During
the 2014/15 season the Janet Frame Eden Street Trust celebrated a decade of 56
Eden Street being open to the public.
The
10 years have whizzed by and with constant attention and visitors the property
from time to time shows its age.
As
a special project to celebrate the 10-year anniversary the Trust launched a
campaign to establish a Capital Fund. As
with all of those of us ‘of a certain age’ constant attention is needed to keep
looking the best.
You
answered the invitation to be one of our foundation contributors to the Capital
Fund and this will establish a firm base to keep the property face forward to visitors
and all those who wish to celebrate, remember and learn about Janet Frame the
writer.
On
the weekend of 1 – 2 May we celebrated the anniversary with an event at
Burnside Homestead and Vincent O’Sullivan, Roger Hall and Sue Wooten ensured
the evening was a huge success.
This
crowned the success of the Capital Fund establishment for which we are hugely
grateful for your donation. To honour
this occasion A Capital Fund Thank you was gifted to the Trust and the
contributors – this accompanies this thank you for you.
Thank
you The Janet Frame Eden Street Trust.
This newly discovered short story by Janet
Frame includes, by an extraordinary coincidence, the names of all of those who
have contributed to the Janet Frame Eden Street Trust Capital Fund.
At least that was her intention, but it is possible that there may be errors
and omissions, and that people’s
reputation may be unintentionally besmirched.
The number of stylistic inconsistencies and
anachronisms contained in the story are possibly clues that the whole
thing is
as big a fake as were Hitler’s Diaries.
You can now judge for yourselves.
WATCH THE BIRDIE
Isabel said, “We should hold our hands like this.” She hooked her fingers together in a way that
suggested they could never ever be pulled apart.
“That’s for girls’ class photos,” said Myrtle. “And only if you’re sitting.”
Bruddie said for sports teams the captain held the cricket bat or the
rugby ball with the year chalked on it.
“And they have their arms folded, “Mum said, dragging a comb through my
hair and losing two in the process. She added
that the important thing for school photos was, “to look one’s best”.
All this work to look one’s best and no photo would come to the
household. Not at the price charged.
Dad said school photos were a racket.
“Racket?” That was a loud noise,
or something to hit balls with. How could photographs be a racket?
“It’s not just the photos,” said Dad looking up from a pile of bills
before stuffing them back in the hat. “We can’t afford the frames.”
I thought about this for a moment. A joke.
Dad went to bed saying he
had to get his beauty sleep so he could look his best for his job at
The Railways. Another joke.
“Looking one’s best,” said Mum,
“means having clean shoes.”
She began scrubbing furiously over muddy leather with a folded up
newspaper
“They won’t see shoes,” said Myrtle.
But Bruddie got hold of the tin
of Dad’s precious Nugget applied
occasionally onto his railway boots.
“No time for that,” said Mum. “And put the lid back on,” she snapped,
but not before Bruddie had dipped his finger in it.
We looked at the clock, she was right and we rushed outside and down
the street, a street so steep a dropped marble could outpace pedestrians.
Every day, Roger Robinson would be running
up it, with a wave and a smile to us.
Myrtle said he should have whiskers and a pocket watch.
But Dad used to say, “Why would man be always running when he hasn’t
any debts?”
Most days, Carol Berry, our friendly
postie, criss -crossed her way up the street , from post box to post box. Personal letters to 56 Eden Street she would hand to us, but
in fact most envelopes with our address on were bills, reminders of bills not
paid, or ones that began, “Dear Sir, Unless…”.
These she would stuff quickly into our box, avoid eye contact, and
hurry on.
Sharp left to Reed Street, where the doctors lived.
Dentists, too.
Mr Cooper and Mr Hunt had nice “abodes”, as Mum
called them.
Mum threatened to send us to them whenever we asked for money to buy
lollies.
Bruddy said he heard the rich had all their teeth out when they were
21. Which meant the rich could eat as many lollies as they wanted.
Betty and George Patterson, visitors from Wellington, passed
them on their morning walk.
Mr Patterson said to them,
“Always take the dog for a walk, even if you haven’t got a dog.”
And when Councillor Perkins walked by,
he smiled at them even though it wasn’t election year.
The milk tanker rumbled past on its way to the Whitestone cheese
factory. “The Big Cheese,” we all called
it, but
June said it was called
Whitestone because they ground up white stones and added it to the cheese.
“Like farmers adding water to milk.”
Bruddie said with a leer, “It’s in the Bible and it’s called ‘adultery.
’ ”
‘Huh,” said Myrtle.
“They wouldn’t,” said Isabel.. “ It’s won prizes. Simon and Annabel wouldn’t do that.””
At school, there was the sense that this was no ordinary day. Teachers
and children milled around in the playground,
every one staying outside rather than going into the classrooms, a
chatter of anticipation.
