‘I think I need a sandwich; what do you recommend?’
‘The roast beef, lovey. It’s real tender. Why don’t you have it with chutney, tomato and lettuce on wholemeal bread?’ She stood expectantly, confidently, almost defying him to choose otherwise.
‘You’re the boss, do it!’
She laughed as she said, ‘So, just the one sandwich then? You’re not buying one for your sister?’
CHAPTER 38
‘Leonard, I’m meeting friends for dinner in an hour, I don’t have time.’
‘I hear you, Carter. I promise I’ll be there in ten minutes and gone in twenty, and I won’t bother you while I’m there. It’s just that I had this idea the first time I visited, and I forgot to follow up the other night because Alexander sort of took control and didn’t even ask me my thoughts – well, not really, anyway! So, I won’t keep you, I promise.’
Fifteen minutes later, I opened the door to a serious-looking Alley Cat. He quickly stepped forward, keen to enter.
‘Come in, Leonard. You know where to go.’
I stepped onto the veranda and took the opportunity to reassure myself it was still the same planet. I rested my hands on the peeling green paint of the railing. Its grainy feel reminded me that it was another domestic task for the list. I knew I should buy some paint but I’d always been hopeless at choosing colours; that had been someone else’s job. I looked left, then right. Things seemed as they were last time. No joggers.
I entered the lounge room and saw a moving beam of light. My barely invited guest was holding a torch in his left hand. He was close to the painting, in a pose I had seen before, but now he was moving fraction by fraction, considering every angle. Then he stopped, and appeared totally absorbed, as he crouched low down to the left of the painting, his face almost touching it. The torch was next to his cheek and throwing a beam of light across the width of the canvas. Then he stood on his tiptoes and looked down, his face still close to the painting, the torch aimed at something. Then he moved quickly to the right-hand side; similar positioning, same examination. ‘Yes, yes, by golly, I’m right,’ he said slowly.
‘And what would you be right about, Leonard?’
The Alley Cat jumped, fumbled his torch. ‘Carter, yes. Ah-humph, good, come over here, my boy. Tell me if you see what I see, or is it wishful thinking on my part?’
Again, he slanted the light over the width of the painting. He manoeuvred me to where he wanted me and told me to look where the beam shone. ‘Look at the swing carefully, I mean the wooden seat on the swing. Look at where a figure would be placed if they were sitting on it… know what I mean? Now, what do you see? Is it my imagination or is the paint different?
I looked, but it all seemed the same. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Keep looking, it’s something you need to see – I mean, rather than me telling you. I want you to tell me if you think the surface of the painting is the same all over.’
I concentrated hard, my face at one stage touching the painting. I repositioned my line of sight several more times and then, at one of the angles, I noticed a variation. ‘Yes, around the base of the swing, there seems like a ridge of paint or something; a change of texture.’
‘Yes, yes, exactly, and you know why I think it’s there, Carter?’
I shook my head cautiously.
‘I think it’s been changed, repainted. Somebody has painted over something.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Well, we can’t be sure of that, but my guess is there was something,’ he paused, and then, in a voice that reminded me of Boris Karloff in an old movie, said, ‘or someone, on that swing they wanted to remove. And when it’s already on the canvas, my boy, you can’t rub it out, and you can’t just ask the subject to walk away, so you either discard the canvas…or you paint over it.’ He was almost twitching. ‘But you do see it, don’t you, Carter?’
With that, I went through the procedure again, from every angle. His anticipation was like a sporting crowd awaiting a crucial umpire’s decision. ‘Yes, I have to say it’s different in the spot where someone would be if they were sitting on the swing. There’s a sort of bump there, on the surface of the canvas.’
‘Bump… that’s precious, we might have a new term in the lexicon of art techniques.’
‘Let me get this straight, Leonard. You’re saying that when this was painted, there might have been someone, or something, on that swing and then the artist, or someone else, has painted over it?’
