The books in the house, except in Grace's study, are leather-bound classics or glossy photography or art books. Even all the cookbooks are hardcover. None of them look read or worn in any way. Didn't she have a favorite book? A favorite recipe?
Who is Grace?
I look at the pictures in the house. There is not one picture of Grace. There are pictures on every wall in the entire house. The hallway is lined with pictures, all in a nice neat row. There are lots of stylish prints, but no personal photographs displayed. If there were photographs then I could see the expressions on her face.
The whole place looks kind of contrived, like a home furnishings catalog. It could almost be a very expensive time-share house.
How irritatingly enigmatic.
I know why I haven't thought about Grace before. There is nothing personal about this house. While everything is beautiful and meticulously displayed, there is no indication of the life of the person who lives here.
I wonder if this had been done on purpose? Everything matches. Everything is ornamental. Everything from the tassels that hold the curtains back to the brass-backed light switches. The whole house is like a stage set. It is as if Grace didn't want anyone to know anything about her but the veneer—the image that she had created for public viewing. Why is that?
I'm intrigued.
Now this—this box bursting at the seams with Grace's personality.
Before I go to bed, I sit next to Grace and watch her sleep. She lookes so peaceful and harmless and blank.
Snow White.
I wonder if she dreams?
I look closer. There are small creases around her mouth and between her eyebrows that I hadn't noticed before. So, she laughed and she frowned. I wonder if she will ever laugh and frown again?
Tomorrow morning I am going to ask the lime nightie woman next door if her house has ever been egged.
Rubber Gloves came to see me this morning. Why? Why me? I don't like her.
She said that she's had an argument with Brioney and she came over to warn me that Brioney might come over and ask to use Grace's sewing machine.
Grace sewed?
If she comes over, on no account am I to lend it to her. Charity is sick of Brioney using all her stuff. Let her go out and buy her own things.
She brought “little Jeremy” with her and he spent the whole morning chasing Prickles around and pulling his tail. Prickles jumped on the windowsill and sat there looking down at the offending child in disbelief, his long black tail swishing just out of reach.
Charity told me that Jeremy just loves animals. He's so good with animals.
Apparently Brioney was just being stupid and it's time she faced facts. Everybody knows that this man she's living with is useless. Charity was just being a caring sister. Charity only cares about what is best for Brioney. It just tears her up inside that Brioney hasn't experienced the joy of having children, and she never will if she stays with this man. Brioney's not getting any younger. A lot of older women are having children nowadays.
I look at her talking and I realize she really means it. Charity wants Brioney to have children. They fight about all sorts of things but underneath it all, Charity wants Brioney to have children. She truly believes it's a great thing and is cross with Brioney because she won't do it.
Charity tells me that she thinks it would be lovely for little Jeremy and Bianca and Simone to have a little cousin to play with. Jeremy just loves babies. He is so good with younger children.
I hope that he is better with younger children than he is with animals.
I wanted to tell her that while having kids was great for her, maybe Brioney didn't want to? Maybe it would solve a lot of problems if Charity could just get used to the idea that there are some women who just don't want to?
I thought back to what my mother had told me, about not telling people how to run their lives. Clearly Charity wasn't asking me for advice, so I just listened.
Charity has almost given up hope that her children might have little cousins to play with. Grace was pregnant before the accident, but of course she lost the child and now she's had a hysterectomy.
“Grace was pregnant?”
“Oh, yes. We found that out in the hospital. It was in the middle of the night. I remember because I had to call the sitter. I just couldn't possibly drive myself. I was a mess. There we all were in the hospital. I didn't have any makeup on. I was all a-fluster. I didn't even have time to dab on a bit of lipstick. I must have looked a fright.
“The doctor came out and said that they were afraid she'd lost the child during the accident. We were all surprised. None of us knew. She never told a soul. Well, it's not surprising, really, being a love child. Love child sounds so much nicer than bastard, don't you think?” Charity says, patting me on the arm.
“We didn't know at the time whose it was, and I mean nobody knows for certain, but Mr. Preston's wife left him shortly before the accident so we think it must have been his.” Charity shook her head and fluffed her hair out at the sides with her fingers. “And he's so protective of her and her things. He's like …”
“A large and growly bear,” I said, thoughtfully.
I didn't realize that I'd said it out loud until Charity started chortling.
“Hoo! Hoo! A large and growly bear! That's exactly it! Brioney will love that one…. If I ever speak to her again.”
Charity delicately scratched one eye with a long manicured fingernail. Her mouth pulled down in a really unattractive way. I thought she was upset. I thought she might even be on the verge of tears.
She's pretending not to be upset but she is. Grace didn't tell her own sister about the child—the sister for whom children are everything.
“After that we gave the doctor permission to, you know, have her done. I mean, it's much more convenient, isn't it? And she's not likely to have the opportunity again now, is she?”
Charity is cross with Grace for not telling her about the child. She can't talk to her about it, so she takes it out on Brioney.
See? I'm a psychologist now.
I went to uni this morning. As I was walking out the gate, the neighbor was leaving as well.
“Excuse me,” I called out to him.
“What?” He was looking aggressive.
