You Can’t Beat Wellington on a Good Day
“Give those back, you bastard, bastard, bastard wind!” The man’s suit jacket flapped behind him like a superhero cape as he chased his papers down the street. I giggled slightly to myself as I ran to help him gather them up. He grinned sheepishly when I passed over a handful of documents. “Wellington!” he sighed in exasperation and we shared a knowing look.
Most Wellingtonians have a love/hate relationship with our signature element. The scourge of washing lines, terror of trampolines and reason we can’t have nice outdoor furniture, or umbrellas – the twisted skeletons of which are often seen poking up from rubbish bins. I’ve seen an open umbrella haring down the street by itself, no owner chasing after it. A friend of mine once spotted a pair of pants walking down the waterfront with no human inside.
When all that’s said and done though, we are fiercely proud of our city – wind and all. “You can’t beat Wellington on a good day,” we say to anyone who will listen. If you can tolerate the occasional gale force tantrum, the city will reward you with a single, perfect, jewel-like day which makes it all worthwhile. It’s part of living in and loving this city. Or at least it used to be. Somewhere along the line, things changed.
The first murder of that summer was at a bus stop. An argument over a delayed arrival got out of hand. The perpetrator was a policy analyst, who pled guilty immediately. He had a completely clean record. His family, friends and colleagues were shocked and he himself had no real explanation for his behaviour. One minute, he was in the midst of a heated discussion and the next, the red mist descended and he had his hands around another man’s throat.
This was the beginning of a flood of unlikely killers – policy wonks and politicians, teachers and florists. A particularly nasty brawl that broke out in a rest home between the residents and the girl guides who were there to sing for them had to be broken up by the police riot squad. News reports about Wellington grew increasingly grim. Domestic violence rates were up, road rage incidents were on the rise. It was as if the entire city woke up one morning in an unfathomable, unnatural rage.
Nobody mentioned the good days anymore.
I was more careful when I went into town and stopped making eye contact with strangers, but for a long time, it was only on the periphery for me. I felt a sort of sadness for the state of our once vibrant city, but it wasn’t until I was paying one of my regular visits to my Great Aunt Polly that things really hit home.
Polly’s cottage was just a block away from our old family home in Island Bay. As a kid, I was obsessed with my great aunt. As far as I was concerned, she was the fount of all knowledge. I was one of those precocious kids who needed to know everything about everything immediately. I’m certain Polly’s presence was a huge relief for my Mum, who would often send me down for visits. I suspect to get a break from the incessant “What’s that? What for? Why?”
“Why don’t you ask Aunt Polly?” was a common phrase in our household. She was technically my great aunt, but that was a bit of a mouthful for a toddler, and ‘Aunt Polly’ stuck.
Luckily for Mum, Polly was more than happy to answer my questions and fill my head with knowledge of her own. “Did you know?” followed by whatever I had learned from Polly that day replaced the whys and what fors. I don’t know which was more annoying actually. I must ask Mum one day.
Polly taught me all about Wellington. About its storms and its shipwrecks and where the shoreline used to be. She showed me which local plants were poisonous and which could fix a tummy ache when brewed into a tea. We would go for walks along the beach and she would tell me which shells belonged to which critters. Most importantly though, she taught me about the wind.
It was on one of our beach walks that Polly first told me about listening to the wind. I had found a shell on the seashore and excitedly pressed it to my ear to see if I could hear the ocean like I’d heard about from some kids at school.
“That’s not actually the ocean you hear, dear,” Polly said to me softly. “It’s the sound of the air around you made bigger because it is echoing inside the shell.”
Seeing my look of disappointment, she knelt down to my level and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t be upset. I can show you something much better.”
Instead of listening for an ocean that wasn’t really there, Aunt Polly taught me to listen for something that most definitely was. I know it sounds rather obvious. I mean everyone can hear the wind, especially around here. It whistles and it howls and it knocks things about. It’s not exactly subtle. But there’s a layer underneath that, and that’s what Polly showed me.
If you try hard, and at first it is really hard, you can hear more than just air rushing past. It sounds silly but it’s almost like words. People talk about the wind whistling and howling, and that’s exactly right. It does all of those things. But on a good day, you can hear it sing.
Aunt Polly and I would go for walks up into Wellington’s hills on windy days. Mum would fuss and wrap me up in jackets and mutter about why we couldn’t do it on a nicer day. Polly showed me the wind’s emotions. When it whistled, it was happy. Those were the kind of windy days where there was a sort of a spark in the air, when you were full of energy and excitement but you weren’t entirely sure why. When it howled, it was angry. Those times could be scary but also strangely cleansing, like it was blowing all the anger and rage of the earth somewhere far away.
It was on one of those howling days that Polly taught me that I could talk back. I’d had a rough day at school. I would sometimes get picked on for being a little different from the other kids. Most of the time, I could handle it, but that day had been particularly wretched. Mum was working late that afternoon, so I went straight to Polly.
She took one look at my tear-stained face and grabbed her jacket. “We’re going for a walk,” she said.
