Grace's Table by Sally Piper Page A

drawn. Starting with Jorja’s fringe, the trail led from lips to jaw, shoulders to arms either folded across her developing chest or dangling free and open at her slim hips. Today the veil was drawn, the lips were thin, shoulders rolled in on themselves, and those growing buds were compressed by the weight of her arms. Enforced family gathering, Grace decided, and gathered her granddaughter into an embrace.
    â€˜Thanks for coming, Jorja. It’s lovely to see you.’ Grace felt her girl soften a little and was grateful.
    â€˜Grace,’ Richard said, holding his arms out wide in a look-at-you way.
    â€˜Richard,’ Grace replied, drawing out his name as he had hers.
    â€˜Well, what can I say? Congratulations.’
    Not Happy Birthday or You don’t look a day over sixty-nine , just Congratulations as though she’d achieved some unexpected milestone, like graduating with distinction or getting a mention in the Australia Day honours list. Grace couldn’t help but laugh, ‘Yes, Richard, looks as though I’ve made it. And everything pretty much still in working order,’ she said, slapping her sides.
    â€˜Come in off the porch,’ Susan, the hostess, ushered. ‘It smells good inside. Jaxon, turn that off, sweetie, and wish your grandma happy birthday.’
    â€˜Happy birthday, Grandma,’ Jaxon said to his electronic game.
    Jorja sniffed the air like a lioness. ‘Roast meat,’ she said, top lip curled.
    â€˜Yes, lovely lamb but there’s plenty of vegetables to go with it. Jaxon, she needs a hug too. Come on, love. Turn it off.’
    â€˜I can’t. I’ll die. And I’ve just got to the next level.’
    â€˜It’s all right, Susan. I’ll get my hug later.’
    â€˜That’s not the point. Come on, Jaxon, you know you’ll get to whatever level you’re at again.’
    â€˜But I’ve never got this far before.’
    â€˜Are the vegetables cooked with the meat?’
    â€˜No, they’re not. Richard, will you please get him off that thing.’
    â€˜Sure.’ Richard reached over his son’s shoulder and took the gadget from his hand, mid-game.
    â€˜Da-ad! Why’d you do that?’
    â€˜I didn’t mean like that,’ Susan said, exasperated. ‘I’d hoped you’d reason with him.’
    â€˜That’s how we reason at work – give the boss any grief and you lose privileges.’
    Susan looked to the ceiling and placated the now tearful Jaxon with an arm round his shoulder. ‘He’s not on a board yet, for God’s sake.’
    â€˜I just know the potatoes will be cooked with the meat and I love roasted potatoes.’
    â€˜Jorja, we’re roasting them separately. Okay?’
    Grace watched as Susan transformed her face to suit one person then the other. She remembered the tediousness of diplomacy, of being the mediator, the negotiator, the fall guy. The funny thing was Susan – or any child – would never recall just how easily she’d been able to unhinge a moment in the family’s life by a simple act or statement, sometimes with devastating consequences.
    It takes a lot to raise kids these days. You can’t imagine , Susan would say to her. Grace thought her imagination had only improved with age. That aside, Do you think I bought you fully grown off a supermarket shelf? she’d say, and Susan would splutter some reply like, Things were easier in your day . Grace never could see the ease in a mangle over a spin cycle.
    Grace often thought of her mother’s masks. There were three, each perfectly crafted from the roles she served. One was simply called Mother: thin-lipped, lecturing and stern. Then came The Boss: lofty, dominating and forceful. And finally there was the mask called Cook. This was the one Grace remembered most fondly, as it made Mother gentle.
    It was this face that toiled over delicate and airy sponge squares, holding