WAYNE MATTHEW TAYLOR

by Anthony

CONNECTION

By the time I was six years old, I had attended four different primary schools in three different towns. When I started at the fourth school, I met Wayne - on the grass next to the corrugated iron fence that encircled the swimming pool.

I mentioned this to Wayne in an email on his 40th birthday.

At the time of Wayne's 40th, I was living in Melbourne. Our lives had taken two different paths. To me, he seemed well-established as a business owner and family man, while I felt like I was still searching for a place to put down roots. He had a family of four young children that he adored, and I was still grieving the death of my only son.

Nevertheless, that old and deep connection remained there between us. It was the type of connection that is not diminished by geographical distance or the passage of time. I am not sure where such a connection lives - somewhere deep in the psyche perhaps - but I always carried an awareness of it, even if it were not being consciously recalled. Now, with Wayne no longer here, I am aware of an emptiness where this connection used to abide.

It is difficult for me to fully reconcile the loss of this sense of him in the world, but, at the same time, something else is emerging for me. I am not sure what it is yet. Partly it is something like a deep appreciation for who he was, and who he still is in my memories.

SANCTUARY

I spent a lot of time at Wayne's house when I was young. For me it was a calm and welcoming place, and much of that was due to Wayne's mother. A generation later, when Wayne and I had our own children and households, I described to him my experience of her while I was growing up, namely, that her natural temperament seemed to consist of patience and gentleness. Certainly she was always kind to me, and I felt relaxed around her.

Furthermore, it was pretty clear to me in those days that Mr Taylor was the authority in the household. The emotional tone that he set was quite different to the one I lived with at home. He seemed to be calm, solid, consistent, and non-reactive. This was in direct contrast to my own parents and home, which was a minefield of explosive tempers and dysfunction. Mr Taylor could be firm, but in a wise and considered way, not in a reactive way. I liked the way he spoke about things, that is, with a quiet authority and confidence.

When Wayne and I were young boys, there was a weekly TV show that we really liked called "Logan's Run." This show was the post-apocalyptic children's version of a favourite dystopian novel of mine that I first read at age 21 (coincidentally enough - for the protagonist of the novel, published the year I was born, was 21 years old).

In the TV show, humanity has retreated indoors, insulated from the natural environment they have finally destroyed. Due to the limited resources within an enclosed city, the government enforces an upper age limit for men and women. Once that age is reached, a person is put to death in an elaborate ceremony. In this way, overpopulation is avoided. Most people understand that they have no choice, and submit voluntarily to the ritualistic execution. But a random few do not submit, and try to avoid their obligation under the law. Essentially, they go on the run. They want to stay alive, and live beyond the designated age limit. Furthermore, they are not only running from something, they are running to something, namely, a mythical place called Sanctuary, where people are free to age and live out their natural lives in peace.

Logan is an officer of the law who brutally enforces the upper age limit. He is a hunter who will pursue a person who has avoided the ceremony and lived past the compulsory age of death.

The storyline brings Logan into contact with a runner called Jessica, and - to give the show its premise - he decides to escape the enclosed city with her and go on the run; to become, in effect, a renegade.

Out in the world beyond the city, episode by episode, they begin to discover the decaying remnants of the old civilisation. In their first adventure they pick up a hitchhiker, an android called Rem. He is a computer in human form who wants to understand more about freedom and the concept of Sanctuary. As their adventures are unfolding, they are relentlessly pursued by Logan's former friend and colleague, Francis.

In one episode, Logan kisses Jessica. Wayne was quite put out by this, and the next day at school he made the typical remark attributed to young boys everywhere at the thought of kissing girls: "Yuk." He thought she was starting to ruin the show - yes, the show that was actually about her! Needless to say, a few short years later he started singing a different tune about girls and kissing.

In the schoolyard, I regularly led a group of boys, including Wayne, in playing "Logan's Run." With the cut-offs from woodwork, we made pistols and re-enacted shootouts and scenarios from the show. Of course, I had to be Logan, in the same bossy way that I had to be Captain Kirk when we played "Star Trek." Wayne was always Rem, my sidekick. Curiously, Jessica never made an appearance!

Wayne and I were at his house one evening when the show was on. We watched it with our usual boyish enthusiasm. Part-way through the episode, Wayne's grandmother said, "What rubbish!"

Mr Taylor was in the room as well, and he surprised me by challenging the remark. "No, it's not," he said. "It's about people searching for a better life."

Mr Taylor was au fait with "Logan's Run," and could distill its themes into a pithy statement? Who knew!

P.S. - Many years later, motivated by nostalgia, I did try to watch the show again, but this time around I fell more in line with Grandmother's assessment! What had captivated the ten-year-old boy was basically unwatchable for the adult.

GO-KART

I was thrilled to watch Wayne race his go-kart across a sea of mud. Out on a paddock, driving like a madman, he put the kart through its paces while I waited impatiently for my turn.

We were only teenagers then. He had built the go-kart and invited me to try it out with him. When he picked me up, he was towing the kart on a trailer. We went to Jacksons Road, not far from home, to the same general area where we used to meet up for Bible study. The testing ground was a field off Jacksons Road that seemed to be more mud than paddock. There was some semblance of a track, as I recall, but only just. I have no idea if we were allowed in there or not, but Wayne was not averse to bending those kinds of rules.

By the time he drove the go-kart back to where I was standing, he was splattered with mud from head to foot. His grin shone through the mud and told me all I needed to know about how much fun he was having.

I was so excited getting into the driver's seat. I needed some quick instructions about the throttle and whatnot, then I was ready.

I followed Wayne's lead and threw inhibition to the wind. I opened up the throttle to a deafening engine noise, the rear wheels spinning wildly through loss of traction. As they began to bite, the go-kart moved off, and I was on my way.

As I drove this midget race car at full throttle, I became splashed and splattered with mud. The go-kart left the ground over humps, slid sideways as if aquaplaning, the rear wheels sometimes spinning crazily, other times gaining sudden traction and rocketing me ahead.

Something rose up in me that I can only describe as exhilaration. Drowned out by the roaring engine, I screamed with laughter as I pushed the kart as hard as I could. I don't think I had ever let go quite like that before. It was more than thrilling. It was cathartic.

