Mary White
b. 25 January 1914

Five Short Stories
by Mary Hannah (n. White)

THE YELLOW RIVER

He gave a strangled cry. "My God!" he shouted, jumping to his feet, scattering papers everywhere and almost upsetting the bottle of ink where he was filling his fountain pen -the momentary lapse in concentration must have alerted him. He tore out of the room to find his feet stuck in a yellow mass which was slowly seeping under the kitchen door. Leaving his shoes behind, he flung open the door where an even more horrific sight greeted him -a glistening lake lay between him and the stove, rather beautiful in its way, like burnished gold. He endeavoured to skirt round the edge as he hurried to turn off the gas -and see how much of his precious marmalade was left.

He had made an extra large quantity to supply the Club as well as his household and some favoured friends -and his spoilt eldest daughter. He kept me supplied for years, and I have never tasted better marmalade. It was his hobby; he loved the whole ptocess, slicing the fruit finely by hand -at the same time no doubt going over in his mind some tricky legal problem or discussion he would be having at a forthcoming meeting; measuring the water, adding the sugar slowly, testing a little in a saucer to see if it was ready to pour into the waiting jars without any being spilt. He was usually so careful not to make a mess. And now this? This was no ordinary mess.

"Keep your mother away for goodness sake," he shouted to John, who suddenly appeared from upstairs where he had been working. "Tell her I'll be up shortly, but I've got to finish something first -oh -and you'd better tell her I've had a slight spill," he added grimly, surveying the seemingly impossible task before him.

At breakfast next morning -"Oh by the way, dear, if you're getting anything from Wong She to-day, I'd like some more poor-man oranges." "Are you sure, dear?" my mother inquired mildly. "Quite sure," came the reply. My indefatigable father wasn't going to let a "slight spill" get the better of him.

A NEW LEASE OF LIFE

To-day, Wednesday the 29th March, 2000, has truly been a Red Letter Day. After months of inactivity with leg and eye troubles, I got into the car and drove to Heretaunga, having persuaded my good friend Sue, who lives in Eastbourne, to do the same.

 We stood on the first tee in some trepidation, neither of us having played golf for almost a year; while I for one had wondered more than once during that terrible time whether I would ever play again.

 They say a rest does one good and soon we were striding joyfully along, each shot bringing further gasps of admiration and amazement. I was tiring as we reached the last tee and started shakily. Then I took out my faithful little slammer, lined up the ball and swung. The ball rose up, soared into the distance and disappeared from sight -my sight anyway -though Sue was calling out excitedly, "it's going straight for the pin!" I stood there transfixed, the adrenalin pumping. "I can still do it, Sue," I shouted incredulously. "1 can still do it."

 Back at the Club House I kept running into all myoid friends who gave me such a great welcome, I felt like the Queen. My car seemed to sprout wings as we sped home. There was my favourite city spread out before me, while across the water my "big house" stood warm and welcoming in the sunlight. I turned on the radio and smiled as the most wonderful voice in the world burst forth in an aria from Mefistofele. "And now in my great old age," translated Wayne Mowatt, as the song came to an end. My smile widened; that's it I thought, thanks Pavarotti. Now in my great old age, its time for me to start living again.

DILEMMA

For many months now I have been unable to read -not a book or newspaper, magazine or anything that comes in the mail. So when someone asked me out of the blue, would I rather be blind or deaf, I answered without a moment's hesitation, deaf of course; you can't imagine how frustrating it is having to get help with every little thing, from looking up numbers in the phone book to filling in forms, writing cheques and even shopping. Goodness knows what I would have done without my patient friend, Adrienne, who kept a wary eye on me in the super-market in case I spilt rolled oats or wheatgerm allover the floor.

But later I began to wonder about my hasty reply, counting up in my mind the things that have kept me going over the last few months -first and foremost the telephone: my lifeline to Gillian in  London, David and Charles in Sydney, Pat in Christchurch, the rest of the family in Wellington and all my wonderful friends helping to keep my spirits up by telephoning constantly, arranging to

call or take me where I needed to go. What would I have done without them?

The next thing that springs to mind is the radio: the National programme which has taken the place of the Dominion, with my early morning cup of tea, while the Concert programme, together with my collection of tapes and CDs has provided food for my soul. If I couldn't hear the magical voice of Pavarotti at the flick of a switch, I would feel truly deprived. So now I'm not so sure -the answer doesn't come quite so pat any more.

A FRIEND FOR LIFE

It was the critical moment, when Norman's life literally hung in the balance and if it hadn't been for Charles Burns' timely intervention, my husband could easily have died. 

