The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Isn’t she coming?’ The brightness of the morning dimmed a little. Jane had imagined the three of them would be going. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Better ask her.’ Bessie shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her scones. ‘Off you go.’

  Jane found Elizabeth at her desk in the sitting room, writing letters, Michael standing gazing out of the window tapping his cane against the skirting board.

  ‘Good morning, Aunt Elizabeth, Uncle Michael.’ Despite everything they had done for her she still wasn’t quite sure where she fitted. Neither servant nor family, she fluctuated between the two. Sometimes on the outside looking in and sometimes more intimate than she ever hoped to be in their strangely compelling home on Church Street. They insisted she call them aunt and uncle, and who was she to complain? Besides, it made her feel more family than servant.

  Elizabeth lifted her head and smiled. ‘All ready?’

  ‘Please tell me you’re coming too.’

  She offered a wry smile. ‘I have a mound of correspondence to attend to and a meeting this afternoon. Sydney’s not my favourite place and I’m not overfond of train travel. Too many memories …’

  Michael rested his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘That was over forty years ago, although I’ll admit you couldn’t get out of the place fast enough.’

  ‘What rubbish! You were running from the law and couldn’t wait to whisk me away.’

  Jane’s head came up with a snap. Aunt Elizabeth as a headstrong young girl? Michael in trouble with the law? It just didn’t fit the pattern. He was such an affable man and Elizabeth … she always saw the best in people, always keen to help those less fortunate.

  ‘All ready, are we?’ Michael crooked his elbow and invited Jane to walk with him. ‘We need to leave now so we’ll make the eight o’clock train.’

  Steam swirled and churned along the platform. A shrill whistle sounded and the giant wheels gave a mighty heave and picked up speed. The compartment rattled and banged and strained from left to right then settled into a steady movement, the wheels clacketty-clacking on the tracks.

  For the first half of the journey Jane stared out of the window, content calculating the differentials in the speeds compared to the varying gradients. Then she yanked down the window, almost falling as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, trying to estimate the deformation under load at the centre of each span. Her reward was nothing but an eye full of sooty smoke.

  An hour later Jane’s patience had come to an end. ‘Are we almost there?’

  ‘Not much longer, we’re approaching Redfern.’

  ‘Is that where we get off?’

  ‘No, we’ll continue to Central Station and then take a cab down College Street and through the park. It’ll save us a walk.’

  Jane pulled the scrunched piece of paper from her pocket and smoothed it out. It had taken an age for the authorities to decide on the exact nature of the building for the new gallery, and the description in the Maitland Mercury sounded quite fascinating. She ran her finger down the smudged ink. Classical Greek lines, interior divided into four halls, each one hundred by thirty feet with pillared archways.

  ‘We’re there.’

  The train ground to a halt and Michael opened the door and descended to a platform stretching forever. Jane pulled on her gloves, stepped down and lost her balance. She landed with a wrenched ankle and Michael’s hand steadying her.

  ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going. How long do you think the platform is?’

  ‘Oh Jane, I have absolutely no idea.’ Michael gave a chuckle. ‘There’s more to life than calculations, you know.’

  Nothing that particularly interested her—although it was the description of the new gallery that had caught her attention, that and the chance to visit Sydney. The possibility of the proportions of the building conforming to the Golden Mean had fascinated her ever since she’d read of the new design.

  ‘Do you think they’ll have any of Leonardo’s paintings? I’d love to see his Vitruvian Man. It’s based on the works of the architect Vitruvius. Who designed the art gallery?’

  ‘Not Vitruvius, I can assure you. A man by the name of Walter Liberty Vernon. He also designed Maitland Technical College and our railway station, to name but a few of his achievements.’

  ‘I wonder if he took into account the measurements of man?’

  ‘The cabs are over here.’

  Quite why Michael rolled his eyes she had no idea.

  Jane spread out her hand and held her palm flat. Four palms equalled a foot, and six a cubit. She took a long step, catching her foot in the hem of her skirt. If a pace equalled two cubits an average man’s height would be twenty-two palms. ‘How long will it take us to get there?’

