by Liz Byrski
ELEVEN
‘So, tell me all about it,’ Grace said, staring with distaste at the canteen’s minestrone soup. ‘Was it wonderful?’
‘Heaven,’ Denise said. ‘Absolute heaven! Honestly, Grace, Bali was just what I needed. Even a couple of weeks with my motherin-law seemed like fun after that. I’m a new woman.’
‘I rather liked the old one.’ Grace grinned. ‘You certainly look well. The tan is very flattering.’
‘I know, but the extra kilos aren’t. Too much Balinese ice cream and Mum-in-law’s carrot cake! But honestly, Grace, you should take a break too.’
‘I’m going to,’ Grace said, starting on the soup with caution. ‘Oh, this minestrone is actually not too bad.’
‘Ah! Do I see a couple of weeks in Kyoto coming up?’
‘Uh-uh! No! I’m heading for your old stomping ground.’
‘Not England?’
Grace nodded.
‘Where?’
‘East Grinstead. D’you know it?’
‘East Grinstead? Of course I do, I grew up near there. Whatever would you go there for? It’s not a holiday place, you know; just a country town, and not a very exciting one.’
‘Actually, it has three martyrs, executed by the infamous Judge Jeffries, after whom Judge’s Terrace off the High Street is named – but I expect you know all that.’
‘Yes, I do actually,’ said Denise, who had dropped her spoon. ‘East Grinstead certainly has its own charm but not enough to justify taking a holiday there. Whatever is this about?’
Grace reached into her bag, pulled out a leaflet and held it up. ‘The International Society of Quilters and Embroiderers is having its first-ever exhibition of patchwork quilts from sixteen different countries.’ She picked up her glasses and began to read aloud from the brochure. ‘“Patchwork and quilting enthusiasts from around the world will gather for a seven-day working retreat to assemble a quilt to symbolise international friendship and understanding. This quilt will be hung in the main auditorium of the United Nations Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission in Geneva.” Your soup’s getting cold.’
‘In East Grinstead?’
‘Mmm. Well, nearby – a place called Copthorne. There’s some great hotel and conference centre there.’
‘I know where you mean,’ said Denise in amazement. ‘Well, good for you. I never thought I’d see you take a real holiday. Of course, you’re very interested in all that quilting and stuff. So you’re going to do the seven days? I suppose that means you’ll be away a couple of weeks at least?’
‘Three months!’
‘Three months,’ Denise repeated. ‘You’ve never taken more than two weeks off in all the time I’ve worked for you, and then you said it was too long.’
‘Times change,’ Grace said, patting her lips with her napkin and pushing the empty soup bowl aside. ‘I think I need a break.’
‘I’m sure you do. It’s just so amazing, though. And is this the right thing, Grace? I mean, East Grinstead is not the most riveting place. Why don’t you go and visit Tim and Angela – don’t you want to see Emily?’
Grace leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘Of course, but they haven’t been there long and, anyway, who wants a visit from their motherin-law? You weren’t all that enthusiastic about visiting yours. I think I should give them time to settle down. After East Grinstead I’m going to Brighton. That’s where my mum and dad met. He’d been sent to work in a parish in England for a year and he met Mum on the pier where she was selling souvenirs. I’ve never seen it, never been to England. Now I’m going.’
‘Brighton is noisy, crowded and has a terrible stony beach. There are some lovely antique shops and some good restaurants, but you won’t like it.’
‘I don’t have to like it.’ Grace smiled carefully. ‘I just have to go.’
Grace wished she felt as confident as she thought she sounded. It had been a hasty decision, taken in a state of panic and she secretly felt it was a rather shabby effort. It lacked the elements of risk and drama inherent in Isabel’s European marathon; the planned, provident and artistic virtue of Sally’s sabbatical to study in California; and the simple, practical and healing purpose of Robin’s retreat into solitude in the southwest. Indeed, it had no deep sense of purpose at all, no hero’s journey, no element of the search for meaning. It was just an extended holiday. But to Grace, who thought a long weekend in Margaret River was stretching the boundaries, it also seemed dangerously long and self-indulgent.