Finally returning to where Wayne was standing, I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. Now we were both covered in muck. Wayne looked delighted!

MR HOPE

Listening, spellbound, to the adventures of Bilbo Baggins was a wonderful way to spend time in the classroom.

Wayne and I were nine years old when Mr Hope (Gerald Hope) came to teach at our school. I don't think he was there for long enough to become a fixture like the other teachers. But, in a short space of time, he made an impression on me and became my favourite teacher.

I'm guessing that he would have been a similar age to my parents then, that is, late 20s. He brought with him some considerable energy and imagination. He also had an ability to connect with us on a level that may have eluded some of the other, more authoritarian teachers.

He was the first teacher I had with whom I could have a bit of a joke. Indeed, he was relaxed and accommodating towards our affection for him.

One night on the school grounds, shortly before a function in the hall, with parents and kids everywhere, Wayne and I spotted Mr Hope and his wife. Of course, we immediately gravitated towards him.

We were excited to see him outside of classroom time. (I once asked my parents on a weekend if we could go and visit Mr Hope. Naturally, they said no. One of them said, "We don't know him socially." However, they must have relented at some point, for I remember visiting him at a later date at his pottery studio.) Mr Hope was dressed up, and I made a little joke to him about how snazzy his clothes were. He laughed good-naturedly. Wayne was a little embarrassed by this and mentioned it to me later. He thought I was being cheeky. Maybe I was, but the easy-going temperament of Mr Hope allowed for it.

One of the things I appreciated most about him was his penchant for reading stories out loud to the class. He set aside a regular time each day to gather us in, so that we were all sitting around his chair. Then he would read to us.

Of all the books he read aloud, "The Hobbit" was a standout. It captured me from the opening chapter. Every story-time, I would be eager to hear the next episode in the adventures of Bilbo Baggins.

In this way, he also introduced me to the Moomin novels of the great Finnish writer, artist and comic strip creator Tove Jansson.

The extra talent that Mr Hope brought to storytelling was his ability to give each of the main characters a distinct and consistent voice. This was so striking that I mentioned it to my mother. I asked her, "How does he do all of those different voices?"

She replied, "It's a gift."

PUMPING IRON

The first time I ever heard the name Arnold Schwarzenegger was from Wayne. He had watched a new documentary-style film about the sport of bodybuilding called "Pumping Iron," and, for him, this became the Next Big Thing.

I was already fascinated by physical strength myself. My first hero was Superman, and my favourite comic portrayed Superman landing on top of a jet airplane in full flight, ripping open the hull with his bare hands to get at two hijackers. I still remember how thrilling scenes like that were to me as a young boy.

I also believed that I had the strongest father around! Dad was legendary in our family for his physical strength. He was an orchardist, and when he wore singlets outdoors in the summer, his muscles were the first thing you noticed about him. Female workers referred to him as "the Greek god." (In the same vein, years later, the female workers on an orchard in Australia nicknamed me "Gillette Man" after the 1989 TV ad that was popular in the early 90s.) At six feet tall, and powerfully built, Dad exuded physical strength and vitality.

In a similar inspirational way, "Pumping Iron" had Wayne all fired up. Thanks to him, small boys in a rural New Zealand backwater began discussing the world of American bodybuilding.

In some ways, it was natural for me to buy into this, given my own fascination with strength. But, actually, in the realm of bodybuilding, strength was merely a by-product. The point of bodybuilding was to enlarge the muscles and sculpt the male body in order to make it aesthetically pleasing to onlookers. The men of "Pumping Iron" were not interested in a display of strength, they were interested only in display. That is not to say they were not strong, but strength was not their goal.

As for Wayne and me, our interest in the development of the male physique endured. It was a recurring theme in our conversations for years afterwards. My two brothers also became a part of this, as they shared in the early admiration for Dad's physical strength, and the influence of this appreciation cannot be overstated.

For all that, in those early school years, Wayne always seemed bigger and stronger than the rest of us.

I have to smile when I look back at class photographs of the time, and note that I am writing about small boys. However, everything being relative, Wayne was seen as physically superior. He also had a type of natural aggression when he was a boy that made him appear dominant. By way of contrast, I could be pushed into aggression, but it did not come naturally. Once, three boys (I still remember their names) confronted me and started physically bullying me on the playing field, and it must have gone too far. I reacted by grabbing the ringleader and throwing him heavily to the ground, where he promptly burst into tears.

Wayne's dominance was not based on sporadic incidents such as this. It was not so hit and miss. It was more consistent and effortless. Amongst the boys of this parochial little school, Wayne enjoyed respect. No one ever picked on Wayne. Partly this was due to his outspoken, confident attitude, and partly it was due to his perceived size and strength.

There came a point later on at which Wayne matured into the strong, kind, and gentle person I remember. His character did not fundamentally change, but eventually his boyish arrogance and aggression morphed into a deeply confident assertiveness that I could only marvel at. To give credit where it is due, the major influences in his life had a hand in leading him there, including the example of his parents and his Christian faith.

Once this point was reached, being around Wayne was a different experience. For one thing, I can recall times when Wayne was genuinely complimentary towards me. And, in contrast to his former boyish arrogance, he became quite self-effacing, which I put down to a genuine humility in his character. I admired Wayne, yet somehow he made me feel like he admired me in turn. To be around someone like this was rare for me. When I was with him, I felt like I was as great as he was.

As my brothers and I matured, we gradually came into our natural strength. Wayne once said he was amazed at the musculature and bodily symmetry we had attained without any training. Genuine and heartfelt compliments like this from him meant a lot to me. They flew in the face of the shame and low self-worth I carried from a young age. To know that this admirable young man thought highly of me made me want to be better, especially in his presence.

In looking back, I can see what an anomalous experience it was to have a friendship with such a person. For, in my world, young males were often full of bravado and hostility. Perceived weaknesses were noticed, highlighted, and scorned. Somehow Wayne managed to see only the good. I felt like I was a better man around him.

