A Year of Change

By Helen Herbert

.A Year of Change begins in a hillside suburb of Christchurch, New Zealand and tells the story of some of the residents over the period of one year. As with any group of people they have their similarities and their differences.
Eleanor Chandler, in her eighties, is pompous and a snob. She looks down on the likes of Kay Smith, in her forties, a newcomer to the area and at the bottom of the social, economic ladder with a husband in gaol.

Her neighbour, John Fox, originally a migrant from the UK, is nouveau riche and self-satisfied. His wife, Barbara, is in her 40’s and childless after twenty years of marriage,

David and Jill Hughes are friends and neighbours of John and Barbara. Their lives have been circumscribed by Jill’s health which has been precarious since before they married. Fiona and Alec Cameron are in their fifties, the backbones of society, giving service to the community in a variety of ways. Of all the residents they are perhaps the most contented. Hannah Naseby, an unmarried, retired Educational Psychologist in her sixties, has just returned from some years in the U.K. She is friendless and rather uncommunicative when the story opens, but her life changes when she befriends Jessie, an unmarried mother. Find out how all the characters relate and how their lives change because of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Herbert
• Release date: Feb 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311560469

Helen Herbert

Although I wrote my first novel at the age of 13 and have been writing, in one way or another most of my life, I started writing fiction seriously after I retired. I have published four e books, three novels set in New Zealand, and one in England. I have self-published print copies of 'A Year of Change' and 'There and Beyond' and may print 'Lost Property'.I live in Wanaka in the South Island, one of the most beautiful places in New Zealand. I am now working on my fifth novel set in London, UK.

Book preview

A Year of Change

By Helen Herbert

Copyright 2015 Helen Herbert

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1 – Autumn

It was a peaceful cul de sac. Cut like a wound through the New Zealand bush a decade ago, it had mellowed with the years, its appearance softened by the growth of exotic trees and shrubs. Curving into the hillside it was, to the casual observer, an affluent but unpretentious Christchurch suburb. The owners of the exclusive, architecturally- designed houses, if asked, would have maintained they were satisfied with their lives. Ostensibly they would have changed nothing.

However, a perceptive visitor, after spending a week or two in the area, could well have seen beyond the physical and metaphorical facade. The residents of Redfern Lane may have been described as offensively smug, every household revolving in its own little sphere, unconcerned or uninterested in those around them, each person convinced that superficial politeness was all that was required, but would that outsider have been correct?

Eleanor Chandler, resident at number five, picked her way, like a pukeko on marshland, down her drive. She moved stiffly towards her neighbour, John Fox, who was raking autumn leaves from his front lawn. Spying him through the sheer curtains of her well-appointed, can-see-everything-that's-going-on lounge, she had gauged that this was the moment to check her post box. Located at the end of her drive it gave her an excuse for a daily walk. Standard roses under-planted with lavender lined one side of the drive, while a schist retaining wall was capped with carefully chosen Ericas and Hebes. She took particular pride in her roses, each staked to perfection, every leaf healthy and glossy in its pristine environment. Daily she satisfied herself that no aphid or brown spot had had the temerity to invade her domain since her last inspection, conveniently forgetting that it was Clive's husbandry that maintained the garden in its unsullied state. Her regular outing also gave Eleanor the chance to glean and sow the latest gossip. She was, as she told her friends, 'an excellent neighbour.' She didn’t add that, apart from cooking the evening meal, she had little else to occupy her time. The housework was taken care of by Hilda who came in twice a week. A scrap of a woman in her late fifties, she could wield a vacuum cleaner and duster like a twenty year old, and kept the house spotless. All that Eleanor had to do was arrange the flowers, something she did to perfection.

A series of miscarriages early in their marriage, had left her and Clive childless, until, just before her menopause, they decided to adopt a baby girl. In her way she loved this child; but Christine never quite managed to fulfil Eleanor’s expectations. Any biological children would have been beautiful, as she had once been, and intelligent. Hadn’t Clive been an A student at Otago University, where he had studied dentistry? No, her only daughter never quite measured up. Even when she met a medical student, James Clarke, whom she subsequently married, Eleanor was less than impressed.

‘Poor as church mice’, she sniffed. ‘He’ll never amount to much. Why couldn’t she meet someone who had already made his way in the world?’

