by JH Fletcher
‘Hennie says you really are going to fly with him.’ The rich laugh he remembered, among other things. ‘Ought to get your head read. Ever been up with him?’
‘He’s been flying for years. He’s still alive.’
‘God knows how. He’s mad, you know that? His luck’s bound to run out, one of these days. Just make sure you’re not with him when it does, eh.’
‘I’ll try to remember.’
‘When you going?’
‘Next week.’
‘Am I going to see you before you go?’
It would be madness; also, he had things to do. On the other hand …
The laughter. The warm and ardent spirit, warm and ardent flesh. The mystic communion with the sea. All gone, or so he had supposed. Now was not so sure. Whatever else, she had been a part of his life.
As for Hennie … He liked him well enough, but there were limits, even to Cal’s resurrection. Hennie wasn’t his problem.
It would be madness. But.
The hot lick of lust caressed. He thought of Kathryn and Charles Chivers.
He said: ‘When?’
The next morning, as usual, Cal got up early and went into his studio. He wandered to and fro, as Angela Scales had wandered two weeks before, studying a painting here, picking up a canvas there.
There was only one that he thought was any good; a minimalist canvas, a rectangle of black on a view of diminishing light, the darkness overwhelming the light. It seemed to him now that this stark painting represented everything he had felt in the first days after Gianetta’s death, before sentiment and self-pity had poisoned his vision and his life.
As for the rest … The paintings were like a collection of street beggars, pleading for sympathy.
He could not understand how he had not seen it before.
A year wasted.
He went out, watched the sun climb clear of the horizon. A new day, the first day of whatever time remained. The thought might have challenged but did not. The dead weight of despair was back. He feared that, by going to Stella last night, he had turned his back upon the new light that had come into his life.
Let me not slide back into the abyss.
He walked and walked, seeking to shake his mood. He crossed the causeway to the larger of the islands, followed the path to the seaward end, sat on a flat rock shaped like an altar amid other rocks, stared at the sea. For how long he did not know.
He heard the excited cries of children and turned to see a group of adults walking along the path, kids screeching in tangles beyond them. He relaxed; they would not see him here, he hoped.
He watched. The adults were stolid, heavy; he had no interest in them. But the petal children flowering among the grass … He felt the abyss that divided him from them and turned away once more to face the sea. How could he hope to paint when he was so cut off from life?
About him brooded a henge of monoliths, lichen-flecked. Beyond, the waves broke their heads against the rocks. They watched him and did not judge. Whereas he, sheltered from the wind upon the sacrificial stone, had sentenced himself long ago.
He had thought to drive directly to Marree, no stopping-off along the way. Now he changed his mind.
At least he could phone, he decided. It would be part of the renaissance, artistic and personal, that he would not allow to be destroyed by the backsliding of the previous night. He owed it to himself, the artist and the man.
Renaissance … The first time around, there had been less at stake, things had been easier. A local art club exhibition had been what really got things going …
* * *
Cal was not a member, but the notice said that outside submissions were welcome. He studied the members’ work, the water colours and pastels of flowers and gum trees, of a sea lively as cardboard about Bushranger Head. Thought, bloody hell.
Still he hesitated about offering anything, not caring to display himself before the world. Then he told himself why not, sent in the one of his old man.
A twitter on the phone told him how excited the committee was.
‘Do you have any more? Oils, perhaps?’
Neither Cal’s budget nor technique ran to oils. Crayon, rather, on amber card. A harvest scene: the lorries standing, the field bins, the header belching dust. The sky was a weight of brilliant light, compressing the labouring men.
This, too, they accepted.
Cal told himself he wouldn’t go, but in the end did so, apprehensively. Doubt wrinkled his neck. He saw his pictures, prominent amid the gum trees and the flowers. They looked like tigers in a mob of sheep. In the bottom right-hand corner of each, a tiny circle of red paper.
A lady, bones draped in a tasselled shawl, wafted.
‘Can I help you?’
But clearly had little hope.
Cal pointed. ‘What goes with the red sticker?’
She condescended to explain. ‘It means the picture is sold.’
‘Sold? How much?’
His tone said, Who’d be daft enough to buy them? At once she bridled. ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential. A local artist.’
‘I drew the bloody things, after all.’
Which fluttered her grey-haired dovecots. Yet still she doubted. ‘And you are …’
‘Cal Jessop. Yeh.’
Smiles, then. The gushing twitter he had heard on the phone. ‘So pleased …’
‘How can you sell something isn’t yours?’
‘Mr Holt asked us to reserve them for him. Said he was anxious to talk to you. Most exhibitors are members of our little group,’ she explained. ‘When he discovered none of us knew who you were —’
‘Who’s Mr Holt?’ wondered Cal.
Shock. ‘Why, Dexter Holt. The art critic.’
Who was, it seemed, famous.
‘Never heard of him.’ Cal was suspicious of big names. ‘He can phone me, if he wants. You got my number.’
Dave Holt rang that evening.
Cal, still inclined to be suspicious: ‘Thought your name was Dexter?’
