by JH Fletcher
When they had money, they spent it cheerfully. When they hadn’t, they managed to survive. They had to eat, yet somehow it never seemed a serious problem. On one occasion they went without food for three days, yet even that was bearable. Because sunlight had come back into her life, and laughter. In contrast with the torments that she had known before, hunger was — relatively speaking — a trifle. Somehow she always managed to sell something before things became truly desperate. Brett, too, was selling his work. He was never prolific and, nowadays, is dismissed as an artist of little account but, at that time, he was more popular than Marie herself. Fashion has always been treacherous and, in the first decade of the twentieth century, while in Europe Monet was still painting and Picasso and Matisse were making names for themselves, there was a market in Australia for Brett Samochin’s stylised portraits. Today they look as lively as concrete but, in those days, they helped to pay the bills.
They survived, they painted; those were the two main things. But there were other considerations. Her daughter Alice became suddenly, inexplicably, important to her. Settled in a relationship that, if still unconventional by the standards of the time, was much less so than her friendship with Katie, Marie began to suffer from belated pangs of motherly love. ‘I need to see her,’ she told Brett.
He was dubious, but Marie was determined to have her way.
‘It is not right,’ she declared passionately. ‘Alice is almost nine years old. Since Neil and I agreed to separate (in every other respect she was the most honest of women, yet I never heard her admit that she and her husband had not separated, but that she had, in fact, walked out on him) Alice has been deprived of her mother.’
It would not be easy. Neil had remarried; Marie had heard nothing from him for years. Yet she never hesitated. She had made up her mind what she was going to do and, as always, she did it.
Marie
1
‘Mrs Otway, please …’
A straight look from the maid. ‘Who shall I say wants her?’
‘Marie Desmoulins.’ She gave it the French intonation, deliberately, and watched the child trying to get her tongue, and her mind, around that. She thought of adding ‘Alice’s mother’ but did not, cautious of publishing what might be a family secret.
She waited, eyeing what she could see of the house. It gleamed with polish; even the air smelt waxed. More than it did in my day, she thought.
A woman came, tall and elegant, walking softly in a dress that would have cost a packet, a smile almost visible upon her generous mouth.
‘Miss Desmoulins? I am Laura Otway.’
A self-possessed woman, Marie thought, confident both of herself and her husband, seemingly undaunted by the unexpected arrival of his ex-wife.
Laura smiled. ‘May I offer you tea? Or coffee, perhaps?’
Over coffee, she chatted easily. The difficulties of finding suitable staff; the startling news just in from Paris that some Frenchman had flown across the English Channel. At length, still smiling, she put down her cup. And waited.
Marie took a deep breath. ‘How is Alice?’
‘She is well.’
‘I was hoping to see her.’
Behind her smile, her friendly manner, Laura Otway gave nothing. ‘She is away. At school.’
For the first time, Marie felt like an interloper, yet was willing to persevere, for the child’s sake. ‘My own mother and I were apart for some years, but eventually we came together again. That has always been a comfort to me.’
Laura Otway smiled pleasantly, but did not respond.
‘Does Alice ever speak of me?’
‘After you left, I believe she asked for you constantly. Not for some years, now.’
‘Would it be possible to meet her? During the school holidays, perhaps?’ There was relief in asking a straight question. Which deserved a straight answer, she hoped.
But did not get it. ‘We have to consider the child’s interests, you see.’
‘It cannot be good for any child to be denied access to her natural mother,’ Marie protested.
Laura Otway was flint, with a smiling face. ‘It might re-open old wounds.’
You abandoned the child, who is no longer yours. You have no rights.
The unspoken words hovered between them, as clear as light.
‘Although I shall speak to my husband, of course.’
Marie knew better than to expect anything from that. Unless he had changed remarkably, Neil would be no match for his smiling wife — who might mention Marie’s visit, or not.
Marie, too, could smile. ‘Thank you for receiving me.’
She walked back down the drive to the road, making sure her head was erect, in case anyone was watching.
* * *
Two weeks later, to her amazement, Marie received a short note. Laura Otway wrote:
Alice and I shall be in Sydney on Tuesday afternoon. If it is convenient, perhaps we can call on you.
An explosion of tidying, dusting, until Marie saw herself doing these things, so ridiculously, and stopped.
You are not trying to compete with Laura Otway and her shining house, she scolded herself. You are an artist, Alice’s mother. Stick to that.
The trouble was, she didn’t feel like a mother and began to wonder what she had let herself in for. Artist or no artist, she was as scared as a cat by the time Laura Otway arrived, stepping lightly from a gleaming and chauffeur-driven motor car. With her, dressed with equal care, a stranger. Tall for her age, dark-eyed like her mother, and silent. Alice stared at Marie across a gulf wider by far than that recently spanned by the Frenchman Blériot.
‘Please come in.’
She had never been one for nerves, or gush, but had to make an especial effort now. As a result, she sat in silence, smiling helplessly at the child whenever their eyes happened to clash, praying for the encounter to be over. Finally, after the tea and cakes that everyone dutifully consumed, after the nibbles and scratches of chitchat, she got hold of herself.
