A
Day for Waving - Chapter
1
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I must say I
love flowers. My daughter, Anne, brought me some
“I’m sorry about that Mum,” she said.
“Didn’t I ever tell you about singeing the stalks?”
“I know. I was in a rush to get here.”
This modern world is in such a hurry. It’s full of so many
labour-saving devices that nobody ever has time to do anything. I gave Anne a
box of matches and made her do it right then and there. Or is it there and then?
“We shouldn’t be doing this here Mum.”
“Go on. Become a daredevil for once.”
That is the difference between us. I’m impetuous. I think nothing of
lighting matches in a ward where a nurse might come in with a disapproving look.
The flowers do make a nice show. After Anne had left I asked for a vase with
water. I put them on top of the bedside cabinet. In the morning a petal will
have fallen, but that’s the way things go.
I keep thinking that she brought me a single red tulip also, although
they are out of season. I must have imagined it. A red tulip represents true
love. At one time in my life my heart was filled with hatred for my brother
concerning a particular incident. But at last enlightenment came and I awoke
from the darkness of ignorance to the light of love and forgiveness. This
knowledge was like a flower of perfect beauty.
You’ll have to forgive me if I get crotchety from time to time. Lack of
comfort in the old body, that’s the problem.
Anne brought me brandy snaps also. In a brown paper bag what’s more.
Where did she get a brown paper bag from? You go to the supermarket these days
and they put everything in plastic. Except for mushrooms. They give you paper
bags for mushrooms in order to enhance the ‘natural’ image. I suppose straw
and chicken manure are natural. But then everything is natural. Plastic and
petroleum are also ‘natural’ because they from nature. Where else would they
come from? This bag isn’t a mushroom bag. Mushroom bags have the words
‘Mushrooms, Finest Quality’ printed on them. This is a plain bag. She must
have bought it especially from a Brown Paper Bag Shop. You know, the sort of
place where you buy incense and candles. No consistency you see. Doesn’t have
time to singe poppy stalks but goes out of her way to buy brown paper bags
because she knows I hate plastic.
Bless her.
Brandy snaps are my favourite sweetmeat, that is apart from the hash
cookies my son, Luke, brings. I'm not allowed sweet things here. I hide the
brandy snaps under the pillow and eat them when no-one is around. The cookies go
into my handbag. God knows what would happen if they found them. They say that
sugar and dope are harmful, but how can you do damage to something that is
beyond repair? When the doctor saw that Chekov was about to die he ordered
champagne. So why shouldn’t I have an indulgence?
This Establishment has three Parts. This is the Hospital Part. There is
the Retired Part where couples live in Units and the Geriatric Part where those
who are Ancient and Decrepit live. They don’t call it the Geriatrics Part they
call it the Senior Citizens Part. It has to have a pretty name. What’s more
they spray it with Air Freshener so it will smell sweet. The canister has a
picture of a meadow on it and I always associate meadows with cow dung but this
freshener spray has a sweet sickly smell. It was obviously manufactured from
chemicals. Cow dung has a good healthy smell, bound to clear out the sinuses,
and it comes from the intestines of a cow.
You don’t have to pretty up age to make it acceptable. Age is as ugly
or as beautiful as the person that has it. My children tell me the older I get
the more beautiful I become. They really do. I didn’t go through the Retired
and Geriatric Parts, I came here straight from my home. They had to drag me in.
It’s a sterile ward, but I have a room to myself and I have some of my things
- a photo of my wedding day, an oil painting of the Virgin Mary and other stuff.
That’s not because I like the Virgin Mary but because it was done by a dear
friend, Maisy Brown. I knew her at school. Now we’ve lost touch. I don’t
even know if she’s living or dead.
Anne and I had a long talk. Many things were resolved. Not big things
really, just the little peccadilloes that might mar a friendship, might mar a
life.
“I’m not a harridan am I?” I asked.
“No Mum, of course not. Just..”
“Full of beans? Opinionated?”
“I could never be like you.”
“Who’d want to be. You know, my dear, I sometimes wish I was a quiet
little thing. Then life would be simpler.”
“Boring though.”
“I was never a bad mother? Was I...”
“When you made me eat rhubarb. I’ll never forget it...”
“Rhubarb is good for the bowels.”
It's best to wave good-bye to all that. She’s a good friend and she'll
be here to do all the right things at the last. You know, lay me out, put a lily
in my hand and go through all my private possessions. Weep at the funeral too I
suppose. I try to tell her I’ll be all right, but like most people, she
doesn’t understand death, she thinks it’s some ultimate calamity, not a
normal part of existence.
