Watercolours

by Adrienne Ferreira

  The morning was hell. It felt like it would never end. Out on the T-ball field his form wasn’t exactly inspirational. The pain from the lactic acid build-up in his thighs alone was almost enough to kill him. Sensing his weakness the kids skylarked around. He hid behind his sunnies and let them. When at last it was over he took himself home for a much-needed shower. Then he collapsed onto the lounge with a groan.

  After a doze he felt slightly better. The Panadol he’d been gobbling all morning kept the pain behind his eyes at bay but he could feel its throbbing pressure there, ready to hustle back in. He decided it was safest just to stay horizontal and watch bad TV.

  At midday there was a knock at the door. He heaved himself up, hobbled over and opened it. It was Camille.

  ‘I found out Rotary offer a few grants each year,’ she launched in breathlessly. ‘There’s one Novi might be eligible for …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Jesus, you look like death.’

  It was horrible. He felt far too wretched to cope with a visit from Camille, unable to offer any kind of coherent reply. ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally whispered, ‘I have to lie down.’ He crept back to the lounge expecting her to leave, hoping desperately that she would. Instead she shut the door and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made them both a cup of tea and settled herself in one of the low cane armchairs with the weekend paper. Then she disappeared behind the supplements for an hour.

  The time passed peacefully. Orchestral strains drifted in from across the corridor to complement the quiet. When Dom saw Camille was onto the crossword he couldn’t resist asking for a clue. She read out a few and he tried to engage his mind but the results were dismal. Still, he was glad of the company. Her easy silence was comforting.

  Eventually she cast the paper to the floor. For a while she sat hugging her knees, pressing at a toenail that had turned black. Dom noticed how smooth her shins were. She had a triangle-shaped scar near one knee. He imagined touching the white indentation, running his palm up the long silky line of her leg. She felt his gaze on her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  He tasted his mouth. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I spoke to Malcolm,’ she said, sitting forward. ‘He said you could go along to the next Rotary meeting and nominate Novi for the grant. He thinks a submission from his teacher would have a good impact. I’d do it but Rotary’s a blokes’ thing, really.’

  Dom knew he could think of something useful to add if only his mouth didn’t taste so bad. Weird, how the badness of his mouth was inversely proportional to the goodness of Camille’s shins.

  ‘I can help you choose the pictures,’ she offered. ‘We’ll have to be strategic, though. We can’t wave his freak flag too high or they’ll never go for it. How many are there?’

  Dom closed his eyes. ‘Lots. Wait till you see them all.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be hard to put a portfolio together, then. Something to entice a sponsor.’

  Dom was grateful — for her interest, her effort, her legs. For being there when he was so helplessly unappealing. But he was finding it difficult to give up the lounge and deal with the remainder of his hangover. He couldn’t even muster the energy to tell her about the pictures he’d seen the day before, not while the afternoon sun was beginning its daily bake of the flat.

  He lay there, thinking about the drawings Novi had shown him, the ones from the bottom drawer. A drowned grandfather. He thought about Mira’s family and the silk growers, about George and his boat and his mad enthusiasm. He thought about Novi’s timeline with its violent clash depicted in coloured pencils: brown bodies oozing red scribble. The boy had placed his trust in him; there was no going back now. All of these thoughts hurt his head.

  He shifted his hot cheek on the pillow. Discovering the fabric was damp from drool made him feel even more pathetic. ‘All I want to do is jump in the ocean,’ he groaned.

  Camille was in the kitchen again, peering inside Dom’s fridge. The tilt of her head conveyed that it had been a long time since she had encountered contents so uninspiring. She slammed the door. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The beach! We’ll go to Banio.’

  He pulled himself up, defiant in the face of nausea now that there was an end in sight. ‘Really? I haven’t been once since I moved here. It was just about my only reason for coming.’

  She considered him for a moment. ‘How do you think you’ll go in the car?’

  He set his jaw. ‘We’ll keep the windows down.’

  With monumental effort he hauled his aching body from its floral resting place. He swallowed a couple of times.

