He took a swig and his eyes widened. ‘But you’re so smart!’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘You’ve had much more experience than me.’
He hadn’t meant to highlight it but now the age difference hung between them. Eleven years. It was problematic, she knew. And yet it made her desire him even more: his blundering; his youth. Strangely, it put her at ease.
‘I knew Novi was talented,’ she admitted, leaning back on her hands so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. ‘I spotted it straightaway but I didn’t do anything about it.’ She played with a dry leaf, crumbling it in her fingers. ‘It scared me. I suppose I didn’t feel qualified enough, either.’ Looking out over the water she felt that wasn’t quite it. ‘I’ve been getting lazy.’
Dom raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t strike me as lazy. Just the opposite.’
He was probably too young to understand. By my age, she thought, it’s easy to confuse laziness with tiredness.
On the riverbank, one of the teenagers reeled in quickly, dragged up a dripping cord of algae, cast off again. They watched in silence for a while.
‘I read somewhere,’ she said slowly, ‘the mistake people make with gifted children is to give them more of the same. You know — they show a talent for something so you reward them with twenty more activities just like the last. The idea is to challenge them, introduce them to different things. Extend them outwards.’
He turned to her, tense as a coiled spring. ‘I have this feeling there’s a floodgate in that kid! It just needs to be blasted open!’
He collapsed back onto the grass and cast his gaze skyward. A warm breeze lifted off the garden behind them, carrying the heavy scent of roses. Camille inhaled the perfume deeply. Then she glanced at Dom and sighed.
‘Tell his parents any afternoon is fine. Except Monday.’
‘Great! Thank you, Camille!’ He grabbed her shoulders in a brief sideways clench, a gesture she found devastatingly brotherly. Then he released her and sat for a few minutes deep in contemplation while his foot jiggled on the grass. ‘We’re going to have to find money from somewhere, for art supplies. I’m thinking huge canvases, buckets of paint, giant bloody sculptures!’
Perspiration was dripping down the sides of his face. He looked down at the shirt plastered to his chest. ‘I’ll have to change before dinner, I’m disgusting.’
No, Camille thought. You’re divine. ‘Where are you living?’
He pointed. ‘Up the river, on the other side. It’s pretty close actually, just the bridge is so bloody far away.’
‘I’ll drop you home. We can put your bike in the back of my car.’
‘My Corolla’s at the mechanic’s,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. ‘It’s rooted.’
They headed up the hill. By now the playground had a few children in it. A couple of kids from Morus Primary waved and Camille felt selfconscious to be seen out of hours with Dom. Then she scolded herself. Don’t be silly! There’s nothing going on. A couple of littler ones were playing on the roundabout while their mothers stood chatting at a distance. It made Camille dizzy to watch them spinning so fast and she was about to turn away when one of the children flew off and hit the dirt with a thud. The girl started howling. Camille and Dom both took a step towards her but her mother had seen; she was already strolling over without breaking her conversation, just projecting her voice a little louder to reach her friend over the distance and the screams. She dusted off the girl’s hands and knees, wiped her face with a tissue and said firmly, ‘Hold on next time!’ The girl was getting back on that roundabout, no question.
Camille and Dom continued to the top of the park. ‘You forget what it’s like, don’t you,’ he commented.
She looked at him questioningly.
‘Being a kid. But it wasn’t that long ago, really.’
Not for you, she thought and took a deep breath. Hold on indeed.
They had reached the road. Camille stopped before a circular sign in the shape of a ship’s wheel and read the inscription. It gave her an idea.
‘You don’t know any Rotarians, do you?’
Camille waited in the lounge room while he showered. He was quick, keenly aware of her presence on the other side of the thin wall. In his bedroom he threw on fresh clothes and emerged to find her standing with her hands on her hips in front of one of the larger paintings.
‘Whose are these?’ she asked.
‘The landlady’s. The place was furnished.’
Dom looked around the room. Mostly he could ignore the art, although on returning home at the end of each day, in that first moment crossing the threshold, he felt desolation rise like a snake preparing to strike.
