Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  We tap the two together, then I take a sip. Glorious. Creamy and just the right amount of bitterness mixed with the sweet. ‘Mmm. That’s the nicest one I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Good, huh? It’s imported from Holland. Though it’s horribly addictive.’

  I point at the photograph. ‘So that’s your mum?’ She shares her father’s eyes, that same cerulean blue. Johannes has them too, though his also have marbled feathers of lilac and grey. They’d be challenging to paint.

  ‘Yep. My dear mama.’ He toasts her with his cup. ‘To be honest I’m missing her — and Opa. It’s way too quiet here at night alone.’ He grins. ‘Well, was, till you arrived!’

  ‘What’s she like?’ A twinge of jealousy prods my chest.

  ‘You’d like her. She’s like Opa, only even more outspoken. A feminist and bright as hell. Actually, a lot like you, now I come to think of it. Only she’s always in control.’ His gaze scuffs over me and quickly flicks away.

  Fair enough. ‘Do you ever argue?’

  He laughs, nearly spilling his drink. ‘Hell yeah! She’s a neatness freak. Even when she’s not here I hear her nagging in my head.’

  ‘You too? I reckon Vincent and Van must live in mine.’

  It’s out before I think. God damn. I finally manage to have a conversation with him when I’m neither drunk nor hysterical and I confess to that. He’s going to think I’m bloody deranged. If he has any sense he’ll run like hell …

  The thought I might lose his friendship like a kung-fu kick right in the gut.

  10

  A weaver who has to direct and to interweave a great many little threads has no time to philosophise about it, but rather he is so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t think but acts, and he feels how things must go more than he can explain it.

  — VINCENT TO THEO, THE HAGUE, MARCH 1883

  I’M TONGUE-TIED BY THIS new awareness of my feelings for Johannes. Blood thunders through my ears.

  ‘… and she threw it on the fire!’ He laughs and I fake laughing too. I have no idea what he just said. As his laughter dies away, he sculls the last of his drink. ‘She thought it was another phase. That I’d grow out of it.’ His focus now turns inwards, brooding.

  Come on. Come on. He’s opening up. ‘So, if it was entirely up to you, what would you do?’ I cross my fingers that I’ve chosen the right tack.

  The smile returns to hover at the corner of his lips. Nice lips. Neither too thick nor thin. Their borders neatly etched. ‘Chuck in uni and sign up for a joinery apprenticeship.’

  ‘What?’ Now I’m really floundering. ‘You want to make windows and doors?’

  ‘Hell no! Like I said, I want to be creative — like you.’ When did he say that? He leaps up from the couch and crosses to a bookshelf. Picks up a wooden box and lays it in my lap. ‘Things like this. And furniture. Maybe even sculptures too.’ A blush accentuates the angles of his cheekbones. Very cubist.

  The box is around forty centimetres long and a wrist-span wide. It’s made from dark-grained wood, a dainty floral pattern inlaid into the top with mother-of-pearl. There’s a little silver handle and an inscription: Linz 1851. It’s beautiful. Tactile and mysterious. I open the lid. A tiny tatty black-and-white photo lies inside. A dark-haired woman, compelling and serene. She’s dressed from about the same era as the box.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Opa’s grandmother. Apparently this was an anniversary gift.’

  Anniversary. That seductive little word. ‘It’s lovely.’ I pass the box back to him. ‘And must have been incredibly hard to make.’

  He nods. ‘I’m trying to do something like it for Opa’s next birthday.’

  ‘Really? Can I see?’

  He pauses for a moment before he beckons me with a toss of his head. ‘Sure. Come on, it’s in my room.’

  I follow him. On the far side of his bedroom, by the window, a built-in desk spans wall to wall. One end is dominated by a laptop and a confusion of books and papers. The other is far more orderly: neatly lined tools and glues, strips of wood, small boxes filled with everything from shells to nuts and bolts. He places a wooden box onto my outstretched palm.

  ‘Wow, Johannes. You really made this?’ It’s star-shaped — six points … of course, the Star of David — each inlaid with one small pearly edelweiss. In the centre he has etched Max’s initials and gilded them: MS.

