I knock and push the door open, stepping straight through before I can lose my nerve. Bad move. The door swings shut behind me with a pneumatic hiss and I’m plunged into total darkness. My feet are rooted to the spot, but my hand reaches behind me feeling for the door handle, which has become strangely elusive. Without me even thinking about it, my eyes have opened wider, trying to capture any glimmer of light and direct it to my retinas. At the same time, my breathing has quietened and my hearing is stretching forward in the room. Even in the blackness, I somehow know it’s not very large; some quality in the air tells me that. There is also an intangible lack to the feel of this space and the moment my brain apprehends that, I exhale heavily. No other person is in here with me. With that thought, I turn back toward the door and feel around with both hands. I find the light switch first and snap it on. Flickering tubes stutter to life and for a moment all I can see is an echo of the light on my now-closed eyelids. Cautiously I squint and blink and the room reveals itself.
‘Shit.’
I’m in the photocopy room, surrounded by a couple of shelves stacked with paper, a rubbish bin, and a behemoth of a photocopier, now lying dormant. I’ve just spent the past few moments scaring myself stupid over stationery. Wrenching the door open with one hand and smacking off the light with the other, I return to the hall. A flicker of movement catches my attention, and I turn sharply toward the far end, back where I came from, but nothing stirs. If someone was there, they’ve gone. I give myself a mental shake. After all, it’s not as though I’m the only person in MIMA. By this time the galleries will be thronging with people, and of course there must be staff about the place too. The presence of another person in the hallway is not remarkable, I tell myself, not in the least.
The final door is also locked, and like all the rest, it doesn’t look even vaguely promising. But now I’m standing in front of the staff elevator. From what I can remember, the rest of the ground floor is public space, so there’s nothing left for me here. Each floor in MIMA has its own section of back rooms and storage, but never having been offered a comprehensive grand tour, I’m hoping there will be a handy-dandy floor directory in the elevator, with convenient and informative labels such as 2nd floor: Art Storage. I tap the up button and then keep tapping it obsessively as I track the elevator’s progress via the lights above the doors. I’m encouraged by the fact that the dimensions of the doors indicate this is an elevator used for freight – read: art – just as much as it is for people. So it must go to places where large art goes. While it may turn out that on a different floor this particular elevator simply opens into an exhibition space, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a cavernous repository of paintings, statues, and miscellaneous decorative arts. As the light winks between floors, drawing the elevator car closer, I plaster a benign look on my face and plan what to say if by chance the car is occupied by a member of the MIMA staff, that is, a person with an actual legitimate reason to be in this particular place at lunchtime on a Saturday.
A soft ding announces the elevator’s arrival and the doors slide open to a blissfully empty car. I step into a space that is scuffed and bumped; no mirrors or muzak here, but also no floor directory. Consulting my patchy mental map of the museum spaces, I think that the second floor is mostly open to the public, which leaves the third floor, maybe a chunk of the first floor on the other side of the building, and the basement. The doors stay open as I stare at the lighted panel, weighing up my options. For a moment my finger hovers over the LG button. Everyone stores their extra crap in the basement, right? But that seems too easy and I decide it’s probably nothing more than a loading dock, and rather more likely to be populated if catering and rubbish disposal services use the same area. And there’s always a handyman or superintendent lurking in a dusty office in the bowels of large buildings, waiting for the call to unblock a toilet or mop up a spill.
I’m beginning to think this whole project would be best left for Monday. John and I could plead fascination in the running of the Museum and get someone to take us around. Of course, that would make the snooping part of things slightly more challenging. My finger moves to the 3 button, down to LG again, then back up to 3. I give it a hard poke to stop myself from vacillating like a Victorian maiden trying to work up the courage to express an opinion.
