She was supposed to work in the shop. Fit pink cotton lace-up corsets on the ladies of the town. But she didn't want to. She did not want to measure yards of grosgrain ribbon and striped poplin. She did not want to go for change to her father in the cashier's cage in the center of the store. Let Ina do it, let Betty do it, but she, Nell, would not do it so her father threw her out of the house.
She went to her father's sisters' house and they asked her what she wanted to do and she said ``I want to be an artist,'' and Aunt Tab said ``How do you become an artist?'' and she said ``You go to art school.''
Aunts Tab and Mat were old maids and they looked at their strange niece and they looked at their bank accounts and they counted the money under their mattresses and they decided they would put Nell through the diploma of fine arts program at Glasgow University. The first university student in the family and a woman at that!
Aunts Tabitha and Matilda sat knitting in the fading light of their front room and they mused in silence on their own youth, and they wondered if what they had done was a good thing.
She was lucky to be accepted.
There was so much to learn. Color. Perspective. The arts and crafts movement was in full swing. She learned to carve wood and tool leather and create quilted designs of fluid beauty.
But there was more to learn about life. Dancing, skiing, dressing with style. She had no money, but she could turn two yards of cheap muslin into a scene stealing frock. She cut her own hair short and swingy and she went bare foot when her shoes wore out. She had rich friends. She was happy. She spent a little extra time and got a teaching diploma though she hoped not to use it.
She went to London to seek her fortune but she couldn't find it. She had no money. Her rent was almost out.
She hadn't eaten in two days when she found the ad in a newspaper on a park bench. Art teacher. New Zealand. Yes! They hired her on the spot and ten days later the P and O liner slid away from the dock and she left without a backward thought.
When the earthquake came she had a studio full of fourteen year old boys. They were painting a guinea pig and sniggering among themselves at the endless procession of neat little pellets it produced.
The boys knew the drill. Get under your desk. So they got under their easels. She picked up the guinea pig and stood perfectly still. They had not told her about earthquakes. What was one to do? She stood perfectly still. The boys were peering up at her for advice. The walls were collapsing, and part of the ceiling, but the room above them was still above them. She stood perfectly still.
When all was quiet except the screaming rampage from the other class rooms she said ``Are we all alright?''
``Yes Miss, yes Miss,'' they answered.
``Then let us leave the building.''
They gave her a medal. She never knew why.