by R. L. Holmes
‘I wonder if it was him? That Dawson kid,’ Gran asks with wide child-like eyes.
My mum sighs, her impatience showing and scratches another pimple on her forehead. ‘You’re reading into all of this,’ she says with a resentful tone. ‘The murderer is not in your bloody rose book.’
Gran slams the book shut making us all jump, and creating a wind that blows gran’s scrap paper covered in names, doodles and roses off the table.
‘Where’s the Garden Witch?’ I ask changing the subject, desperate to keep the peace between the rational, logical mind of my mother and the adventurous, curious mind of my gran.
‘Ahhh, did we miss her?’ Gran opens the huge book back up. ‘You know I have never looked her up in here. I don’t even know her name.’
‘How do we find out?’
‘I’m not sure. She is pretty old you know. Your Grandfather gave her to me not long before he died.’
My right eye suddenly itches. I take a deep breath to ask the question I have asked many times before, always receiving an annoyingly dissatisfying answer. ‘How did Granddad die?’
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Gran knew this question was coming. She could tell by my mannerisms that a big question that requires a thoughtful answer is about to fall out of my mouth. ‘How old are you now, Sara?’ she asks without looking at me.
‘I turn thirteen this year.’
‘She’s not old enough,’ mum interrupts Gran’s internal debate to pick up the scrap paper from the floor.
‘I think she is actually. You don’t know her like I do. I raised her remember.’
‘How many times do you have to shove that in my face? I’m sorry okay. I’m sorry for leaving my daughter with you.’
I can see my mother weighed down by the cold, unforgiving irons of guilt. Her bony shoulders rounded by the burdens she carries, the split between this life and the other. The creative, rich nourishing world in our small town, in this pretty, yellow house, with this rambling, overgrown garden - against the struggling, stressors of life with my father, with two children that are more like him, with their excess energy, scattered in confusing directions, restless and dissatisfied.
Gran pulls my mother close, their faces only a few inches apart. She’s angry my gran, angry and fed-up with my mother’s self-defeating attitude. ‘Listen to me,’ she says in a deep, controlling tone that she only ever used on me when I’m hysterical. ‘I don’t have any regrets raising your daughter. Look at her. She has blossomed into a delightful young lady. It’s about time you dropped this attitude, or you’ll catch a cancer.’
“Catching a cancer” is a phrase Gran would use with her clients, whenever they were stuck in a negative way of thinking, dwelling on the past, or worrying about the future. You can’t really do much about either. Yet human nature enters the mind and creates big ugly, stinking wells, too high to climb out of, so we believe.
Mum nods and shares a crooked smile. One comment from my gran is not going to offload her guilt, but it would certainly help. She’s plagued by this life. She’s not beautiful like Gran, her face long and narrow and always pale, even when she’s spent the day out in the harsh sun. Her skin is prone to beak-outs, her eyes icy and suspicious and her body, bony and weak. But she gained strength since she moved back - strength in her tiny muscles, strength in her weary, doubtful mind. She’s lived many years in an unhappy relationship, weakly agreeing to her husband, my father’s, impulsive needs. She very rarely said ‘no’ to him. Her priority was keeping the family together, even when my father made decisions that were selfish or just damn right stupid and thoughtless.
She left the room. Her purple tie-dyed dress swung loosely around her narrow hips. I watch her go. She’s rubbing her eyes, so we cannot see the tears. So we cannot feel her pain. Gran decides to tell me the truth about Granddad.
¥
‘It was back in the 70’s, 1976 to be precise, ten years before you were born. The airways were filled with great artists like Rod Stewart, Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles. Not like the rubbish these days.’ She smiles and begins tapping her toes to a silent rhythm. ‘In fact your Grandfather knew the words to Bob Seger’s, Night Moves, off by heart. That was one of his favourites.’ She giggles like a school girl and clears her throat. ‘Now let me see. How did that go?’
