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    Iris and Me
    Iris and Me
    Iris and Me
    Ebook221 pages1 hour

    Iris and Me

    By Philippa Werry

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    About this ebook

    This is the story

     

    of a long journey
    and a true friend.

     

    It is the story of other things, too:
    sisters (three)
    ships (many)
    secrets (a multitude) ...

     

    I don't have a name of my own,
    but my friend does.

    Her name is Iris.

     

    So begins the story of Iris Wilkinson, who wrote poetry, novels and journalism under the pen name Robin Hyde. In January 1938, she left New Zealand for England. On the way, intrigued by glimpses of China, she ventured inland despite the war raging there, becoming one of the first women war correspondents – a feat that was all the more remarkable because she struggled with mental health and suffered a disability that meant she had a lifelong limp. Robin Hyde doesn't tell her story – it is narrated by a loyal but mysterious companion who asks the reader to guess the secret.

     

    Iris and Me is an imaginative account of the adventures of one of Aotearoa's most significant writers, presented in a form that Hyde herself would have loved – the verse novel. It was the runner-up for the NZSA Laura Solomon Cuba Press Prize 2022, and won the Young Adult Fiction Award at the NZ Book Awards for Children and Young Adults 2023.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAhoy
    Release dateAug 21, 2023
    ISBN9781991150868
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      Book preview

      Iris and Me - Philippa Werry

      This is the story

      of a long journey

      and a true friend.

      It is the story of other things, too:

      sisters (three)

      ships (many)

      secrets (a multitude).

      A child; another child.

      Work. Words.

      And a Hermes portable typewriter.

      We are a team, the three of us:

      my friend, the typewriter and me.

      Words are amazing, don’t you think?

      I used to wonder at how we all have the same language, the same alphabet,

      the same letters, and turn out so many different words.

      But then we set off on our long journey

      and I realised, of course, that isn’t true.

      There are many languages, many alphabets,

      many scripts, many letters,

      and so many words.

      I don’t have a name of my own,

      but my friend does.

      Her name is Iris.

      Iris, my friend.

      A maker of words.

      Iris knows the power of words,

      and what they can do.

      Words, she says, should be hard old lamps,

      and white of wick,

      and the right flame rises then.

      Beginnings

      Where was this long journey

      and where did it take us?

      On how many ships,

      carrying how many secrets?

      And who am I, anyway?

      Isn’t that what you are asking yourself?

      Don’t worry,

      I will tell you everything

      all the way to the end,

      or as far as we have got, anyway.

      But where is the beginning?

      Should I start with where we are now,

      or how we got here?

      Should I start with Iris,

      with me,

      or with Derek?

      Where Iris was born?

      Where I was born?

      Where she found me?

      Why she needed me?

      I’ve learnt a lot about writing from Iris.

      I’ve learnt it can be hard to know

      where a story starts.

      You might take false paths

      and many re-drafts

      to get to the right place.

      You might start somewhere

      and realise the story

      actually starts somewhere else.

      Let’s start with Iris.

      But in case you are wondering …

      Where are we now,

      the team of three?

      Right now it’s June 1938

      and Iris and I are in Tsingtao.

      The Hermes, I’m not sure.

      In a suitcase, on the way to England?

      It’s not often the three of us are parted,

      but there were reasons.

      Tsingtao – where is that?

      Six months ago, I didn’t know either.

      Look at a map of China:

      find the Yellow Sea, trace the eastern coast,

      halfway between Shanghai and Peking.

      Aren’t those magical names already?

      Tsingtao.

      The Yellow Sea.

      Shanghai.

      Peking.

      So strange,

      so far from home.

      For the last two months,

      Iris has been reported missing.

      Missing on the front lines.

      Missing in the field of battle.

      Still missing.

      We didn’t know at the time

      but she made headlines

      around the world.

      NZ GIRL’S TERRIFYING ORDEAL

      WOMAN’S ADVENTURES IN BATTLE AREAS

      Trek to Safety along Tsingtao Railway

      TRAPPED IN CHINESE BATTLE ZONE

      Lone White Woman’s Trek

      British Woman’s Terrifying Trek

      to Safety through War-Stricken China

      NZ Woman Journalist in China

      WAR ZONE PERILS

      Amazing Story

      GIRL’S AMAZING ADVENTURES ON CHINESE WAR FRONTS

      A Woman’s Experiences

      HER REMARKABLE STORY: WOMAN MISSIONARY IN CHINA

      Lonely Wanderings in Area of Conflict

      AMAZING EXPERIENCES

      These reporters didn’t get all their facts straight.

      (Iris, a reporter herself, would scoff in disapproval.)

      Did they mean woman or girl? New Zealand or British?

      And woman missionary she definitely is not,

      although she did get help from one.

      But Amazing? Terrifying? Remarkable?

      That is Iris. That is what happened.

      That is exactly right.

      There is a war in China.

