The Colour of Tea (34 page)

Finally, on the morning of New Year’s Eve, Marjory arrives. She has Jocelyn’s new passport and an envelope with plane tickets
and cash inside. Rilla rushes over from her apartment to see her friend off.

“Have you got everything?” I ask, like a nervous mother.

Jocelyn nods and smiles, pats the side pocket of her bag. Rilla looks her in the eyes and gives her advice in Tagalog. She holds on to both her shoulders as she speaks. I imagine her advice: Don’t talk to strangers, get straight on the bus when you get to Manila, keep your bag close, have you been to the toilet? Jocelyn smiles; we must look so concerned. Even Pete seems melancholy.

“I’m going to miss her,” he mumbles to me, putting his arm around my waist.

“I know, me too.”

We have seen photos of her children and heard stories about them. A little boy called Matthew and a girl named Teresa. Saints’ names, as if she has known right from the beginning that they would need the extra protection. In the pictures they have her dark eyes and small face. Teresa likes drawing and stories about fairies. Matthew likes to climb trees. Jocelyn doesn’t talk about their father and I don’t ask, but he is not in any of the precious photos, edges worn and colors faded from rubbing.

“You’ll be seeing those babies of yours soon,” Marjory says, as if she can read my mind.

Jocelyn looks up. “I will be so happy to be with them.” Her eyes are shining as she gazes around at us.

“You take care of them, Jocelyn. Don’t let them out of your sight,” Rilla warns.

“I won’t.”

“Give them hugs from all of us here. Squeeze them tight,” Pete adds.

“Well …” Marjory catches my eye. I am trying not to cry. “We’d better get going, I guess.”

“Shall we come to the airport with you?” Pete asks.

Marjory shakes her head. “The fewer people the better. I’ll just nip in to make sure she’s all right. We don’t want to draw attention to her.”

We all troop down to the street together. As Jocelyn climbs into the passenger seat of Marjory’s car, her long hair falls down over her shoulder. I remember seeing that sheet of hair and the horrible black bruise. Now when she lifts her face, it is clear and shining, as if lit up from the inside. She is safe. She is going home. She mouths “Thank you” to us with one hand pressed against the car window. Rilla, Pete, and I stand together, waving.

Marjory starts the engine and toots the horn a couple of times before pulling away from the curb. We watch the car until we can no longer see it.

*   *   *

Rilla receives a text message from Jocelyn the next day. She is back home with her sister and her children, in her little town by the sea. Everyone is healthy. Matthew and Teresa look taller. They had fish and rice for dinner. Her sister took photos of everyone, and she is going to post us some copies. She ends her message with a smiley face. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

“I could kill the people that did that stuff to her,” Gigi says with menace.

“We all could,” I agree.

“God, the world is full of assholes,” she adds.

Rilla looks at me as she enters the kitchen with a tray of dirty cups, but I don’t scold Gigi for swearing. She is right. The world
is
full of assholes.

“Is anyone out front?”

“Just Linda and the book club,” Rilla replies.

“Are they almost finished?”

“I think so. School’s out in ten minutes.”

“I’ll go do up their bill.”

Rilla looks at me, and I think she looks a bit relieved but I can’t tell. She starts to sing along to a song on the transistor radio on the kitchen windowsill. She’s recently began listening to country music, and somehow her voice sounds a little better crooning along to the lilting lyrics of heartbreak and the dog on the porch and the pickup truck that got a flat tire. Gigi doesn’t love it—she rolls her eyes at me.

I print the receipt from the till as Linda heads to the counter. Her blond hair is unusually long, over her shoulders.

“Thanks, Gracie, the
macarons
were lovely today,” she coos.

“My pleasure. Just yours or are you paying for everyone?”

“I’ll get the lot. We’re celebrating.”

She pauses and waits for me to ask. I have a mind to just let the silence sit between us, but it seems rude.

“What are you celebrating?”

Her face brightens. “Paul got a job in Singapore. The new development there. It’s a pretty big role.”

“Oh, well, that’s great.”

“We’ll be leaving in a few months.”

“I’m very happy for you.” I smile as I put her notes into the till and hand her some coins.

“It’s going to be a big change from
here.
” She raises her eyebrows. “Singapore is so different, you know?”