I was too tall
Could’ve used a few pounds
Tight pants....
She blushes when she catches the embarrassment on my face, at the moment she sings tight pants. It’s bad enough she’s singing it out of tune let alone singing songs of that nature.
She clears her throat again and continues. ‘Tanny was only twelve, your age and her brother had just recently died.’
I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms in defiance, yet another piece of information that has been kept from me.
‘You’ve heard me mention Tanny’s brother haven’t you?’
‘Yes, he died as a baby you said once?’ I’ve heard the name Robert mentioned in conversations between my mother and Gran, in hazy clouds of reminiscing, the subject changing quickly whenever I showed an interest. ‘Not named after a herb?’
‘Oh yes, Herb Robert. That’s a herb, a wound healer.’ Her eyes glaze as she drifts back to a time when life was in balance, males walked the halls and help was only a phone call away.
‘Well, he wasn’t quite a baby, a little older actually. Robert was born robust with twinkling adventurous eyes like his father’s. He loved to potter in the garden with me and play with the chickens, we had five chickens and he named them all. He was such a good boy with an imagination like yours, Sara. He built a world in that back garden, with roaming, brave soldiers, wild animals and stoic kings. He was so much like you. Your mother was ten when he was born, a great surprise, as I was told by our doctor that I couldn’t have anymore after your mother was born.’
‘How did he die?’
‘A terrible accident.’ Gran clears her throat and hugs her aching arm as it gives her comfort. ‘The door at the back of my manufacturing area in the shed, led into your Grandfather’s studio. This was where he mixed paints, measured and nailed together canvases and hung the finished product to dry. He did paint sometimes in there too, but the light wasn’t the best. Your Grandfather preferred to use oil paints, as they carry such a depth of colour, but they are toxic, rather smelly and take an age to dry. We kept the door locked at all times, even when your Grandfather was working in there.’
She gets up from the kitchen table and with eyes glued to The Hypocrite, she sits on the couch facing the swirling mass of large thigh women, looping through one another. She pauses for a moment, as if he’s here, as if she can see him in this painting.
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‘On a damp, still winter’s day your Grandfather, Laurie, was ranting about a painting he was commissioned to do for the Horse Racing Society in the City. They were celebrating their 50th anniversary and asked him to paint a large canvas, about ten feet long and six feet high of an old race scene, a photo taken back in the 1930’s. They were paying him a lot of money for this, and we had bills to pay. The paint was taking an age to dry and your Grandfather was unhappy with his work. He preferred to paint from his free will, impressions of his feelings, his surroundings or whatever mood he happened to be in. He was never happy doing commissions unless they asked him to do an impression of something. But because we had two growing children to feed and clothe, he swallowed his pride and took the task on.
You need to know Sara that your Grandfather was a brilliant artist. He could paint the most difficult scenes with the most intricate colours, his light and shade and his form was outstanding. But he was a complicated man. He was easily overwhelmed, criticised his work obsessively, was never satisfied with the end result and destroyed many wonderful paintings in flights of fury.’
‘On this late winter’s day, he had just one day before the unveiling at the racecourse. It was a Friday, I remember that well. Laurie was in a rage, hurling equipment across the room scr
eaming, “The paint won’t dry!” I tried to calm him down and lured him inside for a cup of tea.’
Gran coughs and rubs her arm. This is difficult for her, re-living something she has done a fine job hiding for quite some time. ‘The kids were playing outside,’ she continues. ‘Laurie, your Grandfather had left the door open into his studio. I am not sure whether, he left it open to let some breeze in or because he simply forgot to close it. But open he left it. There was a crash. We raced outside to find young Robbie lying in a state on the wet painting. He must’ve tripped and knocked the thing down from its easel.’
Gran coughs again and complains about a sore throat. ‘Laurie flew into a rage grabbed Robbie by the arm and flung him out the door.’
