Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘I’m not getting any younger here, Alex. Finish the story.’

  I half turn to look at John. We’ve passed Hamer Hall and the Arts Centre is in front of us, so he has the added drama of Inge King’s sculpture, Forward Surge, as a backdrop. Its monumental steel wave forms are oddly soothing.

  ‘There’s really not much more to it. The curse stuff is quite straightforward.’

  ‘Oh good, because I hate a complex curse.’

  ‘The painting was part of the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1864, and it hung in one of the most prestigious positions in the gallery. Critics raved about it; some because they loved it, and some because they thought it was shocking.’

  ‘Yeah, but there was a large, angry bear chomping on the rib of an Englishman,’ John says.

  ‘At least it wasn’t a bunch of guys sitting round a cooking pot with a ribcage in the background.’

  ‘Sounds a bit Monty Python.’

  ‘Anyway, Thomas Holloway bought the painting for the collection at his new institution for women’s education.’

  ‘You’re kidding. What man in late Victorian England would have thought that a suitable subject for genteel young ladies?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought their enquiring young minds would leap at the chance to discuss –’

  ‘Perhaps dissect?’

  ‘Ha ha.’ I shoot him a look. ‘Discuss the subject. You know, man versus nature.’

  ‘What happens when civilised society falls apart?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’ I nod. ‘Or maybe he just wanted to weed out the fainters from the academics. Why he bought it is irrelevant. The point is he did, and he stuck it in the college where everything went swimmingly for a few decades until the college started actually holding exams.’

  ‘Which was when?’

  ‘1920s or ’30s.’

  ‘Seriously? So for fifty years or so all these women just went to college for the hell of it? No chance to actually get a degree?’

  ‘Beats sitting in the parlour doing your embroidery until you die from terminal boredom.’

  ‘Are we reminiscing about craft classes at your la-di-da girls’ school now?’

  We’ve come to the intersection of St Kilda Rd and Southbank Boulevard and I press the button for the traffic lights. Repeatedly.

  ‘School days a touchy subject, huh?’ John grins at me as I continue to rapidly jab the button, willing the lights to change.

  ‘I’m parked in Linlithgow Avenue, are you up there too?’

  ‘I caught the tram today, but I’m happy to accept a lift while you continue the story.’

  With a sound like something out of a Space Invaders game, the lights turn in our favour and we head across the road toward the flower clock, currently looking a bit sparse after the prolonged summer heat.

  I decide to ignore John’s needling. ‘So when the college began holding exams they used the gallery where the Landseer hung, and straight away the whispers started; if you sat near the painting, you would fail. No matter how smart or how well-prepared, the painting held you in its thrall and you failed.’

  ‘Sounds like more of a convenient excuse than a curse.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe the first time, who knows? But there was supposedly one woman who sat next to the painting and made the error of staring directly into the eyes of one of the polar bears and then went insane and killed herself quite spectacularly.’

  ‘Right there in the exam room? Now we’re talking!’

  ‘And just before she topped herself she scrawled, “The polar bears made me do it” across her exam paper.’

  ‘Awesome!’

  ‘Next time exams rolled around, a student had hysterics when she found out her seat allocation and refused to sit the exam. The painting’s obviously too big to move, and of course they wanted to start the exam. The nearest thing to hand was a Union Jack, so they covered it with that and it’s been that way ever since – every time there’s an exam on.’

  ‘You’ve got to love that British confidence, don’t you? Are you vexed by a hex? Worse for a curse? Fear not! Simply hang the Union Jack between yourself and the cursed object and problem solved! Does not apply to biblical plagues or smitings.’ He says the last bit really fast and in a deep voice.

  ‘It’s a long walk home, John.’

  John stops to stare at me, his eyes wide. ‘So should we go back and tell Meredith not to look directly into the eyes of the bear?’

  ‘I think she seems like a girl who can handle herself. What’s the story?’