“I’ve never been,” I admit.

“Oh, you have to go, Grace! It’s marvelous. No rubbish on the streets. Great restaurants. No one spitting.” She gives me a look of wonder. “It’s so
civilized
. It’s so
clean.
”

“Right,” I say bluntly. The door chimes, and over Linda’s shoulder I see Marjory come in. She is wearing white trousers and a black shirt that hugs her body beautifully. Following her is the contrary version of her style—a nun in a brown-and-white
habit, face free from makeup, eyes sparkling fresh and blue. This must be Sister Julietta. They both smile broadly at me.

Linda hasn’t noticed my gaze sliding away from her. “You’ll have to visit, Grace. It’s marvelous,” she repeats.

“Yes, I should go someday,” I say, distracted.

Linda closes her bag and sighs, leans in a little. “I’ve been meaning to say, I’m glad to see you got rid of that other one. They can be trouble.”

My attention snaps back to her. “Pardon?”

“The other girl, the one who’s gone.”

“Jocelyn?” My voice sounds tight.

“Was that her name? Well, if you ever want a spare pair of hands, I’m sure one of us girls could lend you a few hours. If you were ever in a jam, you know.”

“Us girls?” My tone is caustic.

Linda’s mouth hangs open for a second. Then she lowers her voice. “One of us
expat
girls, Gracie. I mean, we’re very busy with kids and husbands and what have you, but we could always rustle up someone for a few hours if you got into a pickle.”

I try to imagine Linda with her manicured hands in soapy water. She probably doesn’t do her own dishes at home, let alone have the stamina to stand for hours over my tacky baking trays.

“Jocelyn was a wonder, actually, Linda. We miss her terribly. And we’re fine. No need for help; Gigi and Rilla and I have it all under control.”

Linda takes a step back, and her lips come together. Her eyes narrow a little, but she quickly forces a smile.

“Well …” she says.

“Linda George!” Marjory exclaims; her voice both icy and sweet.

Linda wheels around.

“Haven’t seen you for ages. Don’t you look great. Hair extensions?”

Linda stares at Marjory for a moment, taking in the white trousers, the superb dancer’s body underneath that tight black top.

“Were you just leaving?” Marjory asks with a cool smile.

“Ah, yes …” Linda looks from Marjory to the nun and back again. It’s like an equation she cannot figure out. Marjory, the nun, back to Marjory. They both blink back at her with no explanation or introduction.

“Just leaving, yes?” Marjory says again.

Linda nods dumbly. When she is halfway across the floor, she turns back to me and lifts her head. As if to show we are the best of friends, she raises her fingers and waggles them, gives me a big white-toothed smile. “See you, Gracie dear.”

I take great pleasure in replying slowly and loudly so that everyone can hear: “Piss off, Linda.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Marjory’s face break into a huge grin.

La Môme Piaf—The Little Sparrow

Pear and Chestnut with Poire Williams–Spiked Buttercream

E
arly, when the sky is still dark, I am yanked from sleep. The cool January air wraps around me as I take a few deep breaths, figuring out where I am and waiting for my drumming heart to slow. In my dreams Faith was lying in our bed, her small, sweet weight curled between us. She was clutching Pete’s finger. I sit up and place my hand against the cool sheets, but of course she is not there. Her face slips into my mind. Tufts of hair, sweet skin, dark oolong eyes filled with fresh tears. She has been in Lillian’s every day for weeks now. I find myself looking out for her in the mornings, desperate for her to arrive with Gigi, to hold her and kiss her and smell the baby scent of her. Now she is in my dreams.

Pete has told me the Melbourne team needs him to come back to Australia. There is a hotel to be built there, and the construction in Macau is struggling to remain funded. It’s an easy career decision for him, but he knows it is breaking my heart. He’s given me more time than he can afford to, the job offer pending while he puts off giving a firm answer. But I know they won’t wait long.
As much as I love my work, it doesn’t provide for us like Pete’s does, and I guess the argument is that I could make a café anywhere. But could I? Pete’s going to need my support, we’re in a marriage after all, and soon I will have to decide what to do with Lillian’s. That is the hardest part. That and knowing that soon I won’t have these faces to keep me company every day. Marjory. Rilla. Gigi. Faith.

