An hour later, the phone summoned me again.
‘Carter, are you well, my boy? I have some news. You will be pleased to know that Geraldine would like to see the painting and, even more importantly, Alexander is due in Melbourne on Thursday morning and he also wants to see it. You will recall that he is Geraldine’s older brother. So, we might say that things are at last coming to a head. I think I can say that if Alexander is satisfied with what he sees, then he will be willing to give the work his approval. If not, then, well…let’s wait and see. How do you feel about that?’
‘How do I feel about it? Well to be honest, Leonard, I don’t give a fuck what he thinks, he can say what he likes, how would he know what it meant to…’ Stop…Stop, breathe, what am I saying? In that instant, I realised this painting was much more to me than I’d ever acknowledged; it had become an extension of what I had lost. Its existence had both crushed me and given me a purpose. The price Maxine paid for it could never be matched, no dollar value would compensate. It wasn’t just a painting, it was her legacy. No person, and certainly not this Alexander, could tell me it wasn’t real. Yet, I wanted it to be genuine. If it was painted by her grandmother, this was somehow a small justification for the price she had paid. For me, it was the real thing. I had to use the painting to find myself.
‘Carter, what …I’m not sure I understand…?’
I breathed deeply, gave myself a moment. ‘Leonard, I’m sorry; it’s fine. Of course, they can both see the painting. It’s just the painting has become something so much more…’ I stopped, remembering the Alley Cat didn’t know what I know.
‘Of course, Carter, I understand. I don’t mean to… ‘
‘It’s all right, forget it. I look forward to them both seeing it.’ There was something else I needed to say. ‘I really appreciate everything you’re doing. Please know that.’
As the day went on, I felt invigorated. I entered the lounge room and spent a while looking at the painting. Then I took a breath. There were other demands on me.
‘The Sound of Ants.’ Nice name, is it relevant…? I can change it! Soon I was with them, familiar strangers, my fingers began the dance.
Slowly, everyone walks from the grave, then men with spades condemn the physical remains to the dirt. Now there are only two mourners left. They don’t know why they’re there, both confused but compelled by the moment. Their eyes lock again. Do they look alike?
No, too corny. I make a decision.
She approaches him.
‘Excuse me; were you at the funeral ceremony? I mean, the service at the chapel?’
‘Me…no, no, I wasn’t. Were you?
‘No. Are you related to the deceased?’
‘I have no idea why I ‘m here,’ he says. It’s probably too absurd that someone would reveal that, but keep going.
Her surprise was palpable.
‘Oh, really, that’s strange. I must admit, I’m not sure why I’m here.’
Hold on, would a person be so honest? Wouldn’t you lie, try to hide that you’re not in control?
‘I feel pretty stupid; this is all too weird.’ She spins the wedding ring on her second-longest finger and shuffles nervously.
He nods.
I dramatically lifted my fingers off the keys and read it. Not bad. I smiled as it occurred to me that I now knew what it would be like to discover family you did not know existed.
My fingers moved on. When I stopped again, two hours had passed.
CHAPTER 35
The days passed fairly easily but the nights were still awash with dreams: some were of easels and art exhibitions, and graves surrounded by a menagerie of strange people. The dreams expanded and shrunk like some private universe; images were clear one moment, then opaque. There were people I didn’t recognise, in police uniforms with white gloves, directing me, and I humbly complied. One night I dreamed Maxine waved to me from a garden. I couldn’t be sure if it was Vue de Mer but it disturbed me. I wanted to get to her, to talk.
I often woke to find these dreams hanging around like someone you don’t want to see but feel you can’t ignore; someone whose feelings you shouldn’t hurt. But I wanted them to go. Too often I’d dwelt in that uncertain place between sleep and clarity, that grey place where logic gets lost. Saying ‘Fuck off’ over and over again helped; maybe it was hearing the words, rather than feeling them, that did it.
