. "You're just the sort of extroverted person who would inspire these children," he said, without apparent irony.

Alas that his recommendation provided a brutal lesson about social limitations. Two hundred school pupils were gathered in a lecture theatre to receive a speech by the vice-chancellor, who -- at the last minute -- was called away to deal with a crisis. I suddenly heard the Dean of Engineering announce that he was going to prevail upon me to give the talk instead.

My recollection of the next half-hour is hazy. I recall telling the children that the importance of school was over-rated, and that it was better for them to enjoy themselves than pass exams. I may have mentioned that a 'gap year' might be useful to some of them, so that -- in an unfortunate choice of words -- they could try out "having sex and taking drugs". I've blanked out the rest.

I do, however, have clear memories of the look in the Dean of Engineering's eyes, and that of the school-teachers who accompanied the children, as they radiated wave upon wave of hatred towards me.

In many ways, I was rather sorry when my stint as a lecturer was over. I completed my Ph.D. shortly thereafter, and was ejected into the wide world -- where there was absolutely no possibility of my being mistaken as extroverted or in possession of social skills. Indeed, in my subsequent career as a scientist, I was mistaken for a homeless person (twice), a "particularly dimwitted cleaner" (once), and an employee in a sheltered workshop (numerous times).

But still, I must say, the feeling of being socially adequate was nice while it lasted.

I have no idea how many houses I've inhabited over the years -- or how many neighbours I've had. It has to be said, however, that my bad neighbours have tended to be more memorable (and more numerous) than the good ones.

My flatting career began in Auckland. I rented a place downstairs from a bloke who referred to himself as 'Tristram of Parnell'. As in: "The person who used to live in your flat invited me over for a cup of tea, but I told her, 'Tristram of Parnell only drinks espresso.' "

In the manner of all people who inhabit upstairs flats, Tristram of Parnell liked to do his hoovering at one o'clock in the morning -- accompanied by loud singing. He was a devotee of Welsh pop music and his preference was for a cappella versions of It's Not Unusual and Delilah. When not hoovering, he liked to invite his "lady friends" to visit, and would get them in the mood by playing Shirley Bassey records at window-rattling volume.

On weekends, Tristram of Parnell would often "go out for shots". I'd be at home enjoying a Welsh-pop-music-free evening, when he would return in a state of extreme uninhibitedness. So uninhibited, in fact, that he'd often spurn the use of his lavatorial facilities, and instead balance on his verandah rail -- sending a vast yellow torrent in a cascade past my bedroom window. I would lie in bed, praying for him to fall off the verandah, which was on the third storey. Tragically he never did.

My next place of residence was in Laingholm, where I'd landed a gig as a dog-sitter in a rather nice house. The dog's mistress was overseas, and -- because I worked during the day -- it had been arranged that a retired neighbour, Frida, would take the dog for a walk at lunchtimes. I had my first inkling that something was amiss when Frida encountered my then-girlfriend's grandmother. "And you must be David's dear wife," Frida said. She seemed genuinely astonished at the grandmother's denial.

Before long, Frida had started rearranging the furniture during her lunchtime visits. "The dog didn't like that chair in your bedroom, dear, so I've moved it to the kitchen," she'd tell me. The dog also encouraged her to push the sitting-room sofa into the dining room, and to re-locate my dental floss from the windowsill of the bathroom to the medicine cabinet. "We were worried that it was dangerous," said Frida. "An animal could strangle themselves with it, couldn't they, dear?"

On one occasion, Frida invited me to her house for afternoon tea. She owned a number of tiny dogs, several cats, and an aviary filled with semi-moulted birds. "And I've just bought this lovely big monkey," she said, gesturing to a child's toy gorilla. "But the shop had his hands all wrong, so I cut them off and sewed on some rubber gloves instead. Then I realized that his face wasn't proper, so I sliced it open and made him a lovely red mouth with a nice big tongue. I like to see an animal's tongue, don't you, dear?"

The finished monkey would have sent any child screaming from the room; it was like something from Hitchcock. Frida directed my attention to one of the yapping dogs: "That's poor Pepys over there. He's a lovely animal. But he's not as lively as he used to be, and I think I'm going to have to do something."

The next evening, Frida popped round to break the news to me. "I was quite right about Pepys, dear," she said cheerfully. "He had no enthusiasm this morning at all and I had to deal with him. I've buried him just outside the back door, with his nose sticking out the ground -- so I can give it a pat whenever I go past."

Frankly, you might think having a canicidal maniac as a neighbour was as much as anyone deserves in a lifetime. But when I moved to the South Island, I began to look back on Frida as one of the saner people that I've dwelt beside. After all, in spite of her many idiosyncrasies, she certainly made it easier for me to hoover under the furniture.

In Christchurch, I had a neighbour who wanted all communication with the outside world directed through his lawyers. He had a nice friendly sign on his front door: "Do not knock: hostile reception assured." On the opposite boundary, I had a neighbour who, out of nowhere, suddenly accused me of dobbing him in to CYFS. He later apologized, when he discovered that the complaint had been made -- and I'm not making this up -- by his "evil twin brother".

Across the road was a family who resolved their domestic disputes via the tried-and-tested method of having fist-fights on their front lawn. Next to them was a very queer woman, who wandered over to our house as I was hanging out the washing one day. After staring wordlessly at me for several minutes, she asked: "Is your wife sick in hospital or something?" As it happened, Jennifer was sick in hospital, and I asked the neighbour how she knew.