It was an absolute belter that day. Polly and I were forced to cling to each other as we clambered through bush and over rocks. Once we reached the peak of one of the hills, we looked over the bay down to Polly’s cottage.
“Okay, tell me about it,” she said.
I blurted the whole miserable episode out. “Normally, I can ignore them,” I sputtered, the wind ripping the words from my mouth. “But it just got to me today. They were being such bitches!” I glanced over at Polly, expecting a reprimand. I’d never said the B-word in front of her before. But she said nothing. In fact, I could have sworn I’d seen a little smile.
“I know I should be better than them but I just can’t be that all the time!” I sobbed.
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time,” Polly said. “It’s not healthy. It was a crappy situation and you’re allowed to feel angry about it.”
My eyebrows just about rose right off my head.
“Especially when they are being such …” she paused, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she waited for me to finish.
“Bitches,” I said, quietly but firmly.
“Say it again,” she said. “Louder this time.”
“Bitches!” I said, raising my voice.
“That’s it!” she said, joining me. “BITCHES! BITCHES! BITCHES!” she yelled savagely into the wind.
The wind swirled around us, ripping away our words as we danced and swore and howled like a couple of crazed banshees. I could have sworn the wind’s own howls were forming words.
“Be angry. It’s allowed. I am too. Be angry. It’s allowed. I’ll take it away.”
Utterly spent, Polly and I collapsed on the hillside, the wind still crashing around us.
“Thank you,” I whispered. To Polly and the wind.
It was on that day that I became BFFs with the scourge of brollies city-wide. I loved nothing more than to go for a walk on a day when the wind was singing, listen to it tell its stories and sometimes, when I was on my own, sing back.
When I had bad days that coincided with stormy days, I would climb up to the highest point I could access and scream my troubles into the void. It was a dance of joy and rage and power.
At 102, Polly is still going strong – a little frail but a lot tough. I visit her as often as possible and it was on one of those visits that Wellington’s new insanity came crashing into my life.
Before I even managed to get a third knock in, the door was wrenched inwards and there was Polly, brandishing a carving knife, her eyes burning and her slight frame trembling with rage. Instinctively, I jumped back, just in time, as she lunged towards me with a surprising amount of speed and power.
“Aunt Polly!” I said, trying to calm her – and myself. “It’s me!”
It was no use. Her glazed eyes barely registered me as she swung around, stabbing in my direction.
“You won’t take me! I’m not going! I’m coming out of here feet first, you motherfuckers!” she screamed.
My legs were trembling and tears sprung to my eyes, an involuntary sob wrenched from my lips. Whoever this was, it was not my aunt.
“No one is taking you anywhere, Polly,” I said, hands up in surrender as I tried to lead her back towards the house. “Let’s sit down and talk this over.”
It must have been my tears that snapped her out of it. She dropped the knife and collapsed to the ground. “Oh, oh! I’m so sorry!” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks. “I don’t know…”
“It’s okay, Polly,” I said, gently helping her up. “Let’s just get you inside.”
Both in shock, I steered her towards her favourite armchair and busied myself in the kitchen, where I could still keep an eye on her, making us both a cup of tea. I was scared and confused. As far as I was aware, there had only ever been one conversation between my mother and Polly about her going into care, and it ended the way we all thought it would. Mum really only suggested it because she felt obliged to point out there could be an easier way of life, but we all knew the old woman would never willingly leave that cottage. I had no idea what had put it in her head now.
I passed Polly her mug and sat in the chair opposite. Her eyes had cleared, and all I saw was confusion and contrition.
“I don’t know where that came from. I really don’t,” she said. “Everything’s just got so … heavy. Sometimes I feel like everyone is out to get me. I get so scared I can’t breathe. Would you mind opening the window, dear? Let a little air in?”
I squeezed her hand and got up to open the window, but I knew it would be in vain. There would be no fresh air. Wellington had been uncharacteristically still for a long time. “How long have you been feeling like this, Aunt Polly?” I asked. “Be honest.”
“Probably about three months,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t want to worry you or your mother.”
“Three months is a long time to feel out of sorts,” I chided gently, not wanting to upset her more than she already was. I settled myself back into my chair, now sticky with humidity. To be honest, I was a bit on edge, too. I hadn’t slept for a long time. The nights had been so muggy. It felt like Wellington had been like this forever, heavy and still and sullen. How long had it been? I wondered, an idea formulating in the back of my mind.
I pulled out my phone and checked the latest ‘Why is there no wind?’ story in the media. ‘Record drought continues … no wind and rain for three months.’
For three months, our city had been hot, muggy and listless. Crops were drying out, yachts stayed put in the marina and nobody slept.
I did another search, heart pounding. Three months ago, almost to the day, Wellington’s first unexplained murder. The man at the bus stop. We’d had three months of darkness, violence and rage.
It sounded crazy but, in a way, it made perfect sense. For three months, we had been without our identity. We complain, but the wind is Wellington’s fierce beating heart. Without it, we don’t know who we are. It’s our lungs. It blows away our anger, pain and sadness – and for three months, it had been holding its breath.