  ‘We worked together once or twice way back when, right after uni. Professional differences.’ He shrugs. ‘She’s good at the job but … shall we say very ambitious?’

  ‘You slept with her, didn’t you?’ I punch his bicep. ‘Did she dump you? She did, didn’t she? I bet she had you at her beck and call! You’d best be nice next time you see her, just in case she ends up head of department or something.’

  ‘She’ll either have to wait thirty years or knife a few colleagues for that to happen. Probably option B if past history is anything to go by.’

  ‘Meow!’

  John gives me the finger. I mentally file away his relationship with Meredith for another time.

  ‘Is it still a hotbed of internal politics and ladder-climbing at MIMA?’ I ask.

  ‘Giles tells me it’s an absolute cesspool.’

  ‘Nice. And to think I passed all that up.’

  ‘You’d run rings around the lot of them, Alex. I mean, you just told me that whole crazy thing about the cursed painting off the top of your head.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum would be so proud of my ability to retain useless information.’ I scuff my toe in the dry, brown grass.

  ‘So that’s the whole story?’ John’s tone seems overly hearty and I slide my eyes sideways to make sure he’s talking about the painting again.

  ‘What more do you want? A lost expedition, cannibalism, failure, madness and death.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that …’

  My car is only a few steps away and John and I peel off to opposite sides. I pop the locks and we clamber in. The radio comes on loud when I turn the key in the ignition – some intricate Chopin – and further conversation is impossible. I spin the wheel and point the Citroën toward Birdwood Avenue and the south-eastern suburbs.

  It’s starting to get light when Hogarth and I head out for our morning walk. I’m feeling all out of sorts after yesterday – fatigue after an adrenaline release coupled with sadness for Tommo – but I’ve decided I’m going to shake off my shitty mood or die trying. After ten minutes in the fresh air I’m already feeling a bit better. It’s hard not to with a gigantosaurus dog bouncing along beside me. Occasionally Hogarth bumps his shoulder into my leg as we walk, grinning at me the whole time. It’s his Irish wolfhound way of saying, ‘Are you having fun yet? ’Cause I am.’

  We head for Princes Park and I let Hogarth off his lead so he can quarter the territory while I stick to the path. I usually spend some of our walk time mentally planning my work for the day, but this time I’m done in under two minutes. The list of things to do consists of: read Lane & Co’s auction catalogue, phone framer. Suffice to say business is depressingly slow right now. It’s sometimes like that at this time of year. It’s nearly the start of autumn, meaning clients are lingering in a post-holiday languor (assuming they’re back from Europe or Port Douglas) and most of the auction houses’ sales are still a few weeks away. If you were an optimist (and someone who liked clichés) you might think of this period as the calm before the storm. But a realist would be more inclined to look at my bank balance, compare it to the bills currently adorning the surface of my desk, and let out a long, low whistle.

  I decide to call an old client from Gippsland who promised me the chance to go through the family property and see if there are any paintings of v
alue. Hopefully now would be a good time. It’s not as though I expect to unearth a lost William Dobell or Nicholas Chevalier, but it would keep me busy for a few days and Hogarth and I would get a road trip out of it.

  I allow the thought of long-lost masterpieces in country sheds to blossom into a full-blown fantasy of wealth and kudos, so by the time Hogarth comes bounding back to me with his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, I’m actually feeling quite cheery. His happy hound face completes the mood and we finish off our tour of the park in good spirits.

  Back home we go through our usual start-of-the-day routine, beginning with my shower. Melbourne is in the middle of a drought so significant that according to the media, it even has a name: the Millennium Drought. What that means in real terms is the government keeps talking about water restrictions and, in an effort to do my bit, I attempt to keep my showers short while catching the excess water in a bucket so I can tip it on my roses later. Nothing turns a blissful shower into a utilitarian exercise like standing over a bucket. Ablutions segue into breakfast followed by a bit of cleaning, which brings us up to eight forty-five a.m. and the start of my work day. Even though I’m self-employed, I try to keep to a schedule.

