In Touch With Grace

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘We tracked her down in the end,’ says Les. ‘Say what you like, Grace, but I blame the man. That was the last time he crossed our doorstep. Well, Jennifer was wrong too, I’ll grant you that; coming between a man and his family. But in the end she was our blood and we couldn’t cast her out.’ His little round eyes are asking for Grace’s acceptance. Grace smiles back. He has no idea, she thinks.

  ‘She was in a hotel bed, crying — like your Sally. Didn’t come out of that depression for three years. I don’t mind saying, Grace, my wife had a hard time of it. Jennifer still won’t forgive me for my part in the whole episode. After fifty years! She’s quite irrational about it. My advice is, be careful how you deal with Sally, Grace. You’re fond of her, I can see.’

  Grace reaches out and gives Les a little pat. ‘You’re a good man despite all your reactionary views.’

  ‘Reactionary! You simply never recognise good sense when you hear it. I know my facts, Grace

  Grace opens her car door, turns back to him. ‘Sometimes, Les, you do. Thank you. Yes. I’ll take care with Sally.’

  But as Grace buckles up, the mild sense of panic returns. I’m out of my depth here, she thinks. It is a rare sensation. She longs for Mildred’s return.

  May 5th

  Dear Grace,

  Thank you so much for accompanying me to dinner last week. I do hope you were not too bored. You are very kind to put up with me. My conversation is not up to much. The food was excellent, though, wasn’t it?

  I am taking up your suggestion that we correspond from time to time. Legal documents are more my stock in trade, but it will be good for me to try a lighter vein.

  Well, I have been sitting here for half an hour wondering what on earth would interest you. Perhaps if I describe where I live?

  My flat is four storeys up in a small apartment block overlooking Hagley Park. I think you would like it. I have one or two good New Zealand paintings — small ones, my flat is not large. And quite an extensive collection of CDs. Opera is my speciality. Did I tell you that I am a Friend of the Opera down here?

  From my little balcony I can see the Alps, which are covered in snow at this time of year. Though you have to peer through my Chinese bamboo which is outgrowing its pot. I must prune it but somehow cannot bear to. It is so delicate and vulnerable!

  There are two bedrooms, one converted into a little workshop. My hobby is to collect antique guns. Or, more properly, to refurbish them. At the moment I am reconstructing a lovely old Colt Navy pistol. I have a jeweller’s lathe, a pendant drill and all manner of small metal-working instruments. Tiny machinery fascinates me.

  Oh dear, this reads like a school essay. I imagine you correcting it with a red pencil! I’m sorry, Grace. Please bear with me. I would really enjoy to do this well.

  Each morning and evening I walk through the park, to and from the office. It is a special joy to me. At all times of the year there is beauty.

  I belong to a harriers club, swim twice a week and try to lead a well-balanced life. I suppose I do not have many close friends. In fact there are none. Perhaps you will become one, Grace. Alan McGill, our senior partner, is a decent sort. He has invited me to dinner once or twice.

  Please keep writing. I miss my father; visiting him gave shape to my year. It is difficult to muster enthusiasm for visiting my brother. He and Sheila live in such a cultural desert.

  I would very much like to visit you again if I am in Wellington. You have a beautiful home.

  Yours sincerely,

  Adam Friedmann

  P.S. Enclosed is a photograph of the Navy Colt Pistol 1851. The engraving on the butt is mine. I copied it from a book.

  Saturday May 7th

  Dear Mildred,

  I am so sorry to hear your health has deteriorated again. Christchurch is of course rather dank in the winter. I’m surprised you have not returned earlier. At least the wind keeps the air alive in Wellington. But now you must stay till this bout is over. Do not lose heart, Mildred, please. I would come down to visit, but feel this might be a sign that I approve of Judith’s plan. I don’t. You will be happier up here with your friends. I’m convinced of it

  It may well be that your illness is brought on by a form of depression; you miss your own surroundings and companions. Not to mention that wretched Cio-Cio. Your cat would be enough to keep me away for a lifetime but I know you’re fond of the creature. I continue to feed him. He wanders, I’m afraid. The Wellford children entice him with food, and twice I have seen him sitting in their window looking smugly out at the rain. If you’re not back soon, I fear you may lose his allegiance.

