‘Deirdre, they’re nearly ready – you can come in now,’ called Olivia as she opened the laundry door.
‘Coming!’ said Deirdre, walking from the kitchen and into the quiet ambience of the converted laundry with its soothing red glow of infrared light.
‘Have a look,’ said Olivia, gesturing with her plastic tongs to twenty large-format photographs pegged up on a cord to dry and others resting on the bench. Three or four latent photographs were still floating shallowly in their rinsing bath.
Deirdre laughed and said, ‘You look thirty years younger in this red light.’
‘You do too!’
Deirdre turned and gazed wonderingly at the images. ‘Pictures of happiness,’ she said, ‘from half a lifetime ago. Look how the sunlight bounces off our skin. That time of innocence before the Second World War!’ She squeezed Olivia’s hand as they peered at the black-and-white photographs.
There was Owen clowning around with Deirdre on Coogee Beach, Olivia in a bathing suit at Clovelly Bay, Paul and Janet dancing an exaggerated tango Americana on the front lawn of the Beach Lane house. Here was an eight-year-old Maureen dancing with the dog, Owen emerging from the ocean covered in glistening strands of seaweed, Deirdre in a linen skirt and a belted striped cardigan, wearing a cloth cap at a rakish angle.
Olivia said, ‘Remember that day?’ They stared at the image of a scantily clad Olivia sitting on the grass surrounded by adoring men: Owen, Alfred and Paul. ‘And this one!’ It was Olivia smiling and leaning from the front room window wearing Owen’s dressing gown and a wreath of flowers in her hair.
‘Those were from your marvellous garden with the flowers and driftwood and mosaics,’ said Olivia. ‘That garden was a work of art.’
‘We thought we could change the world with our art,’ said Deirdre, putting her arm around Olivia’s shoulder.
‘Every generation thinks they’re going to change the world. But I’ve no regrets. And look where I’ve washed up, after all – in my own house, with my photography – and with you!’ She looked pensive. ‘Maybe that’s the only way we can change the world – by changing our own little world.’
‘Very Zen,’ said Deirdre, and gave her a lingering kiss. They looked into each other’s eyes, seeing the depths of the past and the lights of the present, seeing a love nourished by time, and feeling a new edition of an old desire.
*
The following morning while Olivia was out walking with her camera Keira knocked on the door. After a tour of the house with its view of the serene bay, Keira sat with Deirdre at the kitchen table. The outside colour and greenery of the garden was pleasingly linked to the inside with a cut glass vase of flowers near them on the pine table: bold zinneas in red, yellow and cream, bluebells and ferns, and fragrant freesias in yellow, purple and dark red. Their subtle scent wafted up as Deirdre sipped from her glass of water.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee or tea?’
‘Water is fine, thanks,’ said Keira. ‘What did Geoffrey say?’
‘Someone postponed and now there’s a space in mid-October. He thinks your idea of a retrospective is brilliant.’ Deirdre squeezed Keira’s hand. ‘I’m excited about it. That’s a lot of work to do in a short time but it will be good – and it might provide a nice, neat ending for your essay.’
‘Oh, yes, the essay,’ Keira said, sighing. ‘I’ve got loose ends and no nice neatness anywhere – but then none of your life has been nice and neat, has it?’
They both laughed and Keira said, ‘Can you tell me something about the Captain Cook series?’
‘Oh, by the way there are two of them in existence. I’ve been telephoning old friends and I’d given an early Captain Cook to Margo because she liked it. She lost it in the move from Cremorne to the country so it wasn’t included in that Pettifers exhibition. She found it later wrapped in an eiderdown in the spare room.’
‘Two of them for my essay and for the exhibition – that’s great!’ said Keira, her biro poised by her open spiral notebook. ‘They were extraordinary for the time. How did you get the idea for them? No one else was doing stuff like that then.’
