Charlotte Grimshaw: Wally was always there, a part of our landscape
Charlotte Grimshaw: I’m thinking of a man I called Wally. He appeared first in a crowd scene many years ago. Photo / Getty Images
How often do you catch a glimpse of someone who’s gone? On a rainy Auckland afternoon, you might glimpse your mother peering over the wheel of a tiny car, catch her frown as she beetles past, just as you remember she’s been dead these last two years. Or perhaps you go searching for those absent but still living. A small, private fantasy: if you go out into the streets, today is the day you will see them.
I’m thinking of a man I called Wally. He appeared first in a crowd scene many years ago. An on-site suburban house auction had turned into a bidding war. One of the contenders was my husband. As it dragged on, the suspense got so bad I retreated into the cramped kitchen. A tall man caught my eye through the open door and winked. This was Wally.
He was present at the auction; the next day he drove past the cafe where we were signing the agreement. He waved. After that, it seemed, he was never far away.
His entire iconography was red, white and blue. He drove a small red and white car. He was tall and lean and his hair was white. In a red and white jersey, blue jeans and red shoes, he would walk his small white dogs. All over the city, he would pass us in his red car, waving.
I called him Wally after the long, lean, red-and-white-clad children’s book character whose point, for young readers, is the challenge of picking him out of the minutely detailed crowd scenes in which he hides. Once you’ve found Wally the task is done. Order is restored; the universe is aligned.
In crowds, in far-flung suburbs, sooner or later, Wally would appear. His little car passed us all over the city. I told my husband, no doubt he’d been present at the births of our children. If you scanned our wedding photos, he’d be there in the background, waving.
During flamboyant Auckland weather, a day of empty streets, screaming wind, lashing rain, I went out with the dog. The park resembled a rice paddy. Above the shriek of the gale I heard a roar, looked up and saw the pitching, yawing underside of the Westpac Rescue Helicopter.
As I began running for the unleashed dog, the chopper, perhaps belatedly noticing us, veered away like a blown leaf and landed on an empty carpark. I could dimly make out the crew, crammed in there – arguing, I imagined.
I was considering whether to try to talk to them, just for amusement’s sake. And then I glanced at the road and saw him, his tyres sending up a spray, wipers furiously swishing. Wally, peering ahead, rubbing his red and white sleeve on the windscreen. He saw me and waved. The tiny car forged on.
He was part of the landscape. He progressed from waving to talking, especially to my husband. At the supermarket, carrying his groceries to the red car, he told us his real name. He began mentioning burdens, sorrows, revealing himself obliquely, with small hints, in a stylised way, as if things weren’t yet too serious.