"JUST A DROP IN THE OCEAN"
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Exclusive to Amazon and available in Paperback, Kindle or FREE to download and read on Kindle Unlimited
SYNOPSIS:
"Just a Drop in the Ocean" is a love story that spans a lifetime and two continents, following the lives, the loves, and the losses of two people, in their search for happiness; wherever they can find it.
It follows the very disparate lives of two people; Nick Stevenson from New Zealand and Theresa Mercado from the Philippines. From their early friendship forged in the 1970's as pen-pals, and their burgeoning romance, through to their rediscovery of each other in the twenty-first century through the power of the Internet. Sound familiar? Hmmm, no, it is not auto-biographical although I won't pretend I didn't use some of my own life experiences to color and enhance the flavor of the story.
In the intervening years both Theresa and Nick go through their own versions of "personal hell", each having to struggle up from the pits of despair to find their own construction of peace and happiness. The story takes us to some of the seedier sides of life in a journey through issues of; criminality, prison, alcoholism, sexual and physical abuse, pornography and violence; but it uplifts us with the stunning realization that love can and does conquer all.
It is an epic, towering tale of love, lust, despair and happiness that will sweep the reader along at breakneck speed. This is a book for anyone who has ever loved and lost and a book for the true romantic in us all. You won't want to miss this one!
"Just a Drop in the Ocean" is a love story that spans a lifetime and two continents, following the lives, the loves, and the losses of two people, in their search for happiness; wherever they can find it.
It follows the very disparate lives of two people; Nick Stevenson from New Zealand and Theresa Mercado from the Philippines. From their early friendship forged in the 1970's as pen-pals, and their burgeoning romance, through to their rediscovery of each other in the twenty-first century through the power of the Internet. Sound familiar? Hmmm, no, it is not auto-biographical although I won't pretend I didn't use some of my own life experiences to color and enhance the flavor of the story.
In the intervening years both Theresa and Nick go through their own versions of "personal hell", each having to struggle up from the pits of despair to find their own construction of peace and happiness. The story takes us to some of the seedier sides of life in a journey through issues of; criminality, prison, alcoholism, sexual and physical abuse, pornography and violence; but it uplifts us with the stunning realization that love can and does conquer all.
It is an epic, towering tale of love, lust, despair and happiness that will sweep the reader along at breakneck speed. This is a book for anyone who has ever loved and lost and a book for the true romantic in us all. You won't want to miss this one!
PUBLICATION:
This was the first book that I self-published under the Publisher: Dream Publications. It was released in October 21st and is available exclusively through the Amazon Store and on Kindle Unlimited, through the link at the top of this page.
The paperback, produced by Amazon's Createspace is also available from my Amazon Author Page, which you can access here: http://viewauthor.at/GrantLeishman
This was the first book that I self-published under the Publisher: Dream Publications. It was released in October 21st and is available exclusively through the Amazon Store and on Kindle Unlimited, through the link at the top of this page.
The paperback, produced by Amazon's Createspace is also available from my Amazon Author Page, which you can access here: http://viewauthor.at/GrantLeishman
EXTRACT FROM JUST A DROP IN THE OCEAN:
This particular extract is from Chapter 1 of the book, as we meet the two main characters, Teresa and Nick:
Rizal: Occidental Mindoro: July 23rd 1971:
Teresa looked longingly at the four envelopes that sat on the kitchen table – they held the key to opening an unknown world for her, a world that to date she had barely glimpsed – only through books and cinema. These four envelopes held an eleven year-olds dreams, aspirations and fantasies and soon they would be winging their way to the four corners of the world to be opened, perused and taken in by four people about whom she had no clues. Unconsciously she hugged her arms to her chest and smiled broadly – what an awesome idea it had been of her teacher to write to pen-pals all over the world. Her friends had not been so enthusiastic – to them it just seemed like one more homework chore for them to do, but to her it was the opening of a portal to a new world of wonder and enchantment that defied description.
Teresa, the eldest of six children of a subsistence-farming family in the backwaters of Occidental Mindoro, The Philippines, was a pretty and sweet little eleven year old girl who was also incredibly shy and reticent to stand out from the crowd. Very intelligent and well ahead academically from her school friends, she often found their prattle and superficiality not enough for her own needs. They couldn’t even see beyond their own little village, she would often think to herself; but Teresa needed and wanted to have a world view. She longed to see and understand the marvels that she knew were just outside her own little, insular world. She longed for the opportunity to experience everything that life had to offer. At eleven years of age – she was already; in her heart and her mind – a citizen of the world and she fully intended to experience it. The pen-pal idea was a god-send to her – a chance to open her life up to the world and for the world to come to her little corner of Rizal.
“I know what I’ll do,” she mouthed aloud; “I’ll write one letter per afternoon this week and then on Friday I’ll be able to ask the teacher to send them off and I can wait excitedly for the replies.” Giggling to herself, she looked at the four names and addresses. There were two in Europe – Germany and England; one in the United States; and one, way, way down at the bottom of the world, in New Zealand. One thing Teresa definitely was – was thorough. I’d better get the atlas so I can check out some information about these countries and then I’ll decide who to write to first.
Quietly and stealthily she re-entered the old house. She wanted no-one to see her, no-one to divert her from her mission. She knew if her Mama or Lola saw her, she’d instantly be pressed into doing some house-work; preparing the rice for dinner, or endlessly sweeping the front porch that seemed to attract dust, like a dog attracts fleas. No matter how often or how hard they swept the house – it seemed five minutes later the dust was back again. It was a never-ending job and one that she had no intention of being press-ganged into this afternoon. “Hmmm”, she muttered mindlessly to herself, “sometimes being the oldest is just plain unfair – I always have to do all the work.” She absolutely did not want to be seen by her younger sister either; Carmela idolised her and would want her to play – either with her tiny wooden dolls that Papa had lovingly carved and painted for her as a Christmas present, or she would want her to go down to the creek where they could sit on the bank and paddle their feet in the water. NO! She just didn’t have time for little girl games today. She had much more important business to do.