"Didn't know -- but glad to hear it," said my lovely neighbour. "I don't think much of men who do women's work."

A few days later, I was again doing women's work at the washing line, when I heard the sound of breaking branches from over the fence. One of the trees was waving madly. I watched with interest as a man wearing a black balaclava climbed into the bole, and proceeded to train a Bushmaster M4A3 into my lovely neighbour's house.

I gradually became aware of dozens of black-clad figures climbing over fences, and scampering along the street. It was quite disconcerting to be the only person within eyesight who wasn't wearing a ballistic vest and helmet. Shouldn't a responsible adult be telling me to go inside, I wondered.

Eventually, the policemen formed a sort of conga line and battered down my lovely neighbour's front door. She was dragged out in handcuffs. I never discovered what she'd done, but I suppose that crimes against feminism must be fairly high on the list of possibilities.

Above: A neighbour is brought to justice.

I know, of course, what people will be thinking at this point: he's bringing it on himself. But this is not true, I swear. My relations with all my neighbours have been entirely cordial -- right up to the point where they were arrested, or when they contracted a life-threatening disease from a duck that I'd allegedly "encouraged", or when they suddenly accused me of spying on them for the government.

A case in point was our residence in Southland. Given that the house was located in an area where 98 per cent of the dwellings were uninhabited during the week, I had assumed that we would be safe from neighbours. Not so -- it turned out that we had inadvertently moved next door to the town drunk.

The pounding music would begin shortly after he had returned from the bottle store. This would be followed by incoherent shouted arguments (presumably with himself), and the evening would end with the unmusical tinkle of beer bottles being hurled off his back balcony, and smashing against the corrugated-steel fence.

A low point in my experience with neighbours was reached about 1.30 am one morning, when he began to repetitiously scream the following refrain: "I'm wanna get my hands on some sixteen-year-old pussy!" There is an innocent interpretation of these words, but I'm not sure I'd believe it.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that we moved into our current house, which shares a boundary with six other properties. On our first weekend, in an attempt at pre-emptive friendliness, we invited our new neighbours for afternoon tea.

They seemed like a nice bunch. I was particularly impressed by Ron, a retired gentleman who'd lived in the area since childhood. He held us spellbound with his blood-curdling recollections of previous occupants of our houses.

I suppose that the structure of Ron's anecdotes could be expressed mathematically with the formula: x, of course y. Where x is an event seemingly unrelated to y; and y is an event that results in death.

For example: "Well, they told Mrs Johnstone from Number 340 that she had to have a hysterectomy. Then, of course, the Huntingdon's disease got her." And: "Mr Briers from Number 330 was one of the first contractors in Canterbury to get a self-powered hay-baler. Of course, he didn't come home one day, and his wife found him sliced up inside one of the bales -- dead as a doornail." Or: "Mr Riley from Number 328 was a lovely man. He had the idea that he'd store his lawnmower by hanging it in his garage roof. Of course, somehow he managed to start it as he was taking it down. Well, I'll give you an idea of how bad it was: the undertaker fainted when he saw the bits and pieces that were left over."

At this point in proceedings, possibly carried away by his own oratory, Ron also fainted -- dramatically crashing across our table, and reducing it to matchwood. Fortunately, one of the neighbours was a nurse. It has to be said, however, that her revival of Ron to semi-consciousness (in conjunction with the bandaging of his wounds and the mopping-up of his blood) did have a slightly depressing effect on the party atmosphere.

All-in-all, though, and particularly in comparison with previous neighbours, I considered the afternoon to have been a raging triumph. I only hope that cordial neighbourhood relations can be maintained into the future.

I received some interesting emails a couple of weeks ago when I posted an old short story of mine (originally a chapter from an unfinished novel) called 'It was a Beautiful Day'.

One reader wondered when she'd be able to buy the finished novel. When I explained that I wasn't writing this type of short story anymore, she asked (quite reasonably): "So what type of stories do you write these days?"

Another reader summed up her response to the piece by saying that it was: "very well written [but] not exactly my cup of tea (my sort of story has way more cups of tea in it, for starters)".

It occurred to me that -- in one fell swoop -- I could answer the first reader's question and (hopefully) make the second reader a little happier. I've located a recent-ish story of mine that features several cups of tea. As always, it was written purely for my own consumption, but I thought it might be vaguely interesting for comparison purposes with 'It was a Beautiful Day'.

Disclaimer: You may need to have experienced the Christchurch squatocracy in their native habitat in order to fully appreciate this story.

The Funeral

Sarah Holt gazed out of the window, and said: “I’m seeing Gary.”

Christopher, her fiancé, slipped an affectionate arm around her. He peered over her shoulder into Hagley Park. “Where?” he asked.

It was only when he caught sight of her expression that he realized what Sarah was saying.

Upstairs, Sarah’s parents were dressing for the funeral. “My point,” said Laurence Holt to his wife, “is that she’s your Great-Aunt, not mine. I don’t see why I should be giving a speech.”

“You know I’d be far too upset to say anything.”

“No, I don’t, Marjorie. As far as I can tell, you barely knew her. In thirty years of marriage, you’ve never mentioned her name in my presence.”

“Honestly Laurence, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve often spoken about Great-Aunt Jean. I used to visit her with mother. She embroidered Sarah’s pencil-bag when Sarah started school.”

