Moods

There can be no doubt that weather influences ones’ mood.  As a child I loved rainy days.  That delicious sense of being safe and cosy inside, with all pressure to  pursue outdoor activities suspended.  I still feel that way sometimes.

But two days of grey sky, rain, and now Le Mistral as well, is more than I can bear in sunny Provence.  The cold is fine, the wind bearable on its own, and the snow fell for less than a day.  Today is just plain miserable.   My only consolation that when I went out for my daily walk, I was, for once, better dressed for the weather than the locals.  I have with me a proper full length raincoat with a hood and a big zip up the front.  I was prepared and protected from both rain and wind.  A snazzy ski jacket that exposes your butt and an umbrella just does not cut it in this weather.

Now before anyone gloats, let me remind those of you back in Auckland that a couple of weeks ago you were complaining non-stop about the weather and predicting the worst summer ever.  Now you are complaining about the heat and predicting the hottest summer ever.  GET OVER IT.  One thing that living in a relatively stable continental climate teaches you, is that NZers are OBSESSED with the weather, and utterly incapable of dealing with its unpredictability.  The weather forecast tells me it will be fine here tomorrow.  I can trust the weather forecast here.  Consequently, je suis tranquille.

I have been accused of leaving my Grandma story hanging yesterday.  Well, yes.  That is what writers do.  I will come back to that part of the story, but in the meantime let’s fill in some more recent background.

My mother was just seven years old in September 1939 when Germany invaded Poland marking the start of WW2.  She was only 13 when it ended six years later with the signing of the Japanese surrender on board the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.  I have stood on the very spot on the Missouri where that occurred, but I was thinking about all those young American men who fought across the Pacific theatre at the time, not my mother’s war.  Although in fact the two were connected.

At the start of the war my mother had four older brothers, and a father who had seen active service and remained a sergeant in the Army reserve.  At 47 her father was probably too old for service in the regular Army, but he served nevertheless as a training Sergeant on the Home Front.  Oldest brother Bill, then 25, was already in the Air Force.  He had been  based at Hobsonville near Auckland since 1936.  At 23 the next brother in line was Jim, easily old enough to serve.  Both brothers entered officer training, Bill in the regulars and Jim in the Maori Battalion.  Only Jim made it through.

Bill had the right stuff all right, but he lost a bet gambling with a prisoner while in charge of the stockade.  Bill had a perverse sense of honour.  Gambling debts must be paid.  He let him out and was cashiered.  Not an officer, and no record of subsequent service can be found.

Jim went on to serve throughout the war in North Africa and Italy, rising to the rank of Major.  A faded newspaper clipping contains a photo of him and three other officers from the 28th Maori Battalion studying a map on 23 October 1942, the eve of the Alamein offensive.  He was a Lieutenant at the time, and the photo is deservedly a family treasure.  He survived that brutal campaign, and all that followed, unscathed physically.  But by the time I knew him he was starting to unravel under the twin and related burdens of alcohol and post-traumatic stress.  It was not dramatic.  In fact, it was pretty much par for the course for men who had been and done what he had.

It might have been expected that the two younger brothers, Jack 17 and Bob 13 in 1939, would escape active service.  Not so, of course, since the War went on for six long years.  Jack followed Jim into the Maori Battalion once of age, but not as an officer.  Bob, who might easily have avoided service altogether, persuaded his parents to consent to his going into the Merchant Marine at only 14.  My grandmother apparently did not object.  I am not sure if she lacked imagination or responsibility, or was simply happy to bask in the reflected glory of her four adventurous and courageous sons.  Not something many mothers would accept today, but times were different I suppose.

So my mother grew up with her older brothers coming and going, mostly going, and her parents in an uneasy union, which she did not really understand.  It would not be an overstatement to say her care was neglected.  There was a lot going on.

She was sent to the local convent school, and later to St Benedicts College, but barely provided with the required uniform, which became her default clothing in and out of school.  Food was never short in the household, but money often was.  My grandmother’s fondness for the horses was partly responsible for that.  But in any case, there were other things to spend money on than the care and comfort of my mother.  She was at the end of the line, and whatever largesse may have been conferred on the older children had definitely run out.  

In any case, and for whatever reason, my grandmother was more demanding than indulgent by nature.  My grandfather, although not unkind or even unloving, had his own reasons not to concern himself too greatly with her well-being.  And he too had other concerns and responsibilities.

My mother did have an older sister.  Maisie was 22 at the end of the war, and had already left home.  She seems to have been fond of my mother, but they were in fact worlds apart – in age and life experience.  Maisie, like her brothers, was adventurous, determined, and absolutely beyond the control of her parents.  Photos of the time show an extremely stylish and groomed young woman, always looking at the camera as if daring it to come closer.  NZ men may have been in short supply, but the Yanks were camped down the road on Waikaraka Park. Maisie, by all accounts, had a very good war. 

But there was one supportive and positive woman in my mother’s life.  Jim was already married when he headed overseas, and his wife Jean was a sterling character.  She came from a strict religious family in Hamilton, and her  union with my uncle must have caused no end of dismay at the time.  He was already a drinker, like all of the brothers a womaniser, but her personality, character and charisma was such that it seems to have been a genuine love match at the time.  I suppose she was seduced by his dashing good looks and manner, and sheer exoticism compared to her staid upbringing.  Before long the  unsuitability of the match must have become apparent, but they stayed together for life and raised an adoptive family when fertility eluded them.  

Whatever the perils of her marriage, Jean was a strong and intelligent woman.  She could read my grandmother, and indeed most people, like a book.  My mother needed nurturing, and she needed someone to nurture.  Under her care my mother got better care, better clothes, and a degree of moral and ethical guidance that might otherwise have been lacking.  She was also loved, and loved in return.  She says, with everlasting gratitude, that Jean ‘saved’ her, although from what it is not entirely clear.

If you saw my mother in those years, she was a stunningly beautiful, if rather unkempt child.  Petite, with dark curly hair, high cheek bones, and fine skin, she was undeniably attractive.  She has been lucky enough to retain those looks for most of her life.  She was always a sportswoman, and physically adventurous playing alongside her intrepid brothers.  Lively might be a good way to describe her.  Nor did she lack intelligence, doing well at school with the nuns.  She was also popular, with close friends at school.

But her family life was chaotic, and if it was not apparent to her why that should be, there were others who did not hesitate to make her feel second-rate. 

Stopping now.  Come again another time.