The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Kedgeree would be lovely, thank you.’

  Jane filled the plate and set it in front of Elizabeth, who gave a terse nod and toyed with her fork while Jane helped herself to some toast and her hard-boiled eggs, neither of which were particularly symmetrical. Not a good omen for the remainder of the day.

  After Elizabeth’s uncharacteristic behaviour the previous evening, Jane wasn’t sure how she should behave. She sliced the top off the first egg with more force than she intended and scooped the dribbling egg yolk from the side of the cup with her finger.

  ‘Manners, Jane.’ Elizabeth rapped her fingernail on the table to emphasise her point.

  Very encouraging. She reached for the napkin and wiped her fingers.

  ‘Did you establish a new time for the meeting with the ladies of the Benevolent Society? I completed the accounts last night. It’s going to take more than a soupçon of diplomacy to convince them they have insufficient funds to stage the annual moonlight concert.’

  ‘Something else to do this morning.’

  ‘Speak up, Jane.’

  ‘I said I would confirm this morning.’ She would have to reorganise the meeting because of Dr Lethbridge’s visit.

  ‘Very good. Make it next week, and while you’re out perhaps you’d be so kind as to call into the technical college and collect my hat. I must have dropped it.’

  Jane bit down on her toast and contained the curl of excitement. The perfect excuse to have another look at the diprotodon, and she’d call into the School of Arts and see if she could find any additional information in the library.

  ‘I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast. I intend to complete my tour of the garden while I consider the Benevolent Society’s position. They simply can’t afford to fund a moonlight concert.’

  Jane swallowed the remains of her tea with a frown. The last time she’d seen the accounts they had been in the black. She loaded up the tray to take out to Lucy, and she’d see if Bessie needed anything from the High Street; a bit of shopping would give her the perfect excuse to stay out a little longer.

  In no time she was wheeling her bicycle out through the garden gate and into the street; if she wanted to visit the library it was the only solution. Besides, she liked the cooling breeze and, providing she pinned her hat tightly down, she could cover the distance in half the time.

  Taking care to avoid an overpacked dray and a rattling tram, Jane skirted a group of gossiping women and turned right into the High Street, chanting in time to her pedalling,

  ‘Pears soap, a blue bag, half a pound of tea.

  A ham hock and VoVos, just for you and me!’

  Some days she’d prefer to spend her time in the kitchen rather than cooped up with Elizabeth and the accounts. She understood the importance of a good business grounding and she’d only thanks for the way Elizabeth had helped her, but she’d never imagined herself poring over dusty old ledgers day after day.

  She coasted to a halt outside the telegraph office and ducked into the general store next door.

  The bell had barely tinkled before Mrs Dodd pounced on her. ‘How’s Miss Quinn today?’

  ‘She’s perfectly fine, thank you, Mrs Dodd. It was the heat.’ Not the truth, because despite the brave front at breakfast there was something not right. Shadows, that was it, under Elizabeth’s eyes, and her hands had shaken as she lifted her teacup. It seemed so odd for someone who was so controlled to have a fear of anything, never mind birds. ‘I need a blue bag, half a pound of tea, a ham hock and a packet of Iced VoVos.’

  Mrs Dodd bustled around making a stack on the counter. ‘Much cooler today, thank heavens. Is that all, dear?’

  There was something else. Jane ran through the rhyme she’d concocted. ‘A bar of Pears soap for Miss Quinn.’ She handed over the money and tucked the packages under her arm.

  ‘A thank you wouldn’t come amiss.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘A thank you.’

  For goodness sake, she had no time to waste. ‘Thank you.’

  With the items clutched tightly, she eased her way through the door and placed them into the basket on the front of the bicycle then scooted off the footpath and onto the road. Next stop the technical college.

  The moment Jane entered the foyer, Mrs Witherspoon raised her head from the ledger and scowled at her. ‘I’m still having difficulty with some of these figures.’

  ‘I’ve come to collect Miss Quinn’s hat, she left it here yesterday.’

  ‘How is she feeling this morning?’

  ‘Better.’