Having located the old atlas from the book-shelf, she considered where would be the best place to seek the peace and quiet she needed to work on her labour of love – her first letter to her new pen-pals. Very silently, she crept through the old house, paper, envelopes and pencil in one hand and the big, dusty old atlas in her other. Once outside she headed for the family farm. It was quite a long walk in the hot sun, but she knew there would be nobody there to disturb her in her endeavours. Harvest season was over and she knew Papa and Tito (Uncle) Joe were just waiting for the fertilizer and new seeds to arrive from San Jose, before they could plough the paddocks again, and plant the new crop of rice in what was their never-ending yearly cycle on the small holding that the family maintained to feed them, and in rare years of surplus, to provide them with a few special, extra treats. She figured there would be nobody there this afternoon, so with purpose and not a little degree of stealth she headed the two kilometres or so to the farm.
Once there she settled herself down beneath one of the three large mango trees that sat on the edge of Papa’s block of land and rice fields. The beautiful mangoes were a great source of joy for the Mercado family. There was something special about Mangoes that made them such an important part of the Filipino diet and a real treat for Teresa and her siblings. It really didn’t matter what time of year it was – there was always something on the mango tree that was worth eating. When the mangoes were still un-ripened and green they were incredibly sour, but also a great delicacy for the family. Teresa and her siblings loved to cut up green mango and eat it with bagoong (a local delicacy – a sort of salty anchovy paste) or failing that just eating them with salt on its own was absolutely scrumptious. When the mangoes were in season though, they were soft and incredibly juicy, with the succulent orange flesh that everyone loved so much; the juice dribbling down your chin. Yes – mangoes were awesome fruit she thought to herself as she plopped down in the shade of the big tree. Looking up she noticed that the fruit was almost ripe – hanging down in large clumps from the branches, almost begging to be picked. “I wonder if they have mangoes in New Zealand...or Germany...or England;” she muttered to herself. Now, who would she write the very first letter to?
Spreading the addresses on the ground she looked at them carefully. I know a little bit about England and quite a lot about the United States, she thought to herself; but nothing really about Germany or New Zealand, so let’s start with them. Opening the old, family atlas the pages were yellowed and brittle, so she was very careful not to damage them as she searched first for the country of New Zealand. She knew it was somewhere near Australia so that’s where she started and after briefly looking at a map and pictures of the wondrous country that was Australia; she turned the page and found what she was looking for – New Zealand.
Wow, it was so tiny – just three little islands and their names seemed so boring – North and South and then tiny little Stewart Island down the bottom. She giggled when she saw the photos that accompanied the map of the country. It seemed New Zealand was only populated by sheep. She read the caption and was amazed to discover that there were seventy million sheep in New Zealand, but only three million people. Not like here she thought. She had read somewhere that The Philippines had a population of somewhere around thirty five million, so lots more than New Zealand for sure. She was intrigued however by the other photographs that accompanied the map. In some ways New Zealand did seem similar to The Philippines – it was surrounded by water and there were pictures of beautiful beaches.
Despite not living that far from the sea, Teresa had only seen the ocean a few times on very rare trips with her Papa, to San Jose. The beaches in New Zealand looked so beautiful...and then her eyes were drawn to the photographs of soaring mountains, capped in snow. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the magnificence that was The Southern Alps. “My God, this is such a beautiful country”, she murmured, and right there under the shade of that large mango tree, she looked up at the sunlight that dappled through the branches; softly bathing her face, closed her eyes and made herself a solemn promise – “One day I am going to visit New Zealand; one day I am going to explore the world. Teresa Mercado you are going to embrace the world and be part of this amazing place. You are not going to spend your life here in Rizal never seeing what is out there – never experiencing what this world can offer.” Slowly, opening her eyes and smiling broadly, she hugged her knees to her chest and shuddered with the emotion and longing she felt. She would make it happen somehow – it was her destiny!
So, who is my pen-pal in New Zealand, she thought to herself. Turning the sheet of paper over with the names and addresses on it, she read the name out aloud, slowly and carefully, enunciating each syllable and imparting her own special excitement into each word. “Nich-o-las Stev-en-son, from Napier, New Zealand.” She allowed his spoken name to hang briefly in the air, carrying all the hopes and promises inherent in it. “Well, Nicholas Stevenson of Napier, New Zealand, you are about to find out all about Teresa Mercado, from Rizal, Occidental Mindoro, The Philippines – I hope you are as excited about it as I am.” Again, she shivered in anticipation of opening up this new line of communication with someone so far, far away. This was so exciting – now what to write? She thought.
Picking up her pencil, she briefly licked the tip and began to contemplate just what to write in this her first of many letters to her new and exciting pen-pal; Nicholas Stevenson, from Napier, New Zealand. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration as she tried to express her ideas and thoughts in English, rather than in her native Filipino tongue. She had always prided herself on her excellent understanding of English. She recognised that if she wanted to make her way in the bigger world outside of Rizal, English was not only an advantage; it was a necessity. She was well advanced in comprehension, written and oral English, from her classmates, which she supposed was one of the reasons she welcomed this pen-pal project so much. It would give her the opportunity to practice her written English with someone for whom it was their first language. A thought suddenly occurred to her – What if Nicholas laughs at me for my poor English? What if it is a joke to him? Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes as she contemplated the idea that some boy, thousands of miles away might think she was just an unsophisticated, country girl – perhaps even a “savage”. Maybe he’ll show the letter to all his friends and they will have a big laugh about it all.
