‘And that dump really was your family home?’
Vanessa smiled coldly at Sarah before answering. ‘Unlike you Ms Harris, I take great pride in my family and the way I was raised. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you turned your nose up at the house. Oh yes, we’ve traced your background, and we know you were a scholarship student and those rich girls at Northill Grammar made your life hell. But that doesn’t give you the right to steal.’
Sarah had honestly never considered what she did to be stealing. Rich people would not miss a pair of cufflinks here, a diamond necklace there, stray cash and the odd digital camera. Or so she’d thought. People were always so distracted on their daughter’s wedding day that the photographer had access to anywhere in the house and Sarah was always amazed at just what was left lying around.
Detective Arthur spoke again. ‘We’ve traced your little spree back four years and we’ve been close to catching you a couple of times, but getting your prints at the Morrison house and the footage from the hidden camera in the shed finally nailed you.’
‘I’m surprised the fifty dollar notes weren’t marked,’ Sarah muttered.
‘Well, they were actually,’ Detective Arthur admitted. ‘But you left such a convincing trail of evidence we didn’t really need them after all.’
‘I hope you’ve got a secondary career to fall back on,’ Vanessa said.
‘Huh?’
‘Oh come on Ms Harris, don’t play dumb. As talented as you are, I’m afraid you’re finished in the photography business.’
In the end Sarah escaped a jail term, but was ordered to complete five hundred hours of community service and to make financial restitution to those she had stolen from. It was unfortunate that her case got so much publicity, because it ensured that, as Vanessa had so kindly pointed out, she was finished as a photographer.
Despite all she had been through over the months that had passed since her arrest, Sarah was grateful that the police investigation had not uncovered her other little side venture. Although she had been ordered to return all negatives and digital photograph DVDs to the brides she had stolen from, they hadn’t said anything about the backup copies she kept in a self-storage shed.
As she packaged up another set of wedding photos she had sold at black market rates to a bridal magazine in the ever expanding Chinese market, Sarah couldn’t help but smile.
# # # # #
Edith’s eyes were wide when Grace finished reading.
‘Sarah was a piece of work, wasn’t she?’ Grace began. ‘She was so focused on outward appearances.’
Edith gave a slow nod.
‘Yeah, she definitely was, but in a weird way I kind of understood her.’
Edith’s expression changed enough for Grace to know she was asking her to elaborate. She had never realised before just how much you could communicate non-verbally.
‘I’m not saying I agreed with what she did, I just meant when Vanessa made that comment about her being a scholarship girl I could sort of see how she ended up like that.’
Edith glanced at Grace curiously, studying her face intently. Grace could feel the flush spreading over her face and neck and travelling down her arms. She shook her head. ‘Forget it,’ she mumbled, ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’
That intense look again and a tiny shake of Edith’s head. Despite her discomfort Grace felt it would be rude not to keep talking and took a second to gather her thoughts.
‘Well a scholarship sounds like a great thing. I mean it gives a person an opportunity to do something that would otherwise be beyond their grasp. But sometimes … well, sometimes other people don’t like it.’
Edith was still looking at her.
‘It shouldn’t matter but in some places it does,’ Grace said. ‘Or so I’ve heard,’ she added quietly.
Edith nodded again and gave an expression that Grace couldn’t quite decipher. Not wanting to take the topic any further, Grace changed tack. ‘I think it’s time to move on to theme and setting,’ she murmured, picking up the book again and avoiding Edith’s gaze as she did so.
Grace heard it as soon as she entered the hallway from Edith’s room. It was faint but unmistakable – piano music. She hadn’t noticed a piano either time she’d come in but clearly there was one somewhere on the premises. It got louder as she sped towards the exit, desperate to leave before the beauty of the melody found a chink in her armour and enticed her to stop and absorb the music.
Although Grace did her best not to listen, her brain betrayed her, feeding her signals about what she was hearing. The pianist was clearly an amateur, missing the b flat on the base chords and was too heavy on the pedal, but for the purpose of entertaining elderly folk in a nursing home it was good music. The piano was one of those compact upright ones and it badly needed a tune, but Grace guessed it probably wasn’t high on the priority list when so many other things needed to be done on a day-to-day basis.
Grace hadn’t realised she was standing still until the maintenance man appeared in front of her, lugging a huge floor polishing machine. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he leant over and plugged it in, ‘this will block out the music. You can go down to the rec room and listen if you like.’
‘It’s all right,’ Grace assured him, ‘I really have to go.’ Not caring how strange she looked, she ran down the hallway and out the nearest door.
* * * * *
Leaving her home and all that was familiar to her had been a wrench but Grace had embraced the opportunity to attend her final year of high school at the exclusive Strauss Musical Academy. Being there as a result of the generosity of others she was ever mindful that she needed to be the best she could possibly be to pay them back for their belief in her.
As nervous as she was, Grace was determined to make the most of every advantage the exclusive musical academy offered. Coming in so late in her schooling she knew it would be difficult to fit in and had even decided she could make it through the year without friends if the other kids didn’t accept a small town country girl crashing their scene.
