Finding Grace Page 8

  Andre and Dimitre?

  Prickles wanders over and jumps up on Mr. Preston's lap. He rubs his knuckles across the cat's head absently. Prickles closes his eyes, smiling and purring.

  Cantankerous cat.

  Mr. Preston takes a sip of his coffee. “She looked for work for a while after that. We sent her to see other people that we knew. We didn't have any positions open at the time. But, well …”

  Who's “we”?

  “Everyone knew that she was good, but she was too outspoken. Frankness was a crime punishable by death for a secretary in those days. It probably still is, to be honest.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. I make the ooosh too hot sound, close associate of ooosh paper cut. Accompanied by a small frown, ooosh indicates small injury in any culture across the globe. It's universal, like laughter. No use for large injuries, though. Nobody says ooosh lost an arm, or ooosh bullet penetrating large muscle group.

  Mr. Preston is patting Prickles on the head, not stroking, patting, and Prickles is kneading his little paws like mad with his little tongue poking out. I can't believe this! Grace should have called him Fickle.

  “She eventually got a job with one of the golf buddies. She told me that at the interview he asked her if she got on with her previous employers and she said that she did. A couple of weeks later he put his hand up her skirt. When she objected, he said, “But you said at the interview that you “got on” with your bosses.' She resigned, she made a real fuss, but it was all buried.”

  Mr. Preston takes another slurp of his coffee.

  “We didn't play golf together anymore. It was after that I gave her a job. One of our ladies had gone off on maternity leave.”

  Mr. Preston pushes Prickles off his lap and wipes the cat hair off his trousers. Does Prickles stalk off in a huff ? No. He lifts a little paw, batting Mr. Preston on the leg like Oliver. Please, sir, can I have some more?

  Mr. Preston is gently pushing the cat away. Prickles is rubbing his face against Mr. Preston's hand affectionately, arching his back and turning around in circles.

  “She wasn't nice, but she didn't have it easy. She was a single woman out on her own. No matter what you might hear about equal opportunity, there is still a mindset. You've got to remember that only thirty years ago single women couldn't even get loans from the bank. They were supposed to be married or at home waiting to get married.”

  Mr. Preston looked at me and smiled. “Grace was part of the generation that brought about the changes in attitude you enjoy today.”

  Here we go: “The feminist movement part one”—guest speaker, middle-aged, middle-class, Anglo-Saxon man. Yeah, right.

  Mr. Preston bent down and picked up Prickles, who had been winding himself around his ankles. “Grace was never what you would describe as nice, but she was an ambitious, intelligent woman. She went to university at night and studied law. She wanted to be a partner. Ambitious and intelligent women can be scary for men, even today. At least today they have a slim chance of recognition. Grace was never going to get that. She was bitter about never being given the opportunity.”

  In spades.

  “Did you give her recognition when she worked for you?” I challenged.

  Mr. Preston frowned. “It was never my decision.” He scratched the cat under the chin and put him down on the ground again.

  “We were the leading organization at that time. We still are. My family has always lived here. My great-grandfather looked after the great-grandfathers of clients I have today. When Grace came, she got to know all the clients. She took good care of them, even the difficult ones. I was always aware of the important role Grace played in our organization. She was very good. She knew the law. She knew her job, but she wanted to do more.

  “We always looked after our staff. Grace had pay raise after pay raise, but she didn't want more money, she wanted to do more. She wanted to practice law. She thought it was her right. It probably was, but it just wasn't done. My father always said that the clients wouldn't accept her. He said she lacked experience. Besides, she was good at her job, really good. We didn't want to have to replace her, so we gave her more money—the sort of money she wouldn't get anywhere else. If she wanted to practice somewhere else, she would have had to start at the bottom again.”

  “You must have spent a lot of time with her here,” I said, probing.

  “Yes.” Mr. Preston looked me directly in the eye.

  How're you off for socks and jocks?

  I could feel a blush coming on. I picked up his cup and took it into the kitchen.

  That's all I was going to get for today.

  After Mr. Preston left, I washed the dishes. I had been going to do a little revision but I found myself wandering back into Grace's study. I took the spooky box out from behind the books, opened the lid and read.

  … … …

  The evening star doesn't rise so much as it appears.

  I am watching and waiting for the evening star to appear.

  The clouds are glowing gold on the edge of the sky. Soon they will fade away into darkness.

  I went to see that man you sent me to today.

  I thrust out my chin and dared him to “interview” me. He sat rubbing his jaw and observing me like fauna. Like game. I didn't know whether he was going to ask me my typing speed or my fellatio technique.

  So I asked him.

  Why do they do this? Why do these men sit with legs splayed, exhibiting themselves? I have nothing against raw sexuality, but I do believe there is a time and a place for it.

  Where does this unconscious disdain come from? These coffee-making expectations?

  What I wouldn't give for a penis during this period of job-searching.

  There it is. The only star in the sky. Darkness enfolds the once gilt-edged clouds.

  Why are you putting me through this?

