‘What are we going to do, Rick?’
‘You are going to relax. I plan on getting you in the back seat with me.’ Rick chuckled, short and sharp. ‘How many times have I wanted to say that, Ava?’
She couldn’t answer. Instead she instinctively worked her feet back from the pedals and somehow managed to hook her heels on the seat edge to propel herself into the rear seat.
‘Take it easy. I’m planning to pull you through.’
‘Through the seats?’ she replied, picturing how skinny the gap into the back seat had been on the night she and John had wriggled through it while parked in a rest area on their way home from a two-hundred-kilometre round trip to stock up on provisions.
Ava cried out as the muscles in the arm she had around his neck strained.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you, Ava.’
‘You can’t hurt me any more than Marjorie Tate’s just done. She’s sacked me.’
Rick had got her out of the car and was now kneeling over her. ‘No need to worry, you’re safe. You’ll be fine, and you can stay at the pub for as long as you need. I can look after you. Let me. Say okay, Ava.’
‘Okay, Rick.’
THE PORTRAIT
Candlebark Creek, 2015
Chapter 21
Going Back
Ava Marchette had fulfilled a lot of promises in her lifetime, both to herself and to those dearest to her. One remained undone, so she was going back.
Back to a place where she’d known a love like no other.
Back to Candlebark Creek.
*
When the dust cloud that had accompanied her for the last twenty-five kilometres of dirt road had settled around the parked car, Ava regretted the poor choice of navy gabardine trousers with a cream-coloured Nehru jacket. Its mandarin collar was suffocating.
‘Too late to do anything about that now,’ she mumbled, something she seemed to do too often these days – as if she was a doddery woman old before her time and losing her mind. Maybe you are!
Why else would she have told her family that she was attending a health retreat in the hills behind Noosa but ended up outside Ivy-May? The rustic weatherboard house that had charmed twenty-seven-year-old Ava was, three decades later, greying, like her, and in need of some TLC. Unlike Ava, the old Queenslander with the rust-coloured tin roof still stood firm on robust foundations made from bricks and wood, while her jelly-like legs today made the staircase she’d climbed hundreds of times seem insurmountable.
With one hand on the handrail, the other searched for courage and strength from the bejewelled dragonfly brooch pinned to her shirt.
After three raps on the door Ava waited, trying to force some semblance of a smile. The carved welcome sign, One Homebuilder and One Tool Live Here, helped, but nerves kept her mouth a little too tight for anything more than a slight upturn of her lips.
The door creaked open.
‘Good afternoon!’ Ava said.
The man in front of her looked nothing like she’d imagined and every bit the unconventional creative genius he was renowned to be. When his stare shifted from quizzical to a look she couldn’t identify, Ava wished she’d checked her teeth for lipstick in the rear-view mirror.
‘Can I help you?’ He craned his neck to look beyond her, most likely inspecting the small car she’d left in the guest parking area at the bottom of the gravel driveway.
‘I believe you’re expecting me.’ Ava waited, but with his face showing no recognition she was forced to clarify. ‘The man at the gallery in Brisbane?’ Still no reaction. ‘I do hope he passed on my message.’ The same man had suggested she prepare herself for disappointment. If only she’d listened.
‘Yes, right, I’d forgotten. You’re the portrait.’
‘I’ve been called plenty of things in my time,’ she replied, her smile guarded. ‘It’s nice to, er, meet you.’
The artist looked down at the hand she extended, then to his own paint-stained fingers, promptly wiping them on the seat of equally paint-encrusted trousers before he took it. Although his grip was firm, Ava was sad to see arthritis already taking its toll on fingers that had once been strong and sinuous. The wear and tear on a man still relatively young was most likely from years of wielding paintbrushes to achieve the painstaking detail that had distinguished John Tate’s whimsical early works. She’d seen the profile photograph in the magazine article: his once-tanned face, while still chiselled, was now washed out. The man who still held her heart could not have been more different thirty years on.
