Portraits of Celina

by Sue Whiting

  “You shouldn’t have to rectify anything,” I say and mean it. “Besides, what are Missy Moo and Arnold doing without you?”

  “Ha! They’re doing fine. Missy Moo even has a job. Casual, and not enough for her to make rent, but she’s chuffed about it.” I watch Gran’s face – shining like a Christmas tree – as she talks about the Soup Van, and it strikes me that that’s where she should be. I am sad and guilty and grateful all at once.

  Mum rushes past Gran and passes me a basket. “Here take this to the car, will you? And make sure Seth’s been to the loo.” She tears up the stairs. “Come on, Amelia. Everyone is waiting.”

  The basket is heavy, filled with the spoils of Mum and Gran’s baking extravaganza afternoon: chocolate chip muffins, melting moment biscuits, citrus tarts. The way the items are arranged has all the signs of Mum’s flair, and I feel encouraged. I hope the Mitchells aren’t into health foods though. A whiff of the sugary contents would be enough to snap a diabetic out of a coma.

  Just as I go to step outside, I am stopped by the sound of Mum yelling at the top of her voice. “What do you mean, you’re not going? Of course you’re going. Now get out of those daggy clothes and hurry yourself up, young lady.”

  Gran and I exchange troubled glances.

  “Sounds like World War Three has erupted,” says Gran. “Wait here, Bails. I’ll go up and see if the combatants are open to peace talks.”

  Amelia’s voice rockets down the stairwell. “I’m eighteen in a couple of months and you can’t make me go.”

  Seth appears in the doorway next to me, pulling on his ears. I set the basket on the verandah boards and sit down on the steps.

  “Yes, I can,” says Mum. “And I will.”

  “Yeah, you and whose army?”

  “Wow, that’s original, Amelia. Where did you learn that one? Your underage drinking mates at The Pint?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s and I don’t give a rat’s about you or anyone else in this stinking hellhole. You might be able to drag me here, Mum, but you can’t make me like it. So shut up!”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that; you have no right.”

  “Don’t you go flapping on about rights. What gave you the right to wreck my life?”

  “You were doing a pretty good job of wrecking it by yourself, madam!”

  “What would you know? You haven’t even been on the same planet, let alone the same town, Mum. You’ve been absent in the extreme.”

  Ouch. That would have hurt.

  There’s a pause, and I wonder if I should go upstairs and check everything is okay. Then Amelia’s yelling tumbles down the stairwell again.

  “Look – I don’t care what you think or what you say; I have no intention – repeat, no intention – of spending Saturday night meeting some dumb country bogans. So get off my case!”

  Amelia’s door slams and a thick silence fills the house as if Amelia’s anger has sucked out all the air, leaving the rest of the household holding their breath in the vacuum.

  “What’s a bogan?” Seth whispers into the void. He pulls his cape closed around his legs and rests his chin against his knees.

  I stifle a laugh. “Nothing,” I answer lamely, worrying what is going to happen next.

  “Why is Amelia angry all the time?” he asks.

  “That’s a good question, mate. Maybe you should ask her. Not now though,” I add.

  “I don’t like it when she yells.”

  “Neither do I. But we’ve always got each other, right?”

  “Are we still going to Oliver’s?”

  I open my mouth to reply as Mum and Gran come traipsing down the stairs. Mum’s face is flushed and her eyes are red.

  “Come on, you two,” says Gran. “In the car. We don’t want to be late.”

  “Is Amelia coming?” Seth asks.

  “No. She’s too much of a cranky-puss tonight, don’t you think?” Gran takes Seth’s hand.

  Mum picks up the basket and closes the door behind her. She is totally strung-out and I wonder if I am ever going to be able to forgive my sister for what she is putting our mother through.

  eighteen

  It’s quite a hike to get around to Lakeside. It requires driving all the way out to the main highway, then about another ten kilometres along it, before turning off and driving in towards the lake.

  I am surprised by the drive back in. From my glimpses across the lake to the imposing trees and orderly paddocks of Oliver’s property, I had been expecting rolling hills of grazing sheep and patchwork paddocks of grain or lucerne. Instead, the terrain is rugged, the road cutting through steep gullies thick with bush.

