In Touch With Grace

by Jenny Pattrick

  Don’t you dare!’ Grace speaks to her text which has suddenly split into two camps, moving steadily in different directions.

  The concept of computer technology is not the problem. Grace loves systems. Jane Austen has been replaced on the bedside table by the unbelievably bulky WordPerfect manual, and Grace, though deeply disapproving of the language, has understood and memorised many sections.

  No, if mastering the computer were all theory, Grace would be steaming along quite nicely by now. Her body is the culprit. Grace’s old fingers, familiar with an Olivetti, will not learn; cannot manage a soft touch. The brisk way she strikes the keys fills Sally with horror. Grace likes to pause, gaze out at the trees, reflecting on the suitability of a word. Her hands rest comfortably on the keyboard. When the decision is made, the perfect phrase selected, Grace returns to the screen to find pages of nonsense are spreading like a plague over her careful document.

  Grace growls as a set of instructions appear, uninvited and flashing as if warning of imminent disaster. The computer has succeeded in making her feel old.

  ‘Grace,’ says Sally, returning just in time to correct the error with casual speed, ‘Was it Sophocles who wrote Trojan Women?’ She plonks a cup of coffee on top of the hard drive; a computer is simply another piece of furniture to Sally.

  ‘Euripides,’ Grace corrects, and leans back, ready to discuss Greek tragedy, but Sally has gone again.

  Later Sally, crosslegged on the couch, flicking through old photograph albums, announces she will be leaving tomorrow; the space in her flat is now vacant.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Sally,’ says Grace, and means it. This complex young woman fascinates her. Vivacious like Max, but, unlike him, romantic and vulnerable, Sally will make a fine actor, Grace suspects. Her presence in the house has been both an irritation and an illumination. Dusty, unvisited corners of Grace’s life have been explored, lit by Sally’s relentless curiosity. Grace, at first resisting these probes into her past, has grown to enjoy them. If only Sally didn’t dart around so! In an instant Sally, terrierlike, will sniff at a story, shake it sharply to see what falls out and then discard the morsel for meatier bones. Grace and Mildred would have settled in for hours.

  Was I once like this, Grace wonders; have I slowed down so much, or are young people today just faster? Perhaps computer literacy is mutating them.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’ says Sally. ‘Look at her nose — just like mine!’ Sally presents her quite different profile. ‘Grace, you and Grandad — did you by any chance …?’

  Grace laughs. Two weeks ago she would have let a disapproving silence develop. ‘All you share with my daughter is a vivid imagination, Sally. You won’t unearth anything juicy. Max and I were good, very good, friends.’

  ‘You loved each other!’

  ‘Yes, Sally. We did.’ Grace can say it easily now. She cannot explain what a joy it has been to talk about Max; to have their love accepted, probed, laughed over. These two weeks have unravelled a knot: Sally has allowed Grace, at last, to farewell Max.

  ‘Have you written to your mother?’ she asks, knowing the answer.

  ‘Written?’ Sally does not share Grace’s respect for letter-writing. ‘They only live an hour and a half away.’

  ‘Sheila called today with lemons and a cake. I suspect it was an excuse. She wants to see you.’

  ‘She wants to persuade me into a respectable career!’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone having much of a chance against you in an argument.’

  ‘Oh it’s different with you. You’re rational. Their ideas have set like concrete ages ago. You can’t argue against them. I lose my temper or storm out.’

  ‘Well you must find a way of dealing with it, Sally. Sheila’s your mother, and always will be.’

  In fact Grace found herself warming to the stolid woman in her plain dress and headscarf, standing awkwardly on the porch. Once, standing in Max’s kitchen, wearing Max’s pyjamas, Grace was intimidated by the arrival of Sheila. This morning, suitably dressed, and on her own territory, Grace could afford to be hospitable.

  Sheila was eager for news of her daughter; it gratified Grace to be able to give it. Once or twice, in the course of conversation, Grace came up hard against the rock of Sheila’s narrow beliefs, but in the sunny kitchen, over a cup of real coffee and a piece of Sheila’s cake, Grace felt disposed to skirt the obstruction.

  With Max, now, thinks Grace, it would be different. She remembers the sharp enjoyment of their arguments. Or am I simply losing my edge?