  I’ve had my own little sick ward up here over the last two weeks. Sally Friedmann, Max’s granddaughter, has been recuperating with me. I would not mention this, Mildred, but I know I can rely on your absolute discretion. Also your nursing experience may throw some light. I believe she has terminated a pregnancy. I hope this does not shock you too much.

  To be honest, Mildred, I’ve been at my wits’ end. The poor girl cries and cries. There have been times, I confess, when I could give her a good slap, though I do not believe in violence as you know.

  Thank goodness she came to me. I hate to think of her going through this torment in her flat with all its comings and goings. There’s no temperature or loss of appetite. She sleeps and sleeps. All the spark has gone out of her.

  Well, I mustn’t burden you with my problems. If Sally doesn’t come right I will have to contact Martin and Sheila. But oh dear, you can imagine what their religious beliefs would make of this! From something Martin mentioned I suspect this may be Sally’s second termination. I don’t know, Mildred, I hope I am liberal minded, but I do find this casual attitude to life difficult, don’t you?

  Well, I mustn’t be hard. It is clear Sally’s attitude is not casual at the moment.

  What do people in your area think of the political situation in Christchurch? I know you do not support Labour, but you may have heard some gossip. They seem to be tearing themselves apart. I am most disappointed.

  Do keep up with the Vitamin C. In Christchurch there might almost be a case for putting it in the drinking water! All that smog and dank weather. I expect to hear that you are up and about in a week, and planning your return.

  I do so miss you.

  Please give my regards to Judith and the rest of the family.

  Affectionately,

  Grace

  P.S. Would you like me to prune your roses? Your gardener simply cuts off the dead heads. Can you imagine!

  Saturday May 21st

  Dear Mildred,

  It is a relief to know you are being so well looked after, though I wonder that Judith has time for you with all her social engagements. Everyone at the bowls club sends their love. If only you were in your own home we would all be round with soups and gossip! Are you aware just how many friends care for you in this area?

  You will be delighted to know that your advice worked perfectly! I have to admit that when it comes to family or medical matters you leave me far behind. Sally is back on her perch and will return to Drama School next week. I was on the wrong track completely. Serves me right for listening to Les Comfrey’s advice. I won’t make that mistake again. To be honest, Mildred, I was beginning to fear an end like Gillian’s, and was reluctant to leave Sally alone for a minute.

  Well, there it is. I have certainly learnt a thing or two these last few days! I believed rest, quiet and good food would do the trick. But your prescription of a good dose of her own age group was just right. As soon as her flatmates poked their heads round the door with a bunch of flowers, she perked up. The flowers, by the way, looked suspiciously as if they had come from your garden!

  Felix is her special friend. A nice enough lad, though not nearly of Sally’s calibre. Evidently he has been home with his family. But surely he could call, if he’s such a good friend. And why didn’t Sally call him? Sally is very complicated, but it’s not for me to interfere. Well, this Felix arrived and tw
o others — and a transistor radio which has been blaring ever since. They sat on the bed and gossiped and ate me out of house and home and in no time Sally was pink cheeked and sitting up in bed.

  It was all to do with money. I never understood the full story, but I gather Sally had been claiming some Social Security allowance to which she was not entitled, and was found out. She is not dishonest, Mildred, simply naïve. There was money to pay back, and a threat of legal action. As Felix pointed out, any of the others in the flat would have rung home and pleaded for a rescue cheque. Sally won’t do that. Her parents would probably make leaving Drama School a condition. The poor girl was sick with anxiety — and shame — and fell into a depression. Once she explained to her friends they were full of advice. Debt, it seems, is a way of life with these students. I cannot approve.

