The peroxide velvet girl has sat slumped and sullen in a corner during the feast, crumbling her cake in a manner that irritates Grace, who can’t tell whether the girl is unhappy or simply disengaged. She seems so different from Sally, whose moods are fierce and open for all the world to read. Grace tries to bring the withdrawn girl to life. ‘Why,’ she asks, ‘do you call your band after a flower?’
The girl frowns at her fingernails. Her muttered reply could mean anything. Her only show of animation comes when Sally mentions Drama School. ‘Hey wow!’ she says, ‘Drama School! I auditioned three times and never even got shortlisted. You must be awesome.’
‘That’s my sis,’ says Tom. ‘We’re a performing family, eh Sal? Skipped a generation, but genes are survivors.’
Grace hears this and laughs at the boy’s arrogance.
‘You young people! Isn’t your father musical, Tom?’
‘Come off it! We’re talking music here. Dad plays a church organ, for Christ’s sake. Square little dinky four-line verses. Colourless rubbish’
Grace frowns. She is unwilling to align herself with Martin and Sheila, but the desire to argue is too strong.
‘Surely church music, hymns, are relevant to some? I enjoy music, but not your sort. Does that make me unmusical?’
Tom considers. He cocks his crest on one side and grins at Grace.
‘Not unmusical. Just uneducated. I like Bach and Stravinsky. Listen to them if the mood is right. You probably haven’t applied yourself to pop. Eh?’
‘It is hard to be unaware of pop these days …’
‘And I’ll bet my sweet butt you don’t listen properly. Have you ever paid careful attention to — say — Miles Davis? Pink Floyd? The Beatles? Classics, all of them.’
Grace is relieved The Beatles are mentioned. Otherwise she would not have the faintest idea what he is talking about. ‘One or two of the Beatles’ songs …’ she begins, but then cannot continue. What is there to say about them? ‘Quite catchy,’ she finally manages.
Tom taps a bony finger on the kitchen table. He is enjoying himself. ‘Catchy,’ he repeats wagging his crest at her, ‘much more than catchy. Harmonically, the best of The Beatles’ numbers are up there with Bach.’
Grace snorts. ‘Surely not. You’re overstepping there, young man. Bach has survived for centuries. Will your Beatles?’
Tom nods, sure of himself. ‘I’d lay a bet on it.’ He turns away, adding a comment to one of the others and Grace misses the drift. She feels alive, though. It has been some time since she crossed verbal swords with anyone. It is clear to her that Max passed on more than musical genes to this articulate boy. The other band members are self-absorbed drifters in comparison.
Tom drapes a long arm over his sister’s shoulder, ‘By the way, message from Felix. You’ve got it all wrong. Whatever that means.’
The sun rises in Sally’s face. ‘He say why?’
‘Nope. We’re going to crash in your flat tonight, if it’s cool with you?’
‘Sure.’ Sally’s feet tap out a jazzy little routine.
Tom approves. ‘But hey, what about this! We need another vocalist. Ariadne’s ditching us. You’d earn a bit more than Drama School’
Ariadne snorts and slouches lower on her chair. The drummer with the thousand grubby golden plaits looks sideways at Sally, slowly shaking his head. He mumbles something Grace takes to be negative.
‘Yeah‚’ says Dambo, whose ponytail, bound with silver, stands proud and equine from his head; Grace expects him to whinny.
Tom is undaunted. ‘Sal’s got a voice to kill for. Come on, Sal, give us a number.’ He looks round for electric points. ‘We could set up in here — at a pinch — and give you a trial. If that’s okay of course?’ Tom looks at Grace with an easy charm that reminds her of his grandfather.
Sally rescues Grace. ‘You’ve got to be joking, Tom. I know how long a set-up takes. And what will this proper neighbourhood think, once Jaz gets away on the drums?’
‘Yeah well, only an idea …’
‘And anyway, I’m going to be an actor. Bands are your thing.’
