When Grace Went Away

by Meredith Appleyard

  Panic prickled under my skin. The perspiration in my armpits cooled, and the sounds around me came as if I were at the end of a long tunnel. What was I going to do? Running around after Mum had been my modus operandi since—since when?

  Since I’d walked away from my husband, and my life, eight years ago.

  Clearing my throat, I looked at my daughter and forced confidence into my voice. ‘I’m sure something will turn up,’ I said, crossing my fingers in my lap.

  14

  Grace

  It was officially summer where Grace was in the northern hemisphere. The sun was up before five, and didn’t disappear until after nine at night. The longer daylight hours and milder temperatures made a marked improvement on the general mood of the London population.

  When Grace left the office at sunset on Friday night, her first week back after Nanna’s funeral, the atmosphere in the street cafes and restaurants was almost festive. Laugher and chatter spilled out onto the street, readily available alcohol lubricating conversation.

  Grant had asked her out to dinner but she’d begged off. Barely over the first bout of jet lag, a second long-haul flight had left Grace with a raspy throat and the feeling of perpetual tiredness.

  ‘If you don’t want to eat out, I can cook for you at your place,’ he said.

  ‘All right, you provide the food and I’ll supply the wine,’ she said, finally capitulating.

  If Grant was subtly insinuating himself into her life and home, Grace was letting it happen. Though she wasn’t one hundred per cent comfortable with it, she didn’t have the energy to put up a convincing protest. Besides, she liked Grant. They had a history, and he was a slice of home in an otherwise foreign environment.

  After one night out drinking with the singles from work, Grace freely admitted she was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It’d been fun but the hangover the day after hadn’t been.

  Grant had extended his stay at the hotel, dropping hints every now and then about how cosy and convenient her place was; how impersonal the hotel had become. Grace chose to ignore them. While she enjoyed his company, she drew the line at letting him move in or even crash on the sofa every now and then. It was a small apartment, with one bedroom and one bed, and it was hers, alone. He’d lived with her once, sort of, and she wasn’t hankering for a repeat performance.

  But seeing him in her tiny kitchen, perfectly at home, acting like they were a couple, she felt a niggle of guilt because perhaps, by not saying anything, she was giving Grant the wrong idea.

  Then the mouthwatering aromas of whatever he was cooking had Grace thinking about other appetites.

  ‘How’s Sarah?’ Grant said when they were cleaning up after dinner late that night.

  ‘Mum? She says she’s okay, keeping busy. I’m not convinced, but there’s no one I can ask.’

  ‘What about your brother and sister?’

  ‘What about them? I haven’t heard from either of them. Tim didn’t even message me to see if I’d arrived back in one piece.’

  Grant acknowledged what she’d said with a tilt of his chin. He was an only child, his elderly parents doted on him, and he was the first to admit that the complexities of sibling relationships eluded him.

  ‘I might have another drop of that red,’ Grant said when Grace picked up his empty glass to pack in the dishwasher. ‘Do you want another glass?’

  She shook her head. ‘Aren’t you driving?’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d ask me to stay over,’ he said, eyes never leaving her face.

  Damn. He had got the wrong idea. ‘Grant, we’ve been there, done that.’

  ‘And from what I remember it was very good. Excellent in fact.’

  Heat coursed through her. But it wasn’t that kind of heat, not really, but then again it had been a long time …

  He put down the glass, reaching for her, leaning against the bench and guiding her into the space between his legs. She resisted, pressing her palms against his chest, keeping him at arms-length.

  ‘I don’t think this is wise, Grant. Haven’t we both moved on?’

  ‘Why do you think I stayed in London, Grace?’ he said softly. ‘I hate the sodding place. I stayed because I saw it as an opportunity for us to reconnect, away from our families, and all the other distractions.’

  Lazily, his thumbs stroked up and down her bare forearms. She ignored the familiar sensations.