  Felix has been back every day for a week. I find I am warming to him. I’ve given the whole group a serious talk about budgeting. They hardly understand the word, Mildred, let alone how to draw up an annual plan. Fortunately I still have some of my old journals. It’s all there in black and white — menus, entertainment allowance, a portion set aside for doctor’s bills, and so on. I pointed out that they can eat like kings for a week, on a side of mutton, for the price of a single takeaway. They seem reluctant to take finances seriously, though. We live in a different era, I’m afraid.

  Thank you, my dear, for your good sense. I was so worried. You know so much more than I do about the workings of young minds. This last week has been quite an education. However I have to admit the prospect of a peaceful, empty house is beginning to have a certain attraction. You must feel the same with all your grandchildren and great-grandchildren coming and going?

  Have you come across Adam Friedmann? He is Max’s other son — a lawyer in Christchurch. He’s interested in cultured things, it seems. Perhaps he would be prepared to sponsor Sally through her studies. Or would it be meddling to suggest it? I would appreciate your advice.

  Well my dear, I hope to see you soon. Cio-Cio is as well as can be expected.

  Affectionately,

  Grace

  Protest

  ‘Surely rugby wasn’t your thing,’ says Sally. She is looking again at the newspaper article.

  SEVENTY-YEAR-OLD ARRESTED FOR CONVICTIONS she reads. Underneath, in smaller capitals:

  SPRINGBOK TOUR PROTESTER COMPLAINS ABOUT POLICE TREATMENT.

  Seventy-year-old Grace Brockie has little time for the legal system. ‘When I asked to make a phone call,’ she claims, ‘they refused. At two in the morning, I was out on the street with no money, no transport. Is that the way to treat citizens who have not yet been proven guilty?’

  The photograph shows a respectable, serious face, pointed chin, dark, bright eyes, grey hair pulled behind in a neat roll. It’s certainly not the face one would connect with riots or police cells.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Sally.

  Sally is researching for a drama assignment. Or that is the excuse. Grace suspects other reasons are behind the visit: the need for a square meal; personality clashes at the flat; further problems with money, perhaps. Grace never asks. She has learnt to keep quickly prepared food in the freezer, and always responds warmly to Sally’s last-minute phone calls. Sometimes Sally is tense, jumpy and leaves without explanations. Tonight, though, the research project is perhaps genuine. Crosslegged at Grace’s feet, one side of her face flushed from the fire, Sally seems relaxed and inquisitive. Grace loves these evenings.

  ‘The 1981 tour,’ says Grace, eager to be drawn, ‘everyone knows about that.’

  ‘But you, Grace, why you? You’re not interested in rugby.’

  Grace smiles. ‘That’s true. Mildred said the same thing at the time. But in 1981 there was madness in the air. An anger and an excitement that had little to do with games and a great deal to do with a divided society. The protest was a kind of safety valve. I believe those Saturday marches were as addictive, as bonding to us protesters, as the rugby matches were to sports enthusiasts. It was a heady time, Sally.’

  ‘But breaking the law! You’re so proper. Whatever made you run onto the airport?’

  ‘Anger took over I suppose. With the government, with Air New Zealand for carrying an all-white team. With that wretched Muldoon. Then the gap in the fence appeared at the right time — or wrong. We simply ran through it.’

  ‘Ran! You can’t even run down the hall …’

  ‘I’m not a complete cripple, Sally

  ‘Well okay but …’

  ‘And this was thirteen years ago, remember.’

  ‘Even so … I just can’t imagine you …’

  ‘To be honest I couldn’t have made it on my own. The others held my arms, hurried me forward. My short little legs hardly touched the ground. It must have looked ridiculous. I ran on air until my carriers couldn’t take the weight any more. Then we all stopped. Oh, it was bitter out there, Sally. Wind, rain … the weather was definitely on the side of law and order.’

  ‘Weren’t you frightened?’

