Please say yes, I’m dying to meet you.
But of course say no if it doesn’t suit.
Yours,
Sally Friedmann
February 2nd, 1994
Dear Mrs Brockie,
Thank you for your kind note and the return of the brooch.
Last time we met was not a happy occasion; I hope we can put that behind us. There is no cause for friction between us, now that my father-in-law has passed on.
The funeral was a sad yet joyous occasion. I believe that even though Martin’s father did not embrace Our Lord Jesus in this world, he may yet come to that faith in the afterlife. He was a strong-willed man but of course we loved him. We pray for his soul.
One or two of the family have suggested that it was unchristian of Martin and me not to include you in the funeral events. I would like you to understand my attitude to your ‘friendship’ with Max. Please believe that there was nothing personal about it. Nor was it entirely based on religious teaching.
In many ways my concern was for you. Max had no right to entice you into a relationship when he knew he was so ill. It was thoughtless and unkind and could only lead to unhappiness on your part. Max was concerned too much with his own enjoyment and too little with the welfare of others. Both Martin and I were worried that you would be hurt.
I hope your feelings did not develop to such an extent that you now feel bereaved, as we of the family do.
I would like to give you a little memento of Max, Not the brooch which has gone to my daughter. Is there some other little thing you fancy? A piece of crockery perhaps?
Martin and I will be in town next week for a church meeting. Perhaps we could call to deliver it. I believe in forgiveness, as I am sure you do too.
Yours sincerely,
Sheila Friedmann
February 6th 1994
Dear Mrs Grace Brockie,
I have delayed rather too long writing to you and now am at a loss how to begin. I am Max Friedmann’s son, Adam. Do you remember me? The lad in grey shorts and shirt who ran endless laps around the park? Perhaps not. There was nothing very special to remember. Mother and Dad were the interesting ones in our family.
My father may have mentioned me more recently. I am a solicitor; a partner with Lambourne McGill in Christchurch and modestly successful in my own field. But I won’t bore you with that. My father had no interest in legal matters and perhaps you feel the same.
Mrs Brockie, I do not wish to intrude on private matters, but I became aware during my last visit to Dad that a ‘friendship’ had developed between you and my father. It seems Dad did not wish to share your relationship with me. In fact I would only have been happy for him.
Please accept my condolences. It is too late, I realise, to make amends for my family’s treatment of you. I should not have allowed Martin and Sheila to have their way. People with strong views are hard to withstand, do you find that? Nevertheless I should have stood up for your inclusion at the funeral. We have denied you the opportunity to farewell my father properly. I apologise.
Would you be interested to receive a visit from me in a fortnight’s time? I will be up overnight for a legal conference. I have none of my father s vivacity, I’m afraid, but will do my best to entertain you. Perhaps dinner at a restaurant?
I would like you to accept this little memento of him. It is not valuable, but my father enjoyed it. Perhaps you will too.
Please forgive me if this gift is offensive in any way. My father will probably have told you I am socially inept.
Yours sincerely,
Adam Friedmann
Monday 7th February
Dear Mildred,
I am besieged by Friedmanns! Like stray cats, three of them have suddenly appeared to lay gifts and guilts at my doorstep. I believe they feel sorry for me. A peculiar brand of arrogance don’t you think? They have all received polite but distant letters by return mail. Max was a wonderful man but I have no desire to become confidante and problem solver to his whole family. Sheila, the daughter-in-law, was particularly obnoxious. She believes it was her duty to discourage friendship between Max and me. As if we were children in her care. I’m afraid my reply was very curt.
Your problems, my dear, are a different matter. Mildred, I do feel you should not make a decision hastily. Your daughter is quite right in one sense: she and her family can provide assistance and security for you. But so can your friends and neighbours here. Do you really want to leave your home and a lifetime of connections?
My advice is — wait till you are a little stronger before you make any decision to move permanently.
On the home front, your new gardener, I’m afraid, is not up to much. Did you check her qualifications? I had to point out to her that honesty was a weed. It has seeded all down your bank.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s very pretty, though. Some people like it.’
I assured her you did not, and watched to make sure she made a proper job of removing it. Well, you can’t expect a gardener to be personally involved can you? My own frontage will be quite outstanding this year.
You will laugh at me, Mildred. Here I go again — I have bought a second-hand computer! It’s time I learned the wretched technique. You can’t write anything these days, it seems, without a screen in front of you. Well, I have to admit it is heavy going, but if all those secretaries can learn word processing, so can I. Not that I will ever give in to the present fad for communicating through the computer. Email, they’re calling it. An ugly word. It will never catch on. The comfort of receiving good notepaper containing personal handwriting will prevail in the long run, mark my words. I know you will agree.
Cio-Cio San is missing you. I feed her regularly, but I am not a cat person as you so rightly point out. I wonder if she can be ill? A visit to the vet would be out of the question I’m afraid. Cio-Cio must be almost half my weight. Do vets make home visits for larger animals, I wonder?