The doors close, and with a slight lurch the elevator starts to move. My stomach does not react, confirming this is a slow-moving contraption designed to shift heavy stuff very carefully. We lumber up through the heart of the building and I slump against the side wall. I’m reconsidering the whole nothing-in-the-basement idea, because what makes even less sense is storing millions of dollars’ worth of treasures on the top floor. Sure, harder for your random art thief to abscond with the Picasso, and ideal if the Yarra River floods and the whole neighbourhood is knee deep in sludge. But if a fire breaks out virtually anywhere in this edifice, good luck trying to get anything out.
There is no fanfare when the elevator groans to a halt on the third floor, just a clunk and rumble as the doors part. Fluorescent lights flicker on, designed to be activated when movement is detected and switch themselves off when everything is quiet. At least, I hope that’s why they just came on. Stepping out, I immediately assure myself I am alone. Also that this is the storage area, but I’m out of luck. There are three sets of double doors leading off this foyer. All are shut tight and electronic keypads glow brightly next to each of them.
***
I abandon the whole thing but before heading back to John in the conservation lab, I decide to check out a temporary display of art from up-and-coming Australian artists. It’s not the sort of thing I deal in, but I’m always interested in the ways artists work and seeing how different people respond to a piece of art. Most of the items are on show in one of the small exhibition rooms on the ground floor. The first thing I see is Evaporated Music 1, a wild video by Philip Brophy that mesmerises even as it’s sort of doing my head in. I move on, past a strangely beautiful installation of wire and corrugated iron by Rosalie Gascoigne and along a wall where several of Tracey Moffatt’s Laudanum series hang. Her use of the photogravure technique really appeals to my old-school mentality and what’s not to love about Moffatt’s whole psychological gothic vibe? I’ve seen a couple of Moffatt’s things going through the auctions, but now I’m going to start keeping an eye out; I think she’s going places. If this is an example of contemporary Australian art, I could be a convert.
I’ve reached the back of the room and a small exhibition continues sign points the way forward. A short passageway spills me out into the Great Hall, which is awash with people moving between and around several large sculptures and some sort of massive installation piece. There’s a warning notice for people with epilepsy, and even from here I can see lights flashing and strobing in various parts of the space. This part of the display has been named Son et Lumière, and according to the explanation painted on the wall, the star attraction is a piece that, “explores the limits of personal boundaries by transmuting a whispered utterance into an ephemeral cacophony, perceived from afar”. Read: amplifies and projects sound. I decide I can live without that experience for another day and turn away, ready to report my singular lack of sleuthing success to John. I take my time wandering back to conservation.
***
John’s been joined by Fiona and the two of them have their heads bent over the canvas. Monty is skulking in the corner, pretending to work.
‘Hey guys,’ I say, walking across the room. ‘Fiona, we were worried about you.’
‘Alex! John said you were around. Sorry about yesterday. I think it all just sort of caught up with me.’ Fiona tucks a long strand of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘What have you been up to?’
I feel myself blush and make an effort not to look at John.
‘Just looking at some contemporary stuff.’ I remember I’d told John to use a different cover story. ‘And reacquainting myself with
some of my favourite pieces of British art in the permanent collection.’
‘Anything interesting?’ John’s question sounds bland, but when I glance at him his eyes are wide, brows arched like rising suns above the top edge of his glasses. I hope Fiona doesn’t notice.
‘It was a bust.’
‘What?’ Fiona is looking at me strangely.
‘A bust. Of Queen Victoria and made of glass. Only a small thing, but definitely interesting.’ I have no idea if that piece is still on display, let alone where in the Museum it might be, but John has got the message. ‘And then I had a bit of trouble finding my way back here, but fortunately everything was locked, so I just kept going till things started to look familiar and I found an open door.’
‘Well we’re done for the day anyway.’ John pushes back from the table. ‘Fiona arrived in time to do the patch and, really, she doesn’t need me here. Giles is just being paranoid.’
‘I don’t mind extra tips from someone with your experience, John.’ Fiona puts a hand on his arm. The gesture is both tentative and possessive, reminding me of Rubens’ painting, The Artist and his first wife Isabella Brant in the Honeysuckle Bower. Of course in the painting Rubens himself looks calm and content, while right now John looks startled and uncomfortable.
