‘You’ve taken your time coming,’ she said.
‘I’ve had a busy week.’ Callista couldn’t help noticing the rough patches of foundation on the old woman’s forehead and neck.
‘You can take what you want,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘I just want to get rid of them.’
‘I’ll have a look then. Thanks.’
Callista backed away, hoping that’d be the end of it. But Mrs Jensen followed her down into the garden.
‘What are you going to use them for,’ the old lady asked, watching Callista going through the pile.
‘These ones that aren’t too warped will be good for frames. They come up well with a few layers of paint.’
Callista started making a separate pile of palings she thought she might take. Some were too cracked and misshapen, but many looked like they’d be okay.
‘What sort of things do you paint?’
Callista stood up and stretched her back. ‘This time of year I focus on pretty basic things for the markets. You know, beach scenes, that sort of stuff. It’s a money-spinner, keeps me going for the rest of the year. That’s what I’ll use this wood for.’
‘And the rest of the year?’ Mrs Jensen had her hands folded across her chest and was standing uphill from Callista so she could look down on her.
Callista frowned up into the wrinkled face. She really was a very ugly old woman, with those heavy features and mouth that sloped down in the corners.
‘Well, if the inspiration takes me I get going on other things,’ she said. ‘But it’s not particularly planned. Unfortunately inspiration isn’t something you can buy from a shop and use when you need it.’
Mrs Jensen sniffed. ‘What about portraits? Do you ever do any of those?’
‘I’m generally a landscape person.’ Callista bent over the pile of palings again to continue sorting.
‘We need a portrait of our minister,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘If you could do a good job we’d pay you well for it.’
Callista stood up again. ‘I’m pretty busy at this time of year. But I’ll give it some thought.’ She didn’t particularly want to paint the minister, but it was best to be polite.
‘You should give it a lot of thought. It would pay better than your market art, and you’d be making a significant contribution to the community.’
Whose community, Callista wanted to ask. But she held her tongue.
‘You should consider coming up to the church sometime to have a chat with the minister,’ Mrs Jensen continued.
‘About the portrait?’
‘No, just to chat generally. He’s a very good man. You should get to know him.’
Oh yes, it was coming. The call to religion. Callista should have known she couldn’t get away with a visit to Mrs Jensen’s house that easily.
‘Bring that Jordi with you. He could do with some help from God.’
Callista threw a few more palings on her pile. ‘I think Jordi can sort himself out.’
Mrs Jensen snorted. ‘How long has it been? Seven years? Eight?’
Callista looked at the hard line of Mrs Jensen’s mouth and thought perhaps her lips tweaked a little. Was she supposed to interpret that as an encouraging smile?
‘These things take time,’ she said.
But Mrs Jensen was persistent. ‘This minister is very kind. I think he could help to show Jordi a path away from his troubles.’
Callista concentrated on sorting palings. She was feeling hot and cross now. ‘Can we just leave Jordi out of this?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ Mrs Jensen turned to go, arms still wrapped firmly across her large breasts. ‘Do make sure you think about that portrait. We can talk more about it if you like.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Jensen.’ Callista struggled to muster politeness. ‘I’ll give you a call if I think I can fit it in.’
She watched the old lady stalk back up to the house. Old bag. Thinking she could run the lives of everyone in town. And there was no way Callista would paint a portrait of the goddamned minister. She’d rather starve.
It was Friday before Callista caught up with Jordi. She met him in the pub after the servo closed up, and tried not to grimace at the company in the bar. Friday was when everybody converged on the pub to tell stories and wash them down with beer. Callista rarely came because crowds made her skin prickle and she hated the smoke. By seven o’clock it was already beery and jovial. She noticed Jordi sitting at a bench with his Aboriginal mate, Rick Molloy. She bought three beers from Max Hunter at the bar, who smiled approvingly at her, and then she ferried the brimming glasses through the crowd.
Jordi nodded and pulled up a stool for her.
