The Celestial Sea

by Marina de Nadous

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  We are in——at last——our weekend completing the move in several trips to and from the resort. The children have already named the three bantam cockerels, {or roosters as they are known} —— Gobbler, Saturn and the juvenile with the croaky voice is aptly named Strepsil. A leftover from the previous owners, they are very happy to see us every morning. A visit to the local rare-breeds farm sees us adding to the flock——much to the delight of the feathered fellows who soon compete over the new bantam hens. The Go-Getter is a rabbit fan and comes home with a beautiful bunny that he names Blossom, {after his much-loved, stuffed rabbit}, and The Laird decides that four ducks for the pond might encourage wild companions for his sporting recreation. I am rather taken by the Kune-Kune piglets——perhaps I might own a pig someday.

  One Saturday afternoon the children and I head over to the far side of the hilly range to collect a second-hand rabbit hutch. The vendor has around thirty bunnies in a giant cage on wheels and no longer requires the hutches she is selling. The middle-aged rabbit-enthusiast introduces us to her furry family with surprising zeal and a beady eye. She wears a floppy green hat that resembles a wilting lettuce leaf.

  I can’t help recalling the story of Heidi and her Grandfather in their Mountain Cabin as we climb our steep gravelled drive; our Macrocarpa pine home certainly has a ‘ski-lodge’ feel about it——the wood smells gorgeous. We live in one, average-sized room downstairs. The kitchen takes up one side and the sitting room with wood-burning stove makes up the other. A decent-sized bathroom leads off the main room but lacks a window. A short, wooden staircase takes us upstairs to a surprisingly spacious first floor where two bedrooms and a box-room sleep four, while the landing with its high-beamed ceiling makes a perfect playroom and bedroom for Rinky The Minx. We need to change the floorings, paint the few plastered areas and think of curtaining at some stage. However, our dwindling budget and rising living expenses mean we need to forgo these luxuries for quite a while. The top cabin lends itself perfectly to guest accommodation and Sky T.V. After the second week I begin to notice ‘boys only’ viewing time in the top cabin encroaching into an otherwise, civilized family lifestyle.

  The equipment needed for the property is concerning me; ladders, wheelbarrows, garden tools, a chain saw and strimmer, {or weed-eater in Kiwi-speak} ——and where to store everything? The underneath of the house acts as a useful shed but judging by the wild weather that violently rocks the house on windy nights and covers everything under it in a thick layer of dust, this is not going to be satisfactory.

  * * * * * * *

  Spring turns to summer. The weeks assume a regular rhythm and our English life begins to fade. Planning timetables is complicated——a feat of clever orchestration. To accommodate everyone’s pastimes, {from visiting friends to playing sport}, we are perpetually in the car; quite a shock after a boarding school existence where life always happened on the doorstep. The Laird digs further into savings and purchases himself the longed-for sea kayak. With the arrival of the warmer weather he goes fishing as often as possible. Yesterday evening we smoked a number of fresh snapper and kahwhai, which were delicious. Invitations from his College chums take him away from The Mountain with increasing regularity; hockey, fishing, shooting and rugby viewing are favourite pastimes. He is a very happy Laird. The establishment of a Whisky Society with our Dutch friend and his business cronies rounds off a near-perfect scenario, {for The Laird}; the only missing factor being close family and friends.

  * * * * * * *

  My routine continues in much the same way. However one might wish for a change, the rounds of shopping, cleaning, cooking and washing remain a fixed and immoveable feature. My favourite time is the early morning when I venture out alone into the green vastness that surrounds our private Mountain. The stately crowns of five pine trees in our bottom paddock are almost on a level with the deck. I stand in silence, listening to the Australian Magpies in the neighbouring valley. What a sound they make; a mixture of a warble, a song and a haunting call that echoes across the stillness of the huge panorama.

