With love,
Grace
Friday 7th January 1994
Dear Mrs Brockie,
I am not sure whether the family have let you know that Max Friedmann sadly passed away yesterday. His health had been failing for some time. I expect he told you he had lung cancer.
But it was a sudden heart attack in his sleep that carried him off.
I am enclosing your letter which arrived today. It is unopened. I am not sure whether you would want Martin and Sheila to read it, so I took the liberty of removing it quietly when it came in the mail.
I am so sorry if this news is a sudden shock to you. You and Max seemed to have such fun together. You were very good for him, he talked often about your visits.
The funeral is on Monday, 11 am, at Martin and Sheila’s church.
Max died quite peacefully. I came this morning and laid him out. He looked lovely.
Kua mahue koe me to pouri. Tangi tonu, tangi tonu. You are left with your sadness. Let your tears fall.
Arohanui,
Hinemoa Spark, District Nurse
Monday 10th January 1994
Dear Mr and Mrs Martin Friedmann, and Mr Adam Friedmann,
Please accept my condolences on the death of your father. Max was a good friend to me over many years. I will miss him as I am sure you will also.
Enclosed is a diamond and pearl brooch which Max gave to me last year. I do not believe he understood its value. Such a piece should remain in the family, and I always intended returning it.
Yours sincerely,
Grace Brockie
Trying Harder
‘She’s made up her mind to go,’ says Dr Ramachandran. ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’
The words are like a physical blow to Grace. Pink spots appear on her cheeks. She looks up sharply at the doctor.
‘Surely that’s not possible. Mildred is not an Aborigine. We are not in some African village. How can you say such a thing?’
‘Well, it may sound strange to you, Mrs Brockie, but I assure you it’s quite common. I’ve tried, and failed, to change her resolve.’
Grace frowns and looks away across the park. This morning the trees are shining, but her spirits are not lifted by the sight. The doctor waits politely, his hand still on Mildred’s wrought-iron gate. Grace turns back to him.
‘Dr Ramachandran, we simply do not behave like that here. I don’t mean to offend, but.…’
‘But you do, Mrs Brockie,’ says the doctor gently. ‘You do. I have been practising in New Zealand for twenty years. Your friend has no clinical illness. She has recovered well from the pneumonia. But she has decided not to live any more.’
‘You don’t just decide things like that.’
‘Not often, it’s true. But in Mrs Catherwood’s case that is exactly what has happened. Her children were informed she was dying. They all came to pay their last respects. They farewelled her. Then she recovered. She now feels rather foolish, as if she has outlived her welcome. So she has decided to die.’
Grace presses her lips together and looks at the doctor squarely. He leans down smiling, but when he puts a kind hand on her shoulder, she moves away sharply.
‘We’ll see about that,’ she says and leaves Dr Ramachandran smiling in the sun.
Some of the bowls group gather at Cynthia Peddie’s place to discuss the crisis.
‘Can it be true, Grace?’ asks Cynthia. ‘Surely they can do something?’
For once, Grace is at a loss.
‘I simply don’t know,’ she says and sighs. ‘Mildred just lies in bed, won’t eat — or can’t. I can’t rouse her interest in anything.’
Grace doesn’t say out loud what she really feels. She is irritated with Mildred. Why should Mildred decide to die when she, Grace, her good friend, is still alive? Does their friendship mean nothing to her?
‘In this country,’ says Les Comfrey, ‘people do not decide to die. Mildred must get a second opinion. Dr Ramachandran has missed something.’
‘But Les,’ says Cynthia, ‘we all go to Dr Rama. We know how good he is.’
‘No, Cynthia, we must face facts. Mildred will have some named illness with a proper cure. We don’t go in for pagan mumbo-jumbo here. Now my brother has a good doctor with a solid New Zealand training. Perhaps Mildred should see him.’
‘I tend to agree with you, Les,’ says Grace.
Everyone looks startled at this. Grace and Les traditionally take opposite views, particularly where racial bigotry is involved. Grace does not elaborate, but lowers her head, feeling trapped.
