The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Come with me, Song.’ She took his filthy hand in hers and led him into the shop. Poor little mite.

  ‘Good afternoon to you.’ Jing settled the beads on his suanpan and studied the little boy, then swept him up and plonked him onto one of the stools. ‘Have you been a bad boy?’

  Song shook his head and another tear welled. It was only then Elizabeth noticed the trickle of blood seeping onto the floor.

  ‘He’s cut his foot. I’ll go and get something to clean it up.’

  Leaving him with Jing, she ran through the warehouse into the kitchen that had replaced the blackened old fireplace and camp oven of earlier days. She filled up an enamel bowl with some warm water from the kettle and tipped in a generous slug of iodine, collected some clean rags then, as an afterthought, lifted the lid on the stack of bamboo baskets and pocketed a couple of Jing’s pork buns.

  By the time she returned, Song had a lopsided smile as he slid the beads on the suanpan while Jing spoke to him in a low voice. Elizabeth couldn’t distinguish the words but they sounded soothing.

  ‘Here we are.’ She handed him a pork bun then dunked the rag into the warm water and sat down next to him. ‘Put your foot here on my lap.’

  She might as well have asked him to run the next auction. His mouth dropped open and he almost lost the chewed remains of his pork bun.

  ‘Come on. I can’t fix this if you won’t let me see it.’

  Jing threw her a questioning look and when she shrugged her shoulders, he lifted Song’s foot and placed it gently in her lap. The poor little boy’s muscles tensed and he almost fell backwards off the stool. Layers of dirt covered the sole of his foot, almost as though he’d never worn boots. Elizabeth wiped the rag across his skin in search of the wound. The blood welled and led her to a nasty slice between his toes. He flinched as she dabbed it with the cloth. ‘Be brave. I’ve got to clean it. Why didn’t you keep your boots on?’

  Song sniffed and looked away.

  ‘He only wears his boots at school. He takes them off for the walk home.’ Jing answered for him.

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Makes them last longer.’

  ‘Where’s the other boot?’

  ‘The boys took it.’

  ‘For goodness sake. Why?’ She turned to Song. Why couldn’t he tell her? His English was good enough. Instead he sat, head hanging, his cheek pouched with the remains of the pork bun.

  ‘It’s not good enough. I’m going to do something about it, see if we can find his other boot. I’ll ask at the school.’ She patted Song’s leg. ‘Who took your boot?’

  He mumbled something to Jing and slid down from the stool.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Jing’s lips quirked. ‘That it was a waste of time worrying, and besides, he hates his boots, they’re too small and hurt his toes.’

  ‘Then we’ll get him another pair.’ Michael wouldn’t mind, probably wouldn’t even notice; a pair of boots wouldn’t make a dent in this month’s earnings if the incoming totals were anything to go by.

  Jing let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘It won’t make any difference. He’ll get a belting when he gets home and that’ll be the end of it.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do anything.’ She handed the single boot back to Song, slipped her hand into her pocket and brought out the other pork bun. He clamped it in his hand and balanced on one leg, the white bandage blazing against his dirty foot.

  Elizabeth reached for her hat. She’d go down to the school and have words with Miss Drake. It was all very well allowing the Chinese to attend the National School, but not if they were bullied.

  ‘I’m not going to let it rest. If Song was Cornish or Irish or German—any other race—Miss Drake would have the matter sorted in moments and the bullies punished.’

  ‘Law no good for Chinamen.’

  Elizabeth hated it when Jing aped the sing-song pidgin the Europeans used when they spoke of the Chinese, but she couldn’t argue with his attitude. Only the week before, two Chinese men had been gaoled for an attack on the constable outside the church. No one gave them a chance to explain themselves. Michael reckoned it served them right, but Michael was blind about anything to do with Father MacCormick. ‘I’m not going to let it rest,’ she repeated.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘To the school, to see Miss Drake, I told you.’

  ‘Don’t. You’ll make it worse. Tomorrow, Song will be in more trouble.’