  ‘I’m going to need some pancakes and bacon first, though.’

  Camille parked the car and they walked down the track to the sea. On the blustering shoreline they stood together, breathing deeply. She watched Dom stretch out his arms to embrace the afternoon southerly, to feel the tumbling currents roll past, the strong, smooth tendons of sea wind. He leaned his chest into it and released a cry, gull like. It sounded thin and in an instant was whipped away behind them.

  Camille put her hands over her ears. She heard the hollow resonance, the echo of secret corridors in seashells. Hair lashed her face and she tried to hold it back but loose strands clung to her forehead and stuck in her eyes. Soon her nose was running and her ears were aching. She felt sorry for Dom that the conditions had turned so unpleasant. With disbelief she saw him start tearing off his clothes.

  ‘You’re not going in?’

  He shot her a mad grin. ‘It’s the ocean!’ he replied as if she were the mad one. Off he ran in his boardshorts, leaping over drifts of beached seaweed, dry bluebottles popping under his feet. The surf was huge and white against the ocean’s grey backdrop. He plunged straight into the foam.

  ‘Be careful!’ she called and pointed feebly. ‘There’s a rip!’ But her words were snatched away. Besides, he was unstoppable. He flung himself into an onslaught of slate-coloured waves with the recklessness of one landlocked too long. She pulled her towel over her head like a cape, trapping her hair and shielding her ears from the gale. Huddling on the sand away from the piles of stinking seaweed, she breathed short gulps of salt air and watched Dom enjoying a most unenjoyable-looking sea. Waves slapped him mercilessly and yet he tackled each one with determination; there were none he didn’t try to surf. He lunged forward with the swell, thrashed his arms and legs in an attempt towards the shore, delighted each time his body caught the momentum and rode it forward — she could see his face peering happily out of the foam and he seemed content to be deposited each time into a shallow channel of sandy froth.

  Slapped and tumbled and dumped, Dom stayed in the surf until water filled his ears and nose and he was nothing but brine, until his limbs were leaden and his hangover drowned, until he held a remnant of ocean in every crease and crevice of his body.

  At last he staggered out and made his way back up the beach. Face pale and peaceful, hair plastered to his head, he lumbered to a halt before her, his slick chest heaving.

  She stood and wrapped the towel around him, holding his cold body and rubbing his back like a child to warm him. He leaned his whole weight into her, resting his forehead on her shoulder, recovering his breath. Against her cheek his head was cold and damp, his weekend beard a constellation of tiny droplets. His warm breath melted her neck. Lightly, she rocked with the rhythm of his thumping heart.

  For a minute they stayed like this, until sea water trickled from his nose and onto her shoulder. She shrieked at the cold. He grinned and shook his head like a wet dog. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her close and kissed her.

  They laughed into each other, into the wild wind.

  Chapter 12

  The Rotary Club of Morus met at six o’clock every Tuesday evening at the bowling club. Dom could have walked but he borrowed the Falcon, keen to make a good impression. With Novi’s artwork beside him on the seat he barely had time to admire the two-tone upholstery and enjoy the old-fa
shioned gear system (or notice the faint smell of cigarettes — curious, because he had never seen Mavis smoke), before pulling in to the club’s car park.

  He was far too early. He lingered in the lobby, dazzled by the carpet’s upbeat geometric design. A large sign warned: No bare feet, swimwear, untidiness, training apparel, singlets, brief shorts, leotards, football jerseys, scuffs, thongs or overalls. And then in bold red lettering: Strictly no thongs on the dance floor. Dom wondered if this last rule was more of a safety issue; he imagined a stiletto could inflict serious injury to the flesh of a thong-clad foot, especially if worn by someone hefty throwing off a dull week with the abandon only club rock and bourbon could inspire. He studied the list again and wondered how strict they were about enforcing the regulations. Was he dressed appropriately? Could his shoes be classified as training apparel?

