by Dee White
Good for two reasons. One, we get out of class for a day. Two, it’s to the museum and the art gallery.
“Why can’t we go somewhere decent like Luna Park or Movie World?” asks Troy.
“Art gallery, Troy,” I say. “We’re going to the art gallery.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Apart from the fact I thought you liked painting, Mum’s an artist. Maybe I’ll get some info on her.”
Troy grins. “Good point.”
On the bus I’m in my own universe, thinking about Mum, when an apple hits me on the back.
“Wake up, Hudson,” says a voice from the back seat. It’s Skink. That guy is a pain. They call him Skink because he darts around everywhere and flicks his tongue as if he’s catching flies. Thinks it’s cool or something.
Bits of food and paper bags fly around in all directions. Mrs D yells, “That’s enough!”
Nobody pays attention. The missiles keep coming. I duck and just miss copping an orange in the head.
Troy has a Vegemite sandwich in his hand, ready to take aim, when the bus screeches to a halt. He’s thrown against the seat in front – right into the back of Tina Armstrong. The sandwich ends up in her hair. She picks it out and tosses it back at Troy. “What do you think you’re doing, bird brain? Leave me alone, will you?”
The bus driver, a man with axe handle shoulders, storms up the aisle. Everyone stops, sits back down and hides their missiles behind their backs.
“I’ve had enough of you lot,” he bellows. “Any more of this, I’ll throw you all off the bus and you can walk back to school!”
It’s pretty quiet for the rest of the trip.
First stop’s the museum, where the most exciting exhibit is Phar Lap, the famous racehorse who died in America. Hard to believe he’s dead. Looks so real.
“Isn’t he awesome?” I ask Troy.
“I dunno, he looks stuffed to me.”
Tina Armstrong gives Troy another one of her scathing looks. Later, when Troy’s at the toilets, she asks me, “Why do you hang around with that loser? You’re not like him at all.”
“You don’t know him. He’s cool, really. We’ve been best mates since we started school.”
“Pity he hasn’t grown up since then.” Tina moves away as Troy comes back.
“Were you two talking about me?” he asks.
I shrug and Troy punches me on the shoulder. “She’s got the hots for me, hasn’t she? Yes! I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist me.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get carried away, mate.”
“Hey, look, she’s heading off that way.” Troy points towards the prehistoric exhibition. “Let’s follow her.”
But before he can pester Tina again, Mrs D calls the class together and herds us back on the bus. I can’t wait to get to the gallery.
Once we arrive we’re not allowed off the bus until the driver has bellowed another warning. “Back here in two hours or I go without you.”
We pile off the bus, up the gallery steps and through the glass doors. “Australian exhibits, this way.” Mrs D guides us to a large room full of works by contemporary Australian artists.
Each picture has a brass plate engraved with the name of the painting and its creator. Troy stops at an abstract painting by an artist who looks like he used to be a pasta chef. There are noodles of colour splashed together on the canvas; it doesn’t look like anything real.
“Dunno what people see in this stuff,” Troy says. “Reckon my little sister could do better.”
I walk to the back of the room to look at one of the Archibald Prize finalists – a portrait of a famous comedian. It’s pretty cool.
After I’ve finished, I turn to look at the painting on the opposite wall. It’s a picture of Katherine Gorge. I recognise the colours. And the style.
I let out a whoop. Mrs D turns around. Troy rushes over.
“Hey, check this out,” I say.
It’s an amazing painting. Massive cliffs either side reaching down to this trickle of water that seems insignificant. The colours are so real and so deep you can picture yourself there. There’s a small brass plate next to the painting. Deepest Fears by Zorina.
Zora – short for Zorina? I’m sure it’s her. Why isn’t her last name on the plaque? Why is she making it so hard for me?
Troy stares at the painting. “Your mum?” he asks.
I nod.
“She must be good to get put up in a place like this.” Troy looks around the room. “We should drag Tina over here. Do you reckon she’d be impressed?”
“No,” I say. I don’t want anyone to know that my mum did this.
“But it’s so cool,” Troy argues. “I thought you’d be proud.”
“I am.”
But at the same time, I’m thinking, what if she is crazy? What if everyone finds out I have a loony in the family?
“What am I going to say to Tina if she wants to meet her?” I ask Troy.
“I guess you’re right. Still, I reckon it’s pretty cool, having a famous mum.”
“It would be even cooler if I knew where to find her.”
“Maybe you could write to the gallery and tell them you are doing a school project on her. They might have some info,” says Troy.
“Good idea.”
All the way home in the bus my mind is buzzing with thoughts about Mum and her paintings. I can hardly believe it. Not only is Mum alive, she’s a well-known painter – sort of famous, in fact.
The minute I get home, I race upstairs, turn on my laptop and write:
Dear Sir/Madam,
I loved Deepest Fears by Zorina which I saw in your gallery.
I have decided to do a school assignment on this great artist and was wondering if you could tell me about her.
Does she live in Australia? How old is she? Does she still paint?
I would really appreciate any information you can give me for my project.
Thanks a lot.
