Janet Wilson on Frank Sargeson

Another reminiscence of Frank Sargeson from the November 1995 issue of Quote Unquote. This one is by Janet Wilson, organiser of the Katherine Mansfield Centenary Conference in London in October 2008.

Visits And Visitors
Frank Sargeson’s had been a name uttered in our household with reverence ever since I could remember, because my father Phillip was both a friend of his and an admirer of his work; he modelled his first published story, “Charlie”, on the example that Sargeson had set and received encouragement and support from him during the early days of his literary endeavours. As a little girl I gazed at the books in my father’s bookcase and remained fascinated by the title of one novel: I Saw In My Dream. What visions did one see in a dream, I wondered, important enough to write about?

On one of our rare trips to Auckland, the family accompanied my father to meet him. Our shyness and awe in his presence of this man was quickly overcome when he gave us a two-shilling piece each, unheard of riches for us. But when we all went outside to inspect the garden at the back of the house, my little sister Katie, then three, lost hers among the cabbages, and after our frantic scrabblings among the earth and leaves failed to find it, started sobbing into my mother’s skirt.

Sargeson, noticing a family drama going on in whispers behind him, stopped his conversation with my father, and led us back into the house, where, lo and behold, another two-shilling piece was produced, and the tears instantly ceased. Despite it being the obvious solution to the calamity this gesture struck me, at the age of eight, as an extraordinarily generous one; and even now I would see it as a sign of the concern that Sargeson so often displayed for those in any kind of distress.

I met him again, perhaps 20 years later, when I returned to Auckland to live and would sometimes drop my father off at the house in Esmonde Road on a Sunday afternoon, usually stopping to come in for a brief exchange and a glass of Lemora straight from the flagon.

But my most vivid memory of Frank came from our visit to the antiquarian and scholar, Ralph Bodle, who lived at Kaukapakapa. The trip was planned several weeks ahead with infinite care, my contribution being to provide the transport (I drove an old blue Morris in those days) and act as chauffeur.

My father and I arrived at Takapuna early on the appointed day, a November morning, bright and clear after showers. Frank emerged prepared for the journey with a thermos of tea, but also laden with several mysterious parcels wrapped in newspaper. He immediately gave me a $5 note to cover the cost of the petrol, waving aside my protestations, which I finally ceased after a warning nod from my father.

Wisely, as he had not driven with me before, he insisted on sitting in the back seat, and as the blue Morris bounced along the country roads past grassy paddocks and bush-covered slopes, my delight at visiting this unfamiliar hinterland of Auckland was fuelled by hearing my passengers’ reminiscences of earlier days. Before we reached our destination at Oyster Point Road, Frank asked me to pull in along a side road which led to a large farm extending back into the hills. We stopped by the gate, and here the meaning of the parcels became clear as he explained that they contained bones to be left at the gate for the farmer’s dogs, which we could hear barking in the distance.

As Sargeson walked towards the gatepost, the parcels clutched under his arm, a small stooped figure with hat aslant his head, and coat loosely hanging, I saw him for the first time in the midst of the raw environment about which he had written so powerfully: sinister-looking macrocarpa-clad hills, rugged outcrops, austerely sweeping contours of land, and the house set back from the road, partly obscured by trees. Here, I thought, is the true New Zealand farm, set on sprawling and untamed countryside, and with that my mind turned to thoughts of the Depression, the bleakness of life in this country in the 1930s, and its puritan repressiveness.

But the sobering recognition which this setting inspired, of how the man and his works had encompassed the darker side of New Zealand life, was quickly dispelled by Sargeson himself as he proceeded to entertain us with stories of the ageing farmer. He had recently taken a new wife, a mere 20-year-old, who amused herself in the mornings by bouncing on the newly acquired marital bed, up and down said Frank, until she exhausted herself, or woke her husband, or fell out on to the floor.

The North Auckland landscape soon yielded a kinder, more accessible aspect, for Bodle’s cottage, barely five miles further along the road, tucked into the hillside, surrounded by a profusion of flowers, was tranquil and welcoming. Our arrival was punctuated by the appearance of the ther¬mos flask, and we washed off the dust of the journey with some tea.

