I do not hear well on the phone, but if you could be bothered to drop me a line, I would be most grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Max Friedmann
P.S. It occurs to me that your postman may be at fault. You may wish to check on him — or her. Cutting corners — literally! — is not uncommon these days.
Saturday 18th December 1993
My dear Max,
You old bear, you are panicking for no reason at all! I am perfectly all right and suffered no ill effects from your pâté. It was one of your more successful efforts, I thought.
Mildred has been very ill and I’ve been tied up, keeping her company. Do you realise that it’s only ten days since that incident with Sheila and Martin? I have put that all behind me, Max. As you say, we are independent adults and can choose for ourselves.
But being caught in your pyjamas severely undermined my confidence. I am not as emancipated as I thought!
Please do not worry Mildred further about us. She has problems enough of her own. Last Tuesday she suffered a mild heart attack but didn’t call the doctor for two days. I thought it was just a bit of flu — she stayed in bed, and I took the odd casserole over (my tuna fish pie, actually). Then she became very low and I insisted that she rang the doctor. He has diagnosed the heart attack and pneumonia. Poor Mildred. She’s been packed off to hospital, which she detests. Her Auckland and Christchurch daughters have come and are staying in the house.
So now I have time to write to you, you impatient man. The daughters are visiting Mildred all the time and I feel it is their right to have her undivided attention. Besides I get lost in the public hospital’s parking system. Last time I went there my car disappeared completely. I spent half an hour walking round searching for it. I’m so small I can’t see over the car roofs to get an overview. Finally a nice tall attendant helped me. Even he had trouble. I was in completely the wrong place — totally disoriented! They should take more care with signs. It could have been an emergency.
Well now, Max, I trust you are recovered. There seems to be too much illness in my life at present. Judging by the flow of letters you must have some energy at least! Have you been to the doctor about your chest? Mildred’s reluctance was not a good idea, and you should learn from it.
Why are you so anxious, Max, for me to talk about Gillian’s death? It was painful enough at the time. Do I seem bitter or guilt-ridden to you? It was, after all, twenty years ago. I had thought I had come to terms with that terrible night. But if it seems important to you, write to me about it. It is too tender a subject for a shouted conversation.
Dear Max, I would love to come and visit you. If you’re not up to the driving, I can catch a taxi from the station. What about Tuesday week — the 28th? I could stay overnight and return on the Wednesday afternoon. Shall we call that our Christmas? You will want to spend the real thing with your family. I’ll bring some good nourishing pea and ham soup and a pudding I make which is crammed with Vitamin C. You need building up.
Affectionately,
Grace
Monday 20th December 1993
My dearest Grace,
Damn and blast! Everything seems to be conspiring to frustrate us. Adam has just written to say he has leave and will come up to spend Christmas with me. Our children just assume that we have nothing better to do than sit and wait anxiously for their next visit. It didn’t occur to Adam to ask whether the timing suited me. But I suppose he means well.
Would you like to come out just for the day? Or perhaps we should wait till he goes back. You know how difficult three-way conversations are for me. I’m longing to see you again though, my dear Grace.
What a relief to get your letter today and hear that all is well. Please give Mildred my best wishes. Persuade her if you can to leave the hospital. She will only die in there. Looking out over the park from her own bed would be a better cure.
For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Gillian, and the night of her death. You are so like her, Grace — same lively eyes, same perky way of moving, same burning intelligence. Getting to know you again has brought back all those memories. She had so much talent, Grace! There’s no doubt that she could have become an international soloist. Well, you know that. She and her violin sang a magic that was irresistible. It was a privilege to teach her. How could she waste her life like that? The first piece she played, that night — it was our last house concert, we could never face another — was quite outstanding. Do you remember it? A Bach piece, very simple, but utterly right. That strength should have been enough to anchor her. Why wasn’t it?
She came back, later that night, to apologise. Not for her tantrum, or the rude things she said to the audience — that didn’t worry her — but for messing up the trio. I don’t think I ever told you that, did I? She was rather drunk and I’m afraid I was disapproving. Tried to lecture her about professionalism. I wanted to go over her mistake with her, point out where she came unstuck.
I didn’t even recognise she was in trouble or that she may have been looking to me for help. I was too tied up with the music you see, Grace. Ilona would have seen the need; would have done something wise, but she was asleep by then.
Gillian just walked away without a word. In the middle of my gabble. I shudder to remember it. Max Friedmann, the celebrated violinist, lecturing earnestly about stress and dynamic, blind to his best pupil’s despair. I could have saved her.
Well, my dear, I can hear what you are thinking: it is Max, not Grace, who needs to talk about Gillian. True. If I had behaved with more care that night you might now have a daughter and grandchildren to share your Christmas.
I cannot even make music for you myself any more.
Oh dear, this is getting maudlin. Forgive me.
My broad beans are wonderful this year — a bumper crop. Do you like them? And the fruit trees have set well, despite my neglect of them lately. When Adam goes and you come out, you shall have a full tour of the garden.
