It seems to be today that the measure of a relationship between the sexes is in the sexual performance. In a world of casual sex, of throw-away relationships, people using people with friendship a Facebook tick, It may seem strange that I continue to love a then-twelve-year-old girl after a separation of sixty years and revere the woman unmet that she must have become or that I love another man’s wife forty years after her death. Many cannot envisage an enduring non-physical love between the sexes and received doctrine is that ones close friends should be of about ones own age and of ones own sex apart that is from girl-friends or boy-friends. Sex is the cement that is most easily understood.
As an apprentice working in private homes, I came to the conclusion that when the grass fire had burned out it had left couples who would never quite understand each other; who would never have a real meeting of minds in spite of their sharing a bed and children. Theirs would never approach the Velcro bonding I had with Margaret a large, immensely-capable woman of my parent’s generation, a widow, and part-owner of our firm who ran the retail shop and the office. It was not something that small-town, early-fifties people would understand or approve and not something I understood myself. When my family moved away and I had to find board, Margaret later admitted, “I would have liked you to have boarded with me—but!–people would talk.” It would have been alright if she’d been my auntie. Though scared of the girls in the office and of most women, I could talk with Margaret and she with me as equals. We were bonded.
The twelve-year-old, Anne, was the daughter of the house where I was boarding. I had quickly become closer to her than to my own sisters which was something that I wondered at. I was not in-love with her but fond of her and recognised her as someone of quality even at that age. This was in contrast to the rest of her family. The poets do women wrong. A woman’s real beauty or value is not in her face or form.
So how does bonding happen? I am a retiring sort of person and have been told that I am very hard to get to know and yet with a few people I seem to mesh. It is impossible to catagorise them. I think of them as fellow Martians. Some years ago a single mother, the daughter of an aquaintance, visited. She was going to be shown some flats in Waitara. Her three-years old daughter had never once been out of her mother’s presence and we were meeting for the first time. Less than half an hour and the mother said, “Are you coming sweetheart?” and got an emphatic “No! I’m staying with Wichard.” and she did. We owned each other. A wonderful feeling. A then nearly seventy year old and a three year old. Some would say, “That’s sick!” but is it? I lost her when her mother moved to Christchurch.
The Greeks had, and I imagine still have, four different words for love. ‘Eros’ for love between the sexes, the “but will you still love me in the morning?” kind of love. ‘Storge’ for love of family members. ‘Philea’ for love based on mutual esteem. “Agape’ for principled love such as love for God and neighbour. Love for someone is usually a compound of several of these elements and when between the sexes it will always contain some ’eros’ even if this is far from being the dominant factor. Chaste love is not a saleable commodity. It gives no pain. Needs no constant declaration. It cannot be fallen out of or decline into recriminations. It is not eroded by time or separation.
Like others, I have had sexual overtures made to me within minutes both inside and outside of my work. That means nothing. The two female apes at Pouakai Zoo recognised me as male and clamoured for attention every time I walked past their enclosure. The earliest come-on at work would probably be the older woman who informed the youth fixing her stove that she had ‘absolutely nothing on under her dress.’ This sort of situation requires tactful handling when working alone in private homes. Should the woman become vindictive and make accusations she will be believed since ‘all men are predators.’ At times I have been too dumb to see until later where things were meant to lead. I feel sorry for these women. What demon pushes them to demean themselves?
You will remember the near-blind cartoon character Mr Magoo who blundered through the most incredible dangers only to emerge completely unscathed simply because he was unaware of the hazards. It could be that I am another Mr Magoo protected by my naivity. Although always on the sidewalk and not part of the parade, I have been admitted behind the facade of several married women to be shown the scantling they needed to hold up that facade. We have become favourite brother and favourite sister. I do not know how this could be so. I have not courted these women. Courting is something that I just cannot do and, when the woman is married, although I am there quite innocently, it could be a dangerous place to be standing.