The Artist’s Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Peter didn’t need to look to know that the last person he wanted to see had decided to appear out of nowhere.

  Because he was just annoyed enough to be a little rude, he waited for John Stanford to walk over to him before reluctantly accepting the proffered handshake.

  ‘It’s been a busy few days,’ the man commented, and rested his forearms on the ledge. ‘I’m of a mind to hide away for a bit so nobody else can chase me down in the street and ask for one favour or another.’

  Business was briefly discussed then, but there was another purpose to the man’s appearance. Peter knew that without a doubt when most of what was said between them then had already been talked about the day before, or the day before that.

  Stanford was stalling for some reason.

  ‘Did you hear what happened last Sunday?’ He started off south across the bridge, which dictated Peter follow.

  ‘A lot of things happened last Sunday.’ All of them mundane as far as he could remember. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

  And so the other man launched into an anecdote involving a respectable member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary and a missing pair of drawers as he continued drawing Peter to the southern bank and then turning right along the river walk. The story was, he had to admit, pretty funny, even if at least ninety per cent of it had to be untrue, and even if it placed some unfortunate images in Peter’s head.

  On they walked, past wilting plants not designed for the climate. Several half-built structures claimed new spots along the water’s edge. The sounds of rough male carpenters’ voices carried across to them, the conversation mingled with hammering and occasional swearing.

  It became painfully clear just how much Stanford was determined to stall when they kept walking and he kept nattering. Suddenly the tale wasn’t just about missing drawers, but a missing corset, too. The man chatted easily, his tone never sounding as suspicious as his behaviour was. He managed to not even sound suspicious when he forgot various details of the tale, changing everything as he went along.

  By the time the lady in the story had become three, they were a good way west, where the town’s most affluent residents had chosen to construct their obscenely large homes.

  It was there that he came to an abrupt stop.

  ‘The mayor’s residence,’ he told Peter, nodding in the direction he looked. Laid out beyond the old stone chapel were extensive grounds, greener than any other place in the district—improbably so.

  A grand colonial homestead, complete with iron-laced trimmings and a veranda stretching the entire way around sat on an elevated spot back from the river, providing the sort of privacy only afforded to those with more money than sense. It was perfectly positioned to take in the view at the point the Murrumbidgee curved and flowed into the centre of town.

  Peter noted, with dark satisfaction, that those gates had failed to keep out the colossal mob of kangaroos that grazed lazily from the top of the slope all the way down to the water.

  ‘And so those ladies will have a hard time showing their faces in church next week.’ Stanford continued, becoming ruminative. Peter stood straighter at the change in tone.

  ‘My grandfather knew a man once, years ago. Secretive sort of chap, the way I was told the story. He wasn’t much interested in becoming friends with anyone in town—nor out of it, if it came to that.’

  Stanford looked across at the residence again and Peter’s senses sharpened.

  ‘Back then I was constantly being taken back and forth from Goulburn for school. It was long before the railway, you know. When we used to take the Cobb & Co and imagine bushrangers chasing us down. Excellently timed of you to arrive when you did, by the way. You’ll never know how hellish that journey used to be before the tracks were laid and the station here opened.’

  ‘Er, thank you, I suppose.’

  He received a swift smile.

  ‘Not all change is helpful, however,’ Stanford continued. ‘I’m making assumptions, but I’d say you didn’t come all the way out here for the work, nor for the brilliant company. Things are changing fast, and I’d recommend you move faster if you’re here for answers.’

  ‘Answers?’ he asked blandly, feeling stuffy beneath his necktie. Underneath his cheery exterior, the bloody man saw too much.

  Stanford wasn’t to be deterred.

  ‘This hermit type of fellow my grandfather spoke of. I don’t remember much except that the surname started with a T. I’m not sure which name it was, though. I’m still not sure. Taylor? Tierney? So many to choose from. I thought you might have a better idea than I do.’

  Stanford continued walking, not paying attention to anything or anyone in particular and again Peter was forced to follow.