I paused to admire the banana passionfruit vine which was lovingly entwined with the hedge, but soon followed the others over to the rain tank where a family of frogs sat, barely perceptible at first against the moss and green slime, clinging to the moss-covered edges. We marvelled at their glowing jewel-green skins and softly palpitating throats until, suddenly alert to our presence, they dived in, then emerged unblinking, their long legs shooting out behind them like tails as they hovered around the sides of the tank.

One, sitting on the green vine in the middle of the tank, stared at us fearlessly, looking just like the frog prince, before suddenly disappearing; and Frank was moved to comment on how many people had misinterpreted the sequence in Memoirs Of A Peon of the tiny webbed frog’s hand grasping the broken edge of the leaf in the lily pool as it came up out of the water, as a gesture of survival.

But it was our meeting with the goat which really set the seal on our tour, and crystallised the day’s events for me. Tethered to a stake (she would otherwise eat everything in sight, Ralph explained), she came prancing forward to meet us, butting our legs with her horns. We stood in a semi-circle looking at her and discussing the intelligence of goats and their cleverness; but none of us was prepared for the sudden display of agility and energy to which she treated us.

By encouraging her to leap up, and by laughing at her eagerness, Frank must have inspired a burst of adrenalin, released her high spirits, or maybe she saw her chance to impress her circle of admirers, for then she was leaping and bounding through the air, hardly restrained by her lead, her long legs tucked under, then flying out in all directions. Over and over she jumped, twisted and turned, her feet hardly touching the ground. And for a few moments the day took on a heightened glow, sun and grass seemed to blend in to one dazzling picture of the huge white goat jumping endlessly and joyously, leaping through the air, just like the farmer’s youthful wife bouncing upon her bed, and our spirits, sharing in her abandon, soared and flew with her.

There were so many sides to a person and writer as gifted as Sargeson that it is impossible to convey the impression of a personal acquaintance, especially one as modest as mine was; but suddenly visible on that sunny day was the infinite presence of the man and the writer rolled into one, at one with his surroundings, and bringing to them a new sense of life.

So finally, this is how I remember Sargeson best; not just for his stories, but for the way he cherished the moment, and perceived something extraordinary in the simplest, most familiar features of the world, and how in so doing, he gave that world of nature – the green frogs, the white goat – the chance to revel in its own existence.

Kevin Ireland on Frank Sargeson

To mark the publication of Michael King’s biography of Frank Sargeson, who died 27 years ago in March 1982, the magazine Quote Unquote published in its November 1995 issue four reminiscences of Sargeson. This one is by Kevin Ireland.

How Far Is Friendship?
The streets of Takapuna are like ribs running out from the spine of Lake Road towards the beach in one direction and the mudflats in the other. Until the harbour bridge made this divide socially irrelevant, it served as a useful distinction for those who cared about such things. You either lived on the mudflat side or the beach side.

Frank was the first person who pointed this out to me, and it added in a small way to the subversive pleasure I felt when I visited him (at least once a week) in the mid-1950s, walking over from my family’s Rewhiti Avenue house to Frank’s little cottage halfway to the mudflats.

Frank was extraordinarily generous to all young people (and absolutely never exploitative or sexually predatory), and he was especially extravagant to me with limitless time, talk, food and books. After Janet Frame left for England he invited me to take over the army shed at the end of his section to do my first stint of fulltime writing.

So, some years later in London, it was a pleasure to feel that I was making a return for all that attention when I found myself part of a chain of coincidences that helped revive his career as a novelist. Through my New Zealand friend Neil Perrett, I met Martin Green, who was instrumental in getting Memoirs Of A Peon published, and Neil and I used to meet up with him in now-vanished Soho dives to fortify his resolve and feed his enthusiasm, and even have a drink or two.

In 1974 I was back in Auckland and one of my priorities was to drop in on Frank. Luckily, I was warned off by Tony Stones and Bob Dudding. Frank, they said, now had a telephone and he liked to be rung before a visit, even by old friends. He was also anxious, they added darkly, that since I had become a cosmopolitan I might come on a bit heavy and overpowering.

I rang, only for Frank to ask me exactly how long I would be in Takapuna, then to tell me that he wasn’t quite up to a visit, but he would get in touch when he felt he could manage it.

Days, then weeks, went by. Tony and Bob gave me updates on Frank’s health and disposition, and said I’d receive a summons shortly, but still no invitation.

