In Touch With Grace

by Jenny Pattrick

  Mildred has found a school acquaintance. Grace, marooned in the wheelchair, is free to watch the progress of Sally and her parents. Sally introduces them to the school director. This is a test. The flamboyant woman wears an outrageous orange gown. Her earrings — large bunches of something tropical — sway wildly. It is her glasses, though, that are particularly alarming. The director’s eyes are framed by two bright red, luscious lips, a hint of sharp white teeth poised above her eyelids, ready to snap.

  This will confirm all Martin and Sheila’s fear about theatre, thinks Grace. But the director, charming and warm, is talking animatedly. Sally begins to relax. The director introduces the trio to a respectable couple nearby. There is an awkward pause, then recognition, handshakes, explanations.

  Grace lets out a sigh of relief. The Friedmanns will stay now, she is sure. Sally bounces back to Grace.

  ‘Grace! You engineered all this, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh well, just a word …’

  ‘A word? It must have taken a Bible full of words to bring them.’ Sally laughs. ‘And guess what! They’ve just been introduced to an elder of the Wellington congregation! His son is a second-year. Both sets of parents are justifying their presence like mad.’ Sally mimics a serious middle-aged discussion. ‘“This is a school, after all, not a theatre, sir.” — “True, Martin, true. You have to interpret Christian doctrine according to the times.” What hypocrites!’

  ‘Now Sally …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be good. It’s great to see them. And you! You look wonderful!’ Sally’s eyes are full of love.

  ‘Good luck, my dear,’ says Grace.

  ‘Hey, never say that to an actor! It’s break a leg!’ Sally pats Grace’s plaster. ‘But you’ve done that for me. I should be okay.’ The tension is back in her voice, though.

  In the theatre, the audience watch Dick Seddon haranguing the masses, Te Puea planting potatoes at Turangawaewae, Minnie Dean waiting to be hanged for child murder. After Gladys Moncrieff, queen of musical comedy in the twenties, old Mrs Peddie rises from her wheelchair to congratulate the actor personally.

  ‘You had her just right, dear,’ she booms. ‘I was in the Diggers, you know,’ she explains to a delighted audience. ‘Just the chorus, of course. But I knew how to show a bit of ankle. I’ll give you a few tips, dear, after the show.’

  For a moment the solid, half-blind old lady is transformed. She inclines her head with surprising grace, floats an arm out to right and left, blows kisses. Then centre of gravity is lost. Les Comfrey and Cynthia dash out to prevent a crash, and the old pro is returned to the audience amid roars of approval.

  Sally performs last. In the darkness Mildred reaches across with a quick pat. Grace’s fingers are tightly laced. This boisterous, good-natured audience is not quite what she had imagined. She feels exposed. No one will find her life entertaining. Sally has made a mistake. Grace glances behind. Sheila gives her a tight little smile. Sally’s parents are on edge, too, Grace realises, doubting, perhaps, their daughter’s ability to handle such a crowd.

  The darkness is broken by a single spotlight. Sally, in Grace’s raincoat, is sitting, alone and silent, on an upturned box. Her feet are primly together, hands neat in her lap. The audience quietens. Slowly Sally looks up. Her eyes are fierce, direct. Grace hears Mildred gasp in recognition; then she is lost to anything but the small, brightly lit person on stage who is arguing a cause. The stage-Grace stands alone, intimidated, on a windy airport runway; she holds firmly to the truth before a belligerent crown prosecutor; there is a passionate plea for personal freedom. Grace and Mildred giggle like schoolgirls as Sally splits and becomes two women enjoying medicinal brandy in a cold car.

  Anguish at the loss of a daughter is hinted at, and the loneliness of old age. But the overriding impression is of an indomitable will; of a small, proper woman whose sense of dignity sometimes gets in the way of passion; of an independent spirit, determined at all costs to live a valuable life.

