Other Side of the Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

  ‘Matthew said that if I played things cool you’d come to me.’

  ‘Matthew?’ She took a step away, wanting to see David’s face, but it was too dark. ‘Your brother told you to stay away from me?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Tilly. Like, since when have I ever listened to my brother? Dumb, eh?’ Like a ragdoll, she let David pull her back into him. His voice was low and urgent in her ear. ‘I had to see you, Til. To tell you. I’m planning on going to Dad and Mum tomorrow. They need to know we have our own lives to live, our own plans. But I had to see you first.’

  ‘But David–’

  ‘Shh! Say you forgive me for being so pig-headed about us moving away from this place. If a big city gallery is your dream then it’s my dream too. I really love you, Tilly.’

  ‘Oh, David, I love you too and I want to be yours. I do. I’m so desperate to–’ A flash of light cut through the darkness along with the sound of the Marhkts’ old ute groaning its way up the steep hillside. ‘Quickly, I have to go back inside.’ She kissed David hard on the mouth before shoving him away. ‘Tomorrow, first light, down by the breakwall. We’ll talk. Now go.’

  ‘Not before you tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what, David?’ she said, impatient.

  ‘That you forgive me and you’ll live with me forever.’

  ‘Yes, I forgive you and I’ll live with you forever.’ She shoved his chest again and giggled. ‘Now go.’

  With a final peck, he slipped into the darkness. There was no danger of him getting lost. They both knew the path that linked their two houses so well they could have walked it blindfolded.

  Tilly could hardly contain her silly grin, until a sound, like twigs snapping underfoot nearby, startled her. As she turned towards the banana plantation and stumbled on a loose stone, she had only one thought.

  Albie.

  8

  Watercolour Cove, 2015

  ‘Don’t stumble on those stones,’ Pearl told Sid as they trekked the meandering, rocky and overgrown path, passing two small cottages along the way.

  ‘What was that noise?’ Sidney looked behind her.

  ‘I didn’t hear a thing. Too busy watching where I put my feet. You really are better off looking rather than listening up here. This is banana country, which means spiders as big as your hand, rats as big as cats, and venomous snakes. Although not so many snakes out and about in winter.’

  Great! Sidney swallowed hard. Since moving back into her mother’s house in the Blue Mountains she’d experienced all of the above at one time or another, but something about Pearl’s plurals–rats, spiders, snakes–made her feel a little squeamish. Size was less of a problem for Sid. Big spiders and snakes were at least easier to see and therefore avoid. It was the small, sneaky, silent dangers that made her wary these days.

  Like a rat named Damien!

  So much for getting away so she could stop thinking about Damien’s parting words as he’d watched her lug her own suitcase to the door of their Melbourne apartment: ‘Sorry, Sid, but you did let yourself get pregnant. You should’ve been more careful.’

  Damien was also her boss. They’d been together for nine years and lived together for seven. Leaving meant she’d lost him, her job, and most of her friends, all at the same time–and as far as he was concerned, it was her fault. At least by moving back home she was saving money, Sid told herself. She’d managed to secure some freelance design work, too. Not a lot, and nowhere near regular enough to afford her own place–yet. Some of the jobs she did were freebies in the hope more work would follow, like she’d done when trying to secure her first job straight out of uni. But now, despite the potential threat of venomous bites, she had a paying job and–bonus!–free accommodation.

  With their new digs perched atop the highest hill in the area, the view was spectacular every way she looked. To the east, the Pacific Ocean stretched as far north and south as the eye could see, the winter sun glistening across its surface. Behind the main house, looking westward, was a sea of another kind–a swell of emerald-green hills, many tipped white–all set against the cloudless blue winter sky.

  ‘The white is some sort of netting?’ she asked.

  ‘Blueberry farms,’ Pearl explained. ‘They took off about the same time as the banana slump in the nineties. Some locals have referred to it as The Blue Revolution. Great for the region’s economy, Dad says, but I reckon the bird netting is a bit of a blight on a once beautiful landscape. The hills and valleys used to be lush and green from all the banana plantations and avocados, but towns need to survive any way they can,’ she said. ‘If you and Jake want more paid work, the money from fruit picking is pretty good. When the blueberry season peaks the caravan park will fill up with workers.’

