‘Get fucked. So, we’re going to watch the game on television this arvo, have a couple of beers. Most people would kill to have my company.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess so, if I have to.’
‘Orrrrright, I’ll be at your place at about two. I’ll bring a few stubbies, and maybe we can order a pizza.’
He arrived at two-fifteen, and it was like it always had been: two old mates, beer, football, stories from the past, and bad jokes at the other’s expense. An observer would have considered it trivial; for us, it was ritual. The right team won, which made the day even better, and the house was reintroduced to the light hearted. Lawrence left at five-thirty, as he had to dine with his mum, brother and sister-in-law. He wanted to cancel but I knew his mum would blame me and give him a hard time.
The beer changed my earlier resolve about Shelagh. I again keyed the now-familiar number. This time, she answered.
‘Hi, how are you? I left a couple of messages.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, didn’t you get them?’
No answer.
‘Anyway, I was hoping we might catch up next week.’
A pause, and I surged on, like a surfer trying to catch a wave. ‘Maybe another Chinese feed. I really enjoyed the other night.’ My words were still disappearing, like steam in the ether.
‘Really… with me…are sure you called the right number?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you couldn’t be sick of screwing Hannah already? That would surprise me. I mean, she obviously has talents I don’t, enough to get you to forget your supposed conscience.’
My head sank into my right hand, the beer on my breath bounced off the phone and sickened me.
‘Heavens, Carter, you aren’t lost for words, are you? Gosh, how awful. Now, here’s an idea: why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone?’
Her last words were loud. The phone went dead, and the cream-painted nothingness of my walls seemed to pulse; I tried closing my eyes. I could not believe I’d let this happen.
I’m not sure how long I sat there. Eventually, I moved, and tried a new approach. ‘Well, get stuffed. I’m glad I did bonk Hannah. Maybe I should invite her over.’
The idea had merit; with enough booze, lots of things have merit. I didn’t need the bottle of red wine I consumed with this other Carter. The morning arrived and my mouth felt as if it had been coated with cracked pepper. My stomach rotated but that was not what hurt most.
CHAPTER 29
Saturday wasn’t a good day, and I tried to speed through it. I started Sunday by telling myself that I needed to move on, that I was all right, that this was nothing compared with what I had lived with in these past months and, anyway, I had somewhere I needed to be.
Soon I had showered, had a quick breakfast of muesli and fruit, ironed my denim shirt and dragged myself into the newer of my two pairs of jeans. The mirror said it would do.
I knew there was no hurry but found I was anxious. I made myself drive slowly. It was a pleasant day, about twenty degrees, and the sun made brief visits. I arrived about eleven, parked nearby and walked slowly to my destination. I tried not to expect too much.
The house was weatherboard, with an imposing red brick chimney. It was not a grand building but it was solid, an air of interest about it. Would I have thought that if I hadn’t known what I did about its most famous resident? It seemed to have a lot of windows, but I had no idea what would constitute the right number. Something was missing. I stopped, and realised that it was not that something was missing; it was that this was merely an attractive old house and garden, nothing mysterious, nothing abnormal. I smiled. I’d simply been looking harder than I needed to.
I walked up to a short, grey-haired man with a large moustache and a smile to match it. He wore a check sports coat, with what appeared to be a large gravy stain on the left lapel. I liked the way he called me ‘young fellow’, I handed over five dollars, and he gave me a garden plan and told me that the money went to charity.
‘Thanks. Tell me, is the house open for inspection also?’
‘No, unfortunately, just the garden.’
‘Oh well, I guess I can look in the windows.’
‘As long as you are not too intrusive, young man, I’m sure you can do just that.’
I walked to the rear of the house, there were about twenty-five people gathered, they were a procession that was both relaxed and interested. Some showed admiration, others envy. I feel curiously connected.
The garden had patches of lawn and small paths that invited random wandering. The Morton Bay fig was prominent and stately. It stood proudly in its surroundings, a maternal figure in the garden. It was dominant but not dominating, as if it was made to fit, as though someone designed the whole place around it. It framed the picture and yet was the centre of it at the same time. It was very much the painting that hung on my wall.