Gran pauses again and drags out a pink floral handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘You see, we are not sure what his little head hit first, the garden rake or my potting bench, but he fell with a hell of a thud. It was all so fast and so violent. It was an accident of course. But the silence was deafening.
His sweet little voice and sugary giggles, gone forever.’ Gran wipes the trickling tears from her eyes.
She then chuckles under the tears, ‘And that bloody Abba!’ She wipes her eyes again and apologises. ‘Your Grandfather always had a radio playing in his studio. It was on all the time, like it is here. I suspect to keep him company. I could hear him singing sometimes when I was in the house. Singing at the top of his lungs as he mixed paint and created colours.’ She laughs again.
‘When our boy died, Abba was playing. Of all the songs, of all the bands in the entire world and my boy dies to the tune of Dancing Queen. I have hated them ever since, sends a shiver down my spine.’
Gran gathers herself together and continues. ‘Laurie fell into a terrible state after that. He felt so guilty and ashamed. He locked himself up in that studio for weeks, only coming out now and again to eat and use the bathroom. His soul was gone and then on one stormy spring night, I found him dead. He had guzzled copious amounts of paint thinner and other toxic substances. He would’ve died slowly and probably in a lot of pain. His work was all destroyed, smashed to pieces. All except this one, The Hypocrite. This, he painted for me as a farewell gift. He even smashed the bloody radio,’ she adds as if it’s relevant.
¥
All of this new information is as interesting as watching a thriller on t.v with drama and intrigue. I do not know these people, even though I am related to them. They are merely ghosts in my gran’s mind. A shiver runs down my spine as I look up at The Hypocrite painting. Something doesn’t feel right. There’s another person involved, I can feel it. The large thigh ladies begin to move, looping in and out of each other, swirls of purples and blues splash across the canvas. I see that woman’s face again. I startle. Gran looks at me.
‘What does it mean?’ I say pointing to the canvas.
‘I still have no idea,’ she said chuckling slightly. ‘Perhaps it means nothing. Although I’m sure he is referring to himself, when he named it that.’ Gran smiles warmly as good memories flood in of dances they went to together, Laurie terrific on his feet, holidays to the beach, Laurie receiving an award for his contribution to art in 1973 and another award for something similar in 1974. Times were good.
‘There is something else you need to know about that day Sara,’ Gran suddenly says, her mind hitting the floor with a thud. ‘Your mother was playing with Robbie when this happened. They were playing hide and go seek. She was counting behind the large oak we had growing where the pittosporum are now. She feels responsible you know and I don’t think she forgave herself. To me this explains the low self-esteem, the desire to please her lousy, swanning husband, even when she shouldn’t.’
She holds up her hand in apology. ‘Sorry Sara I forget you are related to your father. You are so very different.’ She rubs her throat where her tonsils are and clears her throat again. ‘I better take some thyme and Echinacea.’
I get up and gaze out the kitchen window at my mother. Sometimes she looks so lost, as if she’s waiting for a superhero to leap out of the sky and save her.
The garden is retiring, falling into its yearly slumber. The ground has become mushy and cold. Insects disappear into their hollows and hives and the foliage falls from the trees revealing what lies beyond.
‘I wonder if it is Dawson?’ Gran calls out walking back into the kitchen with an amber bottle of herbs in each hand.
‘What?’
‘Dawson. The rose. Was your friend Seth directing us to Dawson?’
I shrug. But something stirs within me, something that I cannot explain. Like the change of the seasons, I feel the change within me. She blows her nose jolting me out of my day-dreamy spell. ‘Back to the drawing board then,’ she says.
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May 1999: Saracen
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Feijoa chutney is a hit at the farmer’s market. Gran has a wonderful knack of making it tart enough to stimulate the senses, but sweet enough to dull them. It’s the end of autumn and we are in the height of harvesting the tart fruits including crab apples and making jams, jellies and chutneys. We have some summer preserve left over, but not enough to make wine or anything else. So we chose to make our business purely seasonal, working with what nature provides us with and proudly turn people away who want an out-of -season product.
