My friend Mary has died. She was 99. Whenever I visited, I'd ask, "How old are you now?" And after she'd answer, I'd always say, "Oh for God's sake." It scarcely seemed possible that someone with such an agile and nimble mind, and who moved pretty briskly around her home, could be so terribly old. And now it scarcely seems possible that she has died.
My friend Mary was a new friend. Her daughter made the introductions in 2017. I was appearing at a literary festival and afterwards was sitting at a table to sign copies of my latest book. The queue went out the door – the table was right by the door – while I sat and inscribed. A woman said, "Can you make it out to my mum?" And then she told a story. When she finished, I said, "Here's my address. Please can you ask her to write me a letter?"
My friend Mary had five children – the oldest was born in 1939 – and lived by herself in Christchurch. In her first letter, she put into her own words the story that her daughter had told at the book signing: "I had just received your book Fool's Paradise in 2011 when my beloved city was wiped out by the earthquakes. I read that book through the shuddering nights for that year and it got me through them so thank you."
My friend Mary had taken comfort or found an escape or something like that from my writing, and I tried to imagine it: this small, wise, happy woman, reading my first book – Fool's Paradise included celebrations of tearooms, evocations of childhood, odes to the filth and beauty of mangroves – and kind of clinging to it, in the dark, during that terrible time which took lives and destroyed homes. I couldn't imagine it. But I was awed and grateful.
My friend Mary had her own home destroyed by the quakes. "My old house where I lived for 74 years had to be demolished." Her son-in-law built her a new home. "They sent it to the same address – lights flashing etc. It takes some getting used to. I still wonder where the doors are." I visited whenever I was in Christchurch. She'd make tea and bring out biscuits. She was a lovely, funny person, but there was a sadness about her. She talked about her oldest son, who had died at 51. "Poor old Tony," she said. She pointed to a painting on her wall, and said, "That's one of his." I looked at it and said, "Hang on."