  She’d like to pace out the internal measurements of the building. According to the newspaper article there was an oval lobby. She’d never stood in anything but a rectangular room, but then in all honesty she’d hadn’t stood in very many places at all.

  ‘There you are—the National Art Gallery of New South Wales.’

  Jane’s breath caught when she gazed up at the imposing Ionic columns. Truly a classic Greek temple, perfectly proportioned, silhouetted against the bright blue sky. The newspaper journalist hadn’t lied when he’d called it a temple to art.

  A temple that was totally overrun by people.

  ‘Don’t get lost, Jane, stay right by me.’

  They took the broad stone stairs as though walking into a church. The autumn light slanted across the sandstone, throwing a golden glow.

  ‘Why is it so crowded?’

  ‘It’s the first viewing of the new exhibition for the best landscape painting of Australian scenery in watercolour or oils. Anyone associated with the Labor campaign received an invitation.’

  She might have guessed. Ever since Labor’s victory in the 1910 state election Michael spent more and more time in Sydney. Both he and and Elizabeth were great advocates for all things Australian, all people as well, no matter where they came from. They went out of their way to help. It had taken Jane time to realise that it wasn’t just an arithmetic test that had made Elizabeth pick her out of the orphanage, it was what she did. Elizabeth was a philanthropist.

  A great crowd mingled under the skylights beyond the foyer. Everyone was dressed to the nines, the men in formal suits and the women in huge hats with enough floating feathers to render an emu naked.

  ‘Have we really got to stand and wait?’ said Jane. ‘Couldn’t I go and have a look around?’

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if we did. Perhaps the queue will diminish. Come along.’

  That was one of the best things about Michael, he hated wasting time. Probably because he was always so frantically busy. In fact, Jane had been surprised when he’d suggested she join him. When he was at home he spent most of his time at the auction house, not in his office but on the shop floor, talking to customers, or out the back chatting with John, the auction-house manager, and making sure everything ran smoothly. Despite his campaign to become a member of the legislative assembly at the next election, he still managed to find time to make sure everyone was happy.

  Instead of turning to the right, Michael led the way to one of the smaller galleries off the main vestibule. Away from the crush of people the light inside was particularly bright, reflecting from the glassed ceiling off the pale mint-green walls.

  They stopped at the entrance and Michael read aloud from a plaque on the wall.

  ‘An exhibition of the first paintings purchased by Mr Nicholas Chevalier and Colin McKay Smith in 1875. Right, well, let’s have a look. I was under the impression that they purchased Australian paintings. The first, if my memory serves me correctly, was Conrad Martens, a watercolour of Apsley Falls.’

  Michael’s cane tapped on the parquet floor as he began a slow tour around the perimeter. ‘Hmm. It would seem I was wrong. Why in heaven’s name would they purchase paintings from England? I realise it was before Federation, but for goodness sake. We
are our own country now.’

  Jane let Michael’s political ranting wash over her as she made a quick circuit of the room. Seven paintings in all. All landscapes and nothing that looked remotely Australian, except perhaps the picture of a ship on a stormy grey sea. She stepped closer. Sir Oswald Brierly, A fresh breeze off Revel, France 1875. Not Australian. By the time they got out, Michael would be in full flight.

  God help them!

  She moved on to the next painting. A group of cattle grazing by a river. It could have been the Hunter River except for the fact that the light was softer, sort of older looking. Henry Britten Williams, Cattle piece, a scene on the Wye 1873. What was the Wye? She needed an atlas. It frustrated her enormously when she didn’t have all the facts at her fingertips.

  The next painting was very much like the one of the cows by the river, a country scene, the sort of picturesque village they put on Christmas cards except there was no snow and no robins in sight. She’d never understood why people sent greetings cards of England in the winter when in Australia the sun was blinding and the sky an incandescent blue.

  She’d rather be taking a look around the building, maybe a little more of the city. There had to be more than these country scenes. The next one showed a thatched cottage with a girl leaning over the gate. Jane leant forward to read the title: Waiting at the Village Gate, Marigold Penter.

