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  Michael glanced up at the distant patrol car and raised the palm of his bandaged hand. A new day had dawned, one without Grace, and one that had begun with an act of human kindness, something he had thought, until then, was an oxymoron.

  Chapter Three

  February 1966

  JAMES Wallin had seen one future for his daughters: successful businesswomen, independent of any man. Young mothers, never, and education was the key. It was not his dream, but his dream for them. Ultimately, this enabled his decision to let Grace go, the epiphany striking one morning during an innocuous daily occurrence: the polishing of his shiny head. Grace had chosen a path that paralleled his vision, but he had not seen it until his scalp shone that day, his arresting fears finally quieted. A salon in Sydney was not the mill, and it was not Maine, but it was the dream as conceived, and if James had allowed the truth to surface at any time earlier, he may well have let her go then, or not. His daughters were safest when kept closest, and he merely ‘oversaw’ rather than ‘controlled’ for his actions were borne of the heart, and fear also since his only son was lost to them.

  Grace had never cared about the family connection with the past, and had never loved the mill as he did, and Helena. The sawdust, she claimed, affected her breathing, and the truth was not so remote—she could not stand the smell of the place. And if anything, her presence there during school holidays had always been a source of disruption with a sudden surge in insignificant administrative issues rising from the mill workers below, like ants marching to their queen.

  James was ready to step aside, and Michael Baden would do likewise, his willingness not a prerequisite. Questions of prejudice and dislike did not factor into the equation—James had employed the lad at the mill when he was barely fourteen, uneducated, and with no other prospect, but benevolence had limits, especially when it came to his two daughters. The Badens did however have a particular lineage that any father would repel.

  Faithful as always to a promise, James bankrolled Grace’s move to the city, underwriting her business for twelve months at which time the salon had to be self-sufficient or showing a sign of future reward. If not, a one-way, economy bus ticket to Maine would return her to a monastic existence, the protectionist policies of her teens seemingly bohemian in retrospect. She would repay the accumulated debt of her failure with services to the mill, and if necessary, particulate masks would be provided to ensure grumblings about sawdust and milling scents did not devastate the otherwise amenable mood at the office.

  Helena’s office at the mill held expansive views over Maine’s sapphire-colored lake while the larger, but similarly unpretentious office of James Wallin bore downwards, offering an unobstructed view of the timber chain. The first link, an indiscriminate pile of logs waited for sorting into species, size, and end use. A debarking process followed, and then the pièce de resistance: debarked logs entered the main building, the sawing mill, to be trimmed, dried, smoothed, and transformed into lumber that would one day support the weightiest roof.

  One hundred and twenty-two timber steps separated the working class from management on the hill: hierarchically and in terms of comfort—one swathed in noise, diesel, and dust and the other in tranquil homeliness. The steps also enforced the employee fraternization rule introduced for Grace’s benefit when her childish charms honed into a magnetic teenage spell.

  A gentle finger tap on her office window disturbed Helena. She peered over the rim of her cat eye frames to enjoy a view equal to the expanse of water that usually filled the pane. Michael’s smile betrayed his eyes: one was bright while the others revealed a sense of abandonment. He leaned on her sill, more James Dean than the original, but without the leather, and mill grime had grayed his white t-shirt. Helena enjoyed the vista before sliding the glass across.

  He wanted to hear about Grace, and Helena was happy to oblige, and there was no need to be clever with exaggeration or embellishment for any story involving Grace was remarkable enough to stand on its own merits.

  Their conversations became ritual, expanding from ad hoc drop-ins to daily exchanges over lunch under the pergola—an area designated off limits to mill workers who had their own lakeside gazebo. As time passed, their conversations strayed on to non-Grace topics marginalizing Grace like a discussion on the weather.

  Helena had no problem with fluency in Michael’s presence, and did not babble as was usual, owing to a single, decisive factor—she now viewed Michael Baden as an acquaintance and nothing more. Months earlier when she imagined him as the father of her children, a demonstration of her wit and unexplored sense of humor would have been impossible. Then clarity came to her one day while watching a documentary on The Beatles. Inexplicable emotion engulfed girls of all ages causing them to laugh one minute then sob without control through declarations of undying love for any one or all four. As Helena lounged in a floral armchair at Waterloo Street, the irrationality of it all dawned on her, and she saw it reflected in her own quiet obsession with the uninterested Michael Baden. No one could love a stranger so completely and utterly without knowing them, unless one was under some kind of spell or the influence of alcohol, or still a child with love that was yet to learn its bounds. Helena realized then that she was no different to the besotted girls who loved the Beatles. She did not know Michael Baden, and only knew of the Badens generally like everyone else in Maine. It had been a foolish preoccupation, but now that she did know Michael Baden, she liked him, as a friend and confidante, and that was all.

  “When did you learn Italian?” Michael asked during another rule-breaking sojourn under the office workers’ pergola.

  “School.”

  “Some school. We were lucky if we learnt English at the one I went to.”