Other people had always been able to get up and go with ease, Ron to work up north, her brother to do a spell of government service in the Antarctic, and even her father had gone away from time to time to work on a remote mission or station. Nurses with whom she had worked had come and gone over the years – her peers had trekked to London in the sixties, and in the eighties they went on short-or long-term health consultant contracts to Vietnam, PNG and Indonesia. Grace had had many opportunities but had always declined. She was needed here at home, she had responsibilities. She must keep the network of needy relatives, emotionally dependent friends and essential work contacts alive and throbbing. To say that Grace saw herself as a leader of the pack would imply a hubris that was not part of her nature. But she did see herself as a life-support system. Now, in a matter of months, the patients had all unhooked themselves from the system and discharged themselves from her care and, to cap it all, the midwifery training, her favourite project, had been removed from her jurisdiction.
The brochure had arrived in the mail the same day as the email from Robin. Grace had been waiting for her call for help, the call she was sure would come when Robin, with only the seagulls for company, would need her. She had anticipated taking some time off to prop Robin up and build on the fledgling relationship that had developed over the last three months. A remote cottage on a windy headland was not her ideal choice of location but she was ready, willing and eager to respond to the call. Robin’s affectionate but detached message with its tone of self-containment had stunned her.
The pictures in the brochure were seductive. It was the obsessive, meticulous orderliness of the patchwork that she loved, so predictable and reassuring. And the quilts lasted through generations, telling stories, holding secrets; the tradition of a group of women working together was a symbol of connectedness that appealed to her. She stared at the brochure, at the pictures of the quilts, at the pleasant-looking conference centre and the pale chintzes in the hotel rooms. She read about the nearest town and its history and, when she looked on a map of southeast England, she noticed its proximity to Brighton. She called a couple of other society members in other states and discovered that two women were going from Australia but no one else from the west. She could make a Western Australian section for the quilt and take it with her.
It was the money that was the problem. She checked her bank and credit card statements on the Internet and broke into a sweat at the figures, wondering how she could have spent so much in the last month, trying to remember what those sums were, several at David Jones, one at Oroton, two at Laura Ashley and a couple she didn’t even recognise until she had stared at them for a while. So much for savings. She’d never been good at it and neither had Ron. They’d both gone blithely on enjoying life, spending what they earned, not worrying about the future. Then he’d become ill and stopped earning, and she’d taken a year off. It had all taken its toll. She printed off the statements and stared at them again and then at the retreat brochure. Then she tore up the statements, picked up the phone and by the end of the day it was booked. The people in human resources breathed sighs of relief that Grace was finally going to use some of her accrued leave.
‘You know, Brighton’s not that far from Southampton,’ Denise said as they made their way back to the office. ‘You could pop on a ferry and go see your friend Isabel. Isn’t she in Spain or France right now?’
Grace flushed, as though she had been discovered planning a crime. Isabel’s proximity had not esca
ped her attention. Robin’s mention of the call and the letter from Isabel indicated that she might be glad of a bit of support, although the suggestion would have to come from her. ‘Yes, but she’s on a sort of lone journey, you know. I don’t think she’ll want visitors.’
‘Hmm. She’s probably getting pretty sick of it by now. You two could live it up on red wine and shellfish, and the French make the best coffee and croissants in the world,’ Denise said, slipping out of her jacket. ‘Wouldn’t she think it a bit odd if you were so near and didn’t pop over to see her?’
Grace shrugged. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘And it depends what the dollar’s doing. France is so expensive.’ And she thought guiltily of the French francs she had ordered from the bank that morning – just in case Isabel needed her.
