We all three smiled and Honey the dog wagged her tail. Marti, told Margaret to laugh and Margaret let out a most joyous sound that bubbled up from her inner being.

She perched on the back of a sofa in her living room near the light of the tall picture window that reached to the roof, like a window in a church with a view straight up Lyttelton Harbour and in front of the big stone paved wall above her fireplace. She graciously moved around her house, into corners, out onto her upstairs decking, lifting her feet carefully over the sprawling leaves and tendrils of a grapevine, at Marti’s rapidly issued instructions. On that day the light was mellow and Marti and Margaret, who were meeting for the first time, were pleased with each other. I am glad you got to tell her story.’įeeling shocked and bereft, I went to my study and pulled out my book, Her Life’s Work, to look at Margaret’s portrait taken by New Zealand photographer Marti Friedlander one autumn day in 2008, before the earthquake that changed the world order in Canterbury and when it was a kinder, more benign place. It was my daughter texting to tell me she had seen on the Herald website that Margaret Mahy passed away today, Monday 23 July at the age of 76 after a brief illness. I was writing the Epilogue to a current book in progress when my phone flashed a message. The world suddenly seems less, with the passing of a great writer.

The literary community, her global fans and followers and the people of New Zealand mourn her loss. Darling Margaret Mahy, the gifted author has died.

A Lion in the Meadow by Margaret Mahy