  ‘Towner.’ Yes, he’d taken the bait. No, he wasn’t happy about it. But—yes—he was curious as to where this was going.

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s the chap.’

  Stanford shouted a greeting to someone across on the opposite bank and then gave Peter his attention again.

  ‘It’s been a good few months. For business, for all of us, and yet I’m seeing far too many people around me moping at the moment. Honestly …’ he scoffed in mock disgust. ‘Look at this beautiful weather we’re having. Look at how beautifully our work is going. A man would think this was a time for happiness, not gloom.’

  ‘Who are you accusing of being gloomy?’

  ‘You, obviously, amongst others. If all these groans and glares you direct at me are about Miss Farrer, I wouldn’t worry on that part. She’s almost as much my sister as my real sisters are, the poor soul.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It was hard to lie without prior warning, so Peter left it at that.

  ‘Yes, you do, but it’s all right. I won’t call you on it for now.’

  He walked faster; manners dictated that Peter again follow suit. The methodical sound of scraping and crunching drifted around in the air.

  ‘I really am here to work, John, not anything more.’

  ‘If you insist,’ the other man replied after a pause. ‘I might even pretend to believe you.’

  Stanford’s posture suddenly changed, his step faltered, and then he came to a complete stop. Peter did the same, eyes searching for whatever had given the other man pause.

  ‘This is where I abandon you to your thoughts. All of a sudden it’s occurred to me I actually do have business to conduct today. In fact, I remember now I had an errand to run over there … somewhere …’ He indicated over his shoulder, back the way they’d come.

  And, with a firm handshake, and a pointed look in the direction of the mayor’s property, the man was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Perplexed, Peter checked his surroundings—and then saw what Stanford had.

  A man, at least as wiry as William Adamson, worked a rake across the grass, scooping and crunching up leaves that had dried, deadened and fallen months too soon. Some sense alerted him to the fact he was being observed, and he stopped what he was doing to watch Peter warily.

  The odd conversation forgotten, Peter braced himself for a reaction of any sort, and made a beeline for the gardener.

  ***

  ‘Everyone likes holidays. It’s only men who go funny about admittin’ it.’

  Alice’s proclamation was delivered with confidence as she and Elizabeth travelled out across Endmoor land, eyes searching the horizon as they went.

  ‘If you say so, Alice.’

  Not quite as convinced, Elizabeth shifted Duncan on her hip. He was getting to be too big to be carried for long, but he wasn’t to know that, and she wasn’t about to tell him. Hands occupied with the infant, she had to blow away the fly that kept hovering around her face.

  Their skirts swished through the grass, the sounds occasionally punctuated by a bang or a clunk from the enormous basket of provisions Alice lugged along with her. The child was content to be carried, even if it was a little hard to hold onto a boy who kept turning this way an
d that, in awe of his surroundings. They’d been taking turns, swapping baby with basket and back again, but there was only so much energy a person had available at midday in summer.

  It was Epiphany, Twelfth Night—or twelfth day, as things were—and it was as good an excuse as any to head out to find the men, most of whom had been occupied with fixing fences for the bulk of the morning.

  ‘Grapevines will be easier in the long run,’ Robert had commented at breakfast. ‘Unlike sheep, they don’t see a gap in a fence and feel the need to escape through it.’

  However, as grapes took even longer to grow than livestock, Endmoor’s income would depend upon those merinos for a while to come, and in the meantime those fences needed mending, holiday or not.

  Elizabeth blew at the fly again.

  ‘I reckon the basket’s just about heavier than Duncan is,’ Alice observed a few minutes later, breaths laboured.

  ‘But significantly less squirmy.’

  Elizabeth slowed when Alice did, and watched as her sister-in-law plucked a large prickle from her dress.

  ‘It’s all so bloody—I beg your pardon, Duncan—blasted dry an’ dead out here. At this rate we’re goin’ to have a fire soon.’

