‘Do you know that painting? Have you ever seen it before?’
She turned back, almost facing it.
‘No, never.’
‘Do you know the place, the scene, that house…?’ I was waving my arm at the painting, trying to make her look at it again, trying to make sense of the moment.
‘No...no, well, I don’t think so. I mean, it looks sort of familiar but no, I don’t think…I mean, no, I don’t.’
Silence came between us. Then she turned quickly and walked to the window. ‘Your lawn needs mowing,’ then left the room.
I don’t know how long I stood there. I was rocking slowly back and forth; once more I pleaded with the painting to say something. For the first time, I wanted to walk into it, look behind the large tree, touch it, smell the sea, feel its breeze, hear the waves, flatten the couch grass under my feet. I wanted to turn around and see the artist, to introduce myself. I wanted to understand the link between then and now, between that moment, the place, and the person I’d lost.
I knew I should have called Stephanie and Virginia in to see it, but I felt overwhelmed, I needed to know it better before I showed it to more people. I slid it back in its bubble wrap and placed it behind the couch. I turned, breathed in the day’s air, and walked to the bedroom.
I stood at the door and watched, the silence only dented by the gentle sounds of things being moved, by shoes being paired, clothes folded, everything handled as if it was fragile and important, each item examined, caressed, carefully placed. I felt helpless, like it was a poem I didn’t know, but I couldn’t just walk away. ‘Ladies, I insist you stop for a cup of tea.’
Gloria wasn’t listening; she was sitting with a small pink frilly party dress on her lap. ‘Maxine wore this at her fifth-grade school play. She loved it, we couldn’t get her out if it; I remember she slept in it that night after the play.’ Her pale smile couldn’t last. She’d been strong, and these were her first tears for the day. The pain filled the room. Virginia rubbed her back. Stephanie kept her eyes down, as she carefully polished a pair of black leather shoes that were already gleaming. I left.
One by one, they came slowly to the kitchen. Time and tea and cake offered a welcome diversion, and soon Stephanie was entertaining us with a story about her new boss. She called him Bumface and imitated his stuttering voice. ‘I detest the bastard,’ she said in a loud, high-pitched wail. Our laughter warmed the house. Gloria said little, except thanks several times, as Stephanie and I complimented her on how she could turn carrots into magic.
It was a day that we all knew was important. It was part of a sharp uphill walk, where challenges were personal and yet shared. For this day at least, we had reached the summit. Gloria had never ‘approved’ of Stephanie’s sexuality but they had found common ground. They hugged. Virginia and Stephanie embraced each other again, then me. Stephanie drove off, followed by Virginia. I hugged Gloria and once more thanked her for the cake. As she walked to her car, I had the odd feeling that we had unfinished business. It would have to wait for some other day.
She groaned as she climbed into her car. ‘Oh, I’m stiff. It’s no fun getting old, Carter.’
‘Well, you worked hard today; the three of you did a great job.’ I closed the door.
She put her indicator on, looked over her shoulder and the car moved slowly away. Every move seemed to tax her. She eventually looked back at me and only just managed to smile.
I waved, then turned and looked at my house. It seemed smaller.
I had survived the day. My recent bizarre meeting with Warwick Gardiner was constantly on my mind but I had decided it was something I had to keep to myself for now. I looked at my watch. It was ten-past five – too early to start drinking.
CHAPTER 17
I stood staring at the various cuts of meat sitting in their rectangular polystyrene boxes under a skin of tight plastic wrap. I wanted one to give me a reason to choose it but they offered nothing. The wraps grip on the meat was tight and unrelenting, that it was reminiscent of a bad face lift one sometimes sees on aging actors whose surgical reconstruction had lifted them to a state of facial immobility.
I counted meat from six different animals in varying shapes. Some I recognized, others were foreign, and they were parts of beasts that I had surely eaten but knew little about. I was disappointed at my ignorance and lack of adventurousness. I was picking up the minced beef, with a view to homemade hamburgers, when I sensed someone looking at me.