‘Would you like to see my studio?’ While directing the question at Alice, she was careful to include Laura in the invitation.
She led the way into the room bold with colour and the smell of paint. For the first time, she saw it as a stranger would: the easels and stacked canvases, pencil sketches pinned to boards, the stink of turpentine.
Braver on her own ground that she had been foolish to abandon, she escorted them around the room, pointing out each painting in turn, explaining, expounding, even — incredibly — beginning to enjoy herself. Still Alice said nothing, but seemed interested, Marie hoped.
As the visitors left, she turned once again to her daughter. ‘Would you like me to write to you?’
Saw the flicker of the eyes as the child sought Laura’s approval; Laura’s slight nod as she gave it.
‘I would like that,’ Alice said.
They left in the gleaming car, leaving Marie delighted by her progress.
She waited a week, deliberately, then wrote Alice a chatty letter about the things that had happened that she thought might interest a nine-year-old child. It was hard; she tried to remember what had interested her at that age, but could not. As an afterthought, she included a sketch of a cat that she had observed the previous day, smiling through the window of a neighbour’s house.
Blood is important, she thought. We shall become friends.
She felt good at the thought.
2
Stanford Harris said, ‘I have news.’
He was not a man given to excitement, but now was as close to it as was possible for him.
Marie looked at him. ‘What news?’
‘I have received a letter from Monsieur Hibou.’
‘Who is Monsieur Hibou?’
Harris’s flared nostrils breathed exasperation. ‘My dear woman, do you know nothing? He is a famous impresario from Paris. He was in Melbourne three months ago.’
‘What about him?’
‘I am trying to explain, if you will
stop interrupting …’
It seemed that Monsieur Hibou had been impressed by what he had seen of Marie’s work. He had hoped to come to Sydney to meet her, but had not had time. Now, back in Paris, he had written to say that he was anxious to put on an exhibition of her paintings.
‘It is the breakthrough we have been hoping for,’ Harris said. ‘To display your work on the international stage.’
Had he not been the man he was, he might have sounded almost excited.
Marie was excited enough for both of them. ‘How marvellous!’
‘Indeed. When can you go?’
‘Go?’ She stared. ‘To Paris?’
‘Of course to Paris! Where did you think I meant? Timbuktu? There will be interviews with the press, meeting critics, other artists. It is essential you should be there.’
Marie thought: Alice. We have just found each other, after all these years. And now …
‘It’s out of the question,’ she said.
Stanford Harris’s expression showed what he thought of that. ‘You must go. He won’t put on a show without you.’
‘No, I’m sorry. It’s impossible.’
Stanford Harris was not a killing man, which was fortunate. ‘Let me be quite clear what you’re telling me. A leading French impresario has offered to put on an exhibition of your work in Paris. A one-man show in the art capital of the world that will bring you to the attention of every serious dealer and agent on earth. His only stipulation is that you should attend in person. And you say it is impossible?’
Oh God. She shook her head helplessly, saying nothing.
‘You were born in Paris. You are of French blood. You have an opportunity that comes to virtually no artist in their lifetime. And you refuse to go?’ In a lesser man, it might have been a scream. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. ‘May I ask why?’
‘My daughter.’ Stumbling over words that tripped her on every syllable, she tried to explain.
When she had finished, there was silence, while Harris drew a succession of breaths, grimly and methodically. ‘You are serious?’ Icicles on every word.
‘How can I turn my back on her when we’ve just got together again?’
Harris made an elaborate show of patience. ‘Let me explain something to you. Take advantage of Monsieur Hibou’s offer, and you will very soon be one of the most successful artists on earth. Everything that you have worked for, all these years, will be realised. Turn it down …’ And shrugged, dismissively. ‘An opportunity like this comes only once in anyone’s life. And it is time you rediscovered your roots.’
‘He’s right,’ Marie told Brett. ‘I can’t miss such a chance.’
Brett was dubious. ‘How do we get there? We’ve no money.’
‘I’ll find it somehow.’
She went back to see Stanford Harris.
‘Money looks like being a problem.’ She gave him a hopeful look, which he ignored.
‘Money is always difficult,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m sure you’ll manage. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. And we can arrange for you to take the paintings for the exhibition with you. No point wasting money on freight.’ He rubbed his hands in pleasure at what he would save. ‘You won’t forget that I have the sole right to market your work worldwide?’
‘How will that work, with me in Paris?’
‘I have appointed Monsieur Hibou my sub-agent. You will deal through him.’
As always, Harris was a yard and a half ahead of the field when it came to business, but Marie was no slouch herself.
‘In that case, you’re responsible for making sure he does a good job for me.’
‘Absolutely.’ He beamed, smile sovereign-bright. ‘As I always have, myself.’
Now she’d got used to the idea, Marie couldn’t wait to get there. Picasso and Braque were in Paris. Matisse, Rousseau, Boccioni … The list of famous names was endless. There were rumours that Roberts and Streeton were planning to submit paintings to the London Royal Academy’s 1910 exhibition. Europe was the place to be. By contrast, Sydney was a desert.
