I turned two full circles, tried to remember what I had planned to do next. Then I knew I had to go to the bathroom, to look at my face in the mirror, to make sure it was the right one.
CHAPTER 25
I returned to the exhibits determined to push aside what Warwick had said and concentrate on what I had come to see. My pocket vibrated. I answered the phone and heard Shelagh say that she was just entering the gallery.
Soon she was standing in front of me asking me how long I’d been here, Warwick had thrown me, I wasn’t sure.
‘It must be good if you’re not sure of time. Seen anything outstanding?’
‘Well, no. In fact, I had the oddest conversation, with a guy I’ve only met once before. He was a… ’
No. It hardly made sense to me and she didn’t know the background. Why would she have keys to this door? Warwick and I didn’t. ‘Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it over dinner...how was your day?’
‘Oh, it was fine. A bit hectic but we’re getting on top of it, and I’m glad to be here. It feels like I’ve been living in that office.’ Her blue eyes smiled, and she put her arm through mine. ‘Come on, show me around.’
The moments with Warwick were soon neatly folded and placed back where they belonged as we moved through the gallery. We saw the first two Elaine Tyson works in a room of portraits. One was a large painting in a huge, ornate gold frame, titled Sir Walter Wilkins. I told Shelagh that Hannah had been amazed to hear her grandmother had an affair with the subject of this painting.
At one point, I’d moved ahead of Shelagh and leant forward to read the description on the wall next to a painting called Le Enfant Perdu. A young girl with long red hair was running through a garden, light footed and dainty, her body speaking of simple, innocent playfulness. She was running away from the artist, so her face could not be seen. There was a garden seat, a bench and, over it, the branches of a large tree. Their shape, the trunk’s texture, the small but intricate leaves and their shoots reminded me of long, delicate fingers. Then I saw the unusual curly arms on the bench, the patch of beach and sea in the background. My heart rate accelerated.
Shelagh arrived, and I put my arm around her and edged her in front of me. ‘Look… look.’ I tried to curb my excitement. ‘It’s a Tyson.’
‘Isn’t that the same place…Carter, it’s your garden scene. I mean, you can’t see the house and there’s a girl in this one… but it’s the same, isn’t it?’
Her eyes were wide, reading mine. I nodded my head, and couldn’t stop myself beaming. “Enfant” is “child”, but do you know what “perdu” means?
‘Lost, I’m sure it means lost, so L’enfant Perdu would mean Lost Child.’
I made a face. ‘Lost child; wonder what that’s about? Painted circa 1981...location unknown. I can’t wait to ask the Alley Cat.’
We hurried like children looking for Easter Eggs to the three remaining Tysons, but there was no chocolate. One work was a simple image of a bowl of flowers, a book and an empty glass on a round, unbalanced table. The other was a small portrait of someone named Mrs Buckley. We wandered on, distracted. When we reached the end of the exhibition, we turned to each other, laughed, and walked straight back to L’enfant Perdu.
‘You’ll just have to find out more about the world of Elaine Tyson,’ Shelagh said.
‘Yes, I’ll need to do some research but first I have to phone the Alley Cat.’ I took my phone out but then remembered the sign I had seen earlier, banning the use of phones at the exhibition. ‘Hey, are you ready to eat?’
‘Yep, I’m starved. I only had an apple and two Monte Carlos all day.’
Shelagh had scored a parking spot just outside, so we were soon in her car and on the way to a Chinese restaurant she liked in the city. As soon as we were in the car, I phoned the Alley Cat, who answered quickly,
‘Leonard Catt.’
‘Hi, Leonard, it’s Carter Burke, how are you?’ We just left the exhibition and there’s something I have to ask you about. It’s…’
‘L’enfant Perdu, am I right?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Why do you think I texted you as soon as I saw it? I wanted to phone you but decided I should wait to see how you reacted.’
‘I did recognise it. I mean, it took a moment, but it’s the same garden that Vue de Mer is set in. This is exciting, isn’t it? It seems to support the case that the work I have is the real thing?’