  ‘Mr Whittaker wouldn’t let it happen at the Catholic school.’

  The quiver of a smile flickering on his face unsettled her. ‘You can’t change anything.’

  ‘What’s so amusing?’ It was almost as though he was challenging her. Testing her. ‘The least I can do is see him home safely.’

  ‘I will take him.’

  ‘No, I am coming too.’

  ‘Mr Michael won’t like it.’

  ‘Then we will go together.’

  The road wound past the pigeon tree Elizabeth usually avoided. For some reason the birds in their nesting boxes made her flesh crawl and she hated the smell of their droppings. Today she didn’t care. With Jing leading the way and Song dangling from his hand she felt quite safe. She’d never strayed beyond the cottage before. They’d driven the road when they’d arrived, but ever since she’d hurt her ankle Michael had set her boundaries: home, school, the auction house and the local shops. Truth be told, she was pleased to have an excuse to explore, and if she was in Jing’s company Michael could hardly complain.

  As they walked away from the new town the noise of the stampers diminished. Jing slowed and waved his hand in a wide arc. ‘My home is over there.’

  In all the time Elizabeth had spent with Jing, it had never crossed her mind to ask where he lived. With his father and his uncle, she knew, but not where. ‘Why don’t you live in town?’

  ‘When they doubled the license fees for the Chinese they also said our camps had to be away from the new town.’

  Ridiculous, worse than poor Song being teased about taking his shoes off.

  Rough timber fences surrounded many of the dwellings and once they left the road Song took off, his sore foot forgotten, and disappeared into a maze of narrow laneways.

  Ahead of them, perched on the only piece of high ground, stood a slab and mud building, much larger than any of the canvas tents and shanties. Flags flew from the roof and large bright red pieces of paper hung on either side of the ornate timber doors, fluttering in the breeze.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Joss house; the temple.’

  ‘What are all the flags for?’

  ‘Greetings, good wishes and notices about news and meetings.’

  Small pieces of red paper littered the ground in front of the doors. Elizabeth bent down and picked one up.

  ‘Firecrackers from the celebration last month. Come.’ Jing pushed open the door and led her inside.

  The familiar smell from the warehouse coiled around her, mixed with the reek of Chinese tobacco and something else sweet and cloying. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Jing gestured to the windows where a row of slowly burning sticks, a little like miniature bullrushes, sent a coil of heavily scented smoke into the air. ‘Incense.’

  Not much different to the incense Father MacCormick liked to throw around every Sunday; in fact the restful peace was no different to his church, yet in the shadows at the back a group of men sat clustered around a table, clouds of grey smoke from their pipes suspended above them. Heads down, they argued ferociously over some sort of game involving piles of small white tiles that clattered and clanked as the men slid them across the table top with mesmerising speed.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Elizabeth kept her voice low.

  ‘Gambling. Mahjong.’

  ‘In the church?’ She smothered a laugh. She couldn’t imagine Father MacCormick approving one of the miners’ poker nights.

  One of the men looked up and said something
to Jing; he replied, then led her out of earshot to show her a row of porcelain figures lined up on a table in front of a scroll covered in perfectly formed black lines and slashes.

  ‘I don’t think I should be here.’

  ‘The joss house is for everyone. To protect us, help us. We pray for fortune, health and safety for ourselves and our family at home, and burn joss money for our ancestors.’

  ‘They burn money?’ Michael wouldn’t approve of that.

  ‘Joss money. Bamboo paper with a small gold square.’ He sketched the shape with his fingers. ‘We send the money to our relatives to make sure their stay in the afterlife is comfortable.’

  The faces of the porcelain gods stared at her and her skin prickled. Rather like the flowers she left on Mam’s and Da’s graves every week, perhaps more useful. ‘How often do you do this?’

  ‘Birthdays, special holidays, funerals.’ He waited a little longer then took her arm. ‘Come. It’s time I took you home. It will be dark soon.’

