Watercolours

by Adrienne Ferreira

  ‘Ah … we might have to extend the deadline on that one,’ he said, scratching his ear. ‘We haven’t had any nominations yet.’

  Gerard shook his head in disappointment. ‘All right then,’ he sighed, ‘let’s all concentrate on drumming up some interest in these awards. If there’s pride out there we’ll find it.’

  There was a call for other news. An obese and wheezing figure brandishing a flyer got out of his seat and began to inform them solemnly of a recent advancement in nasal-delivery technology for performance in the bedroom. With a displeased laugh, Gerard cut him off and quickly steered them back to the agenda, announcing birthdays and anniversaries and issuing some lighthearted fines. The pumice-nosed man had to pay up for sneaking a go on the pokies before the meeting, the sound of his winnings giving him away. Cake was served, covered in the sort of custard that reminded Dom of school camps, which he could eat none of because he was up next.

  The waitresses swooped, pouring coffee. Gerard rose again.

  ‘As you know, we’re still accepting nominations for our Youth Fellowship award,’ he said. ‘Tonight, Dom Best from Morus Primary is here to present someone from his class, a student whom he thinks deserves our support. Gentlemen, please make him welcome.’

  Dom got to his feet to polite applause, placing Novi’s portfolio on his chair behind him. The group fell silent. The only sound was the clink of spoon in cup and cup on saucer as coffee was sipped. Dom cleared his throat and swallowed.

  ‘Thanks, Gerard. Good evening, everyone! Thanks for having me here. As some of you might know, I’m new to Morus. In fact, I hadn’t even heard of it before I was offered the job at the school …’

  Some of the men frowned. A prickle of sweat sprang up along Dom’s back. Sensing that this sort of honesty probably wasn’t the best approach, he hurried on. ‘But my job at Morus Primary has been a fateful one. It’s introduced me to an extraordinary student, a young artist who shows great promise and who is in genuine need of assistance. His name is Novi Lepido.’ There was a stir of recognition in the room but Dom couldn’t gauge if this was positive or not.

  ‘Novi has a special gift. As his teacher it’s my job to develop it, but I can’t give him the support he deserves without some help. Of course, all my students deserve equal attention and encouragement, each one has their own unique talent. But in the case of Novi Lepido, I really do believe we have someone exceptional.’

  He reached for the portfolio, unzipped it and began passing pictures along the table. No matter how long and hard he sang the boy’s praises he knew only the art itself would convince them. He and Camille had chosen carefully, omitting any of the more confronting images. They had selected some beautiful still-life drawings with impressive detail as well as a few of the larger landscapes and some lively town scenes with identifiable characters. Dom felt a surge of excitement knowing that some of those characters were sitting across from him now, pushing their coffee cups aside and fumbling for their glasses. Camille had assured him that people always loved seeing a picture of themselves, and Dom had added the boat painting from the classroom wall, assuring her, in turn, that men always loved seeing breasts. Pictures were passed down the tables and studied in respectful silence. Nobody said anything. Moments passed and the silence stretched on. Necks were held at odd angles, stiff with uncertainty; eyes darted sideways, unsure of how to respond. Coffee cups were clutched for reassurance, moustaches smoothed by serviettes.

  Dom swallowed, dismay crawling over him like a loathsome insect. Did he seriously think this group of men — men preoccupied with wayward mothers-in-law, bowel cancer and penile dysfunction — would relate to an eleven year old’s drawing of a river? Contemplating art was clearly a foreign activity for most of them, something slightly shameful, not to be trusted. He must be deluded; now that he thought about it this whole idea was insane.

  He looked desperately at Malcolm, then Gerard, who was examining the group’s reaction. Dom couldn’t read his expression. Gerard placed his hands either side of the picture in front of him and looked at it once more. Then he said, ‘You’re in this one, Bob.’

  ‘Eh?’ A beefy man at the end of the table, whom Dom recognised from the newsagency, peered over his glasses. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing from here!’

  Others strained to look. Gerard reached across his neighbour for the picture of the flooded caravan park. He held it at arm’s length to see it better and then turned it around. ‘And that’s you, John, rescuing your paddleboats.’ He passed it on to a skinny man with greased scallops of brown hair, who took it with surprise.