Now, because of my boyhood interest in strength and comic book superheroes, naturally I watched the TV series "The Incredible Hulk" that was popular at the time. Later, as an adult, I couldn't help noticing that the show is a blatant imitation of the classic 1960s television series "The Fugitive" starring David Janssen. In both TV shows, a widowed doctor is on the run, pursued by an obsessive nemesis. Each week he encounters a new situation in a new place, involving a new cast of characters. A major point of difference, however, is that when this new version of the doctor becomes enraged, he temporarily transforms into a huge, mute, super-strong green man nicknamed "The Hulk." He transforms, in fact, into Lou Ferrigno - who, as it happens, was one of the stars of "Pumping Iron."

When the pilot movie for "The Incredible Hulk" was released theatrically, Wayne and I went to see it. I don't think Wayne found the movie quite as thrilling as I did! (He thought the movie's scientific explanation for superhuman strength was "rather simple," and I cannot fault him there.) But anything we saw together sparked off quite animated conversations.

Years later, the two of us went to see Tim Burton's "Batman" film, starring Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, when it was first released in theatres. Wayne enjoyed that movie! I was less enamoured of it on first viewing. But, again, it led to fun conversations, and I can't help smiling when I remember Wayne's complaint about the movie's logo. He said the bat symbol looked like a cartoon drawing of a mouth full of teeth - and, once he had said that, I saw it too. Unfortunately, I could not un-see it, so every time I look at that particular image now, it flip-flops between batwings and teeth.

MOTORCYCLE CLASSIC

My two brothers and I were with Wayne at his house in Christchurch during his university days, and we noticed a cool motorcycle parked across the street. It was a bit of a classic, namely, a Honda CB650 ex-police bike. My brothers and I made much of it, and Wayne was pretty interested too. We all walked across the road to have a look at it.

Wayne became nervous when I decided to sit astride it. He glanced left and right, and suggested I get off it before I was caught by the owner.

I was feeling perfectly relaxed and enjoying his discomfort. I asked my brother for his keys and said, "They might fit this old ignition. It's pretty worn." We three brothers were keen to see if we could start the motorbike.

Wayne, however, walked part-way back across the road. "You can't do that," he said.

Well, I went ahead anyway, and then announced, "This key goes in!"

My brothers now became even more enthusiastic about the prospect of firing-up this classic machine, while Wayne looked as if he had been forced into being a look-out for bank robbers.

The motorcycle started! The engine roared to life. I rode it in a circle around the section of carparks while Wayne was having kittens.

Of course, we three broke up into raucous laughter at the prank on Wayne. The fact is, I had just bought the bike. We had set him up.

Once he was in on the joke, this overgrown Boy Scout joined us in our laughter. His lovely temperament and easy-going nature could accommodate anything we could throw at him.

TERMINAL JOYRIDE

My mother, possessed of a short fuse and hysterical temper, once ordered Wayne and I out of the car in the middle of the countryside, leaving us standing by the side of the road as she drove away.

Wayne, my younger brother and I had started horsing around in the back seat, play-fighting and laughing rather too loudly. Our driver, who liked only quiet, obedient, passive children, became furious.

Standing at the far end of Hammerichs Road, watching the car disappear into the distance, I felt guilty, which was what I was supposed to be feeling. Conversely, I was appalled to discover that Wayne and my brother thought it was a great joke, and were behaving as if this development was something of a triumph.

We started walking along the deserted road in the direction of Wayne's house. In those days, it was like being in the middle of nowhere. We knew we had a long walk ahead of us.

I could not believe the two of them were so jovial and unperturbed. Even by that young age, I had been controlled by guilt and fear for long enough that the realisation of the gravity of our crime was weighing on me. There was also the matter of the inevitable fallout that would be visited upon us in the aftermath.

Wayne was behaving as if it were the biggest lark in the world. I daresay that my mother's explosive anger and, at times, hysterical behaviour, was a novelty for him, because he had nothing like it at home. (For me it was different, living as I was in a constant state of anxiety and fear, to one degree or another. It was only in adulthood that I figured out it was not normal to feel this way as a child.)

As we walked, Wayne and my brother continued horsing around. Then lo and behold, we saw, in the distance, the car returning. The two of them immediately decided to hide, and dashed to the trees at the side of the road. Their idea was for my mother to miss seeing us, and so drive right on past.

They tried their best to persuade me to join them, but I could not do it. I was already afraid of the consequences headed my way for the shenanigans in the car, without compounding the offence through another transgression. But it was more complex than that, because I also, inexplicably, felt sorry for my mother, and worried about how she would feel if she could not find us.

Thus, I remained the repressed and dutiful son who stood out in the open so my mother could see me. And, in doing so, I ensured that another family's child made it home in a timely manner, while I sped on all too quickly to meet my fate.

DECADE

Wayne and I had a disagreement over Kate Bush, the teenage prodigy from England who hit the top of the music charts with "Wuthering Heights." At that age, not having read the novel yet, I had no appreciation of the lyrics. I doubt that Wayne had any knowledge of the source material for the song either, but he sure was smitten with Kate Bush. He loved her song and music video. I didn't like it at the time, and I could not see what all his fussing was about.

*

In high school, I was sitting next to Wayne in Social Studies when Mr G came over to talk to me about my handwriting. He had one of my assignments in his hand. He said I had an unusually mature handwriting style and he liked it. He also paid me a compliment about the quality of the work I had been handing in. At age 13, after years at a suffocating little primary school where the neurotic headmaster hated me and my siblings, among many others, this was heady praise for me. Of course, in this situation Wayne was almost obliged to lean over to me and say, "Teacher's pet!"

*

Wayne liked cars, and he was always ready to show off his latest acquisition. We occasionally went speeding around Hawkesbury together in his MG, and at one point he had a huge black sedan of some indeterminate vintage which he would drive a little crazily through the streets of Christchurch.

*

As a young boy, I had an ongoing crush on Wayne's older sister. I thought she was the loveliest girl in school - and, in all actuality, she probably was.

*

For a while in his 20s, Wayne lived in a caboose out at Foxes Island. I knew the area well, having played in the pine plantations many times as a boy. On a return trip from Australia, I went there and helped Wayne dig postholes for a fence he was building. We had fun working together.

*

Wayne and I each drew a portrait of our fathers to enter into a competition for Father's Day, and Wayne won the competition. My mother was quite put out at this, as I was supposed to be the artist!