In reality it had turned out much better than expected. Grace made friends easily and didn’t feel like an outsider for long. Having a car, and such a nice new one at that, gave her status. And by wearing the same uniform as everybody else, nobody had to know that she could not afford the designer labels the other girls wore off campus.
She had feared resentment going straight in as the lead pianist but soon realised that her talent as a pianist was why she had been accepted into the academy in the first place. The previous girl had withdrawn unexpectedly and they needed somebody of the same calibre – or even better if what her tutor told her was true – to fill her shoes and maintain the integrity of their orchestra.
Best of all though Grace just loved being around people who loved music as much as she did.
Grace loathed being late. She hated the idea of people waiting expectantly and disappointing them by not showing up at an agreed time. So even though her lack of punctuality on her third visit was caused by road works on the access road and was not actually her fault she still felt guilty as she rushed through the complex. Hoping Edith wouldn’t be upset she hurried through the east wing and skidded to a halt outside Room 46.
After opening the door and bustling inside in a way that was very out of character for her, Grace stopped short at what greeted her. Shocked she shook her head to clear her vision to determine if the scene before her was real or imagined.
Edith’s hair (or was it a wig? Grace still wasn’t sure) was piled on top of her head and pinned in an elaborate arrangement, with soft curls unravelling down over her shoulders. Her makeup was bold today, darker than she normally wore it and her nails were blood red. Rather than her bed jacket, she was dressed in a delicate coral negligee. Grace stifled a gasp at the stark reality of Edith’s frailty, how thin her shoulders and arms were and how translucent and mottled her skin.
Trying hard not to stare Grace could tell that Edith was intrigued by her disc
omfiture. Yet again, she was unsure how to react. She felt desperately sorry for Edith, living the life she did, but that was normal wasn’t it? Was this some kind of test to determine if she was a tolerant person?
‘Hello,’ Grace finally said.
‘Like the getup?’
Grace almost jumped out of her skin, but soon realised the voice was coming from the bathroom and not from Edith. Peering around the door she found a cleaner inside. ‘You scared me,’ she accused, too wound up with the events of the morning to be polite.
The cleaner chuckled heartily. ‘Sorry,’ she said as she came back into the room. ‘But you should see the look on your face.’
The flush that enveloped Grace was a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. ‘Well it was a bit of a shock,’ she said. ‘I mean it’s different to what Edith normally wears.’
‘There’s no rule saying you have to wear the same thing day in, day out.’
Grace flushed deeper. ‘Yes I realise that. I’m not saying she can’t wear it, I’m just a bit confused…’
‘Yes I know love, it’s not the norm. I’m Marion,’ she said, holding out her hand. Tall and slightly plump she had a kind, motherly face.
‘Grace,’ Grace responded. ‘Is there a special occasion or something?’
‘Kind of. Edith has always wanted one of those glamour photography shots, so Sylvia arranged it for her.’
‘Wow. I didn’t know you could do that here.’
‘What, you don’t think someone in a nursing home can doll themselves up for some flash pictures? Trust me Grace, they don’t care where you come from or how you look, they only care if your money is good.’
Grace shook her head. ‘No, no I wasn’t saying that, I just thought you had to go to a studio or something.’
‘No they’ve got portable equipment and will go all over the place. The photographer had never been to a nursing home before but was very accommodating.’
‘Oh, okay. Wow.’
Marion shook her head. ‘I know what you’re thinking – why bother? What’s the point?’
‘No, no I wasn’t,’ Grace protested, mortified that Edith might be offended by that statement, which she was ashamed to admit had crossed her mind.
Marion busied herself dusting the wheelchair and moving it back into place. ‘The photographer used a green screen to hide all the background stuff and they’ll do their magic with Photoshop. Edith is going to use it on her Christmas card.’
‘Wow, that will be nice,’ Grace said, knowing how condescending she must sound.
‘Yes it will,’ agreed Marion, winking at Edith. ‘And she can tick it off her bucket list too.’
Grace didn’t know where to look. Talking about bucket lists in a nursing home seemed to be in very poor taste. Catching a glimpse of her face, Marion winked at Edith again and burst into laughter. Edith gave one of her lopsided grins.
Ready to spontaneously combust with embarrassment, Grace could only smile insincerely in return and busy herself looking for the book.
# # # # #
Margaret woke long before her alarm. She’d set it for 6.15 am to give herself plenty of time to get organised and run through everything in her head one more time. Seeing it was only 5.45 Margaret stretched contentedly savouring the cosy feeling between sleep and wakefulness for a moment, before a feeling of dread enveloped her.
The day had finally come.
Trying to ignore the churning in her stomach, Margaret rolled over and flicked on the bedside radio. Unfortunately, the chirpy banter of the breakfast show hosts did little to distract her. In desperation she took some deep, cleansing breaths the way she had learned at her yoga class. It helped a little. But as Margaret listened to the news and weather, it seemed unfair that the world was going on in its usual way while she was so stressed out.