  ‘How about we all get up and take a proper look at these?’ Gerard suggested. ‘Come on, don’t be shy! Stretch the legs.’

  Bob got up and made his way along the table to see the picture in which he appeared. In a flash the exchange student was out of her seat and pounced on the drawing of cicadas with a cry of delight. The sound was like a pinprick puncturing the tension. There was a general shuffling as men began leaving their places.

  Just as Camille predicted, the town scenes received the most attention. People recognised themselves and each other and were clearly flattered. Jokes were bandied about and a buzz of conversation began to compete with the clatter of dishes being scraped and stacked in the kitchen. Dom kept his eye on the boat picture, which was lingered over with raised eyebrows. Everyone had their turn to look. His heart was hammering. Eager to take advantage of this swing in mood, Dom glanced at Gerard. The man was already watching him, the glimmer of a smile on his lips. He nodded and said, ‘Order, please, gentlemen!’

  A hush descended. The men turned to look at Dom again. ‘As you can see, Novi has talent. Now, I’m sure some of you will relate when I say I don’t know much about art. But when I see a remarkable picture, a picture like this, for example …’ He reached for a dramatic bushfire painting and held it up, ‘I feel like it’s communicating something, sharing something important.’ In the picture, animals fled in terror under a red sun. Ash swirled in spirals through the brown sky. Dom thought of the fires he had driven through last month on his way up here. The picture managed to capture the power of those blazes.

  ‘Camille Morrison, the art teacher at Morus Primary, has already offered her support in the form of private weekly lessons for Novi. But supplies are expensive and Novi comes from a struggling family. As I’ve set out in the submission, Novi successfully fulfils the criteria of your youth fellowship and I suppose all I can add tonight is …’

  He paused, conscious of how important this bit was, how deeply he wanted to succeed. He took a deep breath in and slowly let it out.

  ‘When you look at these pictures, imagine how far this boy could go with your support. Novi has a gift, but he is also a gift himself — a gift to his community. He is a passionate young voice with an interest in his local area. Surely Morus could benefit from that?’

  Abruptly he sat down, flushed from the charge the speech had given him. The men shuffled back to their seats with mixed expressions: some frowning, some wide-eyed, several blank. Dom wondered if he’d overdone it with the gift metaphor.

  Nobody spoke for a while. Then nasal-technology man raised his hand. ‘Look,’ he said, shifting his belly behind the table, ‘this kid’s a good drawer, I’ll give him that. He’s done some nice scenes and everything but I thought we were giving the fellowship to an athlete, to coincide with the opening of the rec centre?’

  There was a general nodding of heads.

  ‘This has always been a sporting fellowship,’ the mayor agreed. Dom had seen his photo in the paper and remembered his pudgy face. ‘And this town continues to produce world-class athletes, thanks to the support of Rotary. Now, this isn’t supposed to be announced until next week so it has to stay within the club but I’m thrilled to confirm that Jeanine Waterhouse has been selected for the junior Australian hockey team. We’re very proud of her, Ray!’

  Everyone turned to Ray, a tall, wiry man covered in freckles. There was warm applause. �
�Thanks, Kevin. Yes, the girls are down in Canberra training as we speak.’

  Dom felt his foothold slipping. ‘That’s terrific!’ he said loudly. ‘And I’m the first person to acknowledge the important role sport plays in the health and spirit of our young people.’ There was vigorous agreement all round. ‘But the requirements of the fellowship don’t actually specify that it has to be sports related. It says here …’ He flicked through to the page he had highlighted, ‘“… a subsidy awarded to a person under eighteen years of age to encourage the further development of talent promising high achievement for the benefit of the community”.’

  Ray Waterhouse blinked. ‘Yeah, sport.’

  ‘We’ve covered hockey, netball, gymnastics, women’s touch footy and basketball,’ the mayor counted on stubby fingers. ‘This was supposed to be the year for volleyball, to coincide with the opening of the rec centre.’