I am slower at getting things done, which is annoying. However the cough is improving — without any fancy drugs from the doctor. Hinemoa came yesterday to drain my ears. They have become infected. She’s just like you, harping on about drugs, hospital etc. Don’t worry, I’m a tough old boot.
Take care, my dear. Please write quickly. I could not bear to hurt you.
Your loving
Max
P.S. Happy Christmas! A bottle of champagne is hidden from the family, waiting for you! M
Christmas Day 1993
Dear Max,
Happy Christmas to you too! I’m just back from dinner with the Peddies. It was kind of them to invite me, but I found it a noisy affair — I am not used to small children screaming underfoot. In the end it was old Mrs Peddie who saw my discomfort and rescued me. What a surprising woman she is — far deafer than me, extremely unstable on her pins and almost blind, and yet she somehow sensed that I couldn’t cope well with the endless senseless questions little ones throw at you. That old lady suddenly clapped her hands and bellowed for the whole rampaging house to hear — ‘Little ones! Story time! Gather here!’ And miraculously they did. A good dozen of them, all skin colours, sitting quiet on the floor round her chair.
‘Can we have a story out of your head?’ one little great-grandchild asked. ‘Naturally,’ said old Mrs Peddie, ‘what else can I tell with these old eyes?’ And away she went, the most high-flown adventures involving every one of the children on magic quests and hidden treasure and I don’t know what else. Most of the adults spellbound too. You have to admire the old lady: most days she is maddeningly off the play — away with the fairies and ready for the nursing home — and then she comes out with an impromptu story that I would have to write out and redraft and then read from the paper to even approach her skill.
Well, for all that, I’m happy to be in my quiet home again. I am writing to you sitting in the garden at my little table. The sun is setting and the hills beyond the harbour have taken on that wonderful deep p
urple you noticed last time you were here.
Don’t worry about Adam coming — it’s only a few weeks, and you’ll enjoy seeing him. Family is important. You must never turn from your boys. We can wait till after Adam’s visit. Perhaps by then you will be up to a trip in to see me.
Meantime these letters may lay Gillian’s ghost to rest. You are right — it is you who needs to talk about her, Max. Do you realise she was rather in love with you? Not just as a star-struck pupil loves her maestro but in a personal way. She loved your energy and zest, and your uncompromising commitment to music. I used to be jealous of you! It was always Max this and Max that … But now it adds richness to our relationship, discovering for myself the qualities that Gillian saw.
There’s no point in blaming yourself for her death. We all failed her in one way or another. Yes, I knew she had gone back to see you that night. Ilona told me. She knew I needed to hear everything. Perhaps you might have saved her but I doubt it, Max. Gillian had been mildly suicidal for some time. She also had a serious drinking problem. She was more than ‘rather drunk’ that night; she was awash with alcohol. The post mortem showed that. I always thought you knew about her drinking. Ilona did — but maybe she didn’t talk to you about it? Gillian was clever at concealing her alcoholism. Perhaps your lessons were the only moments she kept sober for. But in the last few weeks she was always drunk, I think.
Was it Reg’s death, I wonder, that started her off? They were wonderfully close, in a way that I just couldn’t understand — such totally different people. Or perhaps it was the pressure of university and the concerto competition. Whatever it was, Max, I was no help to her, either. I discovered her drunk in her bedroom once, months before her death and we had a flaming argument. She stormed out, climbed a tree in the park and sat in the branches there while I pleaded below. She just sat, waxen-pale, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Not a sound. In the end I went away. She threw herself off the branch — or fell — and broke a leg. She said she was trying to kill herself.
Psychiatric help might have saved her then, but I didn’t force the issue. It was easier to believe she would grow out of the problem, and that her music would win in the end. I know I failed her, Max, but she also failed herself. And you. It helps to think that way — or it helps me anyway.
I tell you what, Max: you have been right about me after all. It has done me some good to take out Gillian’s death and look at it again. I’ve been sitting here for a good fifteen minutes looking out towards the viaduct, and the view somehow seems less harsh — just a view. It is good to talk about it with someone who loved Gillie too. Thank you.
This morning I took flowers and a little gift across for Mildred’s daughters to take to her. They tell me she’s sinking. They have sent for her son who lives in Malaysia. Mildred is not speaking, they say. I’ll go to the hospital in the morning, but dread it. It’s not easy to talk to her with the daughters standing round. I will miss her dreadfully.
Do you know, Max, I find it strangely unsettling to think that I now live in a National electorate. Where are they all? Everyone at bowls voted Labour or Alliance. Although now I think about it, some of our less outspoken members didn’t voice their views. I feel I have failed, and will try harder next election. I hope to have you back in the fold before then. We shall have much to argue over!
Make sure you take Vitamin C night and morning. Kiwifruit and tamarillos are very rich sources. Better than oranges and less acid.
All the best, my dear,
Grace
P.S. You gave much pleasure to Gillian — think about that.
Sunday Jan 2nd 1994
Dear Grace,
This place has been a madhouse for the last week. Be pleased you decided not to come. Adam has rushed from one project to another. I trail round trying to help but generally getting in the way.