  ‘Blasted is hardly a politer word than bloody, dear,’ Elizabeth said, amused despite her exhaustion. She started off again only to realise the other woman hadn’t done the same.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Alice stared at her. ‘You swore.’

  She laughed at that. ‘I do know those words, Alice, even if I think them more often than say them.’

  The woman appeared dumbfounded. ‘Well I never.’

  Alice adjusted her grip on the basket and indicated they should continue. Elizabeth offered the dark grey clouds on the horizon a hopeful look as they set off.

  ‘I feel as though we should have packed something more exciting than the remains of Mrs Beeton’s pudding,’ Elizabeth said as they set off once more, swishing and catching on twigs and prickles, wondering if any of it would be edible by the time they found the men.

  ‘And jam tarts. We have Epiphany tarts, too, with stars on ’em. That’s festive enough, I reckon. Elizabeth, you should’ve seen how hard it was to get that pastry to stay the right shape when it was cooked.’

  ‘And still, we could be more festive than that. We should be singing something. It’s the done thing for the occasion. “Three Kings of Orient”,’ Elizabeth suggested, ‘or “As With Gladness Men of Old”, except I hardly remember the words to that one.’

  ‘It’s a good thing your memory’s bad, then, because I’m not singin’ in front of anyone, no matter how jolly I feel.’

  Duncan chose that moment to announce something gurgled and unintelligible, fist clinging to a curl of Elizabeth’s hair with more strength than someone of his stature should possess.

  She summoned a grin to hide her wince of pain as she met his wide eyes. ‘Really? That’s fascinating.’

  She hefted the boy a little higher, and glanced at Alice. ‘I think the song talks about a guiding star. And there’s definitely a mention of a rude and bare cradle.’

  ‘Rude and bare? In a Christian song? Lord, I think I ought to be payin’ more attention in church.’

  ‘Where they need no star to guide …’—there was another line of the song. It made Elizabeth think of a night in September, when she’d caught a certain man sneaking about the property in the darkness.

  They passed a dying old tree with a couple of lounging ewes beneath it, the animals’ wool coloured perfectly to match their surroundings.

  Alice was suspiciously quiet.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Elizabeth asked reluctantly.

  The other woman walked a few more steps before replying, eyes on the horizon. The basket rattled.

  ‘Miss Hall seemed to think you were headin’ off somewhere. England.’

  It was not as much a question as an accusation.

  ‘Alice, I think I might have to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My art. If I stay here, I’ll only be—’

  ‘Wildly successful? I don’t know for certain, Elizabeth, but I reckon it’s not common for men from Goulburn to come chasin’ after a woman in Barracks Flat unless she’s special.’

  Elizabeth spluttered. ‘Mr Evanson is an art dealer, Alice, not a suitor. And nobody has come chasing me.’

  They reached a little bump in the landscape and spent several quiet seconds navigating the rocks scattered across its peak, baby and basket held aloft. When they were clear, Elizabeth was still not finished being appalled.

  ‘Besides anything else, Mr Evanson is married. And, and—well, he hardly has the appeal of, of—’

  ‘Mr Rowe?’

  Elizabeth took an intense interest in smoothing the baby’s little patch of fair hair. Alice snorted and sent her a knowing grin she was determined not to hear or see.

  She couldn’t go on living her life for a dead man, but other than his ill-advised jaunt to fight in the Mahdist War, Edward had never seen much of the world. And he’d been desperate to.

  They’d bumped into each other in the street, she and Edward. He’d steadied her with an apologetic laugh, and his cheeky smile had stirred something in her from the outset. For someone as steady, as measured as Elizabeth, it had seemed like madness had taken hold of her.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ he’d asked one week before he took himself off across the Indian Ocean. ‘We can stay here, or I could return to the country and make a go of it with you there. It might take me a week or two to learn how to wrangle a sheep, but it can’t be any worse than surviving my officer’s endless lectures.’

  He’d made her laugh first, and then she’d said yes without any reservations. And then, so soon after, he was gone.

