by JH Fletcher
The time came later — she told me so herself — when she was forced to think seriously about selling herself to put food on the table. What freedom was that? How does becoming a prostitute enable a woman to realise her artistic potential? No-one but an imbecile would suggest such a possibility. No, Marie no doubt thought carefully about the options available to her and took the one that seemed to her the best.
On the whole, I think it worked out very well. She survived; she painted some fine works; the months passed.
And then …
Marie
1
I‘shall visit my mother,’ Marie said.
If Martha heard the note of challenge in Marie’s voice, she ignored it. She understood how hard it must be for a young woman to be shut up with two much older people, without friends or the breath of other youth to fill her lungs. Eugénie was hardly young, but to visit her was a start.
‘I fear her life is not easy.’ It was the closest Martha would come to what might have been criticism, although whether of Eugénie, of the poor broken stick that was her husband, or even of Horace, who had been unwilling, most signally, to lift a finger, it was impossible to say.
‘I am glad that you want to stay in touch with her,’ said Martha. Marie had always been close to her heart, her talent a burden that Martha would have shared most willingly had it been possible. The Sydney episode had affected her far more than Horace. His concern had been only for a reputation that might be sullied, a possible waste of money; hers for a daughter gone astray and perhaps lost. She would never speak of it — she had always believed that the best gift even a proxy mother could give her children was freedom — but it was not easy, laying such a burden on fate.
‘Please give my best wishes to your mother,’ Martha said. ‘Say I hope she is well. And her husband’ — who had become an afterthought in everyone’s life.
And who resented it, most bitterly. The last time Marie had met him, Henry’s focus had been scattered by the cataclysm that had overwhelmed him. Now the big house was even more dilapidated, with gutters sagging, swallows nesting under the eaves, and Henry had learned to hate the world because of it.
He turned on Marie as soon as he saw her. ‘Come to gloat?’ As though she were to blame for his situation.
‘I’ve come to see my mother.’
Whom he ignored, although she was standing in the doorway. ‘That’s right.’ His bright, hating eyes focussed on Marie, whose face and heart were set as stone against him. ‘Your mother made a mistake, marrying me. Regrets it now. She’ll tell you all about it, I’ve no doubt.’
He sat back in his chair and turned his face away, dismissing Marie and the world from his presence and his mind, which remained focussed, perpetually, on the wrongs that had been done him, on the fortune that had failed.
Eugénie led Marie into the kitchen, where she, too, had put up walls. ‘He blames everyone but himself. He has lost the will to fight. I would fight beside him. But alone?’ She shrugged, a fifty-year-old woman in a black dress who had fought mighty battles in her time, but was not prepared to waste energy mourning what had gone forever. ‘Let him do as he wants.’ And she smiled at her daughter, discarding Henry and his futile anger. ‘It is good to see you,’ she said in French.
It was not easy, seeking common ground when their lives had grown so far apart. Speaking a language that she had almost forgotten made it even harder. ‘How have you been?’ Marie asked.
Eugénie waved the question away. ‘Let us talk about you, rather. You are still living in Sydney? Still painting?’ She leaned closer, anxious for confidences. ‘You have a lover? Yes?’ As simple and direct as that.
‘Yes,’ Marie said.
‘Tell me about him.’
So she did. Eugénie frowned. ‘He is a rich man?’
‘His father is.’
‘It comes to the same thing. Be careful.’
‘About what?’
‘Rich men will sleep with you, of course; they will support you, perhaps, but marry you? Never.’
Again direct; it was exciting to talk like this, after the ambiguities of what passed for conversation in Horace’s house. ‘I’m not interested in marrying him.’
‘That is good. It means, when he leaves you, your heart will not be broken. Be careful of one thing, though,’ Eugénie instructed her. ‘Do not have a child. A child locks up your life.’
Marie did not know whether to feel amused or angry. ‘I’m sorry that’s how you think of me.’
‘I love you.’ Eugénie was not interested in soothing words or sentimentality. ‘But you cannot imagine that you and your sister made my life any easier when we first came to Australia.’
A spurt of resentment, like pus. ‘It didn’t take you long to get rid of us.’
‘You think it was an easy decision? It was hard, very hard. But it was better for all of us. We were lucky to have the opportunity.’
‘We might have lost each other,’ Marie pointed out.
‘But it seems have not.’ Eugénie smiled. ‘I am glad.’ But clearly had no plans to apologise, any more than to mourn, for what could not be mended. ‘You are still painting?’
‘I told you when I was here before. Painting is my life.’
‘I am sorry for it. It is no occupation for a man, never mind a woman.’
‘Nevertheless, that is how I intend to live.’
‘Will Mr Ingersoll go on supporting you?’
‘As long as I do what he tells me.’
‘But that is impossible! Whether as artist or woman, you have to lead your own life.’
‘That is what I wanted to talk to you about.’
2
After Marie had left, Eugénie went back to the kitchen, closed the door firmly behind her and sat, staring through the window at an earlier day of sunshine when her mind had been filled with trepidation and doubt.
You liked Victor, didn’t you? Would you like to stay with him for a while?
It didn’t take you long to get rid of us.