  ‘So, can we expect to see the Big Banana make way for the Big Blueberry?’

  ‘Egad! Don’t let anyone hear you say that. This country does not need another big anything.’ Pearl laughed, then waved an enthusiastic hand at Jake, who was trailing a little behind them. ‘Hey, Jake,’ she called. ‘If you want to unpack the car, you can put everything in the first cottage. Back along that path a bit, on the left. Not the second one. The first cottage. Okay? I’ll show Sidney the gallery and the office.’

  Sid followed dutifully and silently, surprised by the small thrill in her belly as she caught sight of another pathway weaving around flowerbeds and pruned shrubbery. It was too early for spring blooms, but a few impatient jonquils seemed eager to show their beauty and two rosellas, resplendent in hues of red, green, yellow and royal blue, sat on the edge of a large birdbath. They flew high into a nearby flowering gum as Sid and Pearl approached.

  The gallery itself was obviously a relatively new addition to the site, with massive cedar uprights and exposed beams the colour of ripe peach, varnished to bring out the richness of the wood. Quite unlike the older main residence that was built in red brick, the gallery looked more suited to a trendy city location, but inviting nonetheless. Rather than steps, a ramp led to the L-shaped veranda. Also made of beautiful cedar wood and running along two sides of the building, the covered area was home to a jungle of outdoor art, ceramic possums on ropes and hanging kinetic pieces in glass, metal, paper and wood. The last of Sidney’s doubts about the job vanished as Pearl led her into the gallery with its highly polished timber floors and two walls of windows that flooded the room with sunlight.

  When she heard Pearl’s chuckle, Sidney realised she’d been gawking.

  ‘Oh, you are going to fit in here just fine. I can see you appreciate the set-up.’ Pearl walked from window to window to lower each shade with the press of a button. ‘The boss likes natural light, but the blind system is pretty techy. You just need to adjust them as the sun moves over the gallery. We use LED lighting. Much cheaper, and a safer option for fragile works, especially those on paper. The boss loves his watercolours!’

  ‘The boss, yes, I haven’t even asked his name.’

  ‘I’ve always just called him Boss, and so has every other person who’s worked on the property. Greenhills has had its share.’

  ‘I see, okay. Boss it is, then.’ Don’t let good manners break with tradition! ‘You’re quite exposed to the elements up here.’

  ‘The banana plantation on the hillside gets plenty of protection from the savage southerly and westerly winds, but the gallery is a sitting duck–hence the outside shutters,’ Pearl said. ‘I can tell you from personal experience, you don’t want to be up here in an electrical storm. We get our share of them come storm season–October onwards and right through summer. The one time I got caught up here totally freaked me out.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ Sid didn’t mention she and Jake would be long gone by October and this would all have been one big adventure–a successful one if only she could get through to someone at the correctional facility.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ Pearl said and disappeared into a back room.

  Sid looked around the gallery, trying to take everything in, and her
gaze stopped on a display of Aboriginal art. It made her think of a discussion she’d once overheard between her mum and Aunty Tasha, when Sid was about twelve. Natalie had been insisting–in a way only Natalie could–that an Indigenous art exhibition, featuring local artists, was a good idea for Tasha’s gallery.

  ‘There are some very clever and prominent artists in this very neighbourhood,’ her mother had told Tash.

  ‘I’m just not convinced, Nat.’

  ‘You asked me to join your gallery because you saw what a difference I’d made to Raphael’s reputation. You thought I could make a difference here. So let me. I’ll introduce you to a couple of artists, show you some of their works, and then you’ll see in them what I do.’

  Aunty Tasha wasn’t convinced. ‘So, you mean painted didgeridoos and woven baskets? Those souvenir trinket things?’ she’d asked.