‘Yes, my boy, that’s precisely what I am saying.’ His head was nodding rapidly, like a child saying yes to chocolate.
‘But who would have done that? Surely no one would…I mean, if it’s a real Elaine Tyson, no one would dare...or are you saying it means it’s not an original?’
‘Carter, as I’ve said before, I think the odds are in favour of this being real. Alexander says no. He may have his reasons but the one he gave was that, according to his memory, there should be a girl in the painting. So, I figured the most logical place for the girl to be was on the swing, and now I think the girl just might be sitting patiently on that swing, underneath a coat of paint.’
My breathing became quicker, as occurred to me that maybe Maxine had been lost twice. I could never get her to come back from her second departure, but a younger her might return, in a small way?
‘You’re smiling, my boy. It makes you happy?’
‘Well, yes, I guess it does make me happy. But who would have done it, and why?’
‘Yes, that’s the big question. It could have been anyone who may have had this work in their possession, but, importantly, Carter, whoever did this repaint did it well, so…’ He paused, then pointed at the canvas theatrically. ‘We have to consider that it might have been done by Elaine herself.’
‘But why would she?’
‘As I have already said, Carter, I have no idea, but I do have an idea about what we could do. Let’s get it X-rayed.’
‘X-rayed?’
He raised two hands defensively. ‘Carter, it’s an option, that all; we don’t have to, it’s up to you.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘No, I can’t do it myself, but I have friends at Melbourne University who can without much bother, and it won’t take long.’
I felt confused. I shuffled across to one of the lounge chairs and sat heavily. Why was I hesitating? The painting would still be mine, ours, no matter what we find.
‘I guess we should. I mean, we don’t have much to lose, do we?’
‘Carter, it’s not about me. Of course, I want to find out as much as I can, but maybe you have something to lose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I really don’t know, but your hesitation concerns me; you need to be a willing participant. As excited as I am about this painting, you have an even greater attachment, a greater emotional investment, and it’s saying something for me to admit that.’
I knew he was right.
CHAPTER 39
The Grand is a good pub, which serves a decent meal and has a fair wine list and an old, solid bar that deserves to be leant on. With a smile, I wondered if Joy still worked there. No way, it’s got to be ten years. After the weightiness of the last hours, I enjoyed the delicious carelessness of my memories. My past is not littered with one-night stands and those I had were well before I met Maxine. And there had been only one with a barmaid. Lawrence had been so jealous, so dirty with me when it happened; he had had serious fantasies about Joy. I thought that I wouldn’t bring it up but I would lay down money he would. I will cop shit and give it back. I pushed the heavy door, and felt the onslaught of noise, heat and people; it was great.
‘Yeah, well, I suppose seven-thirty is almost seven. You haven’t seen me for eighteen months and you still can’t get here on time – good on you, mate.’
I e
njoyed the honesty of Red Eric’s welcome. I put out my hand to shake his large paw, but he ignored it and took me into an embrace. ‘I would have come back for the funeral if I’d known, mate, but I was about five hundred kilometres inland from Broome. It was almost three bloody weeks before I heard.’
The music inside the Grand was loud and his lips were almost touching my ear. He pushed me back, looked at me, his eyes penetrated, his expression supporting his words. This big man, with a gridiron helmet of red curly hair and freckles to match, had stored this up. I guess I hadn’t thought too much about his whereabouts in those lost months, when I was treading water, waiting for the pain to find some other place to reside. I wiped at the tears in my eyes. The place they came from should have run dry from months of overuse. I’d forgotten the seeds will always lie just below the surface. He saw my eyes and pulled me into another hug. As he did so, Lawrence quickly turned away and buried his mouth in his beer glass.
‘I only met her a couple of times, mate, but she was a great lady, hope you got my card.’
I held his second embrace, and did not wish to show my tears. I used the shoulder of his denim shirt to wipe my eyes, then released him again. I nodded, managed to say thanks. Lawrence had finished his glass, and I grabbed it, welcoming the diversion. ‘Must be my shout.’
