The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “We were told you’re an artist,” she said, her voice moderate and not like her husband’s harsh accent. Carlo’s moment of astonishment delayed his reply.

  “A painter,” Thompson said as though the word artist needed clarifying.

  Their knowledge was like a shock, for he could hardly believe one of his three mates had revealed this to Thompson. Yet who else could it have been?

  “Cat got your tongue, has it?” he asked with his customary hostility.

  “I’m a student artist,” Carlo replied, speaking directly to his wife. “I was just surprised that you knew this.”

  “One of the marine guards on the ship told my husband, who was in Sydney the day after you docked,” she said. “He went on board and saw your portrait of the ship’s captain.” She glanced at her husband and then gave Carlo a fleeting smile. “Tommo thought it was very good.”

  “Let’s get to the nitty-gritty,” said Thompson impatiently. “Don’t want him getting more big-headed than he is already, babe.” He turned his gaze back to Carlo. “The thing is, the wife wants you to paint her picture. Forget we had a brush at the station, that’s history. She’s keen about it and I’m agreeable. We might even cough up a few quid if it’s any good. Well…what do yer say?

  “I don’t know. I’d like to think about it,” Carlo answered, and knew it was the wrong reply as soon as he’d spoken.

  Thompson’s face started to flush. “What the fuck does it mean— yer don’t know? Why don’t yer know, and what the bloody hell is there to think about? I mean, she wants a bloody picture, so don’t stand there like a spare prick at a wedding. Get on with it. No friggin’ need for any thinking, as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Tommo,” his wife said, “it might be best if you let Carlo and me discuss it.” She looked at him for confirmation. “It is Carlo, isn’t it?” When he nodded, she said, “You’re busy with the place, pet. Why not leave it to us?”

  “I don’t like his tone, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t see much wrong with it,” she tried to say, before he interrupted.

  “Well I bloody do! We can’t have flamin’ Eyeties carrying-on as if they own the fucken joint.”

  “But he wasn’t really…” she tried to say, but he interjected again.

  “You’re too easy-going, babe. After all, he’s nothing special. Just a bloody dago who couldn’t fight, picked the easy option and surrendered. He don’t bloody-well know, he says. Don’t you realise that’s like telling us to get stuffed? I’m not taking that shit from anyone.” He was talking to his wife, but kept his eyes fixed on Carlo, speaking about him as if he wasn’t even there.

  “Why the hell doesn’t he know? And why should he think about it? I’ll be the one who thinks—I think I’ll stick him on a harvester and make him work till he fucken drops. Either he does your picture, just the way you want it, or he’ll wish he never spoke like that. Think about it, will he? Be buggered if I’m gunna stand bullshit like that from a wop!”

  It was time to take a chance, Carlo thought, to gamble on the wife, who seemed sensible. This raving and fractious loud-mouth was almost out of control. Rude, interrupting whatever she said, as if only his opinion counted.

  “Of course I have to think about it,” Carlo summoned a tone as brisk as he could get; anything else was a waste of breath in response to an insensitive oaf like Thompson. “Because that’s what artists do. They don’t just slap colours on a piece of canvas—they think about it first! That’s what I did when I painted the ship’s captain, and the same when I painted a second portrait of him—so he could give it to his secret girlfriend in Liverpool. And I went through the same process when I painted pictures of his officers and half the crew.”

  At least he’d shut him up for a moment, and his wife was keenly watching, her eyes flickering between him and Tommo, as if she’d never seen anyone talk back to this thug before. Carlo knew he had to keep going while the bully was still silent.

  “I’m trying to point out, Mister Thompson, a simple fact that eludes people. No painter says ‘yes’ to an assignment without thinking. I’d be a fool to take on the portrait of a good-looking woman like your wife, without giving it proper thought. It would be an insult to her. She deserves better. Please…” he said, as Thompson seemed about to interrupt, “no artist takes on such a project without discussion. Not between you and me—but between me and Miss Tiffany, if I can call her that. There’s only two of us involved in this, the painter and the portrait—that is, if you’ll stop making threats, so your wife and I can have a serious heart-to-heart without interruption.”

