The Beloved

by Annah Faulkner

  You’re destroying our family. If you don’t leave my father alone, my mother will take my brother and me back to Canada and we’ll never see our father again. Is that what you want?

  ‘How did the art materials work out?’ she said.

  I stared at her in disbelief. Art materials?

  ‘The pencils and brushes you took to Canada.’

  Oh, Canada . . . yes. Let me tell you about Canada. Or better still, wait six months until I’m there and I can write and tell you all about Canada. I can tell you . . . Where were my words?

  She stepped out from behind the counter. Her skirt was shimmering bronze and green, her sandals strappy, her legs smooth. ‘I’m glad you came, Lindsay.’

  I stepped back, bumped into the door, felt for the handle and turned it. Hot air loosened my tongue. ‘Leave my father alone!’ I fled, clip-clopping along the footpath like a draught horse. At the bus-stop I fell onto the seat, nursing a pain so deep I couldn’t find the bottom of it. Helen Valier. Floozy. Strumpet, hussy, tart, woman of the . . . The woman my father . . . It made me feel sick to think about it. I didn’t want to think about it but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Once you knew something, you knew it forever.

  What I knew about Helen Valier – that Dad loved her – went everywhere with me, all the time. All day, all night, like dog shit on my shoes. It was my first thought in the morning and my last at night. It ate with me, swam with me, wormed its way into my dreams and stole my paintings. I painted Helen Valier like a child would, bloodying her with horns and teeth, then obliterating her with mud, toothpaste, Vegemite, sardines – anything that stank or stuck. Still, she bloomed. Every day she rose in my mind and every day I smacked her down. Every day I imagined what I might say to make her go away.

  In the last week of January Tim went back to Melbourne and I was shunted off to Ela Beach School.

  I turned twelve. Mama organised an ice-cream cake and a new dress and took me to the Boat Club for dinner. Dad forgot. When Mama reminded him he looked horrified.

  ‘I’m so sorry, CP,’ he said. ‘I owe you.’

  The head start I’d gained from correspondence and school in Canada didn’t last. I hated Ela Beach School. I wanted to be back at Coronation with Stefi and familiar faces. There were only two things that made the new school bearable: Mr Pepper’s art lessons and the twenty-four plump tubes of watercolour that belonged to Mandy, the girl who sat next to me in class. The Sogeri Show was coming up, a big annual cultural event in the highlands, and Mr Pepper wanted everyone in the class to submit a picture. I did a drawing of a girl lying on the ground among fallen hibiscus flowers with her eyes closed. I crisscrossed the picture with lines and triangles to make it appear as if you were looking through broken glass. Mr Pepper nodded slowly and added it to the pile.

  When I got home that afternoon my mother was on the phone discussing travel to Canada. She waggled her fingers hello at me and went on talking. I waited for a moment, then went back down the steps and headed for Dad’s office. He had to know. He had to understand how bad things had become and get rid of that red-headed menace. A bus sat idling at the bus-stop. No-one got off and no-one got on, it simply sat there chugging, rocking a little like a dog panting. As I passed the door, I glanced up at the driver. He raised an eyebrow. I paused, pulled tuppence from my satchel and got on.

  She was up a ladder, stacking books. Sun from the window lay on her bare skin. I wondered what colours you’d have to mix to get that exact glow of pink, gold and cream. When she saw me she sighed, dusted her hands and climbed down. ‘Hello. Again.’ Her voice wobbled.

  Nervous.

  A fan whirred.

  My mother is right now making plans to take me and my brother back to Canada. We may never see our father again, all because of you. Give him up.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  She ran her hands over her skirt, smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

  ‘You . . .’ I spluttered. The words – the words – where were they? ‘You . . . you can’t paint!’

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  I said that? How could I?

  She pressed her lips together and her shoulders began to shake. I wanted to die. She clamped her hand over her mouth but the harder she tried not to laugh the more she shook. I turned and fled.

  ‘But you can, Lindsay,’ she called after me, her voice bridging the distance between us even as the door closed. ‘I’ve seen your pictures and I know how good you are.’

