Dancing on Knives

by Kate Forsyth

  As she stripped off the wet bikini she watched her body in the mirror, and thought how ugly it was. This upset her more than anything. Her thighs were mottled with cold, her pubic hair dark like the shadow of a hand. Her arms were frail and looked oddly jointed, her breasts small and pointed. Her ribs seemed about to pierce the skin.

  Sara picked up her favourite blue T-shirt from the floor and dragged it over her head, hiding her body in its folds. Then she sat on her bed to pull on her tracksuit pants. When Sara glanced up, seeing herself in the dusk-dim mirror, her arms wrapped close against the cold and the misery, her wet hair snaking down over her shoulders, she was suddenly, sharply, reminded of the last painting she had ever made.

  A horrible beast reared up in Sara’s throat so that she could not breathe or cry or even whimper. She did not want to remember her paintings.

  It had been a self-portrait. She had painted herself chained to a throne sinking through the sea. Her black hair had undulated like snakes out from her head. Below her were the swirling shadows of the unfathomable depths of the ocean. A woman dressed in purple-black swam up from these depths, with one hand raised as if beckoning. The other hand rested on the sleek back of some kind of dark horned creature, a black narwhal or a marlin, an enigmatic sea-unicorn. Everything was drawn with great precision and outlined carefully in black, accentuating the sinuous, rippling shapes of hair, seaweed and swirling wave.

  When Sara laid the final stroke of paint upon the canvas, she thought the painting thrummed with strange power, she felt it sang. She ran at once to show her father.

  Her timing could not have been worse, Sara knew that now. The winner of the Archibald Prize for Portraiture had just been announced. Augusto was always intensely interested in the outcome of the prize, sometimes applauding it, usually reacting with outrage and scorn. If he had submitted one of his own paintings and it had not even been chosen to hang in the exhibition, he succumbed to a prolonged and black depression.

  That year the Archibald had been won by a painting Augusto disdained as an exercise in photo-realism. His children had been subjected to long, drunken raves about the stagnant and sterile state of art in Australia. Augusto had taken it as a personal insult and brooded about it for weeks.

  Sara should never have shown him her painting. Augusto had stared at it for a moment, then turned away, lifting his lip in an incredulous sneer. ‘Christ, Sara! You have got to get a life!’

  She had been chilled and afraid. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you think it’s any good?’

  He had laughed. ‘A head shrinker would have a field day with you, princess. Talk about Freudian!’

  Mutely she had stared at him. Augusto cast his eyes skyward. ‘Look at yourself, princess! You think you can be an artist? You can’t even go into town to do the grocery shopping. What do you know of life? You’re nothing but a frigid little virgin that’s still afraid of the dark! You’d pee in your pants if a man even looked at you.’ He gave a hard crack of laughter. ‘Art is not a pastime but a priesthood,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You need courage, conviction, passion. None of which you have, my dear.’

  Sara felt as if he had struck her on the face. She crept up to her bedroom and lay on her bed for a long time, numb with pain. Later, she got up, picked up her scissors and slashed all her paintings to pieces. Then she gathered the bright jagged ribbons, took them down to the garden, and burnt them in the corner near the compost-heap. Any ashes that did not blow away on the wind, she dug through the compost until not even one bright flake was left. She had not picked up a paint-brush since then, or begged her father for an old canvas, or even doodled in the corner of the local newspaper with a pencil. It was as if her desire to paint had been cauterised within her.

  Sara stood up and moved away from the mirror. She ran downstairs through the darkness and the constant wash and sigh of rain. When she saw the little glow of warm light from the living room, she surprised herself with a sob of relief.

  Gabriela had lit the gas heater, pulled the curtains, turned on the table lamp, and made tea. She and Sara sat quietly in the goblin shadows, in silence at first, and then, gradually, talking of little things. Gabriela was thinking of moving to Canberra or Sydney. She wanted to get a job in one of the big-name restaurants, learn to cook quail and truffles, maybe open her own five-star restaurant one day. Sara could only admire her confidence.

  Emboldened by the little circle of warm comfort, Sara told Gabriela about their Good Friday lunch, the argument between her father and her uncles, and how Alex had threatened to foreclose on them.

