The trip to Wellington last week catered for two needs; to see my friend Jayne, and to gather research for the book I am writing. Jayne and I met when I lived in the area many years ago. We had a lovely couple of days together, one of which involved Jayne offering to drive me around the areas I wished to research. So, we headed across town, through the ‘tooting’ tunnel and towards Lyall Bay – one of the places the protagonist of my novel lived in the 1970s. I’ve called her Marjorie and she is based on a very complex woman I used to know well. Back then she liked to be called Mother.

My memories of Lyall Bay are of heavy rolling surf and surfers lined up like families of seals in black wetsuits waiting for the ‘right’ wave. That’s the thing about memories, especially when visiting places from the past – they often differ from that image captured in your mind. I do have a good memory, I believe, of the time Marjorie lived here, and of the unit she lived in, as I had visited her there many times. I did feel a little odd however, as my friend drove me to the end of Endeavour Street and I spotted the row of white block houses. What I remembered as a large green area in front of the houses, was anything but, with a fence dividing the property opposite, and glowering pōhutukawa trees. I felt a little sad, I guess, viewing these humble homes, yet pleased they had not been replaced by some multi-storied high-rise.

Jayne drove me towards the beach again, as I had remembered walkways that dog-legged through several streets eventually taking one through to the bay. Why did I do this? Because I am aiming for authenticity in my novel. I wanted to return to the place I am currently writing about. The place where Marjorie is in my head. I need to have the street names correct, and going in the right direction. I need to gauge how long her walks might have been, and where it is logical for her to have walked. I wished to confirm where the shopping centre was, and other places she would have gone. Marjorie didn’t live in Lyall Bay for long, so there was little attachment for me to this house, as it had never been our family home, as humble as that had also been.

I remember taking this path to the beach a few times back in the 1970s. All unprepossessing houses on both sides, now home to new families, maybe twice over. Families Marjorie shall never say ‘hullo’ to, or get to know their children’s names. Marjorie died twelve years ago; that’s how quickly time goes.