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Flying places

Two black super-light suitcases stand in my bedroom. One is an overnight bag; the other, a little sturdier and larger, is for the long weekend. Going to literary festivals has become part of the professional life of writers and during the festival season I am poised for flight. That season gets longer every year as more and more towns host their own events. I have lists of items for the quick pack.

For the most part, writers have solitary lives, sitting alone in front of a computer. When we go to festivals, we are performing and selling our work and ourselves. The two merge into each other. We want to be liked. (Sometimes it is easier to be famous than it is to be loved.) For a short time, we enjoy the hospitality of people who, for the most part, are strangers. We are the outsiders looking in, just as we are when we sit down to create characters, people we know and can never entirely know, and will abandon when we start the next book. And yet we are changed by our experiences in the cities and towns we visit. We leave behind our books, our signatures, our dirty linen in hotel rooms. We take away with us fragments of shared lives, the enthusiasm of our readers, a renewed sense of belief in what we are doing. We are less alone when we leave.

Judging by the number of people who attend, audiences have an ongoing love affair with festivals. Writers usually speak as part of a panel or are ‘in conversation’, as the saying goes. A bookseller is on hand at the end and the audience, if they are sufficiently moved, rush to a signing table where the author or authors pen their names and a few thoughtful words on the title page. And so it goes. Behind the scenes there is usually a group of volunteers – particularly if it’s a small-town event, though the ‘internationals’ will have paid staff – who have been toiling for months to bring the event together: booking the writers, arranging their contracts, their travel and accommodation, preparing their biographical notes for publicity, contacting media, hiring venues, sound systems and so on. I know all of this. I’ve organised a few events in my time; now I benefit from the generosity of others.

I go to lots of festivals. I love them. I love getting on aeroplanes and flying off to some other place where it will all be new all over again, a different hotel, fresh people to greet, old friends to reconnect with, and those who say, Remember me, we went to school together, and to marvel at each other, how the years have passed, and here we are and still alive. Nothing can beat the Auckland Writers’ Festival on a bright day in May. And what author’s vanity can resist the lure of an event that draws audiences of seventy thousand. But, with one or two exceptions, I prefer small festivals to those featuring international writers. I’m not keen when occasional visiting writers see themselves as stars, aloof figures who don’t have time to greet readers, who turn up from afar, take one look at their hotel room and demand a penthouse suite. I like places where you can sit down and eat your lunch with your readers, who sometimes know more about your books than you do yourself. Often they remember characters you have forgotten, and it’s good to have them brought to life again.

Things often happen when you go to festivals. Or they do to me. I met the late great Angela Carter at the Vancouver festival and we became friends until the end of her too short life. That was back in 1988. The friendship was swift, as is often the way at festivals. Frequently, they fall by the wayside within weeks or months of the festival’s end, before you move on to another, but it was not like that with Angela. She and I got lost one night on Granville Island with Margaret Atwood, dumped by a taxi on a lonely strip beside some railway tracks, having to find our way back through the dark to the distant lights of the venue. Afterwards Angela invited me to have tea in her room at our hotel, where she proceeded to tell me the story of her life, and describe her favourite bedtime reading. Recipe books, she declared.

Not long before Angela died, she wrote me a long letter from her home in England. Somehow it got lost in the mail and, judging by its date, had taken six weeks to reach me. The editor of a local newspaper rang me the same day. Would I write Angela’s obituary? That was the first I knew of her death. I remembered her love of good food, her size eleven shoes and the little son she had brought to visit me in New Zealand.

Ten years later, I was back in Vancouver for their festival. I had been on tour for the Women’s Book Festival in New Zealand just the week before I left for Canada, visiting two or three venues a day in Waikato, driving from one place to another. During those days my aunt lay dying in a small cottage hospital in Te Aroha. I raced from one place to another and back to the hospital. Those two tours would form the basis of a long story called ‘Silver Tongued’, in which a character called Flo is dying; the narrative moves back and forth through her past. This fluidity of time in fiction fascinates me. I have always been interested in the way the past informs our lives in contemporary time. L. P. Hartley famously described the past as a foreign country, but I’ve never been sure of that. I’m familiar with the past, despite the complex messages it often sends me. If memory were a house, I would know its interiors, the locked and unlocked doors. I’d say it was just the furniture that got shifted around. The way our differing selves slip in and out of our histories often informs our futures as well. It’s possible to see the exits before you reach them. Or those of others.

