Thomas W. Devine's Blog
February 1, 2025
Grandparents
I grew up without really knowing my grandparents. I suppose that is common with the youngest child of a large family.
All I remember of my maternal grandmother is the black and white photo of her holding me in my christening finery. She looked to be an elderly, lovely, homely woman. I know she married a Catholic (an O’Sullivan) and was ostracized for it by her Protestant family (the Godsiffs). They came to New Zealand and, as farmers, settled in the Marlborough Sounds in the 1860s. They were from Tortola in the West Indies and lost their plantation there after slavery was abolished.
My maternal grandfather I know only from one haunting memory I associate with him when I was very young. He had dementia and was in what was then known as a “mental home” in Stoke, near Nelson. To have visited him, someone must have given us a lift from Blenheim, as we had no car of our own. I have only a vague actual memory of my grandfather on that occasion. I mainly remember being in a large room with rather strange people sitting on forms along the walls.
I have no memory of my paternal grandparents and they may have been deceased before I was born. My grandfather, a rabbiter, officially died of pneumonia but the family story was that he was accidentally poisoned with cyanide being used in pest control, having opened a tin of the stuff with his pocket knife then using the same blade to cut up an apple to eat.
My paternal grandmother re-married.
My mother had one sister, my aunt Mabel. She was a spinster and kept a boarding house for men. Never more than three at a time. She was the kindest and sweetest of aunts. Reputedly, her parents stopped her marrying the only man she ever loved. I used to do outdoor chores for her in return for morning teas of cakes and biscuits and a little pocket money. I don’t think she trusted banks. She kept her money in glass jars in a covered pit in the backyard. And, no, it never occurred to me to steal from her. Moral standards, in those days, were higher than they are now.
Having now had this assignment for the writing group, I wish I’d asked my parents more about my grandparents.
All I remember of my maternal grandmother is the black and white photo of her holding me in my christening finery. She looked to be an elderly, lovely, homely woman. I know she married a Catholic (an O’Sullivan) and was ostracized for it by her Protestant family (the Godsiffs). They came to New Zealand and, as farmers, settled in the Marlborough Sounds in the 1860s. They were from Tortola in the West Indies and lost their plantation there after slavery was abolished.
My maternal grandfather I know only from one haunting memory I associate with him when I was very young. He had dementia and was in what was then known as a “mental home” in Stoke, near Nelson. To have visited him, someone must have given us a lift from Blenheim, as we had no car of our own. I have only a vague actual memory of my grandfather on that occasion. I mainly remember being in a large room with rather strange people sitting on forms along the walls.
I have no memory of my paternal grandparents and they may have been deceased before I was born. My grandfather, a rabbiter, officially died of pneumonia but the family story was that he was accidentally poisoned with cyanide being used in pest control, having opened a tin of the stuff with his pocket knife then using the same blade to cut up an apple to eat.
My paternal grandmother re-married.
My mother had one sister, my aunt Mabel. She was a spinster and kept a boarding house for men. Never more than three at a time. She was the kindest and sweetest of aunts. Reputedly, her parents stopped her marrying the only man she ever loved. I used to do outdoor chores for her in return for morning teas of cakes and biscuits and a little pocket money. I don’t think she trusted banks. She kept her money in glass jars in a covered pit in the backyard. And, no, it never occurred to me to steal from her. Moral standards, in those days, were higher than they are now.
Having now had this assignment for the writing group, I wish I’d asked my parents more about my grandparents.
September 18, 2024
A GOOD MARRIAGE
The couple had set up a small tent on the lakeshore. Just before twilight, they lit an open fire and sat beside it, roasting marshmallows on sticks and consuming the melting sweets with sips of wine. When darkness came, they retired to the tent in separate sleeping bags.
David was a fifty-year-old civil engineer. His wife, Susan was a forty-eight-year-old self-employed florist. They were on holiday together, their first without dependent children.
David took Susan’s hand and wordlessly drew her arm into his sleeping bag, letting it lie at his side.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For the fight I started earlier. Do you forgive me?”
David still had a red mark across his forehead from when, in frustration, she had hit him with a small branch intended for the fire. Few words, when unavoidable, had been exchanged between them since the fight.
“Of course, I forgive you,” he said, squeezing her hand. He’d always tried to follow the maxim of never going to sleep without resolving any dispute or hurt. “I was in the wrong too.”
“And I’m sorry I hit you with the stick. Does it hurt still?”
“It doesn’t throb anymore. Just burns a bit.”
