Jen drives through the city on a high of happiness and apprehension. Wilkin is sweet about her new venture. “I do want you to be happy, darling,” he had said. “I know being at home isn’t easy for someone as intelligent you. Intelligent and beautiful,” he’d added, kissing her attentively before leaving for work. At the door he had paused and saluted. “Have a lovely day.” What’s not to love? This city is so beautiful, a paradise of magnificent trees and parks, and wonderful old buildings. But as she reaches Ilam apprehension rises as the dominant emotion. She is early, very early. She intends to be in the right place at the right time, prepared and unruffled.
Too modern, she decides, as she looks around her. The iconic Otago clock tower building swims into mind, fore grounded by gowned students tossing tasselled mortarboards. Jen has a fleeting sympathy for Wilkin’s desire for the old. Universities should be mellow stone buildings with ‘ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls’. It is a real shame the old Canterbury College buildings no longer house the university.
Jen knows she is older, wiser, wealthier, more cynical and, a sudden new truth, less at ease with uneasiness. The fabulous camaraderie of her previous university life is gone forever. She just hadn’t expected its replacement to be such an ocean of apartness. Jen has spent the last decade perfecting control of every part of her life; feelings of alienation are not on her horizon of expectation. She fights the urge to hate everything she sees. All the young women are aggravatingly thin, sweet and vibrant. The effortless sexiness of youth and the casual op-shop clothes niggle at her understated Levi’s and slightly over tight t-shirt. Snap out of it, you pathetic idiot. You eat lawyers, judges, politicians and their wives for breakfast — get a grip! She forces her shoulders down, lifts her head, takes a sharp breath and ascends some broad concrete steps.
When she makes it to 608 on the sixth floor, she is still early. The lecture theatre is not open. She is trapped in the foyer, surrounded by exuberant, bubbling, perfect girls. Most are embracing friends, catching up on holiday news, comparing phones, clothes, and generally being young. An Asian student wearing gorgeous strappy silver sandals adjusts her matching tote bag. Her silvered eyelids flutter in Jen’s direction. She nudges the girl next her. They exchange sniggers.
A small cluster of red plastic chairs is unoccupied. After some anguish Jen decides a seat is the safest option. She takes the only reasonable option her mind can find: being deeply interested in the literature pinned on the wall. The poster in front of her promotes Rainbow Campus — the HQ for lesbians, gays and transgendered people on campus.
“I hate that fucking poster, it is soooo typical of campus life. HQ this HQ that, it makes me sick,” says a loud voice.
“Whatdya mean, Angel? You told me you were going to be part of that scene and become the queen of the lipstick lessies. What’s changed, you fickle bitch?” The voice is male, good-natured and mocking.
“You should know, bitch,” the first voice replies. “It’s you and your kind who make me sick. But seriously, just so you other girls know … HQ is man code.”
The group breathe in together in feigned suspense. “Man code,” pipes the male voice. “Are you about to go Superdyke on me, darling?”
“You better pray I don’t, girlfriend.”
“Does she look like a dyke to you, Steve?” calls another voice.
From the corner of her eye Jen sights a full-figured Goth, neck to toe clad in jet black, hair with blue ends falling from a black cap.
“Well I mightn’t be a dyke, but I wear the fucking pants at my place, emo.”
The Goth flinches, and says nothing.
“I am going to reveal what Steve and his brotherhood of the peni are up to here on campus.” The owner of the voice moves as she speaks. “Just look at this fuckin’ poster!”
Jen looks up to see a startlingly beautiful Eurasian of about 19 standing right in front of her. “I know what you’re all thinking, and you’re all fucking wrong — including you, bitch,” thrown straight at Jen.
“I …” Jen splutters.
“Don’t worry, Mum, I’m just kidding …”
Jen feels her face flush and can’t halt the creeping embarrassment. Angel swoops like an owl on a wounded mouse. “Mmm it blushes, I know, I know … I meet your type every day at work. Girls, if you don’t know, I work at the Pierced Hood. YESSS I know, I’ve seen most of you there.” She pauses to wink at a sweet-looking academic type. “Seen you there a whooooole lot, sister.” Fits of giggles ripple around the circle. “MILFs, bambi dear, come in all the time. Not sure if they want to fuck, fight or get fisted. It’s so suburban, it’s a scream.”
“MILF?” queries an amused Steve.
“Yeah, MILF: Mother I’d Like to Fuck.”
