The Welcome

Te Ao Hou, 1972, Page 48

The Welcome I was done, Without a doubt I had come to the end of my physical, mental, and spiritual resources. For a long, long time the angel of death had hovered round my hospital bed; I had even grown accustomed to the uncanny feeling of his nearness. All through the lonely days and nights of suffering which had seemed to be endless, I had sent countless pleas, nay, demands, to the Almighty, ‘Either let me die, or heal me, but please, no more of this suffering’. But God had not been willing to release me from the small amount of life which was my lot; even the doctor had admitted that it seemed as though I was meant to live on as I was, and for a purpose. It was time for me to convalesce in the outside world. Now I was making one last effort to overcome, to believe that there was for me a purpose and place in life. ‘HOW does one live with no purpose, no object?’ I had asked the doctor. This was a conundrum which whirled, unresolved, round and round in my mind. ‘There is always a purpose in life,’ he had answered briskly. ‘Even if it's only feeding the cat each day?’ I had asked with a feeble attempt at humour. ‘Even if it's only feeding the cat each day,’ he had repeated firmly, avoiding my eye while he scribbled on his prescription pad. Busily writing, he had continued giving advice. ‘Forget the past. Go to this sister of yours and rest completely. There can scarcely be any more emotional shocks left for you to face. You've been through the lot, and come through this far. Don't over-tax your physical body in any way; give it time, be patient.’ He seemed to have forgotten that I had barely enough strength to make a long journey alone, that I had to pack my few possessions, make all the arrangements…. Doctors were efficient, but standoffish, somehow. They didn't seem to want to get involved in their patients' problems; perhaps if they were too kind or concerned about people it would kill them, having to share all those burdens. And I haven't even a cat to care for, anyway. All, all was gone… my children, a roof to shelter me, love, health. In utter desolation I closed my mind against the anguish that seemed too great to be borne, trying to focus my thoughts on the problems of the moment. The other travellers who had been on the same flight as I moved purposefully round, greeting loved ones, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, laughing, asking breathless questions; without effort their suitcases were scooped up by hands eager to help, they walked out with certainty to waiting cars and taxis and were borne smoothly away. In a remarkably short time I was alone again, on the pavement outside the terminal building, with all my worldly possessions at my feet. Ann — I must cling to the thought of her; I would get there somehow. She would welcome me, share my grief, commune with me, help me back to a measure of peace, allow me to rest in tranquility in the small whare behind her house. We had always been close, as close as twins. A glance between us in a crowded room was enough to flash a message between us, or we would sometimes, when alone, start speaking at the same moment about the same subject. Yes, our minds were attuned all right. She would understand why I had arrived unheralded; we had always been able to plunge into each other's lives on the instant of meeting. She would accept me immediately; I could cry at last; there would be the consolation of a soul in tune with mine, sharing the greatest crisis of my life, understanding both the spoken and the unspoken ordeals through which I had passed and was still passing…. It had always been this way between us. Shaking with exhaustion. I realised that I hadn't even the strength left to get to the railway station to catch the suburban train. It would mean a long wait; I should be in bed right now…. The world was receding from me and surging back again in dizzy cycles. There was no one to ap-