The critic laughed. ‘That’s for public consumption. Some people think Dave isn’t smart enough for a critic.’
They agreed to meet. When he saw Dave Holt, sleek belly, silky moustache, Cal wondered what he was getting into. To his surprise, they got on.
Astounded, Cal listened as the critic described him as a major talent.
‘A long way to go, you understand. But the talent’s there, no doubt about it.’
‘You’re joking …’
‘I’ll show you how serious I am. How much d’you want for those two pictures of yours?’
Cal had no idea, had enough of the old man in him to be canny.
‘Maybe you ought to tell me what you reckon they’re worth.’
A sideways glance. ‘I’ll give you two hundred for the pair of them.’
A fortune. But …
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘If I’m that good … Maybe I should get an agent.’
Not that he had any idea where to start.
‘Agents aren’t easy,’ Dave Holt said. A speculative pause. ‘I’ll have a word with someone I know. If you agree to sell me those pictures.’
‘Not for two hundred bucks.’
‘How much, then?’
‘That’s why I want an agent. So he can tell me.’
Dave threw up his hands. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Except that the agent was a she, Angela Scales. Cal was sufficiently his father’s son to be cautious of being told by a woman. In the event, Angela proved more assertive than most men, an anomaly that more than anything showed Cal this was a new world. Decided, for the time, to go along.
Angela wanted to see everything he’d done. Grabbed a study he’d made of the coast, studied it while Cal dithered, pretending unconcern.
‘You’ve got the potential,’ she said at last. Eyes skewered him. ‘You willing to work?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Willing to be told?’
He gave her a look. ‘Maybe.’
‘You need to sharpen up your technique. The way you look at things.’
Cal was not so sure about that.
‘If I’m going to act for you, you’ve got to trust me.’
In Cal’s book, trust had to be earned. ‘Maybe you’d better sell those two pictures, first.’
Which she did, to Dave Holt. He was, after all, a mate of hers.
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred each.’
He danced. ‘You beauty!’
‘They’re worth more,’ she said judiciously. ‘Or will be, but for now it’s a fair price. Much more important, he’s going to write an article about you.’
‘Dinkum?’
She smiled. ‘I want him to think of you as his protege.’
SEVEN
When Kathryn got home, her mother was on watch. Gun-muzzle eyes questioned.
‘Well?’
Kathryn parried. ‘Well?’
‘Did you see Charles?’
‘Yes.’
Marge Fanning waited. Kathryn hummed a little tune, staring through the window at the sun-bright paddocks.
‘Ann Chivers said something about a group of you going away for a few days.’
‘I told Charles I didn’t want to go.’
Marge managed to keep hold of her smile. ‘You know it’s your happiness we’re thinking of …’
We. Claude Fanning’s presence was often invoked when things were not going to plan.
Kathryn had heard enough from a mother who persisted in thinking her daughter was still in Year Ten. ‘Sure you don’t mean contentment?’ Savagely.
Marge hated it when Kathryn got like this. But would resist. ‘Contentment?’ She assayed the word. ‘Nothing wrong with that, surely?’
‘Like a pudding.’
Now Marge was lost. ‘Pudding?’
‘A pudding would feel contented. If it could feel.’
Marge’s eyes narrowed; she had always been a stern advocate of respect. ‘We want what is best for you. Only that.’
Kathryn would have talked to her about the future’s dark box, but knew it would be no use. Incomprehension was part of the darkness. Instead she made her offering. ‘Charles and I may be going away in a week or two. Just the two of us.’
Was gone before her mother could question further.
That evening she went for a walk in the ranges behind the house. The ground was dust-dry; beyond the motionless gum leaves, the sky was an azure blaze that turned slowly to white as the sun sank. She stood amid the trees, feeling the silence gather about her.
I am wrong, she thought. This is my life. This country, this way of living. The dust and hanging leaves are as much a part of me as the blood in my veins. My friends, all my family, are here. Have been here, most of them, for generations.
It was enough. She would make it so. Would be content.
When she got back, the farmhouse windows golden in the darkness, her mother’s tight mouth signalled a development.
‘There has been a message. The number is on the pad.’
Kathryn did not ask who. She knew.
She went lightly to the phone.
* * *
‘Kathryn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going north. I wondered if I might stop off and see you.’
‘Of course. When are you coming?’
‘Thursday, I hope. If things go to plan. How do I find you?’
She gave him directions.
‘I’ll ring you later,’ he said. ‘Let you know for certain.’
‘Will you stay over?’ Hoping, but not willing to assume.
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
Not to Kathryn. She returned to the lounge, where her mother waited.
‘Staying here?’ Marge’s nostrils flared.
‘Just overnight.’
‘You might have asked, I suppose.’
‘He can put up at the pub, if you’d sooner.’
If that was going to be her attitude, there was no more to be said. Besides, if they hid him up here, twenty kilometres out of town, it was possible that no-one would find out. Put him up in the pub, and there would be no hope.
‘Consideration. That’s all I ask.’