  Despite this, I am enjoying the drive. A stiff southerly has swatted away the miserable weather of the morning, leaving behind another breathtaking afternoon; everything is brighter, greener, crisper, as if scrubbed clean. Seth is engrossed in his comic book – how he doesn’t get carsick is beyond me – and Mum and Gran are locked within their private thoughts.

  And this leaves me alone with mine as well.

  I am so nervous. Except for the time I had a crush on Bede Walters in Year Seven, I haven’t ever felt this rush of anticipation about meeting someone. Vicariously, through Loni perhaps – Loni is always jumping about like a mad idiot at the prospect of her latest love. But this is new territory for me. I think back to when Oliver and I were hanging at The Circle together – how fun it was – us yelling out and laughing till our sides ached. Recall his strange high-pitched laugh. It may irritate Amelia, but I like it – it is unique, distinct. Then I remember what Amelia said about Oliver being some sort of god with the local girls and wonder if she was making it up to upset me or whether it is indeed true. He’s way out of your league. I sigh. I am kidding myself to think that he would be interested in me.

  I pick up my phone to check the time and notice that I have signal. Even with the new carrier, the signal round here is as unpredictable as the weather. I type a quick message to Loni, before I lose it again.

  On my way to barbecue with HOT neighbour. XXX Bails.

  The reply from Loni is almost instant.

  No way. Tell me more!!!!! Details. Now.

  I smile at Loni’s response. Can hear the passion in her message. Will I ever make a friend like Loni here? I go to reply, but notice that I have lost signal again. I think this country life may do me in.

  We climb up a steep incline. Once over the crest, the landscape flattens out and opens into the farm-style paddocks I had been expecting.

  “Down here, on the right,” says Gran, pointing. “That gate there. I reckon that’s it.”

  Mum puts on her blinker, turns into the dirt track and stops outside a wire gate with a large sign beside it announcing: Lakeside – Olive Grove and Agistment.

  Seth bounds out to open the gate.

  My stomach does a double backwards somersault.

  It’s funny looking at the lake from the opposite side. It challenges my perspective, flips everything over. The sun is low in the sky, resting just above the hill behind our house, casting a golden glow to the water. I am amazed to see how much the Norfolk pine towers above the roof; how unruly and kind of wild our side of the lake appears. But then, it has been deserted for nearly four decades.

  Mum pulls up in a circular drive outside what seems to be the main building – all glass and steel – nestled in a cluster of older cottages, barns and sheds.

  As I step out of the car, my stomach goes from having tickly nerves to being plain nauseous. Not a great start.

  A soaring glass door slides open and loud Latino music surges out, followed by a tiny woman dressed in denim shorts and a singlet top, carrying a ginger cat. She sets the cat down and dazzles everyone with a wide grin.

  I blink. Does that woman have pink streaks in her hair or am I seeing things?

  The woman approaches. “Hi! You made it,” she says. Her face is elfish and pretty and seems to suit her startling crop of spiky pink hair. Her nose scrunches up as she smil
es. This couldn’t be Oliver’s mother, surely? She seems far too young. The woman shakes Mum’s hand and then Gran’s. “I’m Annie Mitchell. Sorry Bob and Ols aren’t here – some problem with a fence or a tractor or manure or something …” She screws up her nose and giggles. “They’ll be back soon,” she adds. “Not much of a welcome, I know. And the Ralphs send their apologies too. Timmy, their latest bub, is sick – the flu or some sort of bug – anyway, better if they stay away, don’t want to spread those nasty bugs about.”

  Annie babbles away as introductions are made and we are ushered inside. The house is cavernous: all hard surfaces, starkly white and filled with light. Not exactly your typical country homestead, I suspect, though Annie isn’t exactly your typical farmer’s wife either. Seth sidles up beside me, his eyes wide.

  “It’s a bit huge for the three of us,” says Annie her voice echoey, as she turns down the music and guides us through the large tiled living room and to the kitchen area at the far end. “But it’s our dream house. Bob had it built when we moved back here from Sydney – he couldn’t bear living in the old farmhouse again, and I wanted something that reminded me of our Sydney house. Now, Seth, how about a Coke? Or some OJ? What do you reckon?”