  Michael stepped up beside her. ‘No chance of mistaking that one for Australian.’ He let out a humph and turned to a page in the catalogue they’d been given at the entrance. ‘It’s definitely England. It says the painter comes from the West Country. That she was one of the first female impressionists to be exhibited in Paris. Not my kind of thing. All this English rubbish.’ He wandered off, his cane tip-tapping.

  ‘She is regarded as one of the most talented women in her field.’

  Jane spun around. A thin-faced man wearing a loose-fitting checked jacket, the sort that would send Elizabeth into the pits of despair, regarded her with a patronising air. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Marigold Penter. My wife, the artist.’

  Her face flushed as she tried to remember if she’d said anything inappropriate, or simply thought it. She’d be the colour of strawberry jam. Well and truly. What had Aunt Elizabeth said she must do when she put her foot in it? ‘I do beg your pardon.’ And change the subject. To what? ‘Have you had the opportunity to see the Australian landscape exhibition yet? Mr …’ She snatched another look at the card next to the painting. ‘Penter?’

  ‘Langdon-Penter. No I haven’t. The crowds are a bit much.’ He sounded almost bored, his voice drawling. ‘The gallery purchased another of my wife’s village series and we have taken the opportunity to visit Australia.’

  Michael appeared beside her again. ‘Seen enough, Jane? I think it’s time we went to look at the Australian paintings. This romantic English rubbish does nothing for me.’

  ‘This is Mr Langdon-Penter.’ She glared at Michael. ‘His wife painted this picture.’

  The tips of Michael’s ears turned an interesting shade of pink and he held out his hand. ‘Michael Quinn.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Quinn! It is my pleasure.’ Langdon-Penter stepped in front of her with a self-confident smile and as good as elbowed her aside.

  ‘I was just commenting on your wife’s painting. Is it for sale?’ Michael wasn’t interested in buying the painting, not at all. Jane shot a look at him, caught his twinkling eyes.

  ‘The gallery doesn’t sell the works it acquires.’ Langdon-Penter drew back his shoulders. ‘They intend to show my wife’s paintings alongside some of your Australian impressionists.’

  ‘Indeed. How very exciting.’ Jane flashed Michael a look of triumph. ‘Is your wife here?’ She searched the crowd for someone who looked as though she might be an artist.

  ‘No, she is not. I handle her business arrangements.’

  Michael threw Jane a warning look, knowing very well which way her mind had travelled. She’d spent long enough in Elizabeth’s company to be well versed in her belief that women should manage their own affairs.

  ‘Come along, Jane, let’s go and see if we can see the Australian landscapes. Nice to meet you.’

  Michael bobbed his head and Jane slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and off they went, leaving Mr Langdon-Penter framing his next sentence.

  The next two hours passed in a blur of pictures, strange smells and too many people. Nothing that sparked Jane’s interest. She got a mouthful from one of the suited gentlemen standing guard when she’d asked if they had any of Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings. What she’d like was a nice long glass of Bessie’s lemonade and maybe an egg-and-lettuce sandwich. Her stomach gave an assenting rumble.

  When they finally stepped outside, Jane dragged in a rewarding lungful of the fresh air blowing in from the botanical gardens.

  Michael drew to a halt. ‘What would you like to do now? A walk through the gardens? It’s quite shaded and there is a café in George Street where we can get a cup of tea, a late lunch, a strawberry ice perhaps. Elizabeth had a suggestion. She thought you might like to take a ride through the grounds of the university and see where you will sit the entrance exam, then we’ll catch the Maitland train.’

  Before Jane could respond Langdon-Penter appeared right in front of them, blocking the path. ‘What a coincidence. Maitland, you say? Small country town in the Hunter Valley, I believe.’

  Michael puffed out his chest as he always did when the subject of Maitland came up. ‘Hardly small. A population of over eight thousand. Maitland is a very progressive city and we have an active Benevolent Society who are keen to sponsor exhibitions, particularly now we have such a wonderful display space in the new technical college.’