  ‘Our families might be a long way away, but they’re still there, Grant. You have your children, I have commitments to Mum—and we’re working together while Richard’s away.’

  His gaze didn’t waver from hers. ‘How is any of that a problem, Grace? We both know how to be discreet. And everyone expects us Aussies to hang out together.’

  She stepped back and he didn’t stop her, but he didn’t relinquish her hands. ‘Grace, we have chemistry. I feel it, and I know you do too.’

  It would be so easy, so familiar, to follow where he wanted to lead. Grace couldn’t deny there was chemistry there. It wasn’t as powerful and all-consuming as it had once been, but it was there.

  Grant Hughes was an attractive and desirable man. So why did she pull her hands free and put as much distance between them as she could in the confined space of the kitchenette?

  Grant frowned. He folded his arms. ‘There’s someone else, isn’t there?’

  She shook her head, because how could you call a few texts and a couple of conversations with a man six years younger and half a world away someone else? But as bizarre as it seemed, for a brief moment there, being with Grant had made Grace feel as if she was cheating on Aaron.

  The ridiculousness of the thoughts made her giggle and Grant scowled. ‘What’s so funny?’ he said, reaching for the half-empty wine bottle.

  ‘Nothing’s funny,’ she said, sobering instantly. ‘Who would have thought we’d ever be having this conversation?’

  ‘True,’ Grant said, taking a slug of wine from the glass he’d poured for himself.

  Grace dropped a tablet into the dishwasher and turned it on. After wiping the sink and benchtop, she turned to face him. ‘Why don’t we continue on the way we are, and who knows what the future will bring?’

  ‘But it won’t be to bed, tonight?’ he said, forever hopeful.

  Grace laughed and filled the electric kettle. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  He eyed the remaining wine. ‘No, I think I’ll finish this,’ he said, carrying it across to the sitting room.

  They watched a movie, a spy thriller they’d both seen before. Grant put a serious dent in another bottle of wine, and then fell asleep on the sofa, snoring softly.

  After the movie finished and before she shook him awake, Grace studied him. His features slack in sleep, he appeared oddly vulnerable. And while she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, Grace pondered why she was holding back.

  Had he hurt her more than she’d admitted when he’d returned to Sydney sixteen months ago, and weeks later announced he was back with his wife? Had she hoped for more than she’d let on to her mother, and to herself?

  Fast forward to now, and nothing—and everything—had changed. Who knew how long Grant would be in London? The office gossip was that even though it was early days, Richard might be back relatively soon. His wife was responding well to the treatment. What would happen when Richard came back to work, making Grant redundant?

  Grace knew that this time part of what Grant had told her about his personal life was the truth—days ago she’d googled his address in Sydney, and sure enough the property was listed for sale.

  Whether the story about his wife was true … Well, she had no way of knowing for sure, and she hadn’t convinced herself that she wanted to know.

  Grant stirred, opening his eyes and staring straight at her. Heat seeped into her cheeks. But then she reminded herself she had nothing to feel embarrassed about. So Grace had checked to see if he’d been upfront about selling his family home … No big deal.

  If they were to pick up wher
e they’d left off, Grace would need to be sure all things were equal. But first, she had to decide how she was feeling.

  Grant ended up staying the night, but he slept right where they’d been sitting, on the sofa. Grace threw him a pillow and blanket. He should have woken with a stiff back, a wry neck or at least a hangover, but he didn’t. He was up and dressed and making tea when she emerged from the bedroom.

  ‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ he said, dropping a quick kiss onto her mouth before she could evade him. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel, shower and change. I’ll meet you at the office. We have that client conference at seven-thirty.’

  Yawning, Grace groaned, accepting the steaming mug of tea. ‘Tell me again why we have to do these things at such an ungodly hour?’

  ‘Time zones and the client’s choice, you know that, Grace, and the bigger the client, the more choices they get.’

  ‘Yes, Grant, I do know the score. That doesn’t mean I have to like it all of the time. See you at the office,’ she said. ‘See yourself out.’