Shrieks of laughter explode, drawing more bystanders into the terrifying mob. Jen feels tears pricking. How could this be happening? She can hardly breathe.
Angel, intoxicated by audience, pulls up to her full five foot six, 56 kg splendour and struts a peacock circle in front of Jen. “What Milfy here is experiencing is exactly what happens at my house everyday … I am the pretty one, I am the lipstick to her chapstick, I’m the girrrly girl, and you all think that makes me the meek little rub your shoulders, play with your hair, wear the lingerie bitch of the team …” Angel whips her perfect body to face the crowd, pausing for effect. “And you’re right.” She smiles, fit to pop with self-admiration. “But what you don’t know is that I’m the one who wears the pants. I make all the calls. She can’t even choose her clothes without me. It’s pathetic … but gorgeous.”
As Jen is praying to be swallowed by her plastic chair, thinking it can’t get any worse, Angel holds out a skinny little finger, slides it down Jen’s face, catches up a lock hair and twirls, saying, “Now Milfy here, God, sorry love, you know this is not really about you, it’s just me showing off, God you’re being a great sport … Milfy here knows exactly what I’m talking about, she wants something pretty, young, playful.”
“Hey princess,” a voice interrupts.
Angel pauses, peeved at being cut off mid-torrent. Another young woman moves forward, right up to Angel. The scene slips into slow motion. The new girl is pretty, early twenties, amber hair glinting in the sunlight thrown from the tall window, dress casual-chic. Her gorgeous Italian boots are a brand Jen herself likes to buy. They walk up to Jen’s Nikes and pause. Jen, unsure if the new combatant is an assassin or not, is frozen by embarrassment and dimly aware of burning lead immobilising her legs and feet.
“This is my fucking Milf, bitch, so step back.”
Angel’s lips pucker. “This is heaven. Are we going to fight? I bet you could whip my skinny white ass real good.”
“Oh you’d like that,” chided the new girl.
“We all would,” calls the Goth. “Beat some manners into that Cinderella, will you?”
“What I looove about lesbians,” contributes Steve in high camp, “is they are sooo energised in relationships.”
The amber head swings back to Angel. “Aaactually, darling, you could give me something.”
“Yes, daaarling?” responds Angel.
Jen realises she is off the hook.
“You can tell me what the fucking man code is in the HQ.”
Angel shrieks and hugs the new arrival. “I love a woman who can keep me to the bloody point. I’m such a bloody motor-mouth.”
“HQ, HQ,” Steve starts to chant. A couple of girls half-heartedly join in but it doesn’t take.
“OK, OK, here it comes, sisters.” The Eurasian beauty waves both arms downwards, hushing the group to attention. Jen slowly fills her lungs and forces herself to exhale fully and slowly. Keep breathing, she instructs herself, keep breathing.
Having her public’s complete adoration, Angel is ready to play her ace. “The HQ for Lesbians, Gays and Transgendered is … well, it’s … the thing is I have been told by some people that fucking know, the holy HQ actually stands for Homos and Queers. It’s run by dicks, for dicks, with a complete fucking fixation on meeting and having dicks. HQ is by men for men.” She spits, deliberately just missing Jen’s jeans. “Sorry love,” she fake-whispers with a shrug, as if Jen was an old friend and ally. “Me and my mouth.”
“Oh my Lord,” groans Steve. “I better be out of here before she has my balls for nipple jewellery.”
With Steve breaking the tension, the group loses shape, part drifting to the pair who took up the HQ chant, and most into the now-open lecture rooms. Angel wanders away with a 30-something dyke in canvas pants and plaid shirt. The amber-headed intervener spins slowly on her expensive heels, looks back over her shoulder. “God help us all, Milfy,” she grins, eyes rolling in mock horror. “God help us.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Despite the crowd in the foyer fewer than 20 students settle themselves in the tiered seating of Room 608. Apparently Biblical Text and Women is not a popular subject. Jen makes a quick calculation. Four rows of ten seats, small as lecture theatres go. Much to her relief Angel is not among the students, although the well-groomed Asian is, along with Steve, and the Goth, and the amber-haired girl with the boots.
The lecturer sweeps into the room wearing, of all things, a kaftan. How old is she? Decidedly menopausal, but for how many decades? Her hair hasn’t gone grey, and though light, isn’t white. Creamy strands swing to the level of her chin. The style reminds Jen of the sixties icon Cilla Black. Class and lecturer size each other up for a full minute before the woman speaks. Her eyes flick over each student in turn.