*

Jayne was one of my sister's best friends. She was beautiful. And nice. And she worked in a nightclub in Nelson. These facts were enough for Wayne and I to make a spontaneous decision to drive from Blenheim to Nelson rather late at night to visit her at work.

*

Wayne was one of the stronger athletes at our primary school, and was always prominent at athletic events. Every year we went to the inter-school athletic day, and every year we came home with raging sunburn. The schools would make the kids stay out in the sun for an entire day. There was little awareness or consideration around hats and sunscreen in those days. I remember my siblings crying at night while my mother rubbed calamine lotion onto their burns.

*

Somehow Wayne's family had come into the possession of a Superman comic book. Apart from its other virtues, it had one of the most captivating covers I had ever seen. Knowing I was a collector, Wayne gave it to me one day when I was over at his house. I still have the comic.

*

I brought one of my shotguns back to New Zealand during a visit, and Wayne and I went hunting together. At one point he was driving along a back-country road in his four-wheel drive with me sitting on the bonnet, my legs over the bull bar, shotgun at the ready. The whole expedition was a testament to the recklessness of young men.

SKATEBOARDS

When Wayne and I were young boys, the biggest thing to ever hit our school was skateboarding.

Before the first wave of commercially produced skateboards arrived in the local stores, Dad had anticipated the coming craze by making us a skateboard out of redeployed roller skate wheels and a cut-out piece of wood for the deck. This could be ridden while standing - going back-and-forth on our long horseshoe driveway - or one of us could sit on it while being pushed. It was fun of course, but limited in scope. Once the true skateboards started arriving en masse, it was never so much as looked at again.

Seemingly overnight, every boy had determined that he must obtain a skateboard.

It is worth keeping in mind that we lived in small-town rural New Zealand. In those days it really was the back of beyond, both culturally and geographically. It would not surprise me to know that we were the last place in the developed world to catch the fever. But catch it we did.

My first skateboard was a Trax, with a fibreglass deck and urethane wheels, and when it arrived it brought its own lexicon. Before long, Wayne and I were discussing trucks, bearings, kingpins, kick turns, one-eighties, and tic-tac.

All of us were self-taught. And what's more, I do not recall any of us having safety gear like helmets or knee and elbow pads. In our enthusiasm, we jumped straight onto our new boards and simply got started. We were often skateboarding wearing only T-shirts and shorts with bare feet.

As might be expected, there were minor injuries. I once returned to class with a bad scrape on my leg that oozed blood. I was proud of the raw, bleeding wound, but Wayne was not impressed. He suggested unhelpfully that I go and clean up, which deflated me. I wanted to show off the blood!

Wayne and I were competitive with each other, and this pushed the boundaries of our growing skill. Skateboarding together, with or without other boys, often seemed to be a matter of taking turns to show off. If Wayne demonstrated a new trick or feat of skill, I was quick to imitate it. Likewise, if I could do something that appeared vaguely impressive, he would rush to show that he could do it too.

Whether technically correct or not, we all quickly developed the habit of using the tail of the board as a brake. We would press down onto the tail so that the nose of the board came up, causing the tail to scrape along the ground. We soon realised, of course, that the indiscriminate use of this technique was damaging our skateboards, that is, it was wearing away the underside. The solution was to fix some type of buffer under the tail. I think Wayne was the first of us to do this. These braking pads were either jerry-rigged out of wood, or, if you were lucky enough to get it, made from fibreglass or plastic.

At some point it dawned on me that I rode my board in a different way to Wayne and my brothers. In skateboarding parlance, I was a "goofy." I would place my right foot - my so-called dominant foot - onto the front of the board, and kick off with my left. When both of my feet were on the board, I was facing to the left. Just about everyone else was facing to the right.

A new phase of excitement came when we started having races around the school buildings with a passenger, or navigator, on board. I no longer have any idea where we got them, but old car tyres were deployed as seats for the navigator, who was invariably a younger, smaller boy with nerves of steel. The tyre would be placed on top of the deck, and the navigator would sit in the tyre - then we faster, bigger boys would push them along. High speeds were attained on the race circuit around school buildings. Other kids soon learned to give us a wide berth. Messy wipe-outs were not uncommon.

When I think back on this now, the set-up seems reminiscent of R2D2 ensconced in Luke Skywalker's fighter jet as navigation assistant. Perhaps this is where the idea came from, because the original "Star Wars" was in movie theatres for the first time during this impressionable primary school period.

And, indeed, at one point it seemed like everyone at school was talking about "Star Wars," even the most humdrum of schoolteachers.

It was an exciting time for movies generally. On the heels of "Star Wars" came "Grease," with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John, and "Superman," with Christopher Reeve.

Around the same time, an offbeat film came to the only movie theatre in town. "Every Which Way But Loose" was about a truck driver with a side hustle as a bareknuckle boxer. Dad took my brother and me to see it, and we three really got a kick out of it. Curiously, this turned out to be Clint Eastwood's biggest success as a movie star, up until then. It was a massive hit at the time, especially amongst the work boots and overalls crowd.

Having said that, you could not call it a masterpiece like "Superman," or a cultural juggernaut like "Star Wars." It did not have any special effects, nor did it have a clearly defined villain. The biggest challenge the hero faced was not a fearsome bareknuckle fight, but a toxic love affair destined to end badly. In fact, the only time he is noticeably hurt is when his lover physically assaults him.

There are other curiosities, chief among these being that in the climactic battle with a legendary brawler, the hero throws the fight. That is to say, he feigns defeat, allowing the other man to claim victory. Wayne, who had seen the movie before I did, stated the obvious to me: "He could've got back up." We discussed why he had not, without coming to a firm conclusion. It was not until I saw the movie again a few years later that I understood the ending.

MISS C

One day Miss C arrived to take our class because the regular teacher was away.

She was conspicuous around the school because she was the only young female teacher there. There was something incongruent about her presence. In this drab, grey high school of 1200 boys, ranging in age from 13 to 18, she was an anomaly.

I remember her as young and pretty. She looked to be recently out of teacher college. Perhaps she was on a training placement at the school, or doing some other type of work experience.

Whatever the case, I could see that she did not belong. I certainly did not belong there either, but at least I was male, and wearing the same grey uniform as everyone else, so I blended in some of the time. But Miss C - she seemed somewhat out of place. And vulnerable.

