"Alas! That all we loved in him should be, /But for our grief, as if it had not been, /And grief itself be mortal."
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
To the people of Rosella Grove Mrs. Grace was something of an enigma. She lived alone yet she wore wedding and engagement rings and used the title "Misses."
The window peepers of the Grove kept her under surveillance in the hope of some scandal, like a man or men visiting Mrs. Grace. No such visitors were ever seen apart from people making deliveries or optimistic Jehovah Witnesses.
What was factually known about her was very slim; she worked at the university in the classics department. This was known because Arthur Wainright who lived in the Grove was studying at the university and he'd seen her there. He added, "She's got a PhD and they say she's a real brain."
She shopped at the super-market late every Wednesday afternoon; she went jogging every morning at 7-30 a.m., and when meeting people she was polite but a little remote.
At 1 p.m. every Sunday afternoon she was seen to drive her car out of the Grove, to return around 5 p.m. This gave rise to the rumour that she went to see a lover.
Her house, or more accurately cottage since it was called "Rosella Cottage," was an oddity in the Grove. It was of mid-nineteenth century vintage and had been built by a market gardener. In the nineteen sixties the developers moved in and put up what they described as "Executive Residences," one of which was eventually occupied by me and my parents. Mrs. Grace's place, "Rosella Cottage," was the only evidence that the district had once been all market gardens.
Whoever the owner of the cottage was when the area was "developed," must have frustrated the developers by refusing to sell the place that stood on about half an acre of valuable land.
Mrs. Grace, so I learned, had moved into the cottage in the late nineteen eighties and, as the locals said, "She's done a good job on the garden."
She must have been very young when she moved in, because when I and my parents moved into the "executive" house next door in 1993 she appeared to be in her late twenties.
I shall return to Mrs. Grace and her appearance, but it will help the reader if I give some background about myself and my circumstances, because it is associated with how I first met her and how our relationship developed.
* * * * * * * *
I was fifteen when we moved into the Grove. My father, Edward Haines, was a competent architect but no more than competent. He was not destined for great things. My mother, Valerie, was also competent in her chosen profession, a librarian, but was never likely to rise to the dizzy heights of State Librarian. The local library was her portion in life.
On the other hand, I Trent was, according to my parents, destined for great things. Unfortunately their view of my future did not accord with mine, and this I'd better explain.
When I was six years old I fell passionately in love with curly dark haired Judy, a girl in my class at school. I never told her of my love, in fact I was an incredibly shy child and never spoke to her at all; I simply adored her from afar.
That part of my life came to an end the following year when Judy was no longer in my class – she was not even in the same school because her parents had moved away from the district. Nevertheless I always associate Judy with the establishing of my zeal for history.
It came about because in that year of my Judy adoration our rather pretty teacher, Miss Hunt, drew on the chalk board a picture of boats on the River Nile in the time of ancient Egypt. She was a damned good drawer and I've often wondered since why she wasn't an artist instead of a teacher. The point is, however, that from that moment on I was hooked and have remained hooked ever since on things historical.
Oddly, ever since I have associated my infatuation for Judy with my zeal for history.
At first my parents were surprised at my sudden interest in things ancient, and mother, at my request, brought home books from her library about, as I put it, "Those old things." As birthdays and Christmases approached my request was always for history books.
All went well until I entered high school, and that was when parental attitudes changed.
Since in their view I was to become an engineer, architect, physicist, doctor, or at worst a dentist or lawyer, I was told "It's about time you stopped reading all that rubbish, it'll get you nowhere."
Like most teenagers I only listened to parental advice and admonitions so that I knew what the opposite was, and did it. I think beneath my incredible shyness was a very determined streak that only emerged in times of adversity.
This determination is perhaps illustrated by recounting my confrontation with Gorilla Thoms.
* * * * * * * *
The principal of our high school was Colonel Bransden, known to us boys as, "Old Brandyballs," one year, no doubt under the impression that he was still with his regiment, he decreed that all we boys should learn to box.
Learning usually implies teaching. If that is so our teaching in the pugilistic art was sparse indeed. It consisted of us being marched to the gym, our names being written on pieces of paper, and the teacher drawing them out from a bowl in pairs. This determined who we would have to fight with.
I naturally hesitate to say I was scared, but I had never had a desire to batter anyone or to be battered. When I saw that I was drawn to fight with Gorilla Thoms I had a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Gorilla was the biggest, strongest and stupidest boy in our class, plus he was the class bully. I had always managed to steer clear of him, but he was popular with most of the other boys in the sense that they saw it was best to keep on the right side of Gorilla.
Being shy, and therefore among the least popular boys in my class, there was much amusement when it was revealed I was paired off with Gorilla. All, including myself, were anticipating the battering I was about to get.
Equipped with boxing trunks and gloves we stood in the middle of the gym and were instructed to begin.
I was the same height as Gorilla but much slimmer; he was built like an army tank. I had one advantage over him; my sport was running, and that meant I could run away from him faster than he could catch up with me. Eventually however, he got me cornered.
The onlookers were cheering Gorilla, "Give it to him Gorilla," "Go on, give him one."
He did give me one – a stinging blow that because I managed to move slightly landed on my shoulder.
I've heard of people seeing red, and I suppose that's what happened to me, or at least I got fed up with backing away. Gorilla was distracted by the cheers of his supporters and was grinning at them. I suddenly sprang on him and started to hit him anywhere I could reach.