“Welcome to you all. My name is Sarai. Some say it means contention,” she says, with a slight tilt of the chin, and launches into lecture mode. “Just because a theory makes sense does not necessarily mean it is right. In this class we bring our own judgements.” As she pauses and repeats it, the diligent reach for their pens. “Feminist theory insists that singular definitions are misleading. Feminist criticism is born of dissatisfaction and concentrates on the political, social and economic rights of women. Gender is not a matter of sexual difference, gender is a matter of power.
“You have a list of recommended reading. Pursue it as you wish. The textbook for this course is the Women’s Bible Commentary edited by Carol Newsome and Sharon Ringe. Read the chapters as scheduled along with any supplementary hand-out sheets. My basic biblical text is the New Revised Standard Version as it uses inclusive language. The Bible is, for the most part, an alien text, not written by women or with women in mind, yet more than any other text it has proscribed our gender, dictated our sexuality and defined our social roles. This course is a reading of gaps and silences. Therein we will recover and reclaim the lost lives and voices of ancient women. Women and men are equally complex — gender does not make a person good or bad.”
Sarai moves from the lectern to centre stage in front of the whiteboard. “Today we will consider the First Lady of the Hebrew Scriptures.” She writes EVE on the whiteboard. “Was Eve a lady? Was she a Hebrew?” The questions are vaguely disquieting but comfortingly rhetorical. “Myths of all cultures are the earliest human attempts to answer the great truths of life. The creation myths of the Hebrew people have become the founding myths of Christendom, the founding myths of Western civilisation — myths Europeans claim as theirs, and for any country they colonise, their myths become ours.” Jen glances around the room: the chic Asian and a young Maori woman are stony faced.
“The Genesis stories contain superb imagery and layers of meaning. What springs to mind when you think of Eve?” Sarai spins from the whiteboard and flourishes a pointer, magician wand-like, toward the girl with glasses who had earlier been singled out by Angel. Miss Sweet Academic is comfortable in this situation. “Temptress,” she responds confidently. Sarai writes the word in round red letters and invites a free-flow of words connected to Eve. “Anything at all, whatever comes into your mind.” There is a long pause.
“Rib,” tentatively offers a girl in a bright t-shirt. She is rewarded with a smile.
“Yes, rib, a bone taken from Adam’s side, indicating woman is intended to stand beside man. Think on the key elements of the story. Much symbolism is contained in common nouns. Let’s have some more.”
I thought brainstorming went out in the seventies, thinks Jen, uncharitably. Most of the class appear to be enjoying the exercise. The board fills with garden, tree, apple, snake, fig-leaves, river, dust, angel, flaming sword …
“What about the character of Eve?”
Deceiver, liar, unworthy, weak, disobedient, manipulating.
“Much grief is laid on Eve,” encourages Sarai. “Where is the theology?”
An angular girl in front of Jen offers original sin.
Epitaphs flow — blasphemy, the fall, punishment, shame, lust …
“Every action produces a reaction. There are always consequences.”
Evil, says the Goth. Pain in childbirth, smirks Steve. Toil, supplies the only other male in the class.
Sarai’s pointer swoops the rows and pauses at amber-hair who, like Jen, has remained silent. “Daring,” she ventures with a look of defiance. Jen thinks she detects the briefest of nods as Sarai adds the word. When the pointer holds Jen in its power, she mumbles the word her brain is refusing to eliminate. She senses others strain to catch what she’s said, but Sarai writes without hesitation, initiative.
Sarai returns to the lectern and gives a dissertation on the first 11 chapters of Genesis, declaring it a collection of folklore. She sparkles with enthusiasm for her subject. Some of the students make notes; some look concerned; others lean on elbows, listening eagerly.
“The name Eve is not used until verse 20 of chapter three. The Man gives the name to his companion. Eve means the mother of all living but at the beginning of the chapter neither the male nor the female is aware of this possibility. The male interpretation of this creation myth has set a religious agenda for all women. In the sacred stories women appear as objects created for male use. When considering women in biblical text, think on this,” Sarai pauses and bobs behind the large panelled desk that extends the width of the whiteboard. The students gasp as one, the shock palpable, as they see what their lecturer hauls from behind the desk. The five foot two inches of Sarai is obscured by a blow-up sex doll. Doll and lecturer stand fused for a full 30 seconds, not that anyone is counting. In silence thick enough to slice, Sarai places the doll, tits up, on top of the long desk.