  ‘Hey, look at this!’ says Sally. ‘Front page of the Evening Post! That’s you and Gillian! You were famous!’

  Grace is able to smile. ‘My daughter was very talented. For a brief time well known, I suppose. I was just her mother.’

  Sally looks up from the album and considers Grace. ‘You look quite different in the photograph. Much younger.’

  ‘I was much younger.’ Nevertheless Grace frowns. Too many times today she has felt aware of her age. She doesn’t expect to. For the past twenty years she and Mildred have considered an old person to be someone about ten years ahead. Today the gap has telescoped. Grace blames the computer.

  Sally is watching her closely. Bony knees under her chin, dark eyes alert, she is intent on dragging out secrets. Then with a flinging of limbs, she is up and leaning over the back of Grace’s chair.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Grace,’ says Sally, planting a kiss on the top of the grey head. ‘Can I come up now and then for a proper meal?’

  ‘You can indeed, but not unannounced. I enjoy planning something special.’

  ‘Great! Could I bring a friend sometimes?’

  ‘We’ll see about that. And don’t think‚’ adds Grace, severity spicing her pleasure, ‘that the odd balanced meal here will keep you healthy. An actor needs a sound body, not one stuffed with junk food!’

  ‘“Fie, Fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, and dart not scornful glances from those eyes,’” says Sally.

  ‘Katherine, Taming of the Shrew, last scene,’ says Grace, and adds, ‘“Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.’”

  ‘From the same speech?’

  ‘Not even the same play. You should know Hamlet.’

  Sally throws up her hands in surrender. ‘Is there anything you don’t know? Your head beats a computer any day. You’re a walking reference library, Grace.’

  As she prepares for bed Grace pauses in front of the mirror. She nods approval, realising that the threshold for old age has receded to its proper place — somewhere around the ninety mark.

  Perhaps I will pay Sally to type my notes, thinks Grace. The poor girl needs money.

  She picks up Jane Austen.

  March 12th 1994

  Dear Mrs Friedmann,

  I have just discovered that you have entered into a correspondence with my wife over our daughter, Sally.

  Sally has deliberately, with forethought, walked away from her family. Until she, of her own volition, in a proper frame of mind, returns, I do not wish anyone in our family to have contact with her. We forgave her blatant experiments with alcohol. We even forgave her for terminating a new life. Time and again we welcomed her back into the Church. Now it is her turn to make the first move.

  Sheila and I would rather not hear news of Sally until she has made her own peace with us.

  Yours,

  Martin Friedmann

  encl: Cheque for $200. Sally will not be paying you adequately for her board.

  March 26th

  Dear Martin and Sheila,

  Perhaps you will destroy this letter without opening it. I hope not. Such extreme behaviour is surely not called for. Sally is simply doing what every son or daughter does — finding her own way in the world.

  Think of your own family history, Martin. You certainly did not follow Max and Ilona’s path. Perhaps they were disappointed you gave up music. They certainly found it difficult to accept that when you married Sheila, you embraced her religion. It is
not for me to undermine your faith, but you must admit its unbending moral codes do not welcome those of us who are outside. Yet Max and Ilona kept on patiently with their love and acceptance of you both. Sally is simply breaking out of her family mould, as you did, Martin. Your pattern, Sheila, may have been the same.

  I do not feel inclined to cease writing to you, as you request. Perhaps I’m foolish; my arguments may never be read. But it is something I must do. You will remember Gillian’s death, Martin. In some ways I failed my daughter. I do not intend to fail another young woman who is at a crossroads. I hope, sincerely, that you do not fail her either.

  Sally no longer boards with me. She flats with three other quite presentable acting students. Once a week she eats a proper meal here with me. She seems active and busy, though a little homesick, I believe.

  Please keep communication open with Sally. I’m sure you both mean a great deal to her, despite her stubborn independence. I have become very fond of her; you have a sensitive and intelligent daughter.

  I am returning the cheque. Sally paid me quite adequately.

  Yours faithfully,

  Grace

  Wednesday March 30th

  Dear Grace,

  Your last letter made Martin very angry. He destroyed it.

