Grace sees again the large cheerful woman gripping the bars of their cell door, looking out. In a small voice she started up ‘Drink to Me Only’. The song grew and blossomed down the corridor, taken up by cell after cell until the sound, echoing off the brick, swelled into a rich choir. When the voices died, she listened for a moment longer, and then nodded, pleased.
‘That was Michael’s tenor,’ she said, ‘He’s down there somewhere.’ And she began her roll call ‘Michael? Is that you?’
‘Yes, love.’ A hand waved through bars.
‘Andrew?’
‘Yes, Mum, in with Dad.’
‘Jonathan?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
And so on, five children, till she had them all placed. Then she turned to her cellmates proudly. ‘Beat that,’ she said. ‘All good kids, eh?’
Grace shakes her head. ‘She was proud of them, you see. Proud that her children were arrested.’
‘Her whole family in the cells?’
‘The whole family, Sally.’
‘Boy, you’d never get teenagers doing that sort of thing as a family now.’
‘Yes. You may be right. It was a strange time.’
‘Go on. How’d you get out? A mass escape?’
‘Well, it stopped being fun, after a while. We were taken out one by one. Stood against a dirty white wall with heights marked on it. Photographed with a sign giving us a number. Then hurried back to the cell. Others were outraged at the indignity. But Mildred and the spoiling dinner were in the end more important to me. Just that once I could have missed a march, or marched in a safer place. I felt ashamed, Sally.’
‘But you made a mark, helped change a cruel system! Didn’t you say that photograph of the protesting seventy-year-old went round the world? Aren’t you proud?’
‘Perhaps a little. People wrote to me. Most of it was simple hate-mail. Not important. One letter really shook me, though. The woman was elderly. She had been flying in to visit a daughter. It was her first plane trip and she was both nervous and excited. Then her plane’s descent was aborted because there were protesters on the runway. Round and round it circled till the police had cleared us all away. She feared the plane would run out of fuel; she felt she was about to die. She wrote that because of my actions she would never fly again.’
‘The pilot would never risk the passengers’ lives.’
‘No, but the woman feared it. Was running onto the airport worth that, I wonder?’
‘Yes!’ says Sally with conviction. She unfolds her neat legs and paces the room. She tries out a pose or two.
‘Amandla!’ she cries, waving a protest banner. ‘We shall overco-o-ome,’ she sings. ‘No, Grace, your protest was right and just. I would run onto the airport for my convictions!’
‘Good,’ says Grace, and means it. ‘But perhaps you’ll have to run for me next time’
‘Nonsense. We’ll pop you in a wheelchair and you can scream slogans while I push. Boadicea strikes again!’
They both laugh out loud. Thank you, Max, for this wonderful child, thinks Grace.
‘And did the dinner spoil?’ asks Sally. ‘Did Mildred forgive you?’
‘Oh Mildred,’ says Grace smiling. ‘Mildred was there to meet me when I came out of prison.’
One by one, according to no discernible hierarchy, they had been released. At half past two in the morning Grace climbed the steps from the cells and walked into cold, wet Waring Taylor Street. Money and car were far away at the airport. Grace did not know how to get home, how to reach her car.
‘Grace, you look chilled to the bone,’ said Mildred. ‘Get in quick, there’s a blanket and a thermos on the back seat.’
Relief and delight warmed Grace as much as Mildred’s generously laced coffee.
‘But how did you know? I tried to phone, Mildred, but those police …’
‘Don’t tell me about the police,’ said Mildred through tight lips. ‘Yes, I’ll have another drop, we need it at this time of night. I saw you on telly, you see. It gave me a shock, Grace. Surely that was unwise, with a birthday dinner in the making!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Grace humbly.
‘You did look lonely out there on the tarmac. Not that I condone it, of course.’
‘No.’