  Looking around, he thought the interior of the place must have been given a recent overhaul, although the lighting was still the unforgiving fluorescent kind that drained everything of ambience and showed you what you’d look like if you were dead. Fake-looking indoor plants were propped here and there, shivering in the air-conditioning under stoles of coconut fibre, dreaming sluggish dreams of rainforests. In the corner a snack machine was illuminated like some modern-day shrine, offering, if not eternal salvation, at least the comfort of sugar, salt and oil.

  Through the reek of decades-old beer he made his way to the bar and ordered a Coke from a cheerful middle-aged barmaid in a blouse that echoed the carpet. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the serious drinkers, he took his Coke back to the lobby to look in the trophy cabinets. Plaques and shields cluttered the shelves but most of their bronze patches were engraved with names too small and tarnished for him to read. On the opposite wall hung a list of the annual bowling champions stretching back to 1962, and further along were six neat rows of framed photographs honouring the club’s past directors. At first glance the portraits seemed identical, every one of the subjects old, grey and balding, but on closer inspection Dom felt it was one of the oddest collections of faces he’d ever seen: more bulging foreheads and frog eyes, rubbery lips and thin, fly-away hair grown long in all the wrong places, than surely was possible in one small town. It was both funny and disturbing.

  Dom presumed the Rotary men would look pretty much the same. When his father had been invited to join years ago after the aluminium windows hit paydirt he was considered one of the young ones at fifty. He knew his father had benefited from the business network that had opened up to him and the local prestige associated with being a member, but beyond fundraising and hosting exchange students Dom wasn’t sure what actually went on at Rotary. The organisation wasn’t appealing to somebody his age; even at university he was never much of a society guy, and he didn’t see the attraction of belonging to a club that didn’t allow women. He wondered if he’d be forced to partake in some kind of secret handshake or weird ritual involving aprons and ancient manuscripts, but when a set of double doors opened near the dining area beyond the poker machines, the scene looked pretty ordinary. He wandered over and saw that a function room had been set up for the event with three trestle tables arranged boardroom style, clothed and skirted and set for dinner. To the left was the servery, a fluorescent portal into a stainless-steel world where a giant in a hair net prepared plates of roast of the day, helped by a couple of matronly waitresses.

  Dom waited by the doorway for Malcolm to arrive. He watched the members greet each other with normal-looking handshakes and jovial comments, standing in small groups to chat over their schooners, everyone showered with hair neatly combed. Dom clutched Novi’s portfolio and tried to stay optimistic. He counted twenty-two men and one girl, an olive-skinned exchange student sporting a green blazer studded with dozens of little gilt badges. Watching her, Dom felt like a scuba diver spotting an exotic shell stranded on a reef of bleached coral, and yet the girl was smiling and joking with the men and seemed very much at home. Maybe this lot were more open-minded than they appeared? After all, Malcolm seemed to think Novi had a shot at the fellowship, didn’t he? Where the hell was Malcolm?

  At last Dom saw him hurrying across the lobby. They greeted each other and he ushered Dom inside to meet the club president. Somewhere in his fifties, Gerard Roper was one of the younger ones, tall, broad shouldered and handsome. He shook Dom’s hand firmly: ‘Pleasure to meet you — great to have you here!’ With his tanned complexion, shaggy brown hair silvering in the most flattering way, cream cotton trousers and pale blue shirt rolled to the elbow, Gerard Roper was both the most casual and the most stylish figure in the room and he embodied such confidence and good humour that Dom couldn’t help warming to him instantly.

  ‘Malcolm tells me you have a submission,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing it. You’ve only been here, what — a month? — and already you’re getting stuck in! That’s the kind of community spirit we like. You’d make a great Rotarian, Dom!’

  Dom blushed, overcome with the sudden desire to be a part of this tribe, to nestle under the cologne-scented, freshly laundered wing of Gerard Roper and bask in his praise forever. Dom was about to tell Gerard about his father being a member when he was startled by a voice hissing in his ear, ‘Where is she?’

  Dom turned. At his shoulder a pink, narrow-faced man with a clash of ginger hair stood staring at him, his pale eyes full of hostility. Dom took a small step back. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mavis,’ the man said. ‘Where is she?’ His arms hung loose and his voice was quiet but Dom could see an extra flush creeping up his neck, betraying some emotional storm he was trying to keep at bay.