Marjorie smoothed her dress, and inspected herself in the mirror. She took pride in the fact that, at fifty-eight, her figure was almost as good as on the day of her marriage. Her face, of course, showed the years, and her hair, neatly bobbed, had long ago made the transition to grey. But, like Great-Aunt Jean, she had aged gracefully, more-or-less. And that was something.

Her future son-in-law, Christopher, drove them to the funeral. Laurence had wordlessly installed himself in the passenger seat—in the annoying way that men do—and so Marjorie was forced to sit in the back, wedged uncomfortably between Sarah and Claire.

Claire, her youngest, was revisiting their argument from the previous evening. “I still don’t know why I have to go to the funeral. I’ve never even met Great-Aunt Jean.”

“You have, actually,” said Marjorie. “I particularly remember the occasion because she had one of her turns, and wouldn’t believe that you were my daughter. She told me that you were an imposter.”

Claire rolled her eyes, an annoying habit that she’d recently developed. “Well, I hope there won’t be prayers or hymns at the funeral, because I’m an atheist and it’d be hypocritical of me to join in.”

Sarah glanced irritably at her sister: “You know, just for once, Claire, could you possibly think of others? Mum doesn’t need a big drama from you today. If Great-Aunt Jean wanted a religious funeral, then—frankly—her wishes override whatever beliefs you happen to have.”

“You’re an atheist, too,” said Claire.

From the driver’s seat, Christopher gave a scornful snort. “Don’t let that bother you, Claire,” he said. He flicked the indicator to turn into the funeral home. “That’s the least of Sarah’s double-standards at the moment.”

The funeral director ushered them into the chapel. Marjorie and Laurence were led to the front pew; Sarah and Christopher were assigned seats just behind them. Claire slouched her way to the back row.

Laurence glanced at the other mourners. “Quite a turnout,” he observed.

“What do you think Christopher meant about Sarah having double-standards?” asked Marjorie in a worried undertone.

The minister was having the usual difficulties with the microphone. After several minutes of fumbling, he began: “We are here to celebrate the life of Jean Anne Deans: beloved aunt, great-aunt, and great-grandaunt to many here today. She herself, of course, was the proud great-grandniece of the English novelist Jane Austen...”

Behind her, Marjorie heard Sarah whisper: “How could you say something like that, Christopher? In front of my parents?”

“Well, how could you do something like that, Sarah? And with that jumped-up little twit.”

Sarah’s whisper became slightly louder: “For a start, he’s not a twit. Gary is a highly successful lawyer.”

“He’s a lawyer for a property developer. That’s hardly successful in my book.”

“I’m also a lawyer for a property developer, Christopher, so don’t spare my feelings or anything.”

“How long has it been going on?”

Sarah said quietly: “Oh, I don’t know. Six months, I suppose.”

“But that’s since before we became engaged!”

“I didn’t want to disappoint my mother.”

“Well, you’re disappointing everyone now, aren’t you? Me, our families, all our friends. I’ve booked the church and the reception and everything.”

“Oh, I see, so that’s what you’re really worried about: losing the deposit on the restaurant.”

“Of course it’s bloody not!” hissed Christopher. “I’m upset because my fiancée has been fucking another man. Jesus Christ!”

Marjorie closed her eyes. Around her she could sense an artificial stillness from the other mourners, as they strained their ears to listen for further details. Sarah and Christopher lapsed into a sullen, wounded silence.

The minister’s voice droned on like a bumble bee. Eventually he relinquished his position at the front of the chapel. Laurence rose, and placed his notes on the lectern.

“I first encountered my wife’s Great-Aunt Jean when she embroidered a lovely pencil-bag for my daughter, Sarah,” he said. “Of course, Sarah is now a grown woman who will shortly be married to her fiancé, Christopher.”

Laurence paused, and squared-up the pages of his speech notes. “Possibly,” he added.

When the service was finally over, the chapel doors opened automatically to let mourners into the reception area. Marjorie disapproved of automation in chapels. It seemed too mechanized—as if the funeral were a production line.

Sarah was the first person through the doors. Marjorie hurried after her, but became briefly trapped in the crowds circling the sandwiches and cakes. She winced as she detected Claire’s determined voice: “I’d like my cup of tea with soy milk, please. I don’t believe in exploiting animals.”

She found Sarah outside, standing beside the car.

Marjorie began, “Sarah, what’s going on?” but then changed her question: “What on earth are you doing with that cigarette?”

“It’s called smoking, Mum. I’m very stressed at work. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is it because of this Gary person? Is he a smoker?”

“ Mum, I don’t want to talk about it, okay!”

“I’ll ask your father to speak with you,” Marjorie decided.

People were spilling out of the reception area now. Marjorie was forced to employ some deft footwork in manoeuvring her way inside again. Then she was waylaid by Ruth, a cousin whom she hadn’t seen in several years.

Marjorie was disengaging herself from the conversation when she spotted a familiar face. “Timothy!” she called. “I thought you weren’t able to come. Ruth, you remember my son?”

Timothy was Marjorie’s middle—and least difficult—child. He gave his usual laid-back grin: “Kylinda had a last-minute cancellation; so we just hopped into the car and drove up.”

“Hello, Mother Holt,” said Kylinda. “I thought it was so important for Tim to attend the funeral.”