  Grace forgets she is watching herself. The performance is overwhelming. The audience smiles with Sally, laughs out loud, murmurs in agreement and, as the light fades, is finally moved to tears. The raincoated old woman holds the crowd for a moment longer, then it is suddenly Sally again and the audience is its own boisterous self.

  Amid cheers and whistles, Sally wheels Grace on stage.

  ‘No, no,’ says Grace, ‘it’s your performance not my deeds they’re cheering.’

  ‘You’re wrong there,’ says Sally. ‘It’s both. Come on, smile like a pro.’ And, holding Grace’s hand, she raises it in acknowledgement.

  Later, there is another round of applause, in another place, as Mildred emerges from her own kitchen bearing sausage rolls. The hardier members of Grace’s theatre party are rounding off the evening with supper at Mildred’s. The director of the Drama School, earrings swaying and flashing, had invited them all to the after-show party, but was clearly relieved when they declined. So was Sally, arm in arm with Felix, and high on success.

  ‘There’ll be loud music and dancing, Grace. You won’t hear a thing.’

  ‘I can’t hear a thing already, Sally. Congratulations, my dear. You made me feel proud — of myself and of you! You have a great talent.’

  ‘Do you think Mum and Dad thought so too?’

  ‘Oh yes. They must have recognised it. Everyone did. Just don’t expect too much. It was a big step for them to come at all.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Build on this, Sally. They’ve reached out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grace had sighed with frustration at Martin and Sheila’s cool congratulations; at Sally’s hurt, sharp response; at the way the couple had slipped away, before the director could speak to them. But it was a start, perhaps. In the meantime Grace will be needed.

  Mildred’s living-room is buzzing. Adam, pleased to be useful, hands round coffee. Mildred moves from person to person like royalty, receiving welcomes, bestowing sausage rolls. She is in her element, chatting, reminiscing, making sure Grace is comfortable.

  Yes, thinks Grace, I was right to push for her return.

  ‘Well,’ says Les Comfrey, ‘our little lass was the best, no doubt about that. I know a star when I see one, Grace.’

  ‘Rubbish, Les,’ booms old Mrs Peddie. ‘Grace has her points, but who can compete with our Gladys. Did I tell you about the time when I trod on Miss Moncrieff’s train, and it tore right off?’ Mrs Peddie is in high spirits tonight, too.

  As the story unfolds Grace is holding a silent conversation with Max. ‘Well, Max, my dear, I may not be able to unlock hearts like your granddaughter, but I have made progress, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not bad,’ says the ghost of Max, ‘for a crusty old recluse, not bad at all.’

  ‘Crusty recluse? Just because I value solitude …’

  ‘Grace, Grace. No backsliding, now …’

  ‘No chance of that, the way your family has invaded my life.’

  ‘Are you complaining?’

  ‘I am not, and you know it!’

  ‘I’m counting on you, Grace.’

  ‘All very well. Where are you when a bit of work is needed?’

  ‘Ah well …’

  ‘Max, my dear. Thank you so much.’

  At that moment a cry from Mildred brings the party to heel.

  ‘Cio-Cio’s back! Cio-Cio, you wretched puss! Where have you been?’ There is nothing but love in Mildred’s voice.

  Cio-Cio, fat and unrepentant, stalks into the room. Grace, immobilised, glares as the golden cat approaches, draws down to spring and lands heavily on her unwilling lap.

  Grace and Cio-Cio eye each other. In that silence just before decisions are made to leave, the room is filled with purring.

  Monday, 13th October 1994

  Dear Grace,

  As it was my suggestion, the bowls club have delegated to me the task of writing a little note of formal congratulations. I know my formalities, Grace, and this is a moment for well-deserv
ed recognition.

  It is not often that the life of one of our members is immortalised on the stage. Your life, Grace, may have been insignificant in the eyes of many, but even the humblest of us have made our contribution to the greater good.

