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.
She took us to her room, and pulled down boxes of letters from her cupboard which she had been keeping for us.
She said New Zealand Post were refusing to accept her mail.
There were no stamps on the envelopes.
Most of the letters were to very important people, often the Prime Minister.
Heather had been convinced for some time she was not only a member of Royalty, but also an angel.
Her phone calls invariably began with the nervous hurried opening - Hello, this is Angel Heather, Princess of Windsor.
Her letters to the Prime Minister began the same way, with large capitals across the top, THIS IS NOT A LETTER IT IS A DIPLOMATIC NOTE.
We promised we would post all the letters for her.
I have put them in a safe place.
It is hard to read them without crying.
A Saturday or two ago, Heather had quite a bit to discuss.
Stuart had said her handwriting was so bad it would stop the others being allowed to use the phone.
She had opined that perhaps he had not had the advantage of her advanced education, and she was wondering now if that had been a tad malicious.
She was keen to discuss this with someone who has tertiary qualifications.
I told her I would discuss it with my wife when she returned.
Heather said two places in town had been giving her disease, the Matamata Saddlery and the Two Dollar Shop.
I tried to becalm her by saying I have often found myself diseased when in The Warehouse but she said she had been in The Warehouse and it was fine.
And she was worried about her job prospects, thinking she would be hard pressed to get a government position at the age of 65.
She regretted not getting a science degree in 1963, as she would like to work as a Christian Scientist, though she had heard the Christian Scientists were still regarded as controversial.
Heather wanted some old photos of Bob Dylan, from between 1962 and 1966, when he looked the best.
That was such a good time, she said.
When my wife came home, I told her Heather had rung.
I said, we had a good chat, there was a list of questions on the table.