Camille moved to another picture and studied it closely. ‘They’re hideous,’ she marvelled.
Dom watched her athletic frame, her silky hair pulled up from her neck into a loose knot, her skin gleaming from the humidity, from his presence, too, he knew; he felt it in the twitch of her neck, the glance she had resisted as he moved from the bathroom to the bedroom with only the towel around his waist. She was a radiant figure in a room that despite its most desperate efforts utterly lacked life. It made him realise the art wasn’t just ugly, it was oppressive.
‘They really are bad,’ he agreed.
Her eyes met his. ‘So take them down.’
Dom was startled. He hadn’t thought of that. The paintings were framed and mounted with an authority he had failed to question.
‘But … where will I put them all?’
‘Out of sight, for God’s sake! Is there a spare wardrobe?’
There was, in the study, child-size, with fairy transfers on the door. At once Camille was up on the lounge and reaching for the worst offender, a couple of frightening lorikeets that were so flat they might have been run over. One by one she unhooked the paintings and handed them to him. He stacked them inside the wardrobe, and as he wandered back and forth between the rooms he couldn’t help thinking about Novi’s art and how it was such a contrast to these efforts. He knew Novi had talent, just as much as he was certain this artist had none, but he found it hard to put into words.
He came back into the lounge room. ‘Why is Novi’s art so good?’
‘Well, he’s talented, for a start,’ Camille sniffed. ‘And he isn’t trying to reproduce things. He interprets them with his own style.’ She grimaced at the depiction of a blurry cottage garden she held in her hands. ‘See? No depth, no detail and no composition.’ She tossed it to him with contempt. ‘Novi’s vision is original. He brings things into his own scale. It’s refreshing because he makes you look at ordinary life and see it differently, like he does.’
Dom gazed at her in admiration. ‘You see! I could never have thought of that!’
She blushed, then busied herself gathering up all the baskets and doilies and dried flower arrangements. She took them into the spare room, too, and placed them in the cupboard beside the paintings. They walked back into the lounge room. The flat was now bare but eminently more liveable and Dom felt his whole body relax. Suddenly he could breathe again. It was another favour he owed Camille. Privately he began devising a list of wicked ways in which he hoped he might repay her.
That evening they had dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, at Camille’s suggestion. She guided him through the menu, steering him away from the beef with blackbean sauce and the rainbow steak, which were his first choices. Over the clamour and sizzle of scorching woks, a vase of fake flowers glistening with adhesive dewdrops and some surprisingly good dumplings, they exchanged their stories. Camille was a good listener. Dom found himself opening up, telling her about university and Ace and his father, and discovering, under the unwavering force of her interest, that the brief and haphazard history of his life suddenly sounded complex and amusing.
‘My father’s seventy-two,’ Camille said.
‘Wow! That’s old.’
‘They had me late. I’m an only child. My mum died a few years ago.’
‘Sorry,’ Dom sa
id awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. He’d never even been to a funeral.
Camille took a sip of her jasmine tea. ‘I don’t know what’s worse, Mum gone or Dad being so resilient.’
Dom gave her an enquiring look.
She tried to explain. ‘I mean, I moved back here to be closer to him, but he doesn’t seem to need me, really. I think he wishes I was off doing more exciting things,’ she said sadly.
Dom nodded. ‘All fathers wish you were doing something other than what you’re doing,’ he stated. ‘It’s like they’re wired to never show satisfaction. You could be a CEO and own three mansions and set up a charity abolishing world hunger and be awarded the Nobel Prize and all your dad would have to say is, He didn’t ring his mother on her birthday!’
She stopped eating and glared at him.
He drank some Coke, his eyes wide and innocent. ‘I was backpacking! There was no phone!’
Camille couldn’t help smiling. They ate in silence for a while.
‘Well, you can break the mould when it’s your turn,’ she said.
‘Hey?’
‘When you’re a father.’ She glanced up at him. ‘You can do it differently.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess. I haven’t thought about it. It’s still such a long way off.’ Inexpertly he manoeuvred a prawn into his mouth. It was spicy and delicious. ‘You’re right, these are fantastic.’ He looked around. ‘This place is great!’