  I well remember the time our local Chamber of Commerce took up my suggestion to instigate a special monthly rubbish collection for unwanted household items. The battles I fought to persuade my colleagues! Month after month I planned, presented case-studies, worked on rosters. The Les Comfrey Collection it was fondly known as, then. People have forgotten, these days, from whence came the inspiration. So be it. I need not tell you what a transformation that small suggestion has made in the lives of our community!

  But enough of my exploits. Your niece has seen fit to dramatise your simple but worthy life. And a fine presentation it was! The bowls club join me in offering our heartiest congratulation.

  Yours sincerely,

  Les Comfrey

  P.S. If Sally decides to tour the show, I would be happy to assist you with royalties negotiations. I know my contracts.

  13th October

  Dear Grace,

  I am quite sure that Les Comfrey will write you a load of pompous nonsense, but he insisted he was the one to write.

  In fact it was our idea — Mother’s and mine — to put on record our thanks and admiration.

  The evening out was splendid! Mother hasn’t stopped talking about it, and for once she is right. Your niece is marvellously talented, but it was you — your life — which shone. It has opened my eyes, Grace, and I thought I knew you well. What a skill a good actor has, to make us understand so much!

  We are all full of admiration for you both. Thank you for organising the theatre party.

  We all hope you will be back at bowls soon. Mother says would you like a lesson on the walking frame! She will add a postscript to this note. I hope you can read it.

  With love,

  Cynthia Peddie

  P.S. Grace, dear, this is Mrs Peddie Senior, in person, pen in hand. I told everyone at bowls we must write a note to you.

  That was real theatre and I should know! Bravo! Strong content, spirited delivery. I am proud to see stars of the Music Hall era given their proper due. Gladys would have been in tears, I’m sure. Your niece shows talent too, but of course she did not display her dancing prowess. Perhaps she is in need of private tuition? Send her to me.

  I have joined the Friends of the Drama School and will offer them my services as a tutor. The time is ripe for a comeback!

  Do not laugh. I am perfectly aware my dancing days are over. The days of Variety Theatre are not! Mark my words. My expertise is needed before it goes down with me. Who knows how much longer I can hold on? Do use your influence, my dear.

  I would like to be informed if you are planning another protest march. It is important we all do our bit.

  On with the fight!

  Yours sincerely,

  Evangeline Peddie (Mrs)

  13th October

  Dear Grace,

  Les offered to write, but as senior man in the bowls club, I feel it is my proper duty.

  Thank you so much for organising the theatre party. Shirley and I enjoyed the evening. It was a first for us, and we would like to be included again. I would be happy to assist with planning a future event.

  It must be so hard to allow one’s private life in public like that. Especially such a shameful occurrence as conviction in law. We are impressed with your foolhardy courage.

  Our Chinese culture is so different and we must make allowances, I know, but we cannot help to feel uneasy that you have persuaded Mildred to return. To us her family’s loss is great.

  Never mind! To each his views. No doubt this will be subject for discussion again at bowls’. My wife has learnt your way of argument and the subjects you raise become much-repeated weekly topics. It keeps us young and surprises our children!

  All the best with your leg. You are a strong woman.

  With kind regards,

  Jack and Shirley Chan

  13th October

  Dear Grace,

  Martin and I are sorry we did not have a chance to speak to you after the performance. We were anxious to get on the road.

  The evening was painful in so many ways. However suffering is not new to us, and we do not regret attending.

  That Sally should choose to dramatise the life of a stranger, when there are many shining examples within her family and Church circles is hard to understand, or bear. Martin says we must accept it; that she is going through a period of rejecting the values we taught her to respect.

  I am afraid that this is more than a phase. Artistic freedom, the wayward self, inherited from their grandfather, Max, has been too strong. My children are lost.

  We do recognise that Sally has talent. At least she used clean language. The student portraying that dreadful murderer was quite shameless. It was not easy to remain seated in the face of such evil. Whatever induced the girl to portray such a monster? I simply closed my eyes and prayed for it to end.

  We both felt Sally was easily the most talented. We can only trust she will exercise proper judgement in choosing future roles.