“Has your house ever been egged?”
“What?”
“Has your house ever been egged?” I repeated.
“What are you talking about, you dumb bitch?”
She never did it. Surely he would remember if she had.
I think quickly. “I heard that there have been some random eggings around here. That's all.”
He frowned at me and turned away.
Hiro greets me as I walk down the pathway at the university. I wonder how long the poor bloke has been hanging around the entranceway waiting for me.
I decide to try a new blush avoidance tactic. I start talking as soon as he is in hearing range and I don't stop talking until he walks away again. That way he doesn't talk and I don't have to feel embarrassed about not being able to understand him.
“Hiro!”
What if his name isn't Hiro? Oh dear, blush coming on.
“I hope you don't mind me calling you Hiro, do you? It's a term of endearment, of course.”
Excellent recovery, blush is subsiding.
“So, how did it go, good? Good. Are you enjoying uni? You look like you are enjoying uni. I hope you liked my color scheme. You know, in the notes, I mean. Can't go past primary colors, I always say. Makes for happy revising, don't you think? Got to be a happy reviser. You look like a happy reviser. Are you a happy reviser? Well, you look it and that's the important thing after all, isn't it? Yellow's probably the happiest, but not so good for the eyes on a late night, I've found. You've got to look after your eyes, haven't you? Got to do all your yellow revising during the day. Anyway, it's been lovely chatting with you, Hiro, but I must fly. Ridiculous expression, of course, but it's the one they're all using. I'll be off the
n—busy, busy. If you need any more notes, you know where to find me. I'll be about sooner or later, as you must already know. Bye!”
Well. That went very well.
… … …
When I got home, I took Grace out for lunch. I have to confess that I made her walk to the main street and all the way back so she'd be tired enough to have an afternoon nap, so that I could read more from her spooky box.
So, Grace had been pregnant, apparently by Mr. Preston. So they were lovers. I wouldn't have thought it, though. When two people are intimate, when they're lovers, there's no personal space like there is with friends or relatives or acquaintances. When they touch, anywhere, it's familiar, it's even anticipated. But when Mr. Preston reaches for Grace's hand, or helps her out of her chair—or even when they danced—his touch is tentative, not familiar. There is a definite personal space between them.
We sat in this little coffee shop and watched the people walking past. I'm amused by the way people react to Grace. The waitress, thinking she was being broad-minded and tolerant, kept tucking Grace's serviette into her collar and bellowing in Grace's ear, “Are you right, love?” She was one of those tanned ladies with lots of gold bangles and drawn-on eyebrows.
“Are you right, love?”
Eventually I said, “Look, there's nothing wrong with her hearing.”
The waitress said, “I'm just trying to help,” and stormed off.
Anyway, the long walk did the trick. I brought Grace home and put her to bed.
I made myself a pint of coffee. That's my latest thing. I make coffee in a pint glass and then I don't have to get up. Although there are two drawbacks. One is that it gets sort of cold toward the end if I don't drink it fast enough. Two is that if I drink it too fast I get a bit hyper and find it difficult to concentrate.
Anyway, I'm in Grace's study with my pint of coffee and I open up the spooky box. I pick up a piece of paper and I wander out the front and sit on the steps.
DRAFT
Alistair,
Firstly, I would like to thank you for choosing me to talk to. I have been aware of your frustration for some time. I feel honored.
Secondly, working with you I am aware of the dedication and commitment required in undertaking this job. I hope you don't find it patronizing of me to extend my heartfelt best wishes to you.
Please allow me to offer you three pieces of advice:
One: Be bold. Never miss an opportunity to let your brilliance shine and dazzle. Take that chance. Accept the challenge, or if the challenge doesn't arise, make your own challenges.
Two: Don't settle for mediocrity. Find a dream and pursue it. Allow every decision you make to bring you closer to achieving that dream.
And three: Have fun. Take time to play, because if you're not having a good tear-squirting belly laugh, chances are you're doing it wrong.
I will not wish you good luck. I don't believe luck to be a necessary ingredient for success. Instead, I wish you the wisdom to make good decisions. I'm sure you will be fabulous.
Grace
It sounds familiar. I'm sitting on the front veranda sipping a nice hot pint of coffee. Everything is a bit dry out here, so I might do a little watering.
I'm watering the front garden. Grace's tap has a little brass frog on it. Now, that's attention to detail. I'm letting my thoughts wander about. I'm going to get in there and dig out all the weeds. I've been watering the garden in the afternoons. It's already looking better.
Daisies are bobbing under the spray. There are little beads of new sprouts on the petunias. I'm waving the hose about in a big R for Rachel. All the flowers out here are pink, white or blue. Everything matches.
Grace was pregnant.
Prickles is leaning against my leg, washing himself. He looks up and winks one of his big green eyes at me.
“Don't wink at me, you saucy devil.”
I rub my knuckles across his forehead. He points his ears out to the side and stalks away.
That's something else that isn't consistent. Grace is so orderly. Any pregnancy of Grace's would be meticulously planned. If she was pregnant, then why aren't there baby things around the house? Why was my bedroom made up as a guest room? There was nothing that would indicate that she was expecting a child.
