Mr. Preston quickly strode down the steps and out the gate and took the bags from her.
“Why, thank you!” said my mother, beaming.
“My pleasure,” said Mr. Preston, beaming back.
“Mr. Preston, this is my mother,” I say.
“Miriam,” said my mother.
“I'm Alistair Preston. Pleased to meet you.”
“Alistair,” said my mother. “Miriam,” said Mr. Preston, and then they both laughed. Mr. Preston carried my mother's shopping into the kitchen and helped her unpack.
“My little chum tells me you are whimsical,” observed Mr. Preston.
“Does she?” she asked, winking at me.
I sat on the couch and cringed.
Mr. Preston left. I followed him out to the front veranda.
“You were telling me something,” I prompted.
“About what?”
“About your brother.”
“Oh,” he said. He leaned against the railing with his hip and folded his arms.
“When we were boys,” he began, “I was given a spaniel bitch for my birthday. Anthony, my brother—he could see how much I loved the dog, and set out to steal her from me. For months Anthony trained the dog to come to his call. One day the dog was in the road. I was on one side of the road and Anthony was on the other. There was a car coming along the road, so I called the dog. I just wanted her to be safe. Anthony called the dog from the other side.”
Mr. Preston pulled his hair back from his forehead. He crossed one foot over the other and looked out into the street.
“There was a battle going on. I was looking at Anthony and he was looking at me and the car was approaching. Anthony called the dog again and she went to him.”
Mr. Preston paused for a long while.
“He had won. After that he ignored the dog completely. It was about winning. It was about beating me. We gave the dog away. I couldn't look at her without feeling the betrayal.” Mr. Preston laughed bitterly. “A dog—a bloody dog. I had to attach all these emotional ties to it.”
He shook his head. “Ridiculous.”
He stepped lightly down the steps and out the gate.
“See you,” I said.
He nodded as he opened his car door, climbed in and drove away.
“You didn't tell me he was handsome!” said my mother when he had gone. She fluffed her yellow blouse. “Heavens!” she said. “I think I even felt a little stirring!”
“Mum! Please!”
“Well, I did,” she protested.
Having tired of my continual complaints and obvious distress about having to cook meals, my mother had thoughtfully purchased two cookbooks for me during her shopping trip.
I studied them on the lounge whilst my mother prepared something luscious and far beyond my present level of competence.
The first cookbook, Banquet in Brief, was dedicated to meals that could be prepared in a very short time. It seemed to comprise, almost exclusively, recipes for things on toast; for example, cheese on toast. It then substantially increased in complexity to such elaborate dishes as ham, tomato and cheese on toast. I threw Banquet in Brief on the coffee table in disgust and picked up the next.
The second cookbook, Epiconomy, was dedicated to low-budget meals and included a great many recipes using mince as the main ingredient. Savory mince seemed to be the hero of the book and wore many guises. It was always distinguishable to the reader, though, because of its consistent savoriness and strong mince undertones.
“Thanks for that, Mum,” I called across the room. “My pleasure, Rachel darling,” she replied from within a cloud of saffron-scented steam.
“I was thinking,” she said, “you could go to the post office.”
“What?”
“Don't say what, say I beg your pardon.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To look up your friend Anna. Remember? You asked me where she had moved to. They would have telephone directories there and you could look her up.”
I lay on the couch with my arms behind my head and jiggled my feet.
“Amanda is getting married.”
“Oh, really?” said my mother, clattering about in Grace's cupboards.
“To Bozza. Can you believe it?” I said.
“Well, Rachel darling, maybe he makes her happy,” said my mother.
I hrumphed and jiggled my feet some more. “How do you know that he doesn't?” she asked, pausing for a moment to look at me.
“He's titillated by the discoloration of ceramic tiles, Mother! He's not her intellectual equal!”
She put down the saucepan she was holding and leaned against the kitchen bench. “There is this tradition, I don't know whether you've heard of it,” she began, “where a young woman seeks an amiable fellow who will be able to provide for her and her children, should she choose to have them. Then she dresses in a magnificent frock and promises to be with him forever. It's called marriage, and whilst you have not experienced marriage yourself or by direct observation through me, an awful lot of people do it. I imagine, for some, it would be an enormous comfort to have a piece of paper guaranteeing eternal love.”
I frowned at her and jiggled some more.
“I think you are fabulous, darling, I think you are beautiful and clever, but I must say, you have a propensity to judge everybody by your own standards. It is a bad habit to get into, my love, because you will never be satisfied with anyone.”
“That's not true,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“Oh yes it is, my sweet,” said my mother, pointing at me with a slotted spoon.
“I'm very tolerant!”
“Only of people who do exactly as you would have them do.”
Not being able to think of a clever rebuttal, I stomped about on the timber floor in my socked feet. My mother watched me from the corner of her eye and hummed cheerfully to herself.
After half an hour of bad-tempered stomping my mother asked, “Why don't you ask that handsome Alistair over for dinner?”
“Why didn't you ask him yourself?” I replied. I was still a little raw about the “intolerant” remark.
