She put down the receiver. Simply replaced it quietly without a word. I fear I am done for, Grace.
Your friend,
Adam
Tuesday 30th August
Dear Grace,
I am still here.
Yesterday I lunched with Mildred at the Dux de Lux. Her phone call came just after I had posted a letter to you. What an exceedingly pleasant woman! So polite and considerate. I must say she is looking frail, though she insisted her health is improving. We sat in a private corner, and she treated me as if there were no cloud hanging over me at all.
She chose fish pie and I had the soup, which is always good there.
Mildred questioned me quite carefully. I had to hide my smile, Grace. Mildred turns the most serious matter into a small domestic problem. As far as she is concerned it is only a matter of someone making the right connections. I fear there is more to it than that, and that the police are manufacturing evidence.
A spring sun was out yesterday. Narcissi were flowering outside the window. It felt so comfortable and safe, talking to Mildred I could have stayed there all day. She chatted on about this and that. I gather staying with her daughter is a bit of a trial. The son is still at home, and the house feels full of large people all wanting to use the bathroom at the same time! I gather she has a hard decision to make; whether to shift down here permanently or not. I know I would put a friend like you before family!
Mildred talked about you, too, Grace. I suppose I was rather pumping her. She implies that you are lonely. I cannot quite imagine that anyone with a friend as chatty as Mildred could be lonely. However, I had not realised that you had so little connection with family. That is not easy when you are older, I am sure. If this episode of my life ever settles down, I would like to visit you regularly. Or would you care to visit me when Mildred is down with her family?
How tempting to dream. At the moment the nightmare continues. I jump at every sound, expecting an arresting officer.
Your suggestion of arranging character witnesses was a good one. I have spoken to the secretary of the Friends of the Opera. He is a decent sort. He had heard rumours about me but could not believe them true, and was quite shocked to hear how far the police investigation has gone. He talked of Jeremy Atkinsons background. Evidently the boy has some wild friends, mostly sons of wealthy families. Opera gossip has it that they got up to some rather questionable behaviour. John thinks it far more likely that one of this group was involved in the attack. He volunteered to speak to a friend of his who has influence.
This news is both hopeful and demoralising. Surely, if I am innocent, it will not come to an arrest. And yet, if people are influential enough to whitewash the boy’s reputation, perhaps they can also bend the true course of justice.
I will post this now. Thank you so much for your help and encouragement. Whatever happens I will try to keep contact if you wish it.
Your friend,
Adam
P.S. Enclosed is the brooch. Happy early birthday!
Wednesday 31st August
Dear Grace,
Well my dear, the weather has taken a turn for the worse, winter is back with a vengeance. This morning it was hailstones as big as my anti-inflammatory pills, that’s not a word of exaggeration! I do hope they have not reached Wellington, my primulas would be ruined.
I’ve done what I can about Adam. A nice quiet man. Rather a stick of limp celery, don’t you think? I’m sure he has done no wrong, he wouldn’t say boo to a goose!
On Tuesday I invited Hamish, my nephew, to lunch. Judith made us a nice asparagus quiche. She uses dry vermouth in the egg mixture, it is worth trying. We all had a good chat. Hamish is very attractive, a real charmer and bright as a button, Judith was very attentive!
Over coffee I steered the conversation round to the attack. I mentioned that I’d heard Jeremy Atkinson had a reputation for hanging around with a rough group. Hamish pricked up his ears. Young gangs are his territory, I gather, he is in youth work. Well, suddenly some penny dropped, you could see it all over his face, he’s wonderfully open.
‘Cat-skin!’ he said. ‘I knew his photo was familiar!’ And he jumped up and kissed me, just like that.
Honestly, Grace it makes you wonder. It turns out the photo of Jeremy being circulated is a school one, all brushed hair and smart uniform looking like butter wouldn’t melt. His mother evidently kept the dark side of the boy to herself. Hamish knew Jeremy, by his nickname ‘Cat-skin’ — from Atkinson, I suppose — a strange lad, who dresses outlandishly and stays out till all hours in the park. Hamish had never made the connection to the assaulted boy.