Well, my dear, Cio-Cio isn’t the only one missing you. Do not let Judith pressure you. There is a good case for your return. We both may manage independence for several more years. Dr Ramachandran says if a woman reaches seventy in good shape there’s every reason these days for her to survive to ninety! The figures are lower for men, of course.
The Peddies and Les Comfrey send their regards. Les is hounding us to join in his latest letters-to-the-paper campaign — I’m too sick of it to bother you with the details. That man tries the patience of a saint — and I am definitely not one of that heavenly brigade! Old Mrs Peddie is as indestructible as ever. Think of her, Mildred: you will likely have fifteen more years of active life. Bowls will start again soon, and we are all hoping you will be at the opening.
Affectionately,
Grace
Honorary Gran
Grace, interrupted doing her housework, stands in the hall. She looks out through the door-panes to a grey, windswept sea. One hand holds the telephone a little distance away from her hearing aid. Even so, the wretched thing whistles. As she talks the duster in her free hand brings up a glow on the woodwork of her bookshelves.
‘Grace Brockie,’ she says firmly, ready to repel anyone soliciting anything.
‘Is that you, Aunt Grace? Sorry to ring so early.’
‘Who is that speaking, please?’ Grace disapproves deeply of those callers — usually the young — who insist on launching into a conversation without first identifying themselves.
‘It’s me, Sally Friedmann!’
‘Sally. Do you know what toll calls cost at this time of day?’
‘No, I’m here. I’m in Wellington, Aunt Grace.’
Grace frowns. Her polishing hand moves more quickly. ‘Would you like to call me Grace, perhaps?’
‘Or Gran? You could be my honorary gran.’ There is something too bright, too cheerful about this clear young voice.
‘You have some objection to my name?’ says Grace, tired now of this conversation and irritated by the squealing hearing aid.
�
�Sorry. No, it’s lovely. Sorry, Aunt Grace. Grace.’
Grace lets a pause develop before she continues. ‘Did you find suitable accommodation, Sally?’
‘Um sort of. Well, that’s what I’m ringing about.’
‘You received my letter?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Yes, I understand absolutely. It was rude to ask. The thing is …’
‘Are you still there, Sally?’
‘… Yes.’
Grace can hardly hear the voice. She believes Sally may be close to tears. Whatever the problem is, thinks Grace, I don’t want to hear it. But remembering Max, she waits for Sally to continue.
‘… Sorry. The thing is they’ve found me a flat but I can’t move in for two weeks so I’m at the backpackers.’
‘Well, that’s good, Sally.’
‘No it’s not! It’s not! I don’t know anyone. They’re noisy. This huge blond guy, doesn’t speak English, he was drunk last night and tried to pick me up, and I’m afraid that tonight …’ Sally takes a sobbing breath and rushes on. ‘Well, I thought maybe if I came up after Drama School and met you, and if you liked me, maybe you’d let me stay just till the flat … Grace? Are you still there?’
Grace sighs. ‘Yes Sally. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’
‘Really? Could I? I don’t want to impose … Shall I bring fish and chips for both of us?’
Grace has to smile. The young have no idea. ‘I’m still quite capable of cooking a meal, Sally.’
‘I didn’t mean … Sorry. I didn’t mean … Well, I just thought you might have arthritic fingers, or osteoporosis and not be able …’
‘Sally, I have both those disabilities and can still cook a meal. Do you like tuna fish pie?’
‘Tuna fish pie? Grandad cooked me that once.’ Her voice is a little uncertain.
Grace laughs out loud, the whistling in her ear forgotten. ‘Did he indeed? You might find the original version more successful.’
‘I’d love to come. Shall I bring my sleeping-bag? Then if you liked me perhaps I could …?’
‘Why don’t you do that,’ says Grace. Already she is planning a pudding. Something hot. What do young people like these days?
‘I don’t mind the floor. And I’m quite small.’
‘Sally, I have a full-sized spare bed. But I believe we should meet each other first. Have you considered that you might find me intolerable?’
‘Grandad loved you.’
‘Well. Max was different.’
‘I will too, I just know I will.’
The young are so headstrong, thinks Grace; then she has a new thought. ‘Sally, are you computer literate?’
‘Yes of course.’
‘Good. Excellent. Shall we say 6 pm?’
‘You’re quite a surprising person, Aunt Grace.’
‘Pardon? I’m a little deaf.’
Sally’s laugh sets off the hearing aid again. ‘I think I’m going to like you — Grace!’
‘Never judge character over the telephone, Sally, the impression is bound to be inaccurate. Let’s make up our minds in the flesh, shall we?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Sally’s voice is uncertain again. Grace would like to take back her little lecture. ‘Take heart, Sally,’ she says, ‘even the most exciting new life is unsettling at first.’
‘… Yes.’
‘All right now?’
‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll see you tonight!’
‘Please try to be on time. Goodbye.’
But Sally has already rung off.
As Grace puts fresh sheets on the bed, prepares food, lays the table, she tries to rationalise her feelings. Why this apprehension? Why this shrinking away from new contacts? Max would not approve. Mildred on the other hand would advise caution. Someone unknown, after all.
