Saving Grace

by Fiona McCallum

  The organist continued now with Amazing Grace, and Emily swallowed back another wave of tears.

  As supportive as Granny Mayfair had been, she’d never tolerated self-pity for long. If she was here she’d be sternly telling Emily to pull herself together: ‘Leaving John was your decision – no one else’s. Right or wrong, you now have to live with it and get on with your life’.

  Just suck it up, princess, Emily thought, allowing herself a slight smile. Gran would have so loved the new expressions generation Y used.

  No matter how many weddings, funerals, morning and afternoon teas, and luncheons Emily attended, she always marvelled at the quality and quantity of the offerings. Trestle tables occupied the centre of the bowls clubroom, along which all the sweet and savoury delights were set out. There were piles of plates and paper serviettes at each end.

  At Gran’s funeral she’d been too busy to eat – hugging long-lost cousins, catching up with old family friends, and avoiding dribbling smooches from great-uncles. So this time – despite the circumstances – it was nice to get the chance to sample the wonderful array of food. Most local women had brought their signature dish, and Emily had attended enough functions that she could identify what had been made by whom.

  Mavis Bertram was known for her small, round jelly cakes and brandy snaps, Diana Timms her cream puffs, Mary Rickets for chocolate éclairs, Tiffany Rogers for melting moment biscuits …

  With plate in hand, Emily surveyed the table. Right across from her – and too far to reach and still appear ladylike – was a plate piled high with Beryl Egbert’s homemade sausage rolls, identifiable by the triangular cuts in the puff pastry rather than the traditional fork marks. It was this telltale sign Emily looked for.

  Beside them was a plate of Carole Turner’s egg sandwiches, distinguished by her trademark of using three slices of bread and cutting them into chunky fingers.

  Emily moved around the table and was hovering over the sandwiches, deciding whether to take one or two, when she heard a male voice beside her. ‘So, what do you recommend?’ Taking only one, she turned to the voice. Nathan Lucas stood beside her with an empty plate.

  ‘Oh, hello, I didn’t know you knew the Burtons.’

  ‘I don’t. Mum and Dad dragged me along to start meeting some of the locals – for when I get the job. They’re convinced.’

  ‘Nice to have supportive parents. Well, this is certainly the best place to meet everyone.’

  ‘God, the food looks good – I’m starving.’

  ‘It is – well, from past experience anyway.’

  ‘So sausage rolls and egg sandwiches are obviously a good bet,’ he said, nodding at Emily’s plate.

  ‘Ah, but not all of them. See those egg sandwiches over there?’ Emily indicated surreptitiously with her plate. ‘The bright orange ones? Don’t touch them. Old Mrs Bates lost her tastebuds years ago. They’ve got so much curry powder in them they’ll make your eyes water.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip. Which sausage rolls are edible?’

  ‘Those and those,’ Emily said, pointing. ‘The ones with the random fork marks are okay, but not as generous with the meat and herbs. Beryl’s are the best.’

  ‘What about these? They look great.’

  ‘Best avoided. Maggie Semmens is a lovely lady, but not blessed in the culinary arts. She uses tinned Spam as filling.’

  ‘Surely not,’ he said, reaching for one.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Nathan bit into the roll and Emily stood beside him with an angelic I-told-you-so expression on her face, enjoying his discomfort as he struggled to swallow.

  ‘Yum, that’s better,’ he said after clearing his throat and tasting the second of the two samples he had on his plate. ‘So, did you make anything?’

  ‘Yep. I helped my friend Barbara make a stack of stuff, including those scones and pin wheels,’ she said, indicating two plates piled high in front of them.

  ‘I notice you’re not having any.’

  ‘Only because I overdosed the other day. Honestly. Ask Barbara over there, if you don’t believe me.’ Right at that moment Barbara caught Emily’s eye across the room and raised her cup of tea in acknowledgement. Emily raised her plate and smiled back.

