Grace’s jaw firmed, her anger returning, a slow burn.
‘No, you’re right, I wasn’t here. But she lived with me for six months after she left. I listened to her crying every night. She wouldn’t eat, and it was me who watched her lose weight, and lose interest in living. I took her to A&E when she’d taken too many sleeping pills. I made sure she got to all her appointments with the shrink. So don’t tell me I don’t know anything.’
Tim’s mouth dropped open. ‘She tried to kill herself? Shit. Does Dad know?’
‘They haven’t spoken in eight years, Tim. Mum wrote to him, right from when she left, but her letters were returned, unopened. Every last one of them. In the end she stopped writing. And it wasn’t a suicide attempt … She got a bit muddled with her tablets and took too many.’
Grace’s anger drained away again, leaving her weary and beyond sad. ‘I’m not saying Mum was completely blameless. No one on the outside ever knows what really goes on inside a marriage. But I was here often enough after Luke died to see the way Dad was, to see how he treated her. She’d lost her son as well.’
‘Bloody hell, Grace, you think I don’t know that? In case you’ve forgotten, I was here for some of the time as well.’ With an angry kick Tim pushed over the fence dropper he’d tried to straighten minutes before. ‘I sure could use a drink,’ he said.
They looked at each other. ‘Shall we?’ Tim said. ‘I can say I want to catch up with a mate about footy stuff.’
‘Yeah, and I’ll say I want to see the photography exhibition at the gallery.’
‘You what?’
‘Never mind. We’ll meet at the hotel. Remind me why we need to make excuses? You’re thirty-five and I am forty-two, for God’s sake.’
‘We just do,’ Tim said, and they walked back to the house in silence.
Grace helped Faith with the dishes, and when her sister started making moves to take the children home, she collected Sarah’s parcels from her room.
‘These are for you, from your Grandma,’ she said to Amelia and Liam. Their eyes lit up. What kid didn’t like receiving a gift?
But before either child accepted one of the colourfully wrapped parcels, they looked to their mother, seeking her permission.
You could have cracked rocks on Faith’s countenance. Grace gritted her teeth. Doug looked up from the Sunday Mail spread out on the kitchen table. Tim’s gaze darted from one sister to the other, and back again.
‘Why does she keep doing this?’ Faith hissed. Liam and Amelia winced. Grace’s arms began to ache; the parcels of books were heavy, holding them out like she was.
‘She is their grandmother, Faith, whether you like it or not,’ Doug growled.
In unison, all three siblings’ attention swung to their father. Grace knew her mouth was open but she was powerless to close it. Faith’s eyes couldn’t have got any bigger, and Tim nodded slowly, his mouth an upside-down U.
‘Let them have the gifts, and be grateful for a change,’ Doug added, and went back to the paper.
Flustered, Faith hustled Liam and Amelia closer to Grace, and they accepted the parcels. ‘Thanks, Aunty Grace,’ they said, subdued.
‘You are so welcome,’ Grace said, choking up when they each gave her a hug. ‘Can I get a photo of you both, to show Grandma?’
Clutching their parcels Amelia and Liam posed for Grace while she took photos with her phone.
‘In the car,’ Faith said, the second Grace lowered the phone, her tone clipped. ‘You can open them when you get home.’
Grace and Tim’s eyes met across the kitchen in silent communication. The irony of it was that Faith had sounded so much like their mother, it was uncanny.
‘Don’t forget your dish,’ Grace said. She fetched the clean Pyrex dish and returned it to the bag Faith had brought the bread and butter pudding in.
The little family collected their belongings and they all trooped outside. There was a minor skirmish between Liam and Amelia about whose turn it was to sit in the front seat, and then they were gone, seen off by the dogs in a cloud of dust.
‘I’m gonna finish reading the paper, and then watch a bit of sport on telly,’ Doug declared, ambling back inside.
‘Grace and I are going to head into town, catch up with a couple of mates,’ Tim called. Doug didn’t so much as slow his pace, barely lifting a hand in acknowledgement.
‘That was easy,’ Grace said.
