Grace's Table (19 page)

Grace craned her neck round to follow the spectacle. ‘Des, just let him get in on his own,' she pleaded. ‘And you can take that smirk off your face, young lady. You're no little Miss Innocent in all of this.'

‘He deserved it. He's a big bully.'

‘Dad's the bully,' Claire yelled at Susan. ‘And you're a nasty girl who starts fights.'

‘Shut up, Claire,' Des roared.

‘Yeah, shut up, Claire,' Susan mimicked.

‘Des, please. Let him go.'

Tears of rage and frustration streaked Peter's red face and snot bubbles glistened at his nostrils. But he never faltered in his determination to break free – equalled only by Des's determination to best the boy.

‘Des, please. Claire, come back from the road.'

Almost to the open door by now, Peter gave one final frenzied scrabble, and lashed out with his un-pincered arm against Des's grip. Des, losing any sense of control he might still have had, and with the superhuman strength of the enraged, swung Peter round by the arm, legs flying out as they did when he'd swing him by the hands, playfully, in the backyard. Grace, terrified, thought he meant to slam the boy into the side of the car.

‘Des! Stop it!'

Peter's feet went wide and struck Claire full on in the chest, sending her reeling backwards. Her little face looked stunned by the blow as she stumbled back on unsteady legs towards the road. Des and Peter were oblivious, so intent was each on victory, but Grace watched it all as if in slow motion.

Claire had no time to recover from the blow from her brother before she was hit by the oncoming car with such force that she was ripped from Grace's view in an instant. Grace turned to watch her youngest child tumble and roll down the bitumen like a rag doll thrown from the window of a passing car.

‘Claire!' she screamed, though she couldn't hear herself, only the sound of blood pulsing in her ears.

In that moment Grace became two people – one who acted and one who observed as though from above. She saw herself scrabbling to open the car door and then slipping in the gravel in her flimsy sandals as she rushed to get to Claire, a misshapen bundle fifteen yards up the road. Grace the nurse ran but the other Grace, the one watching, didn't want to arrive at her destination.

When nurse Grace got to her twisted and bloodied child, she knelt in the dust, felt for a pulse and put her ear close to Claire's torn mouth to see if she was breathing. This Grace stuck a finger inside the bloodied cavity, hooked a tongue forward and cleared away tiny broken teeth.

The watching Grace was fearful to touch her child. She could see she'd already suffered enough pain and to lay a finger on her now, to hold her, would only add more.

Nurse Grace alternated between compressing the child's chest and forcing short, sharp breaths into her damaged mouth. This Grace, the one with wide pupils and a clinician's nerve, ignored the salty taste of blood on her lips.

Watching Grace knelt too and placed her hand on the crown of her child's head, flinched at the boggy scalp she could feel under the blood-wet hair. ‘Claire?' this other, watchful Grace whispered. ‘My beautiful little girl. What have they done to you?'

Nurse Grace kept working at heart and lungs as an uneasy and assorted collection of legs and shoes gathered around her to witness this pain between mother and child.

‘Has somebody gone to phone an ambulance?' Grace demanded between frantic breaths and compressions.

‘Yes,' the owner of one set of shoes answered. ‘A bloke's run to the house up the road.'

‘God, she just came out of nowhere. Nowhere.'

‘Poor little mite.'

Watching Grace wished they'd all go away, that she could have these moments with Claire alone to tell her the things she'd remember.

Nurse Grace didn't stop until she felt the touch of an ambulance officer's hand on her shoulder. His fingers curled around her bony joint and gripped it tenderly as a lover might. She knew then that what she was doing was pointless, probably knew it all along but couldn't stop while the decision was hers to make.

Grace became more like her watchful self then, though it would be years before the two could come together again and confront what had blown them apart. Tenderly, gently, she scooped Claire's small body into her arms and pulled her against her chest. She gripped her flaccid hand, pressed it to her cheek, her lips, and tasted the summer-sweetness of ice cream. She rocked her to and fro as she'd done when she was first born, until her sunburnt arms started to cool.