Yours truly,
Matt Hudson
I wait over a week to hear from the gallery. I wear a path between the front door and the letterbox. Finally, it comes – an envelope from the gallery’s Education Unit. I text Troy to tell him I’ve got mail. He texts back: B right there.
I tap the letter against my palm, I can’t wait for Troy to get here. Fingers shaking, I rip open the envelope.
Don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping for an address, phone number, home town, anything – but of course, it’s never that easy.
All the envelope contains is a brief letter and a bio sheet on Zorina. It still doesn’t mention her last name, doesn’t give a lot of personal stuff about her – just her place of birth and the fact that she now lives in the country.
“Lives in the country!” That really narrows it down – not!
Troy races in the door and I show him the pathetic “nothing” bio.
“Why don’t we post something online?” he says. “We could scan in that photo you found in your dad’s room and ask if anyone knows her or where she lives.”
The photo is old and faded but the scan doesn’t come out too bad. We muck around on the computer for an hour, then we get a hit – several hits.
“I think I’ve found her! According to Katie57, she calls herself Zora Matthews now.” I nearly cry when I read that. Did she rename herself after me? Why start a new life without me, but use my name?
My eyes sting. Maybe what she said in the letter is true. Maybe she never did stop loving me. Either Dave lied again – or he never really knew her. Who should I believe? The Dave who told me she was dead or the Dave who now reckons he wants to help me find her? Could I be more confused?
I search the White Pages online for Mum’s address. I find a listing in a place called Hillton. Can’t be too many people around with the name Zora Matthews. Surely?
My hand shakes as I write down the telephone number for the person who could be my mother.
An online map shows that Hillton’s only a couple of hours away by t
rain. I can get there and back in a day while Dave’s at work. He doesn’t even have to know about it. I know he reckons he wants to help me, but I have to do this bit on my own. I have to give Mum a chance to tell her side of the story.
Dear Leonardo,
I’m getting close to finding Mum.
I feel like I’m your Tobias in Tobias and the Angel – on a journey with so many possible outcomes.
Wish me luck. (I hope I don’t need it.)
Matt
PS Dave has finally agreed to let me do Saturday art classes. I think Steve Bridges talked him into it. Troy thinks he might join too.
Thanks to Katie57 I have the ten-digit PIN to my mother. Get the numbers right and I can bring back the dead. It’s too freaky. But I’ve still got to get the courage to dial it.
I’m petrified. She must have her reasons for staying away. Just as Dave has his useless reasons for keeping us apart.
Troy and I are sitting at his kitchen table. He grabs the handset and slams it down in front of me. “You’ve got your mum’s number – now ring it,” he says.
“What do I say to her? ‘Hi, Zora. I’m your son.’ Don’t want to give her a heart attack.”
“You won’t. She’s your mother.”
“What if she doesn’t want to know me?”
“She wants you to find her – that’s why she sent the card.”
I roll my eyes at him. “So, why didn’t she include a return address?”
“Maybe she wants you to seek her out. That way she’ll know she isn’t forcing herself on you. Probably wants you to come to her.”
“But what if she changed her mind since she sent the card?”
Troy picks up the handset and jams it between my fingers. “Just ring her, will you? Put us all out of our misery.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Do you want me to do it?” Troy tries to grab the phone from me.
“No, I will!” I swallow and dial the number. After three rings I hang up.
“What are you doing, Matt?”
“What if she’s not there?”
“Then you ring back later.”
Stomach churning, I dial the number again. It stops ringing, someone picks up. “Zora Matthews speaking.”
It’s her! I know her voice. I remember it. She’s there on the other end of the phone – not dead. But alive. Very alive.
Maybe I should leave the whole thing alone. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Hello, is anybody there?” says my mother.
“Y-y-yes.”
“Hello. Can I help you?”
Sounds like she’s getting annoyed. What if she hangs up? I have to do something fast so I say the first thing that comes into my head. “It’s me, M-M-Matt. I think you might be my mother.”
My stomach does somersaults. There’s a long silence at the other end, but at least she doesn’t hang up.
“What makes you think that?” She doesn’t sound annoyed any more. And she didn’t say I couldn’t be her son.
“I’m Matt Hudson,” I say. “Ten years ago my dad told me that my mother died. Her name was Zora, like yours.”
Her voice floats back through the phone to me – soft and low, like a whisper of wind through the trees. “What can you tell me about your father?” She sounds scared too. It makes me braver.
“His name’s Dave Hudson. He’s forty-three and he’s a real estate agent.”
She doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure what to do next.
“So what do you reckon?” I ask quickly, desperate to hear her voice again. It seems to take ages for her to talk.
Her words come out all choked up. “Why are you ringing me, Matt?” she asks.
“I got a birthday card. It was signed ‘Love, Mum’. Did you send it?”
“Yes.” Her voice is firmer, as if she’s glad she did.
Troy taps me on the shoulder. “Is she your mother?” he hisses.
I give him the thumbs up and say into the phone, “I need to talk to you. I need to know why you left.”
For ages, there’s silence and at first, I think she must have hung up.
“Come and see me, Matt. We’ll talk.”
It’s a good sign. She wants to see me. “When?”
“Next weekend, if that’s okay with your dad.”