  ‘He gave us the weekend to get out, but surely he won’t chuck us out now Dad’s in hospital?’ she asked with difficulty, and felt the easement that came with the confession of a tightly suppressed anxiety.

  ‘Surely not,’ Gabriela replied. ‘Alex can’t be that much of a bastard, surely?’

  Sara, remembering his arctic-grey eyes, was not so sure.

  Just then there was a hammering at the door. Sara jumped as if she had been stuck with a pin. ‘God! Who could that be?’

  It was her cousin Craig. He stood on the front porch, shaking his wet red curls, and holding his rain jacket away from his body. Puddles were forming under his feet.

  ‘It’s pissing down!’ he cried. ‘Could the weather be any worse?’

  Silently she held the door open. He took off his jacket, shook it out, and came inside.

  ‘What’s up?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he answered. ‘Dad’s checking over some accounts down in the office and I was getting bored waiting for him, so I thought I’d come up and say hi.’

  Sara stared at him in surprise. She could not remember her cousin ever dropping by casually. He walked past her into the living room, spread his dripping jacket over the back of a chair, and sat down in one of the armchairs close to the heater. He seemed rather ill at ease, rubbing his hands together, nodding and smiling at Gabriela.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Hasn’t the weather been bloody awful!’

  ‘Awful,’ Gabriela agreed politely.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Sara asked rather ungraciously.

  Craig glanced at his watch. ‘A beer wouldn’t be bad,’ he said. ‘I’ve been up since dawn, though God knows why – the rain is keeping all the terrorists indoors and the fish aren’t biting.’

  Sara could think of nothing to say. Luckily, Craig did not expect a response and continued easily: ‘How’s your dad? Bit of a bummer, hey? Any news?’

  Sara shook her head.

  ‘Do they reckon he’ll be OK?’

  Sara shrugged.

  ‘Did he say what happened? I’ve heard all sorts of stories but no-one really seems to know.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’ Sara demanded.

  Craig hesitated, then his natural candour won out and he said in a rush, with a sort of incredulous pleasure, ‘Well, some people think he might have jumped, because he was going to lose the farm and he had nowhere to go and no money … I suppose you must know Dad told him he was going to foreclose?’ He gave Sara a sly sidelong look, half-malicious, half-apologetic. ‘He wouldn’t have, of course, he was just trying to get your dad to pay back some of his debt, but people who don’t know Dad that well think he was serious, which of course he wasn’t.’

  Sara’s look of astonishment deepened. She found this hard to believe. Alex had seemed serious.

  Craig gave a forced-sounding laugh. ‘And at the club today some idiot was going on about how they’d always reckoned Gus was gonna get murdered some day, ’cause he’s got so little respect for other people’s women …’

  ‘Interesting to know you think of women as being someone’s property, Craig,’ Gabriela said sardonically. Sara said nothing, gritting her teeth together.

  He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t mean it that way …’ He gave that unnatural-sounding laugh again.

  ‘Go on, Craig, what else have you heard?’ Sara was proud of herself, her vo
ice steady, even her stomach only shaking a little.

  ‘Oh, nothing. We were … that is, I was just wondering if there was any more news? On what had happened, I mean. No-one wants that kind of talk about. I mean, Gus is family, sort of. I mean, you guys are, even if Gus isn’t.’

  Sara could not help feeling a little sick. All day she had been worrying over the idea that her father might have been having an affair with someone, and wondering who it was. Now, as Craig got himself more and more tangled up, she gripped her fingers together, feeling the all-too-familiar thud of fear in her gut. Was Augusto involved with a married woman, like Matthew had said? Could a jealous husband have tried to harm her father? Clang clang went the word in her mind. Murder …

  ‘So what do you think, Craig?’ Gabriela asked.

  ‘Oh, it had to be an accident, of course. What else? We won’t really know till he wakes up – he hasn’t, has he?’

  ‘He’s still unconscious.’ Sara stared at him. All this cousinly concern seemed so unlike the Craig she knew and disliked. ‘But the doctor said he’s stabilised. What’s this all about, Craig? Why all this interest?’ She was surprised by her own vehemence.