  “Coke, thanks,” whispers Seth, winding his arm around my leg.

  “Okey-doke. And what about you, Bayley? I’ve got a bottle of bubbly cooling in the fridge. Thought finally having some neighbours across the lake was reason enough to celebrate, don’t you think? So name your poison” – she glances over at Mum and grins – “that’s if it’s okay with you, Kath.”

  “Coke’s fine,” I say before Mum has a chance to answer on my behalf.

  Mum hauls the basket of baking up onto the shiny stone benchtop. “Just a few goodies,” she says.

  “Holy moly, it’s a feast,” Annie says, peering into the basket. “You didn’t need to bring anything, but I’m sure glad you did.” Annie chuckles and pops a melting moment into her mouth. “Oh my God, who cooked this and where have you been all my life? Don’t get things like this in Tallowood, as I’m sure you have discovered for yourselves already.”

  The champagne cork is popped and drinks are poured, and already there is a feeling of ease in the room, though my stomach refuses to stop gurgling. Seth lets go of my leg and starts exploring.

  My eyes sweep around. I have never seen windows this huge in a house before. They soar right to the top of the barn-like ceiling, bringing the stunning view of lawn and lake and countryside up close and personal. A side wall is home to several art works. Drink in hand, I wander over for a closer look.

  They are incredible: abstract but totally captivating, collages of some sort, made out of thousands of small pieces of different kinds of materials – stone, twigs, leaves, bark – all stuck closely together.

  “Not bad, are they?” Annie falls in beside me. “But you need to move away a bit to really appreciate them.”

  I take a couple of steps back, and the sea of specks in the painting transform almost magically into a dramatic gorge towering above a still waterhole. “Wow,” I say, aware that my legs have become weak and my hands are trembling, sloshing the Coke about inside my glass. I have a strong feeling that I have seen this art before. Another vision? I wonder. “That’s amazing.”

  “Bud – Oliver’s pop – did them.” The wacky artistic pop, no doubt. Wacky and talented. “He’s a bit of a genius, the old Bud. All made out of found objects –crushed or chopped up – stuff he collects, mainly off Lakeside. It’s made him a bleeding fortune, not that he spends any of it,” Annie whispers conspiratorially. “Didn’t come to art until he was well into his forties – surprised the whole clan and county. He was a farmer turned shire mayor, then he gave it all up and started slapping bits of stuff on canvas and became some kind of legend in the art world.”

  Gran and Mum join us, gazing up at the art with obvious admiration.

  “This is very much like the piece I have out in my sunroom,” says Gran. She leans forwards and peers at the signature scrawled across the bottom corner. “Bud – yes, that’s it.”

  “Oliver’s grandpa,” I say, curiously disappointed that my deja vu has been explained so readily this time. I have seen this art before. I loved that collage, especially when I was younger, marvelled at how the bits of rock and leaves and sand and twig came together to make a landscape, how it glinted in the sunshine.

  “Okay – that makes sense,” Gran says. “It was one of the few things I kept when we cleared out the cottage. Couldn’t bear to give it to the Salvos for some reason.”

  “Well, lucky you didn’t,” says Annie. She sweeps her arm around the room. “These are all Bud’s experiments with pointillism – but instead of using tiny splotches of paint to create a scene, he has applied the same principle to environmental collage – splotches of nature, I suppose. That’s how he made his mark. The ones down the hall are much more minimalist and mostly figures and portraits, but they work in a similar way; you can’t really see their form until you step back.”

  I am no art expert, but it’s easy to see that Bud’s art is special. But still, looking at them is making me anxious. I wipe my palms on the side of the red dress; they are hot and sweaty.

  “So, Maree,” continues Annie, “depending on the size and style of your piece, it could possibly send you first class round the world. Maybe twice!”

  Gran’s face lights up. “Well, I never – and I was so close to putting it out at your garage sale, Kath. Only the other week,” she adds for Annie’s benefit. “But I couldn’t, for some reason – sentimentality, superstition, who knows?” She turns to face Annie. “To be honest, Annie, it’s not my style. But I think I may have changed my mind.”