In spite of her mother’s prediction, James soon had a thriving practice in Auckland, together with a large family home in Remuera, one of the suburbs where only the most affluent could afford to live, and three daughters all of whom were going to private schools. Never one to admit an error of judgement, but anxious to let her friends know that her daughter had ‘married well’, Eleanor managed to avoid mentioning her son-in-law, while slipping into the conversation how well her granddaughters were doing.

Of course it would have been almost impossible for anyone to reach the exacting standards of one who was descended from the early pioneers. Not, as Eleanor was quick to point out to anyone who showed an interest, that her family had arrived as immigrant labour. Oh, no! Coming from England to Canterbury on the Charlotte Jane, one of the first four ships brought to Lyttelton by the Canterbury Association in 1850, her great grandfather had travelled cabin class. On his arrival he had purchased land, set up a sheep station on the Canterbury Plains, and sent to Hampshire for his young bride. Together they had prospered and raised a large family. Eleanor’s father had inherited one of the family farms and she had enjoyed an early life of privilege and comparative luxury. Spurning the chance to travel, she had married Clive when in her early 20’s, and had been cosseted and protected ever since. Had she ever held a job, or even taken voluntary work, she might have seen a side of life she hadn’t experienced, or met people who had a different outlook from hers, but that hadn’t happened. Some would have called her bigoted; the more charitable would probably have described her as biased, albeit in her own favour.

Perhaps the arrival of the Smith family at number 13 opposite, releasing the potential for chaos as if from Pandora's box should have been welcomed as a desirable crack in inflexible complacency, but that wasn't the way Eleanor Chandler saw it.

'Since they arrived all hell's broken loose.'

John Fox looked at the approaching figure with an inner moan of protest and said goodbye to the next thirty minutes. He straightened his lanky frame from the task of pushing a heap of leaves onto the fan-shaped rake and waited. Without preamble Eleanor launched into a second by second account of what had happened the previous night. She had been woken at one o'clock in the morning by the sound of squealing tyres.

'I woke Clive. Told him to get out of bed and look out the window. Damned Sound Blaster - is that what they call it? Going eighteen to the dozen. Talk about noise pollution. Must have been at least 250 decibels. Of course, Clive should have rung the police. I didn't sleep a wink after that.'

She turned an event of only a few minutes duration into a diatribe against the new neighbours across the road.

'Did you hear them? Little blighters.'

John nodded and took the moment in which Eleanor was getting her second wind to scoop the pile of leaves into his wheelie bin. As her protracted tale continued, he abandoned his autumnal combat with nature. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, and not only with the leaves. Pulling at a loose thread on his Pringle jersey, he wondered idly what Eleanor's reaction would be if he offered to take her to bed. Another word for the activity had crossed his mind, but in such regal company he had quickly dismissed it. Or what if he had admitted to having put arsenic in the local water supply? Would she have reacted? It was unlikely. She rarely waited for a response, preferring monologue to dialogue. If her listener made a bid to reply Eleanor ignored them, pressing on with her next assertion. Rejoinders were neither expected nor heeded.

John looked up, waiting for an opportunity to retreat. Experience told him this could be a long session. He stared into the distance towards the Southern Alps, the backbone of the South Island, now gleaming from an early fall of snow. He glanced back at Eleanor. He couldn't deny that, although almost twice his age, she was a handsome woman. Never having been plagued by the modern-day wickedness of gaining weight she stood tall with only a suggestion of a dowager's hump, her navy leisure suit and cream turtle-necked jumper neat and stylish. Only the deep grooves in her face and her hesitant, stiff gait revealed she was in her eighties. Had one needed confirmation, it was quickly provided by Eleanor herself, since it had been her custom from an early age to tell all and sundry at their first, and every subsequent meeting, her exact age. She would then smile proudly and wait for a response, confident that her companion would express disbelief, and then comment on how young she looked. She was rarely disappointed. Regarded as excusable vanity in old age, it had become somewhat tedious to those who had been subjected to it over several decades.

Aware that she was being observed by John she lifted a manicured hand, the knuckles of which were badly misshapen with arthritis, and patted her pink-rinsed hair. Vanity, honed over the years to an art, was now, apart from flower arranging, her only recreation. As her criticism of the Smith family continued John reflected on the enigma of women. He had once rashly observed to Barbara, that Eleanor was still a good looking woman. His wife's quick retort was pointed. If she spent half as much time and money on her appearance as Eleanor, and had as little to do, she too could look wonderful.