  ‘The wood’s recycled kauri,’ he says. ‘This one’s taken me about three months. My first attempt fell to pieces and the second one just looked crap.’

  ‘This one’s perfect. You should be selling these in high-end galleries.’

  ‘Nah, it’s not about the money. Anyway, I never have enough time. Between my study and helping Mum and Opa, I’m lucky if I get half an hour a night.’ There’s no resentment in the statement. He must think I’m so selfish. Self-absorbed. Maybe I am. I’ve begrudged caring for Dad a long time now.

  ‘Did you take classes to learn this?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I looked it all up on the internet. I’ve been teaching myself since I was ten.’

  I take in the contents of the shelf tucked in the corner above the desk. There are other treasures here: boxes, figurines, inlaid photo frames … some clearly a little rough but others faultless and enticing. My fingers itch to pick them up. ‘If this is what you want to do, then why on earth aren’t you?’

  He sinks onto the corner of his bed. ‘I don’t want to disappoint them all.’

  ‘How could this disappoint them? You’re bloody brilliant at it.’

  ‘I wish. Mum wants me to do law so I can earn a decent income, and Opa would love me to take after him.’

  ‘But wouldn’t they rather see you happy? They obviously value art — look at all their stuff.’

  He flops back, staring up towards the ornate plastered ceiling. ‘In my family a university degree is not negotiable. Opa sees it as the ultimate revenge on Hitler. Mum was raised with the expectation of nothing less — and now that expectation’s been passed to me. How can I disappoint him when he’s already lost so much?’

  ‘Have you talked to him about it?’

  ‘These last couple of years have been really tough for him. I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him.’

  I recall our conversation at the café. You belong at university — anything less would be a dreadful waste. Poor Johannes. I’ve only known Max a few days and, already, I’d tie myself in knots rather than disappoint him.

  ‘He thinks I should go to Ireland. See where Van died.’ I feel awkward looming over him. His desk chair’s stacked with books, so I’m forced to perch on the other corner of his bed.

  Johannes props himself onto one elbow. ‘That sounds like him. What do you think?’

  ‘Max says I should speak to Mum.’ I pull a face. ‘And you think you have parent problems.’

  ‘Families, huh?’ He smoothes a wrinkle from his duvet, the square tips of his fingers a hair’s breadth from my thigh. ‘The most annoying thing about Opa is that he’s usually right. It’s a pity Mum’s not here — what you need is a referee. She does that for her clients all the time.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And you should meet her here. It’s neutral ground.’

  ‘Thanks. I need to think it through.’ I yawn, losing the fight to hide it, and stand up before I’m tempted to lie down beside him. ‘I’d better go.’

  Johannes jumps up. ‘You don’t want another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  I go downstairs and climb into bed, my head a whirr. Here’s me, screwed over by a starvation diet too low on love, while Johannes is suffocating from too much. Though if he went against his mum and grandfather’s wishes I bet they’d love him just the same.

  I SLEEP BADLY, REST interrupted by rambling dreams — the kind that slip away just as I wake up with my heart rapping, on edge without a reason.

  By seven in the morning I’m up and showered, and my mind is set: I’ll ask Sandy to chair a meetin
g between Mum and me. If I want to reach Belfast before July the 12th, I’m going to have to move. Besides, it’s time I had a witness to the way Mum acts — and I’d rather not inflict it on Ms R — though I’m hoping Mum will be so awed by this house it’ll throw her off guard.

  It’s not too hard to organise. Sandy’s so overjoyed at being asked to help it’s cringe-making. She offers to set things up with Mum and I accept. Within fifteen minutes she phones me back, confirming they’ll meet here at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile, I find my favourite Chopin concerto in Max’s collection and turn it up full volume. It’s sweet relief but not enough. I calm my mind by touching up my painting of the hanging tree and the portrait of Van. But when the CD finishes I’ve still got an hour left to wait. Not even painting can soothe me now. I pace the house, polishing every surface until the whole place gleams, straightening cushions, picking strands of cat fur off the floor.

  Just after twelve I hear a car pull up but Sandy appears at the back door on her own. Bloody Mum. What’s she up to now?

  ‘I need to check something with you before we start,’ she says. ‘Your mother has a friend with her.’

