Jay to Bee

by Janet Frame

  Stars and many question marks.

  I missed hearing Hindemith’s The Perpetual (lovely title) which was broadcast here from Italian radio.

  More stars. More question marks.

  Yesterday I had my first visitor since old grandad Baxter’s funeral. It was the young womanb (mid thirties) whose picture I showed you B and P, at home with her children and the calf. I have met her only once before but she was in Dunedin for a few days having a vacation to ‘recover’ from the death of her little boy, aged two. She sold her novel to the movies and it’s being made in California somewhere and when everybody else has whittled off his or her share she will be paid six thousand dollars. Not much really, but it will enable her to buy a house as she and the man whose two children she has are separating. Her other little boy is five. I invited her to lunch and she stayed four hours but it wasn’t so bad because the sun shone and we sat outside in the sun, and Lucas in his new role of being a cat-about-town completely ignored her after the first sniff. When she had gone, however, he smelt all over the chair she had sat in, carefully inspected the whole house to make sure she was not concealed anywhere, and when he was satisfied, he behaved as I’ve come to expect him to behave—he just went crazy with delight or relief or something, just rushing up and down and in and out carrying pieces of paper here and there and hiding them in the toes of my shoes.

  Jean Watson

  Hot, cold, rare, common, impure, sweet sour love & always-thought

  toBPNfromJ

  OCTOBER

  109. Dunedin October Sunday Morgen

  Dear Bee Pee Enn Eff piano and plant and all,

  piano and plant and all.

  (Space for illustration of peedauntalled singer; the tune: Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce lend me your grey mare.)

  As I write this you’ll be returning from the Santa Fe Trail. Refreshed, ‘tired but happy’ (as we used to write, falsely, at the end of our school essays). Are the fires finished? Will all the mountain lions be dead? And the rattlesnakes that were waiting for me to tame them or be tamed by them? It’s hard to imagine the Californian fires—well no it’s not, but it’s hard to imagine anyone getting out alive from a burning canyon. We have occasional forest fires here, but nothing, I think on the scale of Australia. Australia, like U.S.A., is a continent where fire (not ice) and sun happen on a big scale. We were having ice while you had fire. A rare blizzard raged through Central Otago, killing the lambs and the young apricots, apples, peaches, and everything that gives a livelihood to the people of ‘Central’, (as we say). (I had an aunt who used to talk, it seemed to me, all the time of ‘going up Central’ and I used to think it was a ladder she climbed and I used to imagine her climbing it every time she said, I’m going up Central this weekend.

  I loved the photo of the kittens in their Fragile Phonograph Records Box—much classier than Lucas’ Bushells Instant Coffee home. They’re very chubby. Lucas (my only comparison) is very thin and long (he probably has worms!) but he’s now getting the characteristically round tomcat head. He’s out gallivanting with cat next door at the moment. I wish I could persuade him, though, that he doesn’t have to have an indoor toilet. He interrupts his play to come inside to use his pan! He must have been boasting about it to cat next door because cat next door came in and used it too! (‘My house has all mod cons you know. No peeing in the garden for me!’)

  The Hamlet piece is a scream, both the touched-up photos and the additions and deletions in the incredibly inane text. I love your sense of fun and I love having a share of it over the vasty deepy Pacific. We have such inane reporting here but much of it is devoted to the Queen and her brood. The Horse Races, being more important here than the theatre, do get the treatment though. I can’t speak for the Underfoot World (I liked that).

  Until the end of September Jo was staying with Joan Colebrook in Truro Mass 02666. She said she had taken a room in Provincetown where, presumably, she was writing, but that she had MacDowell for October and November, if she wanted it, and she was thinking of accepting. Otherwise I don’t know where she is. Mark will be at Salem, she said. So, B, you might get to visit MacDowell in the Fall after all and renew acquaintance with Mrs Crocket and Rural Violence. When is your mother’s birthday and when are you going to Chicago? Will you wear your black cap to go East? The East is on fire too at this time—I remember the incredible maple-light I lived in.