  Natalie had scoffed. ‘Good gracious! No, darling Tash. I’m talking paintings and sculptures. Contemporary and commercial pieces. Agree to an exhibition, let me make the arrangements, and you’ll be surprised to see the level of interest: from those looking to decorate a wall at home, to the interior designer wanting something contemporary for a client–not to mention the savvy investor.’

  ‘Investors?’ Aunty Tasha had fingered the long headscarf dangling over her shoulder, twisting it in the way the pretty girls Sid knew from school would twist their luxurious locks.

  ‘You do know the 1990 winner of the John McCaughey Prize two years ago was an Indigenous artist? He was also one of two Aboriginal Australians to exhibit in the Venice Biennale that same year.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I suppose I haven’t–’

  ‘I hear the National Gallery is in talks over the paintings for a Rover Thomas exhibition. Get in on the ground floor, Tasha, and watch your gallery grow.’

  For every objection, Natalie had an answer. Tasha either had to admit to a prejudice or agree to the idea. Natalie’s enthusiasm–her husband called it badgering–had worked, but she wasn’t done yet.

  ‘I can show you some stunning Aboriginal art in many different forms: on canvas and linen, in textile, and jewellery design. Yes, there are sculptures in wood and even weavings, but there’s also this incredibly talented young woman who works in watercolours. Her stuff will blow your mind, Tash.’

  ‘I said, do you like the Aboriginal pieces, Sid?’ Pearl was staring.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘You looked it. Jake said you’d get all gooey once you saw the gallery.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ Sid smiled. ‘The place reminded me of something. Now, you were going to show me . . . ?’

  ‘The cash register.’ Pearl pointed. ‘I gather you know your way around a computer?’

  ‘Sure do.’

  ‘The gallery has a basic website. A revamp is on the boss’s list of things to do, just nowhere near the top. I actually don’t think he knows how to go about arranging a redesign anyway. Not that it matters. There are still plenty of online enquiries from both the public and art organisations. The boss deals with those and any government or gallery buyers–oh, and the emails as well, so you can ignore them. Like I said, I’m here a few days a week, usually raiding the herb garden and fruit trees out back. Feel free, and if you need any time away, or if there’s anything you need to know, you can ask me.’

  ‘Or the boss?’

  ‘Sure, if you see him you can ask.’ Sidney thought she heard a protective tone in Pearl’s voice, and what she said next confirmed it. ‘I don’t like to bother him if I can help it, or unless something makes it absolutely necessary. The guy’s had to deal with his share of crap. My dad reckons this place is a form of therapy for him–part labour of love, part penance.’

  Penance? Sid was contemplating more questions when Pearl said, ‘Speaking of therapy, I’d best get over to his cottage and let my hands work their magic.’

  ‘He doesn’t live in the main house?’

  ‘Nope! You’ll see him in the gallery sometimes, but rarely in the main house. Like I said, he keeps to himself. He’s also finishing off a commissioned piece in town, so he can be away a lot. Anyway, I’ll call back in and check with you on my way out.’

  Sidney was alone and yet not lonesome among the myriad artworks, the gallery’s scent similar to the pots of putty she’d played with as a child, moulding the coloured goo into shapes while her mother spent hours in her studio. Perhaps what she smelled now–a blend of baked clay and linseed oil–was the smell of art, soothing and familiar, making Sidney wish she’d opted to study painting or sculpture, rather than the clean, clinical world of graphic design.

  Her phone beeped in her handbag. It was a message from Kurt, the head of Windsong ad agency, offering her a freelance job. An urgent one. Hopefully a paying one! Packing her MacBook Air at the last minute had been a good decision. She’d take the job, of course, even if she had to stay up past midnight to meet a deadline. If the gallery job remained as quiet as it was now she might even get started on the project sooner rather than later. After replying to Kurt, Sidney googled the Mid North Coast Correctional Centre, hoping to try another approach. Maybe a politely worded email would get her further than calling them out of the blue.

  ‘Great, no email address.’ She put her phone away, deciding to do as her brother had suggested and not rush.