As I lie down again, I let out a sigh, which turns into a sob that catches in my throat. Pete sleeps on, unaware. His face is soft and beautiful when he is sleeping. Tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I put the side of my hand into my mouth and bite. The tears slowly stop, stray drops finding their way down my neck and onto the collar of my pajamas. I wish for Faith to be with us, the feeling making my chest ache.

I imagine Mama lying in bed, blankets up to her chin, wondering where I was, whether I was safe. Could she tell I was being looked after? Did she trust that I knew how to look after myself, that I was old enough to survive on my own? Without her? Maybe I reasoned that she was too selfish and needy and wrapped up in herself to worry about me. But I have been wrong about this. She would have worried. I know that beyond all doubt now. Mama would have worried about me the way I do about Faith, her sweet face always interrupting my thoughts.

I imagine Mama in my empty bedroom, hand pressed against the sheets of my bed, walls still covered in posters, concert tickets collected in an old ice cream container on the dresser. Would she have sat down and held the pillow against her? Cried for me to come home? Back to England? I never guessed I would go home too late. I didn’t plan it that way. Of course I expected we would see each other again, when I was ready and she had apologized for the things she had said. I just wasn’t ready for so long.
And then.

Dearest Mama,

They say the truth will set you free. Do you believe it? Perhaps it is time to see.

I know it won’t bring you back.

Your loving daughter,
Grace

*   *   *

So it should be told—how I found out about Mama.

Pete and I came back from our two-person wedding in Bali. We were tanned and happy, still kissing one another every chance we got. The ends of my hair were split from salt and sun, as red and dry as autumn leaves. I was so delighted to be married I kept turning my ring round and round on my finger. I could make a new family now, I thought. London felt oceans, worlds, universes away, and I liked it that way. My past was too complicated to deal with, Mama too heavy a burden to carry, and the future seemed so sweet and full of love. I was making breakfast and Pete was in the living room watching television, calling out “I love you” in the ad breaks, when the phone rang. I took my time answering it. There was a delay and a buzz, and then a woman’s voice came through.

“Grace Raven?”

I thought of my new married name, Miller, and cradled the phone under my ear while I reached for the toaster.

“Yes.”

“Oh, it
is
you! I thought I heard an English accent, but it’s so hard to tell. Lovey, you are a hard woman to track down.”

English accent. Northern. I put the hot toast on a plate and paused, still.

“Sorry, who is it that’s calling?”

“I had a real battle to find you, let me tell you!”

Manchester accent. She took off like a roller coaster making the downhill turn.

“I’m Fran. Fran Adamson. I’m a nurse at St. Bernard’s. You know she
said
she had a daughter but I wasn’t sure, and then it took so long to find you. Births, deaths, and marriages are hopeless. More hopeless than hospital admin. Which can be
hopeless.
”

A nurse from Manchester, calling from a London hospital.

“Did I go to school with you, Fran?”

“Oh no, I doubt it.” She laughed. “I’m quite a bit older than you. And I know, ’cause I have your birth certificate right here in the file.”

“Pardon?”

“When you were born I was halfway through my O levels, dear.”

“Sorry?”

“You are Lillian’s daughter, aren’t you?”

That caught me off-guard. I swallowed, then answered “Yes.”

“I knew your mother. I was one of her nurses.”

I didn’t notice the past tense at first. It was a delayed reaction, like you see in the movies.

“Mama is sick?” I asked.

“Well, we don’t like to say it quite like that, but she did have an illness. A mental illness. I thought you would know all this …”

“Know what? Sorry, but I should know what?”

She carried on, “I’m calling because you’re next of kin. I have to notify you of her … passing.”

I tried to hold on to the phone with both hands as I slid down to the kitchen floor.

“Are you still there?” Fran went on, unrattled, as if she said those words every day. Mama had been in St. Bernard’s for months. Maybe eight months, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure as she didn’t have the admission records in front of her. The
hospital records were “a right old mess” and, besides, she hadn’t been working there when Mama was admitted; she only heard about it later. They said she’d come in soaking wet, wearing a nightgown and a pair of black opaque tights. It had been raining that day when the police picked her up, and they took her to St. Bernard’s straightaway. A good thing, because sometimes they wind up in jail or aren’t picked up at all, and that is no good.
They.
Who was she talking about?