Then, only a few days before I was to leave, Frank rang to tell me to call the following afternoon. I couldn’t have been more mystified – only to find, when he opened the door, that nothing had changed. Frank was as brilliant, perky and mischievous as ever. He opened a bottle of Lemora citrus wine, which he said he had gone to some trouble to find, and we passed hours in non-stop chat. It was exactly like the old days, except that every now and again he would drop in some reference to my having become a cosmopolitan. It was that word again.

Eventually, I objected by telling him appalling anecdotes against myself to prove that although I now lived far away, I was still an incorrigible Kiwi hick. Though I also contrarily pointed out that cosmopolitanism was one of the worst heresies against Stalinism, so where was the fault?

It was the single irritation in a marvellous afternoon. We were back on an old wavelength, so who cared about a mild touch of crankiness? Then, just as I was going, Frank said he believed my family had shifted – where had they gone?

Still in Takapuna, but further up the bay, I replied.

Still on the beach side? he asked.

Yes, Earnoch Avenue, I said.

That also puts them further up the social scale, he observed.

So far you’d call them bloody cosmopolitans? I asked.

He looked at me in surprise for a moment, then burst out laughing. That memory of Frank laughing is my last. The next time I was in town he was genuinely unwell and I took advice not to disturb him. I wish I’d been more cosmopolitan about it. I suspect my dear old friend could have done with a brandy.

Earth Hour

Kenyan journalist Aidan Hartley is making a film about India’s coalfields:

Outside, Jaria’s collieries are a vision of hell. Open-cast mining has destroyed the landscape, exposing seams of coal to the air so that they oxidise and then spontaneously ignite. The conflagration is out of control, spreading underground, spewing blue flames and poisonous gases from yawning cracks that swallow up entire villages. Chimneys belch smoke and coal dust hangs in a soupy smog.

It’s hard to see how turning your lights off for Earth Hour will make much of a difference, really. Speaking of gesture politics, the Age reports that:

the event, in its third year and rapidly expanding internationally, is being criticised from both the left and the right.

Aware of the criticism, Earth Hour’s organisers last year countered it with something concrete: businesses that signed up would need to pledge to reduce their emissions over the following year by 5 per cent. But this year, even that requirement has been dropped, and there has been no accounting of whether last year’s sponsors lived up to their pledge.

“We decided we’d actually downplay (concrete cuts) this time,” says Greg Bourne, chief executive of Earth Hour’s organiser, WWF Australia.

An analysis of the key sponsors of Earth Hour (among them Fairfax Media, owner of The Sunday Age) reveals that most have reported increased emissions in their most recent figures.

Monitor: Tim Blair

Swedish Pirate Party

Those concerned about Judith Tizard’s s92A, which is most of us, may be inspired by the example of the Swedish Pirate Party which, according to Der Spiegel, will field 20 candidates in the coming elections for the European Parliament:

“If the politicians want to prevent ordinary citizens from sharing films, music and other forms of culture, they have to constantly expand the ability to monitor—because as soon as the authorities close down one culture-sharing facility, another pops up very quickly,” says Christian Engström, who is the primary candidate for the party.

Monitoring has already gone too far, Engström feels. “There is a law on the way in Sweden which is already in force in Denmark. Rights owners to a film, for example, can demand the name of the person who pays for an Internet connection if they are able to track a person uploading or downloading films illegally,” Engström says.

I can’t tell if these guys are linked to the Swedish copyright-busting download site The Pirate Bay, but the full story is here.

Suffer the little children

The Economist describes how, in the aftermath of the credit crunch, the very poor will get even poorer:

As capital inflows and export earnings vanish, poor countries face a mountain of debt: $2.5 trillion-3 trillion of emerging-market debt falls due in 2009—as much as the American and European budget deficits, plus Europe’s bank bail-out costs. The World Bank puts emerging markets’ financing shortfall between $270 billion and $700 billion.

Tragically, these problems follow a decade of growth that has lifted millions out of poverty. According to Martin Ravallion of the World Bank, roughly one person in six in emerging markets had raised themselves above the $2-a-day poverty line in 2005, though they still got less than $3 a day. Many may now slip back. Mr Ravallion thinks that 65m people will fall below the $2-a-day poverty line this year, 12m more than he had expected a month ago; 53m will fall below the level of absolute poverty, which is $1.25 a day—compared with 46m expected last month.