  ‘So do you know everyone by their culinary abilities, or lack of?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Emily said, grinning and tucking into a mini quiche, which she knew by the carefully arranged slices of cherry tomato on top to be Dorothy Price’s.

  Nathan followed Emily as she sought out her favourites, quietly steering him clear of this and that and providing encouragement here and there.

  As they moved around the table, she noticed the signs that people were discussing her: the odd blush, averted eyes, hushed voices when she got too close.

  They’d never be able to recruit spies from around here, she thought, glaring icily at a couple of people.

  ‘Do you reckon they’re talking about us?’ Nathan asked in a whisper from behind her. ‘Just, you know, you can sometimes tell.’

  ‘You wait, this time next week we’ll be engaged. Sometimes the lack of anonymity around here drives me nuts,’ Emily added, pursing her lips.

  ‘Oh well, the good with the bad, I suppose. They do do a damn good spread for funerals,’ Nathan said, grinning and biting into a ham-and-mustard sandwich.

  ‘Indeed they do. Come on, I’ll give you a heads-up on dessert. My ultimate favourites are Mavis Bertram’s brandy snaps,’ she said, picking one up and putting it on her plate. ‘Identifiable by their golden colour and the cream running the entire length,’ she continued, holding the plate up for Nathan to see.

  ‘Those darker ones,’ she said, pointing across the table, ‘are most likely Jill Dupont’s. Hers, in my opinion, are too bitter and a little burnt tasting. And she never puts in enough cream.’

  ‘You should be a food critic.’

  ‘Maybe one day I will be,’ Emily said, tossing her head jauntily. ‘So what do you like the look of?’ she asked, adding a mini chocolate cream cake dusted in icing sugar to her plate.

  ‘Think I’ll be a copycat,’ Nathan said, putting both a brandy snap and a cream cake on his plate.

  Emily finished with a miniature meringue topped with cream and small chunks of strawberries and said, ‘Come on, let’s get out of the way.’

  She turned and made her way through the throng converging on the heavily laden trestles. She nodded and mumbled greetings to people she passed, all too aware that their gazes were set beyond her to Nathan, whom she could sense was right on her heels.

  ‘Either they know I’m a banker or I’ve got too much food on my plate,’ he said when they were settled, standing against the far wall of the large room. ‘Or maybe they can smell I’m an interloper and didn’t know the deceased,’ he added.

  ‘No, it’s because you’re with me. I haven’t mourned my marriage for the requisite period,’ Emily said, through a mouthful of brandy snap.

  ‘How long’s that?’

  ‘No idea – probably no one else does either,’ Emily said with a shrug.

  ‘So two people of the opposite sex can’t be seen together without conclusions being drawn?’ Nathan asked, sounding aghast.

  ‘That’s right. Oh, unless they’re about a generation apart in age. Even then it can be touch and go.’

  ‘But we might be doing business – talking banking.’

  ‘We might be.’

  ‘If they knew I was in banking.’

  ‘Oh, they know. Anyway, us talking business might be even worse, because if I’ve got enough money to be discussing it with a banker then I’ve obviously ripped off one of their precious bloody farmers.’

  ‘The protected species.’

  ‘You’re catching on,’ Emily said with a wink. ‘You might just fit in here yet,’ she added, before popping the last half of her brandy snap into her mouth.

  ‘You’re far too young and attractive to be so bitter, Emily,’ Nathan
said, taking a bite of miniature meringue.

  ‘Can’t help it,’ Emily said after she’d swallowed her mouthful.

  ‘Well, I will make it my mission to change that when – if – I get the job.’

  Emily shrugged her shoulders and bit into her cream cake. She was beginning to feel a little full, but the food was just too good to pass up.

  ‘So, is he here?’ Nathan asked, looking around him.

  ‘Who?’ Emily said with a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Your ex?’

  ‘Probably,’ she said and finished swallowing. ‘Most likely at the bar or outside having a smoke.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.’