  ‘Friend?’ It could be Lena from down the road, or Michelle from her work, or — hold on … the tension in Sandy’s face gives it away. ‘Don’t tell me she’s brought that man?’

  ‘Now Tara, before you make your mind up I can see—’

  I don’t wait to hear her bullshit. I storm around the front to where Mum’s standing by the car with him. He takes a step towards me, offering his hand. I ignore it. ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘What kind of a—’

  ‘I mean it, Mum. What I have to say to you is personal.’

  Sandy flaps her arms to calm me down. ‘Now what if we—’

  ‘You listen to me, Tara McClusky, I’m here aren’t I? You dragged me out of bloody bed, so don’t go playin’ the maggot with me …’

  The man, Brendon, steps between us. ‘Kathleen, please. I told you this wasn’t the best of times.’

  ‘If he stays, I’m out of here.’ I shout so loud I shock myself. I’m shaking uncontrollably. Can hardly stand.

  ‘You bealin’ little header—’

  ‘Kathleen. Stop!’ Brendon plants himself in front of Mum. Drops his big hammy hands down on her shoulders. ‘This isn’t right. I’m going now. I’ll meet you back at home.’

  Home? That’s cosy.

  He turns and marches down the drive. In the seething silence, Sandy steps in.

  ‘Please. This is so unproductive. How about we all collect ourselves and go inside?’

  I refuse to budge before Mum does. I’m over being the mat she uses to wipe her dirty feet on.

  ‘Kathleen?’ I have to hand it to Sandy, she’s managed to inject some steel into her voice.

  Mum points her finger at me. ‘One more outburst, missy, and I leave.’

  ‘Ditto,’ I say. I walk back around the corner of the house and go inside. Sit down on the window seat in the lounge and wait to see if Mum can swallow down her pride.

  She slinks in after Sandy, eyes widening as she takes in the beauty of Max’s home. One–nil to me.

  ‘Right,’ Sandy says once she and Mum are seated. ‘Some ground rules first. No shouting. No interrupting. No calling names.’ She addresses this last rule at Mum, who obviously has no intention of looking ashamed.

  ‘I agree,’ I say.

  All eyes on her. ‘Whatever.’ If looks could kill, Sandy would be gasping her last breath.

  ‘Excellent.’ Sandy gives a cheesy smile. ‘Perhaps it would be helpful if I summarise the reason we’re here?’

  I nod. Mum shrugs.

  ‘Very well … Kathleen, it seems Tara is struggling with the news her sister Vanessa suicided. She’d been under the false impression the death was caused by a road accident and this new revelation has come as quite a shock.’

  Quite? ‘A false impression put out by you,’ I add.

  Mum opens her mouth to speak but Sandy halts her with a raised hand. ‘Rather than playing the blame game, Tara, let’s stick to why we’re here.’ She swivels around so she’s directly facing Mum. ‘Tara’s clearly distressed, Kathleen. Her schoolwork is suffering and she’s been self-harming …’

  Shame floods my face. Pathetic. It sounds so mad. It is.

  ‘… so after a good open discussion with her yesterday she came up with what I think is a very sound suggestion. She’d like to go to Ireland to see her sister’s grave.’

  ‘Eh?’ This wipes the sneer off Mum’s face. Go, Sandy!

  ‘I understand you have family she could stay with?’

  ‘Uncle Royan,’ I say. I can’t meet Mum’s eye, and my bravado withers and dies. There’s no way she’ll agree.

  ‘And how, exactly, do you intend to get there?’ Mum asks. As I expected, the sneer is back.

  ‘My savings.’ There’s no way I’m going begging to her.

  ‘Tara’s quite prepared to spend her savings but we doubted you would want to see that happen if there was some way you could help.’

  This is so ludicrous I have a terrible urge to laugh. And yet there’s a churning, sickening need in me to see her soften. Show some love. One-a-b … two-a-b … three-a-b … Silence ticks by as Mum leaves me hanging. Nine-a-b … ten …

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it on my own.’

  ‘Hold on, Tara. You need to give Kathleen more time to think. You know finances are stretched.’

  Mum’s having none of that. ‘So you’d be wanting to hump off to Belfast while your daddy’s on his deathbed?’

