The Celestial Sea

by Marina de Nadous

  It’s a hot, hot day and we’re tossing the hay,

  Down in the field, just over the way.

  We’re throwing it high, beneath the blue sky,

  And then we are spreading it out to dry.

  A bonfire is central to the festivities and this year we have an open brazier. I am rather pleased by this latest invention; the metal drum of an old washing machine holds the fire perfectly. Tables are spread with an assortment of dishes——all in hot colours——and everyone is dressed in reds and oranges, strong pinks and blazing yellows. We sit on rugs beside a pile of harvested grasses, gathered yesterday during our morning walk. After our picnic lunch we make crowns out of the grasses and decorate them with colourful tissue flowers that spill out of a big basket. I am treated to some kind words and the gift of a book of pictures drawn by the children with lovely messages and photographs of everyone. The atmosphere excites the children and wearing our summer crowns we sing around the fire, throwing the treasured piles of gathered petals into the leaping flames.

  King Sun he blazes in the sky, ascending ever higher,

  He mounts his wide, midsummer throne,

  All sparkling with shimmering fire.

  As the afternoon winds to a happy conclusion I take the golden sun-streamers and throw them high into the air over the bonfire; calling each child in turn to catch their parting gift. The little sun-kissed orbs delight the captive crowd of Kindergarten members. A new school year will begin in September and although we will be going our separate ways this permanent treasure of friends and shared experience will forever reside in our hearts.

  * * * * * * *

  Two days before departure and The Laird is away to London to collect the vital residency permits from New Zealand House. “I will only be gone for a few hours”, he announces optimistically as I drop him at our local train station. Little do we realize what fiasco awaits his arrival and later, attempted departure from ‘The Big Smoke’.

  ‘Three large bombs have exploded in central London, killing several people and causing a shut down of many forms of public transport.’ The radio shocks me as I complete the packing. I listen with horror to the stories emerging from the scenes of devastation and realize with a sense of alarm that one of them is close to New Zealand House. Luckily The Laird calls, relieving me of further panic——“yes, I am okay but I have no idea how I am going to get home; everything is in a total uproar.” He decides to start walking out of the City towards Wimbledon where my gallant father drives to meet him.

  They arrive back before eight p.m; Pa dropping his son-in-law at our door before heading home himself. He will return tomorrow afternoon; transporting us to the family H.Q before our early morning departure the following day. I bless his unceasing generosity; we certainly wouldn’t be making this move without the family’s help. We are relieved to have The Laird home and listen to his tale of a shocking day. His appointment to collect our precious residency permits had been efficient and speedy, despite the chaos; “I was surprised by the response of those patiently waiting in a long queue outside New Zealand House,” he tells us. “Having a designated job means that we have gained our permits with little strife while other, waiting hopefuls have an uphill struggle to gain admittance into ‘The Land of The Long White Cloud’. When I emerged with our stamped passports there were shouts from the line; ‘did you get them then? Let’s see—oh, those stamped passports are like gold-dust; look after them.’ I have to say I was rather taken aback!”

  It is only towards the end of the evening that he quietly discloses; “I would have been on the very tube-train that was targeted if I hadn’t made a snap decision to walk above ground and make a phone call.”——Thank-you Angels.

  * * * * * * *

  “Is that the last of the hand-luggage?” My Father’s tired question means we need to leave. He is unstintingly patient, but time is running out. “We really must get away; supper will be ready and the whole family is waiting to see you before you fly tomorrow. Please get a move on.” A final sweep and the front door closes for the last time on this special home. Our village friends had been up earlier to wave goodbye. I turn a wistful eye on the grand façade as we drive away——what a rich and happy four years have passed since our arrival. The five, red suitcases are neatly stacked in the back of the car and we hold hands in this poignant, final departure on 7th July 2005.

  Arriving home we are delighted to find all my siblings present for a grand goodbye and last meal together. I have to be enticed out of the roof where I am finalizing the last of the stowing; the pantry floor is littered with the freezer contents and spice cupboards, not to mention those spare bottles of shampoo and floor cleaner that were stuffed into the car at the last minute. “I should tidy it up more.” I am overwrought and overtired. “We’ll share it out amongst the family,” my Mother assures me. “There is no need to concern yourself over anything else, you really have finished. Come and have some food.”

  Part Two Underway

  The Craftsman finishes his inspection of the emerging vessel and leans back; satisfied. He checks on the two below, watching as their lives inch closer together. He spies the young man deep in the middle of a bamboo forest, his eager charges busy around him. What are the children up to? He cannot tell exactly, but he catches the enthusiasm and creativity of their inspired teacher, exciting the pupils in his class. There is action and high energy——they are cutting lengths of the bamboo and dragging it back in pairs to the classroom above the gully. The Craftsman notes the teacher calling for reverent gratitude to the trees before leaving with the rich harvest. He watches him pluck a lemon from a low branch before heading inside, leaving the bamboo alongside the classroom deck.