For a moment there was silence. She did not look his way but stared into space. “You used to hit me.”
“Not often. And only ever a slap with an open hand and never with full force.”
“Most women would say that made no difference.”
It did to David. “Anyhow, it was only when you deliberately baited me. The things you used to say – the buttons you knew how to push – hurt me so much because I love you. And I’ve apologized often for losing my temper on those occasions.”
“And I’ve forgiven you.”
But she never had, really, David thought. Otherwise, why did she keep bringing it up time after time? He had not hit her for years. But maybe hitting a woman was never forgettable, or forgivable, especially for the victim.
Her reminders always made him feel bad; guilty in a way for still feeling like she had deserved it. He had never been able to win a hurtful argument with her with words alone. On those few occasions when he could no longer control himself, he could only stop her with a slap.
Then things ended in tears.
From all the years they’d spent together, he still loved her. Their shared experience of being parents to their three children had been a strong reason that kept them united.
Did they have a happy marriage? David thought so, despite the ups and downs. Even being hit by his wife with a stick, in the heat of the moment, did not change his mind.
He squeezed Susan’s hand again then leaned out of his sleeping bag and kissed her cheek.
David was a fifty-year-old civil engineer. His wife, Susan was a forty-eight-year-old self-employed florist. They were on holiday together, their first without dependent children.
David took Susan’s hand and wordlessly drew her arm into his sleeping bag, letting it lie at his side.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For the fight I started earlier. Do you forgive me?”
David still had a red mark across his forehead from when, in frustration, she had hit him with a small branch intended for the fire. Few words, when unavoidable, had been exchanged between them since the fight.
“Of course, I forgive you,” he said, squeezing her hand. He’d always tried to follow the maxim of never going to sleep without resolving any dispute or hurt. “I was in the wrong too.”
“And I’m sorry I hit you with the stick. Does it hurt still?”
“It doesn’t throb anymore. Just burns a bit.”
For a moment there was silence. She did not look his way but stared into space. “You used to hit me.”
“Not often. And only ever a slap with an open hand and never with full force.”
“Most women would say that made no difference.”
It did to David. “Anyhow, it was only when you deliberately baited me. The things you used to say – the buttons you knew how to push – hurt me so much because I love you. And I’ve apologized often for losing my temper on those occasions.”
“And I’ve forgiven you.”
But she never had, really, David thought. Otherwise, why did she keep bringing it up time after time? He had not hit her for years. But maybe hitting a woman was never forgettable, or forgivable, especially for the victim.
Her reminders always made him feel bad; guilty in a way for still feeling like she had deserved it. He had never been able to win a hurtful argument with her with words alone. On those few occasions when he could no longer control himself, he could only stop her with a slap.
Then things ended in tears.
From all the years they’d spent together, he still loved her. Their shared experience of being parents to their three children had been a strong reason that kept them united.
Did they have a happy marriage? David thought so, despite the ups and downs. Even being hit by his wife with a stick, in the heat of the moment, did not change his mind.
He squeezed Susan’s hand again then leaned out of his sleeping bag and kissed her cheek.
January 16, 2024
Conceived in Love
I wrote this poem for my wife when, sixty years ago, she was pregnant with our first child:
A tear of love to your soul passed
From mine in union sweet
A tear of life, a precious bud
To blossom in your body
A new life formed and resting softly
In the gentle sap of your growing womb.
Our bodies one, our lips each other's - of love the whispered words of moonlight:
"I love, I love, 'tis you I love,
You forever,darling" -
My life to your life flowing,
With yours my lifeblood sowing
What will be our own, of each other part,
Our hearts one and swiftly beating.
Oh feed my child, my darling one,
Your blood with its blood flowing,
Its heart with your heart knowing
All my love, so deep and true and safe.
Your care for her, your care for me,
Her time soon to see
I love you both so tenderly.
When birth is done and my child lies beside you
To me a kiss with dreamy eyes
Before I watch o'er you as you sleep.
If tears from these eyes fall
Then of happiness, they are all.
Oh, my love, my love, my heart is full.
[Turned out to be a he not a her}
A tear of love to your soul passed
From mine in union sweet
A tear of life, a precious bud
To blossom in your body
A new life formed and resting softly
In the gentle sap of your growing womb.
Our bodies one, our lips each other's - of love the whispered words of moonlight:
"I love, I love, 'tis you I love,
You forever,darling" -
My life to your life flowing,
With yours my lifeblood sowing
What will be our own, of each other part,
Our hearts one and swiftly beating.