No, no, no, I cannot let that happen, she thought. I must really concentrate on my letters to these people. I must make them realise that I am trying my best, and then it hit her – what she needed to do was be proactive. Explain to them that English was only her second language and if she made a mistake, would they please tell her about it in their next letter, so she could improve. She smiled at her clever idea and the simplicity of it. Yes – that’s the answer for sure, she thought; ask for their help and guidance.
She leant over her paper and began to write.
. . .
Napier, New Zealand: August 12th 1971:
“Oi! and just where do you think you are going, young man?” The arresting voice belonged to Nick’s mother and it was well known to be able to stop anyone, dead in their tracks, from as far as one hundred metres away. Nick did just that – ground to a shuddering halt, just as he’d opened the door to head out into the warm spring evening, planning to mess about outside with his best mate, Wayne. He hung his head and then looked appealingly at his mother’s stern face, using his famous puppy-dog expression to try and elicit the best response possible.
“Mum, Wayne and I have some things to do tonight, you know! We need to finish working on the wheel assembly for our trolley. I told you we’re entering it in this year’s Festival Derby, right? So, we need to prepare it – I’ll be home before it gets dark, promise. The final entreaty was delivered with all the appeal that his twelve-year old face could muster. He stood there looking at his Mum, trying to elicit the sympathy from her that he needed – but he may as well have not bothered. When his Mum got a bee in her bonnet about something there was simply no getting around it – and she’d certainly had a real downer on Nick lately; well, since that parent-teacher meeting last week anyway. When she’d walked in the door with Dad after meeting Nick’s teachers you only had to look at her face to realise that the next few weeks or months were not going to be much fun for this young tearaway.
“Nick!” she began, “haven’t we talked about this“, Mr Bitterman was quite adamant when we talked to him last week, you just haven’t been trying hard enough.” She bent down and placed her arm around his shoulder, pulling him into her bosom, like he was still some sort of little kid. God, Nick hated that. He wasn’t a baby anymore and he sure as hell didn’t need to be comforted like one. Why couldn’t she just treat him like a grown-up; after all he was almost a teenager, wasn’t he? He sighed inwardly as his mother began to recite again; “The Gospel According to Mr Bloody Annoying Bitterman.”
“Nick, remember what he said – you have all the ability and talent in the world, but you just need to apply yourself. You’re not failing – thank God – but you can do so, so much better if you just spent some extra time on the studies.”
“But Mum...” he tried again.
“No buts Nicholas! – Mr Bitterman said you had homework every single night, so what do you have tonight? You need to get on and do it and if you finish in time, then you can go out and play with Wayne – until then young man just turn around, head back to your room and get stuck in. Now, do I make myself clear Nicholas?”
He knew there was simply no point in arguing anymore, he wasn’t going to win this one. When his Mum called him Nicholas, instead of Nick, the argument was over. “Yes Mum,” he muttered; “God it really is such stupid homework anyway – we have to write letters to these pen-pals in other countries. Why would I want to do that? God, they probably don’t even know English. Who cares about them? Not me, that’s for sure.”
For the first time that night his mother allowed a smile to pass across her lips. “Wow, that sounds really interesting Nick. It won’t do you any harm to find out about how the rest of the world lives. Who knows, miracles may happen and you might just realise how lucky and privileged you really are to be living in one of the best countries in the world. Not everyone is that fortunate Nick – some people go hungry most days, some people have no water or shelter. No, I think that’s a great idea, you could learn a lot from that. Well done Mr Bitterman, I like your style.” She placed her hand on the top of Nick’s head and twisted him around until he was pointing back toward his bedroom. “Now get off with you and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you until those letters are done – alright? Oh, and Nick, please stop using the Lord’s name in vain. It’s not nice and it’s not clever – it’s just a sign of a poor vocabulary and I know you don’t have one of those, so make an effort to control that potty-mouth of yours, okay? Now go, get your homework done.” She patted him again on the head and gently pushed him toward the back of the house.
Resentful, but knowing that this was one battle he was not going to win, Nick grunted acquiescence and shuffled off in the direction of his room, muttering under his breath as he did so.
“What was that Nick – did you say something?”
“Nothing Mum, nothing! I’m just talking to myself.”
When he reached the sanctuary of his own bedroom he made a point of closing the door harder than was necessary. He didn’t actually slam it, because he knew that would bring the wrath of his father down on him, he just banged it a little harder than was necessary. He knew exactly where his Dad would be at that moment – he would be parked in front of the new black and white television set, watching the evening news – a ritual that had begun the day after Dad had proudly arrived home carrying the precious new possession in its delivery box. A television – it promised to open up new worlds for them all. They had been one of the first in their neighbourhood to have purchased one and it was a source of great pride for Nick to tell his classmates all about the latest shows; Gigantor, Mr Ed the Talking Horse, and The Munsters. Of course they all wanted to come round and visit so they could watch also; so for a short time anyway Nick had become one of the most popular boys in the school.
