Grace's Table (15 page)

‘You're my girl,' he growled, spitting more blood.

At the time, Grace thought this was chivalrous, and enchanting.

‘Of course I'm yours,' she soothed.

‘I thought you loved me?'

They hadn't talked about love, despite spending all their spare time together, laughing easily. Perhaps he thought it was implied by their long kisses, by his hand sliding sometimes too high, or low, from her waist.

‘I do,' she said. She pushed his hair from his forehead to expose a small graze. She dabbed at that too, and he let her.

She couldn't deny she liked the sense of menace that surrounded Des. He was a bit wild, intractable, hard to control, but all the more exciting for it. Perhaps she saw herself as someone clever enough to get the kind of behaviour she wanted from Des. Or was it more that she was determined to find love in the city where she'd failed at it in the country?

Grace tended his wounds and whispered,
Of course I love you
in his ear.

They slept with each other for the first time that night. She tasted his blood on her tongue when they kissed and in some ways this sealed her commitment to him.

Des seemed determined to cement his ownership over her too. At his flat, there was no gentle coaxing of her into the small bedroom; she was led. And there was no slow undressing of one another; each attended to themselves. Face to face across his narrow bed they dropped their clothes to the floor, proving their readiness to reveal their bodies to each other.

Des followed the routine. He caressed as he should, kissed as he should, but never offered the same commitment to her pleasure as she'd experienced in the past. Grace wished she'd not known anything else; that she could lie there believing this was the best of it. As it was, she knew she'd be party to a lie.

‘All right?' he asked, pushing her legs apart with his.

She nodded but couldn't meet his eyes.

Grace didn't know if he noticed, though his earlier tentativeness soon gave way to the deep thrusts of experience; movements that told her the façade could be dropped, or that he didn't care about fragility.

She dared to look at him then, and was unnerved to see him staring at her. Defiant, even during this most intimate act, she didn't look away, daring him instead to fuck her like a prostitute if he must.

I do
, she'd said. And she believed at the time that she'd meant it.

Gently, Grace placed her hand on Peter's arm again.

‘Come on,' she said, choosing her words with care. ‘Let's sit down. They'll stop.'

Poor Peter, he worked his fists a few more times.

‘They better,' he said, finally, and returned to his seat.

Grace wondered what her life might have looked like at seventy, had she chosen her words better and not said
I do
, twice. But she reminded herself that this was her life now, so there was little point trying to imagine a different one.

13

Seated between her friends along one side of the table, Grace faced Jane, Peter, Susan and Richard. Meg sat with the older people, beside Ada, and was busy telling her of the benefits of Caran d'Ache colouring pencils over K-Mart specials.

Ada listened with the patience of a grandmother.

Grace had not had twelve people at her table for a while. Theirs wasn't the kind of family who shared regular Sunday meals. A certain level of commitment to one another was required for that, a commitment Grace conceded that as a family they'd never quite achieved. Past events hadn't helped, she supposed. History had a way of reorganising the future in unsatisfying ways.

Grace looked at the two tables she'd had to push together for the day, one a drop-leaf table that she and Jack had manoeuvred in from the lounge room the day before. She liked the irregularity of the two, the way one was narrower and taller than the other, forcing a central ridge in the cream damask tablecloth.

None of her wine glasses matched – some were cut crystal, others plain, the length of the stems varying as much as the size of the glass. And neither were the chairs all the same. Several had barley twist legs to match those of the dining table, others were of chromed steel, and she'd brought two moulded plastic ones in from the patio. The cutlery was a mishmash of bone-handled, stainless steel and worn silver alongside the confusion of plates.

Large serving bowls dotted the length of the tables. The roasted potatoes and parsnips were crisp and golden with little trace of the oil that had allowed it. The broccoli looked remarkably green under a sprinkling of toasted almond flakes and the baby carrots glistened with the honey Grace had drizzled over them. The cauliflower au gratin still bubbled from the oven, and the peas, Grace's favourite vegetable, were an army of minted emerald. There was a gravy boat here, the top flecked with the brownings from the roasting pan, a jug of mint sauce there, and baskets of dinner rolls at either end. Wisps of steam escaped into the air, which was sucked up by the steady orbit of the ceiling fan.

The leg of lamb reclined in its own glossy juices on the serving platter in front of Peter. The fat across the top was now crisply caramelised all the way to the knuckle. The marrow – the
coin
, Des called it, and something he'd dig out with a pointed knife, spread on a square of bread and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper – was a chocolate-coloured dimple at the bony end. It was a plump joint, the prize of the table, except maybe to Jorja.

Grace felt confident it would feed them all, perhaps with a little to spare.

Grace had put Nick and Jorja at the head of the table, facing Tom and Jaxon at the other end. It would have been a squeeze to fit two adults along these shortest sides of the rectangle – and anyway, she wanted to break the tradition of the senior man overseeing a meal as though he were king.