Des, never a brave man, rested his head on his arms on the bonnet of the car while two small terrified faces looked over him from the back seat.

After Claire's death Grace had started to turn her crazy circles and sit at the kitchen table trying to read the stories etched in its top while the moon shifted across the sky.

She wasn't sure now how long she'd retreated into this dark madness for, but it was long enough for Susan to start her period and Peter to learn to shave. Sure, she would have bought the sanitary napkins and the shaving brush and soap stick but any recollection of doing so was lost. Just as she couldn't recall cleaning the house during this dark time or washing or ironing or cooking, though she supposed the house had been tidy and her family ate.

Gradually, the lights had come back on. It started like a sliver of daylight forcing its way through the gaps of a closed door. Those gaps steadily became wider and wider as the door was allowed to drift further ajar.

Eventually Grace could see everything clearly again, though the terrain had changed. The first thing she noticed was that few of her clothes fitted her anymore, most hanging loose at the waist or shoulders. The second was that her two surviving children had grown much taller than she remembered and that they were timid around her. The third thing she noticed was that Des had gone grey.

Now Grace took an involuntary step back, but continued buffing the remaining dessert spoon with the tea towel. The concave side of it was face-up. She was mirrored upside down there, the features of the room distorted around her. Flipping it over, she was the right way up again.

Nick was carrying the heavy dessert tray to the dining room. Grace followed him in as Meg called, ‘Yummy! What's for dessert?'

‘There might not be any,' Susan teased.

‘There's always dessert at Grandma's house,' the three youngest chorused down their end of the table.

‘That's right,' Grace said, gathering her voice up, ‘there's always dessert at Grandma's house.'

What would happen when all the old-fashioned grandmas went the same way as the word pudding? Grace wondered.

Nick placed the tray on the table.

‘Delicious,' Kath said. ‘Baked custard. I haven't had one of those in years.'

‘Yes, ageless appeal,' Ada agreed.

‘Just the mango for me, thanks.'

‘Of course, Richard.'

‘I'll pass.' Jane sucked in her stomach and ran her hand down her front. ‘Or it'll be a double gym session tomorrow.'

‘A small serve, thanks Mum.' Susan nodded.

‘With ice cream. And lots of it, thanks, Grandma.'

Grace dished out spoons of this and that to suit everybody's tastes.

With the last bowl served, she said, ‘Before we start, I'd like to propose a toast.'

‘You can't call your own birthday toast,' Peter joked. ‘That's my job.'

‘I'm not toasting me.'

‘Who then – the Queen?' Susan joked.

‘No. I'd like to propose a toast to Claire. I don't think she's ever received one.'

The table went quiet, except for Meg, who said, ‘Who's Claire?'

Peter and Susan looked into their dessert bowls. Richard and Jane fidgeted with napkins or placemats. And the grandchildren looked from one to the other, unsure what was expected of them. Kath and Ada shared fond, thoughtful smiles with Grace.

Ada was first to break the silence. ‘What a lovely idea, Grace.'

The three old friends lifted their glasses high. Richard and Jane followed, Peter and Susan were next – and the children, not really knowing what was going on, did the same with their tumblers of fizzy drink.

‘To Claire,' Grace said.

A chorus followed,
To Claire.

‘And here's to you too, Grace.' Kath raised her glass again. ‘Happy seventieth!'

Grace took a second sip from her glass, then picked up her shiny dessert spoon and allowed the metal to slide through the soft custard. There was no ice cream in her bowl, she hadn't eaten it since that day all those years ago.

‘Who's Claire?' Meg asked again.

‘A dead aunty,' Jane whispered. ‘Let Mummy try a tinsy bit of yours, Meg.' Jane reached across the table, spoon outstretched.

Meg ignored her mother. ‘I didn't know we had a dead aunty.'

Jane leant in and answered Meg so quietly, all Grace could hear was
busy road
and
accident
.