  I sat at the bus-stop, raging. My pictures. That floozy had seen the pictures I’d sent Dad from Canada. He’d shown them to her. How could he? What was wrong with him? What did he see in her? Mama was far more beautiful, more graceful, more . . . but it didn’t matter what Mama looked like any more, Dad had stopped seeing her. All he could see was Helen Valier.

  How good you are!

  As if I cared. The only person whose opinion mattered to me was Tempe. Did Tempe know her so-called friend was wrecking our family? If she didn’t, she soon would. As soon as I got home I grabbed a sheet of paper and filled it with everything that had happened since we got back – the fights, the origin of my name, my mother’s plans to take Tim and me back to Canada and the whole bloody lot being Mrs Floozy-damn-Valier’s fault.

  Tempe’s reply came by rocket.

  My dear Slug:

  I’m truly sorry to hear how rotten things are and that you are caught in the middle. Your parents are both good people but even good people sometimes behave badly.

  I understand your anger at Mrs Valier and am distraught to think you may return to Canada. I’m not excusing her, but Helen’s had a difficult time. Her husband died a few years ago after a dragged-out battle with cancer and Helen struggled mightily to keep things together. I imagine someone as cheerful as your dad must have made a welcome change. She is, despite her behaviour, a good person with a warm and generous heart. Try not to be too angry with her or with your parents. They love you, no matter what.

  I don’t know what to say about your name. You must have been very hurt and so must your dad but I imagine your mum gave it to you out of love. Names are precious, we don’t give the names of people we love to those we don’t. Roberta is a wonderful name but it’s your decision whether or not to keep it. Try not to get too down, my dear Slug (Lindsay). Things will not always be this bad.

  It was wonderful to hear from you despite the circumstances and I wish I were there to give you a big hug. Please write again and next time, tell me how your painting is coming along.

  With fondest love,

  Tempe

  P.S. Did you know Tempe is short for Temperance? Terrible name, isn’t it? Can you imagine anyone less temperate than me? Mothers . . . ! XOX

  So much for that. Damn Tempe and her Helen this and Helen that. The last thing I wanted to feel for that woman was pity. If her heart was so warm and generous why didn’t she give me back my father?

  Mama thumbed the strap of her camera onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll be back late this evening, seven or so, but Josie will get your supper.’

  I looked at her. Long white shorts, long brown legs. Black hair framing her flawless face. Beautiful, remote, untouchable Mother. Not even an aura to hint at what she was feeling or thinking. Everything that made her Mama had disappeared so completely I wondered if I’d ever see that side of her again.

  It felt like I was living alone. Dad was hardly ever home, Mama was somewhere else. I walked the short distance to school. Everything was cardboard: assembly, kids chattering, lessons, food. After playlunch, we had art. Mandy was using her paints like I used Vegemite. Not a clue. Her beautiful paints were wasted on her. I was drawing a dream I’d had the night before where I’d fallen over the side of a ship. Water filled my boot and pulled me down. It was scary and soothing all at once.

  Mr Pepper wandered down the aisle. He looked at my picture. ‘Dark, Lindsay. But good.’

  How good you are . . .

  I glanced over at M
andy’s drawing. A house, a footpath, trees that were circles on stalks. The painting of a six year old. The best paints in the world couldn’t make you an artist. At lunchtime, when Mandy scrambled for the door with everyone else, she bumped her desk, scattering tubes everywhere. I stared at the rainbow on the floor, then slowly picked them up, one by one, and put them into my satchel. They would be safe with me.

  The afternoon was half gone before Mandy realised her paints were missing, then she screeched like a parrot. ‘My paints! My paints have gone.’

  Mr Pepper put down his chalk. ‘All right, Mandy. Can anyone enlighten us?’

  No-one answered. My heart thrashed around in my chest.

  ‘Someone knows where they are,’ he said.

  Silence.

  ‘I’m sorry but you’ll all have to lift your desk lids.’