peal to so I sent up another plea to God; I had become used to talking to Him now; after all, when there is no one else to talk to one has to speak with someone. ‘Please send me help somehow, in some way, God. Please give me strength just to last out the journey.’ Pulling my scattered wits together I made a hasty calculation. Thirty shillings — that was the taxi fare out to my sister's place. There was just enough of my pension money left; I would spend it on reaching my haven. The future — if there was a future — could take care of itself. And here was help; as if in answer to my prayer a taxi rolled up and stopped beside me, the driver cocking an eye at me and my luggage. I nodded and clambered shakily into the front seat. A Maori driver… good. At least he wouldn't indulge in polite, meaningless small talk. I couldn't cope with trivialities, not any more. There was a thud as the boot was clamped down on my gear, then the driver opened the door and settled himself in his seat. Turning to me he studied me for a moment, saying calmly, as though it was the most natural way in the world with which to start a conversation with a stranger, ‘You are tired and ill and in trouble, my dear.’ The relief of this instant recognition, this calm acceptance, the word of endearment, the warmth of heart flowing from him was shattering. Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘How did you KNOW?’ I quavered. ‘In my job I have learnt to understand people,’ he said, ‘and as soon as I saw you I knew you for a person who was suffering.’ ‘So do some Pakehas,’ I thought, ‘but they do nothing, nothing at all, for they are afraid of another's grief, for recognition demands a sharing They avoid the subject, or they speak of it in platitudes, skirting round it with embarrassment, relieved to get the duty over, and go on to other matters.’ The simplicity, the fearlessness of his recognition of my suffering, the directness achieved without careless curiosity or wearisome explanations, the communication of a sort of unselfconscious love emanating from him; all this, and more, was balm to my being. I suppose we spoke about each other, or to each other during the remainder of the trip; I do not recall any of it. The first small miracle of words was the thing I was always to remember. As we drew nearer to my widowed sister's house a movement of forwardlooking life stirred in me. Here was the street, and here was the well-remembered home. And there she was, as though she had sensed my coming, waiting at the gate! I conjured up a wan smile. She stared at me, at the suitcases being unloaded from the boot of the taxi; I don't think she even noticed that there was a third person with us. She spoke quickly, flapping her hands up and down. ‘YOU here!’ she said distractedly. ‘Look, you'll have to hurry to the back. Dan's coming any minute!’ I knew from her recent letters that she was indulging in a secret love-affair with a married man, but surely she understood about… about… I came back from a long distance; she was saying urgently, ‘— so no one must SEE him!’ ‘I wouldn't t—’ ‘It's not just THAT. Can't you see? We have to make the most of each SECOND together!’ Too late, too late to remember the trifling faults of childhood days — the times she had left me to face the music when we had been found out in one of our mischievous scrapes, the times in our teen-age years when she had used my quietness as a foil for her scintillating personality, the charm she had used to get her own way. Must I always blunder through life, naively believing that because I loved a person, they also loved me in return? I had thought there was nothing left to be shattered. Another mistake. The only person who had the power to draw me back to the warmth of life was showing unmistakably that I was an embarrassment to her. But there was no going back, there was nowhere to go; this was my journey's end. I stammered out, ‘May I board in your bach, then, for… for a little while? I'll —’ ‘Anything. ANYTHING! (‘Just so long as you get out of sight, quickly,’ was the unspoken message.) She was edging me to the corner of the house. making a quick appeal with great expertise.

‘You do understand, don't you? You know me! You're different; sort of stronger, or something. You know I can't live without love!’ ‘Yes.’ I said. It would have made as much sense if I had said ‘No’, but the answer seemed to satisfy her conscience. Another car drew up at the gate. ‘Quick. GO! He's HERE!’ and she turned and ran to the gate, flustered, but aglow with health and beauty. Somehow I walked to the back of the house, my taxi driver following with the suitcases. There was no feeling in me at all as I stood in the small whare, but I was trembling uncontrollably. There was bed… a shelf… a kerosene heater… I was chilled to the core in spite of the heat of the summer's day. I was more alone now than I had been when I had started out to come to my sister with unquestioning trust in my heart. There was no one, now, anywhere at all to help me struggle back to hope and health; I knew myself to be a hindrance in my sister's life, needed by no one. I would die now…. ‘Dear God, let it come quickly,’ I said in my heart. Wearily I turned round, groping in my purse for the driver's fare. He was standing quietly watching me, just inside the doorway. Our eyes met. And then there were protective arms round me, a holding of my trembling body until a measure of composure returned, soothing murmurs as to a hurt child, and, at last, speech. ‘My sister,’ he said, ‘I welcome you to your new home. I do not live so far away. When you need help, ring me. I will come and help in any way I can. See! You are not alone after all, for now you have ME as a brother!’ He let me weep my heart out. He let me be myself. He did not say, ‘cheer up’, or ‘come on, now, this isn't doing you any good’, or ‘pull yourself together, you've got to help yourself, now, you know’. He did not use any of the words which Pakehas are apt to say to those in dire distress, increasing their sense of despair, driving them further into themselves with a sense of the loneliness of their suffering. Resting my head on my brother's shoulder I wept unrestrainedly, mingling tears of sorrow at the rejection by a sister and joy at the finding of a brother; sadness at man's cruelty, and gladness at his compassion. A little of the feeling of being a person worthy of being cherished in my own right started to dawn in my heart. He had lighted a lamp in my soul, which was to shine on my path through the dark days still before me. My Maori brother, although you dwell in the city, and must live outwardly as the Pakeha does, you will never lose one iota of your Maoritanga while you use it thus, carrying it in your soul, sharing it with a race which is sick for the lack of love. You do more for my spirit than wordy sermons about goodwill and brotherly love could ever do. You LIVE these things, and because you once offered unstintingly. to me, a Pakeha, the spiritual gift your race has been given, I now live and have been taught what the sharing of love means, and the power it has to restore, to bless, and to heal. Helen Woodley