It was a harsh environment at the school. No one dared show any weakness. The teachers called us by our surnames only, and often in a condescending manner. Some of them referred to themselves as "masters." There was liberal use of the cane, a flexible wooden stick used to whip boys on the backside. As the teachers picked on the boys, so the boys picked on each other. Bullying was rife. It was not quite "Lord of the Flies," but it was certainly a type of jungle, where survival of the fittest was the fundamental principle.

Into this jungle walked Miss C, a self-conscious gazelle that the predators immediately recognised as prey.

She supervised our group for one session only, which was a masterclass in rudeness, defiance, vulgarity, shaming, and time-wasting tomfoolery. She was out of her depth in five minutes, and, by the end of the class, drowning.

Wayne and I were in this class. Wayne did not participate in the mistreatment of Miss C. I didn't either - sitting there with my usual reserve, and, now, vicarious embarrassment. The ringleaders were the usual delinquents, the boys who amazed me with their rebelliousness and insensitivity. Their boldness encouraged many others to join with them in destroying Miss C's composure and dignity.

The fallout from this disaster was not long in coming. A male teacher, one that you would not mistake for prey, at least in this environment, gave us all a dressing-down the next time the class came together. In true modern management style, everyone was tarred with the same brush, that is, the blame was ascribed to everyone equally, regardless of which students were actually responsible.

We were all ordered to write a letter. Each of us was to put pen to paper and produce an apology to Miss C. It seems she was quite upset about what she had been through (understandably), and we were all to make amends.

One boy refused. That boy was Wayne.

We were sitting together at the back of the class. He told me, "I'm not writing an apology for something I didn't do." His tone expressed rather more sincerity than defiance. This was yet another example of the sense I had of him, of a combination of integrity and maturity beyond his years.

I don't know what became of Miss C. She was not long at the school. I hope she went on to a successful career teaching delightful six-year-olds.

UNICYCLE

Wayne lived on the same road as the primary school, within walking distance. It was the easiest thing in the world for me to walk with him to his house after school, then get picked up or dropped off home later.

I think I envied the fact that Wayne could simply walk to and from school, whereas I had to catch the school bus.

As if it were not cool enough already to be able to walk to school, one day Wayne arrived on a unicycle. I cannot remember now where he got it from. His father could have easily made it for him, or perhaps it was bought for him. Either way, the moment he rode it through the school gates, he was thronged by his classmates, including me.

Wayne loved this sort of attention. Whenever he would arrive at school with some new thing of interest, he would effortlessly hold court. This was a testament to his confidence and his popularity.

What I wanted to do, of course, was try out the unicycle. It was comprised of a single wheel (the type you might find on the average bicycle), with pedals (again, not dissimilar to bicycle pedals), and a banana seat. Wayne made riding it look easy. Perched high on the seat, above the solitary wheel, pedalling around in defiance of gravity, he looked pretty impressive.

I asked Dad if I could get a unicycle too. "No," he said. "You don't have to get something just because Wayne Taylor has one."

SPRINKLERS

"Gee, thanks for making me recall a suppressed childhood memory and shattering my belief that my father was perfect!"

So wrote Wayne to me when we were both fathers ourselves.

What could have possessed two boys to run repeatedly through sprinklers with their clothes on?

It was a hot day after school, and the big sprinklers chugging out water across the Taylors' lawn looked pretty inviting. Wayne and I ran through the big jets of water in T-shirts and shorts till we were soaked to the skin. We were laughing with excitement the whole time, while Mrs Taylor watched us from the kitchen window.

As it transpired, she was annoyed at these shenanigans. When Wayne and I came to the door to dry ourselves and get changed (Wayne lent me shorts and a T-shirt), she seemed less than amused.

Mr Taylor, in his turn, took a very dim view of what we had done. Perhaps he had told Wayne to stay away from the sprinklers on the lawn. But whatever the reason, he got a stick of wood, took Wayne to the "back shed" (as Wayne called it), and gave Wayne a belting.

As I wrote to Wayne, years later, "I still feel bad that I didn't get the same. You got it all."

This incident made an indelible impression on me, for it represented a singular case of Wayne's parents behaving a little more like mine.

BULLIES

As a young boy, my brother lost his sight in one eye. In this eye he was totally blind, and it was easily noticeable, for the pupil of the eye was light grey instead of black. Many years later, as an adult, he had this cosmetically altered. But through his primary school and high school years, as you might expect, he was targeted by bullies.

For the most part, my brother was able to stand up for himself. However, bullies being what they are, the taunting persisted. Their favourite insult was "cyclops," a put-down of my brother which drew attention to his distinctive vulnerability.

I was a year ahead of him at high school, and so I did not see much of what went on. But in the corridors of this drab, grey institution of 1200 boys, I moved amongst his classmates occasionally.

There were two bullies in particular that came to my attention. They were repeat offenders, and the pair most fond of the "cyclops" insult. They were also the tip of an iceberg.

Bullying in general was endemic to this school. Even so, Wayne was amazed at how different his experience was in comparison to the boys in my family. Perhaps this could be attributed to Wayne's temperament and maturity, growing out of a far more emotionally healthy and supportive home life. As a result, I don't think he fully understood what some of us were dealing with.

In those days, the shame elicited through being bullied meant that it was not really talked about. There was an acceptance that you just had to put up with it as a normal and pervasive part of school life.

Put up with it I did, but occasionally I would be pushed too far.

One day Wayne and I were headed to the library together, a building which had a set of exterior doors that opened into a large vestibule, then another set of doors that gave entrance to the library proper. Now, on this day, wouldn't you know it, the two bullies were loitering in the vestibule. As Wayne and I walked in through the exterior doors, their faces brightened in the malicious way of miscreants everywhere.

They advanced, both grinning. One of them said, "Your brother's a cyclops!" As far as taunts go, this one was not particularly witty or clever, but it was enough to start him sniggering.

The sniggering abruptly stopped when I punched him. I have never again seen such a look of shock. He fell back into his comrade, their whole demeanour now changed. After a moment of eyeballing them, I walked on into the library with Wayne trailing me.

Wayne looked uneasy. "That wasn't very nice," he said. I could have been forgiven for thinking he was talking about the conduct of the bullies, but no, he was talking about what I had just done.