  We are all laughing, when we hear loud footsteps racing across the tiles and Seth yelling, “Holy guacamole, it’s Oliver!”

  Warmth sweeps up my neck and washes across my face, and I feel myself turning an attractive shade of tomato as I watch Seth dragging Oliver by the hand into the kitchen area.

  “Yo, Batman. How goes it?” Oliver is grinning, his hair falling untidily across his face. My heart seems to take on a life of its own. Calm yourself, you idiot. He’s out of your league, remember?

  A stocky, weather-beaten man with a shiny bald head and a footballer’s nose follows Oliver into the kitchen. He has an amused expression on his face as he watches Seth pow-kapowing around Oliver.

  “Bob,” says Annie and she rushes over to take the man’s arm. “At last. I’d just about given up on you two. Here, come meet the new neighbours.” She beams at everyone. “I never thought I’d ever be able to say that. New neighbours! Yay!”

  Bob steps towards us, a stubby of beer in his hand. His face lights with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He twists the lid of the bottle with ease, then looks up at me.

  Our eyes lock. His are the same greeny-blue as Oliver’s and I am shocked with the way his gaze makes my heart almost leap from my chest; it seems as if the world falters for a moment, forgets to keep turning or something and I have the sudden need to sit down. But I can’t tear my eyes from this man – Oliver’s father – and I have to press my arms against my sides to stop them from reaching out and hugging him.

  Bob seems equally transfixed. But his tanned face drains of colour and the bottle he is holding slips from his grip. The sound of glass smashing on tile reverberates around the hollow room and stuns everyone into sudden silence. The ginger cat scurries off down the hall.

  Laughing, Annie steps out of the way of the spray of beer and glass, breaking the moment. “Drunk already?” she quips. “And I thought you and Ols had been attending to very important farm-type business. Foiled – again!”

  But Bob doesn’t respond to Annie’s cheerful jibe. He is clearly rattled. Then, finally, with a “God, sorry, Annie,” he snaps into action. “Step back and I’ll get the mop and bucket.”

  “Broken bottle, misfortune’s your new friend,” I say robotically, remembering Deb’s words. />
  “It smells like a brewery,” Annie says. “Ols, why don’t you take Kath and Maree and everyone for the grand Lakeside tour, while we clean this up, eh?”

  “Yeah, thanks, mate,” adds Bob, on his hands and knees, collecting bits of shattered glass.

  Before Oliver can answer, I slip out the sliding door, escaping with the ginger cat.

  nineteen

  Oliver’s father’s staring face won’t leave me. I push my hair back behind my ears and am shocked at the tremble in my fingers.

  He must be at least fifty – probably more. He’s Oliver’s dad. And married. To the gorgeous Annie. Yet I am acutely aware that despite these realities, all I can think about is being held by him, kissing those sun-dried lips, running my fingers through his hair. God! He doesn’t even have any hair! What is wrong with me? What kind of sicko am I? It is gross. Seedy. Disgusting. But real.

  I follow a few steps behind the rest of the family. I am conscious of Oliver up ahead: see him pointing out various buildings; hear him rabbiting on about barns and studios. But I can’t take anything in.

  “Bayley? Yoo-hoo? Anyone home?” I snap out of my trance to find Mum holding onto my arm and Gran, Seth and Oliver gathered in a semicircle around me.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Gran’s voice soft with concern. “You seem kind of shaky.”

  “Ah … I’m not sure,” I say, my mouth dry. “I feel a bit weird.”

  “Hey, sit down.” It’s Oliver. “Over here, on the step.” He takes me by the elbow.

  His touch sends a jolt right through me. I yank my elbow free and swat him away furiously. “Let go of me. I’m fine.” I hear the petulance in my voice, but I am too filled with anxiety to care.

  “Hey, Bayley,” says Gran. “Take it easy. He was just trying to help.”

  I am desperate for some space. The press of worried faces around me is making me worse. “Sorry,” I say. “I feel a bit queasy. I’ll sit here for a sec and get some air. You go on.”