journal of a writing man

writings of a writing man

The return of Grace

It was a bit of a shock to find her there. Well it's always a shock, isn't it, when you suddenly see a well-loved but nearly forgotten face from the past? Especially when you're least prepared and in circumstances where such finds are completely unexpected?

All those years ago! All those shared afternoons, pots of tea, little slices of cake and long, long discussions about... Well, about almost everything, really. Oh, and the laughter. How we did laugh. We shared much the same amused, slightly off to the side view of our world and found much in it worth a smile.

In Minehead there's a junk-shop co-operative with pretensions to Antiques Arcade. It's a great place, alcove after alcove stuffed with bits and pieces rescued from house clearance sales in the main, all teetering on the fine line between junk and collectable. Oh, there's some fine stuff, make no mistake but mostly it's junk. Nice junk. Cosy junk. Things that you might remember from the back room of your grandma's house. Souvenirs. Necessaries. A tray of postcards from resorts all over the place and sent to "Dear Mrs Glossop" telling of nice times and thanking her for her kindness. She must have been a much-loved lady to have all those wonderfully polite and formal notes sent by people on their holidays. She must have saved them, one by one over a lot of years, for them to end up here all of a bundle. And then there are piles of tin boxes that contained forgotten brands of biscuits, sweet or chocolates. Sometimes filled with things that need to be kept in boxes. Like Buttons. Do you remember Buttons? Neatly sheared from worn-out clothes and kept because, well, one day, you never know, might come in handy. You never know. I love those. Always have.

If you had no past you could construct one from these delights. Fictitious aunts, imaginary sisters, children who never were, all whispering from the artefacts that they might have left behind them. And the stories you could construct! I wonder if there's something of that in our fascination with these places.

Anyway. The junk-shop gears up for the start of the tourist season by importing lots of new pieces, and by putting at least seventy-five percent on all the prices. It pays if you're a local who's been browsing and buying right through the winter to drop in during this period. Pieces that have sat all winter through, priced a little high, are sometimes offered cheap. And, while the proprietors remember you, you can always bargain the prices for new stuff down a bit. They'll harden up in a few weeks and the days of discount will vanish until the season is done.

That's why I was there, picking and poking through the trays and shelves and displays, looking for memories, mine or anyone's, it didn't matter just so long as I could get them inside my budget. I was just on the point of gathering up Mrs Glossop's collection for a heated bulk-buy bargaining session when I spotted Grace.

There she was, just as I remembered her, proud and determined, smiling gently from a sepia photograph in a walnut frame, her force of character undiminished by and soaring over the dross surrounding her.

Mrs Glossop fell back into her tray unheeded and Grace was in my hand before Jack Robinson could have drawn breath. Stuck to the front of the glass was a small white plastic label: "�3 - SB". Three pounds! Outrageous price, but I'd have paid more. A lot more.

I walked out the store with Grace wrapped unceremoniously in a re-used plastic bag.

When I got home I set the frame down on a soft towel and gently prised the back off. Dank, yellow strawboard packing and a faded protective sheet peeled away and there was the photograph. Anonymous. Not a comment, not a date, no studio stamp, nothing. I cleaned it, very carefully in case there was any retouching to shift. There was none. Just Grace, head proud and erect, smiling at something in her future and off to the side, out of shot.

Cleaned and repaired, the frame shone as I packed the photograph safely back in place. I turned it round, stood it on its folding stand. Grace has a home again at last.

I met her at evening class in Clerkenwell. I was doing blues guitar and she was doing conversational Russian. In the break we'd take our tea out into the porch to join the smokers and sit chatting. Sometimes in pidgin Russian - it's never been a language I could get to grips with - but mostly in laughter. The age difference was of no moment. We sparked immediately to one another, she enjoying the attention, me greedy for every story I could extract.

Fabulous woman. She'd started out so well. Grammar school. Unusual for a girl of her generation. Then she married. And her life stopped. Her husband, brutish man, had not approved of her continuing her studies. Her task was to care for him. And, for a lifetime, that's what she'd done. Washing, cooking, cleaning, mending, dutiful and meek. Her only escape was a weekly trip to the public library for books she'd read when her work was done and before he came home in the evening. Her only joy was that she'd never born him children.

The slow burning hatred she nursed for him must have stoked the fires in which he undoubtedly dwelt when I met her, for he'd died some years before and she hated him still. She'd lift her head, name him "Bastard", and bless the day he'd died.

For all that fruity, rich hatred, she was never bitter or resentful of the wasted years. She buried him, hung up her apron, and resumed her education as though half a century was nothing worth the mentioning.

I took to walking her home and then to calling in before our class. We'd sit in her room, once neat and housewifely, now crammed with books, drinking tea, nibbling small slices of cake and talking. That was all. Just talking. And laughing, of course. In exchange for her stories I told of the little bit of travel I'd done, the countries I'd visited, the people I'd met. In a silver frame on the sideboard was a smaller version of the photograph I now own with such pride. That's why I knew it when I saw it yesterday.

I've no idea how my copy arrived in a junk store in Minehead all these years later. Minehead is a favourite retirement resort so it's easy to speculate that some relative ended up here in the West Country, unpacked Grace and stood her somewhere, proud and determined, to be dusted over and over until dusting became too much of a chore.

Now the frame stands on a chest next to a small jewelled Tiffany lamp I know she'd have loved. She smiles out, proud and determined, sparking memories.

The last time I saw Grace was when I went to help her off on her long planned for Grand Tour. Victoria Station, off to Paris and points East. Aiming for Ulan Bator. She did not intend to come back and as far as I know she didn't. I never heard from her again. As we hugged and parted she pressed a card in my hand. Inside she'd written a short note commemorating our friendship and giving me a little piece of advice I've treasured ever since. Nothing earth shattering. Just her own personal way of saying: "Seize the day." Before I pasted up the back of the frame I slipped the card inside.

With your permission I'll keep exactly what it was she wrote to myself and to my own memories. Whoever finds Grace in her walnut frame sometime in the future will discover it. In good time.

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