‘Aren’t we forgetting,’ says Shirley Chan, ‘that this is Mildred’s choice. She doesn’t want another opinion. She’s happy with Dr Ramachandran. To me it’s quite understandable that she should want to die at her own convenience. Her children have said goodbye. She feels this is an appropriate time.’
‘But surely …’ Grace cannot hold back the outburst. ‘Surely she must value my friendship … and all of you at bowls,’ she adds, just in time.
‘Well yes,’ says Shirley, smiling in her calm way, ‘but family is so much more important. It is family we come back to in the end.’
‘Why? Why do you say that?’ Grace knows she is speaking too loudly, but her outrage needs a voice. ‘All Mildred’s children and grandchildren live somewhere else. Mildred and I do things together almost every day. Or did. I can’t believe that some slight embarrassment with family farewells could be more important to her. She must be ill.’
‘She has no right,’ booms old Mrs Peddie. The others wait, but it seems this is a final pronouncement. Old Mrs Peddie rarely catches the drift of general conversation, but has an uncanny knack of following important issues.
Grace faces the old lady squarely so her lips may be read. ‘I have no right?’ she asks. ‘I have no right when it comes to Mildred’s wishes?’
‘This is nonsense!’ Mrs Peddie shouts back. ‘I am talking about rights!’
‘But I simply asked …’
Mrs Peddie rolls on at top volume. ‘Mildred Catherwood has no right to die just because it suits her. No. Imagine if it caught on! There have been many times it would have suited me …’
‘Oh Mother …’ says Cynthia. She smiles helplessly.
‘Yes there have, dear. Many times. But we must struggle on and do our best. Mildred has a duty. I will go and tell her.’
‘I’m afraid it will do no good, Mrs Peddie,’ says Grace. ‘I’ve spoken firmly to Mildred several times. She just lies there. I’m sure Les is right: it’s a medical problem.’
But Mrs Peddie is adamant. She points a shaking finger in Grace’s general direction. ‘You’re angry with her. Yes you are — pink cheeks, tight lips. Angry. But do you show your need? Dr Rama is a good doctor. If he says Mildred is simply depressed, she is. Try harder, girl, if you want her.’
There is a silence. Les looks at Grace and shrugs as if to say, How can you argue with this irrational old woman, but Grace looks away, feeling the weight, the sense, of Mrs Peddie’s words.
‘We must all try harder,’ announces Mrs Peddie. It seems to be an order. ‘Cynthia, you and I will visit Mildred tomorrow.’ She picks up her handbag, a sign that she is ready for someone to move her.
But it is really up to me, thinks Grace that evening. She is watching the park as she often does. Her room grows dark while she stands, thinking about Mrs Peddie’s words. Across the park, a light is on in Mildred’s bedroom. The live-in nurse, provided by the family, has pulled the curtains.
I should go there now, thinks Grace. She is impatient with her tears. Her need for Mildred to live surprises her. Over the years she has accepted the deaths of her husband, her daughter and, recently, her dear friend Max. But the loss of Mildred’s steady friendship, the fun they have together, seems quite unacceptable. Grace shakes her head in frustration. She cannot think what she might do or say to help Mildred turn the corner. If it were a rational argument over some issue of the day, Grace could be eloquent. But on ma
tters of personal relationships words shy away from her. The language is simply not there.
All the same I will go now, decides Grace, and puts on her best blue coat.
Grace is shocked again at the way Mildred looks. Her body hardly raises a bump in the white coverlet. The nurse has brushed out her hair and it spreads over the pillow grey and lifeless. Mildred’s cheekbones stand out. Her face is falling in on itself.
‘See if you can get her to drink some tea,’ says the nurse, ‘or take a spoonful of soup. I can’t do anything with her.’ She pads out to the kitchen and the television.
Grace looks at Mildred. ‘A bit starchy, that one,’ she says. ‘Not much fun, I imagine. You need a good laugh, Mildred.’
Mildred’s eyes are half open but she is not looking at anything.
Grace feels desperate. ‘Mildred.’ A pause. ‘Mildred, I need to say something to you but don’t know how. Help me.’
Mildred sighs and her eyes move a little, not focusing but wandering in Grace’s direction.
