Telling Tales

For Robin, Carmen, Isla & Leon and for Julian & James

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Dedication

Preface

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

Afterword

Photographs

Copyright

About the Publisher

Preface

In January 2009, Tessa Duder was staying here overnight on her way to the South Island. For the umpteenth time she got on to me about writing a ‘memoir’ of my life and times as a parent, teacher and writer for the young. Her argument for me taking such a drastic step had generally appeared, to me, to be based on my recounting of the story, yet again, of the unveiling of the Ohakune Carrot. While clearly a compelling and dramatic tale in itself, it still seemed to me a very slight base for a life story. ‘OK, Tessa,’ I said, calling the good lady’s bluff, ‘I’ll make a bargain with you: I’ll write my story if you can find a publisher for it.’ And, further hedging my bet: ‘Not after I’ve written it, either—before! I know you won’t find one.’

One would think that after three score years and ten I might have learnt never to call the bluff of anyone and hope to get away with it. Within a week I had received a phone call from Lorain Day, publishing manager at HarperCollins. ‘I have just been talking to Tessa…’ she began.

The story I tell in these pages is fully the result of my own gullibility. Further examples of that gullibility are liberally sprinkled throughout the pages of the tale.

Tessa was not my sole persuader. Fellow writer and equally good friend Janice Marriott must also bear some responsibility. Others were also on the sideline; my daughter-in-law, Carmen Gravatt, for one. Possibly hoping to keep me gainfully occupied in my declining years, Carmen also considered that it would be a good idea for me to leave some sort of written legacy, apart from my small mountain of fiction, for my grandchildren. An unlikely fourth individual who arrived in my life only a couple of years ago, Yura Zavgorodniy of St Petersburg and Pyatigorsk in Russia, virtually commanded me to go on writing when he heard what was afoot. You can read about him later on in these pages.

I acknowledge with deep appreciation the agreement of my two sons, Robin and Julian, my sisters, Margaret Debeger and Janette Jackson, and my former wife, Delia McRill, to allow my writing about them, and, indeed, to somewhat invade their privacy. In part, this is their story as well; I hope I have not let them down. Others—friends and wider family—also appear in these pages. All appear in a good light because, quite simply, all have been positive influences in my life and have helped, encouraged and supported me in so many ways.

I also acknowledge the generosity of my various publishers, notably Scholastic New Zealand, Longacre Press, and, of course, HarperCollins New Zealand, for allowing me to quote quite liberally from titles of mine over which they still hold publishing rights. I am grateful to Lorain Day, publishing manager of HarperCollins New Zealand, for her encouragement and enthusiasm for this work, and particularly to Kate Stone for her editing of the book.

It is up to any reader of this story to decide what this account is. I know what it is not, rather than what it is. It is not a ‘literary memoir’, for the very good reason that I am not remarkably ‘literary’. It is not a treatise on how to write fiction for the young. Nor is it a recipe for teaching practice or child-rearing as a solo-parent! Slivers of the work are autobiographical. Some bits are family history; in a sense a slice of social history of this country dating back to the mid-nineteenth-century wave of European migration to the shores of Aotearoa-New Zealand. I guess, in some sort of total, it is a recounting of how I came to do things in the course of my life and living. There have been laughter and tears, joy and sadness, a few regrets and a few wrong paths taken. It has been a full life and, looking back, I am somewhat surprised at how few things I would change.

It doesn’t really matter what my story is, however. I simply hope any readers enjoy and are entertained by the tale.

William Taylor

Raurimu, 2009

I

When I was seven years old I saw Jesus in our garden at Roslyn Road, Levin. It was something of a surprise because we didn’t get many visitors. The day was fine and warm; possibly late summer. I went inside to tell my mother we had an unexpected caller. She took the news in her stride.