'Nothing wrong with how you look,' he had replied, slipping his arm around her slender waist. At forty Barbara was still remarkably attractive. Tall and slim, with excellent taste in clothes and accessories, her presence enhanced his image in much the same way as did his gold Tiffany knot cufflinks or Miura golf clubs. Pity he no longer found her sexually stimulating. The sensual mystery had disappeared long ago. It wasn't that he had been unfaithful, not really. But neither had he ever been able to resist the allure of the chase, even in the early days. There was nothing to beat it - except perhaps catching the prize, he thought wryly.

'She's vain too,' Barbara had said, still with Eleanor in mind. 'Goes to the hairdresser's two or three times a week. Vain, and stupid and snobbish.'

John drew his musing back from his wife to Eleanor. As if confirming Barbara's judgement, his neighbour was saying, 'They're not our sort of people. They don't fit in.' She noted John's puzzled expression. ‘The Smiths across the road.’ Her tone became even more critical. ‘How could they afford that house? That’s what I’d like to know. Have you heard her speak? A regular fishwife. No idea about grammar.’

She glanced up and gave a brief majestic wave as a spotless silver Mercedes passed them and turned into John’s drive.

‘Barbara’s home,’ she said, somewhat superfluously.

‘I think I can hear the ‘phone. I’m expecting a business call.’ Taking his chance while Eleanor’s attention was momentarily distracted John excused himself and walked swiftly up to his garage, dragging the bin behind him.

#

For God's sake get up off your backside, Darren, and clear the mess off your bedroom floor. It's like a tip in there.' Kay Smith's nasal tones rang through the neighbourhood harsh and clear, but her sixteen-year-old continued to lie back on the settee, a tinnie in one hand and the TV monitor in the other.

'And don't drink that stuff. It'll rot your brains, if you've got any.' Kay wasn't known for her sensitivity. She had been brought up on the West Coast of New Zealand from poor but tough pioneering stock, used to the school of hard knocks.

Her hand shot out and clipped him across the ear before she flopped into a chair, weariness emphasizing the many fine lines on her small rodent-like face. She had known since she was a teenager that no amount of expensive face cream, (had she been able to afford it), would have enhanced her freckled and mottled complexion. Genetics had been less than kind to Kay, but inherited defects had been accentuated by the New Zealand climate. Long hours in the sun and wind, working in her parents market garden, had left her skin thick and leathery. Her coarse looks were a legacy of being brought up on the wrong side of the tracks. She had often wondered if, had she been raised in a comfortable and secure environment, things might have been different. She might have had more confidence. She could have done things differently. So much of what others seemed to take for granted had eluded her.

With coffee mug in hand she flicked through a magazine. Nothing registered. Life was a bitch. She thought, not for the first time, that it was a mistake to have left the West Coast. She had bought this house with an inheritance from an aunt. But that didn't make it a home. She knew the neighbours looked down on them, especially that toffee-nosed bitch across the road at number five. She could see her now gossiping to John Fox. From the way her eyes continually flicked across the street she was probably complaining about Darren. Stuck up cow.

Kay pondered on the injustices of life. How would her poncy neighbours cope, had they had to live with a husband who lived by his wits, often on the fringes of the law? Jason, her eighteen-year old elder son, was now following his father's career path, slowly rising up the ladder, (or should that be sliding down the snake?), of indolence and social dependency. Wonder what he’s doing these days, she thought. She hadn't seen him for a while. Not since before they moved to the hill. Everyone else was respectable and happy. Why couldn’t her family be like that? Like John Fox, for example, who was talking to Eleanor Chandler. Barbara, his wife, had waved once or twice, but she wasn't exactly friendly. Posh house, swimming pool, sauna, and a Mercedes and an Alfa Romeo in the garage. They couldn't be much older than she and Brian, but after eight weeks she had seen no sign of any kids, ruly or otherwise. If appearances were anything to go by they had it all. Her eyes ranged around the room.