I wanted to write but some days weren’t right for it. My fingers proved it; they had lost their momentum and, with it, went inspiration. I walked in the back garden, and did some pruning and weeding. Then I jogged. I tried to be in control, to be Mr Cool; I worked on wearing a sanguine face. I sought any distraction, then wondered if I was trying too hard. I tried to focus on specific aspects of my story, some details that didn’t need too much imagination or writing skill. Names, times, dates, locations. A surname for the deceased? Professor Strange seemed cute. I smiled and the movement in my cheeks made me realise I was lonely. Had I once read the expansion of facial muscles was good for wellbeing? Maybe that was it; maybe I just wanted to share a smile. I wanted Maxine, but that was a wish I could not be granted except by memory. And then there was Shelagh, but I’d stuffed that.
I phoned Lawrence, as I knew he would be happy to hear from me. He said he’d been just about to call to tell me an old friend, Red Eric, was due in town, and how about dinner Saturday night at the Royal Hotel? It was good news, I was looking forward to it.
The Alley Cat phoned late Wednesday to say he wanted to bring Alexander and Geraldine on Friday, and we agreed on four o’clock. I asked if it would just be the three of them. He said it would, then asked if I wanted him to bring anyone else. Before I could say no, he added that it still might be unwise to have Geraldine and Hannah in the same room. I agreed.
Friday came and the Alley Cat was ten minutes early. He seemed on edge; he blinked often and his shoulders did a nervous shimmy.
‘Carter, my boy, one does not often get the chance to be involved in the potential acknowledgment of a new Tyson. It means a lot to me...’
I smiled and shook his hand warmly. I was nervous too.
‘I have not seen Alexander for some years. We were friends…’ He paused, grimaced, ‘I wrote this article…oh, it was years ago. Elaine had toyed with impressionism, ah-humph, and I didn’t like the result. There were only two pieces she did in this style and I felt were well below her best.’ Then he stopped and stood still. ‘What I am trying to say, Carter, is that Alexander was unhappy with what I wrote. Unnecessarily precious of him, really, I wasn’t scathing or anything, no, no, not at all, I wouldn’t do that…so we haven’t communicated much and, as you know, I am known as an expert on…’ His right hand shot out and touched my forearm, and he looked directly at me. ‘I don’t want to sound egotistical but, I am considered to be such.’ He laughed unconvincingly. ‘And then there is Geraldine. I think the world of her.’
‘Yes, I understand. You’ve made that point before.’
He nodded, looking coy, then added, ‘I have brought champagne. I may as well say that I am of the belief that, in all probability, your painting is the real thing. There you go, I’ve said it.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘But I will leave the bubbles in the car until the two offspring of the artist concerned have formed an opinion! Gosh, I can’t believe I’m this nervous.’
The doorbell interrupted us. We smiled cautiously, collaboratively, at each other.
As I opened the door, I did my best to appear the man of the house, he who did the inviting, welcoming, possessing, who was in control. But, as I looked at the brother and sister, their appearance compromised me.
The tall grey-haired man extended his right hand towards me. ‘Alexander Tyson.’
‘Carter Burke. Nice to meet you.’
He did a waltz, half a step backwards, then sideways, and allowed Geraldine to take his place on the doorstep.
As I held the door open, Alexander passed me and said, ‘Thank you for allowing us into your house.’ They waited self-consciously while I closed it, and then followed me into the lounge room.
‘Alexander,’ said the Alley Cat, too loudly, and then moved forward enthusiastically to greet him.
‘Leonard, nice to see you again.’
They shook hands. The Alley Cat fidgeted theatrically and stretched his neck. He smiled and offered his signature ‘ah-humph’ but, in the same instant, tried to muffle it, as if he’d just realised its absurdity. The result was an equally odd snorting sound. He then moved past Alexander. ‘Geraldine, you look as lovely as ever.’
She smiled, they embraced warmly.