Sally smiles at Grace; a complicated crinkled look that says I’ve been an emotional fool, and I’m back on my perch now. Grace acknowledges the look. She is amazed at Sally’s mercurial changes of mood. Surely we were more deliberate about life’s important decisions, she thinks. Then remembers her own decision to be a teacher, against the wishes of her parents. She had been sitting with two friends on a sand dune watching cars racing over the beach. This was in the days before racing circuits or custom-designed racing cars. The beautiful elegant motors roared over the wet sand, their drivers, scarves streaming behind, laughing like gods. Grace and her friends were shrieking with excitement, hanging onto each other with mock terror. Grace’s friend Adele turned shining eyes to the others and said, ‘Let’s not break up — let’s all go to T. Coll together.’ And so the decision was made, with no forethought, and the direction of Grace’s life was laid down. It was the right decision too. Perhaps right choices are easy to make; it’s the wrong ones we agonise over.
Grace wants to discuss this with Sally, but there is no chance.
The noise level is rising. They are all relaxing, settling down, it seems, for a long session. Grace is isolated in an unknown sea of jargon and laughter. She wonders if Night Scented Stock will understand when it is time to go.
Sally understands. She rounds them up, demands to be transported back to her flat, demonstrates how she can squeeze inside an upturned drum for the short trip. Dambo holds Grace’s hand and bows his head over it in an old-fashioned show of respect and Grace, now that they are going, can afford to be motherly and warm.
‘Good luck for the rest of your tour,’ she says, smiling as they burst outside and horse their way down the path. She draws the line at inviting them back though.
The noisy blond collection crams into the van, calling thanks to Grace. Sally gives a quick hug.
‘Thanks. I love you.’
‘Sally. Are you all right?’ says Grace. She can still detect an unexplained shadow under the skin.
Sally hesitates, starts to speak, but Tom calls from the van.
‘Move it, Sal, weren’t you the one keen to get away?’
‘Yeah yeah.’ The moment has gone and Sally, knees and elbows in all directions, is arranged on top of everyone.
‘Sally, is this wise? Surely it’s against the law …’ But the door slams and the van toots up the road.
Alone in her suddenly bereft kitchen, Grace longs, with a sharp need, for Mildred. Wouldn’t they laugh together. Wouldn’t Mildred enjoy, and be terrified over the story of the peroxide band in Grace’s kitchen?
I’ll have the sherry anyway, thinks Grace. But in the end she doesn’t pour; it’s not the same.
As she begins her careful routine, preparing for bed, Grace wonders what stories Mildred might be needing to tell. Young people, families, are endlessly interesting, but an old friend has a warmer, steadier glow. Surely Mildred cannot make the break? Grace decides to write again tomorrow.
Muses
Grace, tucked in bed, frowns at the telephone. There is warmth in the frown, though. Only chaotic Sally would ring at this time.
‘Grace Brockie.’
‘Hi!’
‘Who is speaking, please?’
‘Come on! You know it’s me!’
‘Sally, the considerate procedure is to identify yourself immediately. It’s a habit you should acquire.’
‘This is Sally Friedmann, first-year drama student speaking.’
‘Good evening, Sally. Have you any idea what time it is?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry but we’re having this argument and I told them you’d know. Anyway your phone is by the bed and you read way past this time. Now, how many muses were there? Nine, right? Felix reckons three.’
‘Usually nine, yes.’
‘Ha! Felix, I told you!’
‘But in early Greek times they worshipped
three, I believe. Felix has a point.’
‘You know too much! I’ll stick with the nine. Can I come on Thursday? I need to talk.’
‘Lovely. I missed you last week.’
‘Yes, sorry. Something came up. Hey stop it, Felix!’
Amid giggles and protestations, the line goes dead.
Spell-check
This time it is Grace who waits anxiously for Sally to answer.
‘Hi.’
‘This is Grace Brockie speaking. Is Sally Friedmann available?’
‘Didn’t you recognise my voice, Grace?’
‘Sally my dear, it’s simply good manners …’
‘I’m only teasing. Sally here, may I help you?’
‘I certainly hope so. Have you a moment?’
‘Of course I have. How are you?’