  He stopped then, feeling sure he’d overdone it; any moment the ex-boxer might reply the only way he knew, by swinging punches. He was saved by a gust of laughter from Tiffany that drew the attention of them both.

  “Did the captain truly have a girlfriend stowed-away in Liverpool?” she asked.

  “He certainly did, Miss Tiffany,” said Carlo. “Even showed me a photo of her, as well as a snapshot of his wife.” He improvised on this fiction, hoping she was smart enough to catch on—and to his relief she did.

  “Probably asked you who was the best looker of the two, did he?”

  “How did you guess?” Carlo asked.

  “Women’s intuition,” she replied. “Made you the judge, the old rogue. So who was the prettiest, Carlo?”

  “It was a close contest.” He could see Thompson frowning, but he was at least listening to this exchange. “I had to be tactful. After all he was the captain. So I said the wife won—in a photo finish,” he added, remembering this racecourse phrase he’d learned in England.

  “Photo finish!” Thompson exclaimed. “Where’d you latch onto that?”

  “At the races in Hampshire,” Carlo said, improvising quickly and hoping Thompson would misinterpret it, which he did.

  “Trust the Poms. Bloody POWs at the races. That sure as hell won’t happen here, sport.”

  “I don’t think he meant…” Tiffany started to explain and again was not allowed to continue.

  “Hang on, luv, while we get this sorted.” He turned to eye Carlo. “Well, you got a fucken lot to say for yer’self, but it’s up to the wife.” He looked at Tiffany with a shrug. “Do you really wanna go on with this shit, doll?”

  “I might,” she said cautiously. “I’d at least like to discuss it.”

  “If you’re sure,” he answered, with a visible lack of enthusiasm that she seemed not to notice.

  “You’ve got a busy afternoon with those elite vines, Tommo. While you take care of that little matter, we can have a serious talk about portraits.”

  There was something about this remark that made Thompson grimace at her, as if trying to convey a message. Like some kind of warning. ‘Or am I imagining things?’ Carlo wondered. ‘With this bastard,’ he thought, ‘anything is possible.’

  SIXTEEN

  If Carlo felt the arrangements about painting the portrait had been settled, he soon discovered it was premature. Their private meeting after Thompson had left them alone seemed to consist of problems, beginning with a dispute over whether he could work as a prisoner-of-war for her husband, while finding time to complete a portrait of her. In this discussion, she asked him to drop the label ‘Miss Tiffany’, and he admitted it had been a tactic, trying not to upset Mister Thompson more than necessary. Although she smiled at this remark he had a restless night, and when they met again the next day, after she’d suggested they think about it overnight, Tiffany seemed to be even more uncertain.

  “Do you really wish to do it?” It came as an initial disturbing question from her, the moment they were alone again.

  “Very much.”

  “Are you sure? Not ‘just thinking about it’, like you said yesterday?”

  He tried to explain. “I could see your husband was against it. Hence my rant.” It produced no reply, so he hesitated then asked, “Has there been some sort of change overnight, Tiffany?”

  “He thinks you only wa
nt to do this for one reason, to avoid any hard work. So please tell me the truth.”

  “The truth is I grew up on hard work, but I really miss painting. I would have been at the Villa Medici in Rome, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but I won a scholarship there. Instead I was hijacked for the army and then captured. That’s the absolute truth. I’ll do my share of hard work when this is over, but I would like to paint you first.”

  “He says you should be working like all the others, and painting me in the odd moments.”

  “I think that might produce a very odd portrait,” said Carlo, at the point of giving up.