‘Hold on, it had to have been painted thirty years ago; surely the tree would a fair bit bigger by now?’
I glanced around quickly and saw a teenage girl looking at me with a frown. Then I remembered something I’d read, about how old trees eventually stopped growing…or had I imagined that? Surely a tree that has buds is growing? OK, don’t get too hung up on it, keep moving.
I moved slowly and breathed in the scent of all I saw. I realised I was thinking of Maxine, of how much she would have enjoyed this place and then, to my surprise, I realised I was almost smiling. I still felt sadness and a sense of loneliness but the stabs of pain that were inevitably attached to such recollections were momentarily absent; I was not bent double under the weight. Was it because this was a happy place, because she may have been here, walked these gardens as a child? Was I feeling some vibration, some connection? I stopped still. Such thoughts were confusing, and not my style. But surely, they were not inappropriate? I breathed deeply, lifted my eyes, told myself to just walk and observe, resist the urge to hurry. I wanted answers to questions that were not really fully formed.
I stopped – something else in the scene was not right. Of course. the seat, the bench with the curly arms was not in sight. Nor was the swing. Then it occurred to me that many years have passed and both the swing and the seat may have simply ceased to be functional, or perhaps they did not suit the new owners.
I noticed a gathering in front of me, of six people listening attentively to a woman who was obviously describing something, her arms moving. She was maybe mid-fifties, elegant, fairly tall, with red hair. I assumed she was one of the owners of the house. I moved to within earshot and, to my surprise, she was not talking about the garden, she was talking about Elaine Tyson. I moved closer.
‘She loved this place: the light, the view, how the garden flowed into the bay, how the different parts of the day restructured the scene. Yet, sadly, we only have one painting that we can absolutely identify with this garden scene. There are some others that we think may have been done here but the subjects of those paintings are not the scenery. They don’t include any of the landscape.’
I seemed I had arrived at the end of her talk. The listeners nodded. I heard comments about how lovely the place was, about how inspiring it must have been for an artist. One elderly lady with a walking stick shook the hand of the red-haired lady who had done the talking, affectionately patted her back, and they hugged briefly. I waited.
‘Excuse me, I hope I’m not intruding, but I heard part of what you said, it was fascinating, you were talking about Elaine Tyson and...’ I wanted to find the right words. ‘I’m here because of her. I saw L’enfant Perdu at the exhibition last week and while there was no mention of it being set here I figured it had to be.’
She looked at me without expression; then her mouth moved slightly, it was not quite a smile. I had hoped for the warmth she’d shown the lady she had been talking to.
‘Anyway, I wanted to
see where she lived and to see this garden because…’ I looked out at the sea and breathed in. ‘There might actually be another work of hers that depicts this garden scene. I mean, if it’s real, a real Elaine Tyson…and, obviously, you know quite a lot about her. May I ask, do you live here?’
Her face didn’t change, but it was as if she did not want me to enter her orbit. It occurred to me I might not have explained myself properly and was about to offer more explanation when she raised her chin, looked past me towards the house and, with the smallest of smiles, said, ‘No, I don’t live here. Elaine Tyson was my mother. I spent some of my youth here.’
My eyebrows rose and I thrust out my right hand. ‘My name is Carter Burke. I’m sorry if I haven’t been very clear.’
I attempted a warm smile, but received an unenthusiastic handshake and a nod.
‘Geraldine Martin.’
‘Of course, Hannah’s mother.’ The words were out before I could stop them, and a warm feeling told me I had blushed.
I saw her brow crease, and her chest expand; again, she turned her glance away, this time towards the sea. ‘Ah, you know my daughter, how delightful. Is she well?’
I recalled snippets of the conversation between Hannah and the Alley Cat about the poor relationship between mother and daughter. ‘Fine. I mean, I think she is, I don’t know her that well, she’s a friend of a friend. This painting of mine…the signature says Elaine Tyson and it’s this garden.’
’Ah yes, I believe I got an email from Leonard, mentioning this.’