“Ah, Kylinda,” said Marjorie, her delight ebbing a little. “Look, I’ll catch-up with you both in a minute; I have to speak to Laurence. But you’ll be staying with us, I hope? Have you met my cousin? Ruth, this is Kylinda, she’s a dancer, more-or-less.”

“Actually, she’s a dance therapist for behaviourally-challenged children,” corrected Timothy.

“Biters, pinchers, spitters, self-harmers, child-arsonists, and so on,” Kylinda told Ruth.

“Timothy and Kylinda are based in Timaru at the moment,” explained Marjorie. She edged her way into the crowd.

“Is dance therapy a successful treatment?” Ruth asked politely.

“Well, that’s not really a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question...” began Kylinda.

Marjorie located her husband in the far corner of the room. “Laurence, I need you to talk to Sarah. At once.”

Laurence swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Not a chance,” he said. “I know your schemes. It would just end up with both of them hating me; they have to sort it out for themselves.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried Marjorie.

* * *

“What’s happened,” asked Claire. “Why is no-one talking?” The atmosphere during the car-ride home had become distinctly frosty.

Christopher drove along in silence; everyone else gazed out their respective windows. Eventually Marjorie said: “Your Great-Aunt Jean died, of course. We feel sad—that’s all.”

There was a brief silence as Claire considered this statement. “Fine,” she said. “Don’t tell me what’s going on then.”

“Anyway, I think it’s lovely that Timothy could come this weekend,” continued Marjorie. “Although I don’t know why he brought Kylinda with him, she’s so irritating. She kept calling me ‘Mother Holt’. Where in the world did that come from?”

“Perhaps it’s what they say in Australia,” suggested Laurence.

“They don’t in Neighbours,” said Claire.

“Could it be for religious reasons, do you think?” wondered Marjorie.

Timothy and Kylinda were waiting in the driveway. Christopher helped them carry their luggage inside. Returning downstairs, he found the rest of the family in the sitting room, engaged in several different conversations.

“Who’s for a cup of tea?” asked Laurence.

“I’ll have whiskey,” said Christopher.

Sarah avoided meeting Christopher’s eye. “I have a headache, Dad. I’m going to lie down in bed.”

Claire was showing Kylinda through a pile of books. “I’m reading a lot of Sylvia Plath at the moment; she’s my favourite poet. Have you read her?”

“That reminds me: did you ever buy that gas cooker, Dad?” asked Timothy. “Count me in for a cup of tea.”

Marjorie poured a small tumbler of whiskey for Christopher. Under the circumstances she felt it was the least she could do. He sat by the window, a little apart from the rest of them.

“Mother Holt?” Marjorie turned to find Kylinda at her elbow. “I’m so silly, but it seems I’ve left a few essentials in Timaru.” Unlike most Australians of Marjorie’s acquaintance, Kylinda had a tendency to over-apologize. “I know it’s my own fault, but I was wondering: would you possibly have a comb that I could borrow? One with very fine teeth? You know what it’s like working with young children.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Marjorie hurried down the hall and into the kitchen. She closed the door. Laurence was arranging cups and saucers on the tea-tray.

“Laurence, I have bad news: that awful Australian has brought disease into our home.”

“In what sense?”

“In the sense that she has head-lice. She’s just asked to borrow a fine-toothed comb; she alluded to the perils of working with children. What else could that mean? She must have caught them from those horrible child-arsonists in Timaru.” Marjorie was half-sobbing now. “First Sarah and Christopher decide to cancel the wedding, and now I’ll have to shave all my hair off.”

“Give her that flea-comb we used on the dog,” said Laurence. “It’s in the garage. We can sterilize it in hot water.” The kettle began to sing.

Christopher drank his whiskey; the others sipped their tea.

“Why do you keep scratching your head?” asked Claire

Marjorie stopped herself in mid-scratch.

“So how’s Nigel coping with Sarah’s engagement, Mum?” Timothy asked.

“Don’t start on that, Tim—please,” said Laurence.

“Who’s Nigel?” asked Christopher.

“Nigel is the son of Mum’s best friend,” explained Timothy. “Sarah and Nigel were intended for one another, weren’t they, Mum?”

“Like Mr Darcy and Anne de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice,” said Claire.

“This was all before your time, Christopher,” said Marjorie hurriedly. “And, of course, I never thought any such thing.”

Claire said: “Nigel’s a millionaire lawyer. He’s horrible.”

“He’s very nice, actually,” said Marjorie. “He’s recently had some difficult personal circumstances, and he’s been terribly brave about it.”

“Serious fraud office?” asked Timothy hopefully.

“No, Nigel has discovered that—well—that he is homosexual; and he’s decided to be entirely open with everybody. ‘Coming out’, is the phrase, I believe.”

“Mum’s going to try and match-make him with you now, Tim,” said Claire.

Marjorie ignored her. “Nigel has a partner. He’s called Jack. In fact, you’ll meet him very soon; I’ve invited them here for the weekend.”

“Oh, not this weekend,” groaned Timothy.

“I thought it would be a nice idea to have the whole family around to support Nigel in his new lifestyle,” said Marjorie defensively.

“In other words,” explained Laurence. “Your mother doesn’t feel comfortable with Nigel and Jack, and she wants all of you here to support her.”

In the bedroom, Sarah was making a phone call.

“I’ve told Chris.”

“Sarah—great to hear from you. Told him what?”

“You know, about our relationship.”

“Relationship?” said Gary.

Sarah was disconcerted by the question mark.