I suck in my breath. “I can make my own decisions.”
“He’s your father.”
I can’t believe she’s taking his side. “I don’t owe him anything. He lied. He told me you were dead.”
“We’ll talk about this when you come. There’s a train to Hillton on Saturday morning. If you miss that one, you’ll have to wait till Sunday.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t miss it.”
Mum laughs. “My house isn’t far from the station.” She gives me directions. “Look forward to seeing you on the weekend,” she says.
I hang up the phone and flop back in my chair.
“So?” says Troy.
“I can’t believe it. I’m going to see my mother.”
Dear Leonardo,
I was flicking around the internet yesterday and saw an image of Madonna of the Cat and POW, it hit me right between the eyes. It’s like you painted a portrait of my family – like you KNEW us.
I’m the child in your painting. Mum’s the cat, and Dave is the Madonna.
The cat is wriggling free from the child and the mother is holding the child back – stopping it from going after the cat. Mum wriggled free from us and Dad tried to stop me from following her – that’s why he told me she was dead. But it’s wrong. You don’t lie to your kids.
I was never allowed a pet – except when I was a baby, and I don’t remember that. Every time I asked for one when I was growing up, Dave reckoned he was allergic to animals.
Kids need someone or something to love. Don’t you reckon, Leo?
Matt
PS I know where Mum is. I’m going to see her this weekend. Excited but nervous!
13
All week I fill my backpack with things to show Mum. There’s the photo of my first day at school and my Year Six school report where my teacher said, “Matt is more than ready to start high school”.
I find a drawing of Dave that won me first prize in a Year One art competition. He looks sort of alien – big head, pointy ears – not a great likeness, but you can sort of tell it’s him. I pack a clock that I made out of a paper plate and a mouse I made out of pipe-cleaners.
I want to tell Dave where I’m going, but I know he’ll try and stop me.
At tea on Friday night I say, “I’m going to Troy’s house tomorrow to do homework.”
“Good. Make sure you work on that History assignment. You don’t want to fail, do you?”
“Mrs D been dobbing, has she?”
Dave clatters his empty plate into the sink. “She rang me at work yesterday. She’s worried that your work’s slipping, that’s all.”
“Did you tell her why?”
“I would have if I’d known the reason myself.”
How could you NOT know?
“Think about it, Dave.” I storm off to my room.
Dear Leonardo,
How did you feel when you met your mum again? You never had emails or phones, so you couldn’t speak to her first and get some idea of whether she’d be pleased to see you.
I’ve got all this stuff to show Mum. Hope she likes my art. Was your mum proud of you, Leo?
Luckily, I’m going to Mum’s by train. If I had to go by horse and cart, like you, I’d never get there and back without Dave noticing. Dave thinks I’m going to Troy’s. I guess one good lie deserves another.
Matt
I’m up before Dave. I eat a quick breakfast and race out the door just in time to catch the bus to Melbourne.
I sit behind a woman with a little kid. We pass factories covered with red and purple graffiti. The kid keeps asking questions. “Who painted that, Mum? What does that word say? Are we there yet?” Finally,
he falls asleep with his mother’s arm around his shoulder.
At Southern Cross Station the mother carries the son off the bus. I help her with the luggage. A lit-up board tells me that the train to Hillton is leaving from platform six in five minutes. I bolt.
On the train I can hardly sit still. I take sips of water from the bubbler at the end of the carriage. All the water makes me go to the toilet. I have to keep squeezing past an old lady with a trolley until eventually she asks, “Could we swap seats?”
“Sorry.”
She sniffs. “Do you have a bladder problem?”
“No, I’m a bit nervous, that’s all.” And embarrassed.
When we stop at a station, I move to another carriage and grab a seat near the window. I close my eyes and try to calm myself down. Mum can’t see me in this state. I want her to think I’m cool – that I’ve grown up okay.
I take deep breaths, filling my chest with air then exhaling as slowly as I can. My heart stops racing and I open my eyes. I try counting sheep in the paddocks as we whiz by, but we’re going too fast. I look at the people around me, and make up stories in my head about who they are and where they’re going. I stop when a guy with a ring through his chin wants to know what I’m “gawking at”.
The train slows and I can see a sign that says, “Hillton”.
Ten of us get off the train and wait for it to leave the station before we cross to the platform that takes you into town. I count the cracks in the bluestone walls while we wait. I try not to think about what’s about to happen.
Mum’s house is a five-minute walk from the station. Hillton isn’t big. The house is just like she described it to me on the telephone. It’s hidden behind a row of huge peppercorn trees. They’re like a fortress, their thick trunks blocking out all light and sound from the outside world. There’s a cattle grid, too wide to jump, at the end of a long gravel-covered driveway. On one side of the driveway is a massive rusty shed with a broken windmill towering over it
I clank across the cattle grid. A sign on the front of the shed says, “Keep clear. Park this side.” It has an arrow pointing up the driveway. Maybe the shed’s Mum’s art studio.
The front fence is falling down and the gate sags off its hinges. It seems to be rusted in place – half open. I follow a stone path winding from the driveway towards the house. It leads to a wide verandah with two broken chairs and a tree stump for a table between them.