In Touch With Grace

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘Go away yourself! Get out! Slimy old creep!’

  He ran at me and pushed hard. My foot caught on the edge of the pathway and I fell heavily onto the muddy grass. By the time I had righted myself he was running away.

  You can imagine it was with some relief that I continued home and shut the door on the whole incident. Parents who let their children wander alone at night should be prosecuted.

  Next morning I heard on the news that a boy had been assaulted and left unconscious in the park. The name was not released, but I had a terrible premonition that it was Jeremy. I could not face work, and stayed home, waiting to hear the worst. By midday the name was released. All afternoon I prevaricated over going to the police. I should go, and yet my evidence seemed so incriminating. And I could tell them nothing that would help find the assailant. Or so I reasoned.

  The police came to me first. It threw the worst possible light on my actions. They had already uncovered the Christ’s incident, and someone had reported seeing a man, whose description fitted me, struggling with Jeremy in Hagley Park. Now my account sounded like an unconvincing attempt to clear myself. Why wasn’t I at work, they wanted to know. Why were my clothes muddy?

  The minute they found my gun collection I believe the detective decided the case was closed. It seems the attacker had carried a gun.

  It is all circumstantial. They have not charged me. But I feel that they have stopped looking for anyone else.

  Alan McGill and the others at the office have been very decent. They know all about innocent until proved guilty. They would rather I took a holiday, but I would go mad, Grace.

  At least the papers have not got hold of me. I could not cope with that. The police have been searching the park endlessly, especially near my flat. Some of the residents saw the police come to me; I suppose they have been questioned about my movements. Surely one of them saw me arrive home before the boy was attacked?

  No one talks to me. The police are silent.

  Please believe me, Grace. I am not violent.

  Yours faithfully,

  Adam Friedmann

  10th August

  Dear Adam,

  Please excuse my delay in writing. Your letters have been a great shock to me. I have been trying to decide whether to respond.

  Have you told the police about our letters? I would rather you didn’t. It would be difficult for me if police came questioning.

  You must see, Adam that I don’t know you very well. I’m an elderly woman, living on my own, and should not take risks. It would seem, at present, that you are at least a risk. Anyone, Mildred especially if she knew, would advise me to break off all communication with you immediately.

  On the other hand you are Max’s son. You cared for him when he was ill. I have reread all your letters carefully and they have the ring of truth about them. I have decided to keep writing for the present. Perhaps I can help you. But please will you keep our correspondence private?

  It is clear you are in a difficult position. Possibly the only thing you can do is to wait. I imagine you have legal advice from your colleagues. Perhaps it would be useful to consider the boy more carefully. I believe you are being hard on him. Poor lad. Rather than lay out facts and events, turn your mind to whys and wherefores.

  Why was Jeremy following you? What did he really want to communicate to you? Did he give some clue as to where he was going next? The papers haven’t mentioned that he’s disturbed. Only that he comes from a rather respected family, that his mother is well known in Christchurch society and that the family is devastated.

  Make sure, Adam, that you are being honest with yourself. And me.

  I do not believe you attacked the boy. But perhaps there’s more to be told? The police need to be watched with care. Many years ago I was arrested. This will surprise you, no doubt. It was during the Springbok Tour demonstrations of 1981. I was only seventy then, and felt very strongly about apartheid. Most Saturdays I joined a march and on one, at Wellington airport, I was arrested. The charge was trespass on a security area — a criminal offence it seemed, serious enough to warrant a jury trial.

  Well, it was all very traumatic at the time. A group of us were herded into police vans and held most of the night in the cells, without any way of communicating with the outside world.

  Well what I am getting round to telling you, Adam, is that during the trial, the police lied. I was deeply shocked at the time and have not quite trusted police evidence since. Evidently when one is caught trespassing the arresting officer is bound utter a warning: ‘You are trespassing and I advise you to disperse immediately or you will be arrested.’ Something like that.

  No one warned us. On that I’m quite clear, and so were the rest of our group. Yet one policeman swore in court that he had given the warning, and two others corroborated his evidence! If they saw fit to lie on such an unimportant issue, what else might they get up to when there is a great deal of public pressure?

  So my advice, as a convicted criminal, is to be straight with the police but keep your distance. Make a written account of all your interviews with them, and ask the policeman to sign a copy. Don’t leave all the writing to them.

  I am a great believer, as you know, in the power of the written word.

  It is unkind, I suppose, to attack a man when he’s down, but Adam, everything I’ve said about guns is surely borne out now. You gun collection has marked you in police eyes.

  What if someone broke into your flat, stole a gun and then killed with it? You would feel responsible. Rightly responsible. Guilt would definitely be appropriate then. No, Adam, get rid of your collection.

  Well, the crisp sunny days are putting heart into us all. This is Wellington at its best. My stylosa are flowering wonderfully. I pick a bowlful every other day.

  Take heart yourself. As you say, surely some other evidence will soon turn the police away from you.

  All the best.

