Grace was standing at the front door, looking straight ahead, her nose a few centimeters away from the wood. I looked up the hallway. Prickles was sitting on Grace's chair, licking his stitches and looking sorry for himself.
“Do you want to go outside?”
I moved her back from the door and opened it. As she stepped out on the veranda, I could hear a voice saying, “There you are, Miss Grace! We haven't seen you for donkey's! How you been keeping?”
Two old men were standing at the gate. They were both wearing hats. They had old men's shirts on with the two pleated pockets at the front. They had socks pulled up all the way to their knees and sensible beige walking shoes.
I should point out that they looked like a pair of clowns. They looked as if they stepped straight out of a black-andwhite movie. There was something extraordinarily Marxesque about their getups, I have to say.
“Well, looks to me like someone's come a buster, what do you reckon, Herb?” says the first man.
“Herb” laughs as he reaches into his baggy shorts pocket, pulling out a pouch of tobacco. He picks out a paper and sticks it to his lip. He takes out a pinch of tobacco, puts it in the paper and tucks the pouch back in his pocket.
The other man looks up at me and pokes his hat to the back of his head with one finger. “Well, hello there. We've been worried about the little fellow. We was walking past and thought we might inquire about his health.”
“The little fellow?”
“Miss Grace's little chap. He normally comes up pretty regular, you know? We haven't seen him about.”
“You mean Prickles,” I say.
“That's the little fellow. Prickles. That's what I said, Herb, Prickles.”
Herb lights his cigarette with a match, shielding the flame with his old gnarled hand. “No you didn't, Bill, you was calling him Patches,” he says, shaking the match out.
“No I wasn't! Why would I call him that, eh? He doesn't have no patches!”
“Yes you was, Bill. You said, “Haven't seen Patches about for a couple of days,' I remember it clear as a bell, in my memory it is.” Herb taps his forehead with his middle finger.
“I'm Rachel,” I say.
They look up at me. “Well, how do you do, Rachel. I'm Herb and this is Bill. We live on up the road a stretch.” Herb points up the road with one arthritically bent finger. He takes a drag and then nods. “Like I said, Patches normally comes up regular, he sits on our porch in the sun and we give him our scraps.”
“Now you're at it, Herb! They call him Prickles, not Patches.”
“That's what I said.”
“No you didn't, you called him Patches.” “No I didn't, why would I call him Patches? He don't have no patches.” Herb winks at me. His hand is on the gate, the cigarette smoke winding up lazily around his wrist. “See, Miss Rachel, Bill don't hear as well as he used to.”
“Prickles has been at the vet's, he's had an operation,” I say.
“Had a spill, has he?” asks Herb.
“The man next door kicked him in the stomach.”
Bill and Herb shake their heads. “Nothing but trouble, those two,” Bill says.
“Well, it's nice to see someone's taking a bit of care of this garden again. We was walking past not so long ago and I said to Bill, “It's a crying shame no one's taking care of that garden, after all the work what Miss Grace put in,' didn't I, Bill? A crying shame. Many's a time Bill and I'd come down here and give her a few pointers. Didn't we, Miss Grace?”
“That's right, Miss Rachel,” Bill says, taking his hat off and rubbing his bald head with the heel of his hand. “We'd come down here and Miss Grace would be here in this garden pruning or watering or what have you. We'd stop for a spell and chat about this and that. More often than not, Herb would stroll up to our place and bring us all back a couple of nice coldies.”
Herb rolls another cigarette. “We'd be telling her stories of when we was boys and she'd laugh. Didn't she have a nice laugh, Bill?”
“Yep.”
The two men stand looking at the garden.
“That puts me in mind, Herb. Why don't you stroll up and fetch us some coldies now?”
“Do you fancy a cold one now, Miss Rachel?” says Herb.
“Well now, Herb, I think I do.”
“Do you think Miss Grace would fancy a coldie?” Herb asks me.