  “Maybe you weren’t there long enough,” she replied.

  “Touché. That’s French, I think.”

  “Très bien, monsieur.”

  Michael shook his head. “I’d like to learn Italian, so I can talk to Vincenzo in his own lingo. Do you think you could teach me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I never heard Grace speak Italian,” he said, “the way you do with the mill workers.”

  “She can,” Helena replied. “She chooses not to.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll help you with something in return.”

  “You, help me? With what?” she asked.

  “Open your lunch box,” he said with a smirk.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “I just haven’t seen one of these since I was in pre-school. I used to wish I had one.” Michael sifted through the contents. “Let’s see…one carrot with leaves, a block of cheese, and a Caramello Koala.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “If you did some exercise you’d be able to eat like a normal person.”

  “This isn’t normal?” she asked.

  “So here’s what I’m thinking…in exchange for a few Italian lessons, I’ll get you fit, or fitter I should say—we are starting from a low base.”

  “What an amazing offer,” she replied, shutting the lid on her lunch box. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “What about the Italian lessons?”

  “That, I can do—more chance of you learning Italian than me trying to run.”

  “How about Sunday? We can have a picnic by the lake.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll bring the books and the food.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve seen your lunch. I’ll bring the food,” he said with a laugh.

  Helena was early for the lakeside rendezvous as was customary for her. Grace would not approve she thought, as she unfolded a tartan picnic blanket. Punctuality, according to Grace Wallin, was a flaw indicative of a staid personality. This, not-so-subtle observation had once swayed Helena into a deportment program by Grace designed specifically for Helena’s particular level of social ineptitude. It introduced Helena to a seemingly useless art form, and included a lesson on sociable lateness, which was not to be confused with rude late—the latter a
pparently not acceptable according to Grace, although Helena had years of experience to the contrary. A number of other meaningless exercises caused unrivalled levels of anxiety and frustration for both, the source, to a considerable extent, being Helena’s lack of conviction and unwillingness to embrace the learnings as essential life skills. The program was abandoned by mutual agreement. Helena laughed remembering how Grace had ended the agony, declaring the cause hopeless beyond anyone’s capabilities, even hers.

  Helena settled on the blanket taking time to decide on a posture to portray the requisite casual professionalism. Legs were crossed and uncrossed, hands rested behind her back, in her lap, then on her knees. She tilted her body to each side, and backwards then did likewise with her head. She assumed the preferred position, and waited with patience.

  After the first hour closed with no sign of her student, patience waned. The stiffened pose had caused calf cramps forcing Helena to resort to an inelegant sprawl not approved of in deportment school. She had better things to do than lay around all afternoon under the willows in anticipation of Michael Baden, and of greater importance, for her lunch. The nature of ‘better things’ was not known, but doing nothing was not an activity she did well, and biding time with patience was mutually exclusive. Helena rolled on to her side, no longer concerned for prudent, correct form.

  “Very lady-like,” he said, staring down into Helena’s exposed inner thighs.

  “Lo and behold,” she said, and attempted to free the blanket’s corner from under his size nines.

  “I’m a little late…sorry.”

  “Really?” she said, noting how he swayed in the faint breeze.

  “I brought lunch!” He pulled a package from his underarm. “Fish and chips are served, madam!” The newspaper unraveled, showering Helena with its contents.

  “Get them off me!” she yelled, as opportunistic seagulls converged.

  He picked hot chips from a salted cowlick to throw them an enticing distance away.

  “I can see you’re in no state to learn anything today,” she said, extracting greasy fish fragments from her Crimpolene skirt, “to make matters worse.”

  “Worse than what?”

  “Worse than what? You’re late, I’m starving to death, and wild birds just attacked me! It doesn’t get any worse than that!”

  “I’m sorry, Helena…but you look so…cute with your hair like…like a bird’s nest!” He laughed and fell to his knees.

  “You’re not funny.” She patted her hair into its usual faultless state, and re-adjusted her clothing. The resumption of order thawed her temperament, as did his words. He said she was cute—a word not applied to her in ordinary circumstances, and only once previously from memory when she wore a sailor’s suit at a school recital at the age of five.

  An uneasy silence followed, and as if time controlled physical momentum, he slowly veered into her personal space, falling into her face to search like a blind man for her lips. It was all over before she recognized the rarity of the occurrence.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, backing away. “That wasn’t right.”

  More silence followed. “Well, this is awkward,” said Helena, patting at her skirt.

  “I could try again,” he said, then leaned in to infuse her lips with a beer-stained breath. She did not retreat. The canyon between their bodies narrowed as the mill rule about fraternizing with employees intruded. Helena dismissed it in favor of Grace’s wise counsel—some rules deserved to be broken, and in any event, a rule introduced for the benefit of Grace at thirteen had no jurisdiction over current proceedings.

  Chapter Four

  December 1966

  SKELETON staff in the form of Helena and James managed the mill during the Christmas hiatus: the time from midday on Christmas Eve to the second day of the New Year gifted to all workers, ex gratia.