  I keep thinking of the fires. When I reread your letter, B, ‘Malibu is still burning after three days’ I get the feeling we’re in the Middle Ages and a runner has delivered your letter from the Land of the Plague. I find in Pepys, ‘as far as we could see up the hill of the city, a most horrible malicious bloody flame, not like the fine flame of an ordinary fire. We saw the fire as only one entire arch of fire from this to the other side of the bridge, and in a bow up the hill for an arch of above a mile long; it made me weep to see it.’

  But—It is something that, secretly, we desire.

  Paul, you’ll have started teaching by the time you read this. How is it? How often do you go? I hope it isn’t too bad.

  Did I tell you that I have decided to be ‘loyal’ to my old United Kingdom publisher and so have rejected the advances of Macmillan, a bigger firm who does print and publish finer books than my publisher W.H.Allen who churns out royal family sagas of the What-the-Butler-wanted-to-see type? As Macmillan are interested, however, I can always bear them in mind. I have dispensed with my agents now and at the moment have none until I may find one which does not send me enormous accounts for books they buy.

  Jo, in her letter, said something about a show. B? of P.? Or both? If so, you have my sympathy—you have it anyway—and good wishes—you have more than that, both of you, and I’m pining away for you. Pine pine.

  I plan to come to the United States, anyway, maybe next February, or sooner, and even if I and my fifty mountain lions and three rattlesnakes in assorted hatboxes can’t move in (don’t panic) I’ll see you, at least?

  In the meantime it is marvellous of you to sustain me with shares of you in letter and thought (both arrive here)—I found a bottle of thought floating in the harbour and it distinctly said, Thought from 131 Hermosillo Drive California. There was no poison label! It said, instead, Drink Me. And I did. And that is why I am full of sustenance until I see you. I am homesick for the most curious things—well I’ll say goodbye now and send this letter and love-in-a-bottle stickily flavoured fizzy with preservative (a new kind that does not destroy as it preserves).

  110. Dunedin October 5

  Dear B,

  I’ve just had your letter full of news of your wonderful Santa Fe journey and all the enticements of being there and the grimness of California. What will you do? Where will you go? I’d stay in New Zealand if I knew you and Paul were here, but our nasty government won’t let American cats in, and now that you and Paul know how to purr, perhaps you won’t be let in either. It would be too expensive for you to make a quick visit to see what it’s like here. (I think about 1300 dollars economy return now, though an excursion fare of less than a month’s stay would be about 600 or 700 dollars.) My house is at your disposal anytime. Do you still think there would be an ironing-room for me in your living quarters? I don’t think I’d go for a long stay in America if I thought you and Paul were away some other place, Mongolia or the Moon.

  (Pause while I talk on the phone to the young French lecturer who is going back to France next month and is coming up to see me tomorrow afternoon. I shall record her reading of some of Rilke’s French poems—if I have the courage to ask her.)

  To return to where what etc. I’m pretty homesick for a sight of my live oaks. Will you be at home in February? That’s more or less when I’m planning to visit U.S.

  (Pause to answer the phone. I never have phone calls in this way, usually. This time it is an invitation to dinner next Friday evening at the home of Wanda and David Hall. He is a retired University lecturer and critic. She had a rather sad life as the daughter of the German professo
r at Wellington who was so persecuted during the War, for being a German, and dismissed from the University. Civil Liberties Union etc. had a long struggle to get him reinstated. It’s one of the nasty blots on N.Z. history. Many German people in New Zealand, through both wars, changed their names or anglicised them. Charles Brasch’s father and brothera became Brash but Charles refused to change. I suppose I shall go to dinner. Oh I do wish I could see you and Paul, and Ned, and hear you playing the piano once more. Is it a dream?)

  Brasch did not have a brother but a sister, Lesley (1911-1939)

  To return to where what etc. Yes, I’m planning to visit next February, flying from Auckland to L.A. I’m accepting Sue Marquand’s help (confidential but not on her instructions) for a limited time but I shall not need it for many months. She’s also offered me a New York apartment—a nice little homey walkup in 53rd Street East Side where her father, a publisher, lived when he was alive. The shelves are lined with his books. I mention this because I don’t want you and Paul to panic at the thought of my arriving and staying and staying and staying at your place, though this is what I’d love to do. I believe in facing practical situations, though.