‘In a worried state. Sally the whole document has disappeared.’
‘The whole thing?’
‘All sixty-seven pages. I was trying to correct your spelling and the screen suddenly went blank.’
‘Oh dear. Where are you now?’
‘In front of the wretched thing.’
‘Try pressing F1.’
‘An F and a one?’ Grace searches for the keys.
‘No! No! Stop! Up at the top of the keyboard, Aunt Grace.’
‘Oh yes. Those, F1?’
‘F1.’
‘But soft, behold! Lo where it comes again!’
‘Hamlet!’
‘Today, Sally, you are invincible. Thank you, thank you’
‘F1 worked, right?’
‘This is pure magic. How did you know?’ Grace frowns at the docile page of writing. ‘What is this F1, then, Sally? Clearly I need to know its function.’
‘Aunt Grace? Save the document, exit and don’t touch it again till I get there, right?’
‘Well, you might be right. Save. Now where is it again?’
‘The little square symbol, just under edit.’
‘Oh yes.’ Grace sighs. How is it that her memory seems to evaporate as soon as she sits in front of the computer? Some sort of radiation poisoning perhaps? Can the brains of the entire human race be plummeting? But look at Sally — sharp as needles when in front of the wretched thing. Even now Grace can hear the smile in her voice.
‘There’s a spell-check in the computer you know Aunt Grace. I would have done all that when I finished typing.’
‘Soon there will be nothing left to learn at school.’
‘True. Except how to control a computer. And anyway, is good spelling so important? Look at Shakespeare. Chaotic speller, and a genius’
‘Ah. There’s an argument. But we’ll save it, I think. I need all my concentration to tuck away this document. Bless you my dear, you shall have lemon meringue pie on Thursday. You are coming?’
‘Ahh … yes. Yes. Sorry about last Thursday.’
‘I thought you needed to talk, Sally.’
‘Well, I did. I do. But I’ve got to sort it myself, really.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Look, I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, I can respect that. But surely if you wish to break a dinner engagement, it’s good manners to ring and postpone?’
‘Oh leave me alone!’
Grace looks at the receiver in astonishment.
Out of Depth
Grace lets the discussion roll on, waiting for a chance to bring up her problem. Most in the bowls club are more experienced with young people than she is, might well be able to offer advice, yet she is reluctant to expose her need. Finally, when Les Comfrey is advising Jack Chan on the correct recipe for a good concrete, Grace takes Cynthia Peddie aside and mentions Sally.
‘She simply walked into the house, tears streaming down, went to bed and slept for fifteen hours.’
‘How is she now?’
‘Asleep again. Ate a good meal, cried again, and went back to bed. What do you think?’
‘Overwork,’ says Cynthia, ‘Too much of everything, I expect.’
Grace agrees. ‘There’s no temperature. An appetite of sorts is there. She just seems so down.’
‘Or boy trouble. That’s often at the root of things.’
Grace smiles, remembering Sally’s last depression. ‘Perhaps.’
‘If it’s boy trouble stay out of it. Advice from our age group is never appreciated.’ Cynthia frowns. ‘They think experiences were so different back in our Dark Ages … Children can be so arrogant.’
Grace senses a story behind Cynthia’s uncharacteristic outburst, but her concern over Sally is stronger than her curiosity.
‘Yet I don’t feel it’s boy trouble this time.’
Old Mrs Peddie is not listening. Her new walking frame is a challenge when it comes to bowling and she is getting in a little extra practice during afternoon tea. The rest of the group are dividing their attention between Grace’s problem and the possibility that Mrs Peddie will need urgent rescue.
Shirley Chan has been listening and now joins the conversation. ‘Have you rung her parents?’ she asks. ‘There may be some history of depression.’
This is the nub of the problem for Grace. She needs reassurance from her friends.
‘Sally was absolutely adamant that I shouldn’t ring them. Quite hysterical. In the end, I promised not to. Was I right?’