Grace puts out spoons and then good cloth serviettes. I’m neither Max nor Mildred, she thinks, and I’ll have to find my own way. Perhaps if I think of Sally as a new project …
16th February 1994
Dear Mrs Brockie,
I understand my daughter is staying with you temporarily. Thank you for your kindness. Sally’s temperament is not nearly as robust as she would like people to think. She has had health problems recently.
I would be grateful it you could let me know how Sally is. She rejects us completely at present. It is a phase, I trust, but meanwhile Martin and I hear nothing.
Drama School is not the right choice for Sally, we feel. We pray that she may turn towards a more acceptable career. Unhappily our family discussion on Sally’s future became heated and Sally has not spoken to us since. Martin has his father’s stubborn streak. It you are able to offer Sally some mature advice please take the opportunity.
I am sorry my earlier letter caused offence. We have different views; our Church exhorts us to consider the well-being of others. I hope you can respect my beliefs. I will try to understand yours.
May the Good Lord Jesus bless you for your hospitality. I miss my daughter, and am relieved she is with you.
Yours sincerely,
Sheila Friedmann
21st February
Dear Sheila,
Thank you for your letter, and for the box of citrus which arrived safely. I will see to it that Sally eats them all, never fear!
Sally is working hard and enjoying Drama School. Her studies leave her little time to get into mischief. I’m afraid I am not inclined to persuade her into a different career. Acting is an old and honoured profession. Perhaps your daughter has real talent. To be able to inspire audiences; to illuminate great plays — great truths — is a rare skill. If Sally has that skill, she should develop it, I feel
Don’t be hard on her, Sheila. Daughters often choose paths we cannot understand. Mine chose the worst possible path. At least your Sally is alive and doing something she believes in. One day surely she will return to her family.
I will certainly encourage her to write or ring you.
You say Sally has had health problems. Perhaps if I knew the nature of the problem, I could help her better?
Do not hesitate to write again.
Yours faithfully,
Grace Brockie
March 3rd
Dear Mrs Brockie,
Thank you for your letter. You are kind and mean well, but I am a little surprised you do not take our side over Sally’s career. Our daughter is going through quite a wayward phase. She has been a great worry to us over the last two years. This experiment with the theatre is a real disappointment, especially with the love and forgiveness we and others at the Church have shown her.
Why can she not show the same care and respect that we have accorded her? During her years at University, Sally strayed. I will not go into details, but it was most painful. She returned to the Church, and Martin found her a decent job, but then, despite all our prayers, she strayed again. Now, her leaving the family to become an actress is like a slap in the face. It seems that she is deliberately setting out to hurt us. I know we must bear suffering cheerfully, but this is hard, and it would help if you supported our wishes.
You may not know that Sally’s older brother, Tom, has gone to Australia and plays in a pop group. Tom is musical, like his grandfather, Max. We made sacrifices to make sure Tom’s music teachers were the best, and now he has thrown it all back at us. Tom was to have continued in the family business. We have an orchard, mostly pip-fruit, and Martin also hires out picking equipment. Recently Martin bought another block in young trees which was to have been managed by Tom. Martin is devastated. And now Sally, who used to be the sensible one, has left us too. It is not right. Children should be a joy to their parents. At present our future seems bleak. I pray that Sally’s heart will soften. Tom, I fear, is beyond redemption. You suggest that you have lost a daughter, Grace. You must understand how I feel.
You ask about Sally’s health. It is somewhat confidential. What is past is past. Sally is weak willed and fell in with poor company. I am relieved to
know that she is working hard and living in a sober home with you.
Martin is finding it hard to be charitable. He was proud of Sally. We both were. We hoped she would settle here, marry a good young man from the Church, and live a happy and fulfilled family life as we have. That hope is a shattered dream if Sally continues in the theatre. I can only wait and pray.
Please continue to send news meantime.
Yours faithfully
Sheila (Friedmann)
Feeling the Years
Grace glares at the computer screen. The paragraph she is typing has suddenly disappeared. She stabs a finger at an arrow key. Her paragraph appears, rising, and continues upwards out of sight again. Grace explodes.
‘This is ridiculous! Surely among all these functions, there is some slow-down button for learners?’
Sally laughs. ‘Hey, this old software moves like a dinosaur as it is. Here.’
She leans over Grace’s shoulder, touches keys lightly and Grace’s memoirs settle down meekly in the centre of the screen. It is almost more than Grace can bear.
‘Wait. Show me!’ But Sally is off down the hall, singing, to make coffee. Grace types on. For two weeks she has wrestled with her wretched computer. She can now sit in front of a screen and sometimes make the beast bend to her will. But more often the mouse, the keys or some other part of the machine seem to have a life of their own. This piece of hardware, making too much of itself in her comfortable old study, is a tough nut to crack. Grace is not used to failure. In the past decade she has studied leatherwork, Spanish, the political history of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Thai cooking, car maintenance and comparative systems of proportional representation. All these she has grasped on her own, at home, from books, manuals and teaching tapes. For Grace, gathering new information is an addiction.
In Touch With Grace Page 6