“Yes,” she said. “What we’ve been doing these last months.”

“Oh right, of course.”

“Christopher has agreed that we should call off the wedding. And I really do think it’s the best thing for him in the long run; as well as the best possible outcome for us, too.

“Us?” said Gary.

“So that we can take our relationship to the next level.”

“Can you hold the line?” Sarah heard the squeak of Gary’s swivel-chair, and rapid footsteps as he walked across his office and closed the door.

“Well, the thing is, Sarah,” said Gary, “Er, how to put this: I’m not really looking for a relationship at the moment. I mean, I thought we were just having fun, right? So, you know, I don’t see any need to call things off with Chris or anything.”

Like all considerate modern visitors, Nigel called on his mobile phone five minutes ahead of time to notify them of his pending arrival. At Marjorie’s insistence, the entire family assembled on the front lawn, so that greetings and moral support could be conveyed at the earliest possible opportunity.

“Here comes their car,” said Claire.

“Two cars,” said Timothy. “Travelling separately. Possibly a slightly gay thing to do.”

“Stop it, Timothy!” ordered Marjorie. She donned her most welcoming smile: “Now please remember everybody—act naturally!”

Nigel was fashionably tanned, and dressed with his usual expensive casualness. “Marjorie!” he said, giving her a hug which she returned with slight awkwardness.

The combined gaze of the rest of the welcoming committee was focussed on the second car.

Laurence was the first to regain his composure. He held out his hand and stepped forward. “You must be Jack,” he said. “Short for Jacqueline, I presume?”

They had reached the front hall before Marjorie was able to say anything useful. “Claire will show you to your room.”

“No, thank you,” said Claire. “I want to talk to you, Mum.”

“I’ll go,” said Christopher wearily. “It’s just up here. Let me carry that suitcase.”

Nigel and Jacqueline ascended the stairs; Laurence gave Marjorie a long, measuring look: “How is this possible?”

“I can’t imagine, Laurence; I’m as surprised as you. Perhaps I misunderstood something?”

“So—let’s get this straight—what did Nigel’s mother tell you, exactly?” asked Timothy.

“She said he had a new partner called Jack.”

“Did she say that Nigel was gay, and that Jack was a man?”

“Well, not exactly. She’s not the sort of person who makes sudden announcements. But she said a number of things, which I took to be euphemisms.” A sudden thought struck Marjorie. “Of course, who’s to say that Jacqueline has always been a woman. There’s something rather masculine about her, don’t you think?”

Timothy and Laurence spoke simultaneously: “No.”

Marjorie wrung her hands in despair. “Well, I don’t know how I could have made such an embarrassing error.”

* * *

“Don’t think of it as an alarm clock, Claire,” said Nigel. “Think of it as an ‘opportunity clock’. To me, each day is an opportunity to go out and make a success of myself. The way I look at it, life’s like a game of rugby. And money’s the way you keep score.”

“So do you want to borrow my alarm clock or not?” asked Claire.

“I must say, it’s quite a co-incidence how much you and Sarah have in common,” observed Marjorie to Nigel. “Both of you successful lawyers, both of you go-getters, both interested in...” Her inspiration faded, “other things, no doubt.”

Sarah strode into the sitting room, and flopped down into a chair. “Good God, how much longer is Kylinda going to be in the bathroom? She’s been combing her hair for half-an-hour at least. She must have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

Marjorie shot a meaning-filled glance at Laurence.

“So Nigel, how’s the lawyering business these days?” asked Laurence hurriedly. “Got any criminals off the hook lately?”

Nigel embarked on a monologue about his recent legal successes.

Marjorie said to Sarah: “We’re walking over to Hagley Park in a minute. Nigel says he wants to practice his putting or his driving or something. Are you interested in coming?”

“Will Christopher be going?”

“I’ve asked him to take Jacqueline to Mona Vale; she’s never been there before.” Marjorie lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Apparently she’s from Upper Hutt.”

Three hundred metres upstream, Christopher was leading the way across the weir. “Your in-laws have a lovely house,” observed Jacqueline.

“Future in-laws,” said Christopher. “Or rather ex-future in-laws. Sarah and I have just broken up.”

“Sorry, have I been tactless?”

“Not at all. And don’t be sorry, I’m beginning to think it was a lucky escape. Seems I was never good enough for Sarah or her family. Didn’t go to the right school, convinced her to move to Auckland with me—you know.”

“Sounds like Nigel’s mother,” said Jacqueline. “She’s not exactly thrilled with her son’s taste in girlfriends. I’m sure she didn’t spend a fortune on his education for him to end up with a music teacher from a state school.”

“Christchurch’s obsession with schools drives me insane.”

“Not to mention the automatic assumption that Canterbury is superior to all other provinces,” said Jacqueline. “Nigel’s mother always introduces me as coming vaguely from ‘The North’—as if Upper Hutt were Gomorrah or something. Mind you, she’s a saint compared to Nigel’s friends down here. They were at Christ’s College with him, and they’re utterly odious.”

“Sarah’s a lawyer for a property developer. You can imagine what her friends are like.”

They wandered into the rose garden. “I only really like the old-fashioned roses with a scent,” said Christopher.

“Yes, the other ones seem so insincere, don’t they?”

At the entrance to the fernery, Christopher gestured for Jacqueline to go ahead, but she said, “You first,” and he said, “No, after you.” And they ended up ducking through the arch at the same time, almost getting themselves jammed together in the opening.