‘So I rang the police station and told them it was your birthday. I explained it was salmon mornay and would spoil …’
‘Salmon mornay? Oh dear, Mildred …’
‘And lemon meringue pie, your favourite. The policewoman was barely civil, Grace. It cut no ice at all’
Mildred’s indignation, and perhaps exhaustion, had moved Grace to tears. ‘Well, no harm,’ said Mildred, smiling at her friend. ‘It was on the six o’clock news I saw you. There was time to save the salmon. We’ll have it tomorrow.’
Sally looks up from her writing. ‘Would you mind if I used this? We have to do a monologue. I could fight your cause all over again. Sally Friedmann stars as famous protester Grace Brockie!’
Grace smiles, flattered. ‘Well. You really think people would be interested?’ She adds, after a while, ‘And will your parents come to the performance?’
Sally’s lively face clouds. ‘No. No, of course not. Acting is the devil’s work, don’t you know.’
I have another battle ahead of me, thinks Grace.
18th July
Dear Adam,
Thank you for your interesting letter. Certainly I was wrong ever to suggest that your life was devoid of activity! I felt quite tired reading about it.
I’m sorry if I give you the impression that I’m lying in wait to pounce on your letters and assess them. Of course that is not so. But when you have taught English for years it’s hard to escape the correcting habit. Sometimes when reading the paper, I find my hand has picked up a pen and I am mechanically inserting full-stops or erasing apostrophes, without registering at all what I am doing. Just as well there is no one watching me. They would think it was time for the rest home! At any rate you write beautifully correct English.
Now, Adam. It is good to hear you have so many worthwhile activities, but I must say I’ve been distressed to read about your guns. Manual activity can be a wonderful companion, but surely there is a better vehicle for your craft skills. We read so many times of guns getting into the wrong hands. Do you have them locked away?
You do not sound like an aggressive man. Why choose such weapons of destruction for a hobby? I am surprised at you.
Oh dear. The schoolteacher again! I can hear Max laughing. He would be arguing with me by now if he were here. But I would argue back, never fear. I feel very strongly about guns.
Have you thought of jewellery-making? Your beautiful engraving could be put to more peaceful use. I tell you what. I will order a piece from you. A little brooch with the same motif as the one on the butt of the Colt Navy pistol. This is a commercial proposition, Adam. Charge me properly for your labour. Well, perhaps not legal rates, I’m not a millionaire.
I would enjoy having something made by you.
Adam, you sound rather depressed. Max often told me I concentrated too much on activity and not enough on cultivating friends. At the moment, with Mildred in Christchurch, I know I’m retreating, and have to speak to myself severely. Perhaps you need to work hard at friendship too. You need good friends, Adam, who share your interests.
Perhaps you might start with your niece, Sally. She can’t appeal to her parents for assistance of any sort, let alone financial. I don’t wish to meddle, and Mildred has advised against it, but you may think of some little way to help her. I’ll just leave the thought with you.
Tertiary education should be free. I am most disappointed that the Labour Party has not stood behind its principles. You will no doubt disagree. As a lawyer, I expect you vote National. What is happening to Christchurch politics? I always thought of your city as sensible, if not downright stolid, but now it seems the Labour stronghold is breaking apart. What is Anderton up to? I would welcome your views.
At this t
ime of year I can identify strongly with pagan beliefs. No wonder they held festivals to celebrate the rebirth of life. I long for spring. We have had a whole week of gales and squally rain. Everywhere there is black cold. The sun can barely manage to bring daylight, and soon gives up the struggle.
Well, Adam, don’t take any notice of my grumpiness. I do like to be able to get outside. A few fine, crisp winter days and I’ll be singing like a bird again!
Thank you for writing. It cheered up the week. But do think again about the guns. I’m sure the museum would be pleased to accept your collection.
Yours sincerely,
Grace
P.S. Are you keeping up with Vitamin C? Max was not good at remembering. Citrus and kiwifruit are the best sources. G
Friday 22nd July
Dear Grace,
Thank you for your kind letter. I am enjoying our correspondence more than I can say. You are right, I should have more friends, be more social, but somehow I lose heart. People don’t find me much fun, I’m afraid.