Camille was gazing at her plate, a strange expression on her face. Dom noticed she had put down her chopsticks. He frowned, concerned. ‘You okay?’
She looked up again and smiled but the warmth was gone from her eyes.
‘I’ve just had enough, that’s all.’
Chapter 9
It’s Saturday morning and my father and I are at the butcher’s picking up the pork for tonight. Back at home, Mum is rushing around like a cyclone because Mr Best is coming to dinner. She’s all revved up about it. I feel a bit nervous. At least she’s stopped worrying about me for half a second and has someone else to blast her attention onto.
After the butcher Dad and I jump back in the car and drive through town. We make a turn at the Chinese restaurant and keep going, past the caravan park, the bus depot and the water-tank place. After the spare block with the cranky Shetland ponies we turn at the Roper Centre and find a park right outside Sinclair’s Produce.
Sinclair’s is our Saturday morning ritual. It’s like a great big barn and my father loves every bit of it, he can spend hours looking for stuff for the boat and come home with just a new mallet head or some sandpaper. Our visits always take ages but I don’t mind. I like to walk around and smell things and run my hand along the shiny drums and the blade bits and look at the packets of tiny bolts and screws and punch my fist into the sacks of feed. There are so many different things for sale: tinned tongue and work boots, tool parts and toilet paper, fans and farm equipment, watering cans and teat sterilisers and much, much more. It’s like a mini-Morus, the whole town here in one big shed.
Soon my father is having a Deep and Meaningful with the man by the power sanders and I am left to explore. First I head over to the sandshoes and gumboots because I like the smell of them. Then I wander among the slouched open bags of dried beans; they look like coloured pebbles and I plunge my hand in, right to the elbow, to feel the cool, dull clink of them. At the cow section I inspect the funny-looking pumps and hoses and stuff for cleaning udders and the medicines that you squirt from a metal nozzle over their slobbering purple tongues. The horse section is made up like a stable and I climb onto one of the saddles thrown over a hay bale and sniff the polished leather. From here I can see right down to the huge roller door at the back. Today the door is up and the forklift is shifting pallets of dog biscuits and potting mix and tinned tomatoes. For a while I watch the forklift zipping around. Hughie and I are going to get jobs at Sinclair’s when we are old enough, so we can have a turn at driving it.
Eventually I jump down and make my way past the cleaning stuff, bright as milkshake syrup, and stop by the plastic bins of dry chemicals. I crouch down to read the labels, whispering their evil-sounding names: ammonium sulphate, naphthyl methylcarbamate, glyphosate acid. Onwards down the aisles I breathe the chalky fertiliser smell and the hungry turps and paint smell until I’m at the drums.
The drums are printed with strings of letters and numbers to tell you what’s inside, whether it’s for killing grubs or weeds or termites or fungus — just about anything you could want dead. Their names are more boring but they all have warning stickers in red and black and yellow with flames and skulls and exclamation marks. I lean close to one and knock softly, hear its thick reply. I always feel brave standing among so much hidden danger. I move along to the black drums, which are my favourites. Their paint is so shiny I can see my face in it: nose stretched too wide, eyes squashed together over the smooth bumps in the metal. It’s funny to see my reflection so deformed. When a voice says hello I almost jump out of my skin and bang my elbow as I spin around.
It’s Mr Roper, who owns Sinclair’s. He’s leaning with his back against the shelf of motor oil, arms crossed, watching me like a shark lurking in the shadows. His eyes are grey and unreadable.
‘Hey, kiddo.’
He doesn’t sound angry but my heart thuds in surprise. I stand stiffly with my hands behind my back as the cicadas flutter and chirrup inside my chest.
‘What are you up to?’ He smiles, as though he only wants to be included in the fun. Then he thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets and wanders right over to me. He is big and tall and he knows it. He starts rocking gently on his toes, backwards and forwards, waiting for me to answer.