I’m quite confident that I will have a good end you know. How could
anything harm me? You might enter into the Tunnel of Mystery in the fairground
but there is always an exit. And there is always an explanation for anything
that might occur.
People have the idea they are safe from harm because they are a member of
some religious order. They hope that if they respect God and perform the proper
ritual then death will have no sting. You shouldn’t rely on God, you should
rely on yourself. Anyway no-one's passionate about religion nowadays, except
that I care about mine. I'm a Rationalist.
I thought that would get your attention. Well I’m not a real
Rationalist. The fact is I was a Real Rationalist for a time but then my views
changed, I became a Liberal Rationalist. A Liberal Rationalist is permitted to
be less scathing in his or her attacks on Christianity than a Real Rationalist.
The fact is I quite like Jesus. I feel sad that he had to go up on the cross
like that. He seemed to be such a really nice person. But then the Christian
Church turned him into a Son of God, born of a Virgin, and that has fouled
everything up.
I don’t like to talk about religion too much although, in a way, it’s
been the centre of my life. I like to think my views are a little different from
the common mould. Trouble is when you talk about it everybody gets upset. People
base their whole existence on some piece of dogma without thinking it through.
They hold on to this Holy Relic, such as a Piece of Wood From the One and Only
True Cross of Saint John, or some such irrelevant icon, in the fond idea that by
doing so they will resolve all the wrongness in their lives. And when you try to
shake them out of their firm convictions there’s bound to be trouble. Why do
they cling to these icons?
I was brought up as a Christian but now I
reject the faith. Do you want to know why? It is because I cannot accept the
superstitious baggage that goes with it. The virgin birth; the inconsistent
nativity stories. They say He died to save us from our sins but I can’t see
much evidence of that. Only wommankind can save herself from her sins. Mankind
also. Even though those who were closest to me were believers I have to hold to
what I know to be true. ‘Not prepared to compromise,’ do I hear you say?
Stubborn and one-eyed more likely[BT1] .
The staff here are all hovering around waiting for me to pop off. I think
they're running a sweep on when it will happen. Doctor Rogers saw me this
morning. That young whippersnapper, he told me two years ago that I had six
weeks to live. If he'd been any good at his job I'd be away from here by now.
Anne said I shouldn't argue with him. I told her when I stop arguing I'll be
dead.
I had twelve visitors come to see me yesterday. The staff had to bring in
more chairs, but then I’ve always been short of enough chairs because I love
having people near me. When I looked at all those friends sitting around the bed
I realised that they were a fair enough symbol of all that I have achieved in my
life. I’ll tell you about them but you must realise that they are not involved
in those things of the past that have been running through my mind at this time,
all the people who were the closest to me are gone... all the people I lived my
life with... withered blooms in the dust.
Let’s talk about the here and now.
Visitors yesterday.
There was Anne and her husband Charles.
There were Anne's two children, Tracy and Glen. .
And Glen’s partner, Julie. Julie’s blind you know.
Julie and Glen have a wee son, a lovely baby, my great grandson. I was
allowed to hold him and he dribbled on my shoulder. They named him Matthew, at
my suggestion.
Then there were Milton and Willy who are in my string quartet.
My friend Fred Robottom. President of the Rationalist Society.
And then there was Olive Bush. She’s the treasurer of the Horticultural
Society.
Last of all my brother’s widow Molly and their son William.
Did you count? It was twelve. Of course there are those others, the
shadows from the past that are with me always. And I had the strange feeling
that Luke was here, though he lives away in the country and did not come this
week. Maybe he was thinking about me.
I know I talk too much. You’ll have to forgive me for rambling on. If
it gets too tedious then you can always close the book.
I don't think I'll go to bed tonight, I’ll just sit here in this chair
with a blanket over my knees, while the hours pass, and think about the events
of my life, grains of sand that trickle through my fingers.
I’ll go to sleep when I’m ready. When the light comes.
If you knew me when I was twelve years old you might say: ‘How could an
innocent, sweet thing like that become what you see here today?’ But then how
might a smooth brown acorn grow into a knotted and gnarled old oak tree? It is
an evolution in which each step follows on from the one before, by gradual
increments, inexorably leading to an entirely inevitable outcome.
Not that I really was a ‘sweet thing’. I always wanted my own way,
even if that led to arguments. Now that I am older I have stopped arguing with
the people who are close to me. But I do have an argument with the state of
things. There are things wrong with existence and I do not know how to change
them. It’s too late to do anything about that now.