  Beneath the neck of Elizabeth’s gown the pendant pushed against her skin. She really needed to stop wearing it.

  ‘You absurd man,’ she murmured. Duncan’s curious eyes met hers.

  Edward’s end hadn’t come in a blaze of glory. Nothing so dramatic for such an enthusiastic man. No … her fiancé had died of a short illness while guarding a railway line somewhere between Suakin and Khartoum. He’d never even seen combat.

  Now her sister-in-law trudged on beside her, muttering under her breath when she swung the basket a little too enthusiastically and something inside it clattered and clanked. Epiphany didn’t feel quite as joyous as it had half an hour earlier.

  ‘Tell the truth, Elizabeth.’ Alice huffed with the exertion. ‘If you’d known how far away this broken fence was, would you have come out today?’

  She was about answer that she wouldn’t have when they finally spotted the stockmen some forty yards away. Off to one side, Robert strode towards Mr McCoy, saying something the women were too far away to hear. The women drew to a stop and sighed with relief. The baby reached for his mother, Elizabeth took control of the refreshments, and they started onwards.

  ‘Well,’ Alice yelled once her husband noticed them and changed direction. ‘About blasted time we found you!’

  ***

  Peter didn’t know what—if any—sort of welcome he’d receive when he approached the improbably lush lawns of the mayor’s residence. The man, the gardener, watched him with detached interest the entire way. Peter got the impression he had no idea what to say or do either.

  He came to a stop a short distance from the fellow and felt a lifetime of inadequacies wash over him. More than three decades of pretending he was wholly white. More than three decades of knowing nothing.

  The gardener was older than him by a decade or two, he guessed. Here was a man who might have some answers for him, and he’d become a mute.

  A good, assessing look at Peter’s face was taken, and he allowed it. Moments passed, and the gardener’s dark, dark eyes gave the firm indication that if any conversation was to be had, it would be Peter who would have to begin it.

  ‘This is an impressive garden.’ He received a nod and more si
lence for his efforts.

  Oh, what a wonderful start.

  ‘I gather it takes a lot of work to maintain it.’ And that was so much better.

  Another nod.

  First meetings were hardly ever a lark—he was sure Elizabeth Farrer would have liked an amendment to theirs—but rarely were they this bad.

  And then, when the man took a smidgen of pity on Peter and spoke, the words were as foreign to Peter as they would have been if he’d spoken in Persian. It was a language he’d never heard before, but he received the message clearly: he should have understood.

  Ducks quacked while one man waited for a response that would never come and the other tried to hold his head up despite his shortcomings. The latter couldn’t think of anything at all to say. He could have responded in student Latin to sound fancy but knew without being told his companion would be less than impressed.

  They watched each other. The sun became too warm for all the layers Peter wore.

  ‘You understand?’ The other man eventually asked, switching to English. It was a test, and they both knew it.

  A drake, emerald head glistening, waddled past, happily oblivious.

  ‘No.’ Peter could only admit failure.

  ‘It’s not a surprise.’ This wasn’t said unkindly.

  A vehicle came past, and they both watched it until it was gone. Nothing about their conversation was private; yet it felt like all of it was.

  ‘Your people are Walgalu?’ The gardener rested his hands on the top of the rake and thought about it a little more. ‘Ngambri?’

  An invisible vice clenched around Peter at the name. It’d been an expressly forbidden term for so much of his life.

  ‘Ngambri,’ he’d confirmed, though his family was at least as English as anything else. ‘I have reason to believe that I’ve family in the region. Or at least, I had. My mother …’

  He went on to give him the scarce details he had, well aware of the shuttered expression spreading across the man’s face as he did. Fearing he’d gone about the whole thing the wrong way, eventually Peter let his words fade away.

  The duck came back past, quacking to himself.

  ‘Don’t much like talkin’ about all of that. The past, you know, not something I think about,’ the man said after a lengthy pause. He gripped the rake with both hands and went back to the endless chore of dragging fallen leaves into piles.