  Grumpy was how she sounded, and she didn’t care because it was how she felt.

  Slipping on his jacket, Grant paused. ‘Are you all right?’ he said, with genuine concern. ‘I’ve never heard you complain about an early start.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. But was she? Was how much her heart wasn’t into this transfer beginning to show?

  The realisation had her running hot and then cold. She felt Grant’s quizzical gaze boring into her.

  ‘I’m good,’ she said brightly. ‘See you at the office in an hour and a bit.’

  Grant didn’t move. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, Grace, but something is different.’

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing him away. ‘We’re all different, Grant. We’re older and hopefully wiser. See you later,’ she said, turning her back on him and fleeing to the bedroom, closing the door.

  She leaned against the door, sipping the tea, her bare feet cold on the wooden flooring. When she heard the front door slam she sighed with relief.

  Now was not a good time for him to suddenly become so perceptive. Grace didn’t want or need anyone digging around in her mind, because she wasn’t sure herself what would be unearthed. She wasn’t fine, and the jet lag could only be blamed for so long.

  15

  Sarah

  Everything ached. My joints felt like bone on bone, my nerve endings painfully raw and I felt excruciatingly isolated. My hair was in dire need of a cut, and from the fit of my clothes I knew I’d lost more weight.

  In the weeks since Grace had returned to London after Mum’s funeral, the supermarket, chemist and an occasional foray to the library was as far as I’d ventured from home.

  Although I’d telephoned Tim several times and left messages, he hadn’t returned my calls. Faith hadn’t been in contact at all. The part of my heart that belonged to my youngest daughter was broken; in my darkest moments I thought it had broken beyond repair.

  Would I ever be able to reconcile the damage done to Tim and Faith when I’d walked away from their father? Should they have noticed that their father left me, and them, the moment the policeman told us that Luke had been killed?

  I sighed, the sound loud and despairing in the quiet of the sitting room. Questions without answers and problems without ready solutions. I felt as if I was in a kind of limbo.

  All I had to look forward to was a trip to the dentist, where the hygienist would scrape away the plaque while she prattled on, asking me ridiculous things like, ‘How was my day so far …’ I’d have to remind myself not to tell her.

  The weather was cold but the sullen clouds refused to give up any moisture. To limit my water usage, I watered the garden and the pot plants frugally. How would it be for the farmers? With the tiny amount of rain they’d had the countryside would be superficially green, but the pasture would be without substance—one warm, windy day would wither away any nutritional value it had.

  In my mind I could hear Doug’s stoic philosophising about the unpredictability of the weather. He’d be staring at the sky and willing it to rain—for the crops to germinate and grow—while subconsciously bracing himself for another drought. ‘Who’d be a farmer,’ he’d then say, the way he always ended those particular cogitations.

  I felt a visceral longing to return to the country, to meander through the undulating landscape dotted with slow-moving sheep and rocky outcrops; with fence posts, gnarly with age, their wire twisted and rusting, the windmills groaning and creaking, the warp and weft of the worked paddocks.

  One morning I woke, asking myself what was stopping me from taking a drive through the countryside. For the first time since I don’t know when, I felt a tiny kick of anticipation. A bit like the first movement of a baby growing in your womb: you feel it, that fluttery kick, and then you wonder if it was all in your imagination. But then it comes again, firmer, stronger, and you know you didn’t imagine it.

  Knowing I had little on besides the dentist the next day, I checked my diary anyway. There was a book club get-together, but I hadn’t bothered to borrow the book from the library. I’d missed the last umpteen gatherings, and they’d probably given up on me. Missing another get-together wouldn’t matter.

  Staring sightlessly through the kitchen window, myriad images flashed past my mind’s eye: familiar landmarks, remembered road trips. I imagined different routes I could take to get there—Main North Road, through Gawler, Riverton, or Port Wakefield Road, Balaklava, Blyth, Clare—the destination always the same.