  I made a pile of the pieces of paper that I had read so far. Then I found a piece of gold ribbon in the box. I wondered if the ribbon, like Kate's train ticket, was some keepsake— some memento of a special time, some part of Grace's life that was important to her, its significance lost now forever.

  I sat at the desk and wrapped the gold ribbon around my index finger, feeling its rough texture on the pad of my thumb. How did she come to possess this little piece of gold ribbon?

  I tied it around the pieces of paper that I had read so far.

  I reached into the box again and pulled out a black-andwhite studio photograph scalloped at the edges. It showed three little girls, smiling coyly. The biggest girl had a baby on her lap and she was holding the baby's hands in her own. They all had short curly hair. Their cheeks had been painted pink, their eyes blue, and the folds of their short puffed sleeves had been outlined with white crayon so they glimmered.

  This must be Charity, Brioney and Angelica. This baby must be Grace. I brought the photo right up to my face and looked at it.

  I don't know how long I sat there with that photograph under my nose. It was as if I were in a trance. I studied every part of her face, trying to find some similarity between this infant and the woman I care for. I could see that it was her, but I don't know how.

  I tucked the photo in under the ribbon.

  I pulled out the next piece of paper, leant back in the chair and read.

  For A. Preston

  Enclosed are copies of the relevant correspondence and documents re: client number 0829 for your perusal.

  Client's name is Eleanor Samerchi (pronounced “samhersh”). NOTE: POTENTIAL DISASTER IMMINENT.

  An appointment has been made for you at 9:25, expect her at 9:10.

  She will be accompanied by her father, Athol Porter, whom you will remember from your first briefing in September. Mr. Samerchi is away on business overseas and will be back on Tuesday.

  Ms. Samerchi has written a fairly extensive novel on her grievances. (Please find attached.) I have underlined the relevant sections and summarized the five most important points (please observe notes in red,
which are suggested responses). If she doesn't swallow those, revert to clause twelve in her contract. Bless whoever wrote clause twelve.

  You have a fictitious appointment at 10:15, which you may graciously choose to break, or use if you need to withdraw and regroup. (Please use the usual signal.)

  I will be home from 7:00 p.m. if you need to phone.

  May the force be with you.

  Grace

  As I tucked the memo under the ribbon and put all the things I had read back in the box, I wondered why she had kept it.

  I walked back into the lounge room to check on Grace. “How would you like a bath?” I said to her.

  While I ran a bath for Grace, I opened the bathroom cabinet. It is filled with lotions and creams and bottles and little pots. I work my way along the shelves, turning them around so I can see the labels. There are exfoliating scrubs, mud masks, peeling masks, moisturizers, scented oils, day creams, night creams and bubble baths.

  Hmm, is someone a little neurotic about aging, then?

  I pull out a whole bunch of bottles I find in there and put them into the basin.

  I put some jasmine-scented bath oil in the bathwater, walk back into the living room and open the CD cupboard. I put on Chopin and pull Grace up from the chair. I lead her into the bathroom and take her clothes off and put her in the bath. I sit on the edge of the bath and smear a mud mask on her face. I fold up a hand towel and place it behind her head.

  Grace lies there underneath the bubbles, looking straight ahead.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, turtledove?”

  Grace doesn't answer.

  I stand up and smear the mud mask on my own face. I turn the taps off and walk back into the living room, leaving the bathroom door open.

  I walk into the study and pick up the spooky box. I bring it into the lounge room and place it on the coffee table.

  I take out a postcard. There is a picture of a dolphin jumping out of a pool to catch a piece of fish that a man is holding. Words stamped in gold foil at the bottom of the card say, “Greetings from Coffs Harbor.”

  I turn the card over. It is addressed to Grace. The hand is old-fashioned, with flourishes and loops on the g's and f's.

  Hello my love,

  We are having a wonderful time up here. Your father has almost made himself sick eating chocolate-coated bananas, like always.

  I'm looking forward to seeing Aunty Ida tomorrow. We're going to stop with her for a spell. I'll give her your love.

  We had dinner in your favorite seafood restaurant last night, the one near the marina.

  I know it's corny to say so on a postcard, but I do wish you'd decided to come with us this year, Gracey. A holiday would do you good. It would keep your mind off things.

  All my love,

  Mum

  I sat there looking at the postcard, turning it over in my hands.

  When my mask was dry I put the postcard back in the box and put the box back in the study.

  I went into the bathroom and washed the mud mask off my face. I washed Grace's hair and face. I used a big sponge, squeezing the water out over her head. I helped her out of the bath and wrapped her in a big fluffy bathrobe. I sat her on top of the toilet and rubbed some night cream into her face and neck, and then rubbed some moisturizing cream into my own face.

  “There, now we are beautiful!” I said to Grace.

  I pulled on her jammy jams and put her to bed. I sat up next to her and read aloud for a while. Prickles jumped onto the bed and curled up in the crook of Grace's knees.

  Grace's face was shiny in the light of the bedside lamp.

  When Grace was asleep, I walked around the house turning off lights and locking the doors. I hopped into my own bed. I lay there for a while on my back, resting my head on my forearm.