In ‘Silver Tongued’, the narrator recalls dashing from one town to another:

What followed for me was a kind of dreamtime, a compulsion to keep going that I still can’t explain. Driving, speaking, coming back in the middle of the night to be with my aunt. What did I say to people I met? So you want to be a writer. Well, you must learn to live with yourself, however difficult that might be at times, because you’re on your own in this job, you need to make space in your life, settle on your priorities. A writer’s life is not spent in an ivory tower. Learn to accept that real life is full of interruptions. You have children? Yes, of course, many of us do. Write for fifteen minutes a day – it’s better than nothing at all. No, I agree this is not about craft and style, but it’s about how to survive, which is the best I can tell you right now. Can I guarantee this recipe for success? No, no, of course not. Nothing is certain. Forgive me, I have to leave now.

My aunt died on the second to last night of the tour. The next day I gave the last talk. Because that is what you do: there are all those people to whom you have promised yourself, and you cannot let them down. Then we buried her, and the following day I went to Vancouver.

On the first night, before I joined the festival, I stayed at the Sylvia Hotel at English Bay.

[It] seemed the most perfect hotel in the world. It was covered with ivy; the interiors had dark old beams and rich stained-glass windows. I slept in a bed of such deep comfort in a large airy room that, when I woke up late in the afternoon, I was happy and felt free. I walked to a shopping centre and bought a face mask from a cosmetics supermarket, complete with an open cool bin of products that looked as if they should have been in a delicatessen. The face mask was made from shiitake mushrooms and came in a pottle, resting on ice inside another little container. Elsewhere, I bought an umbrella and a Vancouver newspaper. I went back to the Sylvia Hotel and put the mask on my face. It seemed as if flesh was being drawn to the surface. Afterwards, I felt totally cleansed, as if I were making myself over into a new person. I sat and watched the sea and ate chicken breast stuffed with ginger and grapefruit.

It was on that tour, which extended to Winnipeg and back to Calgary and Banff in the weeks that followed, that I met the young man who could have been romantically interested in me but turned out not to be. And what would I have done with him if he had been? Nothing at all. On these tours I looked neither to left nor right emotionally, guarding myself as a writer outside scandal, the work at the forefront, until age simply overtook any hints of gossip that might have emerged. Nevertheless, I was flattered by the attention, and I was someone to whom he could tell his troubles and his own dark little secrets.

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The Toronto festival is called the International Festival of Authors: Harbourfront, though it used to be known just as Harbourfront. In its early days it was so exclusive you just about had to dribble print to be invited. It was a pleasant surprise when my turn finally came. I stayed in a glamorous hotel on the edge of Lake Ontario, where I spent many hours watching light fall on the water. At the first event I was rebuked from the chair for briefly greeting the audience in te reo, and then a fire alarm went off and we were evacuated for almost the remainder of the session. I had dinner with Stephen King and found him the most pleasant of men, a person who asked interested questions and listened to the answers. He and his son were a big, gambolling double act. I got told off for mispronouncing a Québécois writer’s French name and apologised, citing hearing loss, which is real, and was forgiven. I wore the tiny red insignia of my French Legion d’Honneur and was asked several times if it was for real.

I had a nice time but it took me a little while to learn the rules.

At the end of the festival, I met up with my friend Judith McCann, who had flown from Ottawa to spend time with me. She used to be the chief executive of Film New Zealand but had gone back to her home country to live. In her company, I began to see the city for what it was and loved it. We flew from there to Halifax, where I was able to catch up with the MacPhersons, friends I had made thirty years earlier when I was researching The Book of Secrets. John and Sherry, and John’s mother Jean, from Port Morien to the north of Nova Scotia, all looked much the same to me as in that long-ago spring when I was ensconced in their households. The daughters gathered with the family to celebrate my return, and to eat a giant lobster feast, just as we had done on my first visit.

One evening, Judith and I travelled along the coast to Peggy’s Cove to meet friends of hers. I remembered the wooden fishermen’s houses that faced the Atlantic, the Wedgwood blue and white of the shallows. This is the original home territory of the poet Elizabeth Bishop, whose work I love. There is a famous lighthouse to which I had walked during my first visit. But since then Peggy’s Cove had been caught up in a giant tragedy.