‘Carter, isn’t it? A hand was thrust towards me confidently, and then, as it got near, seemed to hesitate slightly. ‘I don’t know if you remember me? My name’s Shelagh. We met at the Lockham social gathering. We discussed literature.’
‘Oh, yes, Shelagh, of course.’ I placed the mince back in its cold resting place, deciding that procrastination was in order.
‘So, how’s the novel coming along?’
The question surprised me, it was something I’d never been asked, as I rarely mentioned my writing. I’d decided long ago that it was something to be done, not to be talked about. The word ‘novel’ seemed optimistic and defining and I liked the idea that someone might consider me an author.
‘Strange you should ask. I actually got back to it yesterday. Of course, whether it’s any good is another matter.’ I pulled the appropriate face, then changed the subject. ‘How are you? You look well.’
‘Oh yeah, I always dress up for the supermarket.’
‘I mean, you look fit and healthy, you know...’ Having given enough dumb compliments, I needed another change of subject. ‘Haven’t seen you here before. Do you live around here?’
She smiled. ‘No not really, I live at Burnley, but I like the organic butcher next door. How about you?’
‘I live nearby, but I’ve never used that butcher, I don’t know why.’ I nodded at the array of products in front of me, ‘It’s probably better quality than this.’ Then, before I knew it, I was speaking again, my mouth running where it didn’t even need to walk. ‘Listen, Shelagh, the last time we spoke, I was sort of...I…’ Come on, you’ve started, find the right words. ‘It’s hard to explain exactly but I didn’t mean to be elusive, you know, about seeing you at the pharmacist. It was just a bad time and…’ I felt her right hand on my left arm. I liked it, and her direct gaze.
‘Lawrence told me a bit of what you were…are, going through. I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t prying, it’s just that we were together in the lift one day and he told me.’ She looked down at her hand and seemed surprised she was touching my arm, and removed it. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to explain or apologise, it wasn’t important. I was probably rude to you. It wasn’t the sort of event I enjoy.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
Now I was doubly annoyed. I had opened my mouth and had to suffer regret that someone I didn’t really know was starting about Maxine’s death. It was sacred ground that could only be entered by those few who had been granted visas. There was a part of me that wanted to say, ‘Shut up, mind your own business, you wouldn’t know, don’t go there,’ then walk away. I held my breath and waited for the numbness to go. There was a pause, while she seemed to be looking for something to say, I returned to what was in front of us. ‘So, do they sell good chicken at that butcher?’ Chicken? Where did that come from? She disarmed me with a smile. ‘Yeah, they sell organic chooks and they roast really well. They remind me of my Aunt Emily; she used to roast us chooks when I was a kid.’
‘I better get one. I’m a fan of roast chicken, with thick gravy and a good chardonnay.’
We grinned together. I said, ‘I should get going. I am off to the football; the Tigers are playing Geelong,’
‘Oh, really; you’re a Richmond fan. Do you go often?’
‘No, two or three times a year, with my brother, usually.’
Her left hand dived into her handbag, and emerged with a pen. ‘That’s good you’re a Tigers s
upporter. I don’t know any, and I have a friend who does promotional work with the Richmond club, and every now and then he offers me tickets but I’m a not a football person. I mean, I follow the Hawks but I rarely go. So, next time he offers me tickets, if you want, you can have them.’
‘Sure, sounds great. Maybe we should go together next time, for the Hawks and Tigers.’ What? My voice faded.
She smiled, shrugged, and offered an equally unconvincing ‘Sure.’
I gave her my number and she gave me another firm handshake. ‘Nice to see you. Take care.’
‘You too, Shelagh, all the best.’
