Life's What You Make It Page 7

  Cockle Bay wasn’t the romantic perfection that we had expected and the motel was as basic as motels are built to be. We were in sprawling suburbia. It wasn’t what I wanted and it wasn’t the Cornwall that my parents loved. I know that’s unreasonable and unfair, but we were very tired, very alone, and I could see in my mum’s eyes that she was thinking that this was the biggest mistake she had ever made. Over the years, my folks had moved a number of times, buying or building houses and then moving on. A guest house and a cottage built from scratch were just a couple of their impressive achievements. I could tell that, for Mum, this time my dad may have asked too much. The family mood in the motel that night was extremely low.

  I needed a cigarette. I’m not proud of the fact that at the time I was smoking again, not many a day, but certainly more than none. I tried to be respectful and never smoked in front of my parents, not that they would let me. In my childhood, my dad smoked half a cigarette a day. He would light a new one, smoke half of it then put it out and leave it in the ashtray for the next evening. He called the unfinished portion his ‘dimp’. Other than the occasional relaxing spark-up when he was fishing, he hardly touched them, and they both deeply disapproved of me smoking. Back in the bedsit, in London, when my parents had come to stay for the weekend, I would excuse myself from my room and go to the loo for a crafty smoke. There were two toilets separated by a wall and their windows were very close to each other. After each puff, I would put the hand holding my fag out of the window. Dad knew what I was up to, so he would go into the loo next door, put his arm out of that window and pluck the cigarette from between my fingers. I would feel it go but had no idea what had happened. One minute it was there, the next it was gone. Had I dropped it? Was it stolen by a bird? Only when I rejoined them and they were all laughing did the penny – or cigarette – drop.

  Back in Cockle Bay, Dad read the mood and said he was just popping up to the petrol station. When he returned, he tossed a packet of Peter Stuyvesant into my lap. Without a word, we both went outside and smoked together in silence.

  A couple of days later we took the bus into Auckland city centre. I think they thought that a sniff round the city might perk me up. We got off the bus on Queen Street and it looked promising. At the end where we stood, the sea was at our backs; out in the bay was Rangitoto, a volcano cone, where, sometime in the future, I would get marooned with a member of Hot Gossip, an all-girl, raunchy British dance group started by Arlene Phillips and made famous by Kenny Everett.

  The waterfront was interesting, the ferry buildings full of boats and cafés. Queen Street stretched out in front of us and we started to walk. It mostly housed banks, but there were shops and bars, too. My folks said that there was no need for me to stick with them – why didn’t I set off on my own and explore? They would meet me back at a coffee shop in an hour and I should try not to get lost. I set off up the central street. It was quiet, but felt like a city, so I was happier. I looked up Shortland Street (which would soon become a very important street to me): not much up there, so I carried on walking up the main street then branched off up Victoria Street, a large side-street. There was nothing much up there, either; then, the city ran out. I walked back and tried Hobson Street. The same. I tried every side-street and, again, there was nothing more. Twenty minutes later I was back at the coffee shop.

  ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘This is it! This is all there is, it’s just one street!’

  Eventually, we moved into 15 Alexander Street, in Howick, one of Auckland’s eastern suburbs, close to Cockle Bay. It was a Neighbours-style house, with a garage underneath and steps up to the front door and a sloping driveway to the road with a postbox at the end. Many houses in the suburbs had a ‘quarter-acre plot’ – in other words, a pretty big garden – and ours was one of them. I found our garden fascinating. Orange and lemon trees drooping with heavy, ripe fruit; there was a vegetable patch and, at the back of the garden, a huge kiwi-fruit bush that was so big you could crawl right into the middle of it. Tim and I would walk to the end of the garden with a knife and two teaspoons, sit inside the bush, reach up and pluck the fruit from the branches, cut them in half and scoop out the flesh, the green juice dripping down our chins. There were also Feijoa trees. I’d never seen them before, but their fruit is a bit like a bald kiwi and eaten the same way, but they have pale, fragrant pulp. I loved them. So much so I’ve tried to grow them over the years. I get the red flowers, but not one has ever borne fruit. For my Christmas present this year my brother found an importer and bought twenty of the fruit for me. I would imagine that those days back in that garden were probably the times when I was most full of vitamins.