‘No way, bullshit, you just got here. It’s mine,’ said Lawrence.
‘You’re both crazy,’ said the face under the red hair, ‘it’s mine.’
But I was quickest, and left them both standing. I needed the anonymity of the bar.
Eric’s travels as an engineer in the remote parts of Australia and his stories of outback characters and rough living meant he entertained Lawrence and me for hours. I laughed until it hurt as he told the story of a miner who fell asleep in an outback toilet and was stuck there until the mob returned, twelve hours later, from a day of work.
He told one story that I did not laugh at.
‘There was this one bloke, an Aboriginal, at first we thought he was as mad as a bloody cut snake. He used to just take off, and when we asked him where he’d been, he said he was chasing himself. He’d say, “I hear me call, so I go walkabout until I see me, then when I see me, it’s all bloody good again, no worries.”
‘He usually came back the same night but one time he was gone for two days. Came back as if nothing had happened. When we asked if he caught himself, he just smiled and said, “A bit of me, the rest is still out there.” We called him Shadow, reckoned that’s what he was chasing.’ His big frame shook as he laughed, his red hair moving in the opposite direction.
‘What happened to Shadow?’
‘Oh jeez, let me think; last I heard, he was still working for the gang. He was a good worker, sort of an interesting bloke, you know; somehow, he kept his dignity, despite all the shit they hung on him, doesn’t get into the grog like a lot of blokes up there. In fact, he was a fairly popular bloke, you were always happy to have him in your work team. Good old Shadow, what a character.’
I nearly told him about my episodes of self-sightings, but Eric was enjoying himself too much. It wasn’t the time for one shadow to replace another.
Once or twice, Lawrence vanished from the conversation. Even as a boy he did it, and I’d figured he must just easily get bored. I now knew that wasn’t the case. I knew he could display amazing awareness of what was happening to the people around him. I had first noticed it in the workplace, where he was always ahead of the rest of us but used his ability to no particular advantage. So often he sat, vague and dispossessed, apparently unaware of his surrounds. Then, for some reason, he would change. He reminded me of an old radio that would go silent until someone gave it a whack on the top and suddenly the music started, loud, clear and melodic.
At the funeral, I was surrounded by family and friends I had known longer than Lawrence, but he was on another level, watchful and aware, always a moment ahead of me. It was as though he had seen the movie before. Twice I stumbled, once due to grief, once due to concentration, and both times he was there to catch me. Afterwards, as people came to me to express their sympathy, I was in a fog. I was trying to make sense of their sympathetic words, to share their sense of loss, but I couldn’t, they were speaking a language I didn’t know. But he knew it, he fitted people into the matrix of mourning, whispered their names to me when I was oblivious, entered the conversation when necessary to ease my torment, and somehow found my words.
I’d decided I must give a eulogy, that it was proper, there were things only I could say, and I walked the strange path to the pulpit and looked at the sea of familiar faces, each straining under the force of grief, like wheat trying to stand tall in a strong wind. But the wind was too strong, and I bent against its power. I now know what I wanted to say could not be said by me at that moment, and maybe never. Seamlessly, Lawrence appeared at the right moment, he somehow made sense of my scribbled notes and finished the eulogy clearly, succinctly and with controlled emotion. It was only in the weeks after the funeral that I came to realise what he had done. I wanted to ask him how he had known, been so aware, so composed. But that question was still on hold.
But now, on a relaxed evening at the Grand, he was switched off, as if the noise and humanity of the room made him into a mere spectator. Perhaps Lawrence existed in a world where his priorities were always clear to him, where he was aware of what the rare things were that required him to don his Superman suit and win the day. I don’t understand his list of priorities, but I appreciate it.