I cast my mind back to before I stopped hearing the wind sing. We’d had a few decent blows in quick succession. Power lines downed, seawalls breached, one man tragically killed when his car was crushed by a falling tree branch.
Mostly, it was frustration though. Our language around the wind had changed. People were busy and didn’t have time for its shenanigans. Knowing smiles had been replaced by curses. We hated it. We wanted it to stop. When I thought about it, the vitriol against the wind had been the worst I’d ever heard.
I showed Polly what I had found. Her eyes widened.
“I think it’s on strike,” I whispered incredulously.
She just looked at me.
I was certain now, and what’s more, I was angry. “The wind has been sulking for the last three months and it’s destroying our city.”
“The selfish shit!” Polly, the old Polly – my Polly, was grinning at me, eyes sparkling. I stood up and grabbed my jacket, heading for the door.
“I think it’s time someone told it to pull its head in,” I snapped. Polly pulled herself up to come with me. I took one look at her 102-year-old frame and shook my head. “Not this time, Polly. You’ve taught me everything I need to know. I’ll sort this one out myself. Don’t get into any trouble before I get back,” I finished sternly, closing the door behind me before she could talk her way into the expedition.
Sweating, panting and cursing the fact I hadn’t had the forethought to bring a water bottle, I clawed my way to the highest point of the hills behind Polly’s cottage. I stood for a moment, catching my breath and surveying the bay and the city, all the tiny people in their tiny houses. I thought of the anger and the pain and the death. I thought of Polly in her cottage, alone and angry and not knowing why, and I screamed at the top of my lungs.
It was a ragged, raw, painful scream that echoed across the hills. I was angry too, but I knew exactly what I was angry at.
“WHAT. THE. FUCK?” I screamed, not caring if anyone could hear.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” I screamed again, a burning, guttural cry of rage. I spat and snarled; a woman possessed.
“WHY?”
Nothing.
I collapsed to the ground sobbing, laying on my back with my eyes squinted closed against the sun. Exhausted, my breathing finally slowed, and as it did, I felt something prickling at the back of my mind.
It was pain. Pain and then anger. It was a barrage of constant curses and snide remarks. It was hearing it was hated thousands upon thousands of times. I lay there, not even trying to wipe away the tears streaming down my face.
Sitting up, I looked around. Not a whisper. Everything was achingly still. “It’s not true,” I rasped, my throat raw from screaming. “We need you. Yes, people can be arseholes, but they’re just people. You’re the wind!”
Still nothing.
“Have you seen what this city has become without you? People are dying!” A flash of an old man, dead in his crushed car.
“That’s different!” I yelled, my energy creeping back. “That sort of thing happens. That’s nature. You’re nature! What is happening now is the opposite of natural!”
I thought of Polly and the men at the bus stop. The man who was murdered and the one who might as well have been.
“Alright!” I yelled. “You’ve made your point! Do you want us to beg? Watch the news, we fucking are! Are you really going to let a bunch of bipedal bullies win? You’re the fucking wind!”
I could have sworn I felt a tiny gust. It only stirred my rage.
“Blow, you coward!” I screamed.
The prickle in the back of my head turned into an angry surge. ‘Good!’ I thought. ‘Let it get mad. I’m mad.’ The pain became intense. I ignored it.
“Are you mad?” I screamed, heaving myself up from the ground and flinging my arms wide. “Come on then. Knock me down. Come on, you coward. Fight me!”
A stabbing pain behind my eyes. I doubled over but stood firm. I thought back to the first time Polly took me up into the hills in a gale. How upset I was, how the wind blew away my pain and rage. I thought of the words I heard in the wind’s howls and I shouted them into the air, spinning around and around.
“Be angry. It’s allowed. I am too. Be angry. It’s allowed. I’ll take it away.” I felt a strength grow in me as I recited the words like a mantra.
“Be angry. It’s allowed …”
I thought of the silly schoolgirl fight and of all the bullies in the world, of the people cursing and hating.
“BITCHES, BITCHES, BITCHES!” I screamed, electricity crackling around me as I turned faster and faster.
I didn’t notice at first that the rage building up inside me had burst outwards. It wasn’t until I slowed my spinning to catch my breath that I saw the sky had begun to darken, that the branches around me were beginning to sway. It had been so long, I had almost forgotten what the sound was.
I felt the wind’s rage building up around me.
“Come on then!” I taunted. “If you’re so pissed off, knock me down! Do it!”
It did.
One minute, I was shouting at the sky and the next, I was on my arse gasping for breath and grinning like an idiot.
“Yes!” I howled wildly. “Harder! Stir us up! Blow all the shit away!”
The wind finally obliged. I heard an almighty crack as the limb from a tree behind me crashed to the ground. Leaves spun through the air as I braced myself against a rock on the hillside. I let go, stumbling blindly down the hill, spinning in erratic circles.
“Be angry. It’s allowed. I am too.”
Grasping at tree trunks as I made my way back down to Polly’s cottage, I pushed myself against the gale. I looked up at the clouds racing across the sky and smiled.
You can’t beat Wellington on a good day, and today was a good day.