Grace, I hesitate to bring up this matter. The last thing I want to do is drive you away, or shock you. I don’t know who else to turn to. Also you have been a teacher and may be able to advise me.
A rather terrible thing happened last week.
I believe my last letter mentioned that I was to visit Christ’s College. The boys are studying different professions and our firm was approached to supply a legal expert. I volunteered mainly because I felt it would be a challenge; my speaking skills would be enlarged. Mr McGill, our senior partner, has often suggested that I need to be more outgoing.
On the day in question I arrived in good time. The headmaster showed me to the classroom. The boys were working quietly at their desks. I sat at the rear of the room in an empty desk and watched. I could see the work of the boy next to me, and was fascinated by his writing. I trust it was fiction. The boy had a bizarre imagination. Before I went to the front I complimented him on his work.
During my little talk, which I believe went quite well, we invented some legal problems and the boys, acting as clients, came to me for a legal opinion. The young lad at the back was particularly adept at holding a role, and we had quite a spirited exchange over buying a business.
That was that, really. I felt modestly pleased with the event. I invited those who were interested, to visit our law firm later in the week to view the real thing. This had been cleared with their teacher and Mr McGill in advance. I believe in following the proper channels.
As I left, I had a word with the bright little writer. He had a real understanding of legal issues, and I urged him to join the trip to the office. Perhaps I was too friendly, but I cannot really think so.
On the way out the teacher was kind enough to suggest that the visit had been educationally successful.
I apologise, Grace, if this account seems long winded, but I wish you to understand the sequence of events clearly
A few days later a handful of boys visited the office. Jeremy Atkinson was one of them: the writer from the back of the room. Perhaps I paid more attention to him than the other boys. Certainly he came into my office and tried out my swivel chair. He seemed outgoing and I enjoyed his company. I gave him a promotional ballpoint which we present to clients. In retrospect this was perhaps unwise. I should have treated all the boys equally.
They all left and the office returned to normal.
The shock came two days later. The headmaster, Mr Willard-Smith, rang and asked me to call into his office. I expected this would be some sort of official thanks. How wrong I was! It appeared that young Jeremy had laid a complaint against me. You can imagine how devastated I was. Nothing like this has happened to me before. Why should the boy make such allegations? I can hardly bear to write what he claimed. I became quite flustered, I’m afraid, which perhaps did not help my case.
Fortunately the head is a decent sort. He told me from the beginning that young Jeremy has a history of making this sort of allegation; that he has had a disturbed background; but that it was his duty to follow up any story, no matter how improbable it seemed. All this was reassuring but the question remained — why did the lad choose me? I could tell that Mr Willard-Smith was asking himself the same question. It was dreadfully embarrassing.
I described my encounters with Jeremy carefully. My memory is excellent. The head remarked on the detail. Immediately I worried that my story was too accurate; that a hazy recall might seem more credible. It is damnable to be in such a situation. I do remember that as Jeremy left my office I put my hand on his shoulder, and gave him a — pat, I suppose you would call it. Perhaps I did it awkwardly. I wanted to be friendly and natural. Alan McGill would have carried it off with ease no doubt. I wonder whether my very hesitation rang some bell in Jeremy’s nasty mind. I cannot feel sorry for him, the wretched boy.
You have been a teacher, Grace. Can you imagine why a boy would make up these accusations?
It is a great blow. The one occasion when I tried to be more sociable; to come out of my shell as it were, I am landed in this mess. I cannot help but feel bitter.
Mr Willard-Smith has had to ask for corroborating statements from my colleagues and from the other boys. If the boy has such a reputation, why could the matter have not been kept private? I must have been in some way under suspicion.
Finally the allegation was dropped, thank goodness, but the damage is done anyway. Though the other partners have been supportive, a seed has been sown in their minds. Could I have touched the boy improperly, they wonder. No smoke without a fire, they suggest when I am out of the room. I begin to doubt myself.