  Kind regards,

  Grace

  P.S. Today a clear memory of you as a child came to me. I was sitting in your sunny kitchen, with Ilona, your mother. You were four perhaps. Gillie was not conceived. I was newly married — a thirty-five-year-old schoolteacher with no knowledge of family life. You were down on your haunches under the window, in a shaft of sunlight, singing to a beetle. I was entranced. On and on you sang — a long rambling saga about the beetle’s family connections and home life. Neither your mother nor I dared make a sound for fear we broke the spell. You were utterly happy, I think. Goodness knows why I remember it, but I do. From that moment I longed for a child of my own.

  Do not be downhearted.

  My birthday is September 24th. I am a Libran. What about you?

  Wednesday 17th August

  Dear Grace,

  Thank you so much for writing. You cannot believe what it means to me to have a friend.

  Word is getting round. The papers have not mentioned my name, but have hinted that a Christchurch lawyer is under suspicion, and that the police expect to make an arrest soon.

  In my block of flats the atmosphere is deadly. People look the other way when I go past. They think I did it, Grace. How can they? None of them are close friends, but we have had a word now and then. If they stopped to think, they would surely know I am incapable of violence.

  Mrs Aylesford in Number 2A was collecting her mail at the same time as me yesterday. I said good morning and tried to smile.

  ‘Go away,’ she whispered, ‘go away.’ And stood there, white faced.

  I went away. How is it possible? I now frighten old ladies.

  At work, the partners have asked again if I will take leave. This time the suggestion was firmer. Yet the police do not wish me to leave town. So here I am on my own, with long, waiting days. I still swim and run, but could not face the Friends of the Opera evening last week.

  I am working on your brooch.

  Did you read in the papers that they have found a gun in the park? It was evidently an old Webley Green revolver,
not part of my collection at all. The only Webley I possess is a single-action Royal Irish Constabulary revolver. Quite a different weapon, and still in my gun case. Yes, it is securely locked, Grace. At first the news of the discovery pleased me, as I had supplied all my records to the police. My journal of acquisitions is meticulously kept, and there is no mention of a Webley Green. However the police took a different view. The fact that this is an old gun, convinced them that it must have been part of my collection, and that I had somehow cleverly concealed my ownership. It is ludicrous.

  You ask me to consider the whys of the case rather than the facts. I have tried to do so honestly, Grace.

  Why did Jeremy accuse me of molesting him?

  I may have been attracted to him. Yes I suppose I was. People assume a single male of my age is homosexual. Especially if one is quiet and a little fussy. In my case it is true, though what does that prove? I have had only two relationships with men, many years ago. Perhaps Jeremy felt something from me. He is an attractive lad. But he must have experienced more overt sexual advances in the past, in order to make up the story. I am a shy man, Grace.

  Jeremy has evidently not identified me as his attacker, though he suggests it was someone of my build. So the police say. Are they telling me the truth?

  There is much about Jeremy that we are not hearing. His mother moves in society here. I have seen her on display at opera functions. She has no lack of boyfriends, many of them influential. From the little I know of the lad I would say there is a cover-up in play. His mother is pulling strings. Jeremy is certainly not the tragic innocent portrayed in the media. Surely a police investigation into his background and acquaintances might be fruitful? Yet they seem to have settled on me — the easy, obvious target; the outwardly quiet, inwardly festering paedophile.

  I am not, Grace. I am not. You have urged me to be positive. God knows it is difficult with the whole world suspecting me.

  Some citizen has reported seeing me ‘hanging round’ the playing fields, ‘ogling’ young boys. ‘Hanging round’! ‘Ogling’! A policeman read me the report. How words distort.

  In the summer, I do indeed enjoy watching them play. It gives me pleasure. Is it a sexual pleasure, this arrogant policeman asked. I do not know! I do not want to know. To me it was a simple, harmless pleasure. Now it is tainted forever.

  I have been completely honest with you. More honest than you would wish, perhaps.

  The process has been helpful to me. Thank you for that. My depression has shifted somewhat towards anger. If they arrest me I will fight this with all my intelligence.

  The waiting is difficult though. My collection of opera CDs is a comfort.

  Martin and Sheila have heard rumours. News travels round this country on the wind it seems. They suggest that I do not have any further contact with them in the meantime. They have their children to think of! What nonsense: they are thinking of themselves. Tom and Sally are far more accepting.

  I am happy to stay away.

  You are another matter. I long for a quiet dinner with you in some civilised restaurant. It is a pleasure that I hold in front of me. Bless you.

  Yours in friendship,

  Adam

  24th August

  Dear Adam,

  Your letter was both interesting and positive. I am impressed with your stamina. What a terrible time you are having.

  Do, please, make sure you eat sensibly; you will need all your strength. Have you tried yeast flakes? They are surprisingly delicious and a good tonic. I believe deeply in the power good health brings us all. If you have spare time, Adam, try cooking new dishes. I will enclose my recipe for tuna fish pie. Max was fond of it.

  I have written to my friend Mildred about your case. You will remember Mildred Catherwood from across the park? She is staying in Christchurch with her daughter. Naturally I did not bring up the matter; I am not one to spread gossip. However Mildred had heard you were implicated. Her daughter Judith is rather a scandalmonger, I’m afraid — good at heart, perhaps, but always out for a good time.