  I settle in the home office, auction catalogue in front of me, notepad and pen to one side. Usually I’ll make a few notes on the first read, then go back and check which lots still seem attractive on a second pass. I get as far as lot three – a Norman Lindsay bacchanal rife with nude women, satyrs and general debauchery – when the phone rings. It’s John.

  ‘This is a bit early for you, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Are you okay? Is Sue okay? She hasn’t finally thrown you out, has she?’ John’s wife Sue is exceedingly possessive, to say the least. A few years ago she had a health scare and although she’s now perfectly fine, Sue plays the invalid card every time they argue. She’s told him to get out at least half a dozen times but always seems to have an episode of some sort before he can follow through. I wouldn’t be his best friend if I didn’t occasionally stir him about it.

  ‘Um … it seems that I’m going to be working on that Landseer painting at MIMA after all.’

  ‘What? Why? Are you sure you’re okay, because you sound really strange. Your voice is sort of squeaky.’ I swivel my chair away from the desk and stand up. ‘Did Meredith proposition you? Did the curse freak her out? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Giles phoned me first thing this morning.’ John takes a shuddering breath.

  I glance at my watch. It’s only just gone nine fifteen. ‘O-kay. So Meredith has changed her mind, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you, right? She seemed a fairly potent brew, but you can work with her, can’t you? You can lean over her shoulder, both hold the paint brush … Is that why you sound all shaky and weird?’

  ‘Alex,’ John takes another deep breath, ‘Meredith is dead.’

  ‘What?’ I sit down hard on the edge of the desk.

  ‘They found her this morning. In the conservation lab at the Museum.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Giles mumbled something but I didn’t take it in. He wants me to come in straight away.’

  ‘Did she damage the painting more?’

  ‘Alex!’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be callous, but it seems a bit ghoulish for Giles to be calling you in, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Well, the exhibition is due to open in a few days,’ John laughed mirthlessly. ‘And reading between the lines, I think Giles is hoping that if the painting is hanging innocently amongst the other exhibits, the media won’t catch wind of the whole debacle.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ I say. ‘Besides, the story would probably send their ticket sales through the roof.’

  For a moment there is only the faint hum of an open telephone line. I stare out my window at the sunny morning, where fat bees bumble through the star jasmine covering my fence. I can’t imagine how peppy, go-getting Meredith can be dead.

  John clears his throat. ‘Will you come with me, Alex?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m going to do it. Fix the painting, I mean.’

  ‘Sure, you’re the best and Giles wants you. It makes sense.’ Even as I say it I feel a small knot of apprehension deep in my stomach.

  ‘But – look I know this is stupid – I can’t help it. I feel weird and a little bit scared. Or just plain macabre and horrible.’

  ‘You do realise Meredith probably had an allergic reaction or a heart condition that nobody knew about or an aneurysm or something, right? The whole curse thing is just a fanciful story.’

  ‘Sure …’ His voice is tight. ‘But even then, what are the odds? Please come? It won’t take that long to repair the tear and retouch the area of paint loss. Royal Holloway has apparently given the go-ahead to start preliminary work.’

  I sigh dramatically. ‘All right. I assume you’re getting a parking permit, so you’d better come and get me. Lucky for you I don’t have anything too pressing to attend to.’

  John snorts.

  ‘Don’t laugh, mate. It may look as though I’m circling above the financial S-bend, but it’s all part of my long-term strategy to dominate the Australian art market.’

  ‘Thanks Alex.’

  I wave off John’s gratitude, even though he can’t see my flapping hand. ‘That’s what friends are for, et cetera, et cetera,’ I say. ‘Plus I can do some research and even work on overcoming my fear of MIMA. It’s win-win when you think about it.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.’

  ‘No probs. I’ll be waiting.’