  I do not wish to be the cause of friction between my husband and me. It is not right. Martin is a good man and a good husband.

  I will not seek further news of Sally. She has turned her face from us. We must wait patiently till she sees reason. I pray for her every day.

  My visit to you was weakness. I confessed everything to Martin. He was kind and understanding but we both agree I must try to be stronger. Thank you for making me so welcome. And for looking after Sally. Your actions have been kindly meant, I am sure, but Martin and I would prefer that you avoid further contact with our daughter. She is easily seduced by Liberalism and Wayward Thoughts. Left to her own devices she may begin to reflect on the advantages and comforts of family and Church.

  I enclose some literature about our Church and its teachings. It may help you to a greater knowledge of our beliefs. There is great joy in following the path of Jesus and the teachings of the Holy Bible. You will not find anywhere in the Good Book references to a woman’s place being to entertain the general public by acting on the stage.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sheila

  P.S. Martin has certainly not given up his music. He is organist for our congregation and a respected choirmaster.

  Performing Genes

  ‘I’m chucking it in,’ says Sally. Her voice is almost too low for Grace to hear.

  Sally’s elbows are propped on the bench. Shoulders hunched, she stares down into the gully.

  ‘You don’t need to look at me like that,’ she says. ‘It’s my life.’ Grace continues to look. She is trying to make up her mind whether this is a serious statement, or simply a moody moment. Serious, she decides. Usually there is an element of teasing in Sally’s moods; of watching to see what effect she’s having. Today, Sally’s announcement is flat. It doesn’t invite response.

  ‘Is there something particular the matter, Sally?’ Grace thinks she can detect a greyness in the skin, a downward drag of the body. ‘Have you been eating properly?’

  Sally looks at Grace sharply, but doesn’t answer. She turns her back to Grace as if hiding something.

  ‘Would you peel these potatoes then?’

  Grace believes activity is the best cure for depression. She puts bowl, peeler and potatoes down in front of the drooping girl. Grace rattles in the saucepan cupboard for a bit, then settles to making pastry. Her old hands spread flour, knead and shape the dough. She waits.

  Slowly the grey peelings fall into the bowl. Sally rinses one naked potato and lays it on the bench. She runs a finger over its glistening surface. After a while she picks up another potato. As her hands fall into the rhythm, the words come.

  ‘I’m no good at it, that’s all. I haven’t got it.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘They told me.’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t! And who is they, might I ask?’

  ‘The tutors. We did impros. Mine was ratshit.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to understand your jargon, Sally. Plain English will do.’

  ‘And yesterday I bombed out in singing. I’m just not going to make it.’

  Gradually Grace pieces together the chain of disasters. Sally presented an improvisation but could tell it fell flat. She was badly knocked by her tutor’s criticism. Then a demanding singing lesson had resulted in tears. The final blow, it seems, is that Felix, her flatmate, has dropped her.

  ‘I wasn’t aware he’d picked you up,’ says Grace, who is not comfortable with these casual references to relationships.

  ‘We were sort of an item. Well, I thought so. Anyway I’m leaving. There’s no point spending two years hard slog to end up a failure.’

  Sally slices a potato fiercely, and cuts again. They will cook too quickly, but Grace holds her peace; the anger is a good sign.

  ‘I’m not going home, though. And don’t you tell Mum and Dad. I know you write to them. I couldn’t stand their smug I-told-you-sos.’ Sally is crying now, trying to hide it.

  ‘Sally,’ says Grace, her heart aching for this homesick young woman, ‘would you get me some mint, please?’

  She watches Sally clump down the steps to the garden. The wind blows the girl’s dark hair over her face. Her loose shirt swirls and flaps. For a moment, in the buffeting, the figure blurs, loses its definition. Grace is alarmed. Sally is drifting, and Grace is unsure what anchor might usefully tether her. She sighs impatiently over Martin and Sheila. Their intransigence is an unaffordable luxury. Sally needs their support. It would be easier all round if Sally chose a different career and yet acting seems to lighten her. On good days Sally almost flies. Grace wants to persuade her to stay at Drama School.

  She frowns at the knock on the door. This is not the moment for interruption.

  Standing against the light is an unfamiliar figure. He is a thin young man, tall, slightly stooped, with something strange on his head.