  I could do this. I would do this. There was fuel in the BMW, it had been serviced before Grace left, and I had time on my hands and no one to please but myself.

  Why not make it two or three days? It’s not as if I had anything to rush back for. Mid-week this time of year there’d be no problem finding accommodation.

  That night I slept lightly. I woke every few hours, vivid dreams slipping sinuously from my grasp the moment consciousness crept in. On rising, my head felt fuzzy and my limbs heavy. I wondered if I was coming down with something, whether I should postpone the trip. But the thought of another dull day pottering around the unit was enough to galvanise me into action.

  The plan I settled on was to take off after the dentist, driving as far as Clare. I’d stay overnight and continue on the next morning. While I told myself I’d go wherever took my fancy, deep down I knew my final destination was a fait accompli.

  After a grey start to the day, by midday the sun was peeping through, lightening my mood with the landscape. I drove. The suburbs and the industrial precincts transitioned to market gardens and hobby farms, and then wide-open spaces. The local ABC radio murmured in the background to keep me company.

  Stopping in Balaklava, I found a park near the main street, bought a coffee and sat in the car to eat the sandwich and yoghurt I’d packed for lunch.

  On the road again the broadacre crops gave way to rolling hills and vineyards. The vines were naked, pruners working their lengths in the winter sunshine. By mid-afternoon I’d checked into the Clare Valley motel and was racking my brain for when I’d last stayed in a motel. I couldn’t remember.

  Clare was a town I’d always whizzed through on my way to someplace else—usually taking Grace back to boarding school after holidays or the kids to visit their Nanna or a specialist in Adelaide.

  Telling myself I hadn’t come on a road trip to sit in a motel room, I ventured down the main street, propelling myself in and out of shops. I browsed through homewares and gifts, hoping I looked as if I was enjoying myself.

  I felt skittish, my skills for making small talk rusty. It was as if I’d been holed up in my unit for many months, not several weeks.

  The following day, I couldn’t deny the tension that tightened my shoulders the further north I drove. Although I could have taken the more direct route, I drove through Gladstone and Jamestown, lingering over lunch: a piece of fish and minimum chips. Even then the sign welcoming me to Miners Ridge cam
e up sooner than I was ready for.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the town looked much the same as the time I’d visited with Grace. Sure, it was seven years older and seven years more tired, a bit like me.

  The ash trees on the nature strip were bare. The paint on the Miner’s Arms Hotel was still peeling, its roof pock-marked with more rust.

  Then panic surged through me at the thought of being recognised. I had the sudden urge to accelerate right on through the town and never come back.

  I must have put my foot down because the remainder of the main street passed in a blur, and before I knew it I’d zoomed past the BP service station and was on the outskirts of the town.

  It took me a moment to grasp that the flashing headlights behind me were aimed at me, and then a burst of blue and red had adrenaline zapping through me.

  Hands shaking, I indicated and pulled over, putting the car in park. I leaned my head on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. So much for not being recognised.

  A sharp rap on the window, followed by a gruff female voice. The police officer was tall and well built, with white-blonde, spiky hair.

  ‘You realise you were speeding,’ she said when I opened the window. ‘I clocked you doing seventy-six kilometres an hour in a sixty zone.’

  All I could do was nod. I think I even mumbled, ‘Yes, officer.’

  ‘Can I please see your driver’s licence,’ she said evenly, and I kept nodding, and fumbling around in my handbag for my wallet.

  ‘Sarah Fairley,’ she said, when I handed her the driver’s licence. She looked at the licence and then back at me. ‘Is this your car?’

  A reason to shake my head instead of nodding. I swallowed, rasping my tongue across dry lips.

  ‘It’s my daughter’s car,’ I managed on the second try.

  ‘And would your daughter be Grace Fairley?’

  How did she know that? Grace hadn’t mentioned any run-ins with the law the last time she’d been here. And what else did this police officer know?