After She Left

by Penelope Hanley

  He paused again, looking watchfully at Keira. ‘Did she tell you … exactly who I am?’

  Keira was thinking about what to say when Howard said, ‘I don’t believe in small talk. I believe in coming straight to the point.’

  Still Keira said nothing.

  Howard said, ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’

  Finally Keira said, ‘Mum told me.’

  Now Howard was silent. He looked serious and nodded. ‘And how is your mother?’

  ‘Fine.’

  A silence grew between them. Two nurses went past the doorway, one of them saying something about an anemic blood count. It was beginning to feel uncomfortable as Howard sat in his wheelchair, staring at her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Keira. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  His brief bark of a laugh sounded loud in the small space.

  Before he could say anything, Keira said, ‘Olivia’s fine too. She’s doing really well.’

  Howard nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. The grey ring around the pale blue iris lent them a peculiar intensity. Keira looked away.

  ‘She was a handful,’ said Howard. ‘But so was I, that’s for sure.’

  Looking back at him, Keira said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Did you and Olivia get divorced?’

  ‘We don’t need a piece of paper to say we hate each other.’ He paused, smiled and continued. ‘My girlfriend has taught me what love is. Real love, not just infatuation with someone’s beauty and all the physical stuff. She has a pure heart. Don’t laugh. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for me. And as soon as Madge Burnside told me about you, I wanted to see a picture of you. I got on the blower and told Linh, we hatched a plan and she got busy.’

  It took a while to register, and then: Linh! The woman with the camera and the grey Citroën. So that’s what she was doing.

  ‘Spying on me!’

  ‘If you want to call it that,’ he said.

  ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘I needed information,’ he said, smiling with wolfish lips. ‘I was not in a position to get it m’self.’

  ‘And of course the only relevant thing is what you want.’ She paused for him to say something but he stayed silent. ‘I suppose you’ve lived your whole life like that, Mr Dathcett.’

  ‘Please, Keira – I’ve never stood on ceremony. Call me … call me … whatever you like, but no formality.’ His pale eyes glinted.

  ‘Howard,’ she said, and watched the gleam in his eyes fade.

  Unbelievable. He had been hoping to hear her call him ‘Dad’.

  ‘Howard,’ she repeated, and watched the corners of his lips slowly turn up in a determined smile, his pale eyes still sad. ‘You sent your girlfriend to spy on me and take pictures. It’s a violation of privacy; it’s probably against the law!’

  ‘I just wanted to see a picture. I needed to. I have a child. A daughter. I’m a father. It made me feel –’

  ‘Please – spare me the sentimental clichés. What were you going to do after getting a picture of me?’

  ‘I wanted more pictures.’

  ‘And what after that?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’

  ‘Kind of ironic.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I arrive, unannounced – just what you wanted, without you having to do anything.’

  ‘And I’ve got that bitch Madge Burnside to thank! For once in her long life that professional do-gooder has actually done some good.’

  ‘I’m sure you normally care about doing good!’

  ‘I care about you.’

  ‘You care about yourself.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve changed as I’ve got older. I’ve got a different perspective, especially after the car accident. Broken ribs, pierced lung, broken leg, all smashed up I was. I nearly died.’

  ‘You’ve seen the error of your ways?’

  ‘Who’s talking clichés now?’ he said, but his voice was gentle.

  ‘I was being ironic. You’re lucky we’re talking at all.’

  ‘I know!’ He looked contrite. Suddenly his gaze went behind Keira, colour flushed his cheeks and he said, ‘Linh – come in, come in – meet my … this is Keira. Keira, this is Linh.’

  *

  They were all in the kitchen when Keira arrived at Beach Lane. The fan in the corner was on high, making a faint buzz. As arranged, Maureen was out. The boys had come straight after work. Rowan and Michael were drinking instant coffee. Sean was trying to teach his older brother to juggle oranges.

  ‘Want some coffee, Keir?’ said Rowan.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said, putting her shoulder bag down. ‘You won’t break anything with those flying oranges, will you?’ Be careful.’

  ‘We’re being careful,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’m starting to get the hang of this.’ At that moment he dropped one, then two, oranges. Sean laughed and began throwing his own oranges at Jimmy, propelling him into a chaotic welter of hands and elbows as he frantically tried to keep up with catching them all. He did all right at first but then lost control and most of them fell to the floor – ka-thump! Ka-thump! Ka-thump!