Childhood was a fairyland. I came ‘trailing clouds of glory’ into a
world of innocence and delight. I now hold that glory in my heart and return to
it often in my mind. It was only when the time had passed that I valued what had
gone. But we must go from childhood to adulthood. It is a passage that has been
ordained for us by some ‘other’ force that we have no control over, whether
we like it or not.
For me the process of growing up commenced on the day that Father
delivered his famous sermon about Ugly Jesus.
Sunday mornings were always the same in our household. First I would help
Mother prepare the Sunday roast. She peeled the potatoes and the kumara while I
shelled the peas or prepared the silverbeet, fresh from the garden. The greens
were my responsibility. When she wasn’t looking I would eat a raw piece. Much
preferable to cooked vegetables. Then it was necessary to Prepare for Church.
Sundays were the special days of the week. It seemed as though they were blessed
by the Lord, so still and peaceful. That was how I felt until Mother began
fussing over my younger brother, Robbie, and myself, with the whole of her
nervous intensity, as she made us look our best for church. Of course the whole
family were required to attend the service as Father was the Vicar. On this
particular day I’d been scrubbed and dressed and curled and pressed to her
satisfaction. I asked to go out into the garden while it was Robbie’s turn.
“Don’t go getting yourself untidy again,” she said as I went.
Naturally Robbie was always the last one to be got ready as it was he who
was the most likely to get untidy in the shortest possible time. I never got
untidy and that is because I value myself. In those days Robbie never did.
The garden was wonderful, Mother’s pride and joy, and always so full of
flowers, moss, ferns and shady trees. It was spring and the daffodils and
snowdrops were out. And with the aroma of beauty I was suddenly transformed,
overcome by a feeling of absolute bliss, so strong, so happy. I danced among the
flowers and sang. This was what it must be like to be in heaven I thought. But
then Mother called out.
“Lucinda, Lucinda, are you behaving yourself out there?” Why did she
have to break the spell? And how often did I have to tell her, I’m Lucy, Lucy,
not Lucinda. She had every right to christen me Lucinda, and I have every right
to be called Lucy if I wish to be.
“I'm here Mother.”
“Come inside Lucinda.”
“I'm just coming soon Mother.”
“Hurry up then, we are leaving for church in a minute.”
I came inside and sat on the chair behind her. She was brushing
Robbie’s hair. You wouldn’t think of him as a vicar’s son, being so full
of mischief as he was, even at nine years old, especially at nine years old.
“Where did you get those nits and knots from Robert?” asked Mother.
“Ouch. You're hurting me.”
“Don't be silly. Now hold still. I did give you a comb just last week
didn't I? If you used it sometimes you wouldn't have to put up with this. What
did you do with it?”
“Ouch. I lost it.”
“You lost it? Where did you lose it?”
“I don't know.”
“I imagine it was at Jimmy Peabody's.”
“No, I was somewhere else.”
“What do you mean somewhere else?”
“Jimmy was there. I was combing my hair in front of a mirror and he
stole it off me.”
Robbie always told such terrible fibs. He was so good at telling them
almost everybody believed him. Whenever Robbie told a lie he looked like a
little angel. I was always able to tell when Robbie was lying, because of that
angelic look, but he was able to fool most other people, even Mother.
“I don't want you playing with Jimmy Peabody.”
“Why not Mother?”
“Because I don't. His father doesn't go to church, and he drinks I
believe. Lucinda, Lucinda, where are you?”
She hadn’t noticed that I had come in.
“I’m just sitting on the chair, Mother,” I said.
She looked around and saw me.
“Ah yes. You look nice dear.”
“Do I have to go to church today Mother?”
I was thinking about the flowers.
“What do you mean? Of course you are going to church.”
“Yes Mother.”
“You're not going to be difficult again are you Lucinda?”
“No Mother, I'm not going to be difficult.”
I was only occasionally difficult. I tried not to be on Sunday mornings
when she had this terrible tendency to act like a martinet.
“Well what's the trouble then? Why don't you want to go to church?”
“It's a lovely day outside. The daffodils and jonquils are blooming.”
“I know the daffodils are out. You've had all week to go picking
flowers. There's no need to do so this morning. After our Sunday roast you can
change your clothes and go outside and play as much as you wish.”
“But it's such a happy day.”
“It will be just as happy in church. You can learn about Jesus and how
He suffered on the Cross to save you. That's the greatest happiness.”
“But God is outside in the garden.”
“God is also in the church Lucinda. What would your father think if you
weren't there?”