  It was at least heartening to see her healthy and happy. Thank you for insisting we make the effort. Would you let us know of future performances by Sally? Perhaps you could furnish an outline of the story and the character she inhabits, so that we can make our own decision about suitability.

  Yours in Christ,

  Sheila Friedmann

  Postscript

  On the footpath, next to the park, two women are standing. Silhouetted against the morning sun, they could be mother and child, but both are, in fact, in their eighties. One, in plaid skirt and teal jumper, makes more of a statement as she stands; is more solidly rooted to the ground. Her hand is raised in regal acknowledgement. The other, tiny and birdlike, leaning on crutches, simply smiles. Their attention is on a shuttle taxi as it pulls away. The tinted glass hides whoever is inside: one or a crowd. Perky, blue and white like Grace’s border, the taxi rounds the corner, brings its bouncing trailer into line and is gone.

  ‘A nice enough lad,’ says Mildred. It is more of a question.

  ‘Nice enough,’ agrees Grace. And after a pause: ‘He would like to have stayed longer.’

  The larger woman smiles and picks up a gardening fork.

  ‘It seems a pity to break up these polys,’ she says. ‘Are you sure, Grace? They will still flower for a month.’

  ‘One or two won’t be missed, Mildred, they’re so vigorous. The white will look good against your fence. Goodness knows your frontage needs urgent repair, you’re back in the nick of time. But wait a bit,’ Grace adds, ‘we’ll have a cup of coffee first. You can inspect my new kettle. Adam has given me one that turns itself off.’ She laughs, remembering something.

  Later, in Grace’s sunny porch, Mildred expands on her subject.

  ‘I do think you are wise to keep Adam at a distance, Grace. The younger generation are all very well in their place, but a little goes a long way, don’t you think? Judith is still on at me to shift to Christchurch, but I’ve made up my mind. Their lives are too rackety for me. I like a bit of space around the day.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Grace.

  ‘And Cio-Cio doesn’t like change.’

  Mildred shifts a little stool and gently levers Grace’s damaged leg onto it. She pats the plaster as if acknowledging a friend.

  Grace smiles. Today the crinkles round her eyes curve upwards; there’s energy in her voice.

  ‘Well Mildred, you’re right, of course, but I hardly think the wishes of a cat should sway you.’

  This is an old argument which both women pursue with pleasure.

  ‘Adam,’ says Grace, returning later to the subject in hand, ‘would like to bury himself here and look after two old ladies. That may solve some of his problems. Even some of ours. But it would create others.’

  ‘Well for one thing, Grace,
how long will we last?’

  ‘And for another, Mildred, to be honest I find him a little heavy-going. Of course I wouldn’t say so.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He’s welcome to visit now and then. And we’ll keep up the letters.’

  ‘I take my hat off to you, Grace. I feared you were going overboard again.’

  Mildred sips her coffee. She looks into the distance. Her illness shows now only as a shadow under eyes that are steady and warm.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ she says, ‘how few of that generation can hold their end up in a good conversation? Judith is the same. They simply dry up before you’ve got into the swing. I put it down to the fifties. A drab decade. The grandchildren, now, they grew up in the seventies; it softened them. I don’t care what you say, Grace, they’ll be able to keep a good chat going. When they’ve a few more years under their belts, of course.’

  Grace is doubtful. ‘But will they have the background, Mildred? The depth? I can’t hold out much hope.’

  The argument moves back and forth. Points are scored, decades examined, agreement finally, comfortably, reached.

  Out in the sun again, Grace and Mildred bend over the garden, ready now, in their own good time, to divide the polyanthus.

  About the Author

  Jenny Pattrick is a writer and jeweller who lives in Wellington, New Zealand. She has written fiction and commentary for radio and, with her musician husband, Laughton, songs and musical shows for children. Her three previous novels, The Denniston Rose, Heart of Coal and Catching the Current, are all New Zealand bestsellers.