I looked at my watch. Time had forgotten to take me with it, so I finished my shopping and rushed home. Thirty minutes later, I met my brother Daniel outside the railway station and we headed to the game. In brotherly terms, we weren’t close. We’d gone to different schools and he was five years younger. I played football and cricket, and liked a team environment. He hung with a different group, loved motors, moved from motorbikes to cars. He could easily spend a day underneath some vehicle, doing stuff that bored me. They say siblings often fill the roles that the other leaves vacant, but I doubt that either of us would have known what the other’s purpose was. however, our father installed in us a fondness for the Richmond football club, and we’d developed a habit of attending two or three games a season, which had helped us get to know each other better.
Dad had died six years ago. The prostate cancer that spread through his bones did so mercifully quickly. He would’ve been pleased to see my brother and I rise out of our seats, with fisted hands pumping the air, yelling, ‘Go Tigers!’ but, in a way, it was better for him and for Mum that he wasn’t alive. He’d doted on my mother and she on him. At his funeral, I’d made a short speech, and said how comfortable they seemed together and that they demanded little of each other. I looked at Mum as I said it, and she returned my look with a sad smile and the slightest nod of her head. It occurred to me later that I was wrong; that they had demanded something of each other: comfort. If he’d lived to see the Alzheimer’s that governed her existence now, he would suffer greatly, even though she gets well looked after in the home she’s in. If he’d become a stranger to the person he loved the most, he would not have wanted to live. Mum no longer knew me, though we’d been close. I’d done my crying for her years before.
I arrived home in the evening, feeling ill at ease and having just watched my team get easily defeated. After about thirty minutes I had a second glass of red in my hand and a grumbling stomach but, to my surprise, I was standing in front of the painting. I didn’t recall making the decision to walk there, didn’t recall removing the bubble wrap. How long had I stood there? I tried to laugh at my absent-mindedness but it wasn’t funny.
I turned towards the kitchen and shook my head. At least preparing a meal would be something I could understand.
CHAPTER 18
It was Wednesday. That pleased me because it meant four days had passed with mundane normality. Grief was still my resident enemy but it had not increased its attack during that time. And the four days had not been wasted, things had been done.
It was about five when I realised I needed to go to the supermarket, which made me think of Shelagh. Soon afterwards, my mobile buzzed.
‘Carter, it’s Shelagh. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad moment.’
‘No, how are you?’
‘I’m well, thanks. I guess Saturday wasn’t so great. I noticed the Tigers got beaten easily….’
‘I’d forgotten, thanks for reminding me.’
We laughed.
‘Well, I wanted to invite you over tomorrow night. I’m going to try to emulate my aunt’s roast chicken.’
‘Love to, but only if I can bring a good chardonnay to match it.’
At seven the following evening, I pulled up outside a two-storey cream brick block of units in Burnley. I guessed it was built in the nineteen thirties. Its Art Deco solidity said it was its own gatekeeper. Those who designed and constructed such buildings must have got satisfaction from completing such a fine building and then again each time they saw it. I rang the buzzer at the front door.
‘Helloooo.’ She stretched the word, and it made me smile.
I let myself in and climbed the stairs, and Shelagh opened the door as I raised my arm to knock. She was wearing a blue skirt and a close-fitting patterned long sleeve top. She stepped back from the door with a charming smile, and, with a theatrical wave of her right arm, said, ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you, it’s lovely to be here. I come bearing gifts.’
My right hand offered a small bunch of red roses that I had surprised myself by remembering to buy. In my left was the wine.
‘They’re lovely.’ She accepted the roses and smelt them. I automatically moved towards her and bent my head to offer a kiss. It occurred to me it might have been inappropriate, but by then, stopping would have been worse, so I turned my face to make it obvious I only meant a kiss on the cheek. ‘Wow, your apartment is great. You’ve really furnished it in the right style.’
‘Thank you. Yes, fitting it out in Art Deco is a bit of an obsession of mine, and all of a sudden I was spending my weekends trying to find genuine pieces of Deco.’ I realised she was nervous, waving her arms about as she spoke. Then she stopped as if realising she had said enough. ‘Anyway, enough of that; come on through.’
