Other Side of the Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

  Sid hesitated before stepping forward. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought some cash in advance appropriate.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘A short time ago I received an email from a customer praising your performance this morning. Most of the people I hire are backpackers, just passing through. I rarely find someone to work here with such an intimate knowledge of art. I thought perhaps a cash advance might be an incentive to . . . stay.’

  ‘I’d be happy to wait till payday,’ Sid said. ‘No incentive is necessary. This job is exactly what I need right now. I’m Sidney, by the way.’ Without thinking she extended a hand.

  ‘So you said.’

  When he couldn’t respond to the hand gesture, Sid snapped her arm back to her side, picturing the red rush of embarrassment painting her neck and cheeks. ‘Oh, I, umm . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Morning all!’ Pearl blustered into the kitchen, her timing perfect. ‘Tea for two, or tea for three, Boss? Join us?’

  ‘Not for me. I’ll let you get on with it,’ he said and retreated, leaving Sid stumped.

  ‘That was awkward,’ she whispered to Pearl. ‘I didn’t see the crutches straight away.’

  ‘Is that the first time you’ve met?’

  ‘Yes.’ If I don’t include the episode up the hallway.

  ‘After a while you don’t notice the crutches at all,’ Pearl said. ‘I guess that’s why I didn’t think to mention it. He gets around on those things better than I get around on two good legs.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Sidney snorted. Jake, her fitness-freak brother, had already gatecrashed Pearl’s five-kilometre dawn run and the warm-down workout she did afterwards.

  ‘It’s true. From a physical perspective he’s done pretty good–considering everything. Better than anyone expected, in fact. It was one of those accidents. Just an absolute shocker for the family.’ Pearl had the jug filled and switched on. ‘Name your poison.’ She pointed to the array of tea flavours on the bench, some loose leaf, some store-bought bags. ‘Still, it’s not a person’s physical capability that allows them to bounce back from a tragic accident. What a person needs is courage and bucket loads of self-belief.’

  Absolute shocker? A shudder ran all the way through Sid to the tip of her finger as she sought out a calming brew from the selection of teas. Pearl had talked about a shocking accident the other day. Was her boss and the father of two left maimed by a reckless driver one and the same? And what if her grandfather was the elderly driver?

  ‘You know,’ Pearl said as she plucked two camomile bags from the jar and dropped them into a pink teapot patterned with a gumleaf design, ‘from what I hear he’s lucky to have come as far as he has. While he gets around fine on the crutches now, it wasn’t always the case.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He trained his body with short bursts of activity. This property isn’t exactly easy to get around in a wheelchair, but maybe that was a good thing.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘You haven’t noticed all the chairs around the garden?’ Pearl pointed beyond the kitchen window. ‘Seats scattered everywhere–around the grounds, on the porch, inside the house. He started with small physical challenges, forcing himself to stand. Then he built strength by making himself walk from chair to chair where he’d rest for bit and start all over again. Rarely will you see him in a wheelchair these days, in public anyway. Honey?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Sid asked.

  ‘Honey in your tea? It’s nice.’

  ‘Oh, sure, thanks.’ Sid had noticed at least two wheelchairs–one in the main house and another on a veranda. Both covered in paint, she’d assumed they were someone’s idea of art. Thank goodness she hadn’t tried selling one earlier.

  Talk about the ultimate gaffe!

  She’d seen crazier exhibits when her mother had been curator of a Melbourne art gallery. Sidney had spent her formative years in a special penned-off area in the storeroom, her days spent playing with paint and clay, smelling art, touching art, listening to critics talking about art. She’d lost count of how many gallery openings and exhibitions she’d attended. No wonder she related to the scent of art now.

  ‘The body responds in ways we can’t understand,’ Pearl was saying as she drizzled honey in lines, painting the inside of the cup. ‘Muscle manipulation, stimulation, touch. It all helps. Anything’s possible and people respond to all sorts of therapies.’

  ‘Art as well,’ Sidney added.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Art, like music, can be therapeutic. For a while I was considering heading back to university to study art therapy.’