I force myself to speak so I don’t roll my eyes. ‘I suppose you can understand Giles’ position. He has a borrowed artwork that has been damaged in his museum, the senior conservator who should have done the repair is dea– didn’t, and so Giles needs to be seen to be going over and above to rectify the problem.’
‘Makes sense.’ John nods.
‘And if the excrement splats into the oscillator, they’ll be able to blame you, and the Museum will maintain its precious reputation.’
John and Fiona both have their mouths hanging open and a glance across the room tells me Monty heard that too. Must’ve been a bit louder than I intended.
‘Sorry.’ I flap my hand at them and twist my mouth into a faux smile. ‘An old and angst-ridden tale that has no relevance to the current situation.’
‘Alex.’ John steps toward me.
‘Ready to go then?’ I fix the smile more firmly to my face. ‘Do you need to come back tomorrow or is that it till Monday?’
‘I hadn’t planned to come in on Sunday, but I can if that would suit you better, John.’ Fiona musses up the hair she tucked behind her ear. If she was wearing glasses I swear she would have just pulled them off and shaken out her tawny mane.
‘Monday’s fine. I promised my wife we’d, um, go to Mornington or something tomorrow.’ He starts moving away from Fiona and toward the door.
‘Will you be coming on Monday, Alex?’
‘I’m supposed to catch up with Barbara Cottrell on Monday, so I might pop in, Fiona.’ The smile now feels like it’s going to crack my face.
John’s phone rings and he pulls it from his pocket and looks at the display. ‘It’s Sue. Alex, we should go. Bye Fiona, bye Monty.’ He scuttles into the hall, and I make my goodbyes and follow.
John is standing a few steps away, shoulders hunched. ‘Just the conservators. No, why would Alex be here?’ He shoots me an apologetic look, but I know the drill; we’ve been through this a thousand times. ‘I’m just leaving now. Yes, okay, yes. See you soon. Bye.’
‘We’d best be off then.’
‘She wanted to know what I’d like for dinner.’
‘Doesn’t she always? And when I say always, I mean like five times a day.’ As we emerge into the gallery space I put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I won’t mention your issues if you don’t mention mine.’
John tilts his head to one side and bumps it gently into the top of mine. ‘Spoken like a true friend.’
Hogarth and I hit the dog beach at Brighton first thing on Sunday. The weather has completely turned around and the forecast is for a hot day, followed by a hot week. In typical Melbourne fashion, the storm that was threatening “slipped away to the south”, according to the weatherman, and we’re launching into another week of thirty-plus degree days and the threat of water restrictions. We pass through the gate and I let Hogarth off his lead. He takes a few bounding strides.
‘Just a minute, dude.’
Hogarth sighs and waits for me to catch up. He knows I like to see who’s here before I give him the all clear. It’s not necessarily the dogs I don’t trust, it’s the people who are supposed to be in charge but are busy doing something else entirely.
We crest the dunes and of the ten or so dogs already hanging out together, three spot us immediately and start in our direction. This of course alerts the rest and Hogarth steps out to meet them. The dogs mill around sniffing butts and all tails are now gently waving. Suddenly Hogarth slams his front paws on the sand in his giganto-dog version of a play bow. Every other dog freezes for a second and then the beach explodes as they go racing off on a wild game of chasey. I can see Hogarth checking over his shoulder and matching his pace to keep just ahead of the nearest dog, but he’s a sprinter not a stayer so after a minute or so of insanity he heads for the water and ploughs into the shallows, sending up a cloud of spray. Some of the other dogs follow him in, but only a couple of the hardier souls – a golden retriever and a black lab – go in far enough to swim. Hogarth is still only shoulder deep, and he stands there happily, tongue lolling, while the two dogs swim around him in excited circles.