‘Yes, right, well, I’m sorry,’ he said, breaking their grip. ‘If you’d left contact details with the gallery I would’ve called back. I could’ve prevented you from travelling all the way out here because—’
‘Because it’s a very long way to come, you’re absolutely right. Too many hours of driving along the appallingly narrow national highway has left me quite rattled. Although I believe your front path might have been the most challenging part of the journey. I do hope you won’t make me tackle the stairs again without a rest.’
The familiar amber-speckled brown eyes stared at Ava over frameless half-glasses, then glanced over her head. Was he noticing how overgrown the garden had become, how the wattle trees were taking over the grevillea shrubs, and the profusion of dead palm fronds that had dropped on the driveway were a hazard for visitors who failed to watch their step? As if on cue another frond landed with a thud.
‘Could I bother you for a glass of water and a sit-down while I catch my breath?’
Ava wasn’t sure if he’d stepped aside before or after she made her move, easily ducking under the arm still bracing the door frame. She was just glad he hadn’t closed the door in her face. Now to find a seat so she could collapse and let go of the breath she’d held onto since that first tentative knock. Choosing the closest wingback armchair, one of several in the expansive living area that was now home to a jumble of art and dusty antiques, she was pleased with his prompt removal of the newspapers from the seat. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was feeble or fragile, or any combination thereof, even though, two years away from her sixtieth, her condition was slowing her down. She’d long ago given away her weekly tennis game and no longer did she bother to time herself while swimming, content that some laps were better than none at all, even if she did have to use the pool ladder these days, rather than hoisting herself out. Agreeing to an early retirement had been a stressful transition, as had adhering to her doctor’s advice – three words unfamiliar to Ava: ‘Take it easy.’ While priding herself on staying mentally, physically and socially active, some things remained out of reach: to be twenty-eight again, beautiful again, loved again.
She eased herself onto the chair and a sigh slipped out, the enormity of her situation causing her heart to flutter. That wasn’t good. As John approached with the requested glass of water she became conscious of her laboured breaths, the nervous sweat in her armpits, and her appearance in general. Ava smoothed the slicked-back hairstyle in case a wayward silver-grey strand had slipped from the trademark knot that always sat a little above the nape of her neck. Then, while telling herself to stop fussing, she fingered the fancy buttons on her shirt to check all were as they should be – done up.
With both good and bad memories fighting for headspace she could have done with a shot of something alcoholic to loosen her up. How unfortunate that assorted medication and her specialist’s advice had limited such pleasures to special occasions, robbing Ava of her one and only vice and making her feel old and vulnerable. This was one such moment.
‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ She sipped the water he had handed her. Returning to Candlebark Creek was already the bittersweet homecoming she had known it would be, wrapped in more regret and melancholy than she had thought possible. ‘That’s better,’ she told him. ‘Now, about the portrait.’
‘As I said, Mrs… ?’ He paused so that she might prompt him.
‘Marchette,’ Ava said while hoping for a g
lint of recognition.
Nothing.
‘Right, yes, Mrs Marchette—’
‘Ms, actually,’ she added.
The correction produced a reaction. At last! How unfortunate that his expression showed nothing more than frustration. Her first impression was not turning out to be a good one.
‘Ms Marchette.’ He paused again, as if expecting another interruption. When Ava said nothing he eased himself onto a nearby stool, the adjustable, padded type on wheels a hairdresser uses. ‘As I explained, and as I’m certain the gallery owner would’ve mentioned, I’m not painting so much these days.’
‘I’d suggest all the evidence is to the contrary.’ Ava exaggerated her visual assessment of the once neat-as-a-pin parlour where sweaty B-and-B guests had gobbled down iced tea and cake, their bodies pressed against open louvres that struggled to circulate the barely there breezes of a Rockhampton summer.
Today, however, the same room was a mess of easels and a jumble of artist’s tools illuminated by the golden glow of a setting sun.