  ‘But you’re not going to anymore?’

  ‘I have a few, ahh, other priorities at the moment.’

  ‘Well, after what I’ve seen the last twelve months, ever since the boss started work on the breakwall art project, I’d say you’re on to something. Throwing himself into developing those pieces has helped him.’

  ‘Are you talking about all the statues, or whatever, down by the foreshore and covered with tarps? I was wondering. Why is it when something’s covered up we are so tempted to take a sneaky peek?’

  Or when a sign reads No Entry!

  ‘You’re looking a little pale, Sidney, and that’s saying something coming from me. Are you okay?’

  ‘I was feeling a little queasy earlier.’

  ‘Why don’t you have your tea and go for the day? The gallery closes in an hour. I’m happy to stay. I told Jake I’d meet him up here so we could go riding together.’

  ‘Yes, Jake asked to borrow my bicycle. Have fun. Won’t say no to an early mark. I might drop by the breakwall, get some fresh air and check out the rock art before dark. I should call Jake and tell him where I’ll be.’ Sid pulled the phone from her pocket.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Oh, okay, great. And Pearl?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My brother . . . He can be a bit of a daredevil, if you know what I mean? He’s young and into extreme everything. Just saying . . .’

  Pearl smiled. ‘I don’t mind extreme. Albinism can hold me back, so when I can, I do. In fact, how about this for extreme.’ She yanked at the feathery fringe that draped diagonally across her face, covering one eye completely and melding into the shoulder-length mane. Dipping her head, she flattened either side of the dead-straight hair part. ‘Extreme blonde, I call it. Some women would kill to be this colour and never worry about a regrowth. No roots, ever. Definite major benefit.’ And with that she laughed a hoot, turned on her heels and strutted towards the gallery. ‘Now, come on, let’s drink our tea. And make sure you take a jacket when you go,’ she called back over her shoulder to Sid. ‘This late in the afternoon, too close to that ocean, those winter winds will rip your skin off.’

  • • •

  As Pearl had predicted, the wind by the breakwall’s rock-art gallery was bitter, but Sidney was soon too immersed to notice the cold. There had to be hundreds of painted messages on boulders of all shapes and sizes. With a scarf tucked around her neck and chin, her hands snug in the pockets of her parka, she strolled the concreted path over the breakwall to the end where the river estuary met white-capped open water. A good half a kilometre long, the breakwall on a nice day would surely be a favourite place for anglers, cyclists and runners. Sid noticed a few fishermen battling the wind and a potentially dangerous swell that occasionally forced a dash to higher ground when a rogue wave crashed a little too high against the wall.

  Part way along, one tiny artist was at work and Sidney stopped to admire his progress. So far the small child had managed to transfer several tiny handprints–each a different colour: green, yellow, blue–to a smooth-faced rock. Now he was busy instructing his mother, who wrote with a very fine brush: Mum, Dad, Me, Red. His mother smiled when Sidney looked at the small rust-coloured kelpie in a knitted coat, curled into a ball beside them, still alert and on guard. Both women were probably wondering the same thing.
Was the little artist planning on a paw print in red to complete his family?

  Sid strolled on, stopping to ask a bearded gentleman bent over to bait his hook, ‘Catching much?’

  He stood and shielded his eyes with a hand. ‘Nothin’ legal.’

  Sid raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Used to be able to catch whatever you wanted down here and no one would ever bother you. It was a different place then, lass. Idiots running the show now. You need a licence to catch a fish, but they let hooligans paint over the rocks. Outrageous and bloody dangerous if you ask me. Makes them all slippery. Not sure which council idiot allowed such shenanigans in this town. Obviously the same one who agreed to change a perfectly sensible town name to Watercolour bloody Cove.’

  ‘What was it called before?’

  ‘Dinghy Bay, on account of the number of little tin boats.’ He nodded towards the crest-shaped beach of pebbly sand where several upturned boats lined the shore in front of the beach shacks. ‘Had more than a few tinnies meself over the years. Nowadays, the old back’s not good for bobbing around too long in a boat. Instead, I’m out here like a bloody barnacle, stuck to this bloody breakwall, with all its bloody graffiti. A breakwall is public property. Defacing such a thing used to be illegal in my day.’