On 2 September 1998, Flight 111 was heading from John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York to Cointrin International Airport in Geneva, Switzerland, when it crashed in a bay near Peggy’s Cove. The fishermen turned out in their boats to bring in whoever and whatever they could. But they brought back nothing and no one.

… it is another story

to come here at evening when the white

rocks are glimmering against the burning

bush, the red stain of wild azalea leaves

turning in autumn’s last light

before the Nova Scotian winter sets

in, the shingled houses like abandoned

grey ships on the shore. And even more

different to stop and climb from the road

to a memorial for the people of the air

disaster Swissair Flight 111, 229 names

set on a hillside …

There was no ceilidh in the world that could give them their due, no song that could be sung. I stood for a long time looking at the hillside where the names are written on slabs, and shivered in the fall wind, thinking about the price people may pay for flying places.

And yet this is what writers do, over and over again, even in this time of Covid, as our horizons narrow to our own country. We get in planes and we fly.

Sometimes, as I set off, and despite the pleasures of the journey, I wonder why. Festivals are unpredictable. As you get more practised they are easier to navigate, the terror of fluffing the event less palpable. But still there can be mishaps. One of my first international festivals was in a large Australian city. I was excited when I saw that I was to have a whole hour to myself at the beginning, in a venue that looked enticing in the photos I’d seen.

There were three people in the audience that day.

The venue stretched, empty and bleak before me. A short way off, hundreds and hundreds of people crowded a theatre for the opening event of the festival, featuring seven of Australia’s most prominent writers. This event ran simultaneously with mine. I learned that day that the three interested writers who chose to come to my event were as important as a thousand. We parted well. They said they had enjoyed the session.

And in Edinburgh, on a rainy early evening, five ‘Australasian’ writers – which meant writers from Australia and New Zealand – appeared in a tent in Charlotte Square, before an audience of seven. That included the husbands of the two New Zealand writers, of which I was one. Ian didn’t usually travel to festivals with me, but we had been living in Menton that year, and it had seemed like a great opportunity for us to see a new city.

In the yurt the next day, Ian said, ‘I know that chap over there. We do know him, don’t we?’ The man was surrounded by fans and security guards. He was dark and dapper, with black beetling eyebrows.

‘Hush,’ I murmured.

‘But we do,’ he insisted. ‘I’m going over to check him out.’

I said, ‘It’s Sean Connery.’ And I’m really not sure why I didn’t just say to Ian, Go on, just go and say hello. I feel bad about that. Ian was, after all, the audience too.

It kept on raining all that week and it was too wet to go to the Edinburgh Tattoo, although we could hear it from our hotel. It was our forty-sixth wedding anniversary, and Ian fell ill.

There are some places you just need to go back to, in order to see them in the best light. But at least you have had the opportunity, and I am forever grateful for that.

There were seven in the audience at Belfast too. If that in any way sounds churlish, it’s not meant to. For the most part, I had a wonderful time in Belfast. As mentioned, I had talked my way into that festival; I was then barely known in Northern Ireland. My English publishers had managed to get me a gig there because I was researching my next novel, This Mortal Boy. I was offered an hour in conversation with a wonderful chair called Cathy McNally who was associated with the Seamus Heaney Centre. I was able to roam Belfast’s streets, talk to people, do my research.

As well, I was given a week’s accommodation in the fabled Europa Hotel, which stands in Great Victoria Street, opposite the Crown Bar, a one-time gin palace and still a vibrant place to hang out. During the Northern Ireland conflict, The Troubles, most of the journalists covering those difficult years stayed at the Europa and drank at the Crown. The Europa was bombed so much that it earned the name ‘the Hardboard Hotel’, after the boards nailed over its windows. The Provisional IRA damaged the place so badly in 1993 that it had to be rebuilt. Perhaps people do it for a laugh, but there were bomb threats on three nights that I was there. I got used to huddling outside in my dressing gown and nightie while the place was cleared. It is a grand hotel, mighty comfortable, and bomb scares are a quick way to make new friends in the dead of the night. Who is to complain? Management said it was people smoking illegally in the rooms and setting off the fire alarms.

That was also the week of the stalker.