“Well,” she said, “Thai dishes can be so volatile. I wanted to be sure of its scrumptiousness before imposing it upon anyone else.”
“Why don't you ring him?” I said.
“All right then, I will,” she replied.
She shook her hands in the air above her head, allowing gravity to pull the sleeves of her shirt back to her elbows, and picked up my address book next to the phone.
I am eighteen and have recently discovered that I know very little (and am bound to find that I know even less if my mother stays for much longer), but my mother is a living example of the expression “no hide, no Christmas box.” She never hesitates. She shows no fear or reticence. One of the many reasons that I admire her is for her intrepidness.
Mr. Preston was otherwise engaged but agreed to join us on the following night.
“Never mind,” said my mother, serving the Thai (which proved to be as scrumptious as she had anticipated), “I shall just have to cook something as mind-blowingly stunning tomorrow.”
Of all days, today I dragged out my old, scuffed, dirty Ugg boots. Of all days, today I found my striped beanie with the pompom on top. Today, of all days, Hiro decided to drop around. I stood in the doorway in my beanie and my Ugg boots and quietly dissolved into pure embarrassment.
Hiro smiled with amusement. He followed me as I flipflopped into the lounge room. I couldn't exactly take them off now, could I? The damage had been done. Besides, I knew that underneath I had beanie hair, which was probably worse, on the whole.
I tried to think of something scintillating to say, to show that my intellect was beyond fashion. It didn't work.
My mother was sitting out back with Grace, chattering and laughing.
“I thought maybe we could, you know, walk?” he said to me.
“Walk where?”
“Well, maybe
to the music shop? I would like to show you some special songs.”
“OK, I'll just have to check with my mother.”
Check with my mother? How embarrassing. Things are getting worse.
I flip-flopped out the back. “Mum, this is Hiro.”
My mother's eyes flicked toward my beanie and then my Ugg boots, and she grinned.
“Come and sit out here with me, Hiro. Then Rachel can go and discreetly get out of that ridiculous hat,” she purred, patting the seat beside her.
“Umm, actually, my name is Harold,” said Hiro.
My mother's eyes widened just that little bit and then she said, “Well, a rose by any other name and all that. Come and tell me about yourself.”
I almost-ran back to my room and tried to repair my head. It was no use. I piled my hair up in a big heap on my head and fastened it with a clip. I pulled on some jeans and a jumper. I dabbed some powder on my nose and quickly applied some mascara to my lashes. Then I threw my Ugg boots across the room in disgust and pulled on some sneakers.
I could hear my mother as I walked back through the house.
“Cello, really? How intriguing. My youngest plays the euphonium, you know. Such a bold and powerful instrument, the euphonium—beefs up the brass section no end, don't you think?”
She turned toward me as I walked down the step.
“Ah, there we are. No fez, darling? No cheery bonnet, I see?” she said, winking at me.
Hiro laughed.
“Oh yes! Let's all poke fun at Rachel. Highly amusing, yes,” I said, smiling back just as cheerfully. “You'll keep.”
“Well, you go off and have fun then. Grace and I will hold the fort,” my mother said.
Hiro and I walked down to the main street, our hands brushing together occasionally. I liked it.
“Music is very important to me,” he said as we walked. “I think it … What is the word? Endurance? When there is nothing there is always music, do you know what I mean?”
I nodded. I liked music too. I wasn't sure what he was trying to say, but he was close to me and that was a buzz.
In the music shop, Hiro took me over to the machine with the headphones, then wandered around picking CDs for me to listen to.
“Here, this is Albinoni. Very sad and very beautiful. This sounds to me like a thousand broken hearts. You must listen to it loudly and let your heart break too.”
I closed my eyes and listened.
“Do you like that one?” he asked me, smiling.
“It's so sad!” I said, finding myself choked up.
“Isn't it? Strings are very good at breaking the heart.”
He reached forward and replaced that CD with another. “Here, this is Pachelbel. You will know this one already, maybe. I like this one because of its, umm … layers of sounds. This one lifts the spirit. It makes you feel strong.”
Hiro brought me more music. Before each piece he would tell me how it made him feel and what he liked about it. After each explanation I would close my eyes and listen.
On the way back, we stopped at the post office. I wrote down a list of all the phone numbers that might be Anna's.
Hiro walked back with me to my front door. He stood on the veranda with his hands in his pockets.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “That was lovely. It was a really nice gift. I don't know anything about classical music.”
He grinned. “I would like to show you more. There is so much to know,” he said. “Maybe I will play for you, also?”
“That would be great.”
Then he leaned forward and kissed me. He put his hand flat on the small of my back. His lips were warm. I may have even let a soft moan escape.
At university, after my lecture, I stop by the cafeteria to see if there is anyone I know. Kate is perched in her favorite corner.
I sit with Kate and the pert girl with the funky glasses whose name has turned out to be Suzette (which I had always thought was a crepey type of dessert, but apparently not).
“So, have you realized your destiny yet?” asks Suzette as I sit down.
“Not yet,” I say. I throw my notes on the seat next to me.
