Grace's Table by Sally Piper

in sibling squabbles and daredevil cycling, in errant cricket balls and wayward pogo sticks. It never caught her around dolls or tea parties or dress-up, because she did none of those things. She was the bright full stop to Grace’s three children and the one who made Grace laugh and cry in equal measure at her antics and escapades.
    In comparison, Peter and Susan had been serious for their tender years, and each had a preoccupation with themselves.
    Daddy, Daddy, look at me! they’d call from their safe positions on low branches. Do you think I’m clever, Daddy? Do you? they’d demand from their stable bikes. But where her two older children worked their father for favours and praise, Claire showed no desire to have either. She was happy to find her accolades within herself, by achieving clever deeds and brave acts.
    Come and give your old man a hug, Des would say to her, arms outstretched.
    In a minute , Claire would say, but that minute never came. She’d forget or he’d tire of waiting.
    Sometimes I wonder whose kid she is, he’d say to Grace, despairing of this third child, the one who didn’t seek out his lap or come running at the first call. He’d shake his head at her aloofness but there was always one of the other two at his elbow to take his mind off the one who chose to be elsewhere. And when she proved shrewd enough to spot his mean streak, and comment on it, he was less interested in encouraging her around him much at all.
    So for Susan to say Claire was spoilt … did she not see the reckless free spirit and energy of her younger sister, the difference.
    â€˜How can you say such a thing?’ Grace was more hurt now than by seeing her treasured burro in pieces.
    Crimson crept to the neckline of Susan’s pale silk blouse. ‘Forget I said anything!’ Hurriedly she left the room to take the dustpan back to the laundry.
    But there were some things Grace didn’t think age would allow her to forget.
    The air remained tense after this exchange.
    Grace tried hard to hide her disappointment and Susan fussed over broccoli florets, leaving the stems long the way her mother liked them.
    Right or wrong, Grace took this small gesture to mean more: it was Susan’s penance. The day could yet be salvaged by long broccoli stalks.

7
    Susan was the wearer of masks. She had a number she could draw on, depending on the occasion. The one she’d worn with Grace most of the morning was that of efficient helper. This mask was almost flawless: no frown, lips passive and her chin kept in a kind line in relation to her neck, not jutting forward in angular defiance. This mask had slipped momentarily when she slammed the lid on the remains of the donkey, and Grace had seen the viper-face that sometimes emerged from the surface of her daughter’s skin.
    Now, as the doorbell rang for the second time that day, Susan applied a new mask. This one was Mother, all teeth and big, interested eyes directed towards her children, saying, Look, I’ve noticed you, now notice me . Except, why would they? Most children, Grace had learnt, failed to notice much beyond their own shadow, especially when adolescence was forcing them to apply so many masks of their own.
    Just as a big-busted girl rounded her shoulders or a tall one stooped, Grace’s fourteen-year-old granddaughter hid her insecurities and faltering confidence behind a long fringe that swept across half her face. The Western girl’s veil. Among close family the fringe might be swept to one side and Jorja would look out with her sharp green eyes, surveying the people she was forced to live with. At other times – hormonal highs and lows or enforced gatherings – the veil of hair would be dropped across her face again, letting everyone know there would be no engaging today.
    Grace would read her granddaughter’s moods like an astronomer read the stars: join the dots and a complete constellation could be