“Biblical women are absent as persons yet they fulfil a function. To find their personal spiritual journeys we must look beneath the obvious and clothe them with feelings and speech, and in some instances even names. In verse six of chapter three the Woman sees for herself that the tree is good and believes it is able to bestow knowledge. She chooses to obtain knowledge. The passive Man simply takes what he is offered and becomes a comical figure in his kindergarten-attempt to blame his mate. The eating of the fruit — not apple note, apples are not indigenous to that region. If you must name the fruit, apricot is the most likely.” At this point Sarai turns from the desk and rubs apple from the board. “Eve’s act of deliberate choice marks the beginning of social life and culture — with the knowing that good and evil roles are defined and hierarchy established. The roles assigned reflect the author’s male-oriented worldview.” She glances at the doll, as does every eye not already there. The raspberry nipples point passively to the ceiling.
Temptress is banished by eraser. Sarai looks straight at the disturbed features of the girl who supplied the word. The bespectacled eyes jerk from the obscenity stretched beneath the whiteboard and her cheeks turn red. Sarai’s focus moves to the angular girl. “No accusation of original sin can be found in the text.” As the girl’s contribution vanishes from the board Jen watches her long fingers clench into tight fists. “The concept of original sin comes from later male interpretations.” The immobile doll dominates the room, its mute orifices speaking volumes as Sarai darts backward and forward, talking her way over the whiteboard. River is erased to the explanation that four rivers ran from Eden. The mythical axis of the world nurtures all sides with its life-giving water. Dust, of the ground is a pun in Hebrew that connects people with the soil to which they will eventually return. She turns to the students, her face animated. “This pun can be transposed to English: from the humus, the human was formed.” She repeats the pun and continues removing words. “Angel means God’s messenger or representative, sometimes gifted with supernatural powers, sometimes indistinguishable from humans. Tree, two trees are mentioned. It is the Tree of Life that the angel protects with a flaming sword. Knowledge is useful — living forever is a very different attribute. She pauses at fig leaves. “Incidentally,” she says companionably, “despite what art would have us believe, the fashion was short-lived. God herself ran up little fur-coats for her favourites — check it out in verse 21.”
Words fall until only daring and initiative remain. Sarai turns back to the doll. “By initiating the momentous act of considered choice the woman was rewarded with the most earthy and most divine role, that of conceiving, containing and nurturing new life. It was that act of initiative and daring that gave women power.”
Sarai places her hands on the doll’s abdomen and slides her right hand between its naked legs. The stunned class watch in disbelief as Sarai’s hand disappears. With its withdrawal three seconds later the class resumes breathing, but Sarai hasn’t finished. In her hand is a penis-sized roll of paper. She begins to unroll it. Again the students cease breathing, their eyes fixed on a lengthening string of paper-dolls. Sarai drapes the hand-holding cut-outs across the inflated breasts. She looks dispassionately at the round eyes of the students and turns to the whiteboard. “Will the two persons who provided these words see me? The rest of you may go.” The students seem unable to move. “Lesson over,” says Sarai sharply. The spell is broken and the students shake themselves into action. “Wait,” says Sarai, holding up a restraining hand. “On Thursday I want to hear some reasons why the Hebrew God is male.”
The pen gatherers and paper stowers pause. Confused shrugs are exchanged and last looks slide over the female parody.
Jen and the amber-haired girl move to the front of the room. “Good thoughts,” says Sarai, nodding to the words on the whiteboard. “I noticed neither of you were thrown by Everywoman,” she adds. “Surprised but not perturbed.” She smiles. Little lines crinkle from the corners of her bright blue eyes. Seventy, if she’s a day, thinks Jen, returning the smile.
“Religious studies doesn’t attract large numbers,” confides the lecturer. “I like to think of my classes as a meeting of minds, possibly like-minded, and therefore to some extent a meeting of friends. To be friends requires knowing a little about the other. Would you care to join me for morning tea in my study?” Both women feel more flattered than apprehensive and murmur acceptance. “Good. Would you give me a hand with Everywoman?” Sarai stuffs the paper babies into her bag and retrieves her notes from the lectern. “This way,” she says, leading them out through the lecturers’ door. Jen and the other woman follow, carrying the doll, hoping no one will see them. No one does. In her office Sarai opens a commodious coat cupboard. With the doll stowed the young women are waved to armchairs.