  ‘Yes. Nervous and excited, like a child on a forbidden escapade. Some protesters left. But most of us held our ground, not sure what to do. Alone on that vast expanse. The fervour drained away, then, like the rain off our coats. All that was left was an assorted bunch of wet citizens, standing in a puddle. I worried about dinner with Mildred, mainly.’

  ‘Why? Why dinner with Mildred?’

  ‘It was my birthday, Sally. Mildred is the only person who knows the date. She usually invites me over for something special. But down there at the police station, they wouldn’t let me use the phone.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not legal!’

  ‘No, it’s not. I knew my rights. One phone call is allowed. I told them my friend’s dinner would be spoiling. They simply didn’t care, Sally. It was most awkward. Mildred and I didn’t see eye to eye on the tour, you see.’

  It was, in fact, the only time that Grace could remember when their friendship had frayed. Mildred came from a rugby family. A grandson was a provincial rep, perhaps even All Black material. Mildred’s family were outraged that liberals with no interest in the game should threaten their Saturday entertainment. No amount of rational argument on the evils of apartheid, the importance of taking a stand, of sending signals to the world would shake Mildred’s beliefs.

  ‘I hate apartheid too, Grace, don’t we all. But leave rugby out of it. You’re not a rugby person, Grace, and shouldn’t judge.’

  Grace had been alarmed at her friend’s vehemence. The country was bitterly divided, that was obvious, but somehow she expected the long friendship with Mildred to override political or ideological difference. Grace would argue politics of the left all day, given the chance. Mildred, born into the National Party, and unquestioning ever since, did not discuss politics. How you voted was between you and the ballot box in Mildred’s view. However, in the months leading up to the protests, Grace thought she detected a fading in Mildred’s true blue allegiance.

  ‘You’re right about one thing,’ sighed Mildred. They were speaking of the Prime Minister, Muldoon. ‘He’s a nasty little man. Not at all like Holyoake. There was a gentleman. Mind you,’ she added quickly, ‘we need a strong leader.’

  Grace, a zealous spark in her eye, plotted to capture Mildred for the left. But the Springbok Tour polarised people and Mildred’s blue deepened again.

  Grace found it difficult to disguise her burning indignation, her outrage with a spineless government. She wanted to rail against Mildred’s stoic acceptance. But she learned to keep the fervour to herself; to slip away quietly to Saturday marches and weekday rallies. A silence developed though. There were fewer chats over coffee. Easy laughter as the sherry decanter tilted was a rarer pleasure. The birthday dinner was an olive branch; they both recognised it.

  ‘Did you get out in time, Grace? For your birthday dinner?’

  ‘Oh no. The police were beside themselves, I think. Cells were overflowing. Hundreds to fingerprint and photograph. The
y wanted to teach us a lesson and were frustrated by all the jollity. So they deliberately took their time.’

  ‘Jollity. In a prison cell?’

  ‘Well — yes! By then we were all veterans of many marches. There were songs.’

  ‘But wasn’t it frightening? Alone in a cell?’

  Alone? Goodness no. There must have been twenty or thirty in our cell, crammed in — nowhere to sit. People started up conversations, discovered they had common friends or relations … You couldn’t hear yourself think!’

  ‘Sounds romantic. You meet any nice men, Grace?’

  ‘No no no, none of that! They separated the sexes right on the airport. Husbands and wives had no idea where their partners were.’

  ‘Hey, this is real drama! Families ripped apart!’

  ‘Well, that was certainly the worst part. After the airport, they shut us up in the dog pound, I think it was.’

  ‘You’re making it up …’

  ‘No I’m not, Sally. It was a yard, out in the rain, with wire-mesh fences. Men in one cage, women in the other. Then they bundled us into windowless vans. We had no idea where we were going. The cells were quite cosy after that.’

  ‘Did you know anyone?’

  ‘Not really. They were friendly, though, the women. Offered me a place on the one bench. The men were somewhere near — they joined in when we started singing. I remember one woman