As he flopped down on his bed, with his hands linked behind his head he smiled as he thought of the reality that the new television had bought into the house. Dad had always maintained a very strict timetable on weekdays. He finished work at 4.30pm every day, dinner had to be sitting on the table when he arrived home at 5.00pm and after dinner it was straight into the lounge to watch the evening news, followed by of course, that great classic from English television; Coronation Street. The routine never varied and woe and betide anyway who disturbed or attempted to disrupt that routine. Mum would always wash the dinner dishes, with one of the unlucky kids chosen to dry and then she would prepare five packed lunches for the next day; four for the kids and one for Dad. Yeah, the routine never changed for her either. Everyone had their predetermined roles in this house and that simply was the way it was. Nick’s predetermined role tonight it seemed was to do his damn homework.
Ah well, he thought – I’d better see who it is I’ve got to write to. Pulling himself up he jumped off the bed and looked out of his window across the street. Sure enough Wayne was standing there waiting for him. Wayne had always lived just across the street from them and for as long as he could remember they’d been best mates. They had gone to kindergarten together, they had gone to Primary School and then Intermediate School together and soon they would be heading off to High School together, but there was much more to their friendship than just a common schooling. The fact was they spent every possible moment together, just doing what mates do. They climbed trees, they built and raced trolleys down the hill, they explored the local bush reserve together, they played rugby and cricket together, and at weekends they would jump on their bikes and ride together to exciting places; to explore, to play and to discover their world – they were inseparable.
Wayne spotted him at the window and raised his arms out wide, questioningly. Nick made a grimace face and pointed his fingers toward his head in a mock gun gesture. Even from across the street Nick could see Wayne laughing. He never seemed to have the same problems as Nick. He could go where he wanted, whenever he wanted and he never seemed to have to answer to anyone. Wayne’s Mum worked very long hours, usually arriving home long after the children were in bed, and Wayne said he couldn’t even remember his Father – it was that long since he’d walked out on them all. So, the fact was, nobody told Wayne to do his bloody homework – his older brothers were supposed to look out for him, but the reality was that he could do pretty much what he pleased, when he pleased. In a way Nick was jealous of the freedom Wayne was able to experience, but he also felt sorry for him – sometimes it really must be awful not to have a Dad or even a Mum that had time for you, he thought.
Nick glanced in the direction of the door – no, the truth was much as Mum and Dad got on his wick from time to time and much as he resented not having as much time to do what he wanted to do – he wouldn’t swap with Wayne, for the world. He was pretty happy with the way things were in his family. He giggled and said softly; “Tell yourself that often enough and eventually you might believe it.” Looking across at Wayne, he sheepishly grinned apologetically and threw his hands up in mock horror before turning back to his bed and grabbing the homework from his school-bag. Right – let’s get this crap out the way, he thought.
Taking the piece of paper Mr Bitterman had given to each member of the class; he studied the list of names: Carlos Santos (12), Sao Paolo, Brazil; Susan Weinbeck (13), Ontario, Canada; Olga Kuryenko (12), Leningrad, U.S.S.R; and Teresa Mercado (11), Mindoro, The Philippines. Letting out an explosive breath of frustration he muttered; “Bloody Hell! There’s only one boy on this list – what in the hell have I got to talk about with girls? Geeez, Mr Bitterman, is this really the best you could get me?” Looking at the sheet, the instructions were very clear – choose two of the names and write a letter to each, telling them a little about yourself and about where you live. Hand the letters in this Friday for posting.
“Hmmmm...So who to choose?” Nick mouthed silently to himself. Well, Carlos is a no-brainer for a starter – at least he’s a boy, we can talk about sport or something. If he’s from Brazil he probably plays soccer, so that’s something we can talk about. Carlos was mentally ticked off as a definite. Now, what about these damn girls, he thought to himself. Well, I’m not writing to a bloody “Russkie” for starters – they’re always threatening to bomb us and no, I’m just not writing to a communist. That left just two to choose from; Susan and Teresa. Thinking deeply about it he came to the conclusion that at the end of the day, Canada was just like New Zealand really – only bigger, so I’m not going to find out much about the world by writing to a Canadian. So, that just left Teresa Mercado from The Philippines.
So, what do I know about The Philippines? Not a lot was the answer that came back to him, so it did seem like a logical choice. He racked his brain trying to recall something he could talk about with these people – something he had heard, or seen about their country. The last thing he wanted to do was to appear ignorant to them about the world. He wanted them to think that he was a smart citizen of the world and ask something insightful. It’s time to do some research, he thought.
One thing his parents had been very adamant about was the provision of good resource material at home for their children. They had, over a period of time, acquired two very good sets of encyclopaedias, on the good old, time-payment system. Each month you make a payment and each month a new volume of the encyclopaedia would be mailed to you. They had a full set now of Collier’s Encyclopaedias and also a full set of Science Encyclopaedias, plus somewhere on the bookshelf in his brother’s room, Nick knew there was a real kick-ass Atlas of the World. Gathering his reference materials together he sat down to do some serious research on Brazil and on The Philippines.
Like most academic things with Nick, he would grumble and moan about having to do them, but once he actually got started on something he was quickly drawn into it and although he would never admit it to anyone, he really did enjoy the next two hours as he pored over the sections on Brazil and The Philippines, as well as finding their place in the world in the Atlas. In fact, he was so totally wrapped up in his project that he didn’t even hear the door open and his little sister Delia poke her head around it. “Hey Nick,” she started; ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ starts in a few minutes – you don’t want to miss that do you?”
He looked up from his bed, where his reference material was spread out far and wide; “Go away you little maggot, can’t you see I’m busy?” Delia just tossed her blond hair and laughed, “OK crap-head, your loss”, and with another flick of her annoying bangs she shut the door and Nick heard her skipping off down the hall to the lounge. He grimaced to himself; God, nine year-olds can be so damn annoying sometimes. He actually liked his little sister most of the time, but she did have this annoying habit of wanting to do everything with her big brother. She was a great use when there was nobody else to play with, but sometimes, well often actually...she was just plain annoying, and this was one of them.