‘Hmm,’ Tim answered, his gaze following Doug until he’d disappeared from view.
‘I haven’t heard Dad reprimand Faith since we were kids, and even then it didn’t happen often. Is he okay?’
‘I was wondering the same thing myself. Probably going soft in his old age.’
‘And not a moment too soon. I’ll go freshen up and grab my bag. Make him a cup of tea. Whose car shall we take?’
‘Yours, and I’m driving. And Grace—’
She looked back over her shoulder, ‘Yeah?’
‘You’d better tell him soon.’
‘Tell him what?’
‘That you’re going overseas to live.’
‘You’re right, I know, I need to tell him,’ Grace said, shoulders sagging. It was going to be harder than she’d anticipated, and she couldn’t put it off for much longer.
5
Cars were lined up on both sides of the street outside the gallery, the tiny car park at the back was chock-a-block. The official opening of Walt Bancroft’s photography exhibition, entitled Beginnings and Endings, was in full swing. Grace had picked up a brochure advertising the event when she’d been in the gallery on Friday.
‘Drop me off here,’ she said to Tim. ‘I’ll walk down to the pub afterwards.’
‘You’re serious about going to this thing?’
‘Yeah, I suppose I am,’ she said, unclipping her seatbelt as he pulled up in a driveway. ‘From the brief look I had the other day, his photographs are amazing.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. And remember, you’re driving home.’
‘Of course I am,’ she muttered, closing the car door and walking across the street to the gallery.
Insinuating herself into a gap in the standing room at the rear, Grace was glad she’d taken time to fling a silk scarf around her shoulders and swipe on some lipstick.
When, standing on tiptoes, she finally glimpsed Walt Bancroft, she decided the picture in the local paper didn’t do the man justice.
He had to be at least twenty-five years Grace’s senior. Thick brown hair streaked with grey and lines etched into his tanned face added to his overall rugged attractiveness. And sure enough, not far from his side was Mel, the waitress from the cafe.
Grace had missed the actual opening, and now waitstaff ferried trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres about as folks mingled, admiring the artwork, and engaging with the artist and each other.
Grace nibbled on a square of toast topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon, and searched for a drink.
‘You came!’ said a husky voice at her elbow.
‘Carol, hello, I’m sorry I missed the official part. Before I forget, I told Mum I’d run into you and she sends her regards.’
‘She remembers me, then.’
‘She certainly does. You must be pleased with the turn-out.’ Grace wiped her fingers on a cocktail napkin.
‘We’re thrilled. And so is Walt. He’s sold several photos already.’ She latched on to Grace’s elbow. ‘Come, and I’ll introduce you, if I can peel Mel away from him for a moment.’
Grace couldn’t explain why, but as Carol led her through the milling crowd towards the artist, she became more and more nervous. And as she drew closer she felt the energy that vibrated from the man. She swallowed, totally getting Mel’s crush.
‘Walt,’ Carol said, voice raised, pushing Grace in front of her. ‘Meet Grace Fairley. Local girl made good. A bunch of university qualifications, and now she works for an international bank.’
‘How do you know that?’ Grace said. Carol tapped the s
ide of her nose, and winked at Walt.
He extended his hand, enveloping Grace’s in a warm, firm handshake. ‘Nice to meet you, Grace Fairley.’ Where his hand was rough, his voice was smooth; a velvety baritone.
‘What brings you here? Miners Ridge is a long way from the corporate world of banking.’
‘Visiting family … I was born here, in the local hospital actually, lived on a farm until I went to boarding school at the ripe old age of twelve. I love what I’ve seen of your photographs,’ she said, gushing like a fan girl, and then wishing she could cut out her own tongue. She was forty-two, not sixteen, and she’d barely glanced at the photographs.
Walt’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I never tire of the country around here. Or people saying nice things about my photographs. There’s always something waiting to be captured in time.’
‘I told you his photos were awesome,’ Mel said, hanging on his every word.
‘Mel, why don’t you go give your mother a hand in the kitchen. Give Walt some air.’
‘Carol!’ Mel blushed, her face turning as red as her hair.