Her manner relaxed slightly but I was still paddling upstream. ‘Yes, he’s been to my house, the Alley…Leonard. He examined the work, he’s been generous with his time and, of course, he knows so much about…your mum.’
By now she was looking at me more intently, in a way that was hard to decipher.
‘I should explain. This painting I have was found in a shop in Kyneton, and when I had it reframed, I found your mother’s signature. To be honest, it meant nothing to me, I don’t know much about art at all, but I made some enquiries and that’s why I am here.’
She nodded slowly.
‘So, anyway, Leonard said that we should take it further; you know, he felt there were similarities with other Tysons. He hasn’t said it’s genuine but he seems to be…a bit optimistic.’ I decided to stop there.
‘Well, that’s quite a story, Carter. And you say think it’s set here, in this garden?’
I waved my hand in a broad sweep. ‘It includes much of this – you know, the tree and the house, the sea in the background. There are no people in it, although there is something else.’
She smiled, and raised her eyebrows. It seemed done more in the spirit of courteous enquiry than in real curiosity.
’Yes, the garden seat, a bench, with curly arms. It’s the one that’s in L’enfant Perdu, only in my work, you see the whole bench. In L’enfant Perdu you only see a bit of it, and the painting is larger.’
Now she offered a slight nod, followed by a deep breath. For the first time, her face revealed curiosity. ‘That’s quite remarkable.’ Her voice was low. ‘And you say that Leonard thinks it might be…well, he thinks your painting has some…merit?’
‘Yes. I understand he has to talk to your brother, who holds...what is it? The copyright, or some authority, I’m not sure.’
I waited as she again drifted in the moment. Her left hand reached up and gently pulled her roll neck sweater away from her neck, as if it was too tight. Then she used the same hand to move a few strands of her red hair, which the breeze had blown over her right eye. She nodded. I thought she was about to speak but, again, she turned away, and I found myself looking at her profile. She seemed confused, then said ‘remarkable’. I waited awhile hoping she might say more. Then asked,
‘your red hair…is the “L’enfant Perdu” you…in the painting?’
‘No, I was about twenty-five years old when that was painted.’
I felt a fool, ‘Of course.’
‘And this painting, you just found it in a shop, in…Kyneton?’
‘Yes, in Kyneton. It was found by my partner, Maxine. She found it by accident, having just dropped into the shop. I wasn’t with her but she was besotted by it, said something about knowing the place but not being sure why…’ I knew my voice usually changed when I discussed this topic, I hoped it had not on this occasion. I looked out at the sea and wondered if there would be a time when I would be able to talk about those events without the weight of emotion.
I returned to the moment to find her staring at me, her head tilted, her face somehow different. I thought she was about to ask a question, but she didn’t.
I felt compelled to continue. ‘I don’t know why she was so taken with it – the painting I mean, we only had the one chat about it. Then I lost her, in a car accident.’ I gulped in the extra air those words required.
Geraldine’s eyes widened, and, again, I couldn’t read her expression. I wondered if she had heard me; I didn’t want to say it again. I waited, and she blinked, looked away once more. Again, she went back to a place that seemed a long way off, where I could only see her in profile.
‘I’m sorry… for your loss…Maxine, was it? Her voice had softened.
‘Yes.’
She again glanced in my direction, but only for a second. She was showing sympathy, being considerate. Then she nodded. ‘Nice to meet you, Carter, I must go.’ Before I could respond, she departed.
I watched her walk away. I considered chasing her, inviting her to see the painting. I didn’t.
I kept wandering but frustration got the better of me as I kept going over the conversation. Then, without realising it, I was standing under the Moreton Bay. I reached out; first, I just let the tips of my fingers meet it, then I took more liberties, and rubbed both hands against its smooth, cold trunk. It felt solid, hard but not coarse. It felt as if it had been there forever, a tree born mature, yet still not old.
‘G’day, old fella, nice to meet you. I’m not quite sure why I’m here; could you tell me?’ I patted it and moved closer until I was leaning against it.