  Millie provided limited assistance: coffee, letters, and the post office. Her involvement was more therapy than work as it had been since Robert disappeared and her mind fractured with it. She was a conundrum: still the Millie of old (a masterly homemaker), but at other times, predictable only with regard to the speed of reversion from normal to odd then back again. Such occurrences had waned in frequency as the years had passed, but not in velocity.

  Of all the 365 eves in a year, the one before Christmas was the standout for the Wallins, and a fortiori in 1966 due to the return of Grace, her first year away dubbed annus mirabilis by James. Success had many owners, and James had claimed a large chunk of it for himself. In truth, shameless self-promotion had been the key. Grace had ennobled her salon by distinguishing herself in the upper echelons of Sydney society, proving that good deportment and name-proclaimed grace had a place anywhere. Her rise, however, came with a price.

  The business had expanded in every regard: clients, staff, services, and size. The former dry cleaner from next door was now annexed as The Tea Room where ladies sipped tea with their heads wrapped in white towels while nails were painted a bright red.

  Grace was not able to enjoy her success as thoughts of a descent (into Maine), with one hand gripped on the emergency brake, were always in her mind. The scenery on her journey fluttered past, and ‘social’ came to mean a political ideology rather than the way she used to spend her time. Grace did not rest, not even on the seventh day as it followed Saturday, the busiest day of the week, and that was always a train wreck. Grace Wallin, social butterfly prominent on the Maine scene, had reincarnated as a working dog. A mere five hours sleep each night justified a tear or two in self-pity, and was also cause for concern: her flawless complexion was in large part credited to a good twelve hours sleep every night while resident at Waterloo Street where breakfast was served on fine china at whatever time of the day it happened to be. If Grace had known of this new life before she struck the deal with her father, she might well have chosen the Baden path, and stayed home to continue life as a pampered poodle. In hindsight, the undemanding conditions at the mill seemed more suited to her work ethic, and the smell was not so noticeable after a while, and not so bad at all when compared to coloring chemicals.

  Helena, in contrast, was lighter in spirit and body weight. She had taken up Michael Baden’s offer, and found time each day to run laps of the Wallin Oval under supervision. The first lap months earlier had caused respiratory distress, and almost caused her to abandon the program sooner than Grace’s deportment program. Hypoxia was a grim state she knew from experience: a condition she had managed to avoid since being struck by an atomic football courtesy of her own father at age eleven.

  By Christmas, Helena had progressed to a respectable sixteen laps of shuffling, and a non-Sherpa like scaling of the grandstand, one small step at a time. The cool-down, Michael explained, was a critical part of the program, and while five minutes was the norm, they spent twenty minutes together in the confines of the dark space beneath the grandstand. It all amounted to suppression of her appetite and emancipation from Millie’s banana mocha tart—its coffee essence now powerless against her. Millie took it personally, her self-worth measured solely by other’s enjoyment of her food.

  Her father had made no mention of the time she spent with Michael Baden, nor did Helena, but he must know, she concluded, since Maine was not a place that observed the essence of clandestine—if one saw, everyone knew, and lips were never sealed. Her father had mellowed, she believed, evidenced by the fact that he had given Grace her freedom.

  The rains had passed by lunch on Christmas Eve leaving behind a quagmire laden with bark and wood chip. A fresh breeze blew off the lake and through the worker’s gazebo, tickling the jasmine vine as it braided white flowers in and out of the latticework. Helena inhaled the scent, remembering the day the magnificence birthed.

  Millie, garbed in gloves and armed with tools, explained the process as she went about it, while Helena and Grace sat cross-legged on the lawn at Waterloo Street, chins resting in their hands. Millie had extracted clumps of small, eye-shaped seeds from their vine
, precise as a brain surgeon. The spores were then transplanted into a plastic bag lined with a moist paper towel, and a light covering of moss completed the operation. Three months later, Grace and Helena participated in the burial ceremony to intern the sprouted seeds around the new gazebo at the mill, “for the workers,” James had declared, proud of his contribution to the proletariat.

  Michael disturbed the recollection, urging her to eat. Inside the lunch box adorned with Aladdin was a tuna salad sandwich bedizened with a filigree ring. She lifted it from the white cushioning to admire the intricacy of leaves in a platinum band, ably supported by a square-prong central sapphire. When the jewel’s bewitching powers receded, panic took over: what to do—place it on the right hand, or left, return the jewel to the issuer, or to the plastic box from where it had risen like a phoenix then shut the lid as if it was Pandora’s Box.

  “Put it on,” Michael said his eyes bright with excitement.

  She hesitated.

  “Here,” he said, taking the ring to slide it down her ring finger, left hand.

  She twirled the band, staring at it.

  “You don’t like it,” he stated.

  “I do, I do. It’s beautiful.”

  “So?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s a “yes” then?”

  “Yes,” she replied unsure of the question’s angle.

  Silence engulfed the gazebo while Helena continued twirling the ring.