“Sorry,” said Christopher, mortified by his own clumsiness.

Jacqueline laughed. Her hand was resting casually against his shoulder; her face so close to Christopher’s that he could almost have leant forward and kissed her. Although, as it happened, it was Jacqueline who slid her arms around his neck, and then pressed her lips against his.

In his study, Laurence was congratulating himself on a successful escape from watching Nigel practice golf. He’d selected a Raymond Chandler novel from his shelves, and was making himself comfortable in the window seat. The sound of bees humming in the garden was pleasantly soporific; the afternoon sun warmed his back. Sleep stole pleasantly over him.

Deep in slumber, Laurence became vaguely aware of raised voices and shouting. The realization that he was avoiding conflict made his dreams seem even sweeter. It was only his youngest daughter’s demanding tones that eventually woke him.

“Is there an emergency, Claire?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“Nigel remembered that his golf-clubs were in Jacqueline’s car. So we all went after her to get the keys. And then we saw Christopher and Jacqueline kissing in the fernery.”

“Probably just a friendly kiss,” suggested Laurence hopefully.

“With open mouths, Dad. And tongues and tonsils and everything.”

“Good grief!” Laurence sat up.

“So Nigel and Jacqueline argued all the way back here, and then Nigel and Christopher had this gigantic punch-up on the front lawn. Did you know that Nigel boxed when he was at Christ’s College? I was a bit sorry to see Christopher get beaten-up, although I suppose he deserved it.”

Laurence groaned.

“Then Jacqueline called Nigel a thug, and said she could never marry a man who resorted to violence. And then she hit Nigel on the nose with a golf club and broke it, we think. The nose—not the golf club. Then she drove off in her car with Christopher. Mum wants you, by the way.”

Marjorie was weeping at the kitchen table. Timothy and Kylinda were attempting to console her.

“Laurence, where have you been? Everything is a disaster! There has been violence in our home; Nigel and Christopher have had a fight! And now poor Sarah has been abandoned. He’s gone off with that woman from Upper Hutt.”

“Wait a minute,” said Laurence in bewilderment. “I thought Sarah had already left Christopher for Gary?”

“Who’s Gary?” asked Timothy and Claire.

Marjorie ignored their question. “No,” she sobbed. “Sarah phoned Gary and told him that it wasn’t ethical for her to have a relationship with him. She was going to marry Christopher after all! Only she hadn’t told Christopher yet because she wanted him to suffer a bit. He’s been taking her for granted, she said. Oh, Sarah really is a good girl, Laurence. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“I must say, Sarah certainly gave Jacqueline a piece of her mind,” said Timothy admiringly, “being a lawyer has improved her vocabulary no end.”

“And Nigel,” continued Marjorie. “His poor nose. It was gushing like a fountain—absolutely gushing! I’ve never seen so much blood.”

“If only I’d been able to convince him to try some rhythmic movement,” said Kylinda. “I’m sure that would’ve stopped the bleeding more quickly than an ice-pack, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Laurence massaged his temples. “And where is Nigel now?”

“He’s out on the garden seat,” wept Marjorie. “Poor Sarah is trying to console him.”

* * *

Sarah said: “You were so powerful, Nigel. I’ve never seen anyone punch like that. It was like watching a bull toss a matador.”

“Well, I think it’s important to keep yourself fit,” Nigel said. “Physically and mentally. That’s my philosophy.”

Sarah gazed at the evening light as it slanted through the oak trees. “Christchurch has beautiful sunsets, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Nigel. “You know, funny thing about having a broken nose, it’s made my head itchy.”

“That’s odd—my head’s itchy too,” said Sarah.

Drying her eyes at the kitchen window, Marjorie watched Nigel and Sarah as they talked. At one point, Sarah rubbed Nigel’s arm reassuringly; a little later, Nigel leant over and stroked her cheek.

It was amazing how a day that had started with a funeral could, a few minor problems aside, end so happily, thought Marjorie. Later on, she would telephone Nigel’s mother, and tell her how well everything had gone.

© David Haywood, 2009.

I have cold feet about the piece I'd originally intended to post today, and so my son has advised me that I should write about his favourite music videos instead.

We have a daily session after lunch during which I deal with my email correspondence, and Bob-the-Boy watches music videos on YouTube. That is unless Bob decides to give me a haircut with sausage tongs, or he decides that we must sail to the Kermadecs on our sitting-room sofa, or that we need to go hunting in the back garden for feral bulls, and -- if any bulls are discovered -- to assist with their rehabilitation back into society.

As I say, in the event that no other diversions take place then we answer email and watch YouTube. It transpires that Bob has very definite taste in music for a (nearly) three-year-old, and is adept at browsing through thumbnails to find new music videos. Some are viewed for only a few seconds; others are watched repeatedly until Bob's daddy is ready to scream.

The other night we made up a list of Bob's Top Five Music Videos of All Time. We present them here for your enlightenment and entertainment:

Number Five: The Pixies 'Gigantic'

A surprise entry in the Top Five list for such a plain music video, but Bob says that he "likes the lady". It's a testament to the quality of this song that Bob's daddy still enjoys it after (literally) hundreds of repetitions.

Number Four: Elemeno P 'Every Day's A Saturday'

Bob also insists that the main attraction of this video is that he "likes the lady" -- thus indicating that there may well be a genetic factor in the appreciation of female bass players. For some reason, the barbecue scene often reminds Bob of his recent (and only) visit to the barbers. This prompts him to search the cutlery drawer for sausage tongs, and then to re-enact his haircut experience on his father. If I'm good, he gives me a piece of fruit at the end.