‘I’m sorry Keira, I don’t have anything to say about them. My art speaks for me. It’s not even my art. I don’t know where I get the inspiration, but it’s from some place bigger than me. It comes to me, I paint, I leave interpretation to others. I know I should be able to comment intelligently about Captain Cook and his place in history, but my conscious mind has scarcely even thought about it, and that’s the truth. The extent I’d go is I don’t believe Captain Cook deserves a pedestal. But I don’t believe anyone deserves a pedestal, really, we’re all very fallible.’
Two yellow freesia petals fell to the table and Deirdre touched them with gentle fingers.
Keira scribbled. Deirdre drank her water while she waited for her to catch up. ‘You don’t know shorthand,’ observed Deirdre.
‘My parents wanted me to learn it, and typing, so I could easily get a job. I said I’d rather die!’ she said, laughing. ‘I just wanted to work with art – somehow – I didn’t know how but I knew that I did not want to be a bloody secretary! You chose art right from the start, Deirdre. How did you manage financially? Was it hard?’
‘It was difficult. It still is. But I knew what I wanted and I wanted it with a passion. When I met Charles it was a lot easier. Since then I’ve learnt to make do.’
‘I always got the impression from Mum that there was a connection between your bohemian artistic circles and corrupt elements in Sydney society,’ said Keira. ‘What was the connection?’ She sat with pen poised.
‘There isn’t an intrinsic connection. It’s just that Olivia was married to Howard, who – it was only rumours, mind you – had business connections with men like Jake Phipps in the Razor Gang.’
‘Do you think Howard was behind the fire at Pettifers? Or with Olivia’s boyfriend Luke being murdered? I read about that in Alfred’s scrapbooks.’
She sighed. ‘I really don’t know. He did some awful things … but arson and murder?’ She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘And there were some good qualities to his character. Like every human being, he was complex.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Keira, ‘especially after reading those scrapbooks. It seems that every generation has its corrupt element in politics and the police to allow a criminal underbelly to thrive and ruin the lives of innocent people – not to mention destroying art. It’s so depressing. Aren’t we fighting a losing battle? Alfred Foote told me about the state politician who tried to destroy Utzon’s reputation and very nearly destroyed the entire Opera House. But men like him have all the power. What good is it trying to win against those with all the power and all the money?’
‘It’s more important to pour one’s energy into our art than to fume and fulminate about corrupt politics. It’s called current affairs for a reason: it’s current – ephemeral, gone in a very short time. But art endures. That Opera House will still be here when the politicians of whatever stripe are dead and buried and forgotten.’
‘But what about an individual artist like you, who only paints pictures, rather than creating a multimillion-dollar monument – people like you can only speak to a tiny few.’
‘Yes, but that few is worth communicating with. I paint for them and I paint because it nourishes my soul. I’m driven to express the beauty and complicated stories of landscapes and these are filtered through my native Celtic lens. These paintings – when I succeed with them – are timeless, compared with the ephemera of politics. It’s important to me that my paintings talk to ordinary people. They’re not for the critics, they’re not easily labelled and they’re not for a sophisticated few. You don’t have to be educated to understand my work. It speaks to anyone who is prepared to listen.’
Keira scribbled for some time, then looked up. ‘With Australia’s obsessive focus on sport and with Sydney getting so materialistic compared with other places, do you miss Europe?’
‘No. I feel as if I�
�ve come home at last after a long, long journey.’ She stretched her arms and yawned, gave a relaxed smile and continued. ‘Sydney, with its molten gold light and its dissolving shadows, with its harbour and now nearly a world famous opera house I’ve yet to see in real life – it breathes to me of infinite possibility.’
46
MAUREEN
September 1973
The spanakopita and the roast lamb were nearly cooked. It was Sunday lunchtime and Maureen tossed a green salad with oil and vinegar and tore up basil leaves into the tomato salad. The mingled cooking aromas wafted through the kitchen. She was enjoying opportunities to have the whole family over without Jim’s disapproval of two of their sons souring the mood.
Just as Maureen was taking the spinach pie from the oven she heard the possum door-knocker go Thud! Thud! Thud!
‘Can someone get that please?’ called Maureen, setting the pie on the sink and bending to retrieve the roast lamb.
Jimmy went to the door. He walked back into the kitchen with Keira at his side.