 It was towards the end of the War when fighting was still continuing between the Germans and the Yugoslavs in the hills around Trieste, and a small contingent of New Zealanders under the command of Haddon Donald were there to monitor the situation. Norman was among them and was caught in the crossfire when a shell from a Yugoslav gun burst alongside him, shattering his right knee and putting his right hand out of action. He was taken to a Casualty Clearing Station where his leg was put into plaster, protected by a balkan frame, and it was here that Charles, a senior medical officer, just happened to call. He noticed Norman's name on the list of wounded and asked to see him, but Norman was in no condition for a social call.

 He was delirious, his temperature was at a dangerous level and rising rapidly, causing the plaster on his leg to melt and fall on to the floor in large chunks. Charles' immediate reaction was to ask whether Norman had been tested for malaria and was assured that he had. He insisted on Norman's being given another test and advised the medical officer in charge to start treatment immediately. This he did and Norman slowly began to recover.

 Mercifully I was unaware of this drama unfolding on the other side of the world and it was a long time before I knew the whole story. I have described in another story how the first intimation I had that Norman had been wounded was in a cryptic telegram from John Brooke-White and that was shock enough. By then Norman had been transferred to Senigallia, a seaside town on the east coast of Italy north of Ancona, where the sea played a big part in his recovery. He told me how a couple

of orderlies would launch him into the tide and take care of his crutches while he swam for longer periods every day. Sometimes the blighters forgot about him or pretended to and he had to drag himself up the beach and lie there like a spent whale until they rescued him. He joked about it, though it didn't seem very funny to me, and was always thankful to them for their help. But most of all ofcourse he was indebted to Charles Burns, his guardian angel and our friend for life.

 Footnote: Charles Burns was an eminent physician and heart specialist. He and my mother were second cousins, his mother and my grandmother being sisters. He was married to Muriel who lived near me in Wadestown and was a good friend to me and the children. Muriel died tragically not long after Charles returned from the War and many years later he married my Aunt Doris, Mum's sister, when to my great delight he became my Uncle. He was an amazing man, he had an aura about him which seemed to encompass the people around him as well as himself. He devoted his life unstintingly to caring for others and his patients adored him. He was a very special person in my life and I loved him dearly.

BLACK THURSDAY

She is dead now, but I would love to have to known her and often think about her, that brave young woman crouched down with her baby clutched in her arms, while her five older children huddled together under blankets, kept wet from the stream, while fire raged all around them. How long did she have, I wonder to call out to Elizabeth, her eldest child, to collect the others, grab blankets from the beds, then all run as fast as they could to the nearest water.

 There they remained immersed in the stream for most of the day, where they were joined by the only animal to survive the flames, Anne's horse, who came galloping across the paddocks to be with his owner, his back burnt and minus his tail, but otherwise unharmed. The heat was so intense, 112 in the shade that day, that a jewel case which was placed in a stone dairy as the safest place offering, had disappeared and a heap of fused gold, silver and glass was all that remained.

 The day was February 6, 1851, afterwards known as Black Thursday, when the entire countryside surrounding Geelong, Victoria, was devastated for several hundred miles. Our young heroine, who along with all her children except for the baby, survived this terrifying ordeal, was my great-grandmother Anne Holmes. Her husband Matthew, who was away on business at the time, owned a property called "Glencairn" which was obliterated along with it's neighbours, but as luck would have it, almost immediately afterwards gold was discovered nearby at Bendigo. A tremendous rush took place and Matthew and his partner bought up every bullock and dray team they could lay their hands on, in order to supply a steady stream of flour, sugar and tea to the goldfields. This proved a gold mine in itself, which more than compensated for the loss of Glencairn, and in 1854 Matthew was able to take his wife and children to Scotland, where they remained for ten years.

 They stayed in London for a short time on arrival, then travelled to Edinburgh where the boys went to school while the girls were educated privately. They studied music and painting as well as all the normal subjects, and even travelled to Paris for lessons in art. Two of the girls, Anne who later married my grand-father, John White, and Katherine (great-aunt Katie) continued to paint when the family came to New Zealand and settled in Dunedin.

 Later Aunt Katie moved to Wellington and lived in Hawkestone Street, where I often visited her with my mother. She became a well-known artist in her own right and her water-colours were much sought after. There is one hanging in my spare room, alongside one of Grannie White's, which I am lucky to have. I feel fortunate to have known her, and would love to have known my great- grandmother too, partly because she is described as having auburn hair like mine, but more especially to have heard her tell her story in all its graphic detail - a fascinating thought.