This was one of the few times Wayne and I had an overt clash of values. I have to remind myself that hitting the bully was not a conscious act - I had done it without thinking. Nevertheless, I was glad I had done it. Wayne, by way of contrast, was troubled by it.

I knew Wayne's beliefs. I knew about "turn the other cheek" and "blessed are the meek." However, what I thought I knew about those sayings then, is not what I understand about them now. I have come to know them in a way that might still be at odds with Wayne's beliefs, but I'm really not sure. I will never again know his thoughts.

One thing I am certain of is that Jesus would have handled that bully quite differently. He would not have struck him. Let us imagine that James, the brother of Jesus, had only one eye, and that the bully taunted Jesus with, "Your brother is a cyclops!" Given his penetrating wit, Jesus would have merely said something like, "And yet, he sees more than you."

A curious thing happened after that incident with the two bullies. Or, rather, something did not happen. I never saw those two boys again. I never passed by them in a corridor from that day forth. It was like they had vanished into thin air. Had they suddenly moved out of town to a different high school? I will never know.

BOYS' BRIGADE

There was once an army officer who also taught Sunday School, and he decided to combine both of these roles in order to get control of the misbehaving boys in his class. A hundred years later, I found myself joining the organisation he founded.

At first glance, Boys' Brigade seemed similar to Scouts, but not only did it pre-date Scouts, it also had an exclusively Christian focus. And, naturally enough, Wayne, with his confident, adventurous spirit and solid Christian background, fitted right in.

In those days, from my young perspective, Boys' Brigade appeared to be all about boys playing soldier, with military-style uniforms, drills, and badges that were worn on your shirt so everyone could see your level of achievement.

Wayne loved going to the meetings and being a part of the projects and adventures, so he was keen for me to join up too. In fact, the subject of me going along to Boys' Brigade with him came up regularly. I was reluctant. However, even Mrs Taylor encouraged me to join, so there was a steady chipping away of my resistance to the idea.

For a boy with a creative imagination, who loved writing stories, drawing comics, and reading books, joining a regimented, military-style platoon of uniformed boys seemed an odd choice.

Nevertheless, I joined up. I had put it off for long enough. We made an arrangement whereby I would go home with Wayne after school on Boys' Brigade nights and have dinner with the Taylors. After that, we would go to the Brigade together. Wayne was really glad about this arrangement, and, of course, I enjoyed spending this time with his family.

I liked some of the things we did at Boys' Brigade. There was fun alongside the regimentation. (Actually, the regimentation was intended to be part of the fun.) I once went on a day hike with the squad into the hills and forests of Marlborough, which was probably the first time I had ever been tramping. I was enjoying this until the adult leader told me to go to the front and lead the pack. This was partly across terrain that had no obvious trail to follow. I was afraid I would get us all lost. I received no advice from the rear on which direction or course corrections to take, so I decided to keep on moving upwards, that is, uphill. I must have done all right, because nobody told me off and we did not get lost.

This was a high point, and unfortunately there were not enough of them for me. Another thing there were not enough of were badges. In contrast to Wayne's full complement, there was a noticeable dearth of badges on my shirt. He had been earning and accumulating them for a long time before I started. I got as far as having one or two of the basic ones. As Mrs Taylor said to me, "Well, you did wait a long time to join up." Curiously, the prospect of attaining badges held no sway over me. They did not motivate me. Really, I was in the Boys' Brigade because Wayne was there, and because he wanted me to be there.

And so, as you might expect, it was not to last. Boys' Brigade became a part of that long list of things I tried then discarded as not being right for me. To fit in seamlessly, to move and walk in unison with others, to take religious instruction en masse - these could not satisfy my restless, enquiring mind and introverted nature. My announcement that I did not want to go anymore had no effect on the friendship between Wayne and me, and serves to remind me once again of the bond between us that existed independently of life circumstances and worldview.

THE CROSS AND THE SWITCHBLADE

Through Wayne's influence, I sometimes read things that I normally would not have picked up. We were quite young when he started talking about "The Cross and the Switchblade," a true story about a Christian minister, David Wilkerson, who goes into the heart of New York's juvenile gangland to save lives and souls.

The book centres on the relationship between Wilkerson and Nicky Cruz, the young leader of a notorious street gang. Its watershed moment is when Cruz rejects gang life in favour of Christianity.

Wayne and I were still young boys when he passed the book onto me. I was a voracious reader across a wide range of genres, so I took it in my stride. It must have interested me enough for me to find and read the follow-up book, "Run Baby Run," by Nicky Cruz.

In 2011 I read in the news that David Wilkerson had just died - and, of course, I thought of Wayne immediately. I wrote to him about it and this triggered off another round of exchanges in which we caught up on each other's lives.

GIRLS

Paying my Uncle Tony a visit was a great reason for Wayne and I to go on an adventure to Wellington. We drove up to Picton and took the Interislander Ferry across Cook Strait.

For me, the ferry ride had always been as thrilling as the destination itself, especially when I was a boy. The ship was easily big enough to ditch your parents and get up to mischief - and maybe to actually become lost.

During the ferry crossing, Wayne and I did not run around like excited schoolboys as in days of yore. Rather, we talked about things and spent time at the railings taking in the view.

It was not long before an opportunity for Wayne to demonstrate his boldness showed up. He spotted two pretty girls about our age and was suddenly full of the excitement of going to talk to them. He wanted me to go with him to say hello, but my courage failed me and I balked at this simple plan.

At that time in my life, given my painful self-consciousness and low self-worth, approaching two girls in that way was unthinkable. Wayne was encouraging, but I wouldn't budge. In my heart of hearts, I would have loved to go over to meet the girls, but, as I then believed, I did not have the necessary qualities to make such a move.

Undaunted, Wayne went over to talk with them. On his return, he was relaxed and happy as he told me they were tourists from overseas - friends travelling together - and that he had chatted with them about their trip and where they were from.

At the time, his ease with this amazed me. His confidence and self-belief around girls were qualities I could only aspire to and admire. For a late bloomer like me, it served as a reminder of how far ahead of me he was in putting himself out there.