  Tim and I far from home.

  One morning, Tim and I decided that a rotten branch of one of the orange trees needed to be sawn off. We positioned ourselves on either end of the saw, and it came off easily, revealing a hole in the centre of the stub left on the tree. We both looked in growing terror as two large flicking antennae appeared out of the hole. They grew longer and longer and we started to back away. After a few moments of ever-increasing antennae length, the biggest, ugliest insect we’d ever set eyes on slowly emerged from the tree. Our screams brought out the neighbours, who watched as our legs ran, but, like in cartoon characters, wouldn’t gain the traction needed to move us. We fought each other to get away, both yelling, ‘Monster in the garden!’

  We sprinted away and almost knocked the fly-screen door off its hinges as we skidded into the kitchen, both gabbling about what we’d seen to Mum. There was a knock, and in came Harold, our neighbour, to explain what we’d seen. It turned out to be a weta. Google it!! You’ll discover that it’s native to New Zealand, a sort of flightless cricket and one of the heaviest insects in the world, and it’s a big, scary-assed four-inch monster of a thing when it climbs out of a hole in a fecking tree.

  I was later told by a friend that one morning she took her snorkelling gear out of the garage to go crabbing. When she got in the water, she put on her goggles and snorkel and launched herself into the sea. She’d gone about ten feet when she felt a tickling sensation on her tongue. Confused, she started to tread water as she removed the mouthpiece. Out of the pipe which moments before had been in her mouth crawled a weta. It will come as no surprise that, from that day, she always checked her kit.

  With the next-door Schofields.

  Our neighbours were, coincidentally, also called Schofield. A couple from Yorkshire, Harold and Doreen, they had two daughters: Sally, at twelve, the same age as Tim, and Catherine, nineteen, the same age as me. They were an absolutely delightful and fun family who couldn’t have been more welcoming when we arrived. I used to ride into Auckland with Catherine, and we’d share a Milky Bar. She was bright, funny and very sporty. One day she found a lump on her leg, and when she told her mum they decided to get it checked out. Only months later, the cancer that it turned out to be took her young life. I have never seen anyone go through such a terrible ordeal with such calm dignity as her and her family. We all said at her funeral that, if you have to go, go with the resolution and style that Catherine did. Catherine was the second friend I lost.

  The first was in Newquay. I won’t name my two schoolfriends, but they married and had two lovely children. She became dangerously depressed. At that time in the eighties, there was very little care available and depression was deeply misunderstood and poorly treated. One day she went missing, leaving her two very young daughters at home with her husband. Shortly afterwards, my friend got ‘the knock’. Two policemen came into his sitting room, and one of them threw a bag on to the coffee table. My friend looked inside. It was full of her rings. ‘They your wife’s?’ said the copper, ‘Yes,’ said my friend. And that was how he was told that his wife had thrown herself from a very high rockface and was dead. I couldn’t understand then how a loving parent could ever be in such a dark place that the only way out was the one she took. I came to develop a far clearer understanding much later in my life.

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sp; Dad had settled into his job at Goode Industries in high spirits, even though the skilled craftsman was now making television cabinets. My brother started school. In a wily move and to avoid any ‘new Pom in town’ teasing, he made friends with the biggest Maori schoolkid we’d ever seen. It was hilarious to see them side by side, little Tim and a combine-harvester-sized guy. He was a gentle giant, but not to be messed with, so Tim was protected.

  Mum and I were struggling, though. We were both still hopelessly homesick and just couldn’t settle. Mum was heard to complain that even the stars were different.

  On the day I left the bedsit, Eddie had asked me to send him my number when we finally got a phone connected. When the phone was installed, I wrote to him and told him what the number was. A few weeks later, on a Saturday night as we all watched TV, the phone rang. It was Eddie. I was thrilled to hear his voice, and we chatted for a while, telling each other our news, and then:

  ‘How are you all?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Struggling a bit, if I’m honest,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I told you I’d look after you.’