16

Any sweetness left in the day was lost. Susan stabbed at her baked custard. Peter ate his slowly, quietly, as if fixated on the task. When he'd emptied his bowl, he asked for seconds then ate it the same way. Maybe he wanted to make his way through all that was left.

Jane remained true to her refusal of dessert and hummed some invented tune. Richard, meanwhile, ate his mango slowly, in spoon-length portions.

The younger children grew restless at the table once the ice cream was back in the freezer, so Nick and Jorja led them outdoors for a game.

‘I guess that's the eating over and done with.' Richard sat back, hands linked behind his head.

Susan flared. ‘You make it sound like a chore.'

‘Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the meal. But you know me, eating's a means to an end.'

‘A productive end, Richie?'

Susan was in no mood to laugh with Jane. ‘I wish you'd let me know that before we put all the effort in to prepare it. I'd have given you a glass of water instead.'

Peter gave Richard a slap on the back, propelling his brother-in-law forward. ‘Lucky we blokes have broad shoulders, mate.'

Abruptly gathering together the empty dessert bowls, Susan clattered one on top of the other, not bothering to separate the spoons from between each.

Grace felt sorry for Richard. She didn't think his shoulders would ever be broad enough for some of Susan's comments.

‘Here, let me clear those, Susan. You've done enough today.' Grace took up Ada's bowl and put it on top of her own.

Susan didn't answer, kept stacking dirty dishes instead.

‘Come on, I can do—'

‘I heard what you said.'

‘Ooh, some-one's get-ting tetch-y.'

‘Oh, shut up, Jane. Here, suck on another bottle, why don't you.' Susan thumped the last unfinished bottle of wine in front of her sister-in-law. ‘Wanna straw?'

Richard looked at Susan, shocked. Ada and Kath each made a labour of carefully folding their napkins. Peter laughed softly.

The sound of the doorbell cut across the quiet.

‘Headline,' Jane said with a dramatic swipe of her arm. ‘Family feud saved by bell.' She looked pleased with her joke, and she refilled her glass.

Susan started loading up the dessert tray while Grace went to answer the door.

Standing on the Welcome mat was Ada's son.

‘Max – I thought you were going to ring first?'

‘Sorry – I forgot. Aren't you done?'

‘No. We haven't had coffee yet.'

‘Close then.'

‘Depends on how many cups your mother would like. You might as well come in.' Grace held the door open for him. She needed to busy her hands, which itched to reach out and smack him.

‘Just for a minute. She might have to skip the coffee. I've got my instructions – one kid here, another there and Mum home somewhere in the middle of it.'

Scraps of time thrown about like bread crusts to birds; the noisiest, bossiest ones got the most.

‘First on the right,' she said, letting him past. ‘In case you've forgotten.'

‘Hi all.' Max held his hand up to greet those at the table like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Sorry to disturb.'

‘Oh. Is it that time already?' Ada said.

‘'Fraid so, Mum. I've got a lot of running around to do this evening.'

‘Got time for a quick drink, Max, while Mum gets Ada sorted?'

‘Sorry. Can't, Pete. I'm in a bit of a rush.'

Ada tensed under Grace's hand with the pain of movement as she helped her up from the chair. ‘Don't rush, Ada. Time can stand still for a few minutes.'

‘Good – I'm a bit stiff from sitting so long.'

Once upright, Ada stood as tall as she could.

‘I'll start making my way to the car then. Bye, everyone.'

Getting up, Kath hugged her friend. ‘See you soon. Lunch at yours next?'

‘Do I have to wait for my birthday?'

‘Definitely not.'

Susan came round and embraced Ada, but it was quick, distracted; her flurry of
There, there
pats to Ada's back conveyed little warmth.

‘Hope you feel better soon,' she said, going back to stacking the tray.

Richard stood. ‘Don't forget what I said about alternating those two analgesics. I think you'll find that'll work a treat.' He shook Ada's hand, encasing her smaller one in the two of his.

Then came Jane, who'd left her drink behind to enwrap Ada. She was almost tearful as she said, ‘I think you're beautiful, even with bruises.'