  And what of her? —Ah yes— she is arriving at last. The time to launch their Boat is fast approaching. The Craftsman beckons the Wind and Water. They come to him eagerly, quickly grasping his request. The Wind begins to blow gently around the model, feeling the flow and strength of the design while wrapping herself lovingly around the rigging. She senses the quivering sails; memorises their form. The Water laps softly around the vessel now—washing her oh so gently——feeling the flowing curves of the hull, joyfully parting at the bow and tumbling along her length until rushing to a playful reunion at the stern. Delighted with their task these elements turn earthwards; the Boat’s form etched and waiting birth within them. The Craftsman watches them go——these ancient children. He blesses their work; a moment of solemnity passing over him as he considers the important task that lies before the precious Boat and her crew of two.

  She is the first to sense it; a settling touch as their lives are brought together; the Wind’s coaxing sharpening her instincts. She knows there is destiny here——wonders. Her intuition is familiar. He, however, does not; seeing only the lovely mother of the nine-year-old boy who is to join his class and the wife of the man who now stands before him with a monk-like stance and a surprisingly playful nature——ginger-haired——full-bodied——encouraging his son to do flips off the hand-rail and walk on his hands. His own term’s pressures weigh heavily and though the Wind tussles his hair and whispers her name he does not respond, thinking it only his untrustworthy imagination.

  Undaunted, the Wind and Water wait quietly in the wings.

  Chapter 1 Unfamiliar

  The alarm wakes us at four thirty a.m——we leave the house at six o’clock after a cooked breakfast——Ma insists. The red suitcases stand to attention in the playroom downstairs; my father has weighed and labelled each one; our future life ready for dispatch. My parents have ordered us a large taxi for the hour-long trip to Heathrow. My mother vetoed the idea of distressing goodbyes amongst bustling, departure-lounge crowds. She would rather wave us off from home. The early morning sun is perfect; blessing our garden gathering as we assemble the luggage on the newly-cut lawn. The children shower fond farewells upon their grandparents and my sister who has stayed the night——and now it hits me——the full impact of what we are undertaking—�
��the knowledge that it may be a couple of years before we are together again.

  The tears come, unexpectedly, and we hold each other close in a loving, family huddle. Time to be brave, time to take one last look at treasured home and family, to listen to the little robin singing in the cherry tree and wave goodbye from the taxi windows. Whereas we are off for the adventure of a lifetime, they are left behind with a wrenching sadness and bags of freezer food to distribute. I bless my family for their bravery; for their generosity and support in this massive, family upheaval. We are on our way at last.

  * * * * * * *

  My goodness, Heathrow is appalling! I haven’t been here for years. Gatwick is so much nicer. I cannot believe the crowds, the scruffy terminal and the lack of seating. My hand luggage is full of the household paperwork I haven’t had time to complete. I try to plough through some of it during the long wait——bad idea. The children are restless and excited; the lure of the surrounding shops too inviting. The Laird disappears for a while and returns with a bottle of aftershave; “a new scent for a new life!” He announces, ever one to enjoy shopping for himself. “I’m just off to the gents, back in a mo.” I try to keep an eye on our disappearing brood while he is gone. I glance at my watch; what is my husband up to? He’s been away a long time. We line up at ‘check in’ and I scan the departure boards, looking for our flight number. We are flying courtesy of Singapore Airlines. Eventually The Laird returns with a broad grin and missing beard! My goodness me! In twenty-four years I have only once seen him clean-shaven. “Might as well be really fresh and new for our big adventure,” he states with a flourish. The children are flabbergasted. Is this really their Father?

  The exquisite airhostesses direct us to our seats and the endless flight begins. How pretty they are with their petite figures and matching, batik skirts and blouses. Even their dainty slippers are covered in the same fabric, making a pleasant change from the prim uniforms of other airlines. The Cabin Crew makes sure we are comfortable; delivering a high level of attention and the screens in the back of each seat keep the children entertained. We try to maintain a strict TV policy at home; aware that too much screen damages a child’s development. I have read countless articles and studied the recent tests; the results are alarming. The sensory overload bombarding our small children is simply shocking. Twenty-five years ago a ten-year-old child could tell the difference between three hundred shades of red. Today, that number has reduced to one hundred and eighty. How is that for a seriously diminished sensory perception? I am continually amazed by the uninformed amongst our own peer group on these seemingly obvious facts. In joining the alternative school in New Zealand we know the children will be strongly advised to forgo any viewing until the school week is over. The impact of television on the child’s sleeping brain undermines the absorption of the day’s lesson and makes the special way of teaching less successful. We haven’t broken this news to the younger two. However, during this long flight we allow them the indulgence. The latest craze in school, {plaiting laces}, offers some diversion from the screen—even to Cedric the Scowler. Thank goodness for ‘Scooby Do’s’.

  The first twelve-hour flight over, we have a speedy plane change in Singapore. I am tired and my legs ache, even though I am wearing flight stockings. I suppose that goes with the territory; I haven’t been in an aeroplane for years. We are well fed but find it peculiar to be woken in the middle of our supposed night with breakfast or lunch trays. I like the warm hand-towels though, distributed by the hostesses using traditional wooden tongs after every meal. The engines roar beneath us. I feel for a mother with a small baby walking up and down behind our seats and I watch the extraordinary sky time-show as the plane flies into dark out of light at a peculiar speed. We are racing above the world and venturing into the unknown. An excitement grips me; we really are doing this—only four more hours to go. Time for another film. I have slept as much as I can. The boys have done well with their rest times but The Minx has hardly slept at all.