He started to laugh heartily, then stopped. ‘Possibly. L’enfant Perdu is one of only two Tysons that are owned by the Maxwell Gallery; they bought it at an exhibition in 1989, around the time we lost Elaine. It was one of her last known works. She painted it in 1981 and did little work after that. In fact, I think there’s only one later piece and that’s dated 1984. It’s fairly weird, quite dark, she was rather severely in the grip of alcohol by that time and her health was not good.’
‘Alcohol, really? I thought I’d read that she died from cancer?’
‘Ah, my boy, the scourge of the heavy drinker: liver cancer. She did nothing to help herself. Reading between the lines, she saw herself as the artistic martyr, a soul in the grip of passion for her art, and, unfortunately, in the grip of the bottle in the end. I only met her twice; she was in her mid-fifties but looked ten years older, a rather, ah-humph, tragic figure.’ The Alley Cat said the last few words slowly and melodramatically, then paused.
‘Her partner, the poet Charles Labourian, had come back into her life about a year before. He was very attentive, took her to live in a house he’d purchased in Caulfield. He looked after her until she passed away, far too young. All very sad – such a waste.’
I thought he was close to tears, and then he sniffed and said, ‘Take no notice, just had one glass too many of Billecart.’ I gave him a moment. ‘Now, did you enjoy what you saw?’
‘I really liked the two portraits, she certainly was versatile. The still-life thing – you know, the book and stuff on the table – did nothing for me.’
‘Yes, the two portraits are wonderful. She only did ten, and the first couple were a bit juvenile, but, yes, the two you saw are outstanding, the way she captured the soul, the character. Each work transcends the medium and portrays the subjects in a way that brings them to life; truly magical, so glad you got to see them. Now, on to business. You will hear from me in the next day or two, and we’ll make an appointment.’
I took my mobile from my ear and said to Shelagh, ‘I think the cagey old bugger was testing me, to make sure I was awake enough to notice that both paintings had the same setting.’
‘He sounds rather interesting, this Alley Cat. I must get the full story from Hannah.’ Shelagh spoke the last words over her shoulder as she twisted in the driver’s seat to squeeze into a space in Russell Street. Within minutes, we were in Shark Fin House, scanning the menu. I felt good; the restaurant’s noise and aromas were adding to my already elevated mood. L’enfant Perdu had excited me, the Alley Cat’s affirmation had pleased me and, since I was enjoying myself, I sidestepped the strangeness of Warwick’s revelations, I would revisit them later. In no time, the first course of scallops and snow peas arrived and was devoured. I enjoyed the way Shelagh ate, without inhibitions; juice from the scallops ran down her chin, and she laughed and wiped it off. Next, we attacked lemon chicken with the same gusto. We talked about every aspect of the art show, and I recounted my phone conversation with the Alley Cat.
Shelagh wiped her mouth decisively and leaned back in her chair. ‘So, now you have to tell me about this conversation. I think you said it was with someone you hardly knew. I felt you were slightly disoriented when I arrived. Was he the reason?’
‘Disorientated? Yeah, I guess you’re right. It was a weird. In fact, it was only the second conversation he and I had ever had, and the first one was even weirder.’
Her eyes widened again. ‘I’m all ears.’
&
nbsp; Perhaps it was Warwick’s willingness to share so much of his personal story that prompted me to do the same with Shelagh. What he had told me would make little sense to her if I didn’t explain our previous meeting. Me, the guilty, the regretful, the jogger, the chaser, the liar…and now the storyteller. Halfway through telling her about chasing and catching Warwick, I worried I shouldn’t be offering so much information. I hoped my eyes didn’t mirror the look Warwick had in his and, at times, I could have sworn that the room was silently listening as I talked. I began to doubt myself, to feel confused. I should have thought it through first, made sure I had it straight. Up until now, I’d only told Lawrence and my counsellor about seeing Warwick in the street, and even they’d only got an edited version. Now I was telling this person I hardly knew?