  ‘Some of the designs are clever, don’t you think? Makes me wonder about the people behind the art.’

  ‘Art schmart! Of course you young ones would think all this rubbish romantic.’

  ‘Some people have gone to a lot of trouble. What about that one?’ She pointed at a large boulder to the man’s left. The white paint was faded, but the predominantly blue and orange design that made up the heart-shaped mosaic frame was intricate–not just lazy repetition. Behind any successful colour blocking was an artist confident with the colour wheel, she’d heard her mother say on numerous occasions. Sid squinted at the faded names in the border: David and . . . was it Lilly?

  ‘I wonder if these two are still together?’ she mused aloud.

  The fisherman snorted. ‘Not likely. She pissed off out of town before the paint on that was dry. Never been seen since. Not so romantic now, is it? The girl couldn’t have broken more hearts if she tried.’

  Broken hearts? Sid wanted to tell the old man she knew all about those. One of Damien’s last questions had crushed hers. ‘Is the baby really mine?’ he’d asked. Sid had remained stoic and left the room, refusing to cry. Her mother used to say tears were a sign of the weak and helpless. Sidney couldn’t afford to be either–not then and not in the future. She’d be a mother herself soon enough.

  ‘Have you lived here a long time then?’ Sid asked the old man.

  ‘All my life. Not planning on going nowhere else.’ He chuckled. ‘Five beach shacks, four old codgers left, and all hanging on to our little piece of local history. We might have one foot in the grave and we might have grandkids nipping at our heels, desperate to get their hands on prime real estate, but my lot will have to wait till I get carted out in a box.’

  Sid thought about her own grandfather and wondered if the fisherman knew him, but heeded Pearl’s earlier advice and kept her curiosity in check. The old man wasn’t exactly shy about speaking his mind.

  ‘Okay, well, thanks for chatting. After putting up with all this wind I hope you catch something.’

  ‘A bloody cold most likely. But this sea breeze is nothing. Wait until we get a good southerly buster. Them winds will likely blow an apple through a tennis racket.’

  She left the grumbling fisherman behind and walked on to the furthest point, where the breakwall ended and there was nothing but blue water stretching to the horizon.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She spotted a couple in their late forties or early fifties, perched awkwardly on a boulder, the spindrift from a wind-blown sea slapping them in the face–all so they could take a selfie in front of what Sid could only assume was their rock. The design was faded and chipped, but she could just make out the date on it: 1985. ‘Can I take the photo for you?’

  The couple nodded, giggled, smiled for the camera and thanked Sid as she turned back to head home.

  When she arrived at the car park there was a stretch limo, the driver safely cocooned inside, while down on the beach a bride and groom, blissful and barefoot, were posing for a photographer and laughing as the wind played havoc with layers of lace and chiffon. On the sand, children in jumpers and swimsuit bottoms built castles. Others ran out of the water, shrieking with the cold, before skipping back in again. Sidney shivered and thought about heading back to her car when she noticed a man struggling with the blue tarp from one of three sculptures.

  The boss.

  He’d changed out of his track pants and shirt and now wore baggy jeans torn at both knees, a chequered wool coat in navy and red that hung to his thighs, and fingerless gloves in black, the same colour as the scarf around his neck. Even under the black hat, the brim shadowing his face, Sidney recognised him by the ratty ponytail of grey that had blown over one shoulder. She should say hello, give him a hand, but a third encounter today might only result in a full trifecta of faux pas. Thankfully, someone else stepped up to help.

  The sun was already pulling a blanket of mountain under its chin and before long darkness would fall over the tiny town. With the winter solstice not far away, the days were surprisingly short, the eastern side of the hill already in full shadow. Sidney didn’t want to tackle the winding road back up to the house in the dark. She’d leave her boss to his work and she’d return to the breakwall another day to explore the rock messages again in more detail.

  Maybe she’d do her own handprints.