He had a habit of holding his glass high, just under his chin, his hand right around it as if it was precious. I tried to follow his gaze to see what he was looking at; they moved far and wide but soon settled on one person: a tall brunette in a tight T-shirt. She had long hair, which she tossed self-consciously, giggling enthusiastically at every word spoken by her shorter blonde girlfriend. They both seemed intent on pretending they were not aware of the many looks they gathered. The possibility that Lawrence might approach them was as slim as the chance he would tell Red Eric the story of the man he knew who had seen himself.
I decided it was time to stir him. I moved in front of him, gulped my beer, ran my hand through my hair as if I was straightening it and said, ‘OK, mate, get up, let’s go. Do you want the tall brunette or the blonde?’
‘What…them two, you’re joking.’
‘No, what’s the point of just looking, mate? Let’s give it a go; come on, finish your beer.’
‘What…we just walk over?’
‘No, mate, we get a bloody rickshaw…yes, we just walk over. Come on.’ I took a step in their direction.
‘We can’t just go over… Look, you go, and I’ll come over if you’re doing any good.’
‘Lawrence, there’s two of them. I know I could handle both of them, no worries, but they won’t know that. We’ve got a better chance if there’s two of us, so come on.’
‘Aw, get stuffed, we don’t stand a chance.’
‘Look around, mate, there is not a better-looking bloke than you in this room. So, what we’ll do is, buy them a drink, we impress them with the old charm, and then we invite them back to your place, because I haven’t cleaned my place. OK, so that’s the plan, you right with that?’
‘What, my joint…bullshit, you’re joking, we can’t do that… no, mate, no way, we can’t…’
By then, Eric had laughed so hard that he fell off his bar stool, spilt his beer and dragged the stool down with him. I laughed until I was doubled over. Lawrence’s eyes narrowed as they moved from Red, to me, and back again. He shook his head and tried to hide his toothy half grin behind a façade of indignation as he said, ‘You can both get fucked.’
I tried to hug him but he pushed me away, with a look of disgust that was as false as my planned approach to the ladies. I knew I would hear about this for days, and also knew the value of the bullshit that flows between friends.
I slept badly, my dreams, oiled by beer, jumping around haphazardly, as if someone was choreographing my subconscious, moving it around with a television remote control, switching channels before anything made sense. In one, I was playing golf with Lawrence, and I don’t even like the game. He laughed at me derisively when I missed a hit, then turned to shake hands affectionately with another golfer, who I realised was Warwick. Their laughter grew louder and I was insulted. I threw the golf club away and turned angrily, only to find myself in a ballroom. It was large, and irregular in shape. The roof seemed high, almost out of sight, and the large walls were covered with paintings that were all variations of a girl on a swing. Then I was dancing with someone I didn’t recognise, then someone else moved in to dance with me, and then loud rock and roll suddenly filled the room, and I was dancing with Maxine. My heart surged. I tried to speak, but I was out of breath and the music was too loud. I reached out, took her in my arms and tried to kiss her, but she twirled out of reach, then smiled and kept twirling away from me. I tried to follow and yelled to her to come back, and felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned anxiously, only to see Hannah. She grinned sarcastically and I realised she had no clothes on. I yelled at her to piss off, I was gasping for breath, furious, trying to find Maxine again. Then, awake, I sat up, my knees at my chest.
I swore, shook my head and kept gasping for breath. I was shaking. I swore again, the words hitting the ceiling and bouncing back. I jumped out of bed, awash with frustration. I scratched my head hard, looked down and saw I had an erection. I tried to laugh but couldn’t. I could hear Maxine. I looked at the bed; someone was there.
I woke up. It took a moment to be sure I had; hadn’t I been awake already? No, this was reality. At first I was confused and frustrated, but then anger became my major emotion. I tried to fight it but it hit harder than me and had more stamina. Eventually, exhaustion won and sleep rescued me again. It was late when I next woke. I stared at the ceiling and recalled the absurdity of my dreams; there was no upside. I edged out of my bed, like someone checking the temperature of water before diving in. Soon I was lacing up my jogging shoes.
A Change of Texture Page 17