‘So, that’s about the whole story.’
I looked at Shelagh, who exhaled. Her expression had changed.
She leant forward and placed both hands on mine. ‘You all right?’
I nodded, and swallowed hard.
‘So’, she said, with a soft smile, ‘that’s amazing; I mean, from both your point of view and Warwick’s. You must have felt so weird when you caught him. But I guess it’s a good result, Carter, at least you know who it was you saw.’
I nodded; it was all I could muster. The bill arrived, and it was a good distraction. Again, she wanted to pay, but seemed to realise that it was not the moment to push.
‘Well, all right, but at least let me make you a good coffee at my place,’ she said.
I smiled, unconvinced. We were soon in her car,
‘I’m parked in Powlett Street, near the bottom of the hill,’ I said.
‘You could leave it here, stay at my place. I can drive you back tomorrow.’
It took a moment to register what she had offered me. I don’t remember deciding to say, ‘I better not,’ but heard it leave my mouth.
I turned to her, and she kept her eyes straight ahead and nodded. ‘Whatever.’
We were soon at my car. The silence was like a cloud. Eventually, my words came. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just, I don’t know…not ready.’
She sat still with her hands on the wheel and eyes still straight ahead, then nodded slowly.
‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve never been good at reading men. I feel such a fool, I should have remembered what you’ve been through.’ She turned to face me and her eyes reflected her words. I feared she was about to cry.
’Seriously, Carter, it’s fine. I got a bit swept up in the emotion of the evening; I’m not accustomed to men being that honest. I suddenly felt…I don’t know… attached, and I wasn’t expecting that. I should have just taken a deep breath and shut up.’
It was getting cold and the windows started to fog up. I wanted to shout, to find a way out of our mutual incompetence and, at the same time, I wanted to hold her. I wanted a scriptwriter to tell me what to do in the next scene.
I took her hand, and leant over. She offered a cheek, and I kissed it.
‘I can’t believe I am saying no. Shelagh, I find you very attractive… If you think this is about you, you’re wrong.’
‘All right, I hear you but, hey, I may never offer again.’
‘Oh, don’t say that; now I won’t get any sleep. I do want to see you again.’
She offered what was almost a smile. ‘Maybe.’
I got out of the car, and heard the words ‘fucking idiot.’ It was my voice.
My mattress gave me little comfort as my dreams snapped between absurd and righteous, from marshmallow to concrete. My bedroom offered only gloom. I wrestled each emotion but knew I was losing, so I stumbled out of bed, washed my face, returned and tried again to sleep. The bed creaked as I tried all its angles. Eventually, sleep took over and I awoke late, surprised at how relaxed I felt. I lay thinking about the previous evening, and tried not to beat myself up. Then I had a plan. I would write.
As I poured boiling water over the Darjeeling leaves, I decided to remember my dreams but only one was available to me. It involved Warwick. He was smiling but I knew he was angry. He was with someone, a female; I thought it might be his newly found sister but decided it was Shelagh. They both smiled at me and waved, and yelled something about catching up later. I poured tea into the white mug with black cats on it that had remained unused for some months, but was now mine. I enjoyed the taste of it.
CHAPTER 26
I had written only three thousand words. Some were the real thing, but they were mostly ramblings, plot points, the bones of ideas. The document was called ‘manuscript’ and now demanded a real name. My fingers bounced…’One Vision of Two’...’The Closeness of Separation’…’Four Eyes, One Soul’… ‘Unknown Closeness’.
Were they all my invention or did I hear them last night?
I needed to reintroduce myself to my characters. I read my words aloud, changed them, found ones that fitted better. I winced, frowned, and then smiled as the narrative expanded. There was momentum, the characters were joining me in the room, coming into focus. The lost brother and sister were asking me to give them more. I wanted a way to explain how two people could know each other so intimately and yet never have met. ‘The Nearness of Distance’? The next two hours passed easily.