Walt laughed. ‘She’s all right, Carol. Keeps me on track.’
Carol rolled her eyes, reclaiming Grace’s elbow. ‘Let’s go and find a glass of wine.’
The crowd had thinned. They found wine and Grace took a grateful gulp. Carol introduced her to several other gallery volunteers.
‘You should join,’ one very elderly volunteer named Bernadette said, cake crumbs at the corners of her mouth. ‘We always need more volunteers, don’t we Carol.’
‘Oh, I’m only here visiting family,’ Grace said quickly. Carol swapped her empty wineglass for a full one. Grace blinked. Had she already emptied the first?
‘Do you know anything about websites and the likes?’ Bernadette continued. ‘We could always use some help in that area.’
‘I’m not around for long, only a few more days,’ Grace persisted, but it was as if Bernadette couldn’t hear her. One of the volunteers, a serious younger woman named Laurie, looked away. Carol had melted into the crowd.
‘And the committee needs new members, especially since the treasurer and his wife upped and left. Graham was a retired accountant, or so he told us, but I always had my doubts, and then there was the money that—’
‘Bernie,’ Laurie cut in. ‘Weren’t you going to help wash the wineglasses? We have to take them back to the hotel.’
Bernadette stared at her. ‘The wineglasses,’ Laurie repeated, and the older woman bobbed her head and left. ‘Bernie’s one of our most committed volunteers,’ she said, ‘but sometimes she forgets who she’s talking to.’
‘That’s okay,’ Grace replied. ‘That you’ve managed to get an art gallery up and going in Miners Ridge is amazing.’
‘Thanks,’ Laurie said, beaming. ‘We’re proud of it, and all donations are greatly appreciated.’ She held out her hand for Grace’s empty glass.
Grace handed it over, bemused that her second glass of wine had disappeared as fast as the first. She’d be on the lemon, lime and bitters at the hotel.
Grace strolled around the exhibition, made a donation, and bought a framed photo of a gorgeous wisteria vine in flower, which would be shipped in a month when the exhibition finished. Her mother would love it.
‘Your cheeks are red,’ Tim said when Grace perched on the bar stool beside him, twenty minutes later.
‘I might have had a glass of wine or two,’ she said, ordering a soft drink when the barman came. Then she noticed the half-drunk schooner on the bar in front of her. ‘Oh, there’s someone sitting here.’
‘Aaron. He’s taking a leak.’
‘Needed to know that,’ Grace said to herself, shuffling up one stool.
‘So,’ Aaron said, sauntering back into the bar and giving Grace the once-over. ‘I hear you’ve been taking in some of the local culture. Bet they were all there in their moleskins and RMs, sipping sav blanc and boutique beer.’
Tim snickered.
‘Cabernet sauvignon, actually, and hello to you too, Aaron Halliday,’ Grace said, giving him the same comprehensive once-over he’d given her. She had to admit, he looked good in snug denim jeans, and his biceps bulged underneath the sleeves of a snowy white T-shirt.
‘Walt Bancroft’s a nice bloke,’ Aaron said. ‘He lives in the amazing old house on the outskirts of town.’
‘I’m no expert but I’d say he’s a talented photographer. Have you been to the exhibition?’
Aaron, elbows propped on the bar, took a long sip of his beer before answering.
‘Nope,’ he said, licking the foam off his top lip. ‘I do his garden, general maintenance and whatever else comes up.’
‘Do his garden?’
Aaron glanced sideways at Grace, face expressionless. ‘Mow his lawns, pull his weeds, prune his rose bushes. It’s what I do, gardening, landscaping, general home maintenance, and small building jobs. You’d have someone that does that stuff at your place.’
‘You’d be wrong. But then my garden would fit on a postage stamp,’ Grace said.
Aaron’s work explained his sun-bleached hair and tan, and the tools she’d noticed in the back of his ute the night he’d taken her home. Not to forget the pristine state of his garden.
‘Working outdoors all the time, that’d be nice,’ Grace said, half to herself, imagining long, sunny days mowing and pruning.
‘Can be. Summer gets pretty damn hot, and the wet and cold in winter can be a bit tedious, but I survive.’