Oh feed my child, my darling one,
Your blood with its blood flowing,
Its heart with your heart knowing
All my love, so deep and true and safe.
Your care for her, your care for me,
Her time soon to see
I love you both so tenderly.
When birth is done and my child lies beside you
To me a kiss with dreamy eyes
Before I watch o'er you as you sleep.
If tears from these eyes fall
Then of happiness, they are all.
Oh, my love, my love, my heart is full.
[Turned out to be a he not a her}
November 22, 2023
WHAT IF…
What if you thought you had the winning Lotto ticket and then weren’t able to claim the prize? Wellingtonian, Ryan Gibson, had that experience.
It began when he was sitting alone on a sofa in his living room. Leaning back, he stared in disbelief at the glowing TV screen and then at the rectangle of yellow paper in his hand.
He’d written down the winning numbers as one Lotto ball after another came to rest on-screen. He was sure he’d been accurate when recording the result and when subsequently comparing the notepad numbers to the numbers on the ticket. He’d underlined each one with increasing excitement.
He carefully re-checked, his heart in his throat. Then he leaped up with a whoop of delight. On the spot, he did an uncharacteristic jig of celebration; one he would never have done in public. Even now, he could hardly believe it. An instant fortune would never just drop in his lap; money had to be earned by hard slog. Only a lucky few got a windfall. Not that he’d necessarily won the whole million dollars. To find out, he’d have to wait for the confirmed results.
But even if he got half, it was more than he’d earn in ten years as a high school teacher.
Bursting to share his news (hoping he hadn’t miss-checked the ticket) he thought of phoning his girlfriend, Kristen. But she would be doing an evening shift at the hospital and had told him when they first started dating never to phone her at work unless it was a dire emergency. He could text her but he preferred to wait until he could tell her face to face. By that stage, he’d know the final results of the Lotto draw and be sure, one way or the other.
He said under his breath, “I never thought I’d see the day!” He knew that the win would become totally real only when he had the prize money in his bank account. The staggering sum of money would make him a millionaire – until he started spending and giving away.
When Ryan woke, the natural light in the bedroom seemed much brighter than it should have been. He’d agreed with Kristen that they’d leave the apartment at 6:30 and drive his car to the airport. He barely remembered her coming to bed with him, except for setting the alarm on his phone.
Anticipating that, at best, they were running late, he leaped up before he noticed Kristen wasn’t in the room any longer. The bed was empty. He picked up his phone and swiped the screen. The digits of the clock read 9:32. They’d missed their flight!
He couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the kitchen. He called out Kristen’s name, but there was no response. He was pulling on his trousers when he realized something was missing. He lifted his arm. The envelope with the Lotto ticket wasn’t attached to his ribs anymore. The corners had been snipped off to free it from the strips of sticky tape on his skin.
He went into a state of shocked denial. Kristen couldn’t be responsible! Then, bare-chested, he hurried out to the hallway. The bathroom lacked any sign that she’d showered. He headed on to the front door and out onto the porch, staying in the cool air only long enough to check that Kristen’s car had gone from the carport.
All the time, he was hoping against hope that she’d only taken the Lotto ticket as a joke. Hadn’t she teased that she’d find a way to make sure his winnings didn’t change him for the worse? He was sure she was only pranking him. But why had she made them miss their flight to Auckland? And where was she?
Once back in the living room, he checked his desk. The airline booking documents had been removed from the printer where he’d left them. He could no longer deny the growing evidence (circumstantial and unreal as it seemed) that Kristen might by now have used his Lotto ticket to defraud him of a million dollars.
He let the thought take hold. It was as bad as if he’d just heard that she’d cheated on him. He found himself collapsing in the nearest armchair and bending forward to try and breathe more easily.
There was only one way to remove any doubt about what her intentions had been. He looked up the number of the Lotto office in Auckland and then entered it on the iPhone keypad. To the person who answered, he lied that he was a reporter from The Wellingtonian and asked if the winning Lotto prize from the Saturday night draw had been claimed yet. He was told that it had.
His first thought was, ‘What if Kristen doesn’t come back?’ The money didn’t matter. It wasn’t what was causing his heartache. It was thinking that someone he loved, and whom he thought loved him, could steal the prize that was rightfully his.
He’d never hold her in his arms again. It was as if she’d been taken away by something as final as death.