In the audience of seven who appeared at my session was a man I had met once some years earlier, at a talk I gave in New Zealand. Will (not his real name) was eager to chat, a bulky lonely man who had quite recently suffered the loss of someone close. Over the first cup of coffee, he cried. And over the second.

I was sorry, what else could I say?

I tried hard to escape the third cup, but he was always there.

On my last day in Belfast, he suggested we go for a walk in the Botanic Gardens that lie alongside the festival venue. It was a pleasant afternoon. I thought it perhaps a nice way to say goodbye and go on my way.

We walked on into the gardens. The afternoon seemed to have darkened.

‘Sit down,’ he said, inviting me alongside him on a seat in the rose gardens.

But I didn’t want to sit with him. Something felt wrong. I said that I’d just remembered that I had to speak to the organiser about an urgent matter. I hadn’t been paid for my appearance and I needed to collect the money. This wasn’t true, but was all I could think of.

Will agreed we should return. But the organiser was busy and Will had ordered another cup of coffee. I needed to see the organiser on my own, explain my predicament. We sat in grim silence, and suddenly the organiser had disappeared. Nobody I asked knew where he had gone. Back home, maybe, someone said. Nothing had passed that seemed to justify calling for help. It was a crowded room. I was just having a cup of coffee with a friend, a fan.

‘I need to get back to the hotel,’ I said, more lies accumulating on my tongue.

‘But what about your money?’

I explained then that I had had a strange lapse of memory. Now that I thought about it, the organiser had said he would drop the money round to the hotel.

‘I’ll walk you there,’ Will said.

‘I can’t possibly walk that far. I’ll catch a bus.’

I knew that he knew I was lying. And when I look back on it, I see how women are never really prepared for what’s coming to them. Yet still I thought I could shake him off.

We stood at the bus stop and a light rain began to fall. No buses appeared. I said I could walk after all. He followed me down the street. He seemed calmer, and asked me to explain the way writers got paid, and asked what were the rates like – a general sort of conversation.

And then, there in the street, he flew into a strange rage. ‘It’s despicable,’ he cried, ‘a terrible thing that you haven’t been paid.’ He was going to sort it out. His face was contorted and he stamped his feet.

‘No,’ I said, ‘no.’ I walked away down the street, without looking back.

I arrived at the hotel. Will was behind me. I stepped into the lift, closed the doors, glided up to my room. Inside it, I leaned my head against a wall and sobbed quietly. It was over.

Around midnight, the phone rang. Another bomb scare, I thought, although there were no sirens in the background.

At the other end, Will sounded strangely disembodied. He had sorted out the organiser. ‘I’ve told him about your money. I’ve told him what a bad person he is. You’ll get your money, I’ve seen to it.’

I lay awake, shaking, in the Europa Hotel. This was no bomb scare.

At six o’clock in the morning I rose, showered, dressed myself and went out onto the streets of Belfast. A black taxi that takes people on tours of the ‘trouble spots’, the divide between Falls and Shankill roads, two communities still divided by ‘peace walls’ in the wake of The Troubles, was waiting below for the first curious tourist. In a bleak early morning light, we drove around the walls that stand between Catholics and Protestants, saw political murals etched on them, silent testimony to the conflict.

I left Belfast an hour or so later.

I supposed that Will had extracted some kind of revenge for not having received the attention he sought.

Weeks later, I sorted out the story with the organiser. He was pleased to hear from me, he wrote. It had cleared up a few things for him. He had thought that Will must be a very close friend of mine. He was sorry that this had happened to me.

The seat in the rose garden features in the last pages of This Mortal Boy. Kathleen Black sits there, after she has received the telegram telling her that her son Albert has been hanged in New Zealand. This is a fiction, but nothing should be wasted in the hunt for a good story.

And the sense of oppression happens to be true.

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St Malo on the edge of France, in Brittany, there was that festival too, and such a good time. My publisher in Paris, Sabine Wespieser, organised for me to go to the vast annual book fair one year. To be published by Sabine is to be introduced to the pleasures of Paris style. Her publishing house, Sabine Wespieser Éditeur, is in the heart of the Latin Quarter, situated in a thirteenth-century building, the steps worn into grooves, the walls thick and heavy, the huge beams of wood above the winding stairs low and dark. The door opens on rooms full of filtered light and simple, elegant décor, just like Sabine herself, the quintessential Frenchwoman. The covers of her publications lining the walls are all cream. Only the blocks of colour behind the lettering for the title and the author’s name differ for each title. She publishes twelve books a year, just that and no more. Each achieves maximum publicity. Her authors’ list includes Edna O’Brien, Tariq Ali and Claire Keegan. I have been one of her authors for the past fifteen years.