  He saw the comment made an impact on her, but tried not to hope any longer. This had begun to feel like the prelude to another disappointment—the locked doors of the Medici over again. Would bloody-minded Tommo prevail? It seemed so, for Carlo was ordered to spend the day at work with the group repairing the cattle yard. He found himself cutting and hammering timber all day, sleeping that second night on the blanket that provided little comfort from the steel springs, with nothing resolved. He tried not to feel frustrated or disappointed, lying awake thinking about Tiffany, regretting that for one so young, rich and good looking, she seemed surprisingly timid and insecure.

  But he was proved wrong. After two more days at the cattle yard and queued up with the other workers to be taken there for a third by truck, Carlo was abruptly ordered to wait. The truck arrived to take the others and he sat wondering what would happen next. Half an hour later Tiffany arrived to collect him in her MG sports car. He learned she had confronted Thompson. He later found out it had incited a row that had raged half the night.

  “Where are we going?” he asked her.

  “You’ll need paints and brushes,” she said. “I’ve talked to a shop in town and they’re expecting us. Do you want an easel?”

  “If possible.”

  “Anything is possible!” She sounded eager but clashed the gears as they moved off. “Sorry. I didn’t have much sleep. Tommo took some convincing about this. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Can you drive?”

  “I’ve driven trucks at home. But I’ve got no licence for here.”

  “Then we’ll stop at the house,” she decided. “I’ll rest for an hour to avoid any major traffic calamity. You could do with a shower and change of clothes.”

  “What clothes?”

  “They belong to my cousin.” She glanced at him. “They should fit, he’s about your size. He’s in New Guinea, fighting the Japanese.”

  She drove the short distance to the homestead, where the interior was even more impressive than he’d imagined. There was a spacious entry hall, with a polished rosewood floor and Kirman carpets. A young housemaid was dusting, smiling at Tiffany and giving him a glance as Carlo followed her up a wide staircase. The top floor contained several large bedrooms with balconies and a corridor that led to a secluded wing with other rooms—one of them completely empty.

  “This was to be a nursery if we ever had children. I thought it might make a suitable studio, Carlo. How do you feel about that?”

  He felt almost speechless. For the first time he began to accept this was no longer an illusion. He’d been wrong. She was young and certainly beautiful, but not insecure.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. He became aware he was staring at her. “I look a mess now, but I’ll rally after a short kip.”

  “You look like a princess,” he replied. “A tired princess but I can’t wait to start putting you on canvas. Does that sound crazy?”

  Tiffany Watson had an enchanting smile. “It sounds exciting,” she said.

  The town was different to places this size in Italy, the wide streets typical of country Australia, she told him. There was a century old court house, a fine council chambers, and a dominating hotel that instantly took Carlo’s attention with its impressive architecture and ornamental upstairs balconies.

  “Che meraviglia,” he murmured.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Very fine. The hotel.”

  “You see lots of them in country towns,” Tiffany said, “from the days people travelled by horse and buggy or humped their swags…”

  “Humped swags?” he asked, mystified.

  “Carried belongings on their backs. They’d stop here to quench their thirst, at least the white men did. Not the women. They drank in a back room.”

  “That seems strange.”

  “We were second class citizens in those days. Still are in some places. The Aborigines were not allowed in those pubs at all. If you’re going to ask why, it was the colour of their skin.”

  “It seems hardly fair,” Carlo said. “Weren’t they here first?”

  “That’s right,” she smiled at him. “It takes a visitor from Italy to remind us of our bigotry.”

  “I enjoy being called a visitor instead of a dago or a wop.”

  “That’s the sad and stupid idiolect of today’s true bigots,” he heard her say quietly. He didn’t fully understand what it meant, but felt he knew which bigot she was referring to as they parked and went inside.

  The art shop was small but surprisingly well stocked. There were a selection of easels, a wide variety of different sized boards and canvas, as well as oil paints in every colour. There were also frames, plain and ornamental, to be found in a storeroom behind the main shop. The owners were an elderly man and his middle-aged daughter, eager to oblige their well-known customer.