  This is when I visit my private world; a spiritual domain I count myself fortunate and blessed to possess. I call it my Garden Gate; the beauty of Heaven’s garden lies through the intricate design of the wrought-ironwork. I can look through The Gate whenever I want, switching from domestic mundane to celestial communion with simple ease. For years I have longed to stroll in the beautiful gardens but I don’t possess the key. I suppose I have always hoped to meet my fellow key-holder. For many years I presumed, and my imagination led me to believe, that The Laird was he. Sadly he is not, an upsetting truth I realized some time ago——my husband’s soul food lies in his vocational work with young people rather than in a sacred connection with his wife. I sigh; the garden birds are magical this fine dawn and I can sample their Heavenly singing from this side of The Gate. I turn back to the house. It is time to wake the family.

  “Can you join the class at lunchtime today?” The Go-Getter’s teacher offers me an exciting invitation this morning. “One or two parents are coming along; we are heading into the Bush to re-enact the exodus out of Egypt carrying the Arc of the Covenant. We shall make a camp, light a fire and cook unleavened bread. Perhaps you could help me with it? Oh, and dress up if you like——some of us will be in costume.”

  What fun. I arrive at the appointed time with Annie and Delphine, a couple of mothers I am getting to know. I wear a floral, velvet-lined coat made by my sister. I like the way it floats around me as I walk. A group of boys carry The Arc along the narrow paths as we venture into the magical wilderness; it rests on a couple of poles and nearly topples into the stream as we cross the bridge. As well as the Ten Commandments it holds all the lunch-boxes! We follow ‘Moses’, sporting the new beard, and once we arrive in the clearing by the high rope-swing the twenty-two, carefree youngsters play freely.

  Tent building, wild swinging and stream forging prove popular and several children help light the fire and make the flat bread. We watch the dough turn golden brown in the hot embers and enjoy the simple meal with a dollop of butter, honey and the inevitable ash covering. In place of the traditional spit-roasted lamb we tuck into lamb sausages. This is our ‘morning tea’; a Kiwi speciality I am discovering. The equivalent of our English ‘elevenses’ this meal appears to be more important than lunch. Joining a local environment planting session a couple of weekends ago we were very surprised when people produced serious picnics at eleven o’clock. I now make sure I give the children enough food for both morning-tea and lunch on school days.

  Everyone is very hungry and we tuck into the extra treats with enthusiasm. I watch the children’s teacher as he sits crossed-legged under a silver birch tree. He wipes the back of a floury hand across his face, moving a stray curl out of his eyes before washing in the nearby stream. “Someone could find you very attractive,” I think objectively. Dappled sunlight throws patterns across his collarless, linen shirt while he reads the biblical story. I like him——he is interesting, and fun——and gracefully masculine.

  It three o’clock by the time we return to the classroom. The accompanying parents are invited to stay for a closing verse and prayer. We take our places in the ring, sitting on hand-made wooden chairs and crossing arms over chests like the children. Gentle reverence fills the room and I notice a dignity and priest-like stance in the teacher, replacing his earlier, playful manner. We pray to our Guardian Angels, asking for their watchful care as we sleep. The children respond immediately to their teacher’s spiritual authority and I find my breath has stilled as I react in the same way. There is a candle in the middle of the circle and I watch him through its flickering potential.

  Having said our goodbyes I saunter back to the car, walking under the Taiwanese cherry tree that grows beside the courtyard. The full bloom makes a lavish display and I stop to watch the Tui birds feasting on its nectar; raspberry pink blossom dotted with the bobbing, black birds. Their white, tufty bibs st
and out dramatically against the clear blue sky. I smile to myself as I consider the afternoon with all its joy, colour and revelation. “Do you have a pin?” one of the children had asked me as we prepared for our exodus out of Egypt. “A pin?” I had replied. “What on earth do you want with a pin?” “You know, a pin; to write with”, replied the surprised girl. “Ah, you mean a pen, sorry——got you now.” This pronunciation of E’s as I’s is catching me out every day.

  I pass a little shed beside the office building before I reach the car park. It houses the school shop and stands with its door open, inviting me to step inside. The narrow shelves are stacked with books, woollen decorations and the easily recognizable craft items that accompany the school’s philosophy. It reminds me of home; I had just such a shop in my hall alongside Kindergarten. “Hello there, I’m Cordelia”, a friendly voice greets me. I shake hands with a charming Danish mother whose two children I have noticed in the playground. There is an instant bond between us as we exchange stories and background information. She has recently joined the school from Rotorua where she was running a similar Kindergarten to mine. We have much in common and I look forward to meeting her again.

