Finding Grace (11 page)

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.”

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.

… … …

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.

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.”