Open Writing

Moving-in Day started with a stroke of luck. We said goodbye to the bach, and went round to Hazel's – she'd got a day off work so that she and Mike could help us with the move. There, whilst awaiting the call from Murray to say our keys were ready for collection, I checked the bank account. Unbelievably – because we'd figured that it couldn't possibly turn up until after the weekend – the "balance of funds" FX transfer had already come through.

Of itself this was no Big Deal, as it knocked only a hundred dollars or so off the interest. Yet, this felt like the first time that the pecuniary dice had rolled our way, as opposed to being forced our way through sheer hard slog and dogged persistence. Coming just at that particular moment gave it the heady air of an Auspicious Omen. Heck, even the chap at the bank, who'd had a fairly torrid time himself, must have felt it – mere minutes later he himself was on the blower, telling us the good news. Diplomatically, we pretended that we didn't already know.

"Moving in" was another euphemism. What actually happened was this: we drove up, opened the door, and carried in our suitcases. We came back out, and fetched some of the stuff we'd either been lent or bought new. It didn't add up to a right lot. The lounge contained five chairs borrowed from a little-used waiting area at Hazel's work-place. Full stop. One of the bedrooms got our suitcases, and the bathroom our toiletries and a couple of towels. The kitchen fared relatively well, with small wares like a kettle, coffee-maker, crockery, cutlery, pans and a basket of groceries. The dining area and the remaining three bedrooms were “without form and void”.

Darkness had already descended when a double-bed, loaned by one of Hazel’s friends, arrived. All hands, with a little help from Mike’s toolkit, mucked in to get it assembled. At least we wouldn’t be spending the first night in our new home sleeping on the floor. Then drinks all round, and the young ‘uns departed, leaving us time to reflect – well, until the telly arrived the next afternoon, there wasn’t much else to do, other than read a book.

And reflect we did. It was Friday, 21 September. We had watched the contents of our home in Bailiff Bridge, 12,000 miles away and just a day short of only a month ago, vanish into the maw of a removal van. We had been in New Zealand for only three and a half weeks. You know what? Thinking back over all the water that had flooded under those burned bridges, several megalitres of which have necessarily gone unmentioned in this summary, it felt like longer, a LOT longer – and then some.

We found it all hard even to take in, never mind believe. What now seemed like an eternity ago (you may recall it was somewhere round about Chapter 9), we’d been confidently expecting that it’d take “a good two or three months”, at the very least, to get ourselves a house. So, another expectation was nuked, never mind merely blown, out of the water. No wonder we were feeling dazed.

Yet, this hiatus was but a brief respite. The next few days brought a steady procession of delivery men, like oriental kings bearing gifts that at least partly populated our lowly stable bare. On Saturday morning, leaving Mike and me wrestling with the tumble dryer, Pam and Hazel went “SHOPPING!” Much to their disappointment, this was not for clothes. However, they were considerably consoled by the thought that scouring the shops for further armsful of household essentials was nevertheless still “shopping!”

In the coming week, we would sally forth to commence battle with such as the telephone company, the electricity supplier, SKY (it seems that nobody over here settles for the terrestrial TV, and with some justification – although SKY’s offering hardly qualifies as anything to write home about), the realty agent (we had seven front door keys, but NONE for any of the other four doors), the tax men (both the UK and NZ Inland Revenue have an interest in my pension income) – it’s a list that goes on and on (and on!).

During that first week we had another stroke of luck. The chappie at the FX company e-mailed us. He’d noted that our recent “spot” contracts had been to one account (our current account), but that the forward contract, struck somewhere way back in the mists of time, and whose value date was now imminent, nominated an account with a different suffix. Did we want to change it before the value date?

Ah, he had a point – secure in the knowledge that there was no way we’d have need of it so soon, we’d aimed it at our savings account, to get it earning interest immediately while we looked for a house. His keen eye saved us another day’s interest on that loan. Moreover, that transfer also came through far quicker than we’d anticipated, so in the end we paid less than a third of the interest for which we’d budgeted. Occasion for a further minor celebration!