  Maybe, not too many months from now, she’d come back and add Little Bump.

  13

  Watercolour Cove, 2015

  The unusually warm winter’s morning Sidney awoke to was a welcome relief after yesterday’s cold winds. After finishing her muesli, she decided against the more direct sandstone pathway to the gallery, taking the rough trail that circled the plantation. A brisk walk would do her good and she had time to kill. She watched her footing, knowing a misplaced step might wake a hibernating snake or send her skidding down the steep slope. With so many banana trees, a fall down the hillside had Sid picturing a marble in a pinball machine being shunted from obstacle to obstacle.

  The view from the ridge, with its glimpses of mountain and sea, was truly spectacular this morning. For a moment Sid could even understand how some people, like Jake, loved extreme sports–throwing themselves off cliffs or out of perfectly good aeroplanes. The most reckless thing Sid had done of late was set off on this road trip with her younger brother.

  She emerged from under a canopy of banana leaves, surprised to find herself at the rear of the smaller cottage, and not in front of the gallery as she’d expected. Not too far away, along a well-trodden path that cut through a grassy field, she saw a familiar figure in a black hat. Hoping she hadn’t been spotted, she stepped back into the shady grove to contemplate an escape route.

  But what if he’d seen her already?

  The man wore no shoes and no shirt, only baggy white pants flapping about his ankles and covered in more paint than his current canvas. Half-dressed and without the bulky coat he’d worn on the breakwall, he appeared smaller and much less intimidating than yesterday. Sidney decided to step out of the shadows towards him.

  ‘Good morning!’ she called.

  Nothing.

  No response.

  No recognition at all. Not from him, anyway. Her slow approach did raise the ears of a small dog lazing on the chunky wooden bench seat nearby–an ugly, plain brown dog that could for all intents and purposes double as a possum.

  And that’s being polite!

  It suddenly occurred to her that she might have insulted her boss the other day by mistaking his best friend for a pesky possum.

  You may have even said rat, Sid.

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ she tried again, that wilful curiosity her mother was always carrying on about kickin
g in.

  Obviously, the boss was having one of those crotchety days Pearl had warned Sid about. Or perhaps he was hard of hearing. Being ignored bolstered Sidney’s resolve. Having a disability didn’t justify bad manners. Maybe the man hoped his rudeness would make her give up and go away, but he was mistaken. No one could dig their heels in better than Sid.

  Close enough to see the detail in his painting, the colours on his palette, the fine moth holes in the old felt fedora he’d pulled low over his eyes, Sid tried again.

  ‘May I look at your work?’ There was a touch of steel in her voice, more than intended.

  Without startling, as though he knew she was there, and without stopping work or even giving her a cursory glance, he huffed and puffed cigarette smoke, looking like a grumpy old dragon. ‘You don’t have enough pieces to critique in the gallery?’

  ‘No, yes, ah, that’s not what I meant.’ She heard a tremor in her voice. ‘I’m not wanting to critique–’

  ‘Then why so curious about my work? Oh, yes, that’s right! Your inquisitiveness extends to your surroundings.’

  ‘I like art. And I like watching artists work,’ she said, refusing to acknowledge his barb. ‘I grew up surrounded by some great ones.’

  ‘Artists or their art?’

  She felt the sudden whoosh of humiliation heat her cheeks, but kept her stare locked on his face, as if challenging a schoolyard bully to a fight. She could drop her mother’s name, of course, impress him with the galleries Natalie had managed over the years and the artists she’d discovered, but then, before she could speak, she saw it.

  A movement.

  A tiny curve of the mouth.

  A smile? Okay, so, it was slight, short-lived, and most likely sarcastic, but it was a smile.

  With one crutch supporting his left arm, he used the other hand to retrieve a packet of breath mints from the back pocket of his pants. ‘I’m trying to give up the smokes–again. Seems two crutches aren’t enough for me when times get tough.’ He looked awkward shaking out the tiny pellet of candy into a palm already occupied with a walking aid, but he managed and, as an afterthought, offered the packet to Sid.