‘Nothing.’ My voice sounds small and hollow against the drums.
‘You don’t want to touch those,’ Mr Roper says. ‘They’re poison. They can make you sick.’
Backwards and forwards, heels and toes. He’s smiling again to show I’m not in trouble. Mr Roper has lots of different smiles. I don’t trust any of them.
‘I was just looking.’
He stops still and frowns. ‘Where’s your dad?’
‘Up the front. Getting stuff for the boat.’
Mr Roper’s smile turns wide this time. ‘And how’s that boat coming along?’
I hate him for the tone in his voice. ‘Great,’ I say.
‘Nearly finished?’
‘Getting there.’
‘Yeah?’
Suddenly I’m not afraid anymore. I am angry. Big bubbles of rage clog my throat. I want to smack Mr Roper, punch him in the stomach and watch all the wind get knocked out of him. I want to see that smile wilt and drop off onto the floor.
‘It won’t be long now,’ I say, feeling hot. ‘We’ve got a new plan.’
Mr Roper raises his eyebrows. ‘What is it this time?’
I fall silent, feeling trapped.
‘It’s confidential,’ I say at last.
Mr Roper laughs. ‘Confidential! That’s a big word.’
‘It means it’s a secret.’
‘Yes, it does.’ His eyes glitter as he watches me for a while. ‘How’s your mum?’ he asks at last and his face kind of melts at the thought of her.
I shrug. I want to get away now, far away from Mr Roper and his shark eyes and slippery smiles.
‘You tell her I said hello. Tell her I sent my regards.’
I duck past him, nodding. But I plan to take Mr Roper’s regards and bury them in the mud on the riverbank, then dig them up and leave them to dry and smash them completely to dust.
Dom spent the morning in Morus Library. For the sake of Novi he had to get a grasp on some basic art terminology. For his own sake, too; he was desperate to gain a foothold with Camille.
The library was in the heart of town, opposite the council chambers, and a monument to fifties inspiration: beige, brick and boxy. Inside it smelled of old pages, sticky plastic covers and the residue of a million unknown fingers. It was being upgraded slowly. Dom weave
d his way through a mismatched collection of old veneer tables and new airport-style armchairs where elderly men sat hunched over newspapers, punctuating the quiet with violent exclamations of throat clearing. On the computer catalogue he found where the art books were kept and headed for the stacks. When he had a big enough armful, he settled down at a desk by the window, determined to put in at least a couple of hours.
Camille had suggested he take a look at some naïve art, a style similar to Novi’s, she told him. He flicked through the first book, recognising the strong colours and crazy world order that he’d seen in Novi’s pictures, and learned that a childlike simplicity displaying an odd perspective and awkward scale was characteristic of the genre. His mind strayed to the oddness and awkwardness of Camille. He just wanted to grab her, feel the tough, lithe shape of her and kiss her mouth. But he sensed something private in her manner that made him resist.
The morning passed slowly. Dom grew drowsy. Libraries always had this effect on him, it was something about their lack of oxygen and he found he had to go to the toilet with selfconscious frequency. He flicked through the pages of his books and watched people come and go, mostly middle-aged women clutching bags heavy with novels, and agitated parents trailing broods of small children. In the back corner a group of high-school students reclined in postures of mock studiousness, flirting viciously. The computer at the borrowing desk emitted steady beeps that made him think of hospital rooms and an ancient printer scratched and whined, spitting out receipts. Lulled by it all, Dom found his thoughts wandering from the mysterious terrain of Camille to the timeline Novi had drawn. That snaking picture had told a story, but it also evoked a sense of place, something beyond the streets and houses and the landscape in general. After a while he set aside the art books to hunt for some information on the local area.
When he returned to his desk the group of teenagers was gone but their belongings were still scattered across the tables and chairs they’d vacated. He glanced out the window and saw them lurking in the garden under a couple of tall gum trees, smoking cigarettes with the concentrated ferocity of addicts. They looked both threatening and ridiculous and Dom felt suddenly grateful not to be dealing with kids that age.
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