As Margaret stood under the shower she wondered again why she was putting herself through this ordeal. Her old life had been safe and far less demanding and for a moment she wished she was back there. Her husband Mick was away on a work conference and it would be easy enough to go back to bed and watch the Today show like she used to each morning.
Nobody will think any the less of me if I don’t keep at it, she reassured herself as she rinsed the conditioner out of her hair. It was probably just a crazy mid-life crisis idea I should never have acted on.
Stepping out of the shower she eyed herself sternly in the mirror over the sink, remembering how long it had taken her to step out of her comfort zone.
‘You’re going Margaret and that’s that!’ she said firmly and set about getting ready.
The silence in the kitchen was suffocating. Although Mick always left for work early, her daughter Karen usually ate breakfast with her. But today would be the day she had a personal training session before work. This was one morning that Margaret could have used some of Karen’s calm reassurance.
Glancing at the clock, Margaret nibbled a slice of vegemite toast and forced herself to drink her tea. It wouldn’t do her any good to leave the house without something in her stomach. She remembered how Karen and her other daughter Lisa used to complain that they couldn’t eat when they were nervous and she had told them it was all in their minds. Now she understood what they meant.
Margaret’s hands were shaking as she packed her bag and she wavered once again. It’s not natural to be so stressed she fretted. Maybe it’s my instincts telling me I’m not cut out for all this. I’m still in the grace period, so there’s no penalty if I pull out now. Turning towards the picture window she glanced out at the perfectly manicured garden and sighed wearily. As much as she loved her garden and didn’t regret the time she had put into it, she had always known it was an avoidance tactic, an excuse not to act on what her heart was yearning to do.
Picking up her bag Margaret strode purposefully towards the front door and whatever fate may await her that day.
Doing her best to look calm and composed, Margaret walked down her street, head held high. Barbara on the corner gave her a wave and a smile. ‘Gosh don’t you look the part?’ she called out cheerily. ‘You’re much braver than me Marg!’
Margaret smiled back but didn’t stop to chat. She supposed it was quite brave to enrol at university at the age of forty-six. Although it had taken years of deliberation before she even considered applying and she had dithered for days before accepting her place when it was offered.
After a bit of a shaky start Margaret felt she was finally starting to find her feet. She knew her way around the campus and how to use the library. And there were many other mature age students at the University of Queensland, so she didn’t stand out like she had feared she would. Most of the younger students were friendly and respectful and Margaret had struck up a few friendships already.
Yes, uni in general was going just fine. It was only Introductory Poetry that had her tied up in knots, all thanks to Professor Bernstein. His reputation as a tyrant who struck fear into the hearts of meek first year students had unfortunately proven to be correct. Upon hearing Margaret had struck him Karen couldn’t contain her sympathy. ‘Oh Mum, you poor thing,’ she’d wailed. ‘Remember my friend Jasmine?’
‘The thin redheaded girl?’
‘Uh, huh.’
‘I remember she used to cry a lot when you were in first year.’
‘Yeah, well that was all because of Berno. She blitzed English at school, but he terrified her. He failed two thirds of her class on one assignment and he never gave anyone higher than a credit.’
‘Right,’ Margaret murmured, feeling a little faint. Maybe she could just drop poetry. But that would be silly. The whole reason she was going to uni was to learn about poetry.
Despite her best attempts to keep an open mind about Professor Bernstein, Margaret soon realised his reputation preceded him for a reason. A tall, stooped man with thick curly grey hair, his imposing presence filled every corner of the huge lecture hall. Strictly old school, he refused to wear a microphone, relying instead on his boomi
ng voice to put his point across.
Margaret didn’t doubt the professor was a poetic genius, but it was hard to appreciate his brilliance when she was so scared of him. It wasn’t so bad in the lecture, because there were a hundred other students there and you could hide up the back away from his steely gaze. It was the tutorials that terrified Margaret most. There were only fourteen students and Professor Bernstein, in a tiny room with nowhere to hide. She had bluffed her way through the first two tutes, but this week was different. Her class had handed in an introductory assignment to allow Professor Bernstein to judge their ability level and he was going to speak to each of them individually to discuss their results.
As an M surname Margaret was right in the middle of the class list and today was Wednesday.
D Day.
Compulsively early for everything, Margaret did her best to dawdle but still made it to the bus stop in plenty of time. And yes, today would be the day the bus arrived right on cue. Taking a seat, Margaret couldn’t help feeling like she should be doing something else to prepare herself for the day ahead.
Opening her bag she pulled out a dog-eared copy of her assignment and read through it again, making sure she knew exactly what she had written, should the professor decide to grill her.
Have I even answered the question? Turning the pages over, she read it again. Why has poetry continued to survive as a valid form of prose in a technological world?
Margaret knew there was no such thing as a “right” answer; that the strength of an assignment was in the argument you presented. Despite spending three solid days working on it she still didn’t believe her answer would satisfy Professor Bernstein. Once the initial relief of handing her work in faded, Margaret now cringed every time she imagined him reading it.
Room 46 & Short Story Collection Page 6