She kissed her mother’s cheek and said, ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been working on my essay and trying to squeeze too much information into the word limit I’ve got.’
‘Better that than not enough information,’ said Maureen. ‘Michael, can you take the bread to the table, please? Keira, here’s the cutlery. Thanks.’
Once they’d settled at the dining table and the meals were served, everyone clinked water glasses, complimented the chef and tucked in.
‘So you’ve split up with Alan again?’ asked Rowan, sitting beside Keira.
‘We’re still friends – I s’pose it looks like one of those on again, off again things,’ said Keira.
‘But off again at the moment,’ said Jimmy.
‘Plenty of fish and chips in the sea,’ said Sean.
Keira sighed. ‘I’m just not sure yet if what I want is compatible with what he wants.’
‘What does he want?’ asked Michael.
‘Babies.’
‘With you?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Yes, with me,’ she said.
‘And what do you want?’ asked Maureen.
‘I don’t want to fall into that trap.’
‘What trap?’ said Maureen.
‘I keep thinking of that section in de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex where she describes a young girl full of energy and ready for adventure, with the world at her feet, and once married and a baby in her arms, she stands at the doorway looking out, her life virtually finished.’
‘But that’s only a temporary stage,’ said Maureen. ‘And babies are a part of life. Even women who sacrifice their freedom for a family can start again when her kids are independent. Look at me!’
‘Yeah, but my mother hasn’t given me a house. And the whole baby thing would make me depressed,’ said Keira, helping herself to more green beans. ‘I like to be stimulated all the time and babies bring life down to the level of piss and spit-up and worse.’
‘Babies are more than their physical needs,’ said Maureen, handing the potatoes to Rowan.
‘Maybe I’m just not maternal. Maybe I’m like Deirdre and I’d make a terrible mother.’
‘Deirdre wasn’t a terrible mother,’ said Maureen, ‘in spite of the bad press I’ve given her. She did her best.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’
‘Do you still have feelings for Alan?’ said Maureen.
‘Of course I still have feelings for him – that’s what makes my choice so hard!’
‘There’s no need to snap at me. Maybe soon it’ll be possible to have it all, with contraception and free education. And soon discrimination on the grounds of sex will be made illegal. Who knows what society we’ll end up having? It’s bound to be better for women, that’s one thing I feel optimistic about.’
‘Yeah, Mum,’ said Rowan, ‘there’s no stopping you now!’
‘How did the court case go?’ Michael asked Jimmy as he passed him the green beans.
‘And did Dad go?’ asked Rowan.
‘No, but Mum did. I was in the suit the lawyer made me buy – Saint Vinnie de Paul’s, three bucks – and he drew such a pathetic picture of me for the judge that I was nearly crying, myself. An altar boy, left school early, from a broken home!’ He laughed. ‘I ended up with a two hundred dollar fine and six months to pay it.’
‘That’s not bad,’ said Rowan.
‘And the Mongol Hordes?’ asked Keira, helping herself to more roast onions.
‘They’ll be after someone else now. They have short attention spans.’
‘But if you’re still worried, Jimmy, you could stay here, now that Mum’s kicked Dad out,’ said Rowan.
‘Rowan!’ said Maureen. ‘It wasn’t like that. We’ve both agreed on this separation.’
‘Where’s Dad again?’ asked Michael.
‘He’s renting a first floor flat down the hill in Mundarrah Street,’ said Keira. ‘It’s ugly on the outside but better on the inside. It’s got high ceilings and a north-western balcony. I visit him once or twice a week. He seems a bit bereft, I hope you don’t mind my saying, Mum.’
‘We communicate,’ said Maureen. ‘I know how he’s feeling.’
More conversation went on while they ate until in a space of silence, Maureen said, ‘I’ve got some news. Steve and I are … going out together.’
Keira’s spoon banged on her plate as she dropped it in shock. ‘My housemate, Steve? He never said anything to me!’
‘I wanted to tell you all, myself.’
Keira’s brothers looked more amused than anything. Sean tucked into his second helping of roast lamb, apparently unconcerned.