All their money had gone into buying this house. She had thought if they moved to a better neighbourhood their luck would change. Brian, and maybe the good-for-nothing Jason, would work; Darren could go to a better school, and she would meet some nice people. Fat chance! She was surrounded by furniture which had seen better days. The uncut moquette suite she had inherited from her mother, when her parents had refurbished, had faded to the colour of putty. The small oak dining table, devoid of any suggestion of polish, was patterned under the layer of dust with pallid circles, a constant reminder of hot coffee mugs and carelessly poured beer. Her efforts to educate Brian and the boys on the need to use coasters had proved fruitless. The dining chairs, pushed back and left in haphazard confusion by her menfolk, disclosed frayed and worn upholstery. Perhaps she should get out the vacuum cleaner. She reached out and retrieved from a rickety stool close at hand her cigarettes and lighter. Motivation was like a paper clip. Hard to find when it was needed.

#

The Mercedes came to a stop as quietly as a kitten on velvet and Barbara Fox pulled on the handbrake with a flourish. John was talking to that awful Eleanor and Barbara knew from experience that he could be there for some time. Silently she thanked the Gods for internal access, allowing her to escape into the house unseen. Stepping out of the car she adjusted her crisp white shirt and slim-fit jeans, and taking a well-cut jacket and leather bag from the car, ascended the few steps into their three-storied house. Having always had an interest and an eye for fashion, she had resolved when she and John didn’t have two coins to rub together, that once they had the income she would never again be seen, either at home or beyond, looking less than immaculate. Born in the South East of London, she and John had met at Grammar School. Her background was modest working class, but John’s family could only be described as at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder. Despite his great grandfather having been a European Jew, and the urban myth that all Jews made money, his family had always known poverty. Motivated by his desperation to break this cycle, John had been determined to succeed. With a scholarship to Sussex University he had taken a degree in Business Management and Finance, and proved to be an A+ student. By the time the opportunity arose to take a job in New Zealand, he and Barbara were engaged, and they decided a move to the Southern Hemisphere would be an adventure. Wasn’t it described as the land of opportunity?

Hard work and a nose for a good business deal had enabled John to prosper. Now they had wealth, not quite beyond the dreams of avarice, but certainly in the comfortable category and she, as the wife of a self-made, highly successful businessman, could spend what it took to maintain the image.

She followed the latest fashion trends, modifying them as necessary to wear what she knew suited her slim figure. Not for her the latest craze for ripped jeans, whatever the fashion pundits decreed. Let the celebrities make fools of themselves if they wished. It would be another nine-day wonder.

Now she desperately needed a cup of coffee before putting some food together for lunch. From the kitchen she looked out to the distant view of the city, almost hidden at this time of the year under its man-induced cloud of brown smog. Beyond, the Southern Alps with their early covering of snow, were shining pink in the sunlight. The skiing season would soon be here and she visualized them spending as much time on the ski slopes as John did in the office and factory. Her eyes moved to the front drive. Eleanor still had John in her clutches.

On an impulse she lifted the ‘phone and dialled.

'Hughes household. David and Jill can't come to the 'phone right now, but if you leave your name and number we'll get back to you as soon as possible.' The deep, warm tones, with just a suggestion of a Welsh accent, came down the line.

'It's just me, - Barbara, - wondering if you need anything. I'll catch you later.' She replaced the receiver, the expectation of the moment before supplanted by disappointment. David had probably taken Jill shopping. As a friend and neighbour, Barbara’s visits to Number 9 Redfern Lane were frequent, usually to see Jill. Today, however, she had rung for a chat with David. He was such a decent sort. Idly she wondered what he thought of her.

#

David Hughes lifted his frail wife in his arms and carried her carefully up the steps of number 9 and into the house. Never heavy, Jill weighed almost nothing these days. She stared up at him, her large blue eyes in a small heart-shaped face questioning. Despite the devastation of illness she was still beautiful.

'Are we going to have lunch now? Put me down near the window.' Her tone was admonitory, like that of a two-year-old who hasn't yet learned the subtleties of polite behaviour.

Let's get inside the door first for goodness sake, David thought, but he restrained himself. She was pale. Perhaps these shopping trips were becoming too much for her. He assumed a tone that was kind and caring.

'What would you like for lunch?'

'I don't know.' She affected the whine which David found more tiresome than all the years of lifting and carrying. 'Surprise me.'

Impatience rose like gastric reflux. Why couldn't she be matter-of-fact? Surely it wasn't too much to ask, and at least it would retain his respect. Life hadn't been easy for her since her accident,