___________
Adapted from the first 4 chapters of the novel “Losers & Winners” by Thomas W Devine (available from Amazon Books)
It began when he was sitting alone on a sofa in his living room. Leaning back, he stared in disbelief at the glowing TV screen and then at the rectangle of yellow paper in his hand.
He’d written down the winning numbers as one Lotto ball after another came to rest on-screen. He was sure he’d been accurate when recording the result and when subsequently comparing the notepad numbers to the numbers on the ticket. He’d underlined each one with increasing excitement.
He carefully re-checked, his heart in his throat. Then he leaped up with a whoop of delight. On the spot, he did an uncharacteristic jig of celebration; one he would never have done in public. Even now, he could hardly believe it. An instant fortune would never just drop in his lap; money had to be earned by hard slog. Only a lucky few got a windfall. Not that he’d necessarily won the whole million dollars. To find out, he’d have to wait for the confirmed results.
But even if he got half, it was more than he’d earn in ten years as a high school teacher.
Bursting to share his news (hoping he hadn’t miss-checked the ticket) he thought of phoning his girlfriend, Kristen. But she would be doing an evening shift at the hospital and had told him when they first started dating never to phone her at work unless it was a dire emergency. He could text her but he preferred to wait until he could tell her face to face. By that stage, he’d know the final results of the Lotto draw and be sure, one way or the other.
He said under his breath, “I never thought I’d see the day!” He knew that the win would become totally real only when he had the prize money in his bank account. The staggering sum of money would make him a millionaire – until he started spending and giving away.
When Ryan woke, the natural light in the bedroom seemed much brighter than it should have been. He’d agreed with Kristen that they’d leave the apartment at 6:30 and drive his car to the airport. He barely remembered her coming to bed with him, except for setting the alarm on his phone.
Anticipating that, at best, they were running late, he leaped up before he noticed Kristen wasn’t in the room any longer. The bed was empty. He picked up his phone and swiped the screen. The digits of the clock read 9:32. They’d missed their flight!
He couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the kitchen. He called out Kristen’s name, but there was no response. He was pulling on his trousers when he realized something was missing. He lifted his arm. The envelope with the Lotto ticket wasn’t attached to his ribs anymore. The corners had been snipped off to free it from the strips of sticky tape on his skin.
He went into a state of shocked denial. Kristen couldn’t be responsible! Then, bare-chested, he hurried out to the hallway. The bathroom lacked any sign that she’d showered. He headed on to the front door and out onto the porch, staying in the cool air only long enough to check that Kristen’s car had gone from the carport.
All the time, he was hoping against hope that she’d only taken the Lotto ticket as a joke. Hadn’t she teased that she’d find a way to make sure his winnings didn’t change him for the worse? He was sure she was only pranking him. But why had she made them miss their flight to Auckland? And where was she?
Once back in the living room, he checked his desk. The airline booking documents had been removed from the printer where he’d left them. He could no longer deny the growing evidence (circumstantial and unreal as it seemed) that Kristen might by now have used his Lotto ticket to defraud him of a million dollars.
He let the thought take hold. It was as bad as if he’d just heard that she’d cheated on him. He found himself collapsing in the nearest armchair and bending forward to try and breathe more easily.
There was only one way to remove any doubt about what her intentions had been. He looked up the number of the Lotto office in Auckland and then entered it on the iPhone keypad. To the person who answered, he lied that he was a reporter from The Wellingtonian and asked if the winning Lotto prize from the Saturday night draw had been claimed yet. He was told that it had.
His first thought was, ‘What if Kristen doesn’t come back?’ The money didn’t matter. It wasn’t what was causing his heartache. It was thinking that someone he loved, and whom he thought loved him, could steal the prize that was rightfully his.
He’d never hold her in his arms again. It was as if she’d been taken away by something as final as death.
___________
Adapted from the first 4 chapters of the novel “Losers & Winners” by Thomas W Devine (available from Amazon Books)
November 18, 2023
Random Things
I first visited the enthralling Wellington Zoo as a Blenheim teenager visiting the Capital to spend an enjoyable weekend with his girlfriend. At one point, we merged in the crowd watching the chimpanzee tea party, which was then a feature of the Zoo’s attractions. Today, the show would be considered quite inappropriate.
The chimps were taken out of their enclosure into an outdoor amphitheater. They were trained to sit around a concrete table and take afternoon tea like hairy humans. Zookeepers supervised and tried to keep order. The combined antics were quite entertaining. We, however, were tired of the show before it was finished and I suggested we climb up the steep bank at the back rather than depart by the usual exit and disturb the view of other patrons.