‘Of course I paint for myself,’ the man clarified. ‘Art has been my life for three decades, much to the annoyance of my family.’ He looked momentarily surprised, as though he couldn’t quite work out why he might admit something so personal to a stranger. ‘As for commissioned works, it’s been a very long time, and portraits are—’
‘A long time can be a luxury, Mr Tate, and not something we all have.’
When his head cocked to one side Ava dared dream he’d recognised something in her and that, by some miracle, three decades had not changed her so much that all he saw was hair that had lost its colour, skin its luminosity, and eyes that lacked the spark of a woman in love.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘We’re all born with an expiry date. Mine happens to be dependent on medical intervention and Fate, as well as a dose of good fortune.’ Ava placed the water glass on the small side table. ‘I’m sorry to blurt out such information. I realise I’m a stranger to you, but it explains why the portrait is important. I want my children to remember me as I am now.’
‘So necessary that you’d drive six hours in such a condition?’
There it was, Ava thought. That expression – a blend of boyish curiosity with the concern of a caring man. He knew something, or remembered perhaps, but what? She had to keep trying. Time to instigate Plan B, the strategy she had decided to try in the event he turned her away. ‘I quite enjoyed the journey.’
‘In vain, I’m afraid.’ The man stood again. ‘Had you called in advance I could’ve suggested any number of city-based artists who specialise in portrait work. In fact, I believe I may have suggested a few to the gallery owner who called me regarding your enquiry. It’s a shame he didn’t pass on the information to save you the trip.’
‘He was quite chatty. I wrote down everything he said.’ Ava lunged for the bag she’d let drop at her feet and began rifling through it.
*
John didn’t know whether to feel peeved or pleased with the gallery owner for directing the woman to his doorstep. Although happy to have a distraction this morning, something in his visitor’s demeanour suggested that it would be hard to deny her request. Diplomacy was not John’s forte, even though he’d had no trouble turning away the suit-wearing weekend warriors who used to knock on his Sydney studio door on a Sunday afternoon to sell God. John was never buying.
‘Mr Tate.’ The woman’s voice grabbed his attention, her tone a little anxious, or perhaps uncomfortable with such formality, yet still determined. ‘I appreciate your concern for my health, but be assured my condition remains manageable. I’ve trekked a lot further than Candlebark Creek in my time and travelled quite happily through life, often on my own, which is my situation now. Or do you feel a single woman of my years should be cheerfully ensconced somewhere – perhaps a lifestyle village or community hall – playing bingo and knitting while she waits to die?’
‘No, I, ah, wasn’t suggesting any such—’
‘I may be seven years your senior but I assure you I am neither fragile nor feeble in mind or body.’
‘I see.’ There was no doubting her resolve – and she seemed well informed of his age. He wondered what else she knew.
‘This portrait is for my daughter, for her to pass on to her own child – God forbid I should go before she gets around to having one.’ She muttered something else while blotting her top lip with a tissue she’d plucked from the handbag now on her lap. ‘Do you enjoy a good relationship with your children, Mr Tate?’
‘I have a son, whom I love dearly.’
‘A boy?’ She sounded distant. ‘That’s nice.’
‘A man now. About to turn thirty. I consider myself lucky in that regard. If we are granted one miracle, he’s mine.’
‘And what about Fate? Do you believe in it?’
‘Twists of Fate, Ms Marchette, yes.’ What else could he say to that? ‘I am living proof of unpredictable random occurrences and I’m very aware of the far-reaching consequences of Fate. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, not very long ago I was seated in a waiting room speculating about my fate and counting down the minutes until they called my name so a doctor could deliver news that proved miracles either did or didn’t happen for me. On an adjacent seat was an old magazine. You were featured in an article, so I took it as a sign.’
‘A sign of what?’
‘Of my fate.’ She spoke as though he should have known. ‘My coming all the way out here was meant to happen. I’d like to sit for you. I want you to be the one to paint my portrait.’