  ‘Hi. I’m Tom Friedmann. Is my sister here?’

  Grace, taken aback, motions him inside. In the light the thing on his head is revealed as extremely surprising hair. A high crest of peroxide curls sweeps from his forehead over the top of his head and down to his shoulder blades. The rest of his head is shaved and gleams as if oiled. The boy is aware of his impression and stands taller. He smiles; Grace catches a flicker of Max around the eyes.

  ‘They said at the flat Sally was here. Is she?’

  ‘Tom.’ Grace swallows. She wonders whether she is about to be robbed, or worse. Sally is enough on her own, thinks Grace, without this weird brother — if indeed he is related. She motions him inside and shuts the door firmly.

  ‘Sally is down in the kitchen. She is rather upset. Perhaps you could cheer her up?’

  The tall young man grins down at her; then nods as if Sally upset is a condition familiar to him. ‘Which way?’

  Grace follows Tom down the hall. He pads along easily, swinging his hips, looking from side to side at pictures and books as he goes. Grace wants to touch the rioting crest. He looks like Achilles at the walls of Troy. His collarless once-white shirt hangs long over scruffy purple trousers. The general effect is rather splendid in a tired sort of way. Grace frowns at the dirty sneakers and odd socks.

  In the kitchen Sally is chopping mint without enthusiasm.

  ‘Hi Sis!’ says the Greek god. Sally spins round. The shock dries her eyes. Her puffy face goes white, then redder than ever.

  ‘Tom!’ she wails. Her minty fingerprints add to the marks on his shirt, and the tears flow again. The brother wraps long arms around her, patting her shoulder as if she were a small animal. ‘Hey … hey …’ he says, looking across to Grace for assistance.

  What an unmatched pair, she thinks. Tom’s gangly grace and Sally’s tightly knit
little body seem to have come from different planets. ‘Perhaps,’ she suggests, ‘we all need a drink. What about a glass of sherry?’

  ‘Sherry,’ says Tom. There is a pause. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have a beer?’ Sally makes a muffled noise into Tom’s shoulder.

  ‘I do not,’ says Grace, ‘but there’s a very nice lemon and mint cup in the fridge. My own recipe.’

  ‘Way to go,’ says Tom. ‘Sounds like my number. I’ve got a throat like a stag’s roar.’

  Grace assumes this means yes. Sally talks with her brother as Grace sets out glasses and cake.

  ‘I tell you what,’ says Tom, ‘you wouldn’t have enough for the band, would you? We’ve been on the road all day.’

  It turns out three others are waiting in the van outside. A lime green plastic doll is impaled on the aerial and a rash of golden daisies, probably concealing rust spots, dance over the bodywork. NIGHT SCENTED STOCK is painted in a blood-red diagonal slash over doors and windows. The interior seems crowded with bodies and equipment.

  ‘Night Scented Stock,’ says Tom proudly, ‘the name of our band.’ Grace wants to ask why such a beautiful delicate flower should be chosen to represent a pop band, but already Tom is shouting down for all the street to hear, ‘Hey guys! Pit stop!’

  Grace watches in apprehension as doors burst open and three other purple and white apparitions come up her path. All are peroxide blondes, the girl’s hair short, like velvet, showing the delicate bones of her head, the two boys different versions of nightmare.

  Max, Max, thinks Grace, this is too much. But the thought of Max, laughing at her discomfort, urging her to enjoy life’s oddities, unties the knot all the same.

  Around the kitchen table the Night Scented Stock become ordinary hungry members of the human race. A whole cake is devoured; Grace opens a biscuit tin and is toasted in lemon mint cup. As he demolishes ginger crunch, one of the boys drums with grubby fingernails on the back of a chair. He is in a different private world, answering in indecipherable monosyllables to equally strange questions. Grace realises that turning up her hearing aids will make no difference. The one who looks Maori or Polynesian and seems to be called Dambo shrugs himself upright, smiles politely at Grace then peers down at the garden, humming to himself. The drummer asks him a question and he answers over his shoulder, casually. The chat goes back and forth over and around Grace, but in a desultory, disconnected way that seems alien. She wants to sit them down and ask clear questions — get a good conversation going.