Well, suddenly my nephew was all efficiency, up on his feet and no more chat. Something was going on in his mind, that was clear, but he wasn’t saying a word. We were dying to know, but you have to admire discretion when you see it, it’s rare enough when all is said and done.
I won’t ring Adam just yet. It would be unkind to raise his hopes, and perhaps it will all come to nothing, but I will be most disappointed if the police can’t follow up a few simple leads. They tell the public to co-operate and we do our best, but are they up to their side of it, Grace? I would love to have a good chat with you about it all, over a glass of sherry. Judith only has G and T, a depressing drink.
Judith’s house is like a railway station these days. My grandson has shifts at all hours. He bangs around in the kitchen looking for food in the middle of the night, and barges into the toilet never mind knocking.
‘At least get a lock’, Judith,’ I said. ‘That boy is a menace to life and limb,’ but I don’t know, she is so busy with her clubs and morning teas, locks get missed in the rush.
Oh dear, Grace, I don’t know what to do. They have built a granny flat you see. It’s almost finished. They seem to assume I will stay on. You say be firm, but it is not so easy for me.
Tomorrow Judith is taking me out to Sumner, it’s her bridge day. Her daughter will take me and the little ones for a walk on the beach. I’m exhausted thinking about it, they gallop around like puppies, there is no way I can keep up. I would rather play a few quiet heads with the bowls club I can tell you!
Oh dear what a screed, I must fly. Let’s hope for better weather tomorrow.
All the best, dear, you will be finding it quiet without your chatterbox of a neighbour!
Please give my regards to the bowls club, they will be breaking for the summer soon.
Affectionately,
Mildred
Extract from The Christchurch Star, Thursday 1 September 1994:
YOUTHS CHARGED IN ATKINSON ASSAULT
In a shock move today, police apprehended two youths in connection with the assault of Jeremy Atkinson. The youths’ names have not been released, but it is understood that both come from well-known Christchurch families.
In a statement, the police said that they had conducted exhaustive inquiries over the past month, which had led to this morning’s action. As both youths are under age they will not be charged in the district court. The motive for the attack is not known at this stage.
The Star understands that the apprehended boys belong to a gang headed by Atkinson, and that this gang has been involved in minor drug abuse and disturbances of the peace.
Atkinson’s mother was not available for comment.
Detective Inspector Potts paid a tribute to the police team which has worked ‘round the clock’ on this case for the last month.
‘In the end it is hard slog and attention to detail that brings in the results,’ he said. ‘My men have done a tremendous job.’
Friday 2nd September
Dear Grace,
I am so overcome I do not know what to say.
The police crow on about their arrest. Let them.
As far as I’m concerned you and Mildred are the ones to receive medals. Your good advice and sound common sense have achieved far more than all their investigations.
Thank you. Without your kindness and belief in me I would not
have survived, I think.
What else can I say?
I have presented my gun collection to the museum. They can dispose of it as they wish.
You are about to receive a bunch of the best spring flowers New Zealand can grow.
Thank you,
Adam
Sunday 4th September
Dear Adam,
The brooch is exquisite! A delicate gentle design which suits me admirably. There is something Celtic in it, and organic — surely you have added touches of your own to the design on the gun? I’m lost in admiration for your skill. The amethyst is a brilliant addition. Thank you so much, I shall treasure it.
This is far too grand for a birthday present, but I will accept with good grace. Perhaps you will consider making Mildred something too. She is going through a difficult time and may need cheering up. You can now put your tools to peaceful use!
I don’t suppose the police have apologised. I am inclined to believe it was police incompetence in your case, rather than malicious distortion of the truth, as in mine. Either way they do not come out well in my book. But you are in the clear and that is what matters. I would advise you to leave the matter there. I have no time at all for people who spend quantities of their own and the public’s money on greedy libel cases. It is not dignified.
Now, would you like to visit me for a few days? I feel you need a break. Life has been particularly tense for you and the sudden release may be something of an anticlimax.