‘Hey, Callista.’ Rick was pleased to accept the beer she offered him. His white teeth flashed at her from out of his wide brown face. ‘I hear you bin breaking down a bit.’
Callista passed a beer to Jordi and sat down. ‘Just bad luck,’ she said.
‘That Kombi’s an old heap. You gotta get something better to get ’round in.’
‘I’m like you, Rick. No money.’
Rick laughed. ‘That is bad luck,’ he said. ‘Not easy to change that.’
Jordi took a few sips of his beer. The froth clung to his shaggy moustache and beard. ‘She just needs to get it serviced,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you do it for her?’ Rick asked.
‘Don’t like Volkswagens,’ Jordi grunted. ‘Barry does ’em best.’
‘Reckon Barry’d give your sister a discount.’
‘Reckon he’s sick of bailing her out.’ Jordi sucked the froth off his moustache. ‘I might have a look at it next week.’
He finished his beer quickly and glanced at Callista as he set his glass down.
‘I was up at Mrs Jensen’s place this week,’ she said. ‘She wants me to bring you up for a chat with the minister.’
Jordi tensed. ‘Why were you talking about me?’
‘We weren’t. She invited both of us up to the church, okay? To save our souls. And she wants me to do a portrait of the minister.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I was too busy.’
Somewhere in the depths of his beard, Jordi’s mouth twisted into a smile.
‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Hey, I saw Alexander at the servo the other day. Told him you were a bloody good artist and that he should give you a showing.’
Callista was glad to shift away from Mrs Jensen, even if the conversation had turned to Alexander. This was one of Jordi’s causes—to set her up for an exhibition at Alexander’s. It was hopeless of course, but Jordi wouldn’t leave it alone.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
Alexander was an art dealer from Sydney who owned a gallery off the highway south of Merrigan. According to local gossip, he’d moved south after his boyfriend died of AIDS. But there wasn’t much sympathy for homosexuality in a town like Merrigan, and Alexander was considered to be a person to be avoided. Local mutterings flared every time he came into town, which wasn’t often. And who could blame him? The way people talked was enough to make Callista’s skin crawl. But she liked his gallery. It was an extension of the large, angular wooden house he’d built on a cleared hill overlooking the sea. She’d only been in the gallery once, and had been surprised by the airiness and spaciousness. Alexander had made clever use of tall windows to cast light in shafts across the room, and the walls were carefully placed so the light wasn’t too harsh. Sure, she’d love to exhibit there one day. But right now it was beyond her.
‘I’m not good enough for Alexander’s,’ she said.
‘Yes, you are,’ Jordi insisted. ‘He said you should call him up when you want to show him your stuff. He was bloody nice about it, actually.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘he was just being polite. And anyway, I’ve got nothing to show him. The market stuff is a joke. And it’s been a tough year.’ She was gabbling and Jordi was still looking at her.
‘Get to work then,’ he said. ‘I’ve ha
lf set it up for you.’
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
Rick stood up, uncomfortable. ‘I’ll get another round.’ He slid off towards the bar.
‘Don’t worry about me, Rick,’ Callista called after him. ‘I’m leaving in a minute.’
She and Jordi sat in silence amidst the din of voices.
‘Beryl sold the house,’ Jordi said.
‘What?’
‘She sold it. Like I said.’
‘What does she think she’s doing? It wasn’t hers to sell.’
‘She’s a cow. You know it. She wanted the money.’
‘Who’d she sell it to?’
‘I dunno. Some guy from out of town.’
‘That’s just great.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So how do we find out?’
Jordi shrugged. ‘Nobody seems to know much.’
‘Well, I’m going to ask a few people some questions.’ Callista gave Jordi a five-dollar note. ‘Buy yourself another beer. I’m out of here.’
Three
When Lex finally decided to drive into town it was like breaking a spiritual communion with the sea. After the days he’d spent merging with the sky and the waves, and growing into the incessant roar of the ocean, the incinerator fire had shifted his centre of gravity and left him with a sense of being suspended in air. The only way he could ground himself was to climb into the car and drive.
