After She Left

by Penelope Hanley

  ‘Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild wimmin!’ sang Steve, energetically strumming an imaginary guitar. ‘Put yourself in it and call it Wild Women.’

  ‘I hate puns. And I’m not wild – I’m not even a Wild, I’m a boring Bolt, remember?’ Keira brushed crumbs off her jeans.

  ‘But that’s just your father’s name,’ said Nessie. ‘As a stand against the patriarchy you could take your mother’s maiden name.’

  ‘But that’s just her father’s name,’ Keira pointed out.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Nessie in a dispirited tone. ‘So no matter how far we go back, there’s really no way out of that patriarchal shit.’

  ‘Depressing, isn’t it?’ said Steve, with a wide grin.

  Nessie threw her crust at him.

  He caught it, put it in his mouth, and said, ‘It’s just a method of naming. A society can be patrilineal without being patriarchal.’

  ‘But ours is both,’ said Keira.

  A look of idealistic fervor illuminated Nessie’s face. ‘If society is serious about equal pay and free child care and calling women Ms instead of Miss or Mrs and improvements like that, we could still end up with the patrilineal way of naming women and children but it wouldn’t symbolise that men were superior anymore.’ She turned to Steve. ‘Not that they ever were!’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Keira. ‘You could have your father’s name but it wouldn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t mean that just because a woman has her father’s or husband’s name, she has no identity of her own or that her only accomplishment worth noting is being Mrs Whatsit.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Steve. ‘You could call your book – ’

  ‘I’m not writing a book! It’s a thesis in the form of a photographic essay.’

  ‘Okay, you could still call it Wild Women if you put in your mother as well as your grandmother.’

  Keira scoffed.

  Nessie said, ‘She was a Wild once: Miss Maureen Wild.’

  ‘My mother. She rebelled against my wild grandmother. She doesn’t even want me to do this thesis, she’s so uptight. She may have been born a Wild but – ’

  ‘Born to Be Wild!’ said Steve. Seeing Keira’s expression, he said, ‘Been taken by Steppenwolf, anyway.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Keira, ‘my mother’s a totally boring person.’

  4

  DEIRDRE

  Spring 1928

  How could watercolours express the tempestuous energy that danced in Deirdre’s heart? She used India ink and a pen to go over her paintings of landscapes, Moreton Bay fig trees, seascapes and ships, using bold lines and frenetic cross-hatching.

  Deirdre marvelled at the amount of time she had for art here in her new life with no turf to cut or cow to milk, and only one child to raise instead of her eight unruly younger siblings. Maureen was a placid baby, a miracle for which she was grateful. And Aunt Lillian was an angel, brimming with compassion and common sense, looking after the baby while Deirdre was at work and at art classes. Under her care, both mother and baby were thriving. Deirdre often wondered how her family back in Ireland was coping in her absence but pushed the thought aside. She didn’t have time to live in the past.

  Looking for more vibrancy from the watercolours, Deirdre enlivened turquoise by putting dabs of orange next to it, added spice to the Prussian blue by juxtaposing dashes of lemon yellow. She even tried sticking the translucent purple tissue paper that came with the crates of oranges over areas of water or sky, and grains of sand over rocks and cliffs.

  It was fellow art student Janet Bell, born in Sydney but with her mother’s Scottish brogue lifting her Australian accent, who suggested expanding her creative possibilities. Janet had overheard Julian thoroughly critiquing the work Deirdre had done on Sunday. When the tea break started she sidled over to Deirdre.

  ‘Mr Ashton might not approve of your unorthodox methods, Deirdre, but I do,’ said Janet softly between sips of her tea. ‘When you are finished with a subject it vibrates with vitality. Mr Ashton’s old school philosophy will stifle that vitality. I know someone whose lessons would suit you better. Why don’t you come with me on Thursday evening and see what you think? The classes here are too tame for painters like you and me.’