“I think she probably would,” I reply, smiling.
Herb strolled up the road to fetch us some “coldies.” Grace and I sat down in the chairs on the veranda. Bill perched himself on the top step, fanning his face with his hat. “Well now, Miss Grace, isn't this just like old times, eh? Them petunias have picked up again, now, haven't they?”
Herb walked back down the street with four beers in his hands.
We sat there until sunset, Herb occasionally taking a stroll to fetch us another. Herb and Bill told me stories from when they were boys, when people used to buy their milk and fruit and vegetables from horse-drawn carts on this street. They told me horror stories about working in the mines forty years ago. They told me about Grace.
“She made a real decent pie. On occasion Miss Grace would bake too much for herself,” Herb said. “She'd bring us out some tucker all wrapped up in a tea towel. She made a real decent pie. We'd take it home and have it for our tea.”
“She may not have been real strong on horticulture, but she made a decent pie,” agreed Bill.
We sat quietly for a moment. Herb rubbed his face with his callused hands, making a scratchy noise.
Prickles limped out of the house and climbed into Bill's lap and they tut-tutted about his injuries.
“We was looking after Patches for a stretch,” said Herb. “He was coming up to our place, carrying on, playing up merry hell. We didn't know what had happened. We came down here and Miss Grace wasn't about.”
“We was starting to get a bit worried about her,” continued Bill. “We came down and chatted for a spell with the security man who was stationed here. He told us Miss Grace had had herself a stroke or some such.”
“Terrible thing to happen to someone so young,” said Herb.
“Terrible,” said Bill. “This is the first time we've really seen Miss Grace since then, except passing by.”
“Did Grace have many visitors?” I asked.
“Well, now, there was her sisters and their kids,” said Bill, “they came around pretty regular, didn't they, Herb?”
Herb nodded. “Then there was a couple of young ladies on and off. And there was her mother. She was a real lady, was Grace's mother, God bless her. Brought Grace up with a real jolt when she passed on.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“She was on holidays up the coast like they always was about that time of year,” said Bill. “They had family up there, didn't they, Herb?”
“That's right, Grace had family up the coast somewhere and they was on the way to see them. Her father fell asleep at the wheel, I believe.”
“No,” said Bill, “you great goat! A young fella, not long had his driving ticket, careered into them on a corner.”
“Anyways, they had a crash and passed on. Grace was real shook up. Her mum and her was real close,” added Bill.
We sat quietly for a moment. I thought about the postcard from Grace's mother. All of a sudden I felt very sad.
“The young boy of Preston was here often enough, although I've never had much time for him,” said Bill.
“Too clever by half,” agreed Herb.
“Fancies himself a bit of a man about town,” said Bill.
I was surprised, but kept quiet. This didn't sound like the Mr. Preston I knew. Maybe he has mellowed.
As the streetlights flickered on, Bill and Herb got to their feet. “Well, now, Miss Rachel, thank you for your hospitality, but it's getting on time for our tea,” said Herb.
They tipped their hats and strolled off up the street.
I brought Grace inside and sat her on the couch to watch television wh
ile I cooked dinner. I grilled some lamb cutlets and painted them with honey and soy sauce and sprinkled them with rosemary. I cut the meat off the bone and chopped it up into bite-sized pieces. I put the bones on my plate. I laid the pieces of meat on a bed of lettuce. We sat together at the dining table.
I fed Grace first because I thought her arms might be hurting. The nurse would be in tomorrow to change the dressing.
After dinner I sat Grace on the couch, putting her sore leg up on the coffee table. I was exhausted. We started to watch a movie.
I was thinking about the things that Bill and Herb had told me. I thought about Grace's mother. I wondered how she felt when she got that postcard. She would have already heard that they were dead. How awful.
I gave Grace a little hug. “I'm so sorry, Gracey.”