I watched Alexander. He quickly sighted his target, judged the range and, clearly, decided on a direct approach. The rest of us seemed secondary, almost irrelevant to him. He had either forgotten, or disregarded, any need for propriety. Quickly, he was in front of the painting. His arms went up in front of him, his palms out, and, for a moment, I thought he was about to speak, but the arms dropped down, as if they’d been pushed. He stood still; maybe the painting told him to step carefully because there might be thin ice ahead. His body language was peculiar, unbalanced. He and the painting seemed to be eyeing each other with the caution of strangers, circling like boxers waiting for the other to make a move.
I’d rearranged things. I wanted the painting in the right place and in the right light. I wanted adequate space for four people standing to have a good view. I envisaged us standing together, discussing initial reactions, sharing details, being honest. But that was too simple. I had underestimated the effect of the painting and soon became merely a spectator. It made me feel awkward, and I imagined an observer might have said I looked as odd and out of place as the others.
Geraldine was standing next to her brother and also not at ease. They were like bad actors pushed on stage, trying to work out where they should be, what their next line was. Her hand moved to her mouth, and she covered it. I wondered if she felt ill. Was it shock or just habit? Alexander swayed to the right, then moved his head on an angle, and somehow extended it so that his neck seemed to have a snake-like curve. Then his feet followed him slowly, as if unsure of where to stop.
It seemed a long time before Alexander took two tentative steps forward, his nose a half a hand from the canvas. He took spectacles from his pocket, then moved around the work as if there was something he needed to find.
‘It’s the garden. It fits, doesn’t it, Alex?’ Her voice was unexpected and soft, seeming to come from another time and place.
He didn’t react, just continued his examination. Then he cleared his throat. ‘You’ve had it reframed, obviously.’ He didn’t wait for me to reply. ‘Now, Carter, I would appreciate the full story: all about where you got it, when, how…the lot.’
I started to tell him but it was difficult to concentrate, because I could see Geraldine was elsewhere. She was looking at the photo of Maxine on the mantelpiece. I had it enlarged only about six weeks earlier and placed in an etched silver frame. I could no longer hear her brother, only the questions she didn’t ask. How would she have expected Maxine the adult to look? I wanted to tell her I understood, but did I?
How do people feel emotion, is it different for everyone? What does loss weigh? Does pain have a colour? Do we hear sadness in one key, and happiness in another. Can we still taste love when it has gone?
I wanted to embrace her, to call her an idiot and yet say how sorry I was. But I knew her grief had to be silent. She might never admit the woman in the photo was her daughter, so I left her in her moment and concentrated on Alexander. I told him the story, minus what didn’t need to be shared at this time. He listened and nodded, his eyebrows raised in a curious look.
I found myself getting impatient. I expected the Alley Cat to intervene, to take the baton and run, but he didn’t. I worked at appearing calm but inside I shuffled and twitched, wanting to force the issue. Then I heard a voice, strong and clear.
‘I need to know what you think.’ It was my voice.
Alexander’s chin came up, and he wore a slight pout. Hopefully it had occurred to him he might not be the only one who mattered. He removed his spectacles, turned to the canvas, and then back to me. I knew the Alley Cat was tense. Geraldine returned her gaze from the photo.
He raised his hand towards the painting, like a teacher at a blackboard. ‘Well, the problem is, there’s no girl, is there? I mean, I may be the only one who knows this but it’s crucial to the analyses of this work. The absence of the girl gives me real concern, I must be honest.’ He nodded dismissively at the work, his eyebrows seeming to go even higher.
I breathed deeply, sucked in frustration and looked at the other two. Geraldine’s face was frozen, almost frightened. The Alley Cat shuffled awkwardly, and I heard two ‘Ah-humph’s.
‘What the fuck does that mean?
Alexander looked surprised; he blinked three times and retreated without moving.
My arms were out wide, and I slowly brought them down. My words left me feeling more in control. The moment had come to demand things of others who carried less of a load than I did.
‘Sorry, Alexander, I didn’t mean to swear. It’s just been a long journey and I…’ It was time for me to shut up. The room blinked at me, the air sitting like a heavy coat. I released my arms from the weight and waved at the painting. ‘Please go on.’
He nodded slowly. He was no fool, I was sure he knew he had been paddling in unknown waters and should have checked the depth with both feet.
