A bit to discuss when Heather calls

Heather rang again last Saturday. She usually rings at weekends.

My wife met Heather when fruit-picking 40 years ago, and remains Heather's one phone contact from her halfway house in Matamata.

Often, I take the call.

Heather is always disappointed when my wife isn't there, and is initially hesitant about taking up what she describes as my valuable time.

But I like talking to Heather.

She has an extensive vocabulary, an astonishing memory, all things considered, and thought patterns to fuel a thousand writers.

They fuelled Heather pretty well for a time too, before everything fell apart.

Her own writing was so special, so unlike anything else.

I met her in 1974 when she came down to see her son, who had been fostered out after she had suffered a series of breakdowns.

He was living in Mosgiel.

We sat in a living room eating biscuits.

There wasn't much talking.

My wife, terrified of birds, remembers the visit as frightening, because there was a budgie flying around the room.

That afternoon was probably a lot more frightening for Heather.

I didn't see Heather again until two years ago when we went to see her in Matamata.

There was an old woman sitting out on the halfway house veranda, staring at the ground.

We asked inside where Heather was and the nurse said she was out on the veranda.

They say anti-psychotic medication can put 20 years on a body over time, but few get to see the before and after of that.

We were shocked.

Her greeting when it came was flat and sad.

We stayed all afternoon.

The old Heather gradually came back, her wry sense of humour, with flashes of acute perception.