  To Dom’s surprise, Stanley Kelley interjected. After their confrontation earlier, the accountant hadn’t said a word all meeting and Dom had almost forgotten about him. ‘If anyone seriously thinks we’ll have enough money to finish building the rec centre this year, they’re kidding themselves,’ he said in a dry voice.

  Gerard sighed. ‘Stan’s right. Fundraising’s down. Everyone’s feeling the pinch of this recession. And now interest rates are on the rise again.’

  The men slumped in their chairs. Gerard glanced along the tables, encouraging more comments. Bob seemed to be wrestling with a thought and eventually he spoke up. ‘I think maybe we should consider this art thing. I mean, look at this — it’s incredible! It looks just like me!’ He was studying the newsagency picture with awe. ‘There’s Samson, asleep in the doorway, and there’s Jeanette.’ He pointed to a large blob in the background.

  ‘And let’s not forget Port Torft,’ added Gerard. ‘They broke the mould last year by awarding their fellowship to that young girl — what’s her name? Plays the flute? Now she’s got a recording contract and overnight they’re promoting the place as some kind of musical Mecca. They had the Sydney Morning Herald out there. Radio National, too. Attracted some major publicity for the club.’

  The mayor folded his arms. ‘Who the hell listens to Radio National?’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Gerard said, ‘now they’ve got an annual music festival going. Great for tourism.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it’s time to show those Coasties they’re not the only ones with an artistic streak?’

  A man on Dom’s right raised his hand tentatively. He was wearing an orange polo shirt with white text arching across the front: River’s Rest Caravan Park. ‘If we really want to attract the tourists, I think we should consider the Chamber of Commerce’s idea of a big attraction. You know, like the Big Banana? Especially now the bypass is happening. It’ll be more important than ever to draw people in off the highway. We could attach a restaurant and a theme park, create some jobs. Snare a bit more of the holiday crowd. I think there’s real opportunity there.’

  ‘What, though?’ Bob demanded in irritation. ‘The Big What? We didn’t get anywhere with this last time because none of us could think of anything worth enlarging.’

  Dom’s mind wandered to the weird abundance of girls. The Big Toilet Roll, perhaps? A giant, welcoming vagina? He kept silent.

  The park owner grew excited. ‘Well, I’ve had my thinking cap on and I’ve come up with a ripper. How about …’ He paused for dramatic effect, sweeping his arms out wide, ‘… the Big Cappuccino!’

  Everyone looked blank.

  ‘But we’re not famous for coffee,’ Bob protested. ‘Making it or growing it.’

  ‘We could be! We all know Fifi runs a great little cafe. She’s sure as hell mastered the art of froth.’

  Bob looked unconvinced but Dom saw a few others nodding at this idea. After Camille’s warning he had so far avoided Fifi’s. Now he was curious to experience the place.

  ‘Fifi makes a world-class cup of coffee,’ the park owner stated solemnly. ‘We can be proud of that. We could easily build a Big Cappuccino — with a giant fibreglass head of froth — and make it the specialty of Morus.’

  The mayor folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Morus — for the big coffee break you deserve!’

  ‘Exactly! Kind of like Morus being an official rest stop. We could even get the Lions Club involved, their driver reviver concept would fit right in.’

  There was a stunned silence. Eyes widened. Gerard Roper drew himself up in his chair and announced coldly, ‘The Lions are to be well and truly kept out of this. Our endeavours are well beyond their league.’

  The park owner fell silent. The men stared unhappily into their empty cups, inspiration lost. Dom began to sense a shift in the climate of unspoken thought. He waited a moment longer.

  ‘Novi’s art shows that there are plenty of aspects of Morus worth celebrating,’ he said casually. ‘The river, the mulberry trees. The special history of this place. Almost every one of his pictures is a tribute to something unique here. He’s a one-boy marketing machine. All he needs is a sponsor.’

  Glances were exchanged, buttocks rearranged on seats. Nobody said anything. From behind the closed servery came the muffled swish and hum of an industrial dishwasher. Somewhere outside a shower of coins hit metal, accompanied by a banal computerised ditty. A waitress popped her head in, disappeared, and returned with more coffee.