  The heat had gone from the sun as they stepped outside the joss house, the air full of the smoke from cooking fires and the smell of spices. Perhaps Jing’s father and uncle were sitting somewhere, waiting for him to come home. Why had she never wondered about his life outside the warehouse? He was always there before her in the morning and stayed to lock up when Michael or Kitty took her home.

  ‘Where’s your house?’ Elizabeth asked.

  He sketched a vague line in the air. ‘A little further down the lane towards the creek.’

  ‘Will you show me?’

  A frown flashed across his face. ‘No. Not tonight. It’s late.’

  His look stopped her arguing.

  ‘My father and my uncle would not be happy.’ He held out his hand. ‘Kitty will be wondering where you are. We must hurry.’

  She studied his long fingers then threw caution aside and placed her hand in his. His clasp tightened, and their fingers interlaced. He picked up the pace and headed back onto the Hill End road.

  Elizabeth gave a skip and tightened her grasp. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be walking along hand in hand with Jing.

  They found Kitty hanging over the gate, scanning the road with a scowl to match the clouds gathering behind the hills. ‘Where do you think you’ve been?’ she bellowed with her hands slammed on her ample hips and her voice overpowering the thump of the stampers.

  Elizabeth groped for some excuse. If she told Kitty she’d been to Chinatown she’d never hear the end of it.

  ‘I’ve been at the warehouse.’

  ‘All locked up and the pair of you—’

  ‘Mrs Kitty, I beg your pardon.’ Jing jumped to her rescue. ‘We had some deliveries to make and I thought it better to take Miss Elizabeth with me than leave her alone at the warehouse. I know how valuable your time is and did not wish to impose.’

  Kitty eyed Jing through narrowed eyes, then let out a loud huff. ‘Well, hurry along now.’ She pulled the gate open and grasped Elizabeth’s hand, hauling her into the garden.

  ‘Goodbye, Jing. See you tomorrow,’ Elizabeth called over her shoulder as he disappeared into the twilight without another word.

  Kitty slammed the front door and turned on her. ‘Are you out of your mind? Gallivanting around the streets with a Celestial?’

  Elizabeth snatched her hand free. ‘I wasn’t gallivanting around the streets. If you really want to know, we were helping someone.’

  A flicker of annoyance grew in Elizabeth’s chest. What right had Kitty to complain about Jing? He’d done nothing wrong. It was her idea to go with him to take Song home and besides, she’d had the most interesting afternoon and stayed a lot safer walking home with Jing.

  Seventeen

  Maitland Town, 1913

  Jane hopped up onto the footpath, narrowly avoiding the wheels of the buggy as the burly auction-house manager screeched to a halt. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘What is it, John?’

  He bent the switch double. ‘Mrs Witherspoon’s mad as a cut snake.’

  ‘Mrs Witherspoon?’ The woman was such a nuisance. Gathering her skirts, Jane climbed up into the buggy. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s some bloke with a wagon full of paintings. Reckons she said he could store them at the technical college and she’s as good as blockaded the door.’

  The buggy swerved as it rounded the corner, scattering a group of women waiting at the tram stop.

  ‘I don’t see what it has to do with us.’

  ‘She reckons it’s all Mr Michael’s fault, that he disrupted Major Witherspoon’s arrangements.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’

  ‘You can’t turn up and expect to hang your paintings whenever you feel like it.’ Mrs Witherspoon’s strident tones echoed down the street and before John drew to a halt, Jane leapt down from the buggy.

  ‘You agreed the exhibition could take place in six weeks, and you would store the paintings until then.’

  It was the voice Jane recognised first, the lovely burr. Timothy Penter. The artist’s son.

  ‘Major Witherspoon has arranged for the current exhibition to run for a longer period. We have had such a response, people coming from as far as Newcastle and Singleton.’

  ‘But you didn’t see fit to inform me.’

  ‘Well, no. I …’ Mrs Witherspoon flushed. ‘Major Witherspoon referred the matter to Mr Quinn.’

  ‘I can’t leave all these paintings sitting here. It’s going to rain.’ As Timothy spoke, great drops as big as pennies plopped onto the footpath.