She cultivates French bookshops assiduously, which I think is a big factor in her success. When I go to Paris for a launch there may be festivals, or fairs, always a round of media, and always the bookshops. There was a night when my novel, All Day at the Movies (Comme au Cinema in translation) had just appeared. We set off for L’Attrape-Cœurs, in Montmartre. Like so many French bookshops, it was tiny compared with New Zealand stores, but crammed with titles up to the ceiling, and on the night we visited, with people too. Shops like this are not situated in the high street, nor surrounded by other shops, but tucked away in quiet places, a destination for local communities. That night in Montmartre the crowd stretched into the street and clapped and cheered when we arrived, raising glasses of champagne in the air. The questions flowed for a long time, rapidly translated as we went. That session stretched for two hours, deep questions exploring every motivation of the characters, questions about their psyche, some of which I found hard to answer.

Afterwards, Sabine took me up to Sacré-Cœur Basilica to see the lights of the city beneath us. Can there be any other way to see Paris by night, except on that hilltop beside the towering church? On the way down we got lost and went the wrong way down a one-way street, the oncoming driver aggressive, forcing a fast reverse up a winding hill.

‘I think it’s time to go home, Sabine,’ I said.

‘But that is what I am trying to do, dear Fiona,’ she said, and suddenly we were laughing until we cried all the way back into the relatively safe haven of St Germain.

Sabine loves to cook. There was a big dinner at her house the next night; the gatherings are always large. The five-course dinner began with an excellent cold zucchini soup and ended with clafoutis – it was cherry season. Sabine’s authors are probably the best-fed writers in France.

The trip to Brittany for the St Malo Book Fair was a five-hour journey on a high-speed TVG that was entirely occupied by writers from all over the world. All of Sabine’s contingent were in the same carriage: me, Belgian-born Diane Meurs, Duong Thu Huong from Vietnam, Takis Theodoropolous from Greece. Two other New Zealand writers with different publishers were further along, in other carriages.

St Malo is a walled stone city overlooking the Atlantic. My hotel had a slit window with a view across the sea. My friend, Nelly Gillet, a translator and lover of New Zealand literature, had travelled from Angoulême. When Sabine was off duty, we sat together in the sunshine at the front of the stall exhorting passersby from the throngs of thousands to call in, explore what was on offer, buy books. We thought we were impressive salespeople. In the evenings, Sabine sat us down at restaurants where we feasted on scallops – coquilles Saint-Jacques heavy with cream – Breton crêpes and galettes. On the return journey back to Paris Sabine provided patés and cheeses, salami and fresh fruit and several bottles of splendid wine. Before long, our carriage began to fill as hungry writers migrated to ‘those people with all the food and drink’.

At Montparnasse, our final destination, Takis stood on the platform and sang ‘My Darling Clementine’ at the top of his voice, calling for the rest of us to join in. I have a happy memory of standing in the lights of the station roaring about Clementine’s shoes that were number nines and herring boxes without topses, the only other writer who knew the words; of exchanging addresses, and somehow knowing that I was unlikely to see or hear from these people again.

Except Sabine.

So many festivals. They become a way of life. If I have written at length about those excursions overseas, there have been dozens up and down New Zealand. I feel so grateful to all the people who care enough about the work to invite us and make these events happen. One that will always stand out is an evening in the tiny library in the central North Island town of Taihape, near where my mother was born. There was a local ukulele band and we all sang along and I got to sit in the mayor’s chair. The two booksellers who were on hand had travelled for an hour or more on a dark winter’s night. I love library events, and those in pubs and bookshops, and theatres, and community centres. There are bad beds and good beds, 1970s motels and luxury suites and even a penthouse or two, there are bottles of fine wine and Presbyterian abstention.

Then there was a festival in Blenheim when The Infinite Air came out. Wearing a helmet and a long white trailing scarf, like Jean, I was flown in a two-seater plane like hers; we did loops over the sea. All these things and more.