  Craig shifted awkwardly. ‘You don’t understand Dad’s side of it,’ he said after a while. ‘He wants to do what’s best for you all. Someone’s gotta look after things while your dad’s in hospital.’

  ‘It’s not his farm, Craig.’ Sara’s voice was thin and sharp.

  ‘The farm was Bridget’s, not your father’s!’ Craig retorted immediately, thrusting his head forward angrily. ‘He had no right to just take it over like that.’

  ‘Got no right! Mum left it to him, and to us. It was her farm – Grandpa gave it to her. She could leave it to anyone she wanted!’

  Craig tried to explain. ‘You gotta understand, this is where Dad grew up. And he’s never really got over Bridgie dying like that and just giving the farm away …’

  Sara jumped up. ‘Well, who has got over it? Who has? She was my mother, remember! We were the ones left all alone! Who was she meant to leave the farm to? Of course she left it to Dad! And now he’s the one dying, he’s the one lying in hospital in a coma, and you come round here complaining about the fact we’re living in your dad’s precious childhood home. Well, it’s our home now, Craig, it’s our home.’

  She turned and stood staring out the window, trying to control her tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Craig said awkwardly. Sara did not reply. He went on, dogged as a bull. ‘It’s just no-one seems to understand Dad’s side of it. I mean, this was where he grew up and his father too …’

  ‘Wasn’t that rather a long time ago?’ Gabriela said coldly.

  ‘Well, yes, but this place was in the Halloran family for generations,’ Craig said eagerly. ‘It’s a prime piece of property! Bridget had no right leaving it away from the family like that. When Grandad said she could live here, it was only because she had nowhere else to go – she was meant to be leaving Augusto, not bringing him down here with her! Grandad would never have wanted Bridget to just give it away like that! It should have stayed in Halloran hands. And just look at the place!’ He gestured round the dingy room, exotic flowers of damp blooming all over the walls. ‘It’s such a waste.’

  ‘I thought you guys reckoned there’s no future in cows anyway,’ Sara said bitterly. ‘You’ve got your grog shop and your boat, what do you want with Towradgi anyway?’

  Craig laughed. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Don’t you realise what this property is worth? You’ve got your own beach, for Christ’s sake! Do this place up, turn it into a B & B, put some cabins down on the flat, maybe a caravan park. Don’t you realise tourism is where the money is these days? Cows! You guys just don’t get it!’ He made an exclamation of disgust.

  Sara stared at him with blackly dilated eyes. ‘That’s what you want it for,’ she said softly. ‘That’s why Alex took over the mortgage. You always meant to turn us out and take it over. How could we have been so blind?’

  She heard a soft noise from near the door and lifted her gaze. Joe was standing in the doorway. He was freshly showered and changed, his long black hair combed back from his forehead. In one hand he held a beer can. He was gripping it so tightly beer was frothing up and over the sides. His thick, dark brows were locked together over his eyes.

  ‘Joe,’ she cried, trying to calm him.

  Craig jerked round. Colour surged up his bull neck.

  ‘You bastard,’ Joe said and put his beer down on the coffee table, advancing on his cousin.

  ‘Who’s calling who a bastard, you little runt!’ Craig said contemptuously.

  Quite unexpectedly, Joe lunged at his cousin, catching him off-guard with a blow to the side of his head. Craig immediately retaliated, and being much bigger and stockier than Joe, got in a few hard blows before Sara caught hold of his arm and dragged it back.

  For a few moments all was noise and confusion. Joe bent over, holding his stomach, retching. ‘You bastard!’ he managed to say.

  ‘How dare you!’ Sara screamed at her cousin. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing!’

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ Craig said defensively. ‘He hit me first. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He just snapped!’

  ‘You and your fucking father!’ Joe said. ‘I should’ve known, I should’ve known! Fucking Halloran charity. You were just trying to get your claws in as deep as you could …’

  ‘If Dad hadn’t taken over the mortgage the bank would’ve foreclosed by now,’ Craig said. ‘You’d all be on the streets if it wasn’t for us.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a lie,’ Joe shouted. ‘Another fucking lie! I’ve worked my arse off keeping this place afloat, things were coming good, if I’d just had a bit more time, if Gus had just pulled his neck in, we would have come good, everything would have been all right …’

  ‘You’re a dreamer, Joe,’ Craig said nastily. ‘Head in the clouds. A snag short of a barbecue, the lot of you. Bad blood, my dad says.’