We’d almost reached the top when now doubtless looking like two cartoon characters, we simultaneously slipped on wet grass and went tumbling back to the bottom of the slope, winding up at the back of the tea party audience.
I can’t recall what happened next, apart from our picking ourselves up and feeling horribly embarrassed. If anyone saw us tumble, we probably would have looked as amusing as the chimps.
It’s a random accident, among other random things, that I still vividly remember after sixty years.
And no, it didn’t cause my girlfriend to break up with me. Later, we married each other.
The chimps were taken out of their enclosure into an outdoor amphitheater. They were trained to sit around a concrete table and take afternoon tea like hairy humans. Zookeepers supervised and tried to keep order. The combined antics were quite entertaining. We, however, were tired of the show before it was finished and I suggested we climb up the steep bank at the back rather than depart by the usual exit and disturb the view of other patrons.
We’d almost reached the top when now doubtless looking like two cartoon characters, we simultaneously slipped on wet grass and went tumbling back to the bottom of the slope, winding up at the back of the tea party audience.
I can’t recall what happened next, apart from our picking ourselves up and feeling horribly embarrassed. If anyone saw us tumble, we probably would have looked as amusing as the chimps.
It’s a random accident, among other random things, that I still vividly remember after sixty years.
And no, it didn’t cause my girlfriend to break up with me. Later, we married each other.
September 6, 2023
7 Reasons Why: The Bucket-List
Apart from feeling I’ve left it too late to bother to make a bucket list, there are 7 reasons why I won’t make one. They are based on items I might otherwise put on such a list:
1. Work after retirement: I don’t want another job.
2. Wealth: I won’t go out of my way to make more money though I’d prefer to leave as much as I can to my children.
3. Travel: Would involve too much anxiety about whether I’d make it to the next comfort stop; while overseas travel would require the hassle of explaining to border security why I’m carrying so many different pills
4. Adventure: Except through writing thrillers, and in some of my dreams, I’ve never sought adventure.
5. Re-Marriage: My late wife would be irreplaceable, and, with seven children of my own, I don’t need step-children.
6. Health: Improving my health is a lost cause.
7. Good deeds: With the limitations of this stage of my life, doing more to help others would require stamina I no longer have.
1. Work after retirement: I don’t want another job.
2. Wealth: I won’t go out of my way to make more money though I’d prefer to leave as much as I can to my children.
3. Travel: Would involve too much anxiety about whether I’d make it to the next comfort stop; while overseas travel would require the hassle of explaining to border security why I’m carrying so many different pills
4. Adventure: Except through writing thrillers, and in some of my dreams, I’ve never sought adventure.
5. Re-Marriage: My late wife would be irreplaceable, and, with seven children of my own, I don’t need step-children.
6. Health: Improving my health is a lost cause.
7. Good deeds: With the limitations of this stage of my life, doing more to help others would require stamina I no longer have.
July 8, 2023
Cup of Tea
Andrew and Jemima were discussing plans for their next trip. Romantic partners for the last four years, and co-habiting for the past three, they did enjoy holidaying together, though usually had trouble agreeing on a joint destination or the joint activities available. Jemima mostly gave in to Andrew’s preferences.
This time, Jemima had her heart set on going somewhere that blackwater rafting was available. Andrew had heard of the activity but knew little about it.
“So, what would we actually be doing?” he asked.
“We’d be floating down underground rivers using an inflated rubber inner tube like the ones they put in car or truck tyres. You have guides along to make it safe.”
“You mean floating through caves?” Andrew looked horrified.
Jemima nodded her head. “Here at home, we could do it in Auckland, Coromandel, Waikato, or Taupo. Whichever one you prefer.”
Andrew frowned, “I’ve heard of caves flooding and people getting trapped.”
“The tour would get canceled, of course, if there was any chance of that.”
“What if it’s a flash flood from unexpected rain?”
“That doesn’t seem likely to me.”
“I still don’t fancy the risk. What’s the attraction?”
“It’s a thrilling adventure,” Jemima enthused. “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
“I prefer my adventures above-ground, where I can see where I’m going.”
“You ought to try going outside your comfort zone. Last year, remember, you wouldn’t agree to go sky-diving.”
“Floating through caves, in darkness, in a blow-up tube, sounds almost as foolhardy as leaping out of a plane with a parachute that might not open.”
Jemima looked disgusted. “You can be a stick in the mud, Andy.”
“It’s just not my cup of tea.”