Now it's coming back to me. I've heard Grace's words before. In my head I can see Mr. Preston standing there, see the words coming out of his mouth.
It was the same thing word for word. I couldn't believe it. I remember being so impressed when I heard it at my graduation. Anything can be “easy-peasy” if you're just regurgitating someone else's words. I felt cheated. I felt that Grace had been cheated. They were her sentiments and he took them as his own.
I remember everyone clapping for him. I remember him shaking his head so modestly. He had made it sound so spontaneous. How can this be? I remember him talking about her and her “life” so passionately.
I turn off the hose and wind it back up in a neat pile.
I take a big swig of coffee. It's cold. Bleagh, bleagh.
I wander back inside and I sit down in the bedroom where Grace is sleeping. She has such soft, pale skin, almost translucent. I can see the blueness of her veins in her neck and forehead. I can see the very fine downy hair across her face, her cheek and jawbone. She is very beautiful, in a handsome way, not in a “pretty” way.
“Can you hear me?” I ask her quietly. “Do you know what's going on? Are you in there?”
She opens her eyes and looks at me. They were shut and now they are wide open looking at me. Just for a moment I think I see something behind her eyes. Just for a moment.
I stand up suddenly. My heart is beating really fast. Her eyes follow me.
As I stand up, I spill some cold coffee on my shoe. I look down.
When I look back at Grace, her eyes are closed again.
I stand and look at her for another minute. My heart is beating really hard. “Shit,” I say out aloud. Freaky. That was so freaky.
I tiptoe into the study, watching Grace's face as I walk around the bed. Her eyes stay closed.
I put the note back in the spooky box, pick up the next piece of paper and read.
Things I didn't say in my farewell speech
Andre, you little Hitler, thank you for teaching me everything anyone ever wanted to know about how not to be a manager.
You run your department like a prison camp. You quash any hint of creativity, any tiny spark of inspiration that any of your downtrodden and oppressed staff dare to demonstrate.
I imagine that you must have very small genitals. I hope to God that I have never been an unconscious participant in any of your unwholesome thoughts.
You are a weasel. Worse, you are a weasel that even other weasels shy away from.
Dimitre, you are so lazy that you couldn't even muster the energy to steal my ideas. You are cowardly, weak and stupid. You are so visibly incompetent that I haven't even bothered to point out your inadequacies. I am astounded that you have the decisiveness to dress yourself every day.
I look forward to not having to compensate for both of your profound inabilities.
My final words to each of you are as follows:
Andre, I hope the staff in your department prepare a violent and shocking revolution, and that your career prospects are torn forcibly into gory, unsalvageable pieces.
Dimitre, you have to wake up each morning and go to bed every night being who you are. I don't need to wish any further curses on you.
Mr. Preston came to see Grace in the evening but I'd called the nurse so I could get in a little revision and maybe read ahead a bit. Jan was taking Grace out for a walk.
Jan still calls me “darl.” It must be much easier than remembering people's names. I might find a generic nickname with which I shall address all—“turtledove,” for example, or is that too intimate? Perhaps “cohort.”
When he found Grace wasn't at home, Mr. Preston was going to leave, but I asked him to have a cup of coffee with me. I
switched on the jug and took two cups out of the cupboard. Grace has these funky stainless steel cups and saucers. I just love them. I wanted him to tell me more about Grace. She sounded like a complete bitch—but with excellent dress sense. I liked her.
“Come sit by me a while, cohort,” I said.
“I'm sorry?” he asked, perplexed.
“I'm trying out some generic means by which to address people,” I explained, “like Jan does.”
“Oh, of course,” he replied, sitting by me. “What about chum?”
I considered for a moment. “Chum is good. May I call you chum?”
“Certainly.”
We sat quietly for a while, sipping coffee.
“What was she like? Was she nice?” I asked him.
He laughed. “No. She's not nice. She's lots of things but she's not nice. She attacked everyone,” he said, reaching for the coffee plunger. “Grace started out as a secretary, a personal assistant I guess you would call it today. She was very good—efficient. She worked for a friend of mine before she came to work for us. She's always worked in law or finance. This guy was an accountant.”
So they worked together.
I fill my funky coffee cup with a little milk.
Mr. Preston leans back, crossing one ankle over the other. “He used to complain about her, this friend of mine. He thought she was too frank. Of course that's not the way he put it. We would be having a drink or playing a round of golf and he would tell us stories about her. He gave her the sack eventually. Apparently she wasn't working out “personality-wise.” She was impudent and difficult and she refused to make coffee. She was particularly obstinate about not making coffee. She wouldn't make coffee when she first came to work with me, either.”
So she worked for him. He was her boss.
Mr. Preston pours the coffee and spoons in some sugar. “The story goes that there were two guys who used to complain about her a lot. They were young accountants. They were the department heads or whatever. Everyone complained at some stage, but those two in particular. I think they were Italian, or was it Greek?” He shrugged. “They were Mediterranean, anyway. Grace gave them hell. She wouldn't cover for them. Eventually they got her sacked. Apparently those two guys sang “Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead' at her farewell dinner. Subtle.”
Finding Grace Page 7