I woke up at one o'clock. I was still on the couch. Grace was asleep next to me. The television was blaring infomercials. I woke Grace up and led her to her bedroom and put her into bed.
As I tucked her in I asked her, “Do you miss your mum?”
Grace was asleep.
Looking through the wardrobe, I could see the spooky box on the desk.
Just one and then I'm going to bed.
I reached into the box and pulled out two sheets of paper that were stuck to each other.
Just two and then I'm going to bed.
I sat in the recliner chair and read.
Yvonne,
I can't sleep. I dream about you off and on. This time I'm going to write. I could be dramatic and say it's the last time and give you some kind of ultimatum but I'm not going to do that.
I'll write to you again. I'll write again when my subconscious stirs me from my slumber—taps me on the shoulder and reminds me of what I've lost.
I knew you when you were five years old and we used to play hide-and-seek. One day you were hiding and you knocked over the bookshelf in your father's study and that big dictionary came down and knocked me unconscious.
I knew you when you were ten and you had a boil on your bum and you had to take a pillow to school. You made me take a pillow to school too, so you wouldn't be embarrassed.
I knew you when you were nineteen. I knew you so well when you were nineteen that the day we caught the Manly ferry from Circular Quay we changed the rules in Twenty Questions to five questions because that's as many questions as it took for us to know exactly what the other was thinking.
I don't know you today.
I don't know where you are. I don't know what you do in your leisure time. I don't know your family.
All of these things make me sad.
I think if we saw each other again we wouldn't know what to say. Isn't that a sorry state of affairs?
I just wanted you to know that I remember and I miss you.
If you need me you know where I am.
Love,
Grace
Dear Mrs. Preston,
I am writing in regard to your letter dated 14th October.
Yours is not the first letter that I have received of this nature. You might describe it as an occupational hazard. However, yours is the first that I have dignified with a response.
I thank you indeed for your suggestions as to what I can “stick up my snobby, posh twat.” I was amused. I shall use some of those insults myself, if I may, should I ever run out of my own. I do believe, however, that your venom is misdirected.
While I have undergone some preliminary psychological training, I don't believe I am adequately qualified to counsel you. You are quite clearly delusional, and while I think it is very sweet that you believe your husband to be so captivating that I would be attracted to him, and flattering that you believe he is unable to resist my alleged “temptations,” you may wish to consider seeking professional guidance.
Have you considered discussing your anxieties with your husband? Maybe you should contemplate communicating your apprehension with him? Do you feel that you cannot discuss openly your feelings and your fears with him? If this is the case, is this really a relationship with which you wish to persevere?
I can only encourage you to surround yourself with a nice caring circle of friends. Perhaps you could immerse yourself in a stimulating hobby?
Yours truly,
Grace
I rolled the two pieces of paper in my fingers. I was so tired that my legs were aching. My legs always ache when I'm overtired. I looked at my watch. It was half-past one in the morning. What was I doing up so late?
I tucked the letters under the ribbon with the other things I had read. I pushed the spooky box back in its spot behind the books. I walked back through the wardrobe to my bedroom.
I had a friend like Yvonne. She lived next door to me when I was little. It was in that magical time before school when there was nothing at all you had to do unless your mother said so. I would go over to Anna's place straight after breakfast and watch cartoons. We made cubbies out of cardboard cartons and played dress-up with my mother's old clothes. Her family moved away.
I thought about Yvonne and felt bad about the way I had spoken to her. I was so cold. I didn't know who she was.
I wonder what Anna is doing now?
I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. It felt like only about five minutes, but it was actually eight hours later. I had slept in again. I jumped out of bed, ran into Grace's room and took her to the toilet.
There was a knock at the door. I answered it in my jammy jams, peeking out through the space allowed by the chain between the door and the jamb.
It was Mr. Preston, holding a shopping bag. He held it up to me. “Morning, chum. I thought I would come over and cook breakfast for our invalids.”