Please advise me.
I have little heart for other matters. Another time I will argue the case for guns. They are beautiful things. A duelling pistol by Boutet, for example is a work of art equal to the finest jewellery. Almost all my collection are antiques, collected for their style or historical interest. They give me great pleasure. I do not intend to doubt my abilities in this area too.
Forgive my depression. This has been a difficult week. I am glad to be able to write to you. You will understand my predicament I am sure.
I would be honoured to make you a little brooch. The catch may be beyond my capabilities, but there are good instruction manuals in the library. When is your birthday? That would give me a deadline towards which I could work.
I, too, long for spring.
Yours faithfully,
Adam Friedmann
Sunday 31st July
Dear Grace,
Why don’t you write? My life has turned into a nightmare. I suppose you have read about Jeremy Atkinson. I did not harm the boy. Surely you cannot imagine that I did?
The police have been all over the house. They clearly suspect me.
What should I do? You are my only friend. Please, please do not desert me.
Yours faithfully,
Adam
Sunday 7th August
Dear Grace,
Yesterday I hoped for a letter from you so much that I found an excuse to wait in the foyer at mail time. Nothing came. I can only suppose you have been frightened away by the terrible events.
I apologise for my outburst a few days ago. It does no one any good to panic, but this is all so bizarre. I keep thinking that the darkness will clear. It goes on. The terrible thing is not knowing. Do the police really suspect me? Surely they can see I am harmless. Yet I have been questioned twice and cautioned not to leave town! They must see I am not violent. I wonder whether they are pursuing my story with such vigour in order to flush out some other offender. They must have a more likely suspect. Don’t you think?
It is important to stay calm. I must order events clearly in my mind. Sooner or later some piece of evidence will exonerate me, but meantime I must be absolutely certain of my details. The police are methodical themselves and will surely respect an orderly account.
The trouble, Grace, is that circumstantially things look bad for me. First there was the incident at Christ’s Co
llege. I wish to God that I had never set a foot inside the place. Jeremy Atkinsons accusation left a stain, even though I was exonerated.
But there is worse. I hesitate to tell you this; I want so desperately for you to believe me, but I must be utterly truthful if I am to survive. I believe you are the sort of person to recognise the truth if it is laid out clearly before you.
I have told the police all this.
On the night Jeremy was attacked I met him in Hagley Park. It would be more accurate to say he met me. I was walking home as usual, at 5.15. It was almost dark. He called my name — ‘Mr Friedmann!’ I turned and there was Jeremy, self-assured and smiling, as if nothing had happened. You can imagine I was not at all pleased to see him. I turned away, but he followed, chatting to me behind my back. I believe, Grace, the boy is not quite normal. I don’t mean retarded; he was clearly bright, but his chatter was too cheerful, brittle. There was an edge of something under the babble. Fear perhaps? Or loneliness? He didn’t seem quite in control of his words. In other circumstances I might have felt sorry for him. As darkness fell it would be responsible to make sure he got home safely But naturally I felt it was important at all costs to avoid contact with him. The damnable thing was, Jeremy seemed set on following me home.
Finally I turned to face him. He stopped.
‘Jeremy, go home,’ I said.
It was like speaking to a dog, Grace. He just smiled and came closer. I think he would have taken my hand had I not stepped back. I became alarmed.
‘You have done me a great harm, Jeremy,’ I said, ‘You must go away before you do more. Now go. Quickly!’
I spoke quite sharply, hoping to shake him into some action. To be honest I was fearful someone would walk past — the exchange took place on a public path through the park. This encounter would look far less innocent than Jeremy’s visit to the office.
I now know that someone did see and hear us.
Suddenly Jeremy changed. He is a tall lad for fourteen and, as I said, rather confident. But in a moment his face became that of an angry child. He shouted back at me.
In Touch With Grace Page 10