It’s only for a few days.
And then:
A man perhaps ten years older than herself, the mouth of someone who could look after himself. Henry Pearman, he said, and inclined his head a fraction. While the sun struck brilliant sparks from the surface of the harbour.
The years uncoiled softly, treacherously, and were gone.
Yet I was right, she told herself. All of us have to live as best we can. Because our life is all we have. To throw it away is to lose everything. I have told Marie so but, in truth, I did not need to say anything. She already knew; she came here for strength, not advice. Thank God I could find the words to tell her what she wanted to hear. Words of encouragement and warning.
You have to choose. As a woman, you can enjoy the prestige of being a woman, but only as long as you obey society’s rules. When you’re married, that means being subservient to your husband. On the other hand, if you want to be truly creative, subservience is impossible, if you defy custom, most people will see you as a threat. It will be hard for you to gain acceptance, even to survive financially …
It was my duty to warn her. The cost will be higher than she can imagine, but the alternative would be insupportable.
Eugénie sensed the presence of her husband in the next room, his only companion the impotent fury that he brandished like a hammer to destroy the world. He there, I here. At night I hear him pacing to and fro in that room which he never leaves. His footsteps trample on our lives: our past joys, our hopes. Nothing remains. Meanwhile, his mind conjures foolish dreams of vengeance, of property and position regained.
To this have I come. Yet I had to do it. Marie may come to regret her life, discover that its cost is beyond bearing, but she, too, has no choice. It is the price we have to pay for being ourselves.
3
Y‘ou’re leaving us.’
As soon as she had come through the door, Marie had seen from Martha’s expression that she already knew what Marie had spent
the entire journey from Sydney planning how to tell her. This woman, she thought, with exasperation and love. She does not simply read my thoughts; she anticipates them, even before I know what they are myself.
Yet, in truth, Martha’s insight made things easier. ‘I have to go. I have to —’
She was prepared to justify, but Martha cut her off. ‘Of course. You have to lead your own life. I’ve always known you would go back, eventually. But how are you going to live?’
Because Horace would not pay; there was no need to spell out what they both knew.
‘I don’t know.’ But she would go anyway, and defy the world, if she had to.
‘I can’t help you,’ Martha said apologetically. ‘I’ve no money. Besides —’
Now it was Marie’s turn to cut her off. ‘You can’t go against Horace’s wishes. I understand that.’
‘I’ve been reading about a man who’s been appointed arts lecturer at the East Sydney Technical College,’ Martha said. ‘They say he’s very keen to encourage the arts. Perhaps he’ll be able to help you?’
‘What’s his name?’
They fetched the paper, consulted it together. ‘Lucien Henry.’
‘Perhaps I should go and see him,’ Marie said. Although how an arts lecturer was supposed to put food in her mouth, she did not know.
Worth a try, all the same. When I get to Sydney, I shall write to Neil, too, tell him what I’ve done. Hopefully he will join me but, in any case, somehow, I shall survive.
‘When are you leaving?’ Martha asked.
‘Straightaway.’
It would be less painful to leave at once. Yet it was still far from easy. This woman, this house, represented so much of what had been her life. To leave, now, was not like previous occasions. Then she had always known she could come back. Not this time. Return to Sydney and Horace would cut her off, finally and irrevocably. Everything that had been her life would be over. Before her lay challenges, perhaps fulfilment, but also loneliness and fear.
In the room that already seemed not her own, Marie stared long and searchingly at her reflection in the cheval mirror. If I stay, I shall be safe. Free to paint, free to do all the things I wish. I shall be free to be everything but free.
Tears glistened on her cheeks.
How much easier it would be if I could do that! I want it so much, but cannot. Because that would mean my paintings would be safe, too, and that I cannot allow. To be safe in art is to be nothing. Perhaps Katie will put me up for a day or two, but afterwards … I don’t know. I have to go, because I cannot stay. But, oh God, I am so afraid.
She wiped her face, threw everything she could carry into her case, lugged it downstairs. The door to Horace’s study stood ajar.
Martha was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, finger raised to her lips. Too late.
‘Marie?’ Horace’s voice from his study. He came to the door. ‘I hear you are leaving us?’
She put down the case, turned to face him. ‘Yes.’ She did not wish him to see how nervous she was; trying to sound confident, she overdid it and was truculent, instead.
‘You have considered what your decision will mean?’ His voice was pleasant, free of anger or threat. ‘For all of us?’
‘Yes.’ The word so brittle, she feared it might crack.
‘You have worked out how you will live?’
At all costs, she must be honest. ‘No. If I let myself think about it, I might not have the courage to go at all. And I must.’
‘Why must you?’
She hoped that he might really want to know. ‘Because I have to be an artist. I cannot be anything else.’
‘You paint here. There is no restriction …’
‘It’s not enough.’
He studied her thoughtfully for a long time. Then sighed. ‘So be it.’ He half-turned, as though to go back into his study, then hesitated and faced her again. ‘Do you feel we have treated you badly? Without due consideration?’
‘No, not at all. You have been very good.’ It was agony to say, because it was true.
‘Then I would ask you to consider us, too.’ And waited.
‘How?’