I gave the keynote address at the wonderful Going West Festival that’s held in Titirangi. When I was sent a copy of this recently, I saw what I had written about festivals twenty years ago:

Not everyone understands the way a writer’s life really is. It’s not too bad, it’s just different. Little wonder that we enjoy talking and socialising with people who understand what our day is like, who know that the phrase, ‘Did you get much done today?’, is meaningless. People for whom you don’t have to fill in the picture of your life to make it sound like a real job, even if it doesn’t look like one from the outside. People who understand that when you say you want to be alone, that’s what you really mean, and no hard feelings. People, too, who understand that the condition of money is an erratic, fluctuating and constant anxiety, or it is for most of us. I suppose it’s like any union or association of workers, with a simple common understanding of the unspoken, and a shared way of life.

Just sometimes, you can be blindsided by a festival and its outcome. It’s possible, as I did, to get tangled up in your own history. A year or so ago, I was a guest at the Whanganui Literary Festival. My accommodation was at the Rutland Hotel, one of the town’s old establishments, which had been rescued from ruin and restored in fine detail. As I walked to my room on the first landing beside a small sitting room, something made me stand stock still.

I have written often about the time when I lived with my grandparents on their Waikato farm, about the breakfasts taken with my grandfather at a long table, a ceiling-high carved dresser beside us. After my parents and I left to go and live up north, my grandparents died. Everyone drifted away from that household until there was little left except reflections of the past, the dresser and my Uncle Robert, who took an English wife when he was in middle age. Her name was Augusta but he renamed her Jane and built her a new brick house. This was designed to accommodate the dresser so that, when I visited the farm, as I would for more than fifty years, there it was still and I coveted it. My daughter would love it one day, as I had, and with it the stories of my childhood. I thought it would be mine but along the way I had a cousin, the child of another uncle, and this is who Robert decided was to receive the dresser. She was the only child of the eldest son; I was the only child of the youngest daughter. There was an order about how things were decided. I begrudge my cousin nothing, she is a generous-hearted woman and we are friends.

But she already owned two dressers from her mother’s side of the family. She offered her new acquisition back to Jane, who was happy that the space on her wall would still be filled.

Years passed. Jane continued to live on the farm. But loneliness eats you up. She met a retired school inspector, when she was seventy-five. The next thing there was a wedding; Augusta, who had become Jane and was about to reclaim her real name, as well as that of the inspector, was the blushing and ecstatic bride.

The inspector had a son who had also been recently married. Bear with me, this story is going somewhere; it is following the dresser. The time came for Jane and her husband to leave the farm; the dresser moved to a new home in another town. And then there was a move to a rest home, and when the elderly couple dispensed with their belongings, the son’s new wife was given the dresser.

Jane died.

The son died.

I didn’t know where the dresser had gone. By this time, I had said goodbye to it anyway, the lost symbol of my childhood. I forgot about it, more or less.

But there in Whanganui, in the Rutland Hotel, stood my grandparents’ dresser. No mistaking it. It had been nicely French polished and it gleamed in the afternoon light. I walked over, my heart pounding, my head exploding with disbelief. I knelt and fitted my fingers into its crooks and crevices.

There was an attendant, a tiny woman, full of stories. I asked her where the furniture had come from, even then doubting what I had seen and touched. Was it by any chance in the hotel when the restoration was started? No, she said, no, all the furniture had come from second-hand places. She and I took the dresser apart, pulling out the drawers and turning them upside down. I’m not sure what I was looking for, perhaps a name or something that would indicate the provenance of the piece. There was nothing – the interior had been carefully cleaned, no traces of the past. But I knew.

I went for a walk in the pretty town where hundreds of cherry trees were in wild and riotous bloom, past the Savage Club standing back from the street, a big red building where someone was playing tinkly old-time jazz, on down to the bank of the wide river. Then I walked back to the hotel and that night I slept in the Rutland Hotel in the room next door to my grandparents’ dresser, and I was a child again.

People have asked if I was tempted to make an offer for it. If I did, it was a fleeting temptation. It looks very nice where it is.

On small planes

It’s the same again this weekend, wild weather,

rain and delays, and a long way south, suspension

on a cloud, books take you everywhere.

My epitaph may be that she was a small woman

who spent her days in small airports flying

on very small aeroplanes to middle-sized towns.

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Preparing for flight at the Marlborough Book Festival, Blenheim, 2014.

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