  We arrive in Auckland at ten in the evening. For a major city the quiet, empty airport surprises us. The Scowler’s mountain-board is checked thoroughly for traces of Northern Hemisphere debris; the Kiwis have a strict policy regarding alien bugs, foodstuffs and plants. The friendly official chats to Cedric. I notice a fellow traveller with an unusual amount of foreign foods in small plastic bags. The officials are involved in a patient examination; what on earth is that stuff? How very different from England where the rigmarole would be less tolerated, I am sure. The immigration officer stamps our passports, greeting us with a wide smile; “welcome home.” We are touched——what a reassuring start to our antipodean adventure. A woman called Belinda meets us with a hire vehicle; The Laird rented a car from her in February. She has booked us into a nearby motel. As we leave the airport a rustic-looking man walks past us towards the arrival lounge in his muddy boots with a sheep dog in tow! Yes, we have definitely arrived in New Zealand.

  * * * * * * *

  Ah——stillness and a flat bed at last. The motel owner is apologetic about the run-down state of the cabin. “It’s the only one free I’m afraid; due for renovation next month.” We reassure him that quite honestly, we couldn’t care less. It is warm, comfy and definitely not flying through the air at mind-boggling speed. We sleep long into the following morning and the sun is shining as we wake to our first day in our new homeland. A dear little citrus tree outside our cabin makes me smile. I rescue a windfall lemon and put it in the car. Clear blue skies and zesty, yellow fruit tell us we have arrived. Rinky The Minx and The Go-Getter play on the swing beside the tree as we repack our luggage. We have a three-hour drive south to reach our destination.

  “Can you believe the scenery? Look at those lumpy fields; aren’t they peculiar!” We are wide-eyed at the rolling, volcanic hills and wild, rocky outcrops everywhere. This is ‘big country’——an endless spectacle. Imagine a drive into the lowlands of Scotland where everyone sits up and remarks on the view; then blow the scene up in size until you have wide, endless planes and finally, surround the whole with a near-mountainous backdrop and you have got the picture. Mile upon mile of this extraordinary landscape passes by as we watch with growing excitement out of the car windows. “What a lot of sheep and is that really a farmhouse?” We notice an assortment of rough-looking shacks without trimmings or attractive buildings; it appears that a farming existence is purely practical.

  We placed an advertisement in the Small School’s weekly newsletter a couple of months ago, asking if anyone needed house sitters from July 10th. We were delighted when a Dutch family contacted us——needing house-sitters/dog-walkers over four weeks——perfect. We have been sent pictures of an attractive house and duly arrive as night envelopes the coastal town. The Dutch family has already departed so a neighbour introduces us to the bouncy dog and intricacies of the household alarms. A hand-written welcome greets us on the kitchen worktop——including a list of the local amenities and a School Handbook advertising local businesses and health practitioners. That looks interesting. I need an osteopathic appointment after the long flight——my neck is sore, hindering my sleep.

  We find ourselves perched on a hill when dawn arrives; comfortably installed in a deluxe brick house with views across a wide bay. The house is central to the main town and, judging by the majority of homes, is one of the more salubrious. “How come the houses look like garden sheds, Ma?” One of the children asks the question in my own mind. “I expect because of the earthquake threat,” I reply; “as well as the lovely weather——everyone can live outside for much of the year.” The town is relatively new and far larger than we had imagined, consisting of a number of coastal suburbs linked by wide roads and watery views. There are beautiful bays on all sides. And everything is in undulation, from suburban housing estates to central town roads and shopping streets. My goodness, if you dislike a flat landscape then this is the place to live!

  Sally is loving and bumptious. We soon settle into a good routine with ou
r canine charge and walk her on the mud flats below the house twice a day. We locate the local supermarkets and the bank where we open accounts and look into mortgage rates. A need for Wellington boots takes us to the large department store called ‘The Warehouse’; a cross between ‘Woolies’, ‘M.F.I’ and ‘Argos’. They don’t call them ‘Wellies’ here——the good old ‘Gumboot’ is still to the fore; a leftover from the 1900’s I imagine. Kiwi culture is similar to our own——perhaps with an old-fashioned dose of ‘Britishness’ as well as a good splash of American lifestyle in combination. We certainly find the BBC news reporting familiar and many of the television programmes are from home. The general format of the radio stations and newspapers is also similar.

  I am anxious about taking the wheel but after a day or two I feel brave and head out, into the traffic. I am unused to two lanes turning left or right together and the traffic lights are fairly involved with arrows and pedestrian crossings. But I like the wide lanes and ample parking and the speed limit is low in the town, which makes for relaxed travel. One different traffic rule takes us a while to understand. If you are turning left off a road and a car opposite is turning right, into the same road, you have to give way and let them turn first; the aim being to get the opposite car off the main route as quickly as possible. We fail to see how this can possibly help with the confusion around cars coming up from behind. Oh well——something else to get used to.