Yellow flowers, smiling

Willis Street, the heart of Wellington. Roaring traffic, the squeal of bus brakes, a screech of aluminium as poorly adjusted doors fold open to liberate passengers. A taxi blares its horn, unwilling to ease its acceleration. Petulant impatience. On the footpath a young woman walks, hands in jacket pockets, lips moving as she speaks to no one. She seems halfway between distraction and distress but discloses no clues about which way she’s heading—only that it’s elsewhere. A young man in black with a shoulder bag and green hair bounces along the street. Confident, going somewhere. A little later the elsewhere woman returns, eating a pie. If she looked at me I’d smile but she notices no one, she’s gone from the noise and the rush; wherever she is, it isn’t here.

My bus still hasn’t appeared. A man, probably in his early 30s with a long beard and a colourful knitted hat, sits on the bench near where I’m standing. With him is a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, dressed in a yellow T-shirt and burnt orange, patterned tights with a hole above the right knee. She has long blonde hair and wears a purple, handmade felt hat with a slight Paddington-bear look to it. It’s decorated with a row of bright yellow daisy-like flowers. Among the mass of bustling people dressed in black and dull, muted colours the man and the girl look like slightly faded rainbows on a squally day. It’s hard to believe they live anywhere but in a house bus painted with flowers and called Myrtle.

She swings her legs as she sits on the bench and looks around at the people passing by while she talks to him. An old woman labours over to the bench and eases herself down; with an effort she bends and removes her left shoe. The man picks up the little girl and sits her on his knee to give the old woman more room. After rubbing her foot she replaces her shoe. The girl watches. The woman looks up her—and the small face framed in gold and purple becomes an enormous smile, one leaving room for nothing else, no competing emotions. She beams and swings her legs on her father’s knees.

Even from a few feet away I can’t hear the conversation because the cacophony from the street drowns everything. But the words are incidental. Her father’s smiling too, and I catch a phrase: “She’s going to Caitlin’s this afternoon.” The yellow flowers tremble on the purple hat.

...

Along the coast from Burdan’s Gate two Californian quail run, agitated, across the dusty gravel track, pausing before disappearing beneath the boneseed. I stop pedalling, let the bike coast and slow and stop so I can peer into the dim tangle of low branches, but the birds have gone. Evening surf hisses on the shingle beach; a gull yelps.

Boneseed—that strange, unyielding name, with its connotations of death and potential life. Slowly, boneseed has begun to take over the shingle beach, moving down off the steep, goat-gnawed hillsides where it mingles with the gorse; spreading onto the wide shingle dunes, seedlings springing up among the driftwood and brittle shells. I bike on, towards the lighthouse, alone in the evening. Everywhere I look, yellow flowers remind me of a small child with a smile that could embrace the world.

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Notes:
1. The flowers might look pretty, but the spread of boneseed along New Zealand's coast is worrying. However, in early 2007, the boneseed leafroller (Tortrix s.l. sp. "chrysanthemoides"), a potential biological control agent was released (365 Kb PDF). Caterpillars of the boneseed leafroller damage the plant's leaves, stems, and bark, causing terminal leaves and shoot tips to die. The outcome of the biological control programme might not be known for some time — possibly many years — but we can remain hopeful.
2. Californian quail were introduced to New Zealand in 1865 and are now widespread. I have a soft spot for these birds, as they were common where I grew up, in a small valley on the outskirts of Christchurch. Hearing their distinctive call can take me back decades.
Photos (click to enlarge them):
1, 3. Californian quail, Callipepla californica (photo 1, female; photo 3, male). Wellington coast, near Burdan's Gate, Point Arthur.
2. Torea, the variable oystercatcher, Haematopus unicolor. Wellington coast, near Burdan's Gate, Point Arthur.
4. Boneseed (Chrysanthemoides monilifera ssp. monilifera) flowers. These appear identical to the flowers on the little girl's hat.
Photos and words © 2007 Pete McGregor