‘You think we want you to go?’
Kindness made everything so much harder. ‘I must.’
‘Then try not to disgrace yourself. Or us.’ And turned his back, as he had warned he would.
4
There were people on the platform when the train arrived in the city. Marie got down amid a huff and hiss of steam and walked past a succession of men in dark clothes, with dark hats on their heads, of women alone or in groups, dark skirts like inverted tulips brushing the dirt. She smelt the coal reek, saw the soot-grimed walls and thought that all colour had gone from the world. It took all her courage not to turn on her heel and scramble back into the train again. Instead she took a deep breath, lifted her chin and walked on into what, for better or worse, would be her future.
On the tram, swaying through the bustling streets, she felt her spirits lift. She was truly free for the first time in her life. Free to choose how to live, how to survive. Free to paint. Free, even, to die.
True freedom meant not only being alone against the world but even against herself. I shall be strong, she said, and I shall triumph. Even the words had a ring of ceremony about them. She looked quickly at the people about her, afraid she might have spoken aloud, but it seemed she had not.
She went first to Katie’s place. Katie was not at home, but the neighbour knew Marie and let her in.
It felt strange, being alone in her friend’s home. It was like walking around inside her head. For a while she sat, looking at nothing. Then curiosity overcame her and she began to poke around in the clutter that would always be a feature of Katie’s life. Clothes, as she had expected, some clean, some not. A scattering of books in what she assumed was Russian script. In a folder in a drawer, photographs of Katie: in groups at parties; alone, in an elegant gown that Marie had not seen before, the material drawn tight to emphasise her tiny waist, her bosom out-thrust; another one, of Katie in a laced bodice and nothing else, smiling at the camera, the upper portion of her breasts exposed.
Marie smiled, feeling envious of her friend: for her figure, for the nature that permitted her to pose for such material without shame. And really, she thought, what is there to be ashamed of? We are as we are. Our flesh should be a matter of pride, not something to be hidden away in a folder in a drawer, into which Marie was now sticking her beak, uninvited.
She told herself she should be ashamed of doing such a thing. So she did, but not enough to stop. She found several more photographs, at which she looked with startled eyes. Katie, naked, standing beside a man in a frock coat, their arms around each other. The man’s face was averted; he could have been anyone. But every inch of Katie’s nudity blazed: the breasts, thighs, the dark triangle of hair. Above all, the face, the smile for the camera, for all the eyes behind the camera that would inspect and probe and taste. There was a hint of tongue between the parted lips.
To look at it made Marie hot. This woman, who had been her first lover. Her friend. But she was a model, she told herself. She took off her clothes for artists every day of her life; this was no different. She knew that, in truth, it was altogether different, and was ashamed — for Katie, for herself — but also excited and envious. This, too, was a form of freedom. She took up the next photograph.
Katie, with a woman. Both naked. Phyllis Gould, whose arse, Marie thought viciously, was as big as she had always suspected. Their hands were on each other’s breasts; one of Phyllis’s legs was cocked, the calf pressing against Katie’s leg. They were smiling, knowledgeably. This, too, is life, the picture said. This is what exists in our minds and yours, beneath the inverted tulips of our dark and decorous skirts.
Marie slammed the picture down, only prudence preventing her from ripping it up. She would not have minded had it been a man, but another woman, and Phyllis Gould of all people … She remembered Phyllis go
ading Pete Marchant to his destruction, and how she had gone home afterwards with Jack. She understood now why Katie had also been one of those who hung out with Jack Huggett, where Phyllis was always to be found.
Without thinking, her mind still in shock, she picked up the last photograph. She believed herself hardened now to whatever she might see, but found that, after all, she was not. Katie was mounted upon a naked man, head thrown back, while his hands kneaded her breasts. Both faces were rapt in the hot ecstasies of their sexual rites, both clearly visible. Neil Otway.
Neatly and deliberately, Marie put the photographs back into the folder, into the drawer. Her instinct was to leave and not come back, but she struggled against it and won. She was alone, almost penniless. She had to find somewhere to stay, and Katie was the only choice; there was no-one else. She would stay, if Katie would have her. She would put out of her mind what she had seen. She would be free.
5
It was not as difficult as she had expected. When Katie came home, she was as she had always been: friendly, laughing, full of life. Of willingness to make love, too, but what she had discovered had given Marie strength, in that, at least, and Katie did not press her.
‘Of course you must stay!’
‘I have no money.’
‘I’ve enough for both of us.’
She saw Marie’s surprise: Katie had never had a penny to her name.
‘Rich admirer,’ and winked. ‘Says he’s going to put me on the stage. I don’t know what sort of show he’s thinking of, mind.’
She cleared a place in the small and cluttered apartment and rigged a curtain that hung broken-winged, but provided privacy of a sort.
‘Although who you’re going to be private with I don’t know,’ Katie said.
‘Privacy for you, too,’ Marie suggested.
Katie laughed. ‘You can watch, for all I care.’
Yet there were no shadows. They were as they had always been, friendly and loving together, the clear white love that was not afraid of daylight. Memory of what she had seen burned at the bottom of Marie’s mind, but she had buried it there and would not take it out to look at it again.