Finding Grace Read Online Free PDF Page B

baskets of washing.
    It was at this point that I had my first encounter with my new neighbor. When she spoke I thought that she was speaking a different language, and she was, after a fashion. I come from a long line of suits who articulate with masterly precision (except, of course, for Nanna, who refers to young men “taking their ferret for a run” and hoots at men on construction sites—usually at the same time; Nanna has no shame).
    I hear a voice off to my left.
    “Looks like ya gotcherands full, mate.”
    I look up. Through the shrubbery I can see the nextdoor neighbor's back veranda. It's about a meter off theground. There's a woman standing in front of an aluminum screen door with one hand on her hip, smoking a cigarette.
    “Beg yours?” I say, frowning.
    She's wearing one of those flattering flannel nighties in lime with what looks like a rosebud pattern, and so I immediately don't like her.
    I have never been a big fan of the nightie. The main issue that I have yet to resolve is this: how do you get into bed without the nightie sliding up and bunching around the waist? I have tried countless methods, including pulling the bedclothes to one side and rolling onto the bed sideways, but the rolling action has a sort of wringing effect, so you end up uncomfortable longways instead of sideways. It is not possible, in my experience, to get into bed with the fulllength nightie on without such strenuous exercise that it will leave you puffed and wide awake.
    Now, I will concede that in the confines of one's own property one should be entitled to wear whatever one pleases without judgment or discrimination. However, the lady next door must have
purchased
said nightie at some stage and one can assume that the purchasing occurred beyond the boundary of the property. Who buys a lime nightie? Not the sort of person with whom I'm likely to get along, that's who!
    “I was just saying you got your hands full, mate.”
    “Yes. I do.”
    “I'm not talking about the washing, mate.” She takes a drag of her cigarette between sentences and talks through a cloud of smoke. The original dragon lady—boom, boom.
    I look over the vast piles of washing in my arms. “Oh?”
    “Eyemeaner.”
    “Eyemeaner?”
    “Er!” She points back toward the house with her cigarette. “Er, arya deaf?”
    “Oh, you mean her.”
    “Yeah, mate, her. She givingyardtimeyet?”
    I'm doing the translation in my head as we go along,
giving you a hard time yet.
This means there's a couple of seconds delay before I am able to respond.
    “No, not really.”
    She takes a long drag on the cigarette. “Well, I don't reckon yoolafta wait long, yoonowdameen?”
    “Pardon? Oh! You-know-what-I-mean.”
    “What?”
    “You said “you know what I mean.' ”
    “Yeah?” She cocks her head on the side and takes another drag. “You a nuffytooarya?”
    “A nuffytooarya?”
    “Christ! Two of yous! Just as bad as echutha.”
    “No, I'm the carer.”
    “What?”
    Ccrck, are you receiving, lime nightie woman? Over, ccrck.
“Carer, you know. I look after her.” “How old arya? Twelve? Pretty poor fuckin' choice if you ask me, mate.”
    And with that she flicks her cigarette into the garden, spits, and walks back into her house, slamming the screen door behind her.
    Well, I understood that!
    Charming.
    I carry the baskets to the washing line and hang out the clothes and the linen. I'm humming to myself. Something is nagging at the back of my mind. I must be hungry.
    So now it's lunchtime and I make myself a sandwich. I'm looking for your plain ordinary condiment in the fridge. There are mustards: tarragon mustard, honey mustard, red peppercorn mustard. There are jellies: rosemary jelly, thyme jelly, red currant jelly. There is something called
nasi goreng
. I have a quick sniff and decide that it is probably not suitable for a sandwich.
    There is a series of sun-dried vegetables: sun-dried tomatoes, sun-dried capsicum, sun-dried aubergine. Then there are