  ‘Er … okay.’

  ‘Who would you like to talk to? I can put you through to whoever you like, and you can talk for as long as you like, no charge.’

  ‘What?!!’

  And so it was. I’m not sure what Eddie actually did, but he had ‘access’ to something. In those days, with no internet, mobiles or FaceTime, the only way to contact family, other than extreme snail-mail, was to phone internationally, and it was fiendishly expensive; for us, prohibitively so. Wonderful Eddie saved us all. Each week he would call on a Saturday evening and connect us to people back home. Mum could talk to her sister Diane, who she missed painfully; we could all talk to family or friends for as long as we liked, for free. We never took the piss – none of the calls were longer than thirty minutes – but it was the most incredible lifeline and I think it saved Mum’s sanity. Eddie is no longer with us. If he had been, I wouldn’t have told the story, because I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble at work. (Sorry, BT.)

  I’d been applying for jobs on the radio. Auckland was rich in stations, and 1ZB, 1ZM and Radio Hauraki were the ones I liked and wrote to first. I didn’t exactly lie; I was just a little light on the truth. Yes, I had worked at the BBC, I just didn’t say I was a bookings clerk. They all invited me in and asked me to audition. I was pleased that they all seemed to like what I did, but they all had the same issue.

  ‘I’m afraid you sound a bit English, mate.’

  Of course! It had never crossed my mind that my accent would be an issue. I wrote to other stations – even to the ones I didn’t like! The response was comprehensively the same. I was screwed. I had no idea what to do or where to go next. My mood plummeted and I moped about the house and garden, deep in thought. It was painfully obvious that I’d have to go back to London. I felt completely torn and lay in bed agonizing over the decision night after night, staring at the ceiling. Could I leave my family in New Zealand? How long could I hold out before I had to admit that my dream job had eluded me? Could I honestly travel back on my own with no money, no prospect of a job? Where would I live? Round and round the loop went in my head.

  My folks knew that I was struggling. How could they get me to stay? Apparently, as they lay in bed one evening worrying about me, they hit upon an idea that just might at least stall my departure. The next morning, they pitched the idea:

  ‘We’re thinking of putting a swimming pool in the back garden.’

  Clever move – almost sneaky, you could say. It was an idea that was met with a very positive response. The days were long and sunny, I was learning how to barbecue, taught by Harold next door, and a pool would be amazing. And so, we got one. Don’t jump to the conclusion that it was a sunken pool with a shallow and a deep end, or that it might be tiled in blue and have a diving board. Nope, this was a much simpler affair, comprising a circular metal frame about five feet deep with a plastic liner. Dad built some steps so we could get in, and a small wooden platform. It was perfect. We were never out of it and it did the trick. It delayed my departure, which was very lucky, because I was soon to be shown a life-changing newspaper advertisement. I’ve thought a lot about those anguished nights. Could I have left my family? No chance.

  We were approaching our first Christmas, the sun was blazing, the giant pohutukawa tree on the front lawn had exploded with red flowers, the pool was cool and welcoming, and yes, still the shops were full of Christmas cards with pictures of robins and snow. We never did understand that one.

  Mum was about to make a critical error. Still hankering after the festive seasons of old in Cornwall, she had decided that we were not going to change our traditions, we would have a full Christmas lunch with all the trimmings.

  Christmas Day dawned bright and clear and preparations began in the kitchen. As the jobs were handed out, the thermometer began to rise. As the temperature climbed outside, so did the temperature in our small kitchen. Four people all bumping into each other, the oven roaring, gas rings blazing, pots bubbling. I’m not exactly sure when it began to go wrong. It was becoming clear that Mum was getting fraught. My mother doesn’t have a quick temper, it takes a while for her to blow, but when she does it’s usually pretty nuclear. Any time in my childhood that she decided to take out the sewing machine, the three male members of the family would literally run and hide. Without doubt, every single time she turned it on it was inevitable that it wouldn’t do what she wanted and that the air would turn a deep shade of purple.