The sales of the range of skincare typically shoots up as the locals skin dries in this cool windy weather, and Gran even made a cream for men, called Farmer’s Skin Cream. We didn’t sell many of those. Probably because men still like to be men.
Life carries on smoothly. The weather isn’t too bad, we have plenty of money coming in from the sales of our wares and Gran decides it was time to set her clinic up again. She continued to sell milk thistles seeds to Mr Leonard and made up herbal formulas now and again to Sergei and his fat wife, but she hasn’t been open to seeing the public for quite some time. She did need to recover, but autumn turned out to be such a traumatic season, so she postponed until June.
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June 1999: Saracen
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This month has hit us like a nuclear bomb. Mrs Derby died in her sleep in the retirement village holding a pot of Three Generations Rich Moisturising Cream; Brambles choked on a lamb chop from someone’s rubbish bag and passed away amongst the catnip; our old apricot tree caught some sort of fungi and rotted on the good side; Potts and Mrs Rennie had a big fight with Potts storming out cursing and spitting her way down the drive; mum contracted a staph infection and broke out in an insidious skin condition, her face covered in large painful lumps; and like a thunderbolt striking our household down - my father turns up broken and bruised.
Lenny Kravitz is playing in the background. He is without my brother and sister and shocked at the sight of my mum. He has lost a lot of weight, which doesn’t suit him and his hair is thinning. Gran is annoyed he turns up uninvited but lets him in anyway. He asks how we all are and wants to know if the murder has been solved yet. We shake our heads and change the subject. My father is always looking for the next escapade, the next destination which would be so much better than the last. But once he arrives at his new destination filled with hope and adventure, he soon tires, becoming restless and begins nitpicking at everything giving him a reason to move on to something better.
I don’t warm to my father. I find him too busy in the mind and too suspicious. He’s very rarely present when we speak to him, his eyes flicking this way and that, indicating a mind that runs with the wolves. I show him my drawings and paintings and he proceeds to talk about himself and some old guy he met on his travels who painted a colourful mural on a pub. I let him read my stories, but he can only manage a few lines before he proceeds to talk about himself, and some lady he met who wrote poetry in the middle of the bush while hunting pigs. He is a stranger to me.
Gran says, if he wants to stay here, he has to sleep in his car. But during the day time he lounges around in the house all day. Mum is pleased to see him, suddenly turning into a vuln
erable child, desperate for some attention.
My father is a fairly masculine man, not bad looking, has a deep amusing voice and strong warm hands. I can see why my mother suddenly melts in his presence; I can see why she stayed so long with him. His charm and curiosity are his best assets, but his restlessness and mistrust for just about everyone and everything are his downfalls.
Gran has nothing nice to say about him. She views him as a menace, selfish and unreliable, a thief that stole her daughter and spat her back when he wanted to lighten his load. He isn’t particularly good on his own though. He likes to have someone to control, someone to discuss his plans, his adventures. He likes to be nurtured and to be looked after - like when he gets too drunk and walks into lamp posts, breaking his nose, or fisty cuffs with a workmate or boss.
He has come back, my father, to steal my mother again and to take her to Australia to work on the mines, where the money is good but the hours are long.
‘Have you spoken to the kids?’ Tanny suddenly asks after some thought, her voice slightly accusing and filled with doubts.
‘Yep! I caught up with them a couple days ago.’ He sits down in Granddads squeaky chair and crosses his arms. He picked up on the tone; he’s probably heard it many times before. His irresponsible behaviour, he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. ‘When was the last time you saw them?’ he asks becoming defensive and angry.
My mother can’t compete with this one. He has won. She hasn’t seen her two older kids for months. She suddenly feels ashamed. ‘I should go and see them. It was Christmas, the last time, Christmas.’ She rubs one of her painful facial lumps. Gran scorns her instantly, saying she would make them spread if she keeps picking at them.