  I hang up the phone; my head is buzzing. First Tommo, now Meredith. Although Tommo isn’t dead, at least not last I heard. I’m desperate to find out exactly what happened to Meredith, even though I know it couldn’t actually have anything to do with Man Proposes. I’m telling myself that, but at the same time my anxiety is increasing. I wish I could tell John not to do it, but really, it is only a painting of two aggro polar bears.

  I give Hogarth a pat and top up his water dish before heading to the bedroom to get changed. Pulling on black jeans and a black T-shirt from the good pile makes me feel instantly tougher, and when I look in the mirror I’m happy to see the ensemble also gives me a suitably arty look. I drag my hair back into a ponytail. Once when I was trying for a beach hair look, I leant in too close to a painting John was touching up and got hair in the varnish. Not my finest hour. My face looks pale, so I add a swipe of lipstick and stand back to survey the effect, forcing a smile at my reflection.

  ‘Curse? What curse!’ I try to laugh but it comes out more like I need a puff of Ventolin. Even my reflection isn’t buying it.

  There’s a horn toot outside; John is early.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell my reflection. ‘It’s only a painting.’

  This time I manage a scrap of conviction, and as I leave the house I hang on to it like a shipwrecked sailor. The analogy lodges itself in my brain. Perhaps that’s not such a good thing after all.

  ***

  I settle into the passenger seat of John’s white van. It’s the sort of nondescript vehicle favoured by couriers and delivery drivers, perfect for shifting valuable paintings to and from his studio without attracting attention. Probably a deathtrap in a head-on collision, but at least the art should be okay. Two takeaway coffees sit between us in the centre console, steaming invitingly. The smell is not quite enough to override the ingrained odour of old wood, varnish and linseed that permeates the van, but it’s enough to make me realise how much I could use a jolt of caffeine.

  John attempts a smile but it wobbles and doesn’t make it as far as his eyes. ‘I got double shots and extra sugar. I thought we might need it.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’d kiss you right now, but that doesn’t fall within the contractual terms of our friendship, so consider me exceedingly grateful
and we’ll leave it at that.’ I’m babbling, so I reach for the coffee and suck hard on the little spout in the lid. ‘Fuck! Hot, hot, hot!’

  ‘Sorry. I was going to say …’ This time John’s grin is gen­uine and seeing it makes me realise why I’m off kilter.

  ‘Glad you find my pain so amusing,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise how upset you were about this. It’s not really the curse is it? I guess you still had some feelings for Meredith.’

  ‘I –’ John makes a choking sound, then slumps forward over the steering wheel.

  ‘John? Not funny, but I’m more than happy to pound my fist into your back.’

  ‘Gotcha!’ John’s eyes pop open and he starts laughing like a crazed hyena.

  ‘I think I’m still going to hit you.’

  ‘Oooohhhh the curse, the curse!’ John waggles his fingers in my direction, his laughter interspersed with snorts.

  ‘Bugger the curse, I thought your wife must have slipped some cyanide in your Weet-Bix.’ I’m trying to act cool, but my heart is thumping in my chest. Damn cursed painting. ‘Okay, okay. Lucky for you, you didn’t knock the coffee over.’ I take a deep breath. ‘You realise there will be payback, right? Some time when you least expect it, you will regret that you started this.’

  ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘Idiot,’ I sigh. ‘You really drove this far out of your way just to pull that stupid trick? Seriously?’

  John stops laughing, but only just. ‘I’m sorry. I guess that was a bit too soon, huh?’

  I nod. ‘I know I only met the woman yesterday, and clearly you’re not exactly crooning ballads about your lost love, but Meredith’s dead. And the packer, Tommo – how is he? So yeah, that stunt was rather bad form. A shrink could use you as a case study for inappropriate emotional responses.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not good at dealing with this stuff. I really do want you to come with me to the Museum, Alex. It’s not the bullshit curse or anything. It’s just I feel like a bit of a ghoul walking in there and taking over Meredith’s work only hours after she died. Especially because I sort of had one or two negative thoughts about the possibility of her impending doom. And I know once I start the job I’ll forget about everything else and probably do or say something tasteless …’