‘Mildred, about Max. He’s dead. He passed away, Mildred. I have been … oh … down in the dumps … There are things I should have said to you. You would have helped, but I never talked about him because I thought you disapproved. Perhaps,’ Grace looks down; the words are hard, ‘… perhaps … Did you feel a little jealous? That he was breaking up our friendship? Mildred, I don’t think he could have done that, even if he had lived.’
Grace pauses again. This time Mildred’s eyes are sharper. She has not moved, but she watches Grace now.
‘Oh Mildred, I feel silly talking like this. You are my dear friend. Don’t die, please.’ Grace reaches out and holds tight onto the frail white hand lying on the bed. It is possibly the first time she has touched Mildred. There is a response — a small pressure back.
Grace wants to weep with joy, but she will not let go her task. Fiercely she holds Mildred’s attention.
‘You’ve gone down the wrong path, Mildred. I need you here. It’s not time for either you or me to go. Now. You must listen. Take a little soup and listen. I have some very interesting news!’
Mildred accepts a spoonful. And another. Every part of Grace’s body is wound tight. All her energy streams towards Mildred. She has never worked so hard and the feeling is marvellous.
‘You’ll never believe, Mildred,’ she says, ‘what’s going on at bowls. Les Comfrey is courting the French baker’s mother!’
Grace gossips for all she is worth. Where she can’t think of new scandals or surprises, she makes them up. She loses sense of time. Perhaps she has been performing for ten minutes, perhaps two hours. Every now and then she offers more soup. At a particularly outrageous assertion Mildred finally smiles.
‘Oh now, Grace,’ she says, ‘surely you are making that up!’ Her voice is faint but it is undeniably Mildred, back again.
Grace holds tight. ‘Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself,’ she says.
At that moment there is a knock on the door. Grace hears the nurse murmuring to the visitor something about the late hour.
‘It is life and death!’ shouts old Mrs Peddie. ‘What does time matter? Cynthia, take my arm!’
The old and the young Mrs Peddies advance into the bedroom, Cynthia’s gentle apologies crushed under her mother-in-law’s onslaught.
‘I felt I was needed,’ booms the old lady. ‘Mildred, I felt you slipping away.’
‘Mother, take it gently, she’s ill‚’ says Cynthia.
‘What dear? Speak up!’ shouts old Mrs Peddie. ‘We must save Mildred!’
‘Mrs Peddie,’ says Grace, ‘I think you’ll find that already
Mrs Peddie ignores all diversions. She slumps onto the bed, causing a major earthquake. Mildred’s flat body rises and falls in the shock wave. Old Mrs Peddie leans forward.
‘Now Mildred, take a grip on yourself. You have no right to slip away like this. Grace here needs a friend. She’s not been herself lately. What are you thinking of, leaving her alone like this? And what’s more‚’ she adds, ‘you have a great deal more to learn about laying down a good bowl.’
Grace smiles, letting the words flow. Her attention is still focused. She could not let go of Mildred’s hand if she tried. Mrs Peddie settles herself more firmly on the bed; excitement is unbalancing her.
‘It’s not too hard‚’ she shouts. ‘You’ll get the knack of it.’ Whether she means bowls or old age is not clear.
Grace feels the lovely bony fingers move, come to life, against her wrist as Mildred breathes in slowly.
‘Thank you‚’ whispers Mildred to Grace.
‘She spoke!’ proclaims Mrs Peddie. ‘Did you see that? Speak up, Mildred dear! What was that?’
Grace’s eyes remain steady on Mildred’s. ‘She said thank you.’
Mrs Peddie applauds as they do at bowls when a good ball is sent up. ‘Yes! I’ve done it! Brought her round! What did I tell you, Cynthia — effort is always rewarded. Now,’ she pats Mildred’s free hand vigorously, ‘what about a game of Scrabble?’
‘Oh Mother,’ says Cynthia, ‘don’t be ridiculous. Mildred needs rest. It’s time we went.’
‘Nonsense, dear. I never retire before midnight. Or a drink, Mildred? A little drink to celebrate?’
Mildred’s eyes rest on Grace. There is definitely a spark this time.