  Our bags would be next. I’d be found out. I was a thief. I’d be expelled. What then? What would my mother do? Take away my art things, that’s what she’d do. It was what she always did. But it wasn’t only my art things. It was the thought of losing Mama; whatever small part of her I had left. I was so scared I couldn’t swallow.

  Mr Pepper didn’t search our bags. There wasn’t a reason in the world why he shouldn’t have but he simply said he expected the paints would resurface very soon and Mandy shouldn’t worry. And they would have, but I couldn’t get them back to her without her knowing I’d taken them. I would have to wait until Monday.

  When I got home I sat on the back steps and tipped the paints into my lap. I frightened myself. Who was I?

  ‘Where did the paints come from?’

  Mama!

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The paints – where did they come from?’

  ‘What are you doing home?’

  ‘I live here,’ she said. ‘For now, anyway.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be home until late.’

  ‘Well I’m here now and I’m waiting for an answer.’

  ‘I . . . a girl at school lent them to me.’

  ‘Lent them to you?’

  I nodded.

  Mama was silent for a while. I could feel her thoughts swirling. ‘Please, don’t . . . don’t, for God’s sake, tell me you stole them.’

  I shook my head.

  She grabbed my arm and hauled me up. ‘You did, didn’t you? You stole them.’

  ‘Mama . . .’

  ‘You’re a thief.’ She flung off my arm and held out her hand. ‘Give them here.’

  I wanted to hit her hand, to smack it so hard she’d howl with pain. I wanted to grab it, press it against my face. I wanted Mama. I filled her hand with paints.

  ‘You fill me with shame, Lindsay.’

  When Dad came in she pointed to the kitchen counter where the paints lay in a heap. ‘This little cache,’ she said, ‘is what art has done for Lindsay. It’s made her a thief. Are all artists thieves, do you think, Edric? Or just your daughter and your mistress?’

  Dad shoved his hands in his pockets and went out. Again.

  The room was stifling. Rust-coloured curtains blotted the sun and in another room a wireless pipped ten o’clock. A picture of Jesus was skewered to the wall and beneath it: For God so loved the world . . .

  Mandy’s mother looked confused. The bag in my hand had wilted with sweat. The paints felt like lead. Everything felt like lead.

  ‘Well?’ said my mother.

  I lifted my arm. ‘Yours,’ I said to Mandy.

  She peered inside the bag. ‘My paints! You took them?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shook my head. ‘They’re better than mine.’

  She tossed them on the couch. ‘Why didn’t you ask me, Lindsay? I’d have lent them to you.’

  Lent them to me?

  ‘You can use them whenever you want. Just ask next time, okay?’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Mandy,’ said Mama, ‘but there won’t be a next time. Lindsay doesn’t need paints any more; she has to concentrate on schoolwork. She’s already a year behind and slipping further. There’ll be no more art.’

  And there wasn’t. Not even at school. My mother told Mr Pepper to set me exercises in maths while the others had art.

  Headlines in the South Pacific Post a few days later announced the death of Sam Guyton, aged forty-six. He was killed when he drove off a cliff on his way down from the highlands after a ‘social event’. It didn’t say he was probably drunk to the eyeballs. It didn’t say how many drunk white people had done the same thing. Sam Guyton had been a business associate of Dad’s and a friend of both my parents.

  ‘I’m going to the funeral whether you like it or not,’ my mother told Dad.

  ‘Of course you are,’ he said. ‘We’ll go together.’

  Her shoulders, hunched for a row, dropped.

  ‘Poor chap,’ Dad said.

  ‘At least he didn’t have family.’

  Dad paled, but my mother simply looked sad. They went to the funeral, fights on hold. Seeing them together made my heart ache, even if their anger with each other had turned to anger with me.

  At least Mandy wasn’t angry. I’d gone to school on Monday expecting that she would tell the whole school about me stealing her paints but she didn’t. I hovered by her desk before lunch, wanting to say thanks. She waggled a finger at me.

  ‘Now Lindsay, you’re not going to pinch something else while my back’s turned are you, or will I have to hide everything?’ She giggled. ‘Don’t look like that. I’m joking. You won’t do it again.’