PERSECUTION

When we were young teenagers, Wayne instigated a regular Bible study for the two of us. In his eyes, I was not yet "saved," and he was motivated by wanting this for me. Furthermore, he had told me of his decision to put off being baptised until I had become a Christian. I didn't feel this as a pressure, but I did note Wayne's belief in the inevitability of my conversion.

Wayne was the only person I could have met with for this purpose. The depth of our friendship, and our easy way with each other, made it possible. We would each leave home and meet roughly halfway at Jacksons Road. For me it was a journey of about four kilometres.

There we would look at passages from the Bible and discuss the ideas at hand. Again, I agreed to this and enjoyed it because my study partner was Wayne. It was not as if we saw eye to eye on religion. However, I did have an open mind. More than this, I had a restless mind, a questioning mind.

Wayne, by way of contrast, enjoyed a type of certainty that I did not have. Sometimes I wanted to have it, but I could not fake it, even for him. But I think he was glad enough that I was receptive.

Of course, we talked about other things as well. I was so well-read, and so widely read by this time, that Wayne could also learn from me, or, at least, hear opinions that did not align with his own.

Once, we were there with the Bible, and a car drove past, then came around again and stopped. A group of bullies got out and proceeded to pick on us. They were a lot older, and I did not know what to do. They ridiculed us for having a Bible, and hit us with homosexual slurs.

I borrowed from Wayne's strength as he stood his ground. He seemed to be calm as he spoke to them, and they eventually got back into the car and drove off.

Decades later, Wayne and I discussed this incident. He remembered it well, and informed me that they were sniffing glue, something I had not noticed in my naivety at the time. But as I think back on it now, I am struck again by Wayne's strength of character and maturity.

LETTERS

It was a shock to be pulled out of the sixth form unceremoniously, partway through the year.

Wayne and I were 16, and we sat together in every class we had in common.

My father announced that he had taken a new job in Christchurch, and there was not a lot of time to get used to the idea. For me, it was yet another disruption in a disrupted life.

My brother and I both had some anxiety about starting a new high school, not only partway through the year, but right in the middle of a term. However, it was not all bad.

Both of us had had a difficult time of it at home over the years. Our teenage years, in particular, had been challenging. My youngest brother and my sister lived with my mother, while my other brother lived with me and Dad, with no crossover or custody sharing. As a complete split for the siblings, it was a strange and damaging arrangement that had consequences which are still playing out to this day.

In addition to a difficult home life, there was the fact that we were ill-suited to an oversized school for boys. We did what we could, navigating the colourless corridors through hordes of grey uniforms, and trying to avoid trouble with teachers who enjoyed whipping boys a little too much. Still, we found anchors and attachments in an unstable life where we could, and the school was one of these, for better or worse.

And so, while the problems of this cheerless institution were left behind, it was wrenching to be taken out of our school to start a new one in Christchurch. We weren't to know it then, but the new school we were entering would be a vast improvement on the boys' college - which, admittedly, was not difficult. For one thing, it was co-ed, and for another, it was out in the country amongst farms and orchards. It had a far more gentle, more relaxed atmosphere, and the uniform popped with Lincoln green. Without the ever-present tensions of bullying and old-school masters with canes, I think my brother and I began to relax in a way we never had before at a school.

Now that we were separated, Wayne and I started to write to each other. This was in the days when the only method of communication available to us was a handwritten letter in an envelope with a postage stamp. And it is clear from the letters that Wayne missed me.

In one letter he informed me that "a new guy" was now sitting "in your seat beside me." His letters were always full of the candour that I knew so well, and sometimes marvelled at. For a teenage boy to sign off a letter to me with:

"Caring for you,
Wayne"

demonstrates unabashed sincerity.

He showed up in his letters in the same way that he showed up in person, that is, authentically. I remember how Wayne was something of an oddball in the classes at the boys' college, and not in a negative way. He was liked and respected, even by the tough guys. This, no doubt, was partly due to his fearless honesty.

I felt like an oddball at school as well, but in a different way. I was a more guarded loner with a protected inner life. I could reveal my vulnerabilities to Wayne, but fear made this the exception. I simply was not showing up as authentically as I might. Wayne somehow managed to do it effortlessly.

RULERS, BATTERIES, AND MAGNETS

Grandad worked in wholesale electronics, and he often got his hands on new and exciting gadgets that were not yet mainstream. When I was a young boy, he gave me an LED digital wristwatch at a time when they were still reasonably new to the market. I had never seen anything like it. I still have the watch. To see the time, a small button is pushed and the numbers appear, glowing red. When the button is released, the watch face goes dark, and remains that way until the button is pushed again.

He also gave me a set of headphones that were state of the art at the time. The headphones were a radio, with a small dial on one side for volume, and one on the other side for channel selection. They were powered by a now standard, rectangular nine-volt battery. Grandad gave me a box of the batteries, all brand new and individually wrapped in cellophane.

Because of my strong interest in science as a boy, he would also give me things like magnets, and so I had a collection of magnets of different shapes and sizes. I was fascinated by their mysterious powers of attraction and repulsion.

Wayne was similar, in that he liked new and exciting objects and gadgets as well. One day he brought a new type of ruler to school that he had received from his father. No one else had a ruler like it. Wayne, always one to hold court, took great pleasure in demonstrating its chief attribute, which was its ability to bend. It was not merely flexible; it was so flexible that you could bend it until the two ends of the ruler touched each other.

School rulers in those days were invariably made of wood. You could flex a wooden ruler a little bit, but if you overdid it, it would break. Not so the perspex type, and Wayne enjoyed showing it off. Such were the simple things that excited small boys!

Now, it so happened that once Wayne saw my stash of batteries and magnets at home, he coveted them. In turn, I really wanted a perspex ruler. So we struck a deal. At that time, Wayne was more naturally assertive than me, and he drove a hard bargain. I cannot remember how many batteries and magnets I had to give him in order to obtain one of the rulers, but it was a lot, and I must have thought it was worth it. I must have thought it was fair.

One person who did not think it was fair was Wayne's father. When Wayne showed Mr Taylor his magnets and individually wrapped batteries, Mr Taylor took a dim view of the transaction. As Wayne explained it to me, his father thought he had extorted numerous things of value from me in exchange for an inexpensive ruler. Wayne told me this rather sheepishly as he returned most of the batteries and some magnets, including my favourite. It was not as if I had to give him back the ruler. Mr Taylor had simply modified the deal.