When Grace was a child the carving of the Sunday roast followed a well-worn and traditional path. Mother would bring the joint to the dining table on her good oval platter. The beef or pork or lamb would ooze its juices onto the plate's design so that the blue Spode figures drowned in the flood. The table would be set with the best of everything the buffet offered, in the way of linen, crockery and cutlery. There'd even be a small posy in the table's centre, snipped that morning from the garden with Pa's well-sharpened secateurs. Mother would hand the platter to Pa, seated at the head of the table, and then she would sit to his right ready to receive her plate.

Pa always served Mother first. He would slice her off the first cut – the flavoursome, crispy skin coveted by all. ‘There you go, Mother,' he'd say, ‘the cook's reward.'

‘Thank you, Frank.' On Sundays, Mother's voice could be gentle.

He'd then cut slices for Grace, then Joe and last of all himself. He might stop between Grace and Joe if a slice looked a particularly nice one – not too fatty – and he'd offer it to Mother as well, balanced on the flat surface of the knife's blade.

This exchange taught Grace about the division of tasks when life was tied to the soil. There were those who toiled inside the home and those who toiled outside and each respected what the other did. In this way Grace grew up believing the cook was valued in a household.

But then, Pa was an exceptional man.

Des too would carve the Sunday roast. He'd sit at the head of the table just as Pa had and Grace would sit at the other end, the three children between them. Unlike her mother, Grace liked to set the table casually with an easy-care tablecloth and pretty paper napkins. Des liked the stiff white linen, which never fell well at the table's corners and required laborious restarching and ironing each week. Early on she'd set it to please him. Later, she set it to please herself.

He'd carve the joint more deftly than Pa. Des knew how to wield a knife. But where Pa served Mother first, Des served Grace last and he kept the first slice back for himself. The children, more outspoken than when Grace was a girl, would dare to challenge him.

‘You've got more crackling than us,' they'd chorus, or, ‘That's not fair, you always get the parson's nose.'

‘Who brings the meat home round here?' he'd say, and gobble the crisp, greasy treat down in front of them, while they sulkily looked on.

Today, Peter stood beside the table to carve the lamb. He wasn't as experienced with a knife as his father but he took to the job with the same earnestness; the tip of his tongue poked from his mouth as he concentrated on the task.

‘Bagsy the first slice,' called Tom.

‘Adults first, Tom,' Susan said to her nephew.

Peter put the first slice to one side on the platter. Grace knew why.

‘The birthday girl gets served first, champ.' Peter placed the second slice on Grace's plate and passed it to her.

Watching how silently the new knife moved through the meat reminded Grace of an electric one she'd owned that had moved well enough but not been so quiet. It was a General Electric brand from memory, bought sometime in the late seventies. It was weighty to hold and noisy, but efficient. The action of its dual blades allowed the thinnest of slices to be carved from a joint. Des hated it. But that didn't stop Grace from laying it at the head of the table beside his plate each Sunday, daring him to use it or admit failure. She even kept a short extension lead in a drawer in the dining room, just for the knife. She enjoyed watching the foreign and unwieldy thing in his hands; she liked that it spoilt his masculine performance. She fancied that its intrusive buzzing was like an alarm bell signalling uncertainties and confusion in the normal hierarchy of the household.

Jorja silently winced at the carving process, especially once pink started to ooze from the flesh as Peter neared the bone. She followed the journey of each slice from plate to plate – making sure, Grace supposed, that no blood dripped onto the vegetables.

Peter cut a piece from near the knuckle and put it in his mouth.

‘Delicious,' he said. ‘Could have been hand-selected by Dad.'

Grace bristled. She'd had a lifetime of hearing the butcher praised above the cook.

‘Oh, I don't know. Let's give the final credit to the pasture that helped the lamb get fat.'

‘Or a good killing,' offered Nick. ‘I read somewhere that some abattoirs play Bach to calm the animals, thinking it helps keep the meat tender. You know, not … scared … stiff.' Here Nick did a fine impersonation of a terrified animal, arms and legs convulsing in front of him.

Jorja went pale. Grace was encouraged. It proved her granddaughter's vegetarianism wasn't just a fashion accessory.

Nick, remembering, said, ‘Oh, sorry, Jorja.'

Richard spread his hands wide like Jesus at the Last Supper and addressed the food at the table.

‘Can't see too much other protein on the table, Jorja. So where are you going to get it from this time?'

Jorja reached for the bowl of peas beside her plate. ‘These,' she said to him. ‘You're the one always selling the benefits of green.'

‘Don't manipulate my ideas about clean energy to suit your imbalanced food pyramid.'

‘There's nothing wrong with my food pyramid. Besides, vegetarianism's as much about clean energy as it is anything else.' Jorja's veil of hair was well back from her face as she looked at her father.

‘Maybe I should heat up some baked beans for you.' Susan put her napkin aside and looked set to get up from the table.

‘Don't give her baked beans again. They make her fart.'