“At least say a plain yes or no to trying it.”
“Alright. I say no. Let’s find something we can both enjoy in the sunshine. What about taking on a walking track in Fiordland?”
Jemima sighed. “We’ve been on walks before.”
“You enjoyed them, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But I want to do something different.”
“We’ll come up with something.” Andrew got up from the sofa. “Shall I boil the jug and make us a cup of tea while we think about it?”
Jemima gritted her teeth, restraining herself from saying anything.
This time, Jemima had her heart set on going somewhere that blackwater rafting was available. Andrew had heard of the activity but knew little about it.
“So, what would we actually be doing?” he asked.
“We’d be floating down underground rivers using an inflated rubber inner tube like the ones they put in car or truck tyres. You have guides along to make it safe.”
“You mean floating through caves?” Andrew looked horrified.
Jemima nodded her head. “Here at home, we could do it in Auckland, Coromandel, Waikato, or Taupo. Whichever one you prefer.”
Andrew frowned, “I’ve heard of caves flooding and people getting trapped.”
“The tour would get canceled, of course, if there was any chance of that.”
“What if it’s a flash flood from unexpected rain?”
“That doesn’t seem likely to me.”
“I still don’t fancy the risk. What’s the attraction?”
“It’s a thrilling adventure,” Jemima enthused. “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
“I prefer my adventures above-ground, where I can see where I’m going.”
“You ought to try going outside your comfort zone. Last year, remember, you wouldn’t agree to go sky-diving.”
“Floating through caves, in darkness, in a blow-up tube, sounds almost as foolhardy as leaping out of a plane with a parachute that might not open.”
Jemima looked disgusted. “You can be a stick in the mud, Andy.”
“It’s just not my cup of tea.”
“At least say a plain yes or no to trying it.”
“Alright. I say no. Let’s find something we can both enjoy in the sunshine. What about taking on a walking track in Fiordland?”
Jemima sighed. “We’ve been on walks before.”
“You enjoyed them, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But I want to do something different.”
“We’ll come up with something.” Andrew got up from the sofa. “Shall I boil the jug and make us a cup of tea while we think about it?”
Jemima gritted her teeth, restraining herself from saying anything.
June 22, 2023
The Unexplained
For several years, thirty-year-old Denis Cooper has lived by himself in a unit of a four-storey apartment building in the Wellington suburb of Seatoun. After making sure he had a clean handkerchief in his pocket, he left for work at the usual time that Thursday, with his customary cut lunch in his everyday satchel.
As he closed the door to his apartment, he saw two ambulance officers pulling a gurney out of another doorway down the hall. There was a woman on it, a white cover pulled up to her chin. Her head was turned partly his way. He recognised her by sight as a fellow resident but did not know her name. He nodded at her but got no response.
Processing ahead of the gurney, he reached the street outside. An ambulance stood at the kerb. He watched the woman being loaded then turned left and walked to the nearest bus stop.
It was the sort of day where you wanted to be outside but he did not have time to walk to his destination.
Cooper caught the No.2 Bus at Ludlum Street. However, rather than going all the way into the CBD, as he usually would, he alighted at the Dixon Street bus stop and strolled down to the waterfront at the Clyde Quay Boat Harbour on Oriental Bay, the base for the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club.
There, after checking his watch, and pleasantly warmed by the sunshine, he paused for a few moments leaning on a fence and viewing the boats. People strolled by him on the footpath, most at that time of the day being commuters on their way to work. One stood out; a soldier in fatigues carrying a brown mug and sipping from it as she went along. Perhaps, Cooper speculated, she was heading for her place of work, probably the Ministry of Defence headquarters.
After again checking his watch, he went down to the jetties and located a yacht which, that Thursday, was his intended endpoint. He boarded it.
Cooper was never heard of again. To this day, his disappearance is unexplained.
As he closed the door to his apartment, he saw two ambulance officers pulling a gurney out of another doorway down the hall. There was a woman on it, a white cover pulled up to her chin. Her head was turned partly his way. He recognised her by sight as a fellow resident but did not know her name. He nodded at her but got no response.
Processing ahead of the gurney, he reached the street outside. An ambulance stood at the kerb. He watched the woman being loaded then turned left and walked to the nearest bus stop.
It was the sort of day where you wanted to be outside but he did not have time to walk to his destination.
Cooper caught the No.2 Bus at Ludlum Street. However, rather than going all the way into the CBD, as he usually would, he alighted at the Dixon Street bus stop and strolled down to the waterfront at the Clyde Quay Boat Harbour on Oriental Bay, the base for the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club.