Watch on YouTube (embedding disabled)

Number Three: Weezer 'Pork and Beans'

Bob says that he likes this music video because "everyone is happy". Also because "there are lots of fountains" and "people have writing on their hands". When requesting it, Bob asks for "the one with donkeys" -- on the basis that a cartoon donkey makes an on-screen appearance for three-quarters of a seconds at 2m57s into the video. Bob hates to be obvious in his nomenclature.

Number Two: Feist '1, 2, 3, 4'

Although he hates to be obvious, Bob isn't too worried by predictability. He says that he chose this video on the basis that he "likes the lady". Although he does ask the excellent question: "But why is she counting, Daddy?" Bob's daddy doesn't know, but he wishes she would stop. Unlike 'Gigantic' this song has not stood up to hundreds of listens.

Number One: OK Go 'This Too Shall Pass'

One song: two versions. This band are no doubt proud of the fact that they've had 2,201,756 views on YouTube. What they don't realize, however, is that 2,201,755 of those views are solely from our household.

Bob is undecided about his preferred version. He calls the first one the 'Surprise Video' and the second one 'The Video Where Things Fall Over'. Even without access to a computer he can recite the entire chain of events in 'The Video Where Things Fall Over'; it's quite an impressive feat of memory.

Despite watching these videos over two million times, Bob's daddy still thinks they're pretty good, too.

P.S. For those of you requesting more science stuff, I'm now the science correspondent for Nine-to-Noon on Radio New Zealand. You can listen to my first piece here (it's about the science behind the cycle helmet laws and a bit of science history on Project Orion):

http://www.radionz.co.nz/audio/national/ntn/2010/06/16/science_-_david_haywood

Or as an MP3:

http://podcast.radionz.co.nz/ntn/ntn-20100616-1148-Science_-_David_Haywood-048.mp3

Feel free to discuss that here, too. FYI I've already had email from a NatRad listener saying that they hope I fall off my bike and die, so there's no need for anyone else to mention this point again (even if you feel that way)!

I've written before that my grandfather's autobiography was on the verge of completion, but the final steps to publication have taken rather longer than expected. Like many writers, my grandfather felt that he needed to make a few minor tweaks before his masterpiece was ready to be released into the world. And then each minor tweak seemed to beget a whole family of additional tweaks. And so on.

Towards the end of last year, my grandmother began to issue hints. She is a good-natured woman, who once endured five years while my grandfather built an ocean-going yacht in their back garden. But patience has its limits, and she was keen to see his autobiography finished and printed in book form. In fact, she had rather hoped that it might be out for last Christmas -- although, in the end, a few of those essential tweaks prevented this from happening.

By January this year, my grandmother's hints had become more forceful. Eventually my aunt's support was enlisted, and she prised the autobiography from my grandfather's unwilling hands, and emailed the manuscript to me for typesetting and cover design. The lay-out was undertaken at top speed (or, at least, top speed in comparison to the glacial rate at which I normally work), and the book was duly sent off to the US for printing.

Alas the printing process introduced yet another maddening delay. The proof copy of the autobiography had to be posted back to New Zealand for final approval, which meant that we'd be twiddling our thumbs for nearly a month while the book dawdled its way to our shores, or more likely, while it was sent to Canada by mistake.

It was then I discovered that requests issued by grandmothers are still effective in other hemispheres, and indeed, even to persons not related by blood. A certain Dr Jolisa Gracewood was dragooned into our mission. We decided that the book should be sent to her lair in Connecticut for final checking, thus saving three-and-a-half weeks on delivery of the finished product to my grandparents in Auckland.

At this point I can predict, of course, what anyone who knows of Dr Gracewood will be thinking -- viz. the woman is a monster, she'd never acquiesce to helping somebody's grandmother.

Well, I like to think there's goodness in everyone, even Jolisa Gracewood. And, indeed, my faith in humanity was rewarded. She agreed to do the job, and not only that, but she rearranged her busy schedule to check the proof copy on our behalf the very day it arrived. And, as if that wasn't saintly enough, she on-posted the book to my grandparents via priority mail, and wouldn't hear of being reimbursed for the cost.

So take that -- all you people who have so often compared Jolisa Gracewood with Mussolini or Simon Cowell! Hang your heads in shame. She's nowhere near as thoroughly wicked as everyone says.

At any rate, thanks to Dr Gracewood's good work, the proof copy arrived rather earlier than expected -- and great was the rejoicing! My grandmother was moved to tears to see my grandfather's autobiography finally finished; and then moved to tears again when she discovered that he'd dedicated it to her. My grandfather exhibited his pleasure in the manner of Yorkshiremen everywhere, with my aunt's highly-trained eye being able to detect a brief hint of a smile.

Above: The cover of my grandfather's autobiography (featuring a photograph of him as a six-year-old).

It has been my experience -- to make a gross generalization -- that Yorkshiremen are rather inward-looking in terms of their world-view (certainly few Yorkshiremen would be surprised to read the headline: "Cosmologists Calculate Yorkshire is at Centre of Universe"). It's lovely how my grandfather manages to make a virtue of this in his writing, taking the reader into the minutiae of village life: the local school, the market, the cottages, and the mines. He makes some wonderfully wry observations, as in this brief mention of the Wadsley village allotments: "A place where the men had a little shed, talked to one another, and got away from their Yorkshire wives."