  Mrs Witherspoon made no effort to hand over Elizabeth’s hat; she remained behind the desk peering down at the ledgers, tapping a pencil against her teeth.

  ‘Did you find Miss Quinn’s hat, a straw boater with mauve and green ribbons?’

  ‘Hat? No. No, I didn’t. She didn’t have one on when you left. I remember thinking how thick her hair was.’ A faint flush rose to Mrs Witherspoon’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. It’s such a shock to see her, well, to see her so dishevelled. She always appears to be in command of the situation.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a look in the Exhibition Hall. Maybe the cleaner found it.’

  ‘Cleaner? No, she comes in on Wednesdays.’

  Jane bolted through the Tudor doors, trying to control the tap-tapping of her boots on the floor. Never run when you can walk. Never walk when you can ride. She had the not walking when she could ride bit under control now the bicycle was well oiled and the tyres pumped, but the first part of Elizabeth’s instructions was still a daily trial. She couldn’t wait to see the diprotodon again. Her hand span measured six inches; if she made an estimation and checked at the library, it would give her some indication of the truth of the matter. A calculation around the length of the femur, fibula and tibia in the leg, along with the humerus, radius and ulna, could allow an estimation of size based on the bones of the hand or foot. Could she create formulae to confirm the size of the diprotodon?

  She danced into the Exhibition Hall and turned to the left then ground to a halt. A large wedge-tailed eagle with outspread wings scrutinised her with an intimidating squint. She bent closer and read the card pinned to the front of the display case: Shot at Lochinvar by Mr. T. Kelly, while in the act of making away with a lamb. Her stomach churned. Maybe Elizabeth’s fears weren’t so far-fetched.

  The adjacent case contained two magpies, so lifelike she couldn’t help but push her ear against the glass to see if she could hear them carolling. The silence was overwhelming. Not a laugh from the kookaburras in the next display case either, though their eyes gleamed with anticipation as they peered, frozen in time, at a small lizard set on a rock. There was no doubt about it, Tost and Rohu deserved every one of the international awards they’d won.

  In between the cabinets, a series of paintings hung on the walls in ornate gold frames. The first, Madonna and Child painted in heavy oils, was nowhere near as exciting as the prehistoric skull. On the other side of the room were more paintings, mostly oils, an etching, a beautiful cathedral labelled Antwerp, and a mountain stream. Nelson New Zealand, the plaque on the wall told her. Jane meandered towards the middle of the room and drew up short. She had to find Elizabeth’s hat then she could concentrate on the diprotodon. Her heart stuttered as she passed under the imposing Gothic arch into the shadowy and musty space, then a flash of colour on the floor caught her attention. She bent down and there was Elizabeth’s hat, half hidden under one of the last cabinets close to the corner. Once she’d extricated it, she straightened up and came face to face with another painting, different in style to the heavy oils and etchings.

  She peered more closely. A weathered church tucked into the fold of the hill surrounded by ancient headstones, tilted like old men’s teeth, every patch of lichen highlighted. Several sarcophagi, chipped and worn, and to one side a large circular burial vault.

  Jane moved a little closer. All the other pictures had cards next to them describing the painting; not this one. T
here was something about it that appeared familiar. She glanced over her shoulder. Mrs Witherspoon was nowhere to be seen so she hoisted the picture from the hook, turned it around, leant it against the wall and crouched down. A small piece of paper glued to the back rewarded her ingenuity.

  The Village Church. Marigold Penter 1889, oil on canvas.

  And then she remembered. The wife of the self-confident man who’d annoyed Michael at the gallery in Sydney. It must one of the pictures he’d been talking about.

  She studied the vibrant colours and wide brush strokes, the way the light glanced off the church windows, and the long shadows thrown by the circular vault, then she spotted the girl, almost hidden beneath the wide branches of a tree.

  She could hardly tell the colour of the clothes the girl was wearing, all a pale, grey blue, almost as though she was fading away. It looked as though Lucy had spilt bleaching powder all over her. ‘Quite strange.’

  She bent down to replace the painting.

  ‘Let me help.’ A young man with sparkling eyes and a slightly sunburnt face regarded her with a lopsided grin.