  Emily tried to analyse how she’d feel about seeing John, and was surprised to realise she hadn’t thought about it until now. Of course he’s here. The whole bloody district is here. She was a little nervous, apprehensive, but not like she might have felt a few weeks ago. She just didn’t want to see him, and hopefully, with so many other people there, she wouldn’t have to.

  But if she did, she’d be okay.

  Emily and Nathan were finishing their plates when Barbara appeared beside them.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Emily asked, hugging her friend.

  ‘Glad it’s almost over. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. Barbara, this is Nathan Lucas. Remember I told you he was at dinner at my parents’ the other night? He’s hoping to become the new assistant manager at the State Bank.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Barbara said, exchanging handshakes with Nathan and covert raised eyebrows with Emily.

  ‘It’s Barbara’s father-in-law’s wake we’re eating our way through,’ Emily explained.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Please accept my condolences. I hope you don’t mind my being here.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Barbara said, indicating the long table with a sweep of her arm.

  ‘Can I get you ladies a cup of tea or coffee?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Oh, would you? That would be great. Tea, thanks. White with one,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Same for me thanks, Nathan,’ Emily said.

  ‘He seems nice,’ Barbara said, staring after Nathan as he wove his way through the crowd. ‘Better looking than you had me believe too.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t you start!’ Emily said and rolled her eyes at her friend.

  ‘Just passing comment. I’m not starting anything.’

  A few minutes later Nathan reappeared and swapped their empty dessert plates for cups and saucers.

  ‘You’re a life saver. Thanks Nathan,’ Barbara said, sipping on her tea.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Yes, thanks very much,’ Emily said. They lapsed into silence and watched as the crowded room gradually thinned.

  Suddenly Emily yawned. It felt like evening, but when she checked her watch it was only four o’clock.

  ‘You don’t have to stay on my account,’ Barbara said. ‘Seriously, I’ve got all David’s lot already insisting on hanging around to clean up. You did all the setting up this morning, not to mention all the cooking. You’ve done more than your fair share.’

  ‘I am pretty weary, actually. It’s suddenly hit me,’ Emily said sheepishly.

  ‘Well, get on home then, silly. Off you go,’ Barbara said, taking Emily’s empty cup from her.

  ‘If you’re sure you don’t need me.’

  ‘Yes, positive.’

  ‘Nathan, do you need a ride anywhere?’ Emily asked.

  ‘No thanks, my parents are over there,’ Nathan said, pointing. ‘Anyway, it would probably be best not to be seen leaving together,’ he said with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Ah, so Emily’s filled you in on the rumour mill then, has she?’ Barbara said. ‘Nothing you do around here passes unnoticed. Unless you happen to want it to be noticed. It can be very frustrating.’

  ‘Right, I’m off,’ Emily said. ‘I’ll see you soon, Barbara. Call if you need anything,’ she said, giving her friend a hug.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Nathan,’ she added, pecking him on the cheek.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Emily checked her mailbox on her way out of town and was surprised to find a card indicating she had a parcel awaiting collection inside the post office. She hadn’t ordered anything.

  As Emily returned to her car, she turned the package over in her hands. It was about the size of a shoebox, and the printed sender details showed a post office box number in Melbourne, but no name. And, damn it, it was so securely taped she’d need scissors to open it.

  She looked at the object on the passenger seat beside her as she pulled away from the kerb, feeling excited at receiving an anonymous parcel. It might have been from her cousin – another thankyou gift for her hospitality the other week. Not really Elizabeth’s style, but people did always have the capacity to surprise.

  Despite her interest in the parcel, Emily felt a strange heaviness settle upon her as she drove out of town that day, the likes of which she hadn’t felt since … since when? Since she’d first left John? Yes. But also before that. At Gran’s funeral. That was it. Now the hoopla of the wake was gone, the sense of loss had seeped back in.

  When she let Grace out of the yard, the border collie stayed by her side rather than tearing off to check out who and what had left new scents on her patch.

  ‘It’s okay, Gracie, I’m just a bit sad. I’ll be okay,’ she said, ruffling the dog’s ears.