  Gerard let out a deep sigh. All eyes turned to him. With a frown, he contemplated the tablecloth between his splayed fingers. ‘There is, of course, another aspect to all this worth considering.’ He looked up. ‘Bert Cherubini.’

  There was a sombre lowering of eyes around the room. The waitress made a sad Tut, tut as she filled the remaining cups and exited, closing the door quietly behind her. Dom saw all this and felt bewildered. He looked questioningly at Gerard.

  ‘Bert Cherubini was Novi Lepido’s grandfather. A great Rotarian and a friend to many of us here tonight.’ Gerard paused. ‘Sadly, no longer with us.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Dom struggled to grasp what was happening. When Gerard next spoke Dom watched how his eyes travelled along the tables, fixing briefly on the face of each member.

  ‘We’ll be voting on the fellowship at the end of the month. It will be a democratic decision, a fair process that Rotary is proud to uphold. But right now, let’s pause to remember our old friend Bert Cherubini. His years of loyalty to Rotary. His fundraising efforts. His commitment to our community. Bert never had the opportunity to watch Novi grow into the talented young fellow he is today. No doubt he would have been very proud.’

  Gerard bowed his head. The others followed suit and a solemn hush engulfed the room. Dom glanced at the men around him. He saw their hunched shoulders, their crumpled mouths. And in that instant he understood.

  He was going to win.

  Cocooned within the quiet hum of his Land Cruiser, Gerard Roper drove through town. It wasn’t late but the roads were empty under the high amber streetlights. Morus was dead this time of night. Sometimes it depressed him but tonight he felt uplifted. He had done a good deed. Soon he would be a patron of the arts, responsible for bringing a bit of colour and pizzazz to these lifeless streets. The role suited him, he thought.

  After a few minutes he reached the highway. The indicator clicked as he waited for a semi-trailer to lumber past and he took the moment to recall the look of gratitude on that young teacher’s face at the end of the meeting. Rotary needed young guys like him, guys with spirit. Times were changing; if they didn’t relax the rules a bit and attract a new generation to the club it was in danger of dying out. Maddening, how the old blokes refused to see it! Sometimes Gerard felt like he was butting up against a great grey glacier, trying to shift their attitudes. Still, he had influence. He was determined to make the most of his time as president. They’d thank him for it down the track.

  Pulling onto the highway he had the Land Cruiser roaring at top gear within seconds. He thought about how easily the night had u
nfolded, how well he’d let things flow. Ever since he was a young man he’d been good at making an impression. The key, he’d learned, was not to rely on looks alone. Good looks were useful generally, for turning people’s heads, inspiring them to attend to him more closely than they would to someone of a less striking appearance, somebody drab. Stanley was proof of this. Stanley lacked allure; he was the invisible man, except for tonight, of course! Bailing up that poor teacher — what a fool he’d made of himself.

  But every now and then looks could be a disadvantage. Sometimes people felt jealous of Gerard or threatened by him and tried to find out where his faults lay, the less obvious ones not apparent in the features of his face, his tall physique, his strong jaw, his decent crop of hair. There were those who’d try to take him down a peg or two unless he jumped in and did the honours himself: a rueful joke, perhaps, something self-deprecating to let them know he wasn’t beyond having a laugh at himself. Over time he’d learned that turning the attention back on these people worked, too: asking questions, listening intently, feigning fascination in the detail of their lives. All these were effective tactics and Gerard employed them when he needed to. He could tell that his success at disarming potential adversaries often made Stanley resentful. But resentment did nothing at all for Stanley’s allure; it only made his little eyes appear more piggy.

  Gerard nodded slightly. Yes, some people were more difficult to impress than others, Eleanor’s father, for instance. The first time he’d met John Sinclair, he was twenty-one and he and Eleanor had just graduated from the same business college in Sydney. They had been dating only a few months but already Gerard was smitten, he couldn’t believe this fresh-faced beauty from the bush could hold her own at a North Shore cocktail party. On that first drive up to Morus she had given him fair warning: her mother — vague, kind — could love anyone, but her father was a man who did not trust easily, especially not flashy, handsome city types.