  He rehung the painting, tipped his head to one side and straightened one corner. ‘My mother painted this picture.’

  ‘Oh! I met your father, at the art gallery in Sydney before Christmas.’ He looked nothing like the man, with his big broad shoulders and smiling face. ‘He said your mother might have an exhibition in Maitland.’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned meeting you and your father, Mr Quinn.’

  ‘Michael is not my father. I’m an orphan, at least I was until Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Michael rescued me.’

  ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. I count myself lucky. My name’s Jane, Jane Piper.’

  ‘Timothy Penter.’ He held out his hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she grasped it.

  ‘I’m here to evaluate the space for the full exhibition, part of Mother’s tour.’

  ‘Her tour.’ For heaven’s sake, she sounded like a parrot.

  ‘Several galleries are interested in my mother’s paintings so we have taken the opportunity to visit Australia.’ He had a slight burr to his voice, a little more wholesome than his father, very different to Michael’s Irish accent.

  ‘Are you from London?’

  ‘West Country.’

  She must have frowned because he added, ‘England.’

  ‘Oh! I see. Do you like Australia?’

  ‘Haven’t seen much except from the train window. Sydney, Melbourne, and now Maitland. Mother and Father are still in Melbourne. Father sent me here to look things over, for the full exhibition.’

  ‘Doesn’t your mother decide where she shows her paintings?’ Perhaps that wasn’t the right thing to say, because his eyebrows disappeared into the shock of hair falling across his forehead.

  He stuck his hands into the pockets of his rumpled jacket and leant against the wall. ‘If Mother had her way she’d spend her time in Paris. Father deals with her business arrangements. This trip was his idea.’

  Ambling across the room, he paused in front of one of the other paintings. ‘These are not Mother’s style at all. Traditional oil paintings, painted in a studio. Mother favours painting en plein air, as do the other impressionists. They aim to portray an overall visual effect rather than the minute details. Step back a little and you’ll better appreciate the picture.’

  Jane did as he suggested, although the shadowy light made it difficult. She’d never given any thought to whether artists painted in a studio or out in the open air. ‘When will your mother’s exhibition open?’

  ‘After the Melbourne exhibition, the paintings will be shipped here. That’s my job. Father has an acquaintance he’s trying to track down. I don’t think he fully appreciated the size of the country.’

  ‘This exhibition is due to run for another six weeks.’ Jane pointed to the sign on the door.

  ‘I have to speak to Major Witherspoon. Have you any idea where I might find him?’

  ‘He spends a lot of time in Sydney. He’s a politician.’ Although completely on the other side of the fence from Michael. ‘I’m sure Mrs Witherspoon can help you. She’s outside in the foyer. Are you going back to Sydney today?’

  ‘Train leaves in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Come and have a look at the diprotodon. It’s fascinating. I’m about to go to the library and see if I can find any further information. Perhaps you’d like—’

  ‘Jane!’ Mrs Witherspoon’s flustered voice echoed through the cavernous space. ‘Have you finished in there?’

  ‘It sounds like something’s happened.’

  ‘Mrs Witherspoon is a bit of a nervous Nellie. My aunt had a turn when we visited the exhibition. She’s probably worried I’ve come a cropper or that I’m up to no good.’ Whatever had possessed her to say that? ‘Coming, Mrs Witherspoon.’

  Throwing Timothy an apologetic smile, Jane hurried out into the foyer.

  ‘Ah! There you are. You’re to go straight home. Mr Quinn wishes to speak to you.’

  What a shame! She’d hoped she might chat a little more with Timothy Penter. Now she’d finished evening classes she rarely had the chance to talk to anyone her own age.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Timothy raised his hand in a salute as she scuttled outside, Elizabeth’s boater bouncing against the side of her leg, reminding her of her unfortunate priorities.

  Twelve

  Sydney & Hill End, 1868

  It took several days and numerous hours answering question after question before Michael finally established his innocence. In fact, he’d never be real sure he had. O’Farrell’s notebook was found full to the brim of Fenian nonsense, and Michael’s name didn’t figure, so they backed off. They passed the Treason Felony Act, making it an offence to refuse to drink the Queen’s health, but got no further. Not with him or anything else. The poor bastard, O’Farrell, came up before the court and he was convicted, even though his defence maintained he was mad as a hatter, and sentenced to hang. Michael had no intention of staying around to witness that.