  I thought about the postcard from Grace's mother. It was an ordinary postcard, saying all the normal things that people say on postcards.

  I started to drift off. There's nothing like a bit of pampering to give you a good, long, relaxing sleep.

  I took Grace to the movies this morning. There is one of those huge cinema complexes in the shopping center about ten minutes away. Grace's house is so central! If nothing else, this girl has an eye for real estate.

  I dressed her up, put makeup on her face and even blow-dried her hair with a big round brush. I didn't dress her in a tracksuit. I found a long burgundy dress in the wardrobe and put her new shoes on her feet. She looked pretty good.

  I took her in the car. Luckily the theater isn't too far away, because I only have the one snorkel. Before I left I got a piece of paper and I rolled it into a cone shape and put it in Grace's mouth. I curled her hand into a fist around it, but she wasn't having a bit of it. I put the snorkel in the glove box.

  When I was buying the tickets, Grace was standing at the edge of the entrance area, looking out at the pinball parlor across the corridor. She was standing there on the ugly carpet they always have in the foyer at cinemas.

  While I was standing in line, I kept turning around to check on her. She just looked like a normal person lost in thought. People were bustling about around her and she just stood there with her arms by her sides. That's sort of what she is like—someone who is lost in thought all the time.

  I'm being served. I poke my money through the little hole in the glass at the counter. As I turn around, shoving the change into my purse, I can see a teenage boy, probably about fifteen, walking toward Grace. He's about as far away from her as I am, coming from the opposite direction. I can see the aggression in the way he is moving. His chest is puffed out and his face is really hostile.

  “What are you staring at?” he yells at her from five meters and closing. I walk toward Grace, fast.

  “I'm talking to you.” He's pointing at her. I can see the muscles in his shoulders and arms tense. “What are you staring at?”

  I reach her and grab her by the shoulders. The boy stands still when he sees that she is not alone.

  As I turn her around, the boy is backing away. “You dumb slut!” he yells over his shoulder as he disappears back into the pinball parlor.

  “Well, that was unpleasant, wasn't it?” I say to Grace as we walk away. I'm trying to keep calmness in my voice, but I'm shaken.

  I'm wondering what brought that on? I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been there. Would he have hit her?

  What was his problem? I think it must be some kind of prehistoric pack mentality surging through in the hormones, the same kind of survival of the fittest thing that I observed so often in the schoolyard.

  Weak person! Weak person! Attack! Attack!

  I can feel my blood pulsing through my veins. I'm trying to relax.

  I hand in our tickets and we take a seat in the middle of the theater.

  We watch the latest animated offering. Not exactly highbrow. I have always taken my brother to see those movies to disguise my desire to see them, but he's a bit old for that now. He's too cool. He doesn't mind coming to see the computergenerated animations—purely for academic reasons, of course.

  Grace has provided me with a new excuse.

  I love those movies. I love cartoons. I love how the lead character just breaks into song and they all do a little dance and everyone knows the steps, knows the chorus. I love the fact that in these movies everyone can sing. Wouldn't the world be a wonderful place if everybody could sing?

  Just once, I would like to be in a shopping center, or waiting in a queue or some other ordinary situation, and have someone start singing and have everyone join in and start tap-dancing. There is definitely not enough spontaneous tap dancing these days.

  … … …

  We drove home again, and I changed Grace into a tracksuit and sat her out on the front veranda in one of the big comfy chairs.

  I walked into her bedroom and opened the long cream curtains. Then I sat in the study with my back to the desk, looking through the wardrobe and through the bedroom window to where Grace was sitting. I lift
ed the lid off the spooky box and read.

  I was so angry. I was driving home and I was filled with rage.

  How dare you!

  I was driving like a lunatic. Might have nearly killed several other people and myself.

  How dare you!

  You do this to me all the time. It makes me so angry. I can feel my anger rising up inside me and I can feel my heart beating. Do I say anything? No. You never give me the opportunity. Why bother giving me the authority to make decisions? You waltz into the meeting and override all the decisions I have made.

  It has taken me weeks and weeks of work to put those systems into place. You didn't even have the courtesy to discuss this with me.

  The decision I made on the Pritchard file was based on hours of negotiation and common sense, not to mention profitability.

  How dare you humiliate me and undermine me so publicly! You make me look like a fool. I hate it when you do that. The money that we will lose! I could have slapped you.

  But of course, I didn't.

  I pull up the car with a jolt. Keys won't come out of the ignition. Everything falls out of my handbag. Freezing cold. House will be like an iceberg. It's so late. I had to stay back and reverse all the paperwork. So much for being efficient. I get out of the car. You were sitting on the doorstep. “Get out of my face, you bastard.”

  You had this big black overcoat on with the collar turned up. Your lips are blue. You are standing between the door and me. You say nothing. Then you take something out of your pocket. I can't see what it is. It is so dark and it blends in with the black leather gloves you are wearing.

  It squeaks. You hold it up to my face. Your blue lips smiling.

  It is a tiny black kitten, with a little gold ribbon around its neck. It shivers. “Meow.” Big eyes. Big green eyes. Little pink tongue. Little meow.