‘Sherry?’ she murmurs, ‘Grace, you know where
Grace does not want to let go. She sighs, then gently lays her friend’s hand down on the immaculate coverlet. Blood sings through her body as if some gate has been opened.
‘We’ll have a sherry to celebrate,’ she says, speaking directly to Mildred, ‘and then Mrs Peddie must go. I will stay the night here.’
As she stands, Grace bends to kiss Mildred’s wasted cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘No, no. Glad to help,’ shouts Mrs Peddie.
Mildred shifts slightly on the pillow. The grating, papery sound she makes could be a cough, but Grace recognises it as a first laugh.
Room by room Grace lights up the house as she goes to fetch the decanter.
PART TWO
In Need of a Key
The odd person, walking dogs or children across the park, may look up and notice a tiny woman. Framed in the lower section of a double-hung sash, pale face, dark clothing, splash of yellow — a scarf perhaps? — she is so still, so formal, she could be a portrait, on display to the public. But it is Grace, looking out across the park, to Mildred’s house. There, none of the usual morning signs are on display: bedroom curtain pulled back — signal that Mildred has showered and dressed; kitchen window open — Mildred has burnt the toast again; living-room blinds up — Mildred is on her morning round of housework. Like raising the flag on a parade ground, these are little reassurances to Grace that a new day is properly under way. Grace knows the house is empty, that her friend is in Christchurch visiting family, but her watching habit is too strong. She thinks, It’s time I started a new project. But her thought lacks energy.
She remembers a lively argument on the beach with Max. ‘You spend too much time doing and not enough being, my dear,’ he had shouted above the waves. ‘Conversations, friendships, have just as much validity as your projects.’
Grace had disagreed; had put the case for learning new skills, challenging the brain, always having work in hand.
‘Yes yes, all that,’ said Max, ‘but in you, Grace, it’s out of balance. You’re a wonderful example of the puritan work ethic. How shall we open you out? Unlock you, share you around?’
Grace smiles, remembering Max’s exuberance. How easily he had expanded her world; how difficult, now, to prevent it closing in. She looks again at Mildred’s empty house. Mildred certainly shares herself around. Max would approve. And yet, she adds, in her own defence, Max and I made a good pair.
She sighs: a tiny movement. Grace knows she will always need a Max or Mildred to conduct her out, like electricity, towards others. Alone, her energy reverts to a closed circuit of self-c
ontained activity. She becomes socially inert.
‘Well, Mildred, I miss you,’ says Grace out loud, ‘but this is how I seem to be. There’s no sense moping.’
The portrait disappears. Grace has moved to the telephone.
‘I wish to purchase a second-hand computer,’ she says.
January 26th 1994
Dear Mrs Grace Brockie,
May I ask permission formally to call you aunt? You’re nothing of the sort, I know, but what other name would suit? No one calls people Mrs these days. Anyway I have no aunts or great aunts at all and would love to acquire one!
You probably don’t even know I exist. I’m Max Friedmann’s granddaughter. Martin is my dad. I want to say, Aunt Grace, that I think the way my parents treated you was just appalling. You should have been invited to the funeral. I’m not like them and have given up religion.
Anyway, one of the reasons I’m writing is to say that Mum and Dad have given me this lovely old brooch. They said Grandad gave it to you but you returned it when he died. I think that’s just so sad. May I give it back, please?
I only saw Grandad twice this year. Once when I was home for the holidays. He told me about you so warmly, Aunt Grace, I feel I know you. There was this picnic he had planned as a surprise for you. Sparks of excitement flew out of his eyes — you know what I mean? The other time he was dead. I loved Grandad, he was the only good thing about our family. I want you to know that I think your romance with Grandad was wonderful and so right.
There’s another reason for this letter which is rather cheeky so feel free to say no. I have just been accepted for Drama School! Isn’t it great! My parents are livid. I’ll be coming to Wellington next month. Do you by any chance take boarders? Or would you like to? I promise not to play loud music and would be out most of the time. Perhaps you need someone to take out your rubbish and change light bulbs and that sort of thing. I could help to cheer you up too, you must be missing Grandad.
In Touch With Grace Page 5