But the problems — how to get there, what to do about Alice — remained.
3
First Martha, on whom hopes of financial aid depended.
Marie was shocked by the sight of her. She had lost so much weight, she looked like a stick in a summer dress. Her eyes were huge in her scarred face; her features those of a skull. Marie took her hands. More sticks; press them too hard, she was afraid they would snap.
‘How are you?’
A wry smile. ‘I get along.’
Not very well, by the look of it, but Marie knew better than to say any more. If Martha wanted her to know what was wrong, she would tell her. But, in fact, never would.
It made it all the harder to ask for her help. Go to Paris and who could say when she’d be back? Martha had raised her, cared for her as no other human being had. To ask for a loan so that she could go to Europe, knowing that they would almost certainly never see each other again, was a shabby way to reward her for all she had done over the years. Love did not look for reward, but that was easy to say, wasn’t it, when she was the one who hoped to benefit? Perhaps love wouldn’t ask, either, she told herself. Not in the circumstances. Had she thought about that?
Yet her mind was made up. She would ask, because she had no choice, and did so.
‘It could be the biggest opportunity of my life,’ she explained, ‘but I have to get there.’
‘And live when you’re there,’ Martha pointed out. ‘How much do you need?’
Marie named a figure, tentatively. It was ludicrous, far too large. It would certainly be out of the question, yet she had done her homework and knew it was the absolute minimum she would need to survive.
‘That is ridiculous,’ Martha said.
‘I know.’ Marie was willing to be humble about it, but to ask for less would be futile; it would mean not going at all.
‘It is far too little,’ Martha said.
Marie stared at her. ‘But how —’
‘Leave it to me,’ Martha said firmly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Two days later Marie had her answer. Horace would put up the money, three times more than she had asked. As a loan, with interest, an agreement properly drawn and witnessed.
‘He has always believed in you,’ Martha said.
The man who had cut off her allowance? Yet also the man who had bought the painting of his house. Marie shook her head; Horace — and the way his mind worked — was beyond her.
Martha read her thoughts. ‘He cut off your funds because you defied him. My husband has always believed in you, as an investment.’
‘Is that why he bought that painting?’
‘And the earlier ones.’
‘Which ones were those?’
‘The ones you exhibited at that Art Show. You remember? We went with Aline. Did you never wonder who had bought them?’
‘Of course. But I never thought …’
She had thought it might be Eugénie. It had never crossed her mind that it might be Horace.
‘He gave me the authority to buy them, if I liked them. So I did. He didn’t want you to know, so I said nothing at the time. He’s been buying your work ever since. He has a fine collection; they’re worth a lot more than he paid for them. That’s why he’s willing to lend you the money now.’
Marie shook her head in amazement. She had always thought she was reasonably astute; Stanford Harris, she knew, was astute; but Horace Ingersoll, it was plain, could run rings around the pair of them.
‘Never let him know I told you,’ Martha cautioned. ‘He’s a very private man. He doesn’t like people discussing his affairs.’
That was perhaps the reason he had never secured a place in the government, after all.
‘I won’t say a word,’ Marie promised.
And so to the time of parting. A painful business, with tears on both sides.
‘I had thought of coming to see you off,’ M
artha said, ‘but I’m not sure I could bear it.’
‘I understand.’ Marie was not sure she could have borne it, herself.
They clutched hands, embraced, parted for what was almost certainly the last time. Death in its many forms.
Marie would have gone to see Alice, but that had been out of the question until the money had been arranged. Now, with so much to do, she decided to write to her instead, to explain what had happened and why there was no way she could turn down such an opportunity. She felt good about taking her daughter into her confidence, but not everyone saw it like that. She had a reply, not from Alice, but from Laura Otway.
Alice was very distressed to get your news. She feels she had found her mother, only to have her snatched away again. However, if you will send me your address once you are settled in Paris, I shall get her to write to you. If I can.
Marie was desolated by the letter. If I can … You do not deserve a daughter, she told herself bitterly. An opinion that Laura — and perhaps Alice — no doubt shared.
* * *
Finally, there was Eugénie.
‘You could come with us,’ Marie suggested. ‘If …’
If she were willing to abandon her husband, that dead weight who had ruined so much beyond his own financial affairs.
But Eugénie, as she had anticipated, would not.
‘When I left France, it was like saying goodbye to life,’ she said. ‘But that is long ago. Somehow I have survived. And shall do so, I daresay, for a year or two yet. But Paris …?’ She shook her head; the time for Paris had gone, like so much else in her life.
‘I shall write,’ Marie promised.
‘Of course.’ But with a shrug. Small, affectionate notes about nothing had never been in Eugénie’s line. No doubt brief letters would be exchanged, at least for a while, but she was not sentimental enough to pretend that this parting would be anything but permanent. ‘Paris is the centre of the world,’ she declared. ‘Of the art world, in particular. Why should you want to come back here?’