  The moment they released him he shot up the road to Cameron’s warehouse. Elizabeth wouldn’t like it and he’d have to break his promise but he was getting the hell out of Sydney and back to Hill End as fast as he could. There were papers stuck all over the town—every door, every shop window proclaiming the Irish menace and the evils of Catholicism. The whole situation made his flesh creep.

  ‘Michael!’

  He slithered to a halt, spread his arms wide as Elizabeth flew down the street.

  ‘I thought you’d never come, I’ve been waiting and waiting.’

  He lowered her to the ground and took a good look at her. She still had her Sunday frock on but it looked nothing like the last time, her hair was a mess of knots and tangles and her face as filthy as a guttersnipe. ‘What are you doin’ out here, darlin’?’

  ‘Waiting for you. I knew you’d come.’

  At least she had faith—there’d been times in the last few days when he thought he’d never see the sky again.

  ‘Why are you out here on the street?’

  ‘Mr Cameron doesn’t want Papist spawn.’

  ‘Elizabeth Ó’Cuinn! I’ll wash yer mouth out.’ And how would Cameron have known he’d get released and when? Had she been out on the streets all this time? And what was wrong with Mrs Cameron, no one would treat a daughter that way. Bastards. This bloody O’Farrell had caused more trouble than his foolish assassination attempt was worth.

  Elizabeth put her hand in his and stared at him for the longest moment, fixing him with a penetrating stare from her huge blue eyes. ‘You won’t leave me again, will you?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll not be doing that.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Are we going home?’

  ‘That we are, me darlin’.’ His fingers tightened in return, sealing the deal.

  ‘To see me mam and da.’

  Holy shite. He hadn’t thought of that. Time
to face up to the truth.

  ‘I’m glad I’m going home with you. The Camerons don’t want me anymore.’ Her brilliant blue eyes filled with tears. ‘It was just the money; everything changed when Mr Cameron lost his boat.’

  Had he opened his eyes to the truth about the money-grubbing couple, he’d never have left her there for as long as he had. Something he’d regret for the rest of his days.

  Several days later Elizabeth sat next to Michael on the bullock dray, all clean and scrubbed, wearing the new coat he’d bought her in Bathurst, striped stockings, and good thick boots. Her hair blew in the wind, and in one hand she clasped the tattered remains of Lizzie the doll. He’d done little for her in the last six years, had trusted the Camerons. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again. Elizabeth was his responsibility, and by all that was holy he’d make sure she never came to harm.

  ‘I’ll make it right, I promise. I’ll make it right. But first I have to tell you something.’

  ‘It’s about Mam and Da, isn’t it?’

  The child was wise beyond her years. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They’re dead. I know that. If Mam and Da were alive they would want to see me and would’ve come and got me long ago. They didn’t come, so I knew.’

  The silence hung between them, and for the first time he was thankful Mam and Da were gone.

  ‘It’s strange. I know I’m meant to be sad but I don’t remember them. Not at all.’ Her face screwed into a ferocious frown as if she could will her memory to function. ‘I’ve got you though.’

  He was all she had, and through no fault of her own. ‘You were a wee young thing when they left. Why, you barely came to me knee.’

  ‘I remember my birthday on the ship. We had such fun. I remember when we got to Sydney.’ Her face paled. ‘Why did you leave me behind, Michael?’

  ‘I thought I was doing best. A girl needs a woman’s touch, and I thought Mrs Cameron would look after you better than I could. I didn’t know what I’d find in Hill End, nor if I could provide for you.’

  ‘What happened to Mam and Da?’

  ‘The consumption got Mam, and Da had a fall, cracked his skull.’ That was more than enough. He’d take her and show her their resting place, introduce her to Father MacCormick, enrol her in the school, make sure she attended church every Sunday. The cottage was as good as ready. They’d be a family, the family he’d promised he’d provide. ‘We’ll not be thinking on it anymore. I’ve got plans for you.’