He backed the Volvo off the grass, swung onto the gravel and started slowly along the pot-holed road, past the shadowy verandah of his unknown neighbour’s house, past a row of holiday houses all shut up like faces in prayer, past a scatter of kids’ bikes, and up over the rolling green hills that blended into the stringy-bark forest. Kangaroos grazed and lifted their heads to watch him pass. It was only three kilometres to the highway, but Lex felt so disconnected from civilisation it might have been three hundred.
Merrigan was a town that tourism had bypassed, despite its proximity to the coast. It was a place where people stopped for fuel or a newspaper or a quick cup of coffee on their way to the beaches further south. From the north, the highway ran into town too fast, disregarding the 80-kilometre speed sign near the caravan park on the outskirts. It passed the cemetery and the green flats dotted with Friesian cows placidly synthesising milk. To the west, beyond the farms, lay the jagged blue haze of the mountains in the dry wilderness of the national park. The final run into town was across the Merrigan River, which flowed coastward from the town and skirted south before dipping into the sea at the heads with wild desolate beaches visited only by fishermen.
Town consisted of the usual clutter of shops: a newsagency, butcher, milk bar, bank, coffee shop, real estate agent. In the middle of town, the highway took an awkward dog-leg turn and then ran past the hall, the post office, the supermarket, a few more shops, then the school and several rows of bland houses. After this it climbed a hill and that seemed to be the end of town, until the pub popped up out of nowhere, dingy and brown, followed by a small run-down cheese factory and the service station. Just before the 100-kilometre sign the church stood high on the hill, an imposing white icon frowning down on everything else.
Near the newsagency there was a sad-looking clothing shop. Lex had seen it the day he’d first cruised through Merrigan scanning shop windows for real estate. As he stepped through the door a bell jingled and he sensed stirrings down the back of the store, a shuffling of boxes.
‘Be right with you,’ a voice called out.
The store contained a collection of clothes hung on circular racks. Lex flicked through mouldy-smelling shirts— cotton and staid flannelette in red and blue checks. Not exactly his taste, but probably the local uniform. As he skimmed over a rack of football jumpers, a woman emerged from the shadows smoothing her skirt with fingers tipped by red nails.
‘Need any help?’ she asked.
She was quite a tall woman, not young, big without being fat, with strong features and a head topped by a mop of hennaed curls. Her face was carefully made up with red lips, puffs of rouge and sweeps of brown eye make-up.
‘I’m right just now,’ Lex said, feeling a flutter of tension.
Her eyebrows lifted just slightly as she took in his face and the armful of clothing he was gathering.
‘I’ll take those for you.’ She reached out and whisked the clothes from him. ‘Sing out if you want anything.’
Lex could feel her watching him from the counter. He hurried his selection, but paused at the rack of underpants.
‘Do you have anything smaller?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, luv, just Y-fronts round here. It’s all the locals wear.’
Her voice came close again as he shuffled through the packets to find something that might fit.
‘Jumpers?’ he asked.
‘Back corner, luv. Army disposal stuff.’
Down the back he found a couple of jumpers, khaki and navy blue with elbow and shoulder pads. Ugly but functional. He held some camouflage pants up to his waist to check the leg length. There’s a first time for everything, he thought, dumping his haul on the counter.
‘You starting a new wardrobe?’ she asked.
‘Got tired of the old clothes.’
‘You did? And what happened to your eyebrows? Got sick of them too?’
Lex had noticed their singed edges this morning. He must have been too close to the clothing inferno last night.
‘Burned them,’ he said. ‘Nearly burned the whole Point.’
She was looking at him, concerned. ‘It’s dry round here this year,’ she said. ‘Drought year. You could get into serious trouble for burning like that. You new around these parts?’
‘Yes.’