  *

  Signor Roberto’s classes were held at his first floor atelier in Rowe Street, a narrow laneway between Pitt and Castlereagh Streets. Everyone called him Signor.

  On the first night, before Signor arrived, Janet introduced Deirdre to the rest of the class: Madeleine, Dorothy, Lizzie, Roland, Gerry, Margo and Frank, Ben and the model Olivia. Some of the students had studied in London and Paris. Deirdre felt she could legitimately hold her head up in this company since parts of Dublin were on a par with anywhere for modernist painting. But Deirdre’s accent was harder to understand than that of someone from Dublin and she made an effort to produce a more neutral Anglo-Australian way of communicating. She had a good ear and as time passed she was partly successful. Signor entered the room, began unpacking and talked in low tones to the model.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘I’m from the Blasket Islands,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘The Blaskets! How exciting. I heard they are wild in their mother’s womb!’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Just a slight exaggeration,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Here’s a real wild person,’ said Janet, as a tall man with straight brown hair falling onto his forehead came into the room. He put his gear beside a chair and came over to them.

  ‘Charles,’ said Janet, ‘this is Miss Deirdre O’Mara. Deirdre, this is Charles Wild.’

  Charles took her hand for a moment then raised it to his mouth and kissed it.

  ‘Oh, what a charmer,’ said Lizzie. ‘You want to be careful of him!’

  ‘In fact,’ said Charles Wild, ‘I have never kissed a woman’s hand in my life, but it was the only possible gesture for meeting one so beautiful.’

  This elicited howls of derision from the women. Deirdre’s pale face flushed and she shook her head. ‘You are a charmer,’ she said to Charles. ‘Bet you say that to all the girls. I’ll take no notice of your blandishments!’

  ‘All right, people – time to begin,’ called Signor.

  The class took to their easels.

  ‘Unless you draw from the model, you will never be able to draw the human figure. And if you can draw the human figure, you can draw anything.’

  The model walked to the platform and shrugged off her aqua silk kimono. After the teacher’s instructions she held up her thick golden hair with plump white arms.

  Signor Roberto walked around the room, looking at the work, quietly making constructive suggestions to this student and that. Between his comments all that could be heard was the quick whispering of charcoal on sturdy sketch paper. The air hummed inaudibly from the intense concentrated effort of the students. Signor made some encouraging comments to Dorothy and stood beside Charles Wild.

  ‘It is about seeing, Mr Wild,’ he said. ‘You must really look hard. Stare at the model, stare – never take your eyes off her for more than a second.’

  They worked on in silence while time stood still for Deirdre, who was absorbed in expressing the gentle curves and graceful planes of the model’s body, the luxuriant texture of her fair hair and the air of youthful innocence in her being.

  Deirdre jumped as the teacher touched her shoulder. ‘Miss O’Mara, this is an expressive rendering of the subject but you’ve drawn her with six toes,’ he said.

  The model said, without moving a muscle, ‘But Signor, I have six toes!’

  Everyone laughed and he said, ‘Thank you, Olivia. My mistake.’

  After the class he announced a party at Mrs Frances Zabel’s shop. ‘Just across the lane. She will ply us with drinks and canapés. You meet the most interesting people there. Will you come, Deirdre?’

  ‘I should be getting home.’

  ‘Oh, come on, just for one drink,’ said Roland.

  She hesitated. ‘I really
cannot stay out for long.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Charles.

  ‘The Rocks.’

  ‘That’s only minutes away.’

  ‘Yes. Twenty.’

  ‘It’s en route to where I go, or not that far past it. I catch the ferry. I can walk you safely home after one drink. All right?’

  She was quiet for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said, looking at him.

  They packed up and crossed to the shop on the opposite side of Rowe Street. Inside it felt warm and convivial. Deirdre took off her coat. Signor Roberto introduced Deirdre to Frances Zabel, who introduced her to a grey-haired, posh-sounding couple who collected coins, an antiques dealer with a pointy little beard, and Cecilia and Mario, a couple from Argentina, both slender and dark, their eyes sparkling with vitality.