  Evidently Judith’s lawyer works at your firm and he told her. You are right, Adam, how gossip spreads. Judith would be the last person to whom one would entrust confidential information. Quite possibly she has been responsible, single handedly, for spreading your name throughout New Zealand. I wouldn’t say that to Mildred, of course.

  As far as Judith is concerned you are convicted and sentenced. I soon put Mildred right on that one!

  At first Mildred was adamant that I should break all communication with you. Our correspondence might incriminate me, Mildred fears, especially given my criminal record. Mildred is rather cautious over the law.

  I felt it best to lay all the facts before her. Forgive me if my action upsets you, Adam. This was a breach of confidence, I know, but you need friends. And now you have a new one. Mildred has become convinced, as I am, that you are innocent. She may run on at times, but Mildred is no fool.

  We both feel you need more support in Christchurch. Surely there are people — at work or one of your many clubs — who would act as character witnesses for you? I would advise against the gun club. What about your opera friends? Some of them must be influential.

  I’m afraid that your solitary nature mitigates against you. Mildred feels that you may be encouraging accusations by withdrawing into yourself. Well, that is easier said than done, I know. I am not the most outgoing person myself.

  But you must make an effort, Adam!

  Mildred will do what she can too. She has a nephew in the police force down there; someone influential I believe.

  Perhaps she can cause a little change in attitude. Mildred is very sociable and unshakably respectable. Her family is well known in Christchurch, coming as they did on the first four ships. She would be a good ambassador for you.

  Well, we mustn’t get our hopes too high. At least the papers have dropped the story. It’s all the in-vitro issue now.

  What is your opinion? I can sympathise with single women and old women wanting babies, but really you must draw the line somewhere. There are far too many people in the world as it is.

  I’m a great believer, Adam, and you will probably agree with me here, in the value of single people, who are unencumbered with children. Society needs them. I wonder what Max would have thought?

  Well, Adam, have patience. Surely the truth will surface in the end. You may wish to ring Mildred. Her daughter’s number is under J. E. Trevelyan in Fendalton. Mildred says it is not far from Hagley Park.

  Take heart; keep thinking positively.

  Your friend,

  Grace

  P.S. Enclosed my recipe for tuna fish pie. You may add sour cream if you’re feeling adventurous. G

  Saturday 27th August

  Dear Grace,

  Thank you for the tuna recipe. I was feeling adventurous and so substituted smoked salmon pieces for the tuna and added sour cream! Do not think that you are the only one with a culinary interest. Thai cooking is my particular area. I am quite proud of my spicy beef on jasmine rice. Also I bake bread in the weekends. The smell of hot yeasty bread is such a friendly aroma, don’t you think? The other residents often joke about the ‘lovely Saturday smell at Flat 4A’. Or they used to. I baked again this morning for the first time in weeks.

  This is a wonderful winter day. I am sitting on my balcony looking out to the Alps. They are snow covered into the distance.

  You letter gave me such heart. And I have seen Mildred, just this morning! As soon as the bread was out and cooling, I went for a walk on the park. You see, Grace, I am trying to keep up a normal life. I saw two women walking ahead. One, I am sure, was Mrs Catherwood — Mildred. I remember her from years back — but was not sure she would want to see me. I followed like some amateur detective. There she was, unmistakably the same. She is rather a regal person, don’t you think, a little like the Queen Mother.

  The other was, I suppose, her daughter. Her clothes were out of a fashion magazine. All good
wool in earthy colours, falling just so. She is tall and slim and walks like a model. Mildred looked much more comfortable to me. I longed to approach her and introduce myself. She would be a good friend I could see. You are lucky to have her.

  Now I am back at my flat. I know it sounds childish, but seeing Mildred so solidly placing her feet one in front of the other gave a feeling of the cavalry arriving! I am foolish to hope. But as you say it is important to be positive. I will ring Mildred this afternoon.

  My bread has turned out well This batch has sunflower seeds and chopped walnuts in a rye and white mix of flour.

  You may be surprised to know that I do not agree with you over artificial insemination. If a single person wishes so strongly to have a child, are not the chances good that she will become a satisfactory mother? So many people are unsuitable parents, or unwilling parents. We come across many in the legal profession. Jeremy Atkinson’s mother is possibly a case in point. I believe, Grace, that in-vitro fertilisation may well push the scale towards better parenting. Goodness knows solo parents are becoming the norm now anyway.

  The first flower spikes are appearing on my Cape primroses. I will have a spectacular display.

  Later —

  Perhaps I will not be around to see my flowers. The police came just after lunch and took me down to the station. They have not arrested me but will shortly, I believe. I don’t know what to say, Grace. This world has turned into an alien planet.

  They say they have fresh evidence linking me to Jeremy. They believe nothing I say. I believe they are trying to frighten me. They certainly succeeded. With my heart pounding, I have just tried to ring Mildred as you suggested. A woman answered. Judith I expect. I asked for Mrs Catherwood. When my name was requested, I gave it; a natural reflex, though unwise in the circumstances.