However, we hadn’t forgotten about the folk who waltzed off with the bulk of our worldly goods. After some six weeks without my PC and audio kit, and with Pam equally missing her favourite armchair and her collection of cross-stitches, and the pair of us still effectively “camping in”, our impatience finally got the better of us. We sent an e-mail enquiry.

Several days later we got a reply. “Pleased to inform us” (they were) that our consignment was on board and the ship was due to sail on 12 October, scheduled to arrive in Auckland on 13 November, and we should get our goods not more than four weeks after that. WHAT! It was all still in ENGLAND? At this rate, we’ll be “camping in” until sometime in December. Talk about “a slow boat to China”.

Were we “bovvered”? Well, did we look “bovvered”? No, we flippin’ didn’t! Irksome the waiting may be, but to set against it we had so much to be thankful for. We were at last back in the bosom of our family, with the added bonus of having some relatively new family to get to know better – and very soon we were getting on like a house on fire with our smaller grandsons. Granted, we didn’t (and still don’t) see all that much of Jake but, hey, you know how it is: he’s just turned (like) 16 this month, and he’s (like) hardly ever around.

When folk discover we’re residents rather than visitors, one question inevitably springs to their lips: “Don’t you miss England?” By and large, our answer is, “No” – that is, we don’t particularly miss the place (although I reserve the right to claim exceptions, like good, old-fashioned Yorkshire pubs). But then again, “Yes,” of course we sorely miss all our old family and friends, but take some small comfort in the fact that modern telecommunications can do something to ease that particular ache (especially when NZ finally catches up with the UK in terms of value-for-money).

We are indebted to all the folk who’ve chipped in with this and that to tide us over, but I don’t think anyone would deny that this debt pales into insignificance when set against the contribution of our dear friends Jennifer and Michael. I think I can safely say it would have been far, far more difficult – or, in all likelihood, downright impossible – for us to have pulled this off without their unstinting help, holding the fort on the UK front.

With power of attorney over our old house, they chased the solicitor and estate agent with all the diligence of a couple of prize ferrets, and looked after re-insuring the building when that gap opened up in the completion schedule. With immaculate efficiency, Jennifer has managed the UK end of all our money movements. As the saying goes, friends like that are hard to find, and we were so lucky to have found them.

Having made much of the financial “cliffhanger” aspect of this tale, it behoves me to give you some idea of the final score. Looking back to those early, decision-making days, you may recall that I’d originally forecast that we could finance the entire business out of our UK house sale, and still come out at the other end with a tidy sum left over, to supplement our (entirely unscathed) pension nest-egg.

Well, once all the dust was safely tucked back under the carpet, I did a little bit of totting up. Broadly speaking, we actually used the WHOLE of the proceeds of our UK house sale plus about HALF of our nest-egg, which was thus well and truly “scathed”. Considering the vagaries of the money market, I’d say that put us slap-bang in the middle of “scraping through by the skin of your teeth” territory – we came uncomfortably close to getting shut out by that ever-closing door. Still, at least we ended up with SOME cash left over. Maybe I should put that down as the final – for the time being, at least – “unexpected” of this tale?

As to what the future holds, who knows? I don’t. In fact, I don’t even have much time to ponder on it because, unless we’re occupied with any of the other 1001 things that still need doing, Pam is keeping me busy helping her sort out the garden, and with over 250 square metres of it, that’s more than enough to go at.

As I write these words, it’s still very much “early days”. As yet we have no social life outside of the family. From my own perspective, I suppose it’s too much to hope for, that there’s another Slawit Phil or Huddersfield RMS hidden in the locality, but nevertheless I’m expecting that, sooner or later, I’ll unearth someone with a similar musical bent. Programme notes and CD reviews are all very well, but they are solitary activities, compounds devoid of that all-important social element.

All in all, I suspect that we have an “interesting” time ahead of us. I dare say that most eventualities will turn out to be as unexpected as ever. I might yet find myself penning, following that “finest” of all Hollywood traditions, “A Tale of the Unexpected II – The Aftermath.” If I do, then Heaven help you all.