First he reroofed the shed. Then the driveway needed patching. Yesterday he replaced some rotten weatherboards and today he’s painting the kitchen.
Now he’s insisting that I need a cleaning lady. He wishes to pay for her, as a gift to me! What nonsense. If I can’t see the dirt, it doesn’t bother me. You never complained about a dirty bath or toilet. Nor does Hinemoa. Adam is just finickity. Have you noticed lawyers are often like that? He whips my underclothes away and into the wash before I’ve had a chance to wear them in. Electricity bills obviously mean nothing to him. He has also bought me a new kettle which switches itself off and has rewired my perfectly good old iron. He means well, I suppose, but you can’t deny it’s insulting. I’ve told him so and it makes no difference.
I will divert him tomorrow by asking him to look at the car. Now it really does need attention and should take him the next week to fix.
Thank you for speaking so openly about Gillian. She was the daughter I always wished I had. You and Ilona talked it all out at the time, but I could never bear to.
When she stormed out of the concert, that night, where did she go? Do you know? And did she really try to kill herself or was she just so drunk she fell? If you can bear to tell me what you believe happened, Grace, I would be grateful.
No, I hadn’t realised she was either suicidal or alcoholic. I’m not very sensitive about those things, I fear. I was completely absorbed in teaching her, and in her wonderful potential.
I see the Brodsky Quartet will be playing the Shostakovich cycle at the festival. Now, Grace, you are to go and remember every detail to tell me. Those string quartets are my absolute favourites. Take someone with you — you can afford a double ticket. I don’t like to think of you in town on your own at night.
Adam leaves next Saturday. Why don’t you come out on Sunday for a day or two and see me, all clean and tidy in my polished house? I’m driving again and getting about. Or will be when Adam has dealt with the car. We might take a picnic down to the river.
Oh my Grace, you are so dear to me!
Max
P.S. You might as well give up hope of converting me. I am veering towards National. We need stability, Grace! Coalitions are a disaster.
Wednesday 5th January 1994
Dear Max,
I smiled at the thought of Adam sprucing up your house! You should accept his offer of a housekeeper. I have to say, Max, that I did notice the state of your bathroom and toilet, and sometimes cleaned it if you weren’t watching! Hinemoa did the same. You are absent-minded about cleanliness. Adam is a good boy and cares about you. Even if he is a lawyer!
Sunday won’t suit me, I’m afraid, for coming out. But the following Tuesday (11th) would be ideal. I’m looking forward so much to seeing you again.
Mildred has rallied! She seemed to be on her last breath. I visited her in hospital four days ago and just sat for a while, chatting about whatever came into my head. It was hard to keep going with Mildred looking so ill. Her son had arrived from Malaysia, and everyone had paid their last respects. I thought I was saying goodbye to her.
And then next morning she turned a corner, her breathing improved and she took some food. Perhaps my silly chatter did some good. Her daughters say she will probably be discharged next Sunday and be nursed from home. I would like to be here to welcome her.
Her children are a bit thrown. They mill round the house at a loose end. They have all dropped their jobs and travelled to her death-bed, and now it seems she’ll be fine in a week or two! She’s a good battler just like you. I’m so pleased.
There is nothing more to know about Gilly’s death, Max. It was sad. And pointless — that’s all.
She was already drunk when she arrived to play at your house concert. The Bach was easy to manage and she played so well because the drink released her emotions. She recognised that, I think. She felt she needed the alcohol to ‘free’ her music but then she could not stop.
During the supper break, I imagine she got into your liquor. She was over the edge for the trio and tripped up on the first difficult passage. Her fury with the audience and you and the cellist were simply a cover-up for
her own despair.
I followed her out and walked back with her over the park. I’ve often relived the next hour. Said different things. Listened harder to what she was really saying.
She was very depressed. She felt that her career was ruined; that you would drop her; that she would never be able to control her drinking. She spoke quite a bit about you, Max. How she only lived for your good opinion, and how she had ruined everything. I couldn’t help feeling a bit put out that her obsession with music and with you was unhealthy. She hardly seemed aware that I existed. So perhaps I was less sympathetic than I might have been. But I did see that the drink and depression were serious. I determined to get her to a specialist next day.
She went quiet when we got home. I assumed she would sleep off the drink and feel more rational in the morning. I went to bed, and was woken later by the police.
You know the rest, Max. She slipped away and came to see you. You mustn’t blame yourself. The problem was hers. I would like to believe that she was so disoriented she simply lost her balance, but the coroner was probably correct. She jumped. In a way, though, I feel it was an accident. You are right in seeing her music as an anchor. But the drink, her talent and her temperament were an unlucky combination that night. I believe her jump was a defiant fling, rather than a serious attempt at suicide.
That is how I see it, Max. Her death emptied us both for a while. Now, perhaps, we are joined by having shared her life.
I look forward greatly to seeing the new, spic-and-span Max on Tuesday 11th. I am relieved that Adam is repairing your car. If only he could persuade his dad to drive more slowly and not to argue while behind the wheel!
In Touch With Grace Page 4