My house is large, as you may remember. You can be as private as you wish. Perhaps you could time your visit to include October 7th? Sally is making her debut on the stage. Has she told you? Her topic may interest you but I will keep it a surprise.
I hope Sally has thanked you properly for the cheque. She is a dear girl but inclined to be off hand where letter-writing is concerned. I am trying to get together a block booking for her performance and would be happy to save a seat for you. Here is another chance for you to be a good outgoing uncle, Adam!
If you decide to come, would you bring your bread recipe? Bread-making is a skill I’ve never mastered and I’m keen to learn.
I am so glad everything has turned out well.
Affectionately,
Grace
Monday 5th September
Dear Mildred,
A brief note in haste. This morning I noticed an estate agent walking around your property. By the time I had crossed the park he was gone. Surely you don’t intend to sell? Perhaps it would be wise to check with your daughter and son-in-law. It occurs to me they may be taking your future into their own hands. I know you would have informed me if you had come to a decision.
Be strong minded, Mildred. You have many friends here who are missing you. Cio-Cio is putting on weight, I don’t know how to control her. She sends you a special miaow.
Affectionately,
Grace
P.S. A sign has just gone up! Harcourts. Phone 476-8752.
Dragon’s Tooth
Driving down the hill to the Community Centre, Grace feels the familiar ache. She is lopsided, the car out of balance; her friend’s absence strikes too deeply at the normal order of things. Sherry after bowls is a lovely, distant memory.
‘Mildred, Mildred,’ she says out loud, shaking her head in frustration. A fifteen-year institution should not be broken without serious discussion. Grace needs, urgently, to talk with Mildred. She is convinced the wrong decision has been made; that Mildred lacks older friends in Christchurch with whom to weigh pros and cons; that family pressure has been too strong for her.
Grace is not surprised to find that news of Mildred’s move has reached the bowls club.
‘I see the auction sign is up,’ says Cynthia Peddie, straightening her back to ease a cramp.
‘Oh good bowl!’ roars old Mrs Peddie. In fact Grace’s bowl is well short — still within Mrs Peddie’s limited visual range.
Grace and Cynthia exchange a smile. Overflowing her chair, walking frame parked beside her, the old lady is, it seems, immortal.
‘I saw that smile!’ she shouts. ‘I’m not gaga, you know. Anyone can see the bowl is short, but poor Emily needs encouragement, if she’s to improve.’
‘Grace,’ says Grace.
‘Exactly, dear. Pace! Pace, Emily, and we’ll make a bowler of you yet!’
‘You’ll miss Mildred‚’ says Cynthia, and touches Grace gently on the arm.
Over afternoon tea, Les Comfrey develops the subject of the auction.
‘She’ll regret it, mark my words. Line the pockets of the auctioneer, that’s all. Money down the drain.’
‘You don’t think it’s saleable?’ asks Grace. This is a new thought.
‘At auction? No chance. What do you say, Jack?’
‘Well, Les, I’d say you’re right. Not auction material. A pretty little house, mind you.’ He smiles at Grace, careful not to offend. ‘I could be interested myself if the figure was right.’
‘Market’s still dead as a corpse around here, eh Jack?’ Buying and selling houses is man’s talk as far as Les is concerned. Grace can listen in if she likes. ‘A hundred and fifty thou — perhaps sixty, at a pinch. What do you reckon, Jack? What day’s the auction, Grace?’
Grace is offended. To her, Mildred’s house is not a piece of real estate. For nearly fifty years its living room, its friendly porch, its tidy garden have been host to too many conversations, too much shared laughter. She is not ready to accept its sale to a stranger.
‘Surely,’ she says, appealing to them all, ‘surely Mildred is making a mistake? She should keep her independence?’
As usual, Les Comfrey is the first with an opinion.
‘Independence is for the robust,’ he pronounces. ‘I know my psychology, Grace, and I’d say Mildred lacks the backbone for independence. But take me, now. Do you see me moving to the Wairarapa? You do not.’