  Langdon-Penter held up his index finger with an air of self-importance. ‘I might be one step ahead of you. One of my wife’s painting will be on display at the technical college. A Major Witherspoon has arranged it.’

  Jane didn’t miss the look on Michael’s face. He and the Major couldn’t agree on anything, most especially if it smacked of politics.

  ‘A display of significant paintings purchased by the gallery. I’m sure you and your daughter would enjoy them.’

  ‘I shall mention the matter to my sister, she will be most interested. Does your wife sell to private collectors? I would enjoy viewing her other work.’

  Had Michael gone mad? He’d already said he didn’t like the woman’s painting.

  ‘Unfortunately we’re leaving for Melbourne tomorrow. We have an appointment with the gallery there. Perhaps we could arrange a viewing on our return?’ Langdon-Penter rubbed his hands together, the skin on his palms making a rasping sound.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Michael slipped Jane’s arm through his and without another word started down the path.

  ‘We are bringing the extended exhibition to Maitland after we finish in Melbourne,’ Langdon-Penter called.

  Michael let out a long-suffering sigh and turned back. ‘Are you, by Jove! Good chap. Now if you’ll excuse me, Jane and I have business to attend to.’

  Six

  Hill End, 1863

  Sitting in the back of a heavily laden bullock dray with no shade from the sun, wedged between a mound of flour sacks and more barrels than he dared contemplate, was not Michael’s idea of heaven. The mere thought of all the ale made his stomach turn, made worse by the malty aroma that billowed around whenever the dray hit a bump in the road, which was often, real often.

  Up on the box seat, three men fought for enough space to rest their bony bums, their voices getting louder and more raucous as they made short work of another flagon of rum. Ahead, a trail of wagons lined the track and behind an army of men on foot, some pushing wheelbarrows or hefting pickaxes and shovels and all manner of strange-looking devices. Mrs Cameron was right. Hardly a woman or child in sight. A couple of impatient horsemen squeezed past, scattering the men on foot and blanketing everyone in a cloud of dust.

  ‘We’ll make it be
fore nightfall if we’re lucky.’ The teamster threw a half-hearted grin over his shoulder.

  Michael hoped to God they would; all feeling in his arse had vanished days ago and the hypnotic rhythm of the continual bumping and grinding had addled his brain and turned him into a rattling skeleton.

  The further they meandered westward, drifting through Sofala and Sally’s Flat, the more eerie the landscape became, the hills all deforested, the gullies eroded. ‘What’s all that?’ He pointed to the pockmarked slopes.

  ‘Mullock hills. That’s what’s left over after they’ve panned for the gold.’

  A scattering of bodies crouched in the gully, some up to their knees in water, their crude tents and shacks pitched close by. On the opposite side of the slope clusters of men toiled with picks and shovels.

  The dray descended a steep slope and rounded a sharp bend. Michael’s mouth gaped. Against a backdrop of mountains and gorges, the crush of people forced them to slow.

  ‘Hill End up ahead.’

  Bathurst had been the only halfway decent town they’d passed, yet here in the middle of nowhere the streets thronged with people, and no mistaking their many and varied origins. From the sounds of the voices there were more Irish than he’d seen since he’d left Liverpool, and where the Irish weren’t, the Scots reigned, their lyrical tones ringing loud and clear.

  A bunch of adventurous-looking young lads, shotguns slung over their shoulders, swaggered past, shouting a series of obscenities at a group of Chinamen, drawing attention to their round faces and strangely coloured skin. Even their clothes marked them as different—conical-shaped hats, and long shirts hanging over baggy trousers. Possibly not such a bad idea; Michael had itched his skin raw beneath his thick woollen trousers and shirt after sitting in the scorching sun for days.

  The dray bumped along, past rows of tidy little houses, their gardens surrounded by picket fences crowded with flowers and fruit trees—a woman’s touch without a doubt. All Mam’s dreams might have come true in this place.