Leaving Australia was difficult, but the prospect of staying put was worse. Being scared and alone among strangers in another country suddenly seemed a lesser evil than feeling scared and alone at home surrounded by people she knew. By day she burned her nervous energy putting everything in the office into the most meticulous order. Colour-coded labels indicated the crucial sections of reports and projects, and every file had a brief status report or resume attached to it. Denise’s desk was piled with instructions and reminder messages. Grace’s itinerary, which listed her movements down to the finest detail, with every possible telephone number and map reference, was fixed to the office whiteboard.
At night she worked a section for the quilt and made a master plan for her luggage. She knew exactly how many pairs of knickers she had packed, what colour they were and in which corner of which bag. She assembled a travelling medicine kit equipped to meet every possible eventuality, as though such simple over-the-counter remedies might not be available in England. As she packed the herbal tea bags she did realise that chamomile and peppermint could probably be found in East Grinstead and Brighton, but it seemed a good idea to have them – just in case. And the cleaning cloths and scourers? Well, the furnished flat she had rented for ten weeks in Brighton might just not be spotless. One thing Grace couldn’t stand was a dirty sink or dishcloth, and this way she wouldn’t have to tolerate even five minutes of an unsavoury sink. Everything was meticulously organised – only her financial situation and her emotions were in chaos.
‘Take some Valium or something, for goodness’ sake,’ Denise said as she walked with her to the departure gate. ‘One won’t hurt you, then you can relax on the flight. I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve been abroad, Grace. You’re such a sophisticated person.’
Grace thought she might throw up in the potted palm that stood in a stainless steel cylinder near the entrance to the coffee shop. The first time and probably the last,’ she murmured, grasping Denise’s arm. ‘Are you sure you’re clear about everything? The nurse practitioner program is the most important –’
‘Grace, it’s all right. If there’s anything I’m in doubt about I’ll call you. Now get through that gate and relax. Have a wonderful time. You’re supposed to be enjoying this. It’s a holiday, not an assault course.’
The hotel was a single-storey sandstone building, cunningly designed in a series of semicircles incorporating small courtyards filled with tubs of white geraniums, yellow pansies and blue lobelia. Alongside it the conference centre contained a pleasant main auditorium with, to Grace’s relief, plenty of natural light and windows that could actually be opened, and a grand piano. Beyond it a small, elegantly designed gallery, carefully lit and with long narrow windows set into the slope of the ceiling, stood awaiting the arrival of the next exhibition.
Grace stood at the window of her room looking out at the tubs of flowers, and feeling an intense sense of relief that it all appeared so ordinary and familiar. She had made an overnight stop in Hong Kong, taking Denise’s advice to break the long journey, and had immediately called the office to check that everything was okay. Denise had gently pointed out that she had only been gone for twelve hours and everything was just as she had left it.
She gazed at the geraniums wondering about this word ‘retreat’; what it really meant. The book that Robin had lent her implied it meant being alone in order to make some sort of spiritual journey. But here she was about to spend a seven-day retreat with a crowd of strangers. Grace was not really sure what a spiritual journey was. She was a minister’s daughter, so Bible readings, daily prayers and regular church attendance were part of her childhood and adolescence, but talk of spirituality confused her. Religion had always seemed to be about rules, morality and paying homage to a rather vengeful God. How did you build a spiritual life based on that, or indeed totally divorced from it as some people claimed? What was spirituality, anyway? What did people mean by having an inner life? She wished there was someone she could ask without feeling ridiculous. She’d almost asked Sally that last time after yoga, but then she’d chickened out. Did other women her age have this sort of spiritual black hole or was she just out of touch, locked in her old cautious, conservative, unquestioning ways?
Sighing, she slid open the glass door and stepped outside. It was September and the air was mild and soft. In the distance, beyond the boundaries of the hotel complex, cows grazed peacefully in a field full of daises, somewhere a clock chimed four, and Grace was enchanted with the idea that she was in England and it was four o’clock and time for afternoon tea. Closing the door she set off in search of the lounge, where she thought she might be able to order scones with jam and cream, send a postcard to Isabel and organise a rental car. The anxiety of the journey was lifting and she began to feel the first little quiver of enjoyment, even an unfamiliar sense of adventure.