Looking down at the Atlas, he was examining The Philippines very closely. He could see the Island of Mindoro, but he couldn’t see any sign of the town this Teresa was supposed to come from. It was called Rizal. Now, he’d done his research well and he knew that there were many towns in The Philippines called Rizal – he’d thought at the time that was damn confusing, but oh well, it was a foreign country after all. They were all named after the Philippine’s number one hero in their fight for independence against the Spanish colonists back last century – Jose Rizal. It struck Nick as a bit funny that their hero was not even a soldier or a politician, but was actually a writer.
Well, whatever the reason there were literally oodles of places all over that country, called Rizal. What there wasn’t, on his Atlas anyway, was a town called Rizal, in Occidental Mindoro. Nick knew that this particular Atlas had been very expensive for his parents to buy; they had often reminded the kids of that whenever they were using it. It was awesome, and extremely detailed, so if there was no Rizal in Mindoro in this Atlas – then Rizal must be an incredibly tiny, little town. Well, that will give me something to talk to her about anyway – what’s it like living in such a tiny, little place? Nick knew Napier wasn’t massive by even New Zealand standards, let alone world standards, but he did know it was a decent sized city.
Anyway, what was important was that he now had some idea of the questions he would ask in his letter. He would tell her a little about himself, about New Zealand, and then he would impress her with his vast knowledge about her country. I’ll show her that New Zealander’s are pretty smart cookies, he thought.
He leant over his paper and began to write–.
This particular extract is from Chapter 1 of the book, as we meet the two main characters, Teresa and Nick:
Rizal: Occidental Mindoro: July 23rd 1971:
Teresa looked longingly at the four envelopes that sat on the kitchen table – they held the key to opening an unknown world for her, a world that to date she had barely glimpsed – only through books and cinema. These four envelopes held an eleven year-olds dreams, aspirations and fantasies and soon they would be winging their way to the four corners of the world to be opened, perused and taken in by four people about whom she had no clues. Unconsciously she hugged her arms to her chest and smiled broadly – what an awesome idea it had been of her teacher to write to pen-pals all over the world. Her friends had not been so enthusiastic – to them it just seemed like one more homework chore for them to do, but to her it was the opening of a portal to a new world of wonder and enchantment that defied description.
Teresa, the eldest of six children of a subsistence-farming family in the backwaters of Occidental Mindoro, The Philippines, was a pretty and sweet little eleven year old girl who was also incredibly shy and reticent to stand out from the crowd. Very intelligent and well ahead academically from her school friends, she often found their prattle and superficiality not enough for her own needs. They couldn’t even see beyond their own little village, she would often think to herself; but Teresa needed and wanted to have a world view. She longed to see and understand the marvels that she knew were just outside her own little, insular world. She longed for the opportunity to experience everything that life had to offer. At eleven years of age – she was already; in her heart and her mind – a citizen of the world and she fully intended to experience it. The pen-pal idea was a god-send to her – a chance to open her life up to the world and for the world to come to her little corner of Rizal.
“I know what I’ll do,” she mouthed aloud; “I’ll write one letter per afternoon this week and then on Friday I’ll be able to ask the teacher to send them off and I can wait excitedly for the replies.” Giggling to herself, she looked at the four names and addresses. There were two in Europe – Germany and England; one in the United States; and one, way, way down at the bottom of the world, in New Zealand. One thing Teresa definitely was – was thorough. I’d better get the atlas so I can check out some information about these countries and then I’ll decide who to write to first.
Quietly and stealthily she re-entered the old house. She wanted no-one to see her, no-one to divert her from her mission. She knew if her Mama or Lola saw her, she’d instantly be pressed into doing some house-work; preparing the rice for dinner, or endlessly sweeping the front porch that seemed to attract dust, like a dog attracts fleas. No matter how often or how hard they swept the house – it seemed five minutes later the dust was back again. It was a never-ending job and one that she had no intention of being press-ganged into this afternoon. “Hmmm”, she muttered mindlessly to herself, “sometimes being the oldest is just plain unfair – I always have to do all the work.” She absolutely did not want to be seen by her younger sister either; Carmela idolised her and would want her to play – either with her tiny wooden dolls that Papa had lovingly carved and painted for her as a Christmas present, or she would want her to go down to the creek where they could sit on the bank and paddle their feet in the water. NO! She just didn’t have time for little girl games today. She had much more important business to do.
Having located the old atlas from the book-shelf, she considered where would be the best place to seek the peace and quiet she needed to work on her labour of love – her first letter to her new pen-pals. Very silently, she crept through the old house, paper, envelopes and pencil in one hand and the big, dusty old atlas in her other. Once outside she headed for the family farm. It was quite a long walk in the hot sun, but she knew there would be nobody there to disturb her in her endeavours. Harvest season was over and she knew Papa and Tito (Uncle) Joe were just waiting for the fertilizer and new seeds to arrive from San Jose, before they could plough the paddocks again, and plant the new crop of rice in what was their never-ending yearly cycle on the small holding that the family maintained to feed them, and in rare years of surplus, to provide them with a few special, extra treats. She figured there would be nobody there this afternoon, so with purpose and not a little degree of stealth she headed the two kilometres or so to the farm.
