Charlotte Grimshaw: After lockdown
When George and Audrey talked about emigrating, he wanted to become a farmer. He’d signed up for the war underage and had been at the liberation of Changi. He’d travelled and got a taste for it, and while Audrey barely knew how to read a map and hadn’t been anywhere, she trusted his ideas, so they left grim post-war Manchester and sailed to New Zealand.
After that George said, ‘‘I’m never going home.’’
They found work, and started exploring the country, venturing further until, one summer, they made their way to a rural settlement in the Far North. They kept going, past beaches and a marae, where the road came to a dead end. Here at the edge of Doubtless Bay was a small wooden house.
It was getting dark. Audrey was doubtful but George said, ‘‘Look, the gate’s open.’’
He knocked and asked if they could camp on the land.
The house belonged to Biff (Pawhau) and Roma Rupapera, and that summer began a friendship that lasted the rest of their lives. They camped at the Rupaperas every holiday, until they could build a bach nearby.
George and Biff fished together. Audrey and Roma sat talking under the pohutukawa at Whatuwhiwhi Beach. They called this ‘‘putting the world to rights’’.
Over the years the families grew close. The children all played together. Roma was a respected kuia, mother of nine; she and Audrey were both churchgoers, upright, community-minded. You would see them, under the tree beside Aunty Song’s bach (a house no bigger than a large packing crate) airing their opinions on the world, Audrey solemn, her back straight, talking in her thick Manchester accent, Roma grand and slyly humorous in her leopard print hat.
When George died, the Rupaperas came to Auckland. Roma told Audrey, ‘‘We’ve come to take George home.’’
After his tangi on the marae, George was buried in the Ma¯ ori graveyard on the hill at Whatuwhiwhi. From there you can watch the currents sweeping across the water, the gannets diving like missiles into the sea.
Audrey lived on in Auckland. She spent time with her devoted daughter Jane, with her grandchildren. She went faithfully to St Barnabas Church in Mt Eden. She knew all the church controversies, the scandals. Asked to comment she’d turn discreet, priestly. On rare occasions she’d cut loose, revealing a sense of humour so rich you marvelled at the self-control it must take to conceal it.
She started to struggle and grew more frail. She passed out and was rescued by her neighbour. In hospital she said, ‘‘See that bed over there? There’s been a fire burning on it all day!’’ She moved to a rest-home.
Two days into the level 4 lockdown, Audrey had a turn. A doctor came. It was best, he said, that she stay where she was. It would not be long.
Level 4 imposed its rules: one visitor at a time. Only 15 minutes at a time. Only her children could visit. No grandchildren. No touching. Stay two metres away.
As she lay dying, first her son then her daughter spoke to her across the room. Her elder son, a paramedic, was in lockdown in the Far North. Her children couldn’t gather at the bedside, couldn’t meet after she died. There could be no last visit at the funeral parlour, no funeral.