| Published on July 5, 2012 | Issue 3765
At the time, I was almost as ignorant of New Zealand letters as Jack Dillon was. I had met and interviewed Frank Sargeson before going overseas. At university I had been tutored by the poets ARD Fairburn and MK Joseph. That was about it. I had never written an essay or a poem, belonged to a set or read a literary journal. I did not subscribe to Landfall. In London, asked about the New Zealand literary scene, I would say “cliqueridden”, though I knew nothing about it, never having wished nor been invited to belong. In my imagination and conceit I pictured groups of navel-gazing young poets and short-story writers earnestly striving in small magazines to create a New Zealand literature and a New Zealand identity as far removed from events on the other side of the world as possible.
Happily in Auckland an old friend, Jack Tresidder, had the sense to suggest I meet some real poets like Denis Glover. For some reason he did not mention Janet Frame, who had shot to prominence while I was away and recently returned from London, as I had. Her work was another gap in my education. And when Janet Frame herself walked into a bach I had taken on Waiheke and introduced herself, I had no idea who she was. “Janet who?” I said to the fresh-faced woman with a dimple who materialised on the doorstep. She stood in the sunlight, her hands clasped together at the waist, then half-turned to her companion. The latter, it transpired, was her sister. The sister said, “We were told that a bach round here was available for renting.” “Yes,” I laughed. “I’m renting it.” Janet smiled hesitantly. I invited them in and made a cup of tea.
In 1964 I knew nothing of her story. Perhaps, after she departed, I thought back and remembered the publication of Owls Do Cry. But I hadn’t read it, nor did she mention that she was a novelist. But for one exchange, so unremarkable was our meeting on Waiheke Island, I would not have guessed she was a writer at all. In conversation I happened to mention the word “lorry”, and she corrected me. “‘Truck’. It’s ‘truck’ here,” she said. “Oh. I’d forgotten.” Then, musing on the coloured roofs of the houses which struck me as 20 years younger than the inhabitants, I compared them to rows of boiled sweets. “‘Lollies’,” she said. “We say ‘lollies’ in New Zealand.”
I’m
sure she took me for a Pom. It would be some years before I realised how
English I sounded. I should have tumbled to that too, because when I
encountered Denis Glover he accused me of having a BBC accent. By the time I
met Denis Glover I had boned up on his verse and talked about him with Sargeson
and others. I knew of Glover’s role in the renaissance of the 30s and 40s. But
I had not known what to expect. Glover greeted me in a dressing gown. He had a
whisky nose and a parade-ground manner, even in carpet slippers. “I’m new to
this sort of thing,” he said, watching me unpack and take out the tape
recorder. “Stay the night. Stay two nights. Glad to be back, are you?” he said.
He added, “I’m not”, although he had been back in New Zealand almost 20 years. I
had written ahead, saying I’d like to interview him and make his verse
available to a wider audience when I returned to London. He was living outside
Wellington at Paekakariki with Khura, his lover.
Full extract can be read at The Listener. Better still, buy the book! It is a gem.
TOUCHSTONES: A MEMOIR, by James McNeish (Vintage, $29.99), released July 6.
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