‘No, Grace,’ says Shirley, ‘the parents have a right to know. If Sally is really ill …’
‘But she doesn’t seem to be. And she’s no longer a child’
‘Even so. You’re trying to replace the role of the parent.’ Grace feels this is a little unfair. It was Sally’s idea, after all, to recuperate on Grace’s spare bed. And yet guilt clouds her enjoyment of the nursing role.
‘You think I should go against Sally’s wishes?’
‘Yes.’ Jack obviously finds a human problem more interesting than concrete. He is just as definite as his wife on this matter. Grace suspects that Mildred would say the same if she were here. This could be a chance for reconciliation between Sally and her parents, yet Sally was so panicked at the thought.
Old Mrs Peddie staggers. A bowl has become trapped among the prongs of her walking frame. Les Comfrey hurries over but cannot control the toppling weight. Jack and Cynthia add their strength and equilibrium is reached. Old Mrs Peddie is indignant.
‘You have to let me find my own way,’ she booms, ‘or I’ll never learn. There’s quite an art to this, but I’m getting the hang. Now who’s for another head?’
‘Mother,’ says Cynthia, ‘I think we’ve finished for today.’
‘Nonsense, dear. I’m not the only one who needs extra practice. Les was in very poor form today.’
Les shakes his head at this impertinence, but turns to Grace.
‘I think you’ll find it’s an abortion,’ he says.
Everyone looks at Les in amazement. He turns slowly pink, but persists.
‘Sally.’ Les clears his throat. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve got my facts right. An unwanted pregnancy.’
There is a silence. The surprise is that Les would even mention such a topic. The question hangs in the air. Les turns pinker. He is desperately embarrassed, but bravely continues.
‘Well, it’s all in the past. I … knew someone. It was in the days before it was easy. But she did what she had to. Went to bed and cried. Terrible depression.’
Everyone hangs on Les’s words. For once, thinks Grace, Les has the floor and would rather his audience was not so attentive.
Again it is old Mrs Peddie who creates a diversion.
‘Well if no one wants to play, I’m going home!’ she cries. Her walking frame clumps across the wooden floor with the old lady uncertainly ensconced. Cynthia laughs in some despair.
It’s me who has to get used to this frame,’ she says. ‘Suddenly Mother is independent again.’
‘Cynthia!’ Old Mrs Peddle has halted and is banging th
e frame about at the bottom of the steps. ‘Do pay attention. This wretched device doesn’t go up stairs! We shall have to take it back.’
Getting her up the stairs takes all of them. Nothing will induce Mrs Peddie to release her grip on the frame so the whole collection must be manoeuvred at once.
‘There’s no end to challenges at our time of life,’ says Grace.
‘Thanks dears!’ cries Mrs Peddie, ‘I’ll practise on the garden steps before next bowls day.’ Cynthia sends an alarmed look back at Grace as she tries to steer her mother-in-law towards the right car.
Les’s gleaming station wagon is parked next to Grace’s little Honda. He is hovering, still wanting to talk. Grace smiles.
‘That can’t have been easy, Les, talking about your own past like that. Thank you.’
Les opens his mouth in a gasp. He draws his stocky little body up.
‘Grace, I would have thought you’d know me better than that! Surely you don’t think …’ Les manages to show both outrage and a certain coquettish pride that anyone should consider him capable getting a woman in trouble.
Grace looks at Les with clear eyes. ‘Les, if you have any advice to give on this matter, I’d be pleased to hear it.’
Suddenly Les is less sure of himself. He tells Grace of the time his daughter became pregnant to her employer — a married friend of the family. Les and his wife had been dreadfully upset; tried to hush the matter up. Against their daughter’s wishes Les had arranged for her to go into the country to have the baby. Adoption was the only conceivable solution. Both parents wanted Jennifer out of the house as quickly as possible. Jennifer ran away and found someone to give her an abortion. Poor, pompous Les hesitates several times as he speaks. He is trying to appear matter-of-fact and in control but cracks are showing. Grace is touched that Les would expose himself so, in order to help her solve a problem. I do not deserve these good friends, she thinks.
In Touch With Grace Page 8