“What's it to be, then?” asks Kate. “A brutally white lab coat or a caftan and lashings of chamomile tea?”
“What's all this?” asks Suzette.
I explain to her about Grace, and about how Kate thought that working with people was out of character for me.
“Really?” she asks, sitting back. “That sounds like an interesting job.”
“So what's this destiny you're after?” asks Kate with a gleam in her eye.
“Well,” I say, eyeing them closely for ridicule, “can I tell you what I really want to do?”
“Of course!” replies Suzette, leaning forward.
“I think I want to solve mysteries,” I say, smiling.
“Like a detective?” says Suzette.
“You could be one of those forensic psychologists—like in all those murder novels!” says Kate.
“You'd probably have to do heaps of degrees,” says Suzette, “and you'd have to be full of angst and never be able to sustain a fulfilling relationship.”
“But they always seem to be wearing funky suits under their trench coats, don't they?”
“Yes, and they always tend to be the only woman toughing it out in a man's world.”
“And they spend an awful lot of time thinking about dead people,” continues Kate. “It'd be rough trying to stay upbeat when you think about dead people all day and all night.”
“That's what I said,” says Suzette. “That'd be where all your angst comes in.”
“You could do angst,” says Kate brightly, patting me on the arm.
“Yes, but can you maintain angst?” asks Suzette.
“Sure, she can. She can do grim. I've seen grim.”
“Yes, but grim is different from angst, isn't it?” says Suzette. “Grim is more your, sort of, angst without philosophical dilemma.”
“Yes, but they're siblings in the range of dispositions— angst and grimness, don't you think?” asks Kate.
“No, angst is far more intellectual than grim. I would have said that grim is more like angst's half-witted second cousin.”
“When have you seen me do grim?” I ask.
“All the time in the café. You used to do a great grim when there was less cream of mushroom soup than cream of mushroom soup orderers,” replied Kate.
“That wasn't grim, that was concentration.”
“Well,” said Suzette, encouraged by this latest piece of information, “if your concentration looks like grim—that's a start, isn't it?”
“You'll still need a funky suit and a trench coat,” adds Kate.
I look at my watch and decide it is time to go home.
I walk into the house and am almost overcome by the volume of Edith Piaf. My mother is out back, walking up the pathway with Herb and Bill. Grace stands by her with her hands behind her back. She turns as I approach, and for a moment I think I see recognition flash across her face.
“Grace!” I say. “Hello there, turtledove.”
I walk up to her and pat her on the shoulder.
“Oh, hello, Rachel darling,” says my mother. “It seems these fellows know everything there is to know about camellias and gardenias and almost everything else pretty and pungent. So what do you think of that, then?”
“Grace knows who I am,” I say.
“Well, of course she does,” says my mother, “you've lived here for what? Ever so long. Anyway, William, what can you tell me about hydrangeas? I know some sort of soil is supposed to make them pink and some other makes them blue, but for the life of me I can never remember which.”
I leave the four of them to wander about the garden some more and walk back inside to get myself a cool drink.
I decide to ring all the numbers that might be Anna's. The first two are wrong numbers but the third is an answering machine. It might have been Anna's mother, but I can't say
for sure. I feel really nervous but I leave a message anyway.
“Hello, this is Rachel. I used to live in Clements Street. I don't know if you remember me, or even if this is the right number. I'm looking for Anna who used to live next door. I was thinking about old friends. I just wondered how you were doing. Anyway, this is my number if you want to call me.”
I'm just hanging up the phone when I hear a tentative knock. Mr. Preston is standing in the doorway.
“Hello there, chum,” I say. “Come in, then. Can I get you something to drink?”
Mr. Preston accepts and joins me in the kitchen.
“I saw your brother the other day in the park,” I say, pouring some cold water into a glass. “He asked me out, the cheeky devil.”
“He did what?” says Mr. Preston. He reaches forward and takes hold of me by the arm. “And you refused, didn't you?” he says, glaring at me.
I look down at his hand on my arm. He lets go.
“I'm sorry,” he says.
He paces the kitchen for a moment.
“I don't want you to go,” he says. “He's much older than you, to start with. And he's not a nice bloke!”
“Yes,” I answer. “He thought that you would say that.”
Mr. Preston snorts. “That would be right.”
“What is this issue you have?” I ask.
“I do not have an issue!” he yells at me.
“Obviously.”
Mr. Preston sits down on the lounge.
“I told you a little bit about him the other day,” he says. He seems to have calmed down a little bit.
I sit next to him and wait.
“He's not good with women,” he says. “Actually, he's very good with women, and that's the problem.”
I take a sip of my water.
“Don't you see?” he asks me. “He must think I have some sort of design on you. I don't, by the way. But if he thinks it, he will try very hard.”
“I don't understand.”
Mr. Preston rubs his chin in an agitated way. He begins, “A long time ago—before … Anthony could see my interest in Grace, and as he had done so many times before, he set out to steal her from me. He never had any trouble attracting women, but this woman was a challenge for him, because he knew that I wanted her. He knew that I cared for her.”
Finding Grace Page 15