‘Go again?’ Tim said, holding up his empty glass.
‘Why the hell not?’ No sooner were the words out Aaron’s mouth and the barman appeared. ‘You want more of whatever it is you’re drinking?’ he said, and Grace shook her head.
With fresh drinks in front of them, Aaron turned to Grace. ‘What exactly do you do? I know you work for a bank. Not the most popular organisations these days, what with the royal commission and all.’
‘I work for an investment bank.’
‘She goes to meetings, drinks coffee and schmoozes clients over long boozy lunches,’ Tim said, lips curling.
Aaron elbowed him in the ribs.
‘What?’ Tim said, eyes wide.
Grace ignored him. She was used to snide remarks from Tim about her job and her life.
‘I’m a senior financial analyst,’ she said. ‘My role is scrutinising and selecting suitable funds for investors to invest in.’
‘It’d be a man’s world, I’d imagine.’
‘It is. But gradually more women are pursuing careers in business and finance.’
‘How’d you end up in a career like that? It’s a long way from the farm gate.’
‘The father of one of the girls I went to school with worked for an international bank in Adelaide. He organised for both of us to do work experience there back when we were teenagers. She hated it. I loved it even then. I guess that’s where it all started.’
‘Tim said you’re going to London to work.’
‘I am. I was offered the transfer, and I would have been crazy not to take it.’ She beamed suddenly, powerless to stop the anticipation bubbling up inside her. ‘Paris for the weekend! Berlin, Amsterdam, Barcelona, all a stone’s throw away.’
‘Wow, with that in the offing you would have been crazy not to accept the transfer. Not everyone gets an opportunity like that handed to them.’
‘These things aren’t handed to you, Aaron,’ Grace said, stabbing at the ice in her drink with the straw. ‘I work damned hard for it. In the early days when my colleagues were out drinking, I was at lectures or doing assignments, and I’ve been working my backside off ever since. You have to be exceptionally hardworking and good at what you do to succeed in a man’s world.’
Glass midway between the bar and his mouth, Aaron paused, and then said, ‘Point taken. You would have earned it.’
‘And don’t worry, I’ll keep on earning it. In reality, the weekends in Paris will be f
ew and far between, because I’ll be too busy working sixteen-hour days, six days a week.’
Tim leaned forward, brow furrowed. ‘Aww, and all that for a six-figure salary. Give me a sec and I’ll get out my violin,’ he said.
‘So when do you actually leave?’ Aaron asked.
‘At the end of this month.’
Tim grunted. Aaron, sandwiched between the two siblings, glanced from one to the other. ‘Now’s the time to say how much you’re going to miss each other,’ he said brightly.
‘I hardly ever see her, so what’s there to miss?’
Grace stared into her drink. The buzz from the two glasses of red had completely worn off. ‘It’s the same distance from Miners Ridge to Adelaide as it is from Adelaide to Miners Ridge.’
Aaron turned sideways and studied her. ‘So how often does this sorry bastard visit you?’
‘Butt out, Aaron,’ Tim said.
Grace sucked up the rest of her drink.
‘I think I’ll go,’ she said, pushing herself off the stool. ‘Ring me when you’re ready, Tim, and I’ll come back in and pick you up.’
Tim didn’t answer, staring moodily into his beer. She scooped up her car keys from where he’d dropped them on the bar.
‘Bye, Aaron,’ she said. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Yeah, Grace, nice to see you again too. Best of luck with it all. Enjoy those weekends in Paris.’ He smiled, and suddenly she wanted to stay. Her eyes darted to her brother’s sullen profile and she knew she wouldn’t.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and before she could change her mind, she left. But not before she heard him say, ‘You know what, Fairley? Sometimes you are an effing knob.’ She didn’t slow down to hear her brother’s reply.
Grace was at her car when she heard her name called. Across the bonnets of the other vehicles in the car park she watched Aaron jog towards her.
‘I wanted to apologise,’ he said, when he arrived at her car.
‘For what?’
‘I shouldn’t have poked my nose into family stuff.’
When Grace Went Away Page 4