Soon, a middle-aged couple walked over; they seemed happy, their faces open and contented. The woman handed her camera to her partner and danced over to the tree. She leant on it, with one foot folded across the other, and a wide, toothy smile that echoed a sweet tune, her body language pleased. I should have offered to take a photo of both of them but that would have required a generosity I didn’t possess.
I wandered around the garden for another thirty minutes. I tried to see every detail, to absorb it, to feel its weight; to smell it, hear it, to find something that might not be there. With the same hope, I peered through the windows of the house but curtains got in the way. Whatever secrets it had it was not about to share with me.
People came and went, but I didn’t see Geraldine again.
It was time to go. I didn’t think I had discovered much but didn’t really know what I was supposed to have discovered. So, as I walked past the smiling man with the big moustache, I decided I must be positive. I reminded myself I had met Elaine Tyson’s daughter and I had experienced the gardens of Vue de Mer. I knew I would revisit the conversation I had with Geraldine and wonder about the look in her eyes and her body language as she listened to my story.
CHAPTER 30
Though I had resolved to be positive, I battled with my confusion as I drove home. Despite all I’d seen, I did not know what it was that Maxine had seen in the painting.
When I got home, I decided to jog, knowing that physical pain would override the other type. I was soon hearing the familiar thump that my feet made on the pavement. As I entered Loncol Road, I stopped, my heart beating. There was the other jogger.
I was glad Warwick hadn’t seen me. Despite our chat at the gallery, he didn’t know the real reason I’d chased him last time. I smiled, an
d turned left. It was time I tried new routes, maybe go back to jogging the Tan Track around the Botanic Gardens. I hadn’t done it since that day.
I hadn’t seen Charlie and Ox since then either. I’d met Charlie at university. He’d introduced me to Ox and we’d been jogging mates for ten years. I remembered that day. We enjoyed our run, it was nice weather, sunny but not hot. We talked about football, politics, work, music. We stood leaning against my car afterwards, swigging on our water bottles, endorphins still kicking, full of bravado. We were the heroes of our moment. Ox and I were calling Charlie an arse because, as usual, he’d charged ahead of us over the last few hundred metres. We tried to catch him and he just smiled. He didn’t need to do more, he had our measure; Ox and I simply had to improve. I don’t remember feeling guilty that day. I just ran, that’s all.
They waited six or seven weeks and then asked me to join them again. And again later. I found excuses, I lied. They don’t know the full story.
When I’d got home after the jog, it was about three in the afternoon, I tried her mobile, and there was no answer. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. It was a policeman and a policewoman. I assumed they had the wrong house and was confused when they asked if Maxine lived at this address. I recall thinking it was unusual that they wanted to come in. Don’t cops do their work on the front doorstep? He was so young. Her brown hair was so short it hardly fell when she removed her cap. She was strong, he tried to be. The things you notice when you don’t want to hear, when there’s nowhere to hide. Why would I have bothered to notice his build, that he must work out a lot? And that he shrugged uncomfortably and, as he did, his right shoulder rose higher than the left, his head sort of rotating? Poor prick. I wondered if it was his first.
Now I looked back over my shoulder. I couldn’t see Warwick. Maybe I should phone him, ask how he’s going, ask about his sister? And, of course, I should go home and work on my novel.
An hour later, I was in front of my computer. It was time to create a persona for the deceased father, whose achievements warranted a small obituary in the daily news. And it was time to find names for his offspring, two confused people who do not realise they are brother and sister, or that the person in the coffin in front of them gave them life. Does a sane, controlled and strong-willed person act on a feeling that makes no sense? Wouldn’t such a person turn their car around, say… ‘What the fuck am I doing… this is ridiculous.’ It is the lot of a human to stand in front of a coffin and ask why. But for my characters, it’s not why is this loved one gone…the question is ‘Why am I here?’ The funeral, the most macabre of man’s celebrations, the oxymoron called a celebration of life. It was too late to ask the deceased how they felt; they may have wanted to keep celebrating by living. They surely would have said their task was incomplete.
A Change of Texture Page 12