When Sarai said morning tea, tea she meant. There is no sign of coffee. They are invited to choose from a wide range of herbal teas. “Now, who are we?” she asks when they are all holding steaming mugs and quality shortbread. “Nice boots,” she adds, revolving her office chair toward Kat.
“Katrina Mergagh, Kat.”
“Mergagh — rusty, freckles! That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”
“Rusty? Freckles?”
“Sorry,” laughs Sarai. “It takes me back to an Irish lad I met at Woodstock. He was freckled and pleased to be so — saw it as a fulfilment of his name. He assured me Mergagh means rusty or freckles.”
“Woodstock,’ says Kat, amused. “My grandmother was born at Woodstock … her father was a goldminer. No one goes to Woodstock. You must mean some other Woodstock?”
Sarai gives her lovely tinkling laugh. “Sometimes I forget how young students are. I imagine there are quite a few Woodstocks in the world but for my generation Woodstock is more a legacy than a place.”
“Peace, Flower Power, and Hendrix,” supplies Jen, not wanting to be paired with the young and ignorant. Sarai nods in Jen’s direction but remains focused on the younger woman.
“Oh, that Woodstock,” says Kat. “Thought they would all be dead by now, or too zonked to work,” she adds quickly.
Jen lowers her head but Sarai’s expression betrays nothing. “I understand Westport is one of the world’s most popular place names. I suspect by your accent you are from the West Coast. You’re not from Westport by any chance?”
Kat wonders if she should be insulted.
“No,” she concedes stiffly, but because Sarai looks genuinely interested she bends. “The other end of the Coast – Ross, actually, a gold town, like Woodstock, surrounded by dredge-tailings. My grandmother’s Woodstock is a tiny township east of Hokitika.”
“My Woodstock is in America, upstate New York.”
My god, thinks Jen, she was really there. At least she doesn’t have flowers in her hair … She notices a gold chain that dips below Sarai’s neckline. Perhaps she wears some bizarre medallion, a peace symbol.
“And you are?” Sarai turns to Jen.
“Jennifer Hawthorne, Jen.”
“Otago born?” queries Sarai.
She’s quick, thinks Jen, surely my southern rolling R’s have faded. “Mosgiel,” she acknowledges. Two can play this game. “And what about you? English? Spent some time in the States perhaps?”
Sarai looks pleased. “Yes, I was born in England. Wiltshire is my county of origin. I travelled a bit when I was young, spent several years in America, returned to the UK for a while, then travelled in Asia. But now Aotearoa suits me fine. I’ve been a card-carrying Kiwi for fifteen years.”
Kat is reflecting on the new knowledge that her name has a meaning. She usually curses its unfamiliarity as she has to spell it for form fillers. Damn! She hasn’t filled in any forms. Her little-known Irish name isn’t on the list. Now Sarai will look for it and notice.
Jen is realising her day has taken a remarkable turn. After the hideous start there was this amazing lecture and now she is drinking herbal tea with the amazing lecturer. She wants to express gratitude by being pleasant. Her eyes roam the room. A large square print of a triangle dominates a wall. She doesn’t know how she should respond to this, so moves to safer art, a framed piece of appliqué. Delicate stitching outlines an earth-mother figure clothed in brown and green hills. “This is beautiful,” she exclaims. “Did you get it somewhere local?”
“That’s a piece of my own work. Embroidery is a hobby, or rather used to be. I haven’t done any for a long time.”
“Utterly exquisite,” says Jen, standing for a closer look.
Sarai’s phone bleeps. She picks it up and after a pause, says, “Of course, Angelique. Yes it is an issue commonly misunderstood and frequently abused theologically. I was wondering if you would ring today. Excuse me a minute.” As she puts her hand over the mouthpiece, both Kat and Jen feel the lift in her energy. “It’s the Press, girls. I’m sure you’ve noticed gay marriage is back in the media circus — it can be a dreadful bore, but someone has to present a sound theological perspective.” There was no wave or goodbye, but it was clear the two women were required to leave.
“Attention slut,” giggles Kat as they shut the office door. “Talk about lapping it up.”
“Yes, darlings, it’s Angelique on the phone … you know, from the Press,” mimics Jen. “I’m guessing the horoscope is about all you can stomach from the Press,” she teases, “so you probably don’t know Angelique Tomlinson is the one of the most respected journalists in the country.”