  I should’ve guessed she’d play this card. ‘He’s been like this nearly six years. I’ve been home every day—’

  ‘Till now, Puss Face. Whatever you did to him that night—’ She’s up and bouncing on her heels, finding her stride.

  I turn to Sandy. ‘See?’ But I don’t wait for her to answer. ‘Whatever I did, Ma, I was there. Where were you? You say you’re out at work but who’s to say you’re not out screwing him?’

  ‘Tara, please—’

  I ignore Sandy. ‘Which will kill him sooner, Mum? Me reminding him that you guys caused Van’s death — or you breaking your vows?’

  ‘You little scanger. I knew you were the cause.’

  ‘All I ever did was tell the truth. That’s more than you can say.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Sandy claps her hands like we’re new entrants. She’s scarlet. ‘That’s enough.’ No fake smiles now. ‘Kathleen, surely you can see the poor girl’s in desperate need of support? She’s in a fragile state. She needs to see your love.’

  ‘What about me?’ Mum says. ‘You think it’s all been fluffy ducks? I’ve been a slave to all of them — sacrificed my entire boggin’ life — and now Miss Hoity-Toit wants to go gallivanting off … Do you think money grows on trees?’ She addresses this last question to me. Draws blood with her eyes. ‘Life is shite, Tara. You’d better get used to it. We’re all on our own and the only relief is when the good Lord takes us at the end. Let your poor unfortunate sister rest in peace.’

  Tears sting. I gaze out past her to the sun porch and meet her cruel Medusa eyes. Why did I ever think this would work when venom pumps through her instead of blood?

  Sandy starts to speak again but I no longer hear. I’m distracted by a movement just outside the door. Johannes! And it’s clear that he’s been listening. I stand up, ignoring Sandy’s shrill protestations and Mum’s accusing glare. I walk out the door and drop my head onto his chest. He folds his arms around my back and rocks me as I cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs in my ear. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, but I heard shouting …’

  I shake my head. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Just get me out of here.’

  He leads me up the stairs and sits me in the matching window seat to the one below. He wraps one of his mother’s mohair throws around my shoulders. ‘Wait here. I’ll get rid of them.’ With that he’s gone.

  I huddle in a patch of sun and close my eye
s. Below, the voices ebb and flow. I’m exhausted, reeling from a battle I could never win. This is goodbye to Mum. Why keep wishing for some sign of love when she has none to give? I think of Brendon. None for me.

  Next thing I know, Johannes rouses me with a gentle shake. ‘Hey. I’ve made you a sandwich and a cup of tea. Then I’ll run you to work. It’s one thirty.’

  ‘When did they go?’

  ‘Almost straight away. Your mum had one more meltdown when she saw your paintings — though she was dumbstruck when she saw that one of her with all the snakes.’ A smile tweaks his lips. ‘It’s quite a scary likeness!’

  ‘She’s quite a scary mum.’

  ‘No shit.’ He prods a plate into my hand. ‘That lady Sandy said she’ll phone later. She looked like she needed a stiff drink.’

  ‘Poor Sandy. I should have known it would never work. Once, one of Van’s teachers asked Mum about the belt marks on Van’s legs. By the time Mum was finished with her, the poor woman fled in tears.’ I bite into the sandwich. Cheese, tomato, lettuce and a little mayonnaise — and just the right amount of salt. ‘Thanks. This is nice.’

  ‘Hey … I have a bit of money saved, if you, you know, if you’d like to borrow it — or have it — whatever … you can.’

  I choke on a mouthful of bread and have to swallow several times to get it down. ‘Don’t be crazy! I mean, thanks, that’s a lovely offer, but the whole thing’s ridiculous. I don’t know why I ever thought that it might help.’

  ‘It will help,’ Johannes says. ‘Look, before I met my father, all I could do was think about him, fantasise about our relationship. But once I’d spent some time with him and faced the truth those urges went away.’

  ‘Nice try.’ I smile. ‘Apart from the fact that I’m not sure I totally believe your happy ending —’ Our eyes meet for a moment and his scud away. Told you so. ‘— even if I can get the time off school I still have work.’ Are you wimping out, Miss T? Crawling back into your little cell?

  ‘So? When did you last take a holiday?’