They are all kind enough to respect Les’s pride. In fact they know how disappointed he is not to be invited to live with his daughter and son-in law. Living alone does not come naturally to him. When Les lost his wife, some years ago, he worked his way steadily round the single women in the bowls club, starting with Cynthia. The approach was always the same: a bunch of flowers from the garden, followed by an invitation to dinner at Les’s — Chinese takeaways. After dinner came the proposal that Cynthia, or Grace, or Mildred needed a man to do the heavy work, and that he, Les, was prepared to give up his independence to help a woman in need.
‘No,’ Les continues, ‘poor Mildred needs the comfort of her family.’
Grace is outraged on Mildred’s behalf, and says so. Shirley Chan extols the virtues of several generations under one roof. Cynthia upholds the case for independence, but is interrupted by her mother-in-law, who has finally caught the drift.
‘No Cynthia, you should be more independent,’ shouts old Mrs Peddie. ‘How many times have I told you? It’s time to strike out on your own! Make a life for yourself!’
The ninety-three-year-old, forgetting, perhaps, that she lives in Cynthia’s house, not her own, glares at the others. ‘Independence is a priceless jewel. At my age I expect a little privacy, but no! Cynthia clings on in the nest. Is this healthy?’ She shakes her head, vigorously, wrinkled old face alight with indignation. ‘No!’ she cries, ‘no!’
Old Mrs Peddie’s pronouncements tend to close down a topic.
Grace is the only person here with no family at all. For her, living with a younger generation can never be an option. She would like to revive the discussion, but feels exposed. Perhaps self-interest drives her concern for Mildred? And yet the uneasy fear that Mildred will simply fade again, without the familiar structure of life and friends here, persists. She sighs.
‘You haven’t mentioned Adam for a while, Grace,’ says Cynthia. ‘Did I hear he was in some sort of trouble?’
Grace smiles. ‘He was. But Mildred sorted it out. She knew someone and had a word.’
‘Who doesn’t she know.’ Shirley Chan has alw
ays admired Mildred’s connections. ‘I miss her. You could always rely on Mildred to have the latest news on everything.’
‘I saved her life, you know,’ shouts old Mrs Peddie. ‘The least Mildred could do is stick around till I snuff it. Tell her I miss her, Grace. That should do the trick!’
‘At least you’ve got the Friedmanns, Grace‚’ says Les. Everyone looks at him. Even taking Les into account, this is insensitive. ‘Well, from what I hear,’ says Les, defensive now, ‘Grace is quite a cosy member of the family. Eh, Grace?’
‘Not exactly, Les,’ says Grace quietly. There’s no use getting bothered about Les. ‘Martin and Sheila are upset with me, as you probably know. But I see Sally. She’s doing very well, now, at Drama School.’ There is pride in her voice.
‘No future in that,’ says Les. Jack and Shirley Chan agree.
‘Sally is imaginative and talented, Les,’ says Grace. ‘Making money isn’t everyone’s aim in life.’
Les Comfrey snorts. ‘Grace, Grace, I know what I’m saying. Who is happy without money? You’re comfortably off. Aren’t we all?’ He looks around in triumph. ‘Indeed we are. Indeed. I say acting is an unwise choice these days. I rest my case.’ Grace who knows that Les relies on vigour rather than reason to make a point, decides not to rise to the bait. ‘You do talk nonsense, Les,’ she says mildly. ‘Sally will make her mark.’
‘Would she be up to Shortland Street do you think? That pays well.’
Grace has something more intellectual in mind for Sally than soap opera — Shakespeare, Ibsen — but holds her peace.
‘Why not make up your own mind?’ she says. I’m getting up a block booking for her debut.’
This is an exciting idea. Cars and dates are agreed. Grace writes details in her notebook, smiling at her friends. Talk of the Friedmanns has restored her good humour. Adam and Sally, even Sheila, with their various needs, are taking root in Grace’s life. To champion Sally’s cause, to feel involved in her future, is a rare pleasure.
In Touch With Grace Page 12