There, after checking his watch, and pleasantly warmed by the sunshine, he paused for a few moments leaning on a fence and viewing the boats. People strolled by him on the footpath, most at that time of the day being commuters on their way to work. One stood out; a soldier in fatigues carrying a brown mug and sipping from it as she went along. Perhaps, Cooper speculated, she was heading for her place of work, probably the Ministry of Defence headquarters.
After again checking his watch, he went down to the jetties and located a yacht which, that Thursday, was his intended endpoint. He boarded it.
Cooper was never heard of again. To this day, his disappearance is unexplained.
May 17, 2023
FIRST MEETING
Sam first met his future bride, June, at the time of the wedding of his uncle to June’s aunt. He had, however, for over a year, been corresponding with June as a pen-friend (introduced by her aunt).
They were both eighteen years old when he saw June at her aunt’s flat in Nelson. It was in the evening, two days before the wedding. June had traveled down from Hastings (with other family guests) to be one of the bridesmaids.
Sam arrived for that first meeting straight after fencing practice and was still dressed in his fencing outfit. He found out afterward that June had considered it made him look very dashing.
Sam discovered that June had a mystery tattoo on her wrist. It was of a saying in Elvish. She was, however, unwilling to reveal its significance or to translate it into English for him. He found that intriguing.
In the next twenty-four hours, after first handhold and first kiss, romantic love bloomed - not as curious as love at first sight, perhaps, but pretty wonderful for both of them. Perhaps it was an irresistible genetic attraction, with his uncle and June’s aunt already in love. Though June did admit, much later, that by the time they first met she had fallen "a little" in love with Sam through his letters.
Before June came along, he had only had two, short-lived, face-to-face relationships with girls and did not regard himself as a prize catch. He continued living in Nelson after June returned home and even prepared himself for eventual disappointment over his new relationship, but they kept writing to each other, though romantically now.
Such correspondence with a girl was not unfamiliar to Sam, his having already developed a reciprocated crush on pen friends from Finland and Cook Island without meeting either of them.
In June’s case, however, the continued letters, and later meetings, led to their marrying each other after twelve months, to their producing children over the years that followed, and to their living together into old age. June died first and Sam, still deeply in love with her, six months later.
They were both eighteen years old when he saw June at her aunt’s flat in Nelson. It was in the evening, two days before the wedding. June had traveled down from Hastings (with other family guests) to be one of the bridesmaids.
Sam arrived for that first meeting straight after fencing practice and was still dressed in his fencing outfit. He found out afterward that June had considered it made him look very dashing.
Sam discovered that June had a mystery tattoo on her wrist. It was of a saying in Elvish. She was, however, unwilling to reveal its significance or to translate it into English for him. He found that intriguing.
In the next twenty-four hours, after first handhold and first kiss, romantic love bloomed - not as curious as love at first sight, perhaps, but pretty wonderful for both of them. Perhaps it was an irresistible genetic attraction, with his uncle and June’s aunt already in love. Though June did admit, much later, that by the time they first met she had fallen "a little" in love with Sam through his letters.
Before June came along, he had only had two, short-lived, face-to-face relationships with girls and did not regard himself as a prize catch. He continued living in Nelson after June returned home and even prepared himself for eventual disappointment over his new relationship, but they kept writing to each other, though romantically now.
Such correspondence with a girl was not unfamiliar to Sam, his having already developed a reciprocated crush on pen friends from Finland and Cook Island without meeting either of them.
In June’s case, however, the continued letters, and later meetings, led to their marrying each other after twelve months, to their producing children over the years that followed, and to their living together into old age. June died first and Sam, still deeply in love with her, six months later.
November 13, 2022
SPRING
The weather forecast for the day had suited Syd for a trip into the outdoors. He strode along the track with a spring in his step.
Sunlight, filtered by the tree tops, shimmered around him. He was in a temperate rainforest, his nose filled with the prevailing odour of decaying vegetation on the wet forest floor. Birdcalls enchanted his ears, and the noise of cicadas played a background orchestra to their singing.
He heard mountain bikers coming towards him, on the track, before he saw them and moved over to the edge so that he could let them pass. Not that he liked sharing his space with people who didn’t prefer to walk.
There were three cyclists who, as they passed, acknowledged his courtesy.