Caught up with Max in talk of results from the previous night's game of cricket, Peter gave Ada a wave that looked more like a salute.

‘Watch out for those mirrors, eh?'

Grace and Ada left the house as they'd entered it, arm in arm, down the front steps and onto the footpath. Grace cleared a juice box from their way with her foot.

‘You didn't have to bring me all the way,' Ada said.

‘I needed some air.'

Ada looked at Grace, eyebrow cocked.

‘The day's been a strange one cooped up inside.'

‘Turning seventy not what you thought it'd be?'

‘I don't know what I thought it'd be.'

They stopped beside Max's car. As far as the eye could see, the nature strip on either side of the road was covered with mounds of rubbish.

Ada followed Grace's gaze. ‘It's a neglected landscape, isn't it? Do you think people even see the mess anymore?'

Grace shook her head. ‘I doubt it.'

‘You've already got her there,' Max called from the front porch. ‘For a couple of old girls you've got a half-decent spring to your step.'

‘Do they not hear themselves?' Ada said to Grace.

‘Not with our ears.'

The two friends embraced.

‘Enjoy what's left of your birthday.'

‘I'll try.' Grace opened the car door for Ada, helped her in.

Max got into the driver's seat. ‘All tucked in, are we?'

‘It's a car, Max, not a bed,' Grace said.

‘Let's get Cinderella home then,' he said, and found reverse.

Grace closed Ada's door then stood back from the car as it pulled out from the kerb. Ada waved as Max drove away, her battered face small behind the glass.

Back inside, Susan was at the sink, back turned, rinsing the bowls.

‘Thanks, Susan. You've been a great help today. But leave all of those now. I can clean up in here later when everyone's gone.'

Susan kept rinsing. ‘I've started now.'

With the day growing long and Grace's patience growing short, she'd lost the energy to jolly her daughter along. ‘Suit yourself.' She took a clean tea towel from the drawer and waited while Susan rinsed the last of the bowls then filled the sink with hot water.

Grace could see Susan was angry. She wore it in the ropey tightness of her neck and the muscular tic in her jaw, one of the many ways Susan reminded Grace of Des. There was a part of Grace that wanted to ignore her daughter's thin lips and rigid shoulders, her fierce pumping of the dishwashing brush inside a glass, four, five, six times more than necessary. The other part – the mother – thought she should try to coax her out of it.

‘It's been a lovely day,' Grace lied.

‘I'm glad you've enjoyed it.'

Grace picked up the glass Susan had placed upside down on the sink, stuffed the tea towel inside it. Susan started her pumping action on the next one.

‘Maybe you're right though – a restaurant would have been easier.' Grace fished, cautiously.

Susan shrugged. ‘Too late now.' She placed the next glass on the sink, set to work on another.

‘Jane'll have a thumper tomorrow.'

‘Oh, I don't know – she usually pulls up all right.'

Grace was quiet, unsure of what to try next. She put the glass she was drying on the bench, picked up the next one, forced the tea towel inside it, and twisted. She stepped forward to place it on the bench alongside the other and budged her sandalled toe up against something sharp near the kickboard. She looked down and saw it was a broken section from the donkey dish. The missing eye. A small drop of blood oozed from her little toe where she'd kicked it. She bent down and picked the jagged triangle up from the floor, held it in her hand a moment.

‘Must be the last of it,' she said, and set it on the window ledge.

Susan stopped her pumping action inside the glass and stared back at that indignant little eye. After a moment she pulled her gloved hands from the water, flicked the suds from them, then took the broken piece of china from the ledge. She walked to the bin and threw it in. The lid slammed shut with a tinny crash.

‘It is now,' she said.

Grace looked at her daughter, hurt. ‘That's something your father would have done.'

‘Well, he was a practical man too.'

‘There's practical then there's heartless.'

‘Heartless?' Susan turned on Grace.

Grace said nothing. She picked up the next glass and stuffed the tea towel inside. She turned it round and round until the tight ball of cloth started to squeak against the glass.