“Oh why does my father have to be the Vicar. None of my friends have a
father who is a vicar.”
“Lucinda!”
I knew there was no way to get out of it. But the fact was I loved going
to church and seeing Father in the pulpit and hearing him preach, basking in the
respect, even adoration, that he received from the congregation.
“All right then, I'll go to church.”
Mother patted Robbie’s pockets “Now Robert, you haven't anything in
your pockets today have you?”
“No Mother.”
“Well if something happens in church like it did last week let us hope
for your sake that your father is as lenient as he was then. Frogs in the
baptismal font... how did it ever get there... and when Mrs Carthew's new baby
was being baptised. I really don't know.”
“It escaped.”
“How did it get under the cover then?”
“Somebody must have caught it and put it there.”
“And who would do that?”
It was not easy for a thirteen year old girl to have a younger brother
like Robbie. He was so cunning with his lies. And he expected me to support him.
I wasn’t going to do that so I told on him.
“He did,” I said.
“I did not,” said Robbie.
“I know because Susie Peabody told me,” I said.
“What do you mean...?” asked Mother.
“I did not, I did not. She's fibbing,” replied Robbie.
“I am not fibbing. I can't stand people who tell lies. I just can't
abide them,” I said.
“Can't abide...” She sighed. “I don't really understand why you
children have to be so difficult on Sundays.”
The church bell had started ringing which meant that it was time to go.
The verger was a punctilious man and could be relied upon to start tolling at
exactly the same time. The sound of the bell calling the congregation to church
filled the air with the joy of God. Father came in just then, breezy and affable
in his clerical clothes.
“Well, is the family ready for church?”
“Yes Father,” said
Robbie.
“Robbie, you look just
fine.”
“Don't call your son Robbie
Matthew, his name is Robert.”
“Yes Millicent. Oh look
here at young Robert, he must have spent a long time brushing his hair this
morning.”
Father, in fact, usually called Mother, Milly. Sometimes he even called
her Milly Molly Mandy.
“Yes Father.”
“Well I think we're going
to have a brilliant sermon today. I can feel it in me bones.”
“But you've not written a
sermon this week Matthew. I thought we were to hear one of your old ones?”
“No, I haven't written it down, but I know what I'm going to say. The
best sermons are impromptu. I shall enlighten the congregation on the nature of
the true Jesus.”
“Oh Matthew... Come on now children.”
My father would deliver the most interesting sermons. I don't believe the
congregation always understood what he was talking about. He was a liberal
Christian, just like I’m a Liberal Rationalist, and he asked them to think in
new ways. A dangerous practice. I’ve found, later in life, that people don’t
always like to think in new ways. It puts a strain on the intellectual and moral
capacity. It upsets the safe certainty of experience. I was always excited when
I sat in the church on the hard wooden pews and heard him preach the gospel. You
could feel the force of his personality, magnetic, charismatic, and yet all the
time he spoke from proud conviction. I imagine that if Jesus had come back to
life in this century He would have been impressed with my father.
“Today I want to talk to you about Christ. Jesus Christ. The Saviour.
The Son of God. Who was this Christ we read so much about? We know He was a man.
We know He was a Jew. A Jew? Well He was. His personality illuminates the
Gospels, but what did He look like, was He big, was He small, how did He walk,
how did He talk? Did He have ingrown toenails? We know nothing of these things,
the Gospels do not tell us. I am sure you have all seen illustrations in Gospel
stories which describe His life. Pictures of a kindly, meek, beautiful,
suffering Saviour.
“But is this picture of truth?
“I was reading in a book the other day which has come down to us from
an ancient source. It contained a supposed picture of Jesus and said that He was
a runt, that He had a long face and a long nose, and a scraggly beard. In fact
He was downright ugly. Of course this source does not have any doctrinal
authority. But just suppose, would it matter if He was ugly. You can be sure
that Jesus had the features of a Jew, a large nose, broad earlobes, an Adam’s
apple. I believe also that he was circumscribed.
“And yet when we think of Jesus we do not consider the outward show, we
look for the inner light, the light that illuminates the scriptures. The
communion with God. He was a man full of God, and full of life, full of
laughter. Oh yes, He had a sense of humour, he certainly had a sense of humour.
And He talked about the abundance of life and of how we should enjoy it. He gave
His life that we might have it, in abundance. It is the message and spirit of
Jesus that we should remember, as alive now as it was then. It was a message of
love.”
After the service we always stood with Father outside the church to greet
the congregation as they came out.
“Mrs Robinson-Smythe,” said Father. “I trust you enjoyed the
sermon.”