All of this made an impression on me. I thought about it long after the ruler had lost its novelty, and had become just another ruler. I chuckle about it now. Poor Wayne. Yet, here I can see still more evidence, in such a simple example, of the strong moral guidance he enjoyed from his parents, and the formation of the upright character I knew so well.

SALT

Once upon a time there were two boys who climbed to the top of a mountain of pure salt…

That is not the beginning of a fairy tale. It is a true story.

Wayne and I were spending the day with his father, and he took us down to Lake Grassmere where he was doing some engineering maintenance. Mr Taylor was the best engineer in town, and I imagine he was involved with many of the major industries in Marlborough.

There was no one else at the saltworks, so while Mr Taylor got on with his work, Wayne and I were free to play and explore.

From a distance, the giant mounds may have looked like hills covered with snow, but they were salt through and through. And they were hard, not soft in texture; more like gravel or rock than powder.

Endlessly competitive, Wayne and I tried to beat each other to the top of a salt mountain, laughing with joy as we scrabbled and climbed.

Trying to slide down, we found the salt to be scratchy rather than slippery, with an instant case of "salt rubbed into the wound"!

When it was time to leave with Mr Taylor, we took a big, round chunk of pure salt home as a souvenir.

HEART OF GOLD

In our early 20s, on my return trips from Australia, Wayne and I always met up, and our friendship carried on in its usual way, as if not a day had passed without the two of us seeing each other.

On one of my visits to New Zealand, I found that Wayne had taken to teaching himself the harmonica. I got a kick out of seeing him dabble in music.

He was living by himself at the time. In some ways he could relate to my experience of being by myself, working hard, and paying my own way. However, he was not struggling with trauma and recurring depression in the way that I was. For me, music was often a refuge from painful feelings.

There was a song I loved that I had taught myself by ear on the guitar called "Heart of Gold" (Neil Young), and it featured harmonica. I had left my guitar in Australia on this particular visit, but Wayne and I started making plans to practice together and collaborate on this song. We even had the idea of developing ourselves into some type of duo.

I cannot remember why this did not eventuate, but I expect it was because I always reached a point quite quickly where I was sick of life in New Zealand and went back to country Australia, where I could ride motorbikes, shoot off guns, and earn lots of money. Actually, I also did a lot of writing during my years in Australia, much of which has survived. I had a sizeable creative output through my early 20s - and this, along with my music, no doubt helped to save my sanity during the tail end of my adolescence.

Wayne, of course, was effortlessly sane. Furthermore, he always seemed to be going from strength to strength, and that included physical strength. The two of us both appreciated the benefits of physical training. The seeds of this, for him, went back to the days of "Pumping Iron," while I was in the early stages of a lifelong martial art journey that would eventually become quite obsessive. Wayne, for his part, just liked having big muscles and being fit.

Partly this was due to vanity. He was quite conscious of his good looks. My brothers and I once teased him because he regularly used a product called Oil of Ulan to stave off wrinkles. Possessed of that wonderful ability to laugh at himself, he could see the funny side of a young man in his 20s worrying about wrinkles!

But, essentially, physical culture was a significant area of life over which we bonded. This remained true, even though we each took it in different directions. Extended periods of hard physical labour in Australia put me in touch with my strength and transformed me, but this was not enough as an end in itself. I saw physical prowess in functional terms only, specifically, how it could be channelled into self-defence and martial art. This was in contrast to Wayne, for he did not have the enemies in the world that I had, whether real or imagined. He lived in a less threatening universe, one that took me many more years to recognise and appreciate.

Another curious bond between us was that we both worked for our fathers, and we both had similar feelings about doing so. Wayne had a lot of insight into the personal significance of this. He understood some of the rewards it could bring, but also some of the problems.

He once said he felt like his father needed him to be there, and not in the way of being one of his best employees; more in the way of being a supporting presence. This is not to take anything away from Wayne's obvious genius and practical contribution. Rather, he was talking about a deeper relational and emotional need on the part of his father.

He was speaking my language, for I felt the same way about working for Dad.

The fact that Wayne thought and felt deeply about life and relationships was something else we had in common. He could surprise me with statements of vulnerability and humility. He once unfavourably compared the significance of his work with his wife's. "Her work is about helping people," he said, "and mine seems to be about making big tanks to hold wine." He added that he borrowed meaning from her job by trying to support her as much as possible. This was an example of how self-effacing he could be.

THE GRIND

Wayne and I once joined Robert Burns in the Octagon and caught up on each other's lives. I had my young daughters with me, and Wayne had his sons.

At the time, I was partway through five years of training to become a counsellor. I was also running three classes a week as a self-defence instructor.

When Wayne was back home, he emailed me:

"Just wanted to say that it was great to catch up a little and see you as a caring Dad. I'm so pleased you've found your niche and believe you'll be an excellent counsellor. I loved your positive and humorous vibe. If I was in Dunedin I'd like to take your martial arts training course. Back to the grind for me."

I remember how encouraging this was for me. To hear this from him meant so much to me then, and still does now when I re-read it. Of course, this was on a par with esteem from a brother, which he certainly was to me in spirit. We were the same age, but I was always aware that he was more accomplished in the world than me. He had been on track right out of the starting gate, while I had so much to go through, and work through, to be ready for that "niche."

Added to that, it was difficult for me to see my own accomplishments and my own qualities. Wayne always seemed to have a view of me that could have made me feel like an imposter. But here's the thing: he was a great man who made me feel like I, too, was great - or, at least, could be. For someone like me, who left home in disastrous circumstances and felt like a failure for years, Wayne's regard for me seemed to point to inherent qualities I could not see.

DISCONNECTION

To learn of Wayne's death was devastating for me. In the months that followed, I would frequently break down in tears. I started having vivid dreams about him. Many memories of the times we spent together, from earliest childhood onwards, started flooding my mind in striking detail - far too many to set down on paper. Now, as I write this, although my emotions have settled down, the depth of the loss is still with me. I have been forced, in the worst possible way, to realise something about myself and Wayne: I didn't know how much I loved him. I wish I could tell him.

© 2023 Anthony