  Lucas agrees with me. He now owns three rooms of this house while I own my study and the only reason he has not taken it over is that it was here he first met the Vacuum Cleaner Monster and he’s never forgotten it and he displays like a white peacock whenever he enters. He agrees that I am being very reasonable and practical in accepting my one room and leaving him to his devices in the rest of the house. His collection of envelopes, letters, assorted knitting wools, clothes pegs, table-tennis balls (2) now occupies the whole of the sittingroom floor! He said this morning as he left via the window to play with the cat next door that both he and I are living in peaceful coexistence. If I sometimes get the thought that he’s quite a cat now and won’t want all these toys to play with when he’s got real cats he becomes very fierce and possessive.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ he says. ‘It’s the dream that matters.’

  (Which is much what Ned, curled on the washer-dryer, or making a long cat on the washer-dryer, has in mind.)

  I’m looking forward to Paul’s watercolour and Joan Tanner’s drawing. I wonder where the letter is that started in Paul’s left foot? I should think it has stopped in its circulation after this past week of teaching following on the wonderful world of Santa Fe. I’ve been allaying my homesick condition by playing my records and my tapes. ‘Good evening world, this is Splash Down Day. . .’ ‘Typic heres, foretold locations . . .’

  My tape is slow slow slow in making. The last I made was a record of Madame Nijinsky speaking. If I recall rightly I now have Virgil Thomson rubbing ? with Madame Nijinsky and Klemperer and soon, tomorrow, I’ll have Dominique Sion (the French Lecturer). With maybe a dash of Frame Clutha.

  You might get to visit MacDowell and play the library piano, Bill?

  I hope your visit East is not too exhausting. Parents are so terrifyingly unique and the bondage both ways is like the magical weaving performed in folk tales: it doesn’t exist but it does exist. When I was grown up, whenever I saw my parents after an absence, I felt struck powerless at first. I suppose they did not live long enough for me to adopt gradually the role of being their parent—which is what happens, doesn’t it? There’s always the instant though when one is struck down by the sheer accumulation of memories.

  Well, don’t I think I sound Miss Wise-Cat? And I can’t even purr, as you and Paul can. It would save so much bother if I could purr and if I had furr.

  I hope Jo is finding it O.K. at MacDowell. I know where to write to her now.

  Repeat: If you come to live in New Zealand I’ll stay here. The Schools of Art employ teachers, painters, but as there are fewer people here there are fewer people who care about painting. The number is increasing though and we’re now raising an interesting generation of sons and daughters of immigrants who are alive and talented and it is from them, I think, that we’ll get our great painter, writer, etc. End of repeat.

  Remark from Lucas. ‘Where is this Jay I hear about? I know only a purring-post, scratching-post, eating-post, a piece of furniture moving around and sometimes murmuring and setting me a great puzzle about which end I’m to address myself—the feet that move level with me or the fuzzy part where the voice emerges (I mean the head, silly). I know no Jay. I know only smell and texture and when I grow up to be a painter I’m going to be the pioneer of smaintings (paintings with smell incorporated.)

  End of remark from Lucas.

  Now so much from J and homesickness and good wishes for B and P’s work and play and sleep and dream and thought and everything from

  Lucas’ purring-post, alias Blue Jay.