Keira could hardly speak. Finally she said, ‘Talk about beyond the pale!’
‘Really, Keira, you’re behaving as if he’s seventeen,’ said Maureen.
‘I’m behaving as if there’s a seventeen-year age gap!’
‘It doesn’t bother us. Why should it bother anyone else?’
‘Does it bother your husband?’
But Keira was alone in her attitude. Rowan and Michael and Jimmy just made jokes about Maureen’s ‘young man’ and his prospects and whether his intentions were honourable, while Keira seethed with contemptuous fury.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘All the lectures you used to give me on the importance of virginity and rubbish like that – and now you’re Sydney’s most liberated woman!’
‘Keira, please! Can you give me some credit? I am capable of change, just as anyone is.’
‘Change? How? Going to bed with a young boy?’
‘Keira! I don’t know why you’re so upset. People can and do change. For instance, I’m applying to study fine art at Sydney University next year.’
‘Wow, that’s great, Mum,’ said Michael, amidst a chorus of approval from the other boys. Keira said nothing.
After the lunch Keira hugged her brothers goodbye and gave her mother a cool peck on the cheek. She grabbed her jean jacket and shoulder bag to go down the hill to visit Jim.
47
KEIRA
September 1973
There were no Dathcetts in the phone book, Keira knew this. But she checked again. Right the first time. What about Alfred Foote? He knew everything about everybody and probably had a bulging address book with Howard Dathcett’s details in it.
Except he didn’t. He could only tell her that Howard used to live in Coogee and that he owned a string of old terrace houses in Waterloo.
‘He wouldn’t still be in the hangman’s cottage, I suppose?’
‘You suppose correctly,’ said Alfred. ‘He sold that in the late sixties, for a fortune because of the view. The new owner built a mansion on the site. Howard was in Hong Kong for a few years.’
‘Well, thanks anyway, Alfred,’ said Keira.
‘I read in the paper that he is now the co-owner of the Cormorant Leagues Club with an old mate of his, Mal Dean. That might be a lead.’
Keira told him about the exhibi
tion, said he should receive an invitation to opening night in the mail soon and took her leave of Alfred.
*
Keira was heading from her place to Gipps Street Gallery to meet Deirdre and discuss what should be hung where and other details. She picked up her bag and cotton jacket and went out the door.
That young woman was there again. She walked right towards her and said, ‘Can I help you?’
The woman shook her head, looking scared. ‘No,’ she said, backing away and fiddling with the zipper on her pink patent leather shoulder bag.
‘I’m Keira. What’s your name?’
‘Hi. My name is Linh.’
Keira looked into her dark brown eyes. Linh glanced around as if trapped.
‘Would you like a glass of water or anything?’ said Keira.
‘No. I’m just … I’m waiting for someone.’ Linh found her car keys and walked quickly to the old grey Citroen, opened the door, jumped inside and started the engine.
Keira sighed. It was a complete mystery why she was there so often. She walked the short distance to the bus stop and waited for a 379.
When she arrived at Gipps Street she walked into the cool white-walled space and looked around at the exhibition preceding Deirdre’s.
Deirdre was saying to Geoffrey, ‘The two Captain Cooks could go there.’ She pointed to a section of wall beside the arched interior doorway.
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, making a note of it. ‘I think that would work.’
‘And Ros’s little landscape here,’ said Deirdre.
‘Hullo, darling,’ she said to Keira, giving her a kiss. She was wearing a black peasant blouse with green embroidery and a floaty blue skirt. Keira was in her white jeans and a sky blue T-shirt.
‘Hi Geoffrey.’
‘Hullo, Keira. You should be contributing to this discussion too. Let us know what you think. How’s your essay going?’
‘I’m not happy with it,’ said Keira. ‘I wanted to hang around here and see if I could pick up some useful information. I’ll take some notes that I hope will cohere with what I’ve got. Is that okay?’
‘Of course. But you’re a part of the decisions too,’ said Geoffrey. ‘This curating experience will look good on your CV.’
After She Left Page 30