  Emily put the parcel on the kitchen bench, her curiosity overshadowed by more thoughts of Gran and how much she missed her. Deciding to walk it off, she got changed into her old jeans and faded windcheater, put her walking shoes on, and took a stroll up the small hill behind the house.

  Back inside the kitchen she still couldn’t settle. She put the kettle on and then fossicked in the drawer for scissors and sliced through the tape binding the parcel. Peeling back one of the flaps, she found a large nugget-shaped object wrapped in brown paper. It was slightly squishy and quite heavy when she removed it from the box. She tore away the outer layer to reveal a generous amount of bubble wrap. Still no hint of what it was or who had sent it.

  Emily paused for a moment. It wouldn’t be John sending something nasty, would it? Or perhaps he was doing something to try to win her back, she thought, feeling slightly hopeful. But why now? He hadn’t made any effort to seek her out at the funeral. Her heart sank again. She was being ridiculous. She carefully undid the tape and began to unwind the bubble wrap.

  When she was finished, Emily stared at the object in her hands: a large Bushells Coffee jar with a faded, slightly rusty, red tin lid. Granny’s button jar, minus the buttons. She didn’t need to check the writing on the large broken pieces still in the cupboard under the sink to know it was exactly the right jar – she’d run her fingers over the letters too many times over the years to need to do that.

  She also didn’t need to take out the note she could see inside to know it was from Jake. She couldn’t believe he’d remembered. He’d only seen it in pieces, and only the once.

  It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for her. And she hardly even knew him. Her throat tightened and it took her a few moments to swallow back the tension, regather her composure, and unscrew the lid.

  In the jar was a loose roll of cash encircled by a slip of thick cream-coloured notepaper. She tugged the contents free and separated the money from the note. She counted it twice. One hundred and fifty dollars! With the fifty Jake had already paid her it meant she’d earned two hundred dollars just from selling her jam. That was two weeks’ rent. She stared at the money in disbelief.

  Hang on. Was this for the total of forty-four jars or just the original twenty? Could the second batch of jam have been sold so soon? She’d only sent it Monday and today was Thursday – the market wasn’t until Sunday.

  So that meant her jam had sold for ten dollars a jar. That was insane! But the numbers didn’t lie.

  Her mind started whirri
ng with possibilities. If she could produce jam right through the year, could she, maybe, make enough to not have to find a job?

  No, it was really too much to expect Jake and his sister to practically run a business on her behalf – especially without taking a commission. But it was a start.

  She set the money aside on the table and focussed her attention on the letter, which she now flattened out to make reading easier.

  Dear Em,

  I hope this finds you well.

  Please find enclosed the proceeds of your first batch of jam, as promised. I hope it signifies the start of a very lucrative venture for you.

  Emily felt her heart ache a little. He was practically a stranger, and his sister certainly was. And here they were helping her for no other reason than just because.

  I took the liberty of purchasing this jar for you. I hope it is the same as the one that contained your gran’s buttons. If not, let me know and I will keep searching.

  Bless him. How could he have possibly deciphered the pieces of broken glass so accurately, let alone remembered? Emily shook her head in wonder.

  I will let you know how the next jam sales go and forward the proceeds again in due course. Until then, stay well.

  Yours truly,

  Jake

  Emily reread the note, marvelling at its contents but feeling a little off-put at its formality.

  How should she respond? By letter? By phone? Did she need to respond at all? He was merely sending the proceeds as promised. And of course, the jar. No, that was a gift. It had to be acknowledged.

  She picked it up and turned it around again in her hand. It did indeed feel the same size as that which she’d held so many times over the years.

  She ran her fingers over the raised letters, remembering the day, when she was four, that Gran had first shown her her treasured button jar.

  Emily was shaking as she picked up her mobile and found Jake’s number in her list of contacts. Her heart rate increased with every ring. By the fifth she was feeling perspiration breaking out. She waited for the voicemail to activate, feeling slightly relieved when it did.