Once there she settled herself down beneath one of the three large mango trees that sat on the edge of Papa’s block of land and rice fields. The beautiful mangoes were a great source of joy for the Mercado family. There was something special about Mangoes that made them such an important part of the Filipino diet and a real treat for Teresa and her siblings. It really didn’t matter what time of year it was – there was always something on the mango tree that was worth eating. When the mangoes were still un-ripened and green they were incredibly sour, but also a great delicacy for the family. Teresa and her siblings loved to cut up green mango and eat it with bagoong (a local delicacy – a sort of salty anchovy paste) or failing that just eating them with salt on its own was absolutely scrumptious. When the mangoes were in season though, they were soft and incredibly juicy, with the succulent orange flesh that everyone loved so much; the juice dribbling down your chin. Yes – mangoes were awesome fruit she thought to herself as she plopped down in the shade of the big tree. Looking up she noticed that the fruit was almost ripe – hanging down in large clumps from the branches, almost begging to be picked. “I wonder if they have mangoes in New Zealand...or Germany...or England;” she muttered to herself. Now, who would she write the very first letter to?
Spreading the addresses on the ground she looked at them carefully. I know a little bit about England and quite a lot about the United States, she thought to herself; but nothing really about Germany or New Zealand, so let’s start with them. Opening the old, family atlas the pages were yellowed and brittle, so she was very careful not to damage them as she searched first for the country of New Zealand. She knew it was somewhere near Australia so that’s where she started and after briefly looking at a map and pictures of the wondrous country that was Australia; she turned the page and found what she was looking for – New Zealand.
Wow, it was so tiny – just three little islands and their names seemed so boring – North and South and then tiny little Stewart Island down the bottom. She giggled when she saw the photos that accompanied the map of the country. It seemed New Zealand was only populated by sheep. She read the caption and was amazed to discover that there were seventy million sheep in New Zealand, but only three million people. Not like here she thought. She had read somewhere that The Philippines had a population of somewhere around thirty five million, so lots more than New Zealand for sure. She was intrigued however by the other photographs that accompanied the map. In some ways New Zealand did seem similar to The Philippines – it was surrounded by water and there were pictures of beautiful beaches.
Despite not living that far from the sea, Teresa had only seen the ocean a few times on very rare trips with her Papa, to San Jose. The beaches in New Zealand looked so beautiful...and then her eyes were drawn to the photographs of soaring mountains, capped in snow. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the magnificence that was The Southern Alps. “My God, this is such a beautiful country”, she murmured, and right there under the shade of that large mango tree, she looked up at the sunlight that dappled through the branches; softly bathing her face, closed her eyes and made herself a solemn promise – “One day I am going to visit New Zealand; one day I am going to explore the world. Teresa Mercado you are going to embrace the world and be part of this amazing place. You are not going to spend your life here in Rizal never seeing what is out there – never experiencing what this world can offer.” Slowly, opening her eyes and smiling broadly, she hugged her knees to her chest and shuddered with the emotion and longing she felt. She would make it happen somehow – it was her destiny!
So, who is my pen-pal in New Zealand, she thought to herself. Turning the sheet of paper over with the names and addresses on it, she read the name out aloud, slowly and carefully, enunciating each syllable and imparting her own special excitement into each word. “Nich-o-las Stev-en-son, from Napier, New Zealand.” She allowed his spoken name to hang briefly in the air, carrying all the hopes and promises inherent in it. “Well, Nicholas Stevenson of Napier, New Zealand, you are about to find out all about Teresa Mercado, from Rizal, Occidental Mindoro, The Philippines – I hope you are as excited about it as I am.” Again, she shivered in anticipation of opening up this new line of communication with someone so far, far away. This was so exciting – now what to write? She thought.
Picking up her pencil, she briefly licked the tip and began to contemplate just what to write in this her first of many letters to her new and exciting pen-pal; Nicholas Stevenson, from Napier, New Zealand. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration as she tried to express her ideas and thoughts in English, rather than in her native Filipino tongue. She had always prided herself on her excellent understanding of English. She recognised that if she wanted to make her way in the bigger world outside of Rizal, English was not only an advantage; it was a necessity. She was well advanced in comprehension, written and oral English, from her classmates, which she supposed was one of the reasons she welcomed this pen-pal project so much. It would give her the opportunity to practice her written English with someone for whom it was their first language. A thought suddenly occurred to her – What if Nicholas laughs at me for my poor English? What if it is a joke to him? Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes as she contemplated the idea that some boy, thousands of miles away might think she was just an unsophisticated, country girl – perhaps even a “savage”. Maybe he’ll show the letter to all his friends and they will have a big laugh about it all.
No, no, no, I cannot let that happen, she thought. I must really concentrate on my letters to these people. I must make them realise that I am trying my best, and then it hit her – what she needed to do was be proactive. Explain to them that English was only her second language and if she made a mistake, would they please tell her about it in their next letter, so she could improve. She smiled at her clever idea and the simplicity of it. Yes – that’s the answer for sure, she thought; ask for their help and guidance.
She leant over her paper and began to write.
. . .
Napier, New Zealand: August 12th 1971:
“Oi! and just where do you think you are going, young man?” The arresting voice belonged to Nick’s mother and it was well known to be able to stop anyone, dead in their tracks, from as far as one hundred metres away. Nick did just that – ground to a shuddering halt, just as he’d opened the door to head out into the warm spring evening, planning to mess about outside with his best mate, Wayne. He hung his head and then looked appealingly at his mother’s stern face, using his famous puppy-dog expression to try and elicit the best response possible.