The consequence will be dreadful. The World Bank reckons that between 200,000 and 400,000 more children will die every year between now and 2015 than would have perished without the crisis.

Best newspaper headline ever

As quoted in Simon Louvish’s biography of Charles Chaplin, Chaplin: The Tramp’s Odyssey:

Film Comedian And His Moustache Return To Los Angeles Exuding Gold

Monitor: The Word

In praise of foreign ownership

Home Paddock takes Finlay McDonald to task over his Sunday Star-Times column objecting to foreigners coming here and buying land and businesses. (Personally, I found it amusing – a Pakeha complaining about immigration, and a weekly columnist in an Australian-owned newspaper complaining about overseas ownership. That’s beyond even Dim-Post’s powers of parody.) She points out that foreign investment brings benefits to New Zealand and New Zealanders, giving this example:

One of the farms we visited last week is owned by immigrants who brought a lot of money with them when they came. They poured it into their property and have worked hard to increase its productivity and improve it not just economically but environmentally. They employ other New Zealanders, send their children to local schools, are active in the community and have strengthened the economic and social fabric of the district.

I can give another example from the Waikato. The Walker family immigrated here in 2003 and bought 60 acres of rough, hilly farmland. Here’s what they are doing with it:

We are slowly converting our land from an extensive and neglected sheep farm to a more mixed and sustainable enterprise. We are finding the process incredibly gratifying, pleasurable and damned hard work!

Our aim is that the trees we plant should enhance the landscape, provide shelter for the animals, and timber for the holding. Our stock should graze next to and within the woodlands and be in balance with the capability of the land. We want our pigs to forage on the woodland floor, our sheep and cows to work the open pasture, and our goats and chooks to fit somewhere in between. We are trying to build a system which is as self sufficient as possible, working closely with nature, to produce high quality, really great tasting meat, vegetables and fruit. . .

In 2006 we joined an organisation called WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms and small holdings). This is a world wide network of farms and small holdings where the owners host travellers (“WWOOFers”) who receive food and accommodation in exchange for half a day’s help.

Here at Soggy Bottom we have so far hosted German, English, French, American, Irish, Japanese and New Zealand WWOOFers.

So it’s all free-range, organic and tourist-friendly – what on earth is there not to like about this? But if McDonald had his way, the Walkers would still be in England, the land would still be unproductive and I wouldn’t be able to buy the superb Soggy Bottom sausages at our local farmers’ market. The sausages clinch it for me.

Subjunctive Soul

Gladys Knight and the Pips with “If I Were Your Woman” on the Ed Sullivan Show, 7 February 1971.

This is what television was like before Pop Idol and Dancing with the Stars. Real stars, live, making mistakes but being brilliant. The band drops out at 1:00 and then her mike does too when it kicks in again at 1:22 until 2:00, but even so, it’s great stuff. I’ve no idea why they’re all dressed like Robin Hood.

Sentence of the day

Cactus Kate comments on reports that morale at TVNZ is low and explains why it always has been:

It’s largely a vacuous shit-hole of nepotism, a large casting couch, backstabbing bimbos, himbos, overpaid middle management who would sink the Titanic in weight - scattered with many very talented creative people who continually get shafted because they aren’t “in” with the “in”crowd as at the end of year balance date.

The English abroad

The Telegraph has a list of 20 of the most ridiculous complaints made by holidaymakers to their travel agent, taken from research by Thomas Cook and the Association of British Travel Agents. They include:

“No one told us there would be fish in the sea. The children were startled.”

“We bought ‘Ray-Ban’ sunglasses for five euros (£3.50) from a street trader, only to find out they were fake.”

“It took us nine hours to fly home from Jamaica to England it only took the Americans three hours to get home.”

“My fiancé and I booked a twin-bedded room but we were placed in a double-bedded room. We now hold you responsible for the fact that I find myself pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room that we booked.”

“There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners.”

“I think it should be explained in the brochure that the local store does not sell proper biscuits like custard creams or ginger nuts.”

“We had to queue outside with no air conditioning.”

“On my holiday to Goa in India, I was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant served curry. I don’t like spicy food at all.”