I thought about the parents; why would they give away their children at birth? Seeds of ideas scattered before me, and I wanted them to germinate. I envisaged lovers whose families would never approve of them, but that was not quite right, so I reinvented the father. I liked the idea he was the son of a prominent politician, privileged, curious, rebellious. The girl, soon to be a mother, she would be intelligent but unsophisticated, strong-minded and passionate, of inferior social and financial standing. I grinned, it was familiar. The social mismatch, unrequited love. Didn’t Shakespeare write something similar? Eventually, I stopped, breathed deeply, pressed ‘Save’. I knew I might look at the words tomorrow and grimace, but in that moment, it felt good.
I retrieved my jogging gear from the cupboard. It needed washing. I shrugged. So what, no one’ll be close enough to notice. I won’t be chasing anyone.
The run was cathartic. My body yelled at me halfway up Loncon Street hill but today I was winning; I sucked in air and enjoyed its icy sting. At the peak, I relished the surge of satisfaction; only a minor success but so what? I’d been pushing such moments away. I remembered that not so long ago, I would have returned home after the run and beat my chest and told Maxine how I’d conquered the hill. She would have smiled, said. ‘Well done,’ and I would have asked for a hug and she would have pushed me away and feigned repulsion at my sweating body. The game, me chasing her, laughter. I tried to enjoy the memory, I failed. But it used to hurt more.
After two glasses of water I told myself it was alright to feel good. I picked up my mobile phone.
Shelagh’s mobile rang for a while before she answered and asked me how I was.
‘Fine, thanks, I’ve just been for a run. Listen, I phoned to apologise. Last night, I should not have got so involved in what had happened, I should have let it go, … and then after… well, I’m concerned I offended you, which is something I don’t want.’
‘Carter, I can’t pretend I wasn’t a bit offended, but it was my fault, I felt bad that I…you know…I should have been more thoughtful of what you’re going through.’
‘Listen, half the time I’m not sure what I’m thinking, so I can’t expect you to know. I mean, I think I just need time. I enjoy being with you, can we catch up later in the week, for dinner or a movie?’
‘Sure, sounds good.’
I showered. The water seemed like an ally; it patted my back, told me I was doing all right. Late afternoon sun lit the bathroom, an odd shimmering light. I almost managed not to see how much the bathroom needed renovating.
The evening meal had become a challenge. I was not a great cook, I lacked imagination and sk
ill, but somehow the meal was important. Was it simply that I liked good food? Was it the accompanying wine? Was it that I viewed it as a reward, the gift offered at the end of the work day? I remembered when I was a child, the evening meal was important, my parents demanding it be eaten with appropriate decorum. Maxine and I tried to dine together every night, and put effort into the food, to talk about our days. But now it was just me.
I decided to have roast lamb. I was my second attempt. I’d found the cookbook, it had been around a long time, it was stained with black and brown marks that came from fingers I knew well. I gently touched the spots, as if they might know.
Soon, I was enjoying the aromas coming from the oven. As I poured my second glass of pinot noir, I heard my front door bell. I was not expecting visitors. Lawrence was the most likely candidate, he occasionally dropped in, hoping that I might ‘have a decent bottle open’. It wasn’t Lawrence.
Hannah looked good, with a wide smile, singing eyes. I tried to keep eye contact but it was not easy, with her low-cut top. It seemed a long time since I had seen as much of the female form up close.
‘Hello, Carter.’
‘Hannah, what a pleasant surprise.’
Before I knew it, she kissed me on the lips. The kiss lasted a longer than I expected. She didn’t wait to be invited in, and was now offering me a bottle of champagne. I recognised the yellow label.
‘I enjoyed this so much last time we were here, I thought I’d reciprocate.’
As she talked she moved past me into my lounge room and was stopped in front of the painting. ‘I spoke to Leonard today and he told me about L’enfant Perdu.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ’I mean, I knew the painting but, like him, I hadn’t put two and two together. It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
I moved closer, the day had passed without me looking at the painting. She halved the distance between us and was soon touching my arm.
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