“Mum, Wayne and I have some things to do tonight, you know! We need to finish working on the wheel assembly for our trolley. I told you we’re entering it in this year’s Festival Derby, right? So, we need to prepare it – I’ll be home before it gets dark, promise. The final entreaty was delivered with all the appeal that his twelve-year old face could muster. He stood there looking at his Mum, trying to elicit the sympathy from her that he needed – but he may as well have not bothered. When his Mum got a bee in her bonnet about something there was simply no getting around it – and she’d certainly had a real downer on Nick lately; well, since that parent-teacher meeting last week anyway. When she’d walked in the door with Dad after meeting Nick’s teachers you only had to look at her face to realise that the next few weeks or months were not going to be much fun for this young tearaway.
“Nick!” she began, “haven’t we talked about this“, Mr Bitterman was quite adamant when we talked to him last week, you just haven’t been trying hard enough.” She bent down and placed her arm around his shoulder, pulling him into her bosom, like he was still some sort of little kid. God, Nick hated that. He wasn’t a baby anymore and he sure as hell didn’t need to be comforted like one. Why couldn’t she just treat him like a grown-up; after all he was almost a teenager, wasn’t he? He sighed inwardly as his mother began to recite again; “The Gospel According to Mr Bloody Annoying Bitterman.”
“Nick, remember what he said – you have all the ability and talent in the world, but you just need to apply yourself. You’re not failing – thank God – but you can do so, so much better if you just spent some extra time on the studies.”
“But Mum...” he tried again.
“No buts Nicholas! – Mr Bitterman said you had homework every single night, so what do you have tonight? You need to get on and do it and if you finish in time, then you can go out and play with Wayne – until then young man just turn around, head back to your room and get stuck in. Now, do I make myself clear Nicholas?”
He knew there was simply no point in arguing anymore, he wasn’t going to win this one. When his Mum called him Nicholas, instead of Nick, the argument was over. “Yes Mum,” he muttered; “God it really is such stupid homework anyway – we have to write letters to these pen-pals in other countries. Why would I want to do that? God, they probably don’t even know English. Who cares about them? Not me, that’s for sure.”
For the first time that night his mother allowed a smile to pass across her lips. “Wow, that sounds really interesting Nick. It won’t do you any harm to find out about how the rest of the world lives. Who knows, miracles may happen and you might just realise how lucky and privileged you really are to be living in one of the best countries in the world. Not everyone is that fortunate Nick – some people go hungry most days, some people have no water or shelter. No, I think that’s a great idea, you could learn a lot from that. Well done Mr Bitterman, I like your style.” She placed her hand on the top of Nick’s head and twisted him around until he was pointing back toward his bedroom. “Now get off with you and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you until those letters are done – alright? Oh, and Nick, please stop using the Lord’s name in vain. It’s not nice and it’s not clever – it’s just a sign of a poor vocabulary and I know you don’t have one of those, so make an effort to control that potty-mouth of yours, okay? Now go, get your homework done.” She patted him again on the head and gently pushed him toward the back of the house.
Resentful, but knowing that this was one battle he was not going to win, Nick grunted acquiescence and shuffled off in the direction of his room, muttering under his breath as he did so.
“What was that Nick – did you say something?”
“Nothing Mum, nothing! I’m just talking to myself.”
When he reached the sanctuary of his own bedroom he made a point of closing the door harder than was necessary. He didn’t actually slam it, because he knew that would bring the wrath of his father down on him, he just banged it a little harder than was necessary. He knew exactly where his Dad would be at that moment – he would be parked in front of the new black and white television set, watching the evening news – a ritual that had begun the day after Dad had proudly arrived home carrying the precious new possession in its delivery box. A television – it promised to open up new worlds for them all. They had been one of the first in their neighbourhood to have purchased one and it was a source of great pride for Nick to tell his classmates all about the latest shows; Gigantor, Mr Ed the Talking Horse, and The Munsters. Of course they all wanted to come round and visit so they could watch also; so for a short time anyway Nick had become one of the most popular boys in the school.
As he flopped down on his bed, with his hands linked behind his head he smiled as he thought of the reality that the new television had bought into the house. Dad had always maintained a very strict timetable on weekdays. He finished work at 4.30pm every day, dinner had to be sitting on the table when he arrived home at 5.00pm and after dinner it was straight into the lounge to watch the evening news, followed by of course, that great classic from English television; Coronation Street. The routine never varied and woe and betide anyway who disturbed or attempted to disrupt that routine. Mum would always wash the dinner dishes, with one of the unlucky kids chosen to dry and then she would prepare five packed lunches for the next day; four for the kids and one for Dad. Yeah, the routine never changed for her either. Everyone had their predetermined roles in this house and that simply was the way it was. Nick’s predetermined role tonight it seemed was to do his damn homework.
Ah well, he thought – I’d better see who it is I’ve got to write to. Pulling himself up he jumped off the bed and looked out of his window across the street. Sure enough Wayne was standing there waiting for him. Wayne had always lived just across the street from them and for as long as he could remember they’d been best mates. They had gone to kindergarten together, they had gone to Primary School and then Intermediate School together and soon they would be heading off to High School together, but there was much more to their friendship than just a common schooling. The fact was they spent every possible moment together, just doing what mates do. They climbed trees, they built and raced trolleys down the hill, they explored the local bush reserve together, they played rugby and cricket together, and at weekends they would jump on their bikes and ride together to exciting places; to explore, to play and to discover their world – they were inseparable.
Wayne spotted him at the window and raised his arms out wide, questioningly. Nick made a grimace face and pointed his fingers toward his head in a mock gun gesture. Even from across the street Nick could see Wayne laughing. He never seemed to have the same problems as Nick. He could go where he wanted, whenever he wanted and he never seemed to have to answer to anyone. Wayne’s Mum worked very long hours, usually arriving home long after the children were in bed, and Wayne said he couldn’t even remember his Father – it was that long since he’d walked out on them all. So, the fact was, nobody told Wayne to do his bloody homework – his older brothers were supposed to look out for him, but the reality was that he could do pretty much what he pleased, when he pleased. In a way Nick was jealous of the freedom Wayne was able to experience, but he also felt sorry for him – sometimes it really must be awful not to have a Dad or even a Mum that had time for you, he thought.