I whistle to get his attention, then head off along the shoreline, thongs in hand. Hogarth clocks my direction and makes his adieus to the dogs he’s hanging with before trotting after me along the damp, hard-packed sand that marks the retreating tide. There are fewer people down this way, and with the meditative slap and hiss of waves in the background, I give my thoughts over to Meredith. Here, breathing in the salty air and watching the water sparkle like an emerald’s facets, it’s almost impossible to believe her death was anything sinister. John and I have let ourselves get carried away by the idea of a curse and evil forces, and it’s completely coloured our thinking. Sad though it is, if Meredith’s death wasn’t caused by a medical condition, suicide is far more likely than murder, no matter how cut-throat the workplace.
I’m abruptly snapped out of these depressing thoughts by Hogarth, who has emerged from the sea and snuck up beside me before shaking furiously, drenching me from head to foot. My screech seems to satisfy him immensely, and I push Meredith and MIMA to a back corner of my mind. It’s too nice a day to dwell in the shadows.
Hogarth and I take our time, walking all the way to one end of the beach and back, pausing to say hi to the few dogs we meet and ducking in and out of the water. By the time we’re almost back at the gate, the sun is higher and flexing its muscle. There’s a heat shimmer in the air that gives everything the quality of a seascape by Clarice Beckett: a little blurred and soft-focus as though there’s a warp in the canvas of reality. It’s going to be a scorcher.
When we get home I pull out the cordless vacuum and attack the back seat of the Citroën. As usual, Hogarth appears to have smuggled half the beach back in his fur, then abandoned it at the last moment. After the car, I turn my attention to the hound and give him a light hose and shampoo to get the salt off his skin. He relishes every second of it.
‘Off you go. All finished.’ I turn the hose off.
Hogarth stands there for a moment, then indulges in his usual post-wash zoomies, taking two high-speed laps of the yard before collapsing in the sunshine to finish the drying process. As I’m heading into the house the phone starts ringing, so I grab the handset from the kitchen and take it back outside, pressing the connect button as I go.
‘Hello?’ The rear step is still in the shade so I settle there, back against the door and with a nice view of the lemon tree and Hills Hoist. Hogarth immediately joins me, flopping down at my feet and then squirming a little until I extend the toes of one foot and start to rub his belly.
‘Alex! It’s John.’
‘John? Are you okay? You never call on the weekend. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Sue sent me out to buy almond croissants for Sunday brunch.’
‘Oh,’ I sigh. ‘For a minute I thought you might have actually … Never mind.’
‘Anyhow, it gives me a chance to call you. I suddenly realised that yesterday you told Fiona you had a meeting with Barbara Cottrell. What the hell is that all about?’
I hesitate. ‘She’s been appointed Head of International Art.’
There’s silence on the line. Then I hear a sharp intake of breath and think John’s going to speak, but the silence kicks in again and stretches until I can’t take it anymore.
‘She wasn’t even working there. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘You know how I feel about that woman. She could have helped you, stood up for you, but she didn’t. Couldn’t bear to get her lily-white academic’s hands tainted by association with a scandal.’
‘Why should she? It was nothing to do with her.’ I knew this would happen when John heard about Professor Cottrell and I want to get it over with.
‘She knew your work, Alex. She knew you’d never … And she had contacts at the Museum who would have listened to her.’
‘John …’
‘No, Alex. You could have had a stellar career as a curator, but they screwed you over. Barbara Cottrell could have pleaded your case and they would have listened. She’s as bad as the rest of them and oh, look! Now she’s moved from the university to become Head of International Art at the Museum. I’m sure she had her eye on that job when she chose not to support you.’
‘She’s always supported me.’
‘Just not publicly, when it mattered.’ The words are clipped, and I can almost see John’s angry face, all red cheeks and narrow eyes. ‘Sometimes I hope I’ll run into that woman so I can give her an earful. I’ve never really nursed a desire to bitch-slap someone, but I’m prepared to make an exception in her case.’
Painting in the Shadows Page 11