John hovered between acceptance and refusal. What was it about the woman that stopped him showing her out? Having returned to the family’s Candlebark Creek farm for peace and quiet, he’d still had to throw the odd interloper off the property, both male and female.
‘But Mrs… Ms—’
‘Please…’ It was almost a whisper, her voice cracking a little, her eyes pleading. ‘Don’t send me away.’ She shifted forward in the chair, sitting a little stiffly as if she wasn’t altogether comfortable. ‘Only my pride and a joint replacement brought on from years of tennis is stopping me dropping to my knees right now.’
She wasn’t making this easy.
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ His hand rasped the stubble on his chin, his index finger stopping on the dimple. ‘There has to be someone better than me. Look around you, Ms Marchette. Portraits are not what I do.’
The wave of his arm urged her to take in the artwork that covered every spare space on the interior walls. They weren’t paintings on canvas or board, but entire wall murals. Not even the doors, architraves or cornices were left untouched, while on the ceiling there was a constellation of stars, along with a moon painted red. John followed her gaze there. He’d never painted over that ceiling work. For some reason, he’d never wanted to. Now, physically, he doubted he could. He was no Michelangelo and at fifty-one he was also no spring chicken. He kept in shape only because his son badgered him and encouraged him to help out in the yards more often. He knew he should be doing more around the place, but he lacked the motivation – had done for years – and he certainly wasn’t interested in making portraits or any other commissioned work. By pointing out the distinctive artistic style he’d developed over the years, he hoped to make the woman see he was everything those magazine articles suggested and more: manic, a master painter, a so-called medical miracle.
Shame John didn’t see himself that way. He might have once, but only because people kept telling him it was true. All John knew was that when he woke up in a big city hospital thirty years ago a chunk of his memory had been stolen. The brain injury hadn’t been cruel enough to rob him of his entire past. Just the few years prior to the aneurysm were missing. In his mind he’d been about to sit the school certificate. As if once wasn’t enough! Of course the reality was different. He wasn’t still at school. At the time he’d just turned twenty-one, and he had a girlfriend – a pregnant o
ne. How could he not remember losing his virginity? The doctors had poked so many holes in John’s brain he figured his past had kind of leaked out, leaving him totally unprepared for a future that involved marriage and fatherhood. On top of all that, he’d acquired an unexplained need to transcribe the images and words that crowded his head onto any flat surface.
‘Magazine photos don’t do your work justice. The results are much more dramatic in real life.’ The woman seemed genuinely impressed with her surroundings. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. The more I look around the room, the more words I can make out. So much detail, so abstract, so cryptic, and so very, very clever.’
‘And I hope, Ms Marchette, what you see will provide some insight into how I work and convince you I’m not the right man for the job.’ He walked over to one wall and pointed. ‘I see the things around me in a completely different way since my world flipped on its head. Nothing looked the same when I woke up after a brain injury. What I did remember was strangely unfamiliar. Rather than seeing everything around me as a single object, I saw a series of shapes and planes and angles, the urge to draw them impossible to ignore. Within a year my obsession with shape and colour shifted to the physical act of putting down on paper what I saw in my head. I had short-term memory issues – worse than now – so the things I drew were often prompts, reminders of whatever I didn’t want to forget.’
‘Oh?’ she said, with renewed interest, as if looking for something specific in the colourful cacophony of painted walls.
‘Life as I once knew it, working the land here at Ivy-May, no longer made me happy.’
‘Do you mind me asking what did?’
‘A sense of inner calm came when I had a paintbrush or a pencil in my hand. I’ve mellowed over the years.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ she said.
‘Of course. I’m not sure why I’m boring you with this.’ John hadn’t opened up to a stranger since the last journalist had got chatty over a few beers. The post-interview drink was supposed to be off the record; John had learned about those so-called casual chats the hard way. He had decided there would be no more interviews, and Ivy-May allowed him to hide away from everything and everyone. ‘Forgive my raving on and on.’
A Place to Remember Page 11