  Olivia sipped from a glass of champagne and said to Deirdre, ‘You could try art modelling too – what’s needed is variety and your colouring contrasts with mine. You’re petite and I’m big-boned so that’s another interesting contrast.’

  ‘What’s the pay like?’ asked Deirdre.

  ‘Not good, but it’s interesting. Sometimes the portraits of me look like the grown-up offspring of me and the artist.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Deirdre, taking a smoked oyster on a biscuit from the tray beside them. Any extra money would come in handy but she could imagine what Madge Burnside would think if she found out. Even easygoing Aunt Lillian would be scandalised.

  ‘Oh, look, the Argentinians are going to dance!’ said Olivia.

  People shifted out of the way as Signor rolled the Persian rug to one side. Frances Zabel put a record on the gramophone.

  ‘This is a recording of the famous D’Arienzo,’ she announced.

  The couple glided into each other’s arms and were heart to heart as they expressed the relentless driving rhythm of the music with their bodies. They abandoned themselves to each other, moving as one and executing a complex poetry of the feet. As the violins picked up pace they whirled round in the tight space on the polished wooden floor, kicking their legs rapidly between each other’s in a way that seemed to Deirdre physically impossible and slightly indecent. The man drove forward, pursuing the woman with an intense energy as if he wanted to devour her, while her long legs stalked easily backwards as if they began in her ribcage. The pair stopped and turned, and the woman relaxed into a series of fluid pivots, her hips moving in a provocative manner to the interweaving melodic lines. The dancers moved with a liquid grace and magical power and speed.

  It seemed astonishing that not once did their frenetic feet collide. The audience were transfixed, some watching the feet, others focused on the flourishes, everyone in a state of wonder at this intense expression of the longings of the heart, for a world of beauty that is, for most of us, just out of reach.

  As the music slowed down, the swelling sound of the strings was like a series of gentle waves. The music subsided and the couple moved apart, holding hands and beaming with joy.

  Deirdre saw little drops of sweat running down the face and neck of the man. The audience clapped loudly and long and insisted on an encore. The couple performed two more dances, each as compelling as the first.

  The final applause was like heavy and prolonged rain on a tin roof. Mrs Zabel handed each of the dancers a glass of champagne.

  ‘Wasn’t that extraordinary?’ said Charles.

  ‘It was, so.’

  For a timeless moment they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Deirdre’s cheeks flushed. ‘I must go now,’ she said.

  After collecting her coat she said goodbye to Janet, who gave her a wink. Charles opened the door for her. They stepped out into the cold night.

  ‘And do you dance, yourself, Miss O’Mara?’ he asked as they walked down Pitt Street towards the Quay.

  ‘Not like that! And please – call me Deirdre. I only know the Irish dancing.’

  ‘Of course – you’re a Kerry dancer. They’re famously good!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve had no practice for a long time.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You could seek out an Irish group to dance with easily enough?’

  ‘I suppose so, but I have to work. And I must make time for my art. And …’ She hesitated. She had refused Aunt Lillian’s offer to give her a wedding band to stop people talking. She was who she was and would live with it instead of pretending to be a widow.

  ‘I have a daughter to hurry home to. I have a wonderful landlady, a family friend, who looks after her when I work and do my art.’

  ‘You’re a widow?’ Charles’s face expressed tender concern.

  ‘No, I am not a widow.’ Her heart was pounding. This was probably the last she would see of this lovely bespectacled man with the boyish air and sympathetic hazel eyes.

  But he said, ‘I make no judgments, Miss O’Mara – Deirdre. How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Seven months. She’s a very good baby, all smiles at the moment.’

  ‘You must miss your first family and the life you had there.’

  ‘I do miss my mother and siblings. But I don’t regret having to come here. But what about you? What work do you do?’