I followed her through an archway. She walked on her toes, and reminded me of an usherette at the theatre leading someone to their seat. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Is that roast chicken I smell? It’s my favourite – how did you know?’
‘Well, you know, women’s intuition.’
We both laughed longer and louder than the jokes deserved.
She nodded at the chardonnay. ‘If you look in the top drawer of the sideboard, you’ll find a corkscrew.’ I turned and moved towards a sleek mahogany sideboard with ornate handles. ‘Or,’ she turned with one finger raised, ‘there’s an open Riesling in the fridge from a small producer in the Clare Valley. It’s my favourite, do you want to try it?’
‘Love to”
We moved with our glasses to the lounge room, and were soon seated on large, comfortable herringbone-patterned armchairs.
‘So, how long have you lived here?’
‘About five years. I moved to Melbourne from Adelaide, let me see…eight, no nine, years ago.’
‘Ah, an Adelaide girl; explains your love of Riesling. ’She nodded and again I enjoyed her smile. ‘Did you move over for career reasons?’
‘Well, not really. I’d fallen for a guy, a solicitor who’d been working in Adelaide. I was stupid. He was married and I thought he’d leave his wife; you know how it goes.’ In that instant, her thoughts seemed elsewhere, maybe somewhere where regrets dwelled. ‘But, enough of that. The point is, I liked Melbourne, still do, studied law as a mature-aged student at Melbourne Uni, got a decent job, bought this place and here I am. And now I need to check my roast.’
I watched her walk from the room and realised I was feeling relaxed. The nerves that arrived with me had decided to wait downstairs. As the evening went on, we talked easily, subjects ranging from literature, to music, to wine, to people we knew at Lockham and to tales of childhood. I did not want to dwell on or ignore my recent history, so I tried, unsuccessfully, to cover it briefly and casually. It seemed that my face gave me away.
‘Are you OK?’ I didn’t want to hear those words, I appreciated that at least she asked the question simply and with no exaggerated emotion. I liked Shelagh but I didn’t need her sympathy. I had accepted sympathy only from a chosen few. The reality was that I often wanted it but did not believe I deserved it.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.
I excused myself, went to the bathroom and splashed water in my face. On the way back, I noticed a painting in the hallway. It was yet anot
her depiction of the Australian bush, but it had subtle tones that seemed to capture the moment ideally. It also had the benefit of smart lighting, which showed every nuance of the gums, and the mountain ranges with their blue-hued beauty. I commented on it out loud and found Shelagh by my side. Her perfume was subtle but it was enough for me to be curiously affected. I breathed it in a second time and enjoyed the moment. Suddenly, I wanted to touch her; I flinched at the realisation and pushed it away.
‘It’s the Flinders Ranges,’ she said. ‘The artist is a friend of my parents, Geoffrey Underdown. I love it. He gave it to me twenty years ago.’
‘I’ve never had a great appreciation of art, but that’s slowly changing. Have you ever heard of Elaine Tyson?’
‘Oh yes, she was a wonderful artist and, in fact, her granddaughter is a friend of mine.’
I turned quickly to look at her. ‘Really? Well, I have a work at home that appears to be signed by Elaine Tyson. It’s a long story.’ I didn’t want to go into the history or the confusion I still felt about the painting’s place in my life.
‘If it’s genuine, it would be worth a lot of money. As I understand it, Elaine Tyson didn’t leave a large body of work. Have you had an expert look at it?’
‘No. I haven’t had it for long and I should confess it was purchased for four hundred and fifty dollars, so I’m not optimistic, but I know I should get someone to look at it. I did look for it on a couple of websites but couldn’t find any reference to it.’
‘If you like, I can ask Hannah, or why don’t you take a photo of it and I’ll show her?’
‘Hannah?’
‘Hannah Martin, she’s the friend I mentioned. I’m sure she’d take a look at it if you want.’
I shrugged, made an effort to smile and kept my eyes on her painting.
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