Mrs Robinson-Smythe was one of those sanctimonious people who are oh so
righteous, and for whom any piece of enjoyment is the work of the Devil. She
took his hand coldly and went without a word.
“She seems to be a bit off colour today.”
“I don't think she enjoyed your sermon, Matthew,” said Mother.
“How could she not enjoy it?”
“It may have been a little too, impromptu dear.”
Then Old Daniels came up, a humble man.
“Ah Daniels, I trust you enjoyed the sermon. A little, impromptu
today.”
"Makes you look at things in a different light. Was He really
ugly?"
“It has not been ascertained if He was ugly or not.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t really matter does it. I thought what you said
was very, ah, enlightening.”
“I'm glad you liked it.” Old Daniels shuffled off. There was a light
in his eyes. “Well there's someone who appreciates my sermons. Now what about
a roast dinner. Nothing like a bit of preaching to whet the appetite.”
“Mother I think I'll practice my violin this afternoon,” I said as we
walked to the manse, which was next door to the church.
“I thought you were going out picking flowers Lucy,” said Mother.
“Why would you want to practice your violin Lucinda?” asked Father.
He had to make a thing of ‘Lucinda’ because Mother had lapsed and called me
Lucy.
“If Jesus was so ugly then I think He will need comforting with sweet
music,” I told him.
“I can see I have started a long series of letters to the newspaper. I
did not say that Jesus was actually ugly, all I said was that it was possible
that He could have been.”
“What your father means is that if He was ugly on the outside He was
the Son of God on the inside.”
“Yes, I thought that was obvious. Come on Robbie.”
“Matthew, your son's name is Robert.”
“Oh well, so it is.”
I suppose it was a childish notion to think that I might be able to make
the Ugly Jesus happy by playing the violin. Violins, violas, cellos, that family
of stringed instruments are difficult to play because the notes are not found
for you, you have to find them by putting your finger on the string in the right
position. You have to feel the note, caress it... you have to be able to adjust
for the temperature in the room. Mother had given me lessons but somehow I had
never been able to find the note. All I could come up with was a lot of
scratching. Mother was an excellent performer and had a beautiful tone, mellow
but with a touch of astringency. I used to listen to her play in chamber music
concerts and could not comprehend how playing could be so perfect.
“It will come one day,” she would say. “It will come when you least
expect it.”
I sat in my room on the bed scraping away when Robbie came in.
“Do I have to listen to that caterwauling?” he wanted to know in his
cheeky way.
“You don't have to come in if you don't want to listen.”
“I could hear it in the hall.”
He sat down on my chair.
“Why don’t you go away if you don’t like it?”
“I want to know why you told on me.”
“I didn't tell.”
“You did so.”
“It's not Christian to tell lies.”
“You got me in trouble.”
“I don't want you to go to Hell for telling lies.”
“I don't care about Hell.”
“You would if you were there.” He just shrugged his shoulders. “Did
you really put it in?”
“Of course I didn't.” He gave his mischievous smile “She nearly
dropped the baby.”
“I suppose you thought it was funny.”
“You laughed.”
“I did not. Why are you always bad?”
“Baddies get all the loot.”
“And they get put in jail.”
“Someone has to be a baddy. All good adventure books have a villain.
When I grow up I'm going to be a robber.”
“Don't be silly.”
“I don't want you to tell on me.”
“Why shouldn't I make sure you are a good boy?”
“I've got a brandy snap. I took it out of the cupboard.”
“I'll tell.”
“I'll eat it and say you took it.”
“Can I have it?”
“Only if you promise not to tell.”
“God sees everything you do anyway.”
“I don't believe in God.”
“It doesn't matter if you don't believe in him, he's still there.”
“I don't care. Are you really playing your fiddle for Jesus?”
“Yes.”
“That's silly. Have you heard the story about Pat and Mike and
Mustard?”
“No, and I don't want to.”
He was always trying to embarrass me with schoolboy jokes. Do you
remember schoolboy jokes? How inane. It wasn’t until his later days that his
jokes became humorous.
“I can teach you a trick with twenty-one cards.”
“I'm playing the violin.”
Robbie went. I picked up the violin and began playing and for the first
time ever, the notes were right. I was playing in tune and it was all because of
my love for Ugly Jesus.
There are four things that have been the centre of my life. They were all
represented on this day.
First there is family.
Second, religion. Such a strong river of philosophy I was subjected to
from an early age, and had to resolve.
Third, music, which enlightened my life.
And lastly?
Flowers of course.
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