  ‘How do you know I won’t?’

  She smiled slyly. ‘I stole something once, a pair of thongs from a boy in grade four because Mum wouldn’t buy me any.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He found out and said if I didn’t give them back, plus my whole collection of cereal cards, he’d report me. So I gave him back the thongs and all my beautiful cards. But, I said if he told anyone about the thongs, I’d tell everyone he stole my cards.’

  I felt a smile tugging at my mouth; I’d almost forgotten what it was like. ‘Clever,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d caught me instead of my mother.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Mandy. ‘I’d have made you give me your fountain pen. Next time I will.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  I felt her before I saw her.

  The room was full of radiant, swaying light. Shards of quartz, unearthed from the bottom of my marble bag, danced rainbows on the walls of my room. I was sitting on the floor, twirling the crystal chips in the light from the window, when I felt something that stilled my heart. I turned. She stood in the doorway, a glass of whisky in one hand, a card in the other. The air twanged with strange electricity.

  ‘No end to your talent, is there, Lindsay? You know, changing your name was probably a good thing because frankly you don’t deserve the name Roberta.’ She dropped the card on the floor and twisted it with her heel. ‘First-class artist, you reckon. Certainly top in the art of deception. Now, let’s find your stash.’ She yanked a drawer from my dressing table and upended it, spilling knickers, socks and hair ribbons over the floor.

  ‘Mama, what’s wrong?’

  She whipped around so fast whisky sloshed over her hand. She raised a damp finger. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  I tried to imagine what I’d done, what might be on that card. She wrenched out another drawer and dumped it upside down on the bed, scattering tee-shirts and blouses. Another drawer – nighties and bathers, and another drawer and another. She paused to swallow a mouthful of whisky and ripped open the last drawer containing my paints, brushes and pencils.

  ‘Bingo!’

  She went to the wardrobe and began chucking things out like Snifter digging a hole. Games, books, boots, photos, every smock on every hanger. When it was empty, she took another swig of her drink and looked around. ‘I think that about covers everythin
g.’ She stepped over the mess and picked up the drawer with my art things. As she went to the door she skidded on a marble, put out her hand and dropped the glass. It smashed among the crystal shards and the sharp smell of whisky filled the room. ‘Clean up this mess,’ she said. ‘Playtime’s over.’

  I sat among the chaos, staring at the empty doorway. After a while I leaned over and picked up the card. A piece of glass speared my hand. I pulled it out and blood dripped onto the card. I turned it over.

  Sogeri Show 1960, School Art

  First Place

  Lindsay Lightfoot

  Ela Beach School

  Last weekend, the Sogeri Show. I’d forgotten about it. First prize. Most mothers would be proud. Not mine. Inside I was crumbling; I’d have to learn to accept that I’d never make her happy.

  But, deception? No way. I’d done nothing wrong.

  In the kitchen Mama was pouring another whisky.

  ‘Mr Pepper put our entries in three weeks ago,’ I said. ‘You only banned art last week.’

  ‘You entered without my permission and behind my back.’

  ‘But it was for school.’

  ‘No, it was for you. This whole wretched art business is for you and it’s turned you into a thief who can’t be trusted and it is over with, do you understand?’ Mama’s eyes glittered. ‘If I find so much as a pencil among your things, God help you.’

  ‘But Mama . . .’ I stared at her. There it was again, that strange electricity coming off her, like colour, but not colour. It was more like a feeling; a feeling of . . . doubt. Yes, doubt. She wasn’t sure she was right. She rinsed a dishcloth and wrung it out so tight her knuckles went white.

  ‘You know I didn’t go behind your back, Mama. You know I’m telling the truth.’

  She turned to me, her mouth wide with disbelief. ‘How dare you lecture me about truth?’ She threw the dishcloth in the sink, took a mouthful of whisky and went to the cane table that held her typewriter. She sat down and began to type, stabbing the keys so fiercely the table shook. I watched her, feeling the gulf between us becoming so wide I wondered where it would end.