  111. Dunedin October 5

  Dear Ned,

  I’ve just been writing a short story called A Stair of One’s Own, and in the midst of writing it I put paw to typewriter key to say hello to you and your two big cool cattable cats. It’s a wonderfully smelly day today and the sun is out and an invisible wind is blowing. I was up early as usual and dashed around on my chairs and up and down in the rooms which did not have the door closed. I have a basket where I have collected an assortment of things. I love screwed-up (!) envelopes which I carry with me. I also have a spoon and a handkerchief and a cotton-reel (spool is your word, Ned, isn’t it?) I spend most of my day carrying envelopes from here to there. The other day when Cat Jay was writing to you I tried to creep inside the envelope for her to mail me. Oh. Went down the stairs today to scare away a cat three times my size. Not half as handsome either. Found some clover and a twig and watched the clouds in the sky but didn’t have the confidence to climb up to them and chase after them. Two birds perched on the next door roof and hurled insults at me. Went back up the stairs then (my stairs) to see if everything was O.K. in the house. Big ginger Cat J was reading a book and didn’t that make me jealous! Every time I see her with a book I climb on her lap and try to knock the book away and I’m not satisfied until she has put it down and turned her attention to me. These crazy books! whole shelves of them. I knocked over the Guide to London yesterday and I tried to do the same with the telephone. And in J’s study I get into the waste-paper basket and carry off pieces of manuscript to add to my hoard. She tells me I’m more like a dog than a cat, the way I chew everything and carry things away.

  I’m still going to be a writer when I grow up—that’s why I’ve been writing this story about my stair. Do you have a stair? It’s an absolute necessity. A patio does just as well, of course and I hear you’ve got a nice patio, with petunias and geraniums and an olive tree and a live oak and a bird of paradise flower and ferns and butterflies and peanut butterflies and Old Smoky. Are your sleeping quarters O.K.?

  I’m only a very little kitten and big Cat J told me that you are much older than I and she told me that if I wrote to you I was to be very polite and call you Uncle and not ask personal questions. She said you learned photographic modelling when you were very young and have had an exciting career and are terribly handsome but that your health has not been the best lately. I hope you are feeling better now and are taking your medicine.

  Must go now. J wants the typewriter. I’ll just have time to slip this sheet out before she comes to the study and she’ll never dream I’ve been here.

  Much love to a distant uncle and his two cats from your ever affectionate

  Lucas Burch

  P.S.How is Frederika ha ha

  P.P.S.Have you ever explored and tasted John Milton’s binding? Delicious.

  112. Dunedin October

  Poem for Paul

  Colour. Lay on the c. Daub. Scumble.

  Paint. You check-shirted conjuror to put

  a man in sunlight in a canyon, safe

  there, and within an orange tube flying sky-high

  to me as a kinda fulfilled wish for my birthday.

  Not every painter (they always say this but it’s true) can get

  sun at his fingertips a
s you do, smearing it in

  a beautiful sword-fish (see I swim in the world at ease) pattern

  on W.T.B

  The rusted canyon is wearing away

  through use by fire but the man and the sun and the sky are always new.

  Stars. Excuse the silly verse but thank you for the painting. It is on my wall and it changes with the light but W.T.B is a vessel to catch the light in that canyon.

  And now.

  Cat news.

  I have recently performed what I thought was an ingenious deception. I opened a can of cat food (V.I.P. chicken for some very important pets, so the label said) and offered some to Lucas who immediately showed me what he thought of it by attempting to cover it up as if he had just excreted it which gesture, translated, would mean, ‘This is what I think of your shit.’

  And so I picked up the dish, took it to the sittingroom and sat there with the dish on my knee making noises of delight while I pretended to eat it. Lucas of course who is rather puzzled that he and I do not share our meals, came into the room, climbed on a nearby chair, and ate with enjoyment all the vip chicken food.

  There’s a moral somewhere but I think cats should be kept away from morality.

  Bill will be away in the East when you get this letter. I’m sorry that you’re finding the teaching unpleasant. Maybe it’s to be expected.

  More later.

  Look after yourself and Billy always and always.

  & love,

  canyons of,

  fromJ

  113. Dunedin October

  Dear B,

  (‘Oh my dears’), I’ve just written to Paul to say I received the watercolour and I’m writing to Joan Tanner and to you—oh what excitement when I found the orange tube propped against the front door. W.T.B in the canyon is already on my wall. Like you, Paul has this way with light—which, I suppose, is a definition of a painter: to have a way with, control, govern, sway, know how to manage, make legal (I like this one).