Jorja flashed green eyes at her brother. ‘They do not. You're the family stinker.'

‘Now, Jaxon. You know wind's a normal part of bodily function. It's where we choose to release it that leads to social problems.'

Jaxon rolled his eyes at his father.

‘And for him it's, like, everywhere,' Jorja said.

‘So does Tom.' Meg nodded her head up and down fast, in cahoots with Jorja.

Tom was quick to defend himself. ‘The gas poisons your blood if you don't let it out.'

‘And poisons your sister if you do.' Jaxon accepted a triumphant high-five from Tom.

‘Is there any chance of changing the subject?' Susan took up her napkin again, held her plate out to Peter and he placed a slice of lamb on it.

Meg obliged. ‘Did Mummy tell you I'm learning the violin, Grandma?'

‘No. She didn't.'

‘I was leaving it for you to tell Grandma the big news, sweetie.'

‘And I'm learning the trumpet,' Tom said.

‘Which sounds like a bag of spanners when he gets it going.'

‘Oh, Pete, it does not.'

‘Better than her violin – it sounds like a cat getting neutered.'

‘Now, son, watch your mouth.' Peter raised an eyebrow at Tom.

‘What's neutered, Daddy?'

Richard saved Peter from having to answer Meg. ‘Give me an acoustic guitar any day,' he said, plucking the air.

‘Nup. Percussion.' Nick played a riff on the table with the index fingers of both hands.

‘I played a mean triangle when I was younger,' Kath offered. ‘I always timed the ting just right.'

Grace's favourite instrument was the harp – an erotic instrument, she thought: to see one played well was like watching lovers. That was how Filip had played her body. He embraced her wholly as though she was that grand instrument and she allowed his fingers, encouraged them even, to whisper across her skin.

‘Would one of your Macedonian girls do this?' It was fear that had prompted the question; fear she was no better than any of the girls Mother had helped stare out of town.

‘Never,' Filip said, and he guided her hand a little lower.

‘Never?' Her fear escalated.

‘No. But only because they are not permitted to leave the sight of their parents.' He laughed then, and she relaxed.

They were lying under their favourite tree, a wide and droopy old willow whose branches swept at the ground like the hem of a long skirt. There was a creek below the tree's feet but it hadn't run since the previous winter. Transparent-winged dragonflies and water striders hovered or skated over the stagnant pools. Occasionally a bullfrog broke the surface, snatched at one that lingered too long, then plopped back underwater with a satisfied croak.

Grace propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Filip. She traced a finger along the soft line of his jaw to the small cleft in the centre of his chin. There, she felt the tiny cluster of bristles that hid in that hard-to-shave dip. He ran his hand up and down her back, slowed as he passed the two small raised moles near her shoulder and circled them with a finger in a figure of eight before his hand moved on.

‘Do you ever feel guilty about us?' she asked.

‘No. Guilt crushes the spirit, where love nourishes it. So let us feel only love.'

‘I feel guilty sometimes.'

‘That is because you have lived always in this small town. Here, guilt is used as power over others.'

‘I don't have much choice but to live here.' Grace rolled on to her back and looked up through the mosaic of leaves.

‘There are always choices, but not always enough courage.'

Grace couldn't see that there were too many choices open to her. Or was Filip right, was it only courage she lacked? Could that be Harvest's secret in keeping generations trapped in the town – a collective mistrust and fear of anything beyond it?

‘So what brave choices have you made?' she asked.

Filip turned on his side and faced Grace. ‘To teach in a town where people call me dirty wog behind my back.'

‘I don't,' she said, hurt for him.

‘That is because you do not fear things that are different.' He ran his finger along the V of breast above her bra. ‘Or that give you pleasure.'

He kissed her on the forehead, as Pa had when she was a child.

‘Do not listen if people try to control your life through guilt, Grace. Listen only from here.' He flattened his hand across her chest to cover her heart. ‘It will show you a better life.'

Afterwards Grace would question whether she should thank or curse Filip for the things she'd learnt under his touch. Much later, when she was married to Des, she often cursed Filip. Partly because she didn't want to be reminded such touches were beyond her reach, but more because Filip had been proved wrong: sometimes guilt
made
you act.

‘I prefer the saxophone, myself,' Peter said. ‘It takes a big fella to get enough
um-pah
to blow a horn that size.' He did a phallic thrust of his forearm.

‘Oh, darl,' Jane squealed.

Susan rolled her eyes.

‘But because you can't play the saxophone you drive a big flash car instead?' Nick rocked back on the hind legs of his chair with a satisfied smile.

Peter ignored him. ‘Now, Jorja, are you going to try some of your grandma's lamb?' He cut a slice off the diminishing leg, a thick cross-section of fibrous muscle, stabbed it with the carving fork and poked it towards her. It dripped pink onto the tablecloth. ‘Get a whiff of that. Don't ya just love it?' He moved the fork backwards and forwards in front of Jorja. She reared back.