  Tiffany no longer looked tired, he realised. The restful hour had made a difference. She seemed fresh and eager, introducing Carlo simply as an artist friend. She chatted with the owners while he roamed the store to pick out what he needed. He knew he was arousing their curiosity but felt at ease in this familiar surrounding. Her cousin’s clothes were a perfect fit and he was not only refreshed from the rare luxury of a hot shower, but amazed at the events of the morning. First the room she’d cleared to be their studio. Then the startling sight of a small bedroom next door with its own bathroom.

  “Who for?” he’d asked, until remembering the ambiguities of the English language. “I mean for whom?”

  “For you,” was the astounding answer. After three years of life in army tents and filthy prison camps, with just the few weeks of shipboard solace, the thought of this comfort was beyond belief. But would it be allowed? The idea of Thompson agreeing to this was surely impossible.

  She’d noticed the gleam of hope and saw how it faded. There’d be some protests she told him but promised it was his room until the portrait was done.

  “He’ll hit the roof,” Carlo said. This was one of the few colloquialisms he knew, and it made her smile.

  “He might,” she’d agreed, “but you must let me handle that. I want the portrait to be a success and I think that is best achieved by providing you with some modest comfort.”

  He chose his purchases carefully, filling a basket with the equipment and all the paints he needed, then picking out an easel. Tiffany meanwhile had found an expensive frame but Carlo advised this could wait.

  “We’re going to need it so why wait?” she asked.

  “For a start, we haven’t settled on the size yet. But most of all, we must be sure you approve of the portrait when it’s finished. We can bring the result back to be framed. But only if you really like it.”

  “I already know I’ll like it,” she asserted, so eager that he made no further comment. She bought it, not realising the pressure this assurance had on him. Tiffany signed a cheque for the amount and the owners carried the purchases to the car wishing him loads of good luck. More pressure, he thought. ‘The news will be all over town if I fail.’ But he accepted their cordial handshakes with a smile.

  He was silent on the return trip, trying not to visualise headlines in the local newspaper: ‘Eyetie flops with his portrait of Miss Watson.’ Conscious of his silence but not knowing the cause of it, she turned on the car radio to hear an orchestra playing Moonlight Serenade followed by Ch
attanooga Choo Choo.

  “Glenn Miller,” he said, surprising her. “I heard his records on the ship. My friends in the wireless room were fans.” Seeing her look puzzled he added, “It was a special hideaway. They made me an honorary member.”

  She was intrigued, eager to know more. He told her of the night the first officer had rescued him from injury by the marine guards and the way Ted and the other two naval officers had all become friends. How they had deemed him a ‘mate’ and made a pact to meet up after the war. He began to find her increasingly easy to talk to, a keen listener, amused at how they’d smuggled him into their private space as a patient, sympathising at the dreadful conditions in the depths of the vessel.

  She was normally a fast driver in the sports car, but he soon realised she had reduced speed in order to hear more. It was the first time they’d spoken of his past, or of almost anything excepting the portrait and this suddenly created a new affinity between them. For him it was a relief from stress, for her it was a rare experience. There were not many people Tiffany could converse with apart from her husband; listening to these parts of Carlo’s life in northern Italy was like hearing about another world. She encouraged him with lots of questions and he found he was comfortable responding with the answers.

  “When did you start to paint?” she asked. He told her of his mother’s life as an artist and teacher and the fierce battle between his parents, how he had almost settled on a life between working on their vineyard and in his attic studio after hours.

  “You grew up on a vineyard!” She looked startled and quickly said under no circumstances should he let her husband know about it. When he asked her why not she seemed to become slightly evasive, saying Tommo had a particular interest in his few acres of grapes. That was when Carlo took the hint, changing the subject to make her laugh with his story about Gushing Gaston, the headmaster who’d unsuccessfully lusted after his mother. He also described his embarrassing live model test at the Villa Medici (without mention of Silvana) and the surprise at being awarded the scholarship—until the day it ended in disaster.