  My two are already in the car, eager to head away. We are meeting the boys at Sally the dog’s house. The friendly Dutch couple, Bernard and Felicia, have become friends and the Laird is introducing them to the finer merits of the single malt this evening. Diary dates for the new Whisky Society need to be established——a top priority, needless to say. They are giving us supper, or ‘tea’ in Kiwi-speak, and I am bringing a salad.

  Sally the dog is overjoyed to see us; she bounces all over the children as they climb out of the car. I notice her photograph has been given pride of place in the kitchen.

  * * * * * * *

  Today is Saturday and the spring weather is fabulous. “Just look at all these shells!” The children play on the beach where the shells are most lavishly heaped. I fill a basket and run my hand through the different shapes, recognizing many from The Laird’s trip last February. It is warm enough for shirtsleeves and rolled up trousers today. A family with young children sits by the shallow pools of water. I watch my gang as they clamber over the rocky outcrop sheltering this part of the beach. The towering mass of the famous hill lies directly above us and a footpath runs around its base behind the tree-line bordering the shore.

  There is a particular tree that follows the coastline in many parts of the country; solid and bold, it stands sentry over the ocean. These native giants are majestic; I first noticed them along the Coromandel Coast when we took a short road trip in July. I am pleased to find the same tree here, in this area. Grey-toned trunks and heavy foliage lend benevolence and security; bushy, doormat beards with a pinky tinge hang from the most mature trees and the easily accessible, low branches are wonderful for exploring children. They are known as the ‘New Zealand Christmas Tree’ due to their startling red flowers in December that resemble exotic bottle brushes. I hereby introduce The Pohutukawa Tree.

  Monday morning begins with a rainstorm. I have learnt this will most likely pass and the warm sunshine reappear. Today is no exception. What a lovely change after our British weather, which resigns one to several days of grey skies if the morning starts wet. I am interested in the Kindergarten’s take on rainy days: “Oh, don’t bother with rain-coats. We are rarely affected by rain all morning and if it is wet, we just stay inside.” I compare this to my Kindergarten policy of getting out in all weathers, rather as they do in Scandinavia. ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing’——I have always approved of that. Things are certainly different here——the pleasant climate negating any need for ‘braving it’. “Oh, and the children must wear shoes at school”, I am reminded by The Minx’s teacher. I have seen many school children walking barefoot to the local primary school in Waikite Bay as well as a general, unshod habit here in Kiwi Land, so I ask why the school’s policy is different. Kitty mentions the Earth energies in the Southern Hemisphere: “They are too strong for little people and in line with the school’s philosophy we insist on shoes. It is different in the Northern Hemisphere where the land has been tamed over centuries leaving the Earth forces less powerful”. Well, there’s something to think about. I won’t mention it to The Laird——he will file it under ‘Mother’s Wacky Notions’.

  Tuesday morning sees me in the Go-Getter’s classroom once more. “Yes, I can wash the drinking glasses again. I enjoy being in class”. The friendly teacher thanks me with his illuminating smile, asking; “would you like to help with the Moses play over the next two weeks? It wouldn’t be too taxing; just a couple of afternoons and one morning. In fact, would you mind coming with me now, to the cupboard in the gym? I need to find the stage curtain and check out the hanging arrangements. We have twenty minutes before the bell goes——do you have time?” I leave my basketball player with his friends and walk to the top of the school beside this fine man; sensing a growing pleasure in his company as we stroll together in the lovely weather. His humble authority is even more noticeable today and I sense a vibrant spark between us in the face of a creative project.

  We are like a couple of excited children as we struggle with the large piece of calico and discuss ways to hang it successfully. Heading back to the classroom he asks me to take his mail, which he is about to drop. I notice his printed initials on an envelope; “What does the ‘A’ stand for at the beginning of your name?” I ask. “Adrian”, he replies; “it’s my proper name but I never use it.” “Hmm—It’s a name I have always liked; would you mind if I used it sometimes?” He turns to me, surprised, and answers; “yes—I would like that”.