Nick glanced in the direction of the door – no, the truth was much as Mum and Dad got on his wick from time to time and much as he resented not having as much time to do what he wanted to do – he wouldn’t swap with Wayne, for the world. He was pretty happy with the way things were in his family. He giggled and said softly; “Tell yourself that often enough and eventually you might believe it.” Looking across at Wayne, he sheepishly grinned apologetically and threw his hands up in mock horror before turning back to his bed and grabbing the homework from his school-bag. Right – let’s get this crap out the way, he thought.
Taking the piece of paper Mr Bitterman had given to each member of the class; he studied the list of names: Carlos Santos (12), Sao Paolo, Brazil; Susan Weinbeck (13), Ontario, Canada; Olga Kuryenko (12), Leningrad, U.S.S.R; and Teresa Mercado (11), Mindoro, The Philippines. Letting out an explosive breath of frustration he muttered; “Bloody Hell! There’s only one boy on this list – what in the hell have I got to talk about with girls? Geeez, Mr Bitterman, is this really the best you could get me?” Looking at the sheet, the instructions were very clear – choose two of the names and write a letter to each, telling them a little about yourself and about where you live. Hand the letters in this Friday for posting.
“Hmmmm...So who to choose?” Nick mouthed silently to himself. Well, Carlos is a no-brainer for a starter – at least he’s a boy, we can talk about sport or something. If he’s from Brazil he probably plays soccer, so that’s something we can talk about. Carlos was mentally ticked off as a definite. Now, what about these damn girls, he thought to himself. Well, I’m not writing to a bloody “Russkie” for starters – they’re always threatening to bomb us and no, I’m just not writing to a communist. That left just two to choose from; Susan and Teresa. Thinking deeply about it he came to the conclusion that at the end of the day, Canada was just like New Zealand really – only bigger, so I’m not going to find out much about the world by writing to a Canadian. So, that just left Teresa Mercado from The Philippines.
So, what do I know about The Philippines? Not a lot was the answer that came back to him, so it did seem like a logical choice. He racked his brain trying to recall something he could talk about with these people – something he had heard, or seen about their country. The last thing he wanted to do was to appear ignorant to them about the world. He wanted them to think that he was a smart citizen of the world and ask something insightful. It’s time to do some research, he thought.
One thing his parents had been very adamant about was the provision of good resource material at home for their children. They had, over a period of time, acquired two very good sets of encyclopaedias, on the good old, time-payment system. Each month you make a payment and each month a new volume of the encyclopaedia would be mailed to you. They had a full set now of Collier’s Encyclopaedias and also a full set of Science Encyclopaedias, plus somewhere on the bookshelf in his brother’s room, Nick knew there was a real kick-ass Atlas of the World. Gathering his reference materials together he sat down to do some serious research on Brazil and on The Philippines.
Like most academic things with Nick, he would grumble and moan about having to do them, but once he actually got started on something he was quickly drawn into it and although he would never admit it to anyone, he really did enjoy the next two hours as he pored over the sections on Brazil and The Philippines, as well as finding their place in the world in the Atlas. In fact, he was so totally wrapped up in his project that he didn’t even hear the door open and his little sister Delia poke her head around it. “Hey Nick,” she started; ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ starts in a few minutes – you don’t want to miss that do you?”
He looked up from his bed, where his reference material was spread out far and wide; “Go away you little maggot, can’t you see I’m busy?” Delia just tossed her blond hair and laughed, “OK crap-head, your loss”, and with another flick of her annoying bangs she shut the door and Nick heard her skipping off down the hall to the lounge. He grimaced to himself; God, nine year-olds can be so damn annoying sometimes. He actually liked his little sister most of the time, but she did have this annoying habit of wanting to do everything with her big brother. She was a great use when there was nobody else to play with, but sometimes, well often actually...she was just plain annoying, and this was one of them.
Looking down at the Atlas, he was examining The Philippines very closely. He could see the Island of Mindoro, but he couldn’t see any sign of the town this Teresa was supposed to come from. It was called Rizal. Now, he’d done his research well and he knew that there were many towns in The Philippines called Rizal – he’d thought at the time that was damn confusing, but oh well, it was a foreign country after all. They were all named after the Philippine’s number one hero in their fight for independence against the Spanish colonists back last century – Jose Rizal. It struck Nick as a bit funny that their hero was not even a soldier or a politician, but was actually a writer.
Well, whatever the reason there were literally oodles of places all over that country, called Rizal. What there wasn’t, on his Atlas anyway, was a town called Rizal, in Occidental Mindoro. Nick knew that this particular Atlas had been very expensive for his parents to buy; they had often reminded the kids of that whenever they were using it. It was awesome, and extremely detailed, so if there was no Rizal in Mindoro in this Atlas – then Rizal must be an incredibly tiny, little town. Well, that will give me something to talk to her about anyway – what’s it like living in such a tiny, little place? Nick knew Napier wasn’t massive by even New Zealand standards, let alone world standards, but he did know it was a decent sized city.
Anyway, what was important was that he now had some idea of the questions he would ask in his letter. He would tell her a little about himself, about New Zealand, and then he would impress her with his vast knowledge about her country. I’ll show her that New Zealander’s are pretty smart cookies, he thought.
He leant over his paper and began to write–.