Above: A map of Europe from my grandfather's book (showing all the important European landmarks).

Given that most of the book takes place during the hard years of the Depression, it's a surprisingly sunny autobiography -- with prose that often captures the sense of joy or yearning that arises from happy childhood memories (typically the Germans have just the right word for this: Sehnsucht). My grandfather recalls the first day he was able to go outside after a prolonged childhood illness:

I went by Bower Cottage, to a field past the bottom pit, and sat down on a large rock in the warm sunshine. I had not been there long when I saw a skylark come out of the grass and start to ascend into the blue sky. It hovered there for a little while and then burst into such a beautiful song -- as though it went so high just to sing to me. I have never forgotten it.

There is sorrow in the book, too -- much of it in the telling of his father's (my great-grandfather's) life. Joseph Haywood was the second eldest in a family of five children. His older brother Walter died at the age of four; shortly afterwards Joseph's mother and youngest brother also died. Then his second-youngest brother John (also at the age of four). Finally his father died, leaving Joseph as a ten-year-old with his little brother, Harry, to be employed as child-labourers on the farm of an obscure relative.

By hard work, Joseph and Harry clawed their way upwards in society, educating themselves in their spare time, and eventually studying at mining school in Sheffield. They mined ganister for a local company, and became relatively prosperous, establishing their sons as tradesmen. If you've never heard of it, ganister is a natural form of almost pure silica, used to make the linings for furnaces. It's the sort of material you get chaps in space-suits to deal with nowadays because of the danger of silicosis. You can imagine how it ended for my great-grandfather and his brother.

Above: My grandfather's father as a teenager.

For members of the Haywood family there are a good few surprises in the book. My grandfather's great-grandfather had the surname 'Heward' -- but most of his children had their surname spelt as 'Haywood' (excepting one who was 'Heywood'). So the ancient House of Haywood is not really so ancient after all, and owes its existence purely to a freak of spelling.

Most importantly, of course, was the discovery that my grandfather and his brothers -- Harold, Horace, and Hubert -- didn't draw the shortest straws when names were issued in the Haywood family. That honour went to their great-grand-aunts: Keziah, Uriah, and Hephzibah.

The autobiography ends with my grandfather meeting my grandmother. He was a musician in a dance band at the time:

I played the saxophone with the band that night, and in came this slim young lady with long auburn hair. I walked home with her that evening and little thought that I had found my mate, and that we would be together more than seventy years later.

 

Above: My grandmother in 1943 (four years after she met my grandfather).

In many ways, I think I've been more excited about this book than either of my own. My grandfather phoned me the other day, when the boxes from the printers finally arrived at his house. He also had some bad news to deliver: my grandmother had been suffering from a chest infection, and was required to spend a night in hospital under observation. "I don't want to open the boxes without her," he said. "So I'll wait until I can drive her home this afternoon." Later he emailed me photographs of my grandmother surrounded by autobiographies.

I flew up to Auckland that weekend to attend a book-launch party that my aunt had arranged. My father and his wife collected me from the airport. "Grandma's not going to be there, I'm afraid," my father told me. "She's had to go back into hospital -- they think it might be pneumonia."

The book-launch was delightful -- if somewhat subdued as a result of my grandmother's absence. My brother and sister were in attendance, as were my cousins, and nearly all of my grandparents' great-grandchildren. The great-grandchildren were running wild on the delicious sugary food that my aunt had cooked up.

Surrounded by relatives, I had time to reflect once again on the cruel quirk of genetics that has resulted in my missing out on the Haywood hair gene. My grandfather -- aged 93 -- has not a trace of grey in his hair, nor does my aunt or her children. It's nothing short of a scandal, in my opinion, that a grandfather should have less grey hair than his own grandson (and possibly thicker hair, too).

Above: My grandfather signs a copy of his book.

During the course of the proceedings, it became apparent that my grandfather had been keeping back some bad news. He hadn't wanted to ruin the party. During the night my grandmother had suffered a stroke.

We visited the hospital that evening: my brother, my sister and her husband, and me. It's surprising what people think about in such circumstances. In spite of her difficulty in breathing and her paralysis, my grandmother's first question was about the welfare of my grandfather.

"Is someone organizing his clothes?" she asked. She's never held my grandfather's fashion sense in high regard, and for the last seventy years has been making sure that his clothes match properly. "Remind him that he's got a new packet of underwear in his drawer."

We told her about the book-launch. My grandmother soon became tired; her speech difficult to understand. Several times we couldn't make out what she was trying to say.

My father and his wife arrived. We talked about childhood visits to my grandparents' house. I recalled how -- knowing my dislike of meat -- my grandmother had always made me her special vegetarian soup. "We had your vegetarian soup at the book-launch party," I was able to tell her. "It was very good, although not as nice as when you make it."

"That's because Grandma's vegetarian soup is made with shin-bones," said my father.

We had to leave soon afterwards; it was hard to know what to say in farewell. "I'm sorry to see you so ill," I told my grandmother.

She seemed able to speak more clearly again. "It's all just part of life, isn't it?" she whispered.

I only hope that -- under similar circumstances -- I can be as brave as her.

My grandmother, Cecilia May Haywood, died at 3 pm, 28th May 2010. She will be sorely missed.