Finding Grace (17 page)

“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 while 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.

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.