  ‘I work at the Royal Bank of Australia, just near Rowe Street back there. But I love art and I deal in it. I buy prints and sell them at a later date for profit.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I’ve invested in a little house that I rent out and I myself live in Mosman. Signor lives in Mosman too. He will probably be on the midnight ferry – a bon vivant is our Signor! He will party into the night if he has a chance.’

  They walked on, past the shops and towards the Quay. A lone seagull flew in an arc above them and squawked. ‘There is something I want to tell you,’ said Charles. ‘I … I … I wanted to be an artist too but it seems I don’t have enough talent for it.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure that can’t be true.’

  ‘No. It may be that I can only really deal in art and be content to be in the company of artists. I’m just trying it out, painting and drawing. I don’t know that I am very creative …’

  ‘Everyone can be creative. It is a matter of discovering in what way. It doesn’t have to be in painting or life-drawing.’

  ‘That is kind of you to say. The thing I’m trying to tell you is really something different.’

  ‘Yes?’ They were now within view of the Quay with its ships and ferries. A man emerged from a fish and chip shop with an aromatic bundle of dinner wrapped in butcher paper, and nearly collided with them.

  Charles put his hand protectively around Deirdre’s back and they stopped on the footpath. ‘I have a wife,’ said Charles. ‘She is ill. No doctor can figure out what illness but she is … she is always indisposed with headaches or neuralgia or something unidentifiable.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Deirdre. ‘Then it is good that you have art in your life. Does your wife have an interest in art?’

  ‘No. She rather thinks it is a waste of time.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Deirdre. They walked on for some minutes in silence until she said, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Wild. We are approaching my house now.’ They walked some steps further until Deirdre stopped outside her house.

  ‘Do call me Charles,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. He put his hand to his hat in a strange sort of salute and said goodnight.

  The escorted walk home on Thursday night after class became a habit, as the balmy, petal-scented spring eased into a hot summer. Sometimes the couple stopped for a cup of tea or a glass of beer at Rowe Street’s Lincoln Coffee House and Cafe.

  After he had walked her home on the second Thursday night, before they parted Charles said, ‘I could look at you forever.’

  ‘I am glad to have you as my friend,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Yes, me too,’ said Charles, taking a little step back.

  ‘Men and women who have similar interests can be friends,’ said Deirdre.

 
‘Even if one of them is married,’ said Charles.

  *

  ‘There is nothing wrong with friendship,’ said Charles, a month later as they walked towards The Rocks. ‘Nothing. Just tell me that you feel nothing more. Can you look me in the eye and say that?’

  ‘I know,’ said Deirdre, ‘I have talked about going beyond conventional morality and the need for people to be free, but that is theory. I will not put into practice something that would endanger what little security my daughter and I have. I have been here before! This is a dangerous position – and quite apart from my personal safety: I don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘So free love is fine for other people.’

  ‘I believe that the church and state should have no business interfering in anyone’s personal life. What is in one’s heart is one’s own business.’

  ‘And it is just my luck to fall in love with a woman who refuses to apply her liberal philosophy to her own situation!’

  ‘Don’t look so tragic. We have a wonderful friendship.’

  ‘Deirdre – friendship is not enough! To say so is unrealistic.’

  ‘I am the one who is being realistic. One of us must keep a grasp on a more important reality and common sense!’

  ‘Somehow that doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m such a dreamer and an idealist? My head in the clouds of art? But the stakes for a woman are high in this regard. I have a child. I can’t be impetuous. You can understand that, can’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I can understand it all right. But I don’t have to like it.’ And the look on his face was one of stubborn determination. ‘I will change the situation to make things easier for you.’

  ‘Charles, I am not asking – ’

  ‘I know you’re not,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

  5

  MAUREEN

  November 1945

  Maureen took the typed reports over to Gilda and gave them to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gilda, and smiling, arched an eyebrow. ‘How’s the romance with Jim Bolt?’

  ‘It’s not a romance. We’re just friends.’