‘You're the one who pulled the let's-make-a-toast-to-Claire stunt. Not me. I can't believe that after all this time you're still hell-bent on making us feel guilty. And you think I'm heartless.' Susan dropped a serving bowl into the sudsy water. It was an old one and Grace sensed the already deep crazing give a little more as it knocked against the metal sink.

Susan wasn't about to stop there. ‘You weren't the only one hurting after she died, you know. We all lost something that day.'

Grace stiffened.

Susan added more hot water to the sink. She turned the tap on so forcefully it sprayed water up the front of her silk shirt.

‘I had nightmares for months afterwards. I kept seeing the way you held on to her at the side of the road. It was almost as if you were trying to consume her, absorb her back into your body in some way. It freaked me out.'

Susan ran the dishwashing brush round and round the bowl so fast that it started a whirlpool in the sink.

‘I always doubted you'd hold me the same.' She made a sound that could have been a discordant laugh or a choked sob.

‘Of course I would have.' Grace spoke automatically. Grace didn't see if Susan believed her because she couldn't look at her daughter.

‘Nobody could get near you afterwards.' Susan set the serving bowl upside down on the draining board, took up another one, ran the brush round it more calmly, started on the plates. Grace kept up her own steady action of turning the dish she was drying between fingers and thumb, more times and with greater care than necessary.

‘It was as though you'd left us too. If it wasn't for Dad, I don't know what we'd have done. He kept us safe – in here.' Susan tapped her head. Her finger left a small collection of popping foam on her hair. ‘He hugged us. Talked to us. Told us we had nothing to do with what happened. But not you. You never said a word. Never tried to take the pain away.'

Grace remained quiet. She picked up a plate, started drying the face of it. What would people do without these mundane tasks to occupy them during such conversations? Where would they look? What would they do with their hands?

‘I remember how some days I'd rush home from school to tell you about something that had happened and you'd go through the motions of listening. You'd stop whatever you were doing and face me, but you never listened with your eyes. Dad did though. He'd get down on one knee, just so I could see he was looking right at me.
Tell me, love
, he'd say.
Tell me all about it
. But you cooked. Boy, did you cook.' Susan's laugh was at odds with her tense shoulders. ‘I'd come in from school and there'd be fresh biscuits or cakes on the table even though the lot you'd made the day before were still in their tins. There'd be soups or casseroles on the stove, pies or puddings in the oven and custard or sauces to go with everything. You must have been at it all day. It didn't feel like a caring, motherly act though. It seemed more like madness.'

Grace felt like an alien visiting her life, the way Susan was telling it. ‘I think I must have had some kind of breakdown.' Grace's voice sounded old and feeble to her ears. ‘Much of that time's a dark blot on my memory.'

Susan looked at her in a way that reminded Grace trust was a hard-won thing.

‘It's the truth,' she said.

‘Well, what I remember is how you'd pile Dad's plate up high with food and watch him empty it, and then you'd add more. I don't think he knew how to tell you he was full, like he didn't feel he could. He put it all down to you needing to keep yourself busy, so he went along with it, ate everything you gave him. I think he believed he was keeping you happy that way.'

‘I was just doing my job,' Grace said.

‘In spades.'

Grace looked away from Susan's gaze. She put the plate she was drying down on the bench carefully and took up another from the draining board.

‘And the lock on Claire's wardrobe door – do you remember that?' Susan asked.

Grace nodded. That, she remembered.

‘I'd stare at it and imagine you'd put her body in there and that one night the door would fall open and she'd come tumbling out. I'd lie awake for hours some nights thinking about what she'd look like.'

Grace had started to tremble a little. She put the plate on top of the last, barely dried, fearful she'd drop it.

‘Part of me was desperate to steal the key to see what you were hiding. If you hadn't kept the damn thing round your neck the whole time I probably would have.'

Susan rested her gloved hands on the edge of the sink, looked right at Grace. ‘You let her death ruin your marriage. How could you do that? He never understood it.'