      Tsingtao is under Japanese occupation.

      The British consul and his wife,

      Mr and Mrs Handley-Derry –

      how strange is that name – welcomed us politely,

      but I could tell they were shocked

      at the state of Iris: her ragged clothes,

      soles flapping on her shoes

      and her bruised and battered body.

      They ran her a hot bath,

      burnt everything she was wearing,

      gave her new clothes and shoes.

      The amah mended her green coat.

      The doctor checked her sore eye

      and took out a thorn.

      It was a relief to both of us

      that she was not going blind, after all.

      Honestly, I don’t know how she survived

      and to tell the truth

      I’m relieved to find myself in one piece as well.

      Mr and Mrs Handley-Derry

      did not pay much attention to me.

      People often don’t.

      How did we get here?

      It’s a long story.

      Do you want to know?

      We got here

      by ship

      by train

      by ferry

      by wallah-wallah

      by rickshaw

      by sampan

      by donkey

      by foot.

      We got here

      by air raids

      by gunfire

      by bombs falling

      by tanks rumbling

      by buildings crumbling.

      We got here

      by courage

      by keeping going

      by not giving in

      by brushing off ‘no’

      by ignoring the men

      who said a woman couldn’t do it.

      The same determination that powers her writing,

      keeps her bashing away at her typewriter,

      meeting deadlines, staring down rejections,

      has powered Iris across oceans,

      across continents, on endless train journeys,

      along empty train tracks,

      refusing to admit defeat.

      That’s how we got here.

      Here is one beginning

      For the first 18 years of my owner’s life,

      she didn’t need me.

      I’ll tell you what I know of her life then.

      Her name was Iris, her real name –

      later, she had others.

      Her birth certificate (perfectly beautiful,

      written in Dutch, on vellum)

      states that she was born in Cape Town

      on 19 January 1906, to Nellie and George.

      How did they end up in Cape Town?

      George was born in Agra, India, also home

      of the Taj Mahal.

      Adelaide – Nellie for short – was on her way

      from Australia to England,

      but she never got there. The lure of travel

      was already circulating in Iris’s blood

      when she was born.

      Iris had an older sister, Hazel.

      There would be two more:

      Edna, and Ruth, the war baby.

      See! Already you know about the

      sisters (three).

      The family sailed from South Africa on the Ionic,

      Iris still a baby. Arrived in Wellington,

      they lived in southern suburbs near the sea:

      Melrose, Newtown, Berhampore,

      under steep hills painted yellow

      with flowering gorse and broom.

      Russell Terrace, Waripori Street, Blythe Street:

      close enough to hear the roar

      of lions at the zoo: King Dick,

      Briton, George, Mary and Maud,

      echoing through the night;

      close enough to climb on a tram

      and trundle down to Island Bay,

      where fishing boats bobbed on the tide

      and Italian fishermen sold fresh fish

      and baby octopus on the beach.

      Iris can’t swim for toffee, none of them can,

      but I see her rescuing Edna, her sister,

      who got out of her depth

      and flung her skinny arms around Iris’s neck

      after she went out too far.

      Or maybe Iris encouraged her to do that.

      Because that’s what Iris always did

      went out a bit

      too far.

      That’s what she always did.

      Who is Iris?

      I never knew Iris as a child,

      I wish I had.

      But this is how I picture her:

      redhaired

      adventurous

      imaginative

      curious

      funny

      smart.

      Sometimes in trouble for scaring her sisters

      with spooky stories in bed at night.

      But even then, with a deep longing for beauty,

      a love of green secret places.

      and a heart for bright cheerful flower faces.

      Named for a flower, after all.

      She went to Wellington South Primary,

      then Berhampore School, where the other kids

      called her brainy – not quite a compliment.

      In her last year, she was dux,

      her name in gold letters on the honours board.

      She went to Mr and Mrs Culford Bell’s

      Elocution and Dramatic Art classes.

      I see her standing up to give a recitation

      at their end-of-year concerts.

      Words have always been important to her.

      I see her with her sisters,

      all four girls dressed in frocks

      made on Nellie’s whirring sewing machine,

      the little Wilkinsons of Waripori Street,

      and later (after welcoming their father

      at the wharf, back from the war)

      of 92 Northland Road, a house

      called Laloma. The abode of love in Sāmoan,

      they’re told. Maybe not always. But still a house full

      of life: noise, quarrels and laughter. Far from the zoo,

      no beaches here, but big skies and unexpected

      glimpses of harbour down dense green valleys.

      The house perched on a corner

      above the road, overlooking bush and stream,

      welcoming the wind streaming over the hills.

      I see her climbing trees

      exploring the bush

      and riding horses

      laughing at birthday parties

      dancing with her sisters

      as her father plays an old flute

      that they have decorated with flowers.

      I see her with two strong legs,

      hopping, skipping, jumping,

      flying kites,

      her legs working just fine,

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