  Confused, Dom shook his head. Malcolm stepped in. ‘Dom, this is Stanley Kelley, chartered accountant, from Kelley Financial Management. Stanley, meet our new teacher, Dom Best.’

  Stanley’s flush deepened at Malcolm’s conciliatory tone. He shook Dom’s hand clumsily but his eyes remained cold, waiting for an answer. Dom shrugged in apology. ‘Mavis is at home, I think.’

  Stanley snorted. People turned to look at them and Dom felt himself grow hot. He wanted to punch the accountant’s blotchy face.

  ‘I know you came together,’ Stanley insisted. ‘I saw the car. Did she tell you she’s banned from the club? That they revoked her driver’s licence and that’s why she has to con people into chauffeuring her around?’

  Dom’s confusion abated. The Falcon — of course they all knew who owned it, and probably all knew he was Mavis’s neighbour. He rushed to explain. ‘Mavis lent me her car. Mine’s in the garage.’ Humiliated enough, he stopped short of mentioning the bicycle and his mind struggled to process Mavis in yet another unexpected light.

  ‘Come on, Stan,’ Gerard interrupted merrily. ‘You heard the man. Relax! Get yourself a Scotch or something. And another Coke for Dom, eh?’

  For a moment Stanley fixed Gerard with a look of deep loathing. Then he walked away. Dom was relieved.

  ‘Mother-in-law,’ Gerard explained quietly. ‘Bit of tension there. Long story.’ He gave Dom an apologetic smile that made the world seem fantastic again. ‘So! I believe you met my wife a few days ago, at the shop?’

  Dom tried to recall.

  ‘Sinclair’s Produce,’ Gerard prompted. ‘Over at the Centre? Eleanor said she served you.’

  The link between Gerard Roper and the Roper Centre fell into place and Dom was surprised that this likeable man was responsible for the development. In the staffroom, heated discussions about the Centre broke out all the time — it was sucking the lifeblood from the heart of town; so-and-so from the bakery or the drapery was going to have to sell up after so many generations because they couldn’t compete with the big chains there; it was disgraceful that although council planning regulations long ago set out restrictions against a retail complex that size, somehow the development had been approved anyway. Everyone agreed that the level of corruption at Morus Shire Council was an embarrassment and deserved to be investigated. As for Dom, he thought the place an eyesore, as
he did every other sprawling shopping mall, but each time he found himself there because its supermarket was bigger and open late, the place was always busy. He knew some locals made a stand and continued to buy only from the small shops in town, but no matter how much everyone complained about the Roper Centre just about everybody shopped there.

  That Gerard was married to Eleanor, however, made perfect sense. Dom remembered the elegant woman who had emerged from the office at Sinclair’s Produce to serve him when the other shop attendants were busy. They had chatted for a while about Sydney cafes and restaurants that they both knew, and although she was warm and well spoken, Dom had noticed there was a kind of sadness in her eyes, but this somehow made her beauty seem even more dignified.

  The men began sitting down at the tables and Malcolm guided Dom to a seat. At six-fifteen Gerard Roper struck a little bell and called the room to order. With a relaxed confidence he led them through the Rotary grace and a toast to queen and country before formally welcoming Dom and the few other guests. Dinner was served. Dom tried to make conversation with a big-bellied man on his left but his efforts were thwarted by the man’s acute shyness and the distracting appearance of his nose, identical in colour and texture to pumice stone. Dom, too, was hampered by nervousness, knowing his pitch was coming up soon.

  When the meal was over and the last of the plates were being cleared, Gerard stood up and within seconds all the social chit-chat ceased. He smoothly directed various members to deliver updates on the club’s community projects and one by one they took their turn to stand and talk about the bowel-screening drive, the construction of an indoor recreation centre and preparations for a charity auction dinner later in the year. Malcolm was called upon to report on the progress of the Pride of Business Awards.