Collector’s piece: how it feels to be a ghost

Press, 28 March 1981, Page 16

Collector’s piece: how it feels to be a ghost

By

BETTY JONES

(Although “Betty Jones” and “The Appeal” are ’ fictitious names, this is a true account of collecting in Christchurch within the last 12 months.)

Invisibility has been the subject of many stories. Sometimes the state has been attained by a drink of some magic or hard-won potion; sometimes by wearing a magic cloak. In Christchurch today these complications are unnecessary. All one needs is a collecting box. One bright but windv day I found myself at the'Cathedral Crypt, preparing to help with a street collection, one of those regular Friday affairs which seem necessary for maintaining a number of worthy causes, but which to many members of the public appear rather too frequent. In the Crypt there is a cheerful busyness, collectors setting out or returning, a tea-lady keeping an eye on the urn, two or three tired collectors relaxing over a cuppa, one man waiting expectantly while the contents of his box are totalled.

From behind a long table a brisk woman hands me a box, a bag of labels, and my badge. “Guthrie Bowron’s,” she says. Off I go for the 1 p.m. to 2 p.m. shift. On the way I meet the woman I am replacing. “No, you’re not late,” she reassures me. “I’ve got to get back to work.” How I admire someone who is willing to give up her whole lunch hour to such a job.

Here’s the corner. Now away I go; start by giving the box a shake to make a cheerful and arresting sound. What’s that? No sound at all? Of course, I should have put

some coins in to start it off. Find some. Can't because I’ve left my purse in the Crypt. I didn’t want to be bothered with it swinging on mv arm all the time.

How silly I feel, just standing there, not even making a noise with my box.' People hurry by on their lunch-hour business. Ah, here is a woman who is going to contribute. Now I can make a noise with the box. But she has generously put. in a bank note. Good for The Appeal, but no sound yet.

A voice behind me makes me turn for an elderly woman to drop in some coins, and in my relief I fumble with three stickers. “Never mind, dear,” she says, “one’s enough.” Now I can shake the box and it gives me something to do. If I stand farther out from the building, perhaps people will see me. Put on that silly, expectant grin. Not much more luck except for a young woman I used to know, who contributes and stops to talk. It is good to see her, but I am brought up short bj' a hand coming between us to reach for the box. I remember my duty, and she her business.

If I move out and stand by the traffic lights’ post, will I do better? Watch the people crossing the road. Tr.y to catch their eyes as they wait or cross. But I am still invisible. It's spooky, this feeling that people look right through me. Is that what it is like to be a ghost?

Those who contribute or who are wearing stickers do see me. A few others shake their heads or say something like, “Not today.” Some walk round me as if I am a large package left on the pavement; some stare carefully into shop windows as they pass. Some turn their heads away. Others are absorbed in their own conversations or business, perhaps scowling at the ground in concentration. But the majority look through me.

From the north comes a young woman who does not look at all well off, but she contributes. “It’s a good cause, isn’t it?” she smiles. Perhaps it has helped her, or a friend, some time. Two prosperous-looking men stop, still continuing their conversation. One contributes, and the other follows his example, with some reluctance, I sense. Not many young men seem inter-

ested. Maybe they would stop for- someone young and pretty. I’ve just realised that though I was told Guthrie Bowron’s I’m actually outside. Hay and Ball. I don't suppose it matters, but I'll cross over for a bit. Here comes a young man who stops and searches in his wallet. Expectantly, I wait. But he finds a card or ticket and hurries on.

A woman pushing a baby buggy stops and fumbles. I bend down for the child to put the coin in the box and receive the sticker. Two young girls whom I have met before come jauntily along, chirping and darting about the pavement like a couple of fantails. One calls out brightly to me. With a change' in the traffic lights they are gone.

How cold it is. I should have known better than wear this thin suit for a Christchurch easterly.

Here comes a woman who is' impeccably groomed and dressed — summer suit, gloves, smart hat and accessories, carefully chosen like something in a fashion magazine. Is she going to a wedding? How her appearance highlights the fact that most of us in town dress informally.

A woman is apologetic as she drops in some coins. ‘Tve only got a ten-dollar note besides this,” she explains. Probably true, for I’ve been caught that wav myself at times.

Another woman contributes, saying, "I’ve read about it in the paper. Good work.” A woman probably of Dutch origin stops to p’in on her sticker. “I’ve done this collecting sometimes but most of them deedn’t geeve me anything.” A man I have often met goes into the shop, giving me a glassy stare. Never mind, another man comes out, almost dropping his big parcel while he seeks coins. A woman stops for a long search in her purse before contributing. The man who went into the shop comes out, half-stumbling in his determination not to see me.

At last the creeping clock has got to 1.45. What a relief to move across the street and begin to thaw out. but I must not stay too long because there are fewer people on this side. Out of a-shop comes a woman with a new fishing rod. I am glad she is not coming my way because she whips the rod 'back and forth several times. It would be a bit hard to dodge it. A woman who must have passed before stops for a word. “I don’t blame you for moving over. That's a cold corner over there.” Better return now to the busier side. The box makes a good loud rattle at last. An elderly man asks about the work of The Appeal. I am not sure he really understands my explanation, but he gives a donation. Another man clearly thinks I am collecting for something else. “They ought to be out work-

ing,” he says. “Too lazy.” A smiling woman hurries past. ‘Tve just finished collecting in Cashel Street. It’s not too easy anywhere. Good luck.” Two o’clock. There might not be anyone coming to take my place. I'll stay for three

more donations. Soon there is one. but then a long six minutes with no more. 1 have nearly decided to go when two "men contribute and a third follows soon after. . At the Crypt the scene is the same as before. While I

drink a most acceptably hot cup of coffee, someone remarks: “I like collecting because it’s a challenge.” I can admire her attitude, but am unable to share it. Still, perhaps my effort was of some use to The Appeal.