  ‘Timothy. Timothy Penter. How lovely to see you.’ Jane produced her best imitation of Elizabeth’s soothing tones. Her ploy worked because Mrs Witherspoon closed her mouth with a snap.

  ‘I don’t expect you remember me. We met a month or so ago.’ She gestured to the technical college, then held out her hand.

  Timothy’s face flushed a bright red, the tips of his ears almost glowing.

  ‘Miss Piper. Of course I remember.’ He grasped her hand in both of his.

  A large crack of thunder rolled down the High Street and the rain began to fall in earnest. Timothy let out a groan and attempted to pull some sacks across the pile of paintings in the back of the wagon.

  ‘You can’t leave them in the rain. Bring them to the auction house, we’ve plenty of room there. Mrs Witherspoon, you go inside. I’d hate you to get wet. We can sort this out later.’

  Already the stuffy woman’s hair was trailing down over her face and a large drip hung from the end of her sharp nose. Jane managed what she hoped was a winning smile. It had little effect as she was elbowed aside and Mrs Witherspoon barged through the doors and disappeared. It would be interesting to see how long it would take the news of this to spread. Another bout of gossip might get Elizabeth out of the limelight.

  The rain fell in sheets as Jane ran back to the buggy. ‘As quick as you can, John. We don’t want the paintings to get wet.’

  Several minutes later they drew up outside the auction house. Jane jumped down and reached for the first painting from Timothy.

  ‘Can you manage? It’s heavy.’

  She took the weight, fingers clasped tight around the protective calico covering, and made for the door.

  ‘Where do you want them?’ John asked, three paintings clasped in his brawny arms.

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’ Where on earth could she put them? People crammed the auction rooms seeking shelter from the rain. ‘Let’s just get them inside first. Then we’ll take them upstairs.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  John propped the paintings against the wall and shot back outside. Jane traipsed after him.

  Poor Timothy smiled wryly, his hair plastered to his head. ‘You go inside. I can manage.’

  ‘Nonsense. Pass me the next one.’

  He jumped down from the back of the wagon and pulled another painting down. As she took it, his face was so close she could see the laughter in his eyes. ‘You’re enjoying this.’


  ‘It’s not every day I get this close to the girl of my dreams.’

  Jane as good as reefed the painting from his arms and shot through the door, her face burning. The girl of his dreams! For goodness sake, what was the matter with him?

  Pulling her soaking hair back from her face, she bolted back to the door in time to hold it open for both John and Timothy.

  ‘That’s it. We’ve got them all.’ John eased four huge paintings down and leant them against the wall.

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Timothy stacked them against the wall. ‘Father will kill me if anything happens to them. I need to get the covers off in case the damp affects the paint.’ He untied the largest of the calico bags.

  Jane eyed the curious crowd watching with interest. ‘It would be better if we could take them upstairs.’ Not only would there be no room for any of the customers to get through the door, they’d all get an early preview. ‘You don’t want everyone seeing them before the exhibition.’

  ‘Good point.’ John heaved several paintings into his arms and took off up the stairs.

  ‘Sorry about all of this,’ said Timothy. ‘The weather looked fine, only a little overcast when I hired the wagon at the station.’

  ‘Are your parents with you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘They’re taking a bit of a tour. I brought the paintings here from Melbourne.’

  ‘Let’s get the rest of these upstairs and they can dry out.’

  They ferried the remaining paintings up the stairs and stripped them from the calico bags. All the while a strange ambience whirled, making her chest tighten and her breath come in short sharp gasps.

  Timothy reached for one of the calico bags and wiped his dripping hair. Raindrops clung to the hair on his forearms where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘Let me get you a towel.’ She coughed to clear the wobble in her voice. ‘Sit down.’ She gestured to the chair as she skirted the table. ‘I’m sorry about the mess. I’m looking for a way to simplify our accounting system.’ She shot the beads across the abacus and they clattered into neat rows.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An abacus. A Chinese device. It makes accounting much faster. Now tell me what the problem is. How long will you be in Maitland?’