While he was cooking breakfast I had a long shower with the door closed. It is so nice to have a long shower. It's nice to have the door closed. Since I have been here I have only had short showers with the door open so I could hear if Grace needed me.
I dried my hair and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I came out of my room just as Mr. Preston was serving up fried bacon, eggs and tomatoes. “That smells delicious,” I said, grabbing the plunger of coffee and my plate and carrying them to the paved area out the back. The sun was shining down through the creeping vine.
I fetched Grace, and Mr. Preston came out behind me, carrying a tray with the remaining two plates and the cups. We sat down together. Mr. Preston cut up Grace's breakfast into chunks and handed her the fork. She stabbed one of the chunks with her fork and put it in her mouth.
“I'm sorry about the other day. I didn't mean to burden you with my troubles,” he said, piling a huge amount onto his fork.
“That's no problem,” I said. “You told me you had a bad day.”
“Yes, I think I told you I met up with my ex-wife.”
“You said that you find that stressful.”
Mr. Preston chewed for a while, frowning.
“She's doing very well and I'm happy for her.”
“Do you have kids together?” I asked, grinding some pepper onto my breakfast.
“No. She's pregnant now, though.” He poured the coffee. “My wife, that is, my ex-wife, is a wonderful woman. We met”—Mr. Preston looked up and looked me directly in the eye—“we met at university. I was studying law, of course, my father wouldn't have it any other way. She was studying arts. We got along well immediately. We had a large circle of friends. We went to parties together and we went to the theater together. We discussed literature. We agreed about most things. After three years, we still agreed about most things, so I went to see her father and asked for her hand.” Mr. Preston paused for a moment to take a mouthful.
“We got married on a beautiful autumn day in a church, and went to the Greek islands for our honeymoon.”
Mr. Preston stopped to take another mouthful.
“We bought a house and we both worked. When I was earning enough, she gave up her job and stayed at home. She cooked fabulous meals for my business associates. She went to art classes and filled our house with wond
erful watercolors and tapestries and that kind of thing.” Mr. Preston took a slurp of his coffee and refilled our cups from the jug.
“Every night I would come home and we would sit down and talk about my day and then we would talk about her day and everything was lovely.”
Mr. Preston shoved his heaped fork into his mouth.
“One day I went to work and Grace was at her desk and she was crying. I asked her what was wrong and she said that she'd been driving to work and she'd seen an ambulance and she pulled over and the car in front of her pulled over and the ambulance passed them.”
Mr. Preston paused for a moment, staring out past the end of the pavers to the garden.
“She said that she suddenly thought about how when someone is in danger or is hurt that an ambulance is called and that everyone moves so that the paramedics can get to that person in the shortest time possible. She said that all of a sudden she realized how wonderful that was. We, all of us, in this society, move so that someone we've never met can get help. Then she burst into tears again.” Mr. Preston scraped the egg off the bottom of his plate with his knife and wiped it on the last piece of toast.
“I sat there on the edge of the desk and watched this woman crying uncontrollably, so vulnerable. Here was a woman who I'd thought was as tough as old boots just moved to tears by the most simple thing. And all of a sudden I felt an incredible wrench in my chest. I felt an urgent, frantic need to look after her and care for her.”
Mr. Preston put his knife and fork together and pushed the plate away. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands and his mouth with it.
“I loved my wife, she was my friend and we had good times together, but at that moment I knew the feeling I had when Grace cried was the strongest emotion I'd ever had in my life. Have you ever been in love?”
I shook my head. I've had crushes, but that's not the same thing.
He reached over and picked up Grace's plate and put it in front of him. He started to pick at the bits of bacon left over.
“You know that song by Melanie C? It's called “Never Be the Same Again.' She talks about a friendship that changes into something more. It's a beautiful song. That's how I felt. I just wanted to be there when she felt sad, I wanted to be the one who would make her happy again. I just wanted to be wherever she was.”
Finding Grace Page 12