  ‘Mum’s just taken out the sewing machine, boys,’ Dad would say. ‘Go now!’

  The sight of him scurrying to the garage just made me smile. I will also admit to provoking Mum occasionally, which was deeply unwise. We both have the same temperament, and neither of us will back down. Where my dad and Tim were endlessly calm and placid, Mum and I were both very much fire signs. One day, after school and in the kitchen in Newquay, I wound her up so much she threw a mug at me. It missed by inches and took a huge chunk out of the wall. Fiery temper; thankfully, a rubbish shot. I hasten to add that all this was a long time ago. Life is much calmer these days, and my eighty-four-year-old mum is my wise rock.

  The air in that sweltering, cramped kitchen in Auckland was beginning to change. It was ninety degrees outside and the beads of perspiration were showing on Mum’s brow. We could sense the change. As the chirping of the cicadas scraped lazily across the lawn, the sound of pans being slammed got louder. The pressure was building. Steadily, she moved from red to purple, like the pressure gauge on a malfunctioning reactor. One wrong move and we knew it would be carnage. Things were beginning to boil over, to burn. Her limit was about to be exceeded. Just … one … wrong … word.

  I don’t know who accidentally pressed the detonate button (I suspect it was probably me), but bang! She went off with spectacular fury. This woman, who desperately wanted only to maintain a thread of connection to the tradition of our old lives back home, had had enough. We heard the yell of her reaching breaking point before we felt the wave of heat that announced she was in meltdown. In slow motion we all turned, saw what was happening and ran for cover. She picked up every single boiling pot and pan, burst out of the fly-screen door and threw them up the garden. Every potato, Brussels sprout and parsnip flew out of the door. The turkey in its roasting tray followed and the pigs flew from their blankets, joined moments later by the arching flight of the stuffing. If it had been remotely funny at the time, we might have smiled that the final addition to Christmas lunch on the grass was the gravy, but this was no time for a grin or a smart-arsed comment. We all stood silently, watching her and looking at the grass. There was a profound silence, broken only by the continuing chirp of the cicadas, although even they had briefly paused.

  ‘Right then, that’s that,’ she said to no one in particular. Then we went next door to join the other Schofields for a barbecue.

  I had decided I should learn to drive. I’d had a few lessons w
ith Dad when I was younger (and scared him witless) and I’d also had two lessons in North London, but our departure had put a stop to those. It was time to pick up where I had left off, and it would be a further distraction. I mentioned earlier that Jim, who had so kindly picked us up when we arrived in New Zealand, ran a driving school, so I called him. Of course, he’d be more than happy to take me on, so my lessons started. Thankfully, Kiwis drive on the same side of the road as the UK, so that was a blessing. I did well, but was prone to distraction. Ten lessons in, Jim concluded that I was ready for my test.

  ‘You have to take your test at five o’clock on 30 December,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, but why then?’

  ‘Because you won’t fail,’ was his reply.

  New Zealand was policed by two separate teams. The police handled crime and drove calm-looking blue-and-white cars with blue lights and wore ‘policey’-type uniforms. The traffic cops were in charge of the roads, speeding, accidents and the like, and they drove black-and-white cars with red lights and wore Chips-style uniforms made up of sunglasses and leather jackboots. They were scary. The driving test was conducted by the traffic cops, so Jim parked up outside their headquarters at 4.50 p.m. on 30 December. It soon became clear why he had been so specific about this particular time. He walked to the back of his car, opened the boot and lifted out a huge hamper. My allocated cop sauntered menacingly through the front doors of the HQ and walked in his creaking leather jackboots towards us.

  ‘G’day, Jim,’ said the cop.

  ‘How ya goin’, mate?’ said Jim.

  Jim then proceeded to hand him the hamper, which the cop carefully carried inside. When he emerged, he creaked back to the car. Jim went for a coffee in HQ and I slid into the driver’s seat.

  I went a little too fast on occasion, I forgot to indicate, I should definitely have checked my mirrors more and my three-point turn was a clumsy eight-point turn. Dammit, I knew I’d messed it up.