It was on that first afternoon in England, as she sat in a sunlit corner of the hotel lounge with a pot of tea on the low table beside her, that Grace first laid eyes on Vivienne Hart. The lounge was an open area off the hotel foyer and as she looked up from her map of the area she saw an imposing woman with thick grey hair wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. ‘I’d like them all taken through to the exhibition room now!’ the woman said, leaning on the reception desk and waving her aluminium walking stick towards a pile of canvas containers. ‘And we’ll need to check the temperature in that room, and the light, before they’re unpacked. Some of these exhibits are very old and valuable.’
Clearly the exhibition and its curator had arrived, and Grace watched as the hotel’s two porters lifted the flat packs onto a large two-tier trolley. ‘Over here, Gary, over here,’ the woman called, and a slim young man dressed entirely in black and with one gold earring materialised beside her.
‘Okay, Viv, okay,’ he said, stroking her arm. ‘Everything’s under control. Nothing will be unpacked until we’ve checked the environment. I’ve got all the hanging arrangements in hand, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.’
Vivienne was wearing black silk pants and a loose, flowing silk top in a dramatic pattern of scarlet and black, and on both wrists she wore chunky silver bracelets. She moved awkwardly, as though in pain and unaccustomed to the stick. Occasionally she seemed to forget she needed it and when she gesticulated with it, she swayed perilously.
‘I think we’d better get you off your feet,’ Gary said, tucking his hand under the elbow of her stick-free arm. ‘Once we get through there I’ll find you a seat and you can sit and give orders like the Queen Mum!’
‘Pity I forgot my ostrich plumes and white gloves,’ Vivienne responded with a laugh. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem to roll up a bottle of gin, though!’ They disappeared together down the walkway, the three-pronged base of Vivienne’s stick hitting the paving with uneven thuds.
Grace took the exhibition brochure from her bag and checked the small print on the back.
Vivienne Hart is the founder and immediate past president of the International Society of Quilters and Embroiderers, and the curator of this unique exhibition. Ms Hart is a textile designer and preservation consultant who has worked with museums and other fabric collections worldwide. Now retired, Vivienne H
art lives in Sussex and is involved in the organisation of many patchwork and quilting projects.
The exhibition will be hung by Gary Ducasse, of Ducasse, Hart Designs of 32 Emerald Square, Pimlico, London.
Grace took off her glasses and put the brochure back in her bag. Then she spent a careful few minutes composing a postcard to Isabel, at the Madrid address Doug had given her. She told her about the retreat, and gave her the address and the dates she would be in Brighton. Hopefully Isabel would jump at the chance for them to get together. She slipped it into the box at reception and set about the process of finding the best deal for a hire car.
There was no sign of Vivienne the next day, although as Grace drove out of the car park, she glimpsed Gary Ducasse directing deliveries to the gallery and looking rather harassed. Armed with a local map and some notes that Denise had given her, Grace drove to East Grinstead and stopped for coffee in a tiny café–bookshop along the Judge’s Terrace. The atmosphere was redolent of the forties and fifties. The small space enclosed by stained oak beams and low ceilings was stuffed with books, old prints and photographs of the town over the decades. Two women in twin-sets and tweed skirts whispered to each other behind the counter about various orders and discrepancies in the takings, and customers asked in hushed voices if they might be allowed to buy a book. Grace sipped her coffee, served in fine china with a small jug of cream at a wobbly table, and half expected Margaret Lockwood or Celia Johnson to appear from behind a bookshelf in a high-shouldered, tight-waisted suit, with a felt hat tilted on the side of her head at a jaunty angle. She sat for a long while by the mullioned window, gazing out at the stone engraved to the memory of the martyrs.