  I end up staying in class for part of the morning. After the beginning verse, physical exercise requiring concentration ensues; arms out then in while jumping with crossed, then uncrossed legs to face different sides of a square in a particular rhythm. I am completely foxed but the class is skilled and fluent. Try doing that while reciting your times-tables! I watch with admiration as my own nine-year-old accomplishes the complicated, brain-gym moves.

  “Time for the Maori stick game everyone——Melanie, can you get the box of sticks out of the cupboard? Ned and Ashley, if you can’t stop talking you will have to sit outside and miss the fun,” instructs the teacher. I am duly given a set of sticks; approx ten inches long with a one-inch diameter. We sit in pairs and to the accompaniment of the guitar the children sing a lovely Maori song while throwing and clapping the sticks together. Needless to say I am foxed again, especially when we have to throw the sticks in the air and re-catch them after one revolution before resuming the rhythm. My new friend Adrian has a lovely singing voice and accomplished skill on the guitar. I am impressed again and have thoroughly enjoyed the native culture that is brought into the classroom.

  E papa waiari,

  Taku nei mahi,

  Taku nei mahi

  He tuku roimata

  E aue e,

  E kamate ahau

  E hine hoki mai ra

  {O my elder, my tears fall over my work,

  Alas I will die, return to me my love.}

  The play is a great success——serious children, biblical robes, quick costume changes behind the classroom screen and an effort on my part to keep the right names on the right costumes. The lovely Lois is in charge of all things to do with drama. She is a long-time parent and endlessly offers her free hours to the School. I admire her skill with the fabrics and set design. She works closely with the Class Teacher and the end result is rewarding. From re-enactments in the Bush to play performances, from the chalkboard drawings to music and movement this artistic method of education leaves each child infused with the subject in-hand. Knowing the Kindergarten approach, I find it interesting to see the primary stage in action.

  As the summer arrives with a certainty I find myself taking on the role of willing, Classroom Assistant. “The next Main Lesson subject is house building and construction,” I am informed. “Once the children
have completed their individual model dwellings we are going out onto the land to build a couple of tepees; can you come in and help once we reach that stage?” Of course I agree. The next chalkboard drawing is underway and I watch with admiration as the detail of a mortise and tenon joint is completed.

  My drama friend Lois has asked if I will consider joining the Festival Group. This committee holds the impulse for The School’s yearly calendar. The teaching philosophy celebrates a specific cycle of seasonal festivals; we followed the same rhythm in my English Kindergarten. My previous experience has been noted and I accept with pleasure. I am pleased to find my new Danish friend Cordelia also present in the group, as well as Adrian and the Class 2 teacher, Sienna. With the approaching Advent Festival at the end of the school year incorporating the leavers’ ceremony we are going to be busy.

  * * * * * * *

  The daughter of Dorset farming friends arrives as our lodger at the beginning of December. She is with us for three months and settles into the top cabin; pleased with her private accommodation. Rinky the Minx is delighted to have a ‘big sister’ on the Mountain and suddenly our family life feels buzzy and full. She finds a job at a sports shop in town and having bought a car she is well away. A second young traveller arrives a week later; in fact we have several guests lined up over the coming months——students from the school we have recently left.

  The sun shines and shines——endless blue skies lend positive feelings, heralding a sense of belonging. We are settled. I am back at School before long for the agreed tepee building. “For goodness sake Ned and Chris, if you are going to charge around like that give the machetes to someone more sensible;” Adrian endeavours to bring some order to the over-excited class. “You must think I am a loose teacher——I suppose I am,” he admits. “I love to see the children running free and unhindered.” The Go-Getter is well in the lead, joining a group of tree-dangling boys who have taken a detour off the appointed path. We arrive at the popular bamboo forest where the children work in pairs felling long poles for the tepee frames. Taking turns with the tools I can’t help thinking how privileged they are; I am so pleased my own children have joined the school; experiencing the wild outdoors of the Southern hemisphere with such freedom.