Her memory was strong, but little physical evidence of her life remained. There was the flower garden that still bore the receding stamp of her choices in its plants and disposition, the collection of blue Spode and Royal Doulton china of which neither Helen nor Natalie wished to assume ownership, there were three bulging folders of her recipes, some cut from magazines, some typed, many in her own surprisingly bold hand, others gifted in the script of friends. What Pearly found most poignant were three letters written to her by his father. Each still in its own envelope, all neatly slit by a knife and with corner stamps of outdated curiosity. Natalie had discovered them together with family birth certificates, wedding invitations, and small family photographs within a linen pouch lying at the bottom of the bedside cabinet drawer. They were letters from the time when Pearly’s mother and father had not long been going together, and he was working on a farm close to Feilding in the Manawatu, gaining experience before returning to the family property. But there was nothing practical about the letters: they were the ardent and candid expression of a lover and one with whom Pearly was quite unable to identify the father he’d known. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jo, don’t wear the pink dress for anybody else. Remember the ball?’ his father wrote. ‘What a night. What a moon, and we promised, didn’t we? I’m holding to it. I kiss your photo every night and can’t wait to be back. It’s okay here, but I want to be with you.’

Pearly wished he had Jo’s replies to the letters, but that early girl who became his mother remained at a distance, seen only indirectly through his father’s love. Maybe it was voyeuristic to be reading something so personal, but Pearly reasoned his mother would have destroyed the letters if she’d wished to keep them from the family. The stronger feeling was a form of admiration for his father’s open vulnerability of declaration. Pearly had never written such letters to Helen, although surely his love was just as strong. Always he had protected himself with a semi-facetious mode and the emphasis on the outer life. He wished it hadn’t always been that way, but it was too late to change. Wasn’t it? ‘I’m not spending any money,’ his father had written. ‘I just work and think of being back with you. I’m even mug enough to talk to your photo. Write soon and tell me everything. Just a couple of months to go now.’

NINETEEN