“I know who Angelique Fucking Tomlison is, daaaarling,” pouts Kat in a mock posh voice, and then says in a changed tone, “I can see why she would get on with Sarai: she’s into women’s issues. I’ve been following her investigation on the fate of sex workers in Christchurch. I like the opinion columns. That’s why I decided to see what Sarai is like in the flesh.”
“And what do you think of her now?”
“Talk about ego — she thought she was Oprah when the phone rang. But I enjoyed the lecture. I’ll be back.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The itinerant artist whistles tunefully as he noses his battered van past the university, past student flats and into the leafy lanes bordering the Avon. This is more like it, he says to himself, as he parks the old girl beside a high fence topped by English trees. He swings his long legs onto the footpath and extracts a large carpetbag. As he admires the woodwork of the upper storey barking rends the air. Undeterred he strides to the next entrance, where a pair of wrought iron suns enhance double gates. No dogs mar the view. He enters but the doorbell elicits no response. After four fruitless attempts he crosses the street, attracted by an open gate and a black cat sitting on a letter box. He eyeballs the creature and enquires if its master or mistress is home. As if by way of answer the cat jumps down and walks to the front door. He follows, rat-a-tats the brass toad knocker and is rewarded by the appearance of a woman. He judges her to be going on for 60, at least 10 years older than himself, but wearing well, damn well!
She silently approves his flamboyant cotton shirt and neat jeans. He is wearing a trilby-style hat made from the same denim as his jeans. A hat gives character. She waits. He does the right thing. Tipping his hat ever so slightly, he bids her a bright good morning. “I am a travelling artist, ma’am. Would you be so generous as to spare me a little of your time so I may share my work?”
He hands her a business card that reads Kevin (Fish) Salmon, Artist. Her mouth twitches. “Well, Mr Salmon …”
“Call me Fish,” he interrupts.
“Fish it is then. I am interested in the arts. Do come in … Fish.”
She leads him into a spacious lounge. As well as a sofa and chairs the room accommodates two tables and there is still ample area of clear carpet for unrolling canvases. She goes to clear some of the clutter from the larger table but Fish assures her the floor will be fine. “Nice carpet,” he acknowledges to her, and shag pile to himself.
The woman sits on the sofa and he lays his wares at her feet. The work is acrylic. Bright slabs of colour convey bold landscapes.
“I love the contrast between plains and alps — must be South Canterbury.”
“Not difficult to pick,” he grins. “What about this one?”
“Has to be Otago — you’ve so captured the colours of Central.”
“It’s the Rock and Pillar Range … can you place these rocks?”
“Castle Hill Station, on the way to the West Coast. Unmistakeable!”
“You’re good, all right.”
“And so are you! I couldn’t name the places if you hadn’t depicted them so well.”
The chatting continues for a good 30 minutes before Fish casually enquires if she is interested in making a purchase.
“Have you got anything more local, closer to Christchurch?”
Fish shuffles through his canvases and spreads golden hills to her gaze. The painting gives the illusion of being an aerial view. Beyond the hills lies an aqua harbour.
“Lyttelton, no … Akaroa — it is, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
“I like it.” She stands and walks round him and the canvas. “Do you ever put figures in your landscapes? To me a landscape looks lonely without people. All that beauty needs to be enjoyed.”
“I haven’t done figures in a while but I used to be quite good at people, especially if they’re doing something. I enjoy a bit of action.”
“Action.” The woman pauses and her eyes light up. “I’d like to show you a print I brought from England. It would be easier if you came upstairs.”
Fish follows, his eyes taking approving notes. She leads him to a bedroom with twin beds. Above each mahogany bed-head hangs a black and white print, both depicting witches. “The Rain Makers,” he observes. “I know this print but I don’t know the other one.”
“It’s called The Lancashire Witches and is supposedly Mother Chattox, a noted local witch, with an apprentice, riding to Pendle Hill. I come from Lancaster and know Pendle Hill. Lancashire is infamous for its witch trials. This is a sobering reminder of how women have been treated. Look how they have depicted the poor soul! My concept of witches is rather more jolly. Would it be possible, and would you be willing, to add a couple of pleasant witches flying on a broomstick over Akaroa?”
Fish raises a quizzical eyebrow. “One of them you?”
Her cheeks grow pink. “Yes.”
“Well then, it would be a pleasure. And you are?”
“Pauline Woods.”
“Let’s draw up an agreement, Ms Woods.”
“Pauline, please.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~