Lex watched her summing him up.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Are you the guy who bought my house out at Wallaces?’ She reached across the counter and offered a perfumed hand, all clinky with rings and bracelets. ‘I’m Beryl Harden.’
Lex took her hand reluctantly. He was feeling shaky and the surge in his chest frightened him. He was terrified he might grasp her hand, fold it in both of his and lay his head on her ample bosom. Right here in the shop.
‘You right, luv?’ She tugged her hand away.
Lex couldn’t arrest the flare of embarrassment on his cheeks. ‘Bit shaky,’ he said. ‘Haven’t had breakfast.’
She started ringing up the prices and folding the clothes. ‘Take care of yourself out there. There’s not too many folk around. Only old Mrs Brocklehurst and she’s none too social. They say she’s a nice old stick though. Not that she’d pass the time of day with me.’
She tucked the clothes into a plastic bag and Lex handed her his credit card.
‘Wild place, isn’t it? The Point?’ she said as he signed. ‘I used to love living out there when my husband was around for company. Too lonely and quiet on my own though.’ Beryl passed the bag to him. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll order in some men’s briefs for you. What’s your size?’
Lex flushed. ‘I don’t know.’ Jilly had always bought his underpants.
‘There’s a change room down the back.’ Beryl nodded.
When he came back, she made a note on a piece of paper.
‘They’ll be here in about a week,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you then.’
Bag in hand, Lex walked down the street for a coffee at Sue’s Café. He sat down at a small round table against the wall, sliding his hands across the plastic green-checked tablecloth. Unfortunately he was the only customer, so he picked up yesterday’s newspaper and folded it around his face, pretending to read as he glanced around the room.
A woman emerged from the rear kitchen.
‘Got a menu there?’ she called out. ‘Grab one off the table beside you.’
He leaned over and took a menu from the next table, then sat back and watched her regarding him as she wiped her hands on a tea towel. She was well rounded with a n
eat mushroom of brown hair streaked with grey. As she came forward to take his order, Lex saw that her eyes were brown too, sunken slightly in generous cheeks, and she had a wide mouth. She was thickset and sturdy, not young. He imagined she enjoyed her food.
‘Are you Sue?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s me. What’ll you have?’
‘A cappuccino, strong . . . and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich.’
‘Passing through?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m local.’
‘Not likely. I know everyone ’round here.’ She paused. ‘Ahh.’ A small smile stirred on her lips. ‘Are you the new chum out at Wallaces?’
‘Yes. I’ve only been there a few weeks.’
‘Windy out there,’ she said. ‘Too windy for me. And not enough people about.’
‘I bought the house from Beryl Harden.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Who owned the house before Beryl?’ Lex asked. ‘I don’t suppose the whaling books on the shelves were hers.’
Sue raised her eyebrows. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Those would have belonged to old Vic Wallace.’
‘Wallace? After Wallaces Point?’
‘Yes. The same. The house was in the family for years.’
‘Have the Wallaces moved on?’
‘No.’ Sue’s lips pressed flat. ‘Some of them are still ’round here.’
Lex wondered how Beryl got hold of the house. He saw Sue glance towards the kitchen. The conversation was faltering.
‘Did Vic Wallace have a bit of an interest in whaling?’ he asked.
‘More than a bit,’ she said. ‘It was his career. He took his family west to Albany to go whaling. Didn’t return until the industry was closing down.’ She moved off slowly towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll just get your order.’
Lex stared blankly into the newspaper. He was glad he hadn’t known about Vic Wallace when he bought the house. Whaling was something he’d covered on radio each year when the Japanese fleets were sailing south for their annual ‘research’ catch. It was a controversial issue. And it made for good talkback. The phone always ran hot when they ran a whaling story. Whaling upset people. And the pictures in the newspapers weren’t pretty either. Photos designed to arouse anti-whaling sentiment. Unfortunately it didn’t seem to bother the Japanese.
The Stranding Page 3