A bottom in long dark striped trousers was sticking out from under a
black cloth, with three other legs supporting a camera. The bottom belonged to the
photographer Mr Tramposch, and his wife Peggy
was sorting out what were called
“plates”.
Did the plates have fancy names? Like Royal Wedgewood or Crown Derby?
Royal Kodak didn’t seem appropriate.
Miss Cowan (“destined for bigger things at Waitaki Girls”
according to Myrtle) was already writing
“Primer 1 and 2” onto a small blackboard, while
Mrs Aker was ushering them into lines. In their spare time they were both members of Altrusa a society of
women which did “good work”.
Miss Camp
and Mrs Natusch were mother-henning their
respective classes into groups. “Bluestockings
both,” Mum said of them once. “They got
educated, they write, and they are ‘free spirits’.”
“I’ll have some of them,” Dad had said and Mum slapped him on the
shoulder, but laughed too.
I looked at their legs, as I did everyday, but neither was wearing blue
stockings.
June was sitting on the ground in her Primer group and Gwenda Pennington, sitting next to her helped her to
sit cross-legged like the others and clasp her hands just as Isabel had said.
It was almost time for the whole school to be photographed.
Mrs Natusch said loudly as a warning to all, “And Gordon Scott , we won’t have a repeat of last year,
thank you very much.”
Gordon grinned and everyone knew what she meant.
Last year Mr Tramposch had explained to them that the camera had a lens
that followed the group from left to right. “Like a sun flower,” said Karen Ross, a girl in
the top form who knew almost everything and was destined for Wellington.
“Heliotropic,” murmured Kate Camp.
Last year Gordon had been the sun and run from left to right behind the
school group and turned up at the other end just in time to appear in the photo twice.
He got the strap but his grin said it was worth it. Bruddie looked at
him enviously.
I hoped this year’s latest “latest thing” would be that the camera wouldn’t stop, that it could
go round and round, the whole class running behind themselves, like a murmuration
of starlings, whirling and swirling around the camera, emitting cries of joy
before coming to rest, panting but exultant.
After the excitement and the late start for all classes, there was a
holiday feeling to the rest of the day.
It continued after school, when Myrtle said, “We’re all ‘looking our best’. Let’s hit town.”
Hitting town was another phrase that I knew I hadn’t “nailed”. I suspected “hitting town” had different
meanings related to age and sex and time of day.
For Myrtle it meant seeing boys in milk bars, looking at them and
making sure they saw her. It was the older boys from Waitaki High who
Myrtle wanted to see, boys who had
“promise”.
Sure enough the promising boys were there, grinning at her from inside.
George, Michael, Grant and not one but two Davids. They mimed that if she came in, they would
buy her a milk shake”: mixed berry flavour. One of the Davids moved back and there was
glamour-puss Claire Matthewson who smiled
enigmatically at Myrtle and then defiantly drew on a Benson and Hedges.
Myrtle, not to be deterred, said firmly, “I will see you all in
Beattie’s Bookshop.”
Although we all loved Beattie’s bookshop, we all wanted to see what
Myrtle would do with five promising boys and Claire, but she wouldn’t enter
until we were safely down the street.
In the bookshop, Mr Beattie allowed us
to sit in the corner and take down books from the shelves, so we could “browse”. But today he was busy with a
visitor.
“This is Mr Gavin McLean,” he said.
“He’s a professor of history.” He paused for us to be impressed, but we were
busy browsing.
“He’s also a writer. He has written lots of books.”
I stopped browsing and stared at him.
“Historical,” said Mr McLean, as though that explained why no one was
in the shop for a book signing.
“I’m in Oamaru to do research.
On the wonderful historical homestead, Burnside.
It’s a treat to be so well-looked after by the wonderful hosts, Alison and Bruce
Albiston.”
He signed two books in case anyone came in later and then departed. Mr
Beattie waited a moment or two before saying,
“History is all very well but often ruined by facts. True writing is
writing from the imagination.”
I was so excited by what he was
saying, I started to quiver. One of the combs fell out of my hair.
A woman came in from the street. “Sandra,” cried Mr Beattie.
“Children” said Mr Beattie, “this is Sandra
Pooch. She is a very clever woman.”
I peered at her legs for signs of blue.
“Sandra can make Maths fun.” We looked at her disbelievingly. Sandra
made Maths fun for a few minutes, but then Isabel looked at her blank wrist and
said, “We’re late,” and we ran out of the door all the way home.
At school the next day, samples of all the photos were posted on the
notice board and there were order forms for those who wanted copies to be taken
home.
“We can’t afford the frames,” we
said to every one again and again, the joke implying that we didn’t care.
But the school photo, well yes, we decided we would all have to pool
our pocket money to get a copy. Because at either end of the whole group was
the same person. The face was mostly covered with a cap so the guilty boy
could evade the strap. But we knew who it was. For if you peered closely
you could see at the tip of the nose, yes it was, a blob of Nugget.
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