  ‘It’s not as if you’re going anywhere, Granddad.’

  • • •

  ‘Whoa!’ Jake let out a high-pitched whistle, and Sid smiled.

  Her brother, not at all artistic–or so he claimed–was easily impressed by those who were. Sidney thought he sold himself short. The way he plated up his signature seafood creations showed real flair. He understood things like colour placement and textures and he definitely had a good eye when it came to making food look appetising.

  The house they’d grown up in had been like a gallery–the one their mother had always dreamed of owning outright but never did, even when she finally had the chance. When their father was killed, codicils to his will explained that the money from his life-insurance policy would allow his wife to establish the city gallery she’d always wanted. There was more than enough to buy a commercial property outright, or something with more character and rustic charm–whatever she wanted. Only, without her husband, Natalie had become her own still life. She was inert, uninspired, wooden and showed no interest in anything. Even her partnership with Tasha suffered. Natalie seemed to have lost all feeling, all desire, all ambition. Something in her changed.

  Aunty Tasha had tried to explain it to Sidney one day. ‘It’s always hard to lose someone you love, but when you’re at your lowest, when anger and self-pity dominate every thought, you sometimes need to feel like you’re the only person in the world experiencing such debilitating grief–like no one else is going through what you’re going through. You’ve been denied that, because your father wasn’t the only one who died when the towers came down. There are so many people, all over the world, mourning the loss of their own loved ones. You understand that, but your mother is struggling to come to terms with it.’

  My mother is struggling at not being the centre of the universe? Sid remembered thinking at the time. That was so Natalie.

  The insurance money eventually came through, along with a substantial lump sum from their father’s company, as he’d been in New York on business. But Natalie was no longer interested in opening her own gallery and no one could talk her round. It was several years later, when an opportunity arose to purchase a bed and breakfast in a quiet, out of the way spot in the Blue Mountains, that Natalie started to seem a little like her old self. Life had gone on, her children had grown, and at eighteen Jake was looking to share a flat with some mates. The Blue Mountains property was large, with a vegetable garden and extensive lawns to keep her busy and the perfect place for an artists’ retreat. The city no longer had any appeal for her, and she’d packed up the family home that no longer housed a family and moved herself to the Blue Mountains a
s quickly as she could.

  If her mother had needed a new project, a different fight to win, she found one with the Blue Mountains council and the man next door–‘an ignorant, uncooperative and idiotic nuisance’–who did not like his new neighbour’s B & B ideas, nor the planned extensions. He did everything he could to stop them going ahead.

  ‘The poor bloke has no idea who he’s up against,’ Jake had told Sid when she had come up from Melbourne for a brief visit. She didn’t make the trek often, partly due to the train trip from Sydney airport to the Blue Mountains being longer than the inter-city flight time. Sid couldn’t help wondering if the distance had partly been behind Natalie’s motivation to relocate so far away from the city–Mother and daughter hadn’t exactly been getting on. Of course, that wasn’t the case. Still, the fewer her visits the better and the less likely they would end with an argument.

  Through Jake’s periodic updates Sid learned that after several meetings, mediation and numerous letters, council eventually approved Natalie’s planned additions to the guesthouse: a loft room and an external studio and exhibition space. She called the place Brushstrokes in the Bush and business was soon booming. She had bookings year round, often letting the loft and studio out for free to struggling artists who had limited resources and nowhere to paint. Her least favourite neighbour, fed up with ‘drifters and derelicts living next door’, erupted. Next thing Sid heard from Jake was that the neighbour’s house was on the market and Natalie, represented anonymously by a lawyer friend of Tasha’s, managed to secure the smaller property at a very good price. She named the B & B extension Dharug House, after the original indigenous inhabitants of the area, and promptly let it to more artists in need of somewhere peaceful to seek their muse. The indomitable and unstoppable Natalie was back to her old self.

  Jake whistled again, the shrill sound bringing Sid back to the sight of her brother gawking at a life-sized nude on the gallery wall.

  ‘Very Rubenesque,’ Sid told him.