  Gabriela stood up. ‘That’s enough!’ she said. ‘Get the fuck out of here, you cretin, else I’ll give you a kick in the balls you’ll never forget.’

  Craig was taken aback. He cast one look at her large and determined face and took an involuntary step away. Joe gave a laugh that was perilously shaky near the end.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! All of you stop it!’ Sara cried. She shook Craig’s arm angrily. ‘This is a living room, not a boxing ring!’ She pushed him towards the door. ‘Go home! You may think you own us but the game’s not over yet, Craig Halloran. Once we sell Dad’s painting, we’ll be able to buy you and your horrible father out three times over.’

  ‘As if!’ he sneered. ‘Who would want to buy it?’

  ‘It’s a masterpiece, Craig, an absolute masterpiece. And if Dad dies, it’ll be his last ever painting. It’ll be worth a fortune!’ She waved her hand at the paintings covering the walls. ‘They’ll all be worth a fortune!’

  Craig glanced up at Circus Rider incredulously, but his confidence was shaken, they could all see it in the uneasy movement of his head and shoulders, in the shamefaced scowl on his face. He picked up his jacket but did not move away. ‘Yeah, but your father’s not going to die, is he?’ he said at last, with an odd note of anxiety in his voice.

  ‘What do you care?’ Joe jeered.

  The unexpected vulnerability in Craig’s voice and face had moved Sara, though. She said, rather shakily, ‘I hope not, Craig.’

  ‘You’re not to worry about the farm,’ he said with the same strange, soft, anxious tone. ‘Dad won’t be foreclosing on you with your dad in hospital and all. I’m sorry I told you that stuff about the B & B. It’s just an idea, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you to think we were going to chuck all you out.’

  ‘OK,’ Sara said rather uncertainly, puzzled by this sudden shift in manner.

  Craig looked as if he wanted to say something else, but then evidently changed his mind, for he shru
gged. ‘Better go,’ he said. ‘Dad’ll be wondering.’

  Once he was gone, Sara sat down limply on the couch, lifting her palms in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Bizarre,’ Gabriela said.

  ‘I should’ve known Alex had some ulterior motive for buying up the mortgage,’ Joe said miserably, sitting down with a sigh and reaching for his beer. ‘To think I was grateful!’

  ‘All Craig’s talk of his dear sweet father’s yearning for his childhood home and what they really want is to turn it into a B & B,’ Gabriela said.

  ‘A bloody caravan park,’ Joe groaned. ‘Bloody Hallorans.’

  Sara looked at him in some surprise. Though this catchphrase was uttered frequently by the rest of the family, she had never heard Joe say it before.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d try and punch Craig out,’ Sara said, her voice quivering with an hysterical giggle.

  Joe shot her an angry look. He tapped a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, the flame shaking.

  The twins came in, dressed now in their tracksuit pants and clean T-shirts, but with their red hair still wet and slicked off their freckled faces. ‘What was all that shouting? Sounded like a fight was going on.’

  ‘It was,’ Gabriela replied dryly. ‘Joe and Craig had a bit of a disagreement.’

  ‘Fighting with everyone this weekend, Joe?’ Dylan said with a malicious edge to his voice. ‘Funny fighting with Craig. I thought you loved the Hallorans.’

  Joe shot him a foul look, drained his beer dry and stood up. ‘I’m going to go get another beer,’ he asked. ‘Anyone want one?’

  ‘I will,’ Gabriela said, ‘for sure. Just what I need.’

  ‘Yo!’ Dylan said. ‘We will. We wanna get drunk. We wanna get pissed as farts. It’s been a bloody awful day.’

  The first mouthful of beer was, as always, the best. Sara felt tension ebbing out of her, and leant back in her chair with her feet on the coffee table. She had to be careful where she put them, for there were two plates with the remains of vegemite toast on them, and two dirty coffee cups.