Kathryn went out into the darkness, stood looking at the lights of the other farmhouses scattered across the valley.
Cal is coming.
The soft tilt of the paddocks into the valley, the trees below the house, the line of distant hills — all were obscured by darkness, but Kathryn knew them too well not to see them now. All proclaimed it.
Cal is coming.
On Thursday. Another three days, he’ll be here.
It was midday when Cal arrived. Mrs Fanning was not sure what to do with him, this dark-haired invader whose presence seemed to burst the seams of the room. He was courteous, she had to allow, but had no intention of permitting herself to like a man who threatened what was right.
Whatever attitude she chose to adopt, she was on her own. There would be no help from Kathryn; as for Kathryn’s dad, he had scooted off, taking a mob of sheep to the block they leased five kilometres up the road.
They ate, Cal chatting, apparently at ease, Kathryn aglow. There were times when Marge Fanning could have hated her daughter. Afterwards, thank God, they went for a walk. Although there were dangers in that, too.
Cal and Kathryn walked through the scrub, surprised a couple of kangas that swung away, bounding fast between the trees. They came to the dam, the water reflecting light from its brown surface. Ducks rose and flew across the valley, necks outstretched.
They sat by the water. Beyond the dam the land fell in a long sweep until it climbed again to the distant hills. Across the valley, barely visible in the afternoon light, a header trundled in a cloud of amber dust but, on this side, the paddocks had already been reaped, the stubble pale tan under the sun’s hot eye.
The heat hung motionless. As far as they could see, nothing but the header moved in an emptiness of earth and sky.
‘The water looks cool,’ Cal said.
‘Why don’t you go in? I’ve done it often.’
‘Do it now,’ he said.
‘Nothing to wear.’
‘So wear nothing.’
‘A free show?’
‘I wouldn’t look.’ But was grinning; a game.
‘I would want you to look.’
Suddenly it was no longer a game.
‘We could go in together,’ Cal suggested.
‘No.’
‘I’ll bet that dam’s full of yabbies.’
‘If the herons haven’t pínched them.’
‘Maybe we should check. I don’t trust those herons.’
‘It’s not the herons that worry me.’ The teasing was making her itchy. ‘You go. I’ll sit and watch you.’
‘No fun,’ he mourned, but did so anyway.
Kathryn watched as Cal stripped to his underpants and jumped in, churning the brown water to foam.
He stood, wet skin gleaming, and called to her. ‘Please come.’
She did not move. It was neither the herons nor Cal she distrusted, but herself, the urgent flutter of desire.
Eventually he gave up and came out. He lay beside her in a patch of sunlight. His eyes were closed against the brightness. She looked at him covertly; her body ached with longing, but she did not move, knowing how things would end if she did.
Cal’s eyes were shut. In the hot sunlight the coolness of the water lingered like peace upon his skin. He could feel the pressure of Kathryn’s eyes upon him. He wanted her intensely; was sure she wanted him, too. He thought he had only to open his eyes, to raise his arms to her. Yet did not move, content for the moment to wait.
After all the complications and self-hatreds of the previous twelve months, the future seemed clear to him at last. He would drive north, would fly with Hennie into the Outback. He would discover the essence of the country, would capture wha
t he knew now he had been seeking all this time. He would come back to Kathryn, and everything would be very simple and very wonderful.
In a corner of his mind, a tiny voice warned of Charles Chivers. He disregarded it; no-one with a name like that was going to stand between him and his future.
Now Kathryn wished she had gone into the dam. Everything was hanging in precarious balance: her relationship with Cal, with Charles, with herself, her life — all suspended in an aching void of not knowing. She could bear it no longer. Either this man was her future, or he was not.
She watched the strong neck, the deep chest from which the water had now evaporated, the hard-muscled body. It was all she could do not to reach out a hand, to caress. She did not; what mattered was not the beauty, but the man.
I have to trust, she thought. To give myself in trust.
It was the only way. Yet this man, of whom she knew so little … She had expected him to make a pass at her; was unsure whether she was relieved or otherwise that he had not. Perhaps, after all, he did not care.
The thought should have made things easier but, emphatically, did not. I must know, she told herself, I shall have no peace until I do. But had no idea how to take things further without losing control of the situation, which she must not do.
Then she knew. For a moment rejected it as too radical. It would offend, drive him away from her forever. Desperation thrust caution aside. So be it, she thought.
Kathryn took her trust, her desire and unacknowledged hopes, and cast them upon the wind.
She said, ‘My uncle told me something happened while you were in Paris. Something terrible. Do you want to tell me about it?’
A fist from nowhere, smashing.
The idea of talking about what had happened, the thought that people had been discussing him behind his back … It was intolerable, a knife sawing at the most secret part of himself. Brain and body went still; anger gathered its molten lava.
On the edge of outburst he paused, remembering. The stroll beside the river amid a dying splendour of music. Before that, the first meeting during the interval at the opera, the feeling as he looked at her that here was something new and filled with light, come unexpectedly into his life.
Shared laughter at the extravagances of the exhibition guide.