Just as he was about to step back on the path the earth suddenly gave way under his feet. He fell backward. The initial contact with the ground (flat on his back) was shock enough even if he hadn’t immediately started rolling downhill. On a steep slope, he went through and over slippery undergrowth. At any minute, he expected to smash into the trunk of a tree. By good fortune, he avoided that but went over the edge of an even steeper bank. It was not high but ended on rocks beside the bed of a stream. One of his legs and one arm took the impact. The pain was the worst he had ever felt in his life. He blacked out.
“Sorry to take so long, Syd,” he heard the voice of his walking companion, Harry.
Syd pried open his eyelids but only as far as he could while wincing in agony. He stared at his friend and tried to speak but could only groan.
“It took me almost ten minutes to work my way down the slope safely.” Now that he had arrived, Harry did not seem to know what more to do. “The mountain bikers kept riding. I guess they didn’t know you’d fallen. I was too slow in realizing they could have helped, and they were out of sight before I thought of it.”
‘Damn old fool,’ Syd thought to himself, despite his pain. ‘Ten minutes to climb down a slope that only took me half a minute to roll down. We’re both too old for this sort of thing.’
“Where are you hurt?” Harry wanted to know.
“Can you get up? I can help you. It looks pretty uncomfortable on the rocks.”
“Don’t,” Syd warned. “I’m pretty sure my arm and my leg are broken. I don’t want to move.”
“Shit,” Harry exclaimed.
“Use your cellphone and call emergency.”
Harry seemed to agree that was a good idea. Meanwhile, Syd tried to make his injured leg more comfortable. He blacked out again.
Later, he was half aware of being sedated for pain, of being in a helicopter, and of it landing on the roof of the hospital. He was aching all over, on top of the agony in his broken bones, but was subjected to ex-rays and scans before being pronounced to have been lucky, at his age, to have no injuries other than the two he had diagnosed himself.
For several weeks Syd was on crutches. Not so easy with a broken arm, but soon after the plaster was cut off he was out in the countryside again. This time there was not so much spring in his step.
Sunlight, filtered by the tree tops, shimmered around him. He was in a temperate rainforest, his nose filled with the prevailing odour of decaying vegetation on the wet forest floor. Birdcalls enchanted his ears, and the noise of cicadas played a background orchestra to their singing.
He heard mountain bikers coming towards him, on the track, before he saw them and moved over to the edge so that he could let them pass. Not that he liked sharing his space with people who didn’t prefer to walk.
There were three cyclists who, as they passed, acknowledged his courtesy.
Just as he was about to step back on the path the earth suddenly gave way under his feet. He fell backward. The initial contact with the ground (flat on his back) was shock enough even if he hadn’t immediately started rolling downhill. On a steep slope, he went through and over slippery undergrowth. At any minute, he expected to smash into the trunk of a tree. By good fortune, he avoided that but went over the edge of an even steeper bank. It was not high but ended on rocks beside the bed of a stream. One of his legs and one arm took the impact. The pain was the worst he had ever felt in his life. He blacked out.
“Sorry to take so long, Syd,” he heard the voice of his walking companion, Harry.
Syd pried open his eyelids but only as far as he could while wincing in agony. He stared at his friend and tried to speak but could only groan.
“It took me almost ten minutes to work my way down the slope safely.” Now that he had arrived, Harry did not seem to know what more to do. “The mountain bikers kept riding. I guess they didn’t know you’d fallen. I was too slow in realizing they could have helped, and they were out of sight before I thought of it.”
‘Damn old fool,’ Syd thought to himself, despite his pain. ‘Ten minutes to climb down a slope that only took me half a minute to roll down. We’re both too old for this sort of thing.’
“Where are you hurt?” Harry wanted to know.
“Can you get up? I can help you. It looks pretty uncomfortable on the rocks.”
“Don’t,” Syd warned. “I’m pretty sure my arm and my leg are broken. I don’t want to move.”
“Shit,” Harry exclaimed.
“Use your cellphone and call emergency.”
Harry seemed to agree that was a good idea. Meanwhile, Syd tried to make his injured leg more comfortable. He blacked out again.
Later, he was half aware of being sedated for pain, of being in a helicopter, and of it landing on the roof of the hospital. He was aching all over, on top of the agony in his broken bones, but was subjected to ex-rays and scans before being pronounced to have been lucky, at his age, to have no injuries other than the two he had diagnosed himself.
For several weeks Syd was on crutches. Not so easy with a broken arm, but soon after the plaster was cut off he was out in the countryside again. This time there was not so much spring in his step.