‘I understand, Carter. I’m sorry if I didn’t explain myself well. Mother did two paintings in the garden at Vue de Mer. I wasn’t there at the time but she told me about them. I had recently returned from England, and was living at Melbourne University and visited her most weekends. I remember the two paintings quite distinctly; you see, it was unusual for her to do paintings that were similar, especially one after the other. She was not a prolific painter and she spent a lot of time planning her work. There were lots of pencil sketches, lots of thought, sometimes she would talk about them.’ Alexander’s face softened. He paused again and looked at the floor, and then his eyes moved to his sister. ‘I remember when she saw the farmer herding his cows at dusk. It was near Warrnambool. We were young, on a family drive, and we stopped the car. This farmer was wandering across the field, waving his arms, and the light – even after all these years, I remember being moved. This farmer, sturdy and strong, obviously tired from the day’s work; his long stride, the light at dusk, the cows in their different stances…we spoke about it all the way home and she started sketching right away. And, weeks later, she would still be making comments, asking what we saw.’
He turned to face me, bringing himself back to the present. There was a hint of concern on his face, it occurred to me he might be worried I had other demons to release. ‘I do apologise, I’m waffling, but I it’s important. The point is, it was months before she started that work – The Farmer at Dusk, you may know it, perhaps the best thing she ever did. But, you know, I think it was the only painting she did that year.’
The Alley Cat nodded for a long time. He reminded me of a rocking chair.
‘So, what I’m trying to say – rather badly, I fear – is that we all know L’enfant Perdu. I was in England when she finished it but I saw it at different times along its journey. Likewise, I remember seeing the second painting as it was progressing, I saw it in the house, at Vue de Mer. The setting in the garden was similar to the one in L’enfant Perdu, but was not as close to the subject; there was a larger panorama, more background, more of the garden and the sea. In fact, a very similar setting to what you have here, and what you have here seems to be in the style of my mother: the brush strokes, the use of colour.’
He gave a resigned, maudlin grin that magnified creases around his eyes I had not noticed before. Again, he looked hard at me, but this time it was a melancholic look. ‘In fact, it was my memory of that painting that made me bring forward my return to Australia. I wanted to see this painting, and you have kindly let me do that. The big problem I have, Carter, is the girl in L’enfant Perdu was also in the other work.’ His extended his right arm slowly and theatrically towards it, and said, ‘She’s not here.’
There was silence in the room, except for the echo of unspoken disappointment.
I heard a loud ‘ah-humph’ as the Alley Cat cleared his throat.
‘Well, that’s very interesting; in fact, it’s surprising. I have never heard of the second work with the girl in it. To my knowledge, there is no mention of it in any of the records your mother kept or, for that matter, no record of it by the galleries, or in her framer’s records. So, rather than considering what’s not in the painting, why aren’t we looking at what is in it that suggests this could still be an Elaine Tyson? I mean, you said it yourself: the brushwork, the styling, the colour combinations, and even that unusual way she does clouds…and, of course, it is Vue de Mer.’ The Alley Cat nodded again, and used his hands, as if the words needed tactile support. His glance quickly moved from Alexander, to Geraldine, to me, and back to Alexander.
‘Yes, Leonard, I understand what you’re saying but, as you know, she never painted the same subject twice and, if I had not been around at the time, I would not have even believed that the works existed. I would not have believed there were two paintings in the same garden, with the same girl. I can’t imagine what would have motivated her to paint two such similar paintings but, the fact is, I saw them and I would have known if there was a third. I just don’t believe there was.’
The Alley Cat spoke again. ‘You know, it’s a pity we don’t know who that young lady is, well...’ He nodded as he calculated, and raised one finger in the air. ‘She wouldn’t be so young now, I guess maybe in her thirties, maybe even forty-ish? I recall from a discussion about L’enfant Perdu we had several years ago, that you were not sure of who the young lady was.’ He turned towards Geraldine. ‘I don’t suppose you know, my dear?’
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