  Michael transferred his gaze from this spectacle to Keira and said, ‘What do want to tell us that’s so urgent? Is it something weird?’

  ‘No, no – it’s not urgent. It’s just something that is better to get out in the open. It’s … maybe I’ll have a glass of water.’

  ‘There’s apple juice in the fridge,’ said Sean, without missing a beat in his juggling of four more oranges.

  ‘I’ll have some of that. Anyone else want some?’ No one did. She poured herself some. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘will you two put those oranges down? I’ve invited you round here after work and – and after school,’ she added, looking at Sean.

  ‘But I live here,’ said Sean. ‘You can’t invite me here!’ He started putting the oranges back in the blue pottery bowl.

  ‘You know what I mean – I wanted to see you all together because I need to tell you that … I’ve discovered … look, Mum told me something important. And you lot should know about it too.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What is it?’ said Rowan.

  ‘It’s going to be really weird,’ said Michael.

  ‘Michael, put a sock in it!’ said Rowan.

  Keira sighed, sat on a stool and drained her glass. ‘Listen – Dad – our dad, I mean your dad – turns out he’s not my actual, biological father.’ She looked around at them, at their big dark eyes digesting the information.

  ‘Wow,’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, who is?’

  ‘I knew this was going to be weird,’ said Michael. Jimmy elbowed him.

  ‘Yeah, it’s strange, isn’t it?’ said Rowan. ‘Just imagine – one of our parents actually had some sort of life before we came along?! Bizarre!’ He laughed. ‘Can you tell us who he was?’

  ‘He’s called Howard Dathcett.’

  ‘Weird name,’ said Michael.

  ‘Wow. Is he still around?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Have you met him?’ said Rowan.

  ‘What’s he like?’ said Michael. ‘I bet you got your creepy eyes from him!’

  ‘Please – one question at a time. Yes, he’s still around. Yes, I’ve met him. And yes, he’s got the same pale eyes.’

  ‘Creepy,’ said Michael.

  ‘Michael, shut up,’ said Rowan. ‘What is he like? How long have you known about this?’ said Rowan.

  ‘Not long. Mum told me a few weeks ago. She lost touch with him but one of my contacts for the essay told me where he was – in hospital after a bad car accident.’

  ‘You visited?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Yeah. He’s co-owner of the Cormorant Club. Oh, yeah, I knew that would impress you lot!’

  ‘Yay, we can get free tickets!’ said Sean.

  ‘It must have been strange,’ said Rowan.

  ‘It was. At first. He has a shady p
ast but reckons he’s reformed. What else can I tell you? He’s quite a lot older than Mum. He has a younger girlfriend. She’s called Linh and her family came on a boat from Vietnam. I met her.’

  ‘Does Dad know? I mean, he probably knows, but does he know that you know?’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes, I told him a couple of days ago. It’s funny. We’re getting along better than we have for years.’ She looked at Sean. ‘Sean, is this above your head?’

  ‘I’ve done science – I understand about biology. So now you have two dads.’

  ‘It’s our dad who raised me – I’ll always feel as if he’s my real dad, not Howard.’

  They were all sitting there, looking at her. She repeated, ‘I wanted you lot to know – so everything was out in the open.’

  ‘Well, good,’ said Jimmy. ‘Now it is. I have to meet Meg in …’ he looked at his watch, ‘half an hour. Got to go. Thanks for letting us know, Keir.’ He picked up his jacket and helmet.

  ‘When did Mum say she’d be back, Sean?’ said Rowan.

  ‘Soon. She nipped out to the library and to visit Dad. She said she wouldn’t be long.’

  ‘I might push off too,’ said Michael, ‘things to do.’

  ‘Have you got any homework, Sean?’ said Keira.

  ‘Nah. But there’s time for a swim. Let’s go – you and me and Rowan!’

  Keira and Rowan exchanged a glance. ‘It has been a hot day,’ said Keira. ‘I’ve got swimmers in the studio.’

  Rowan ground out his cigarette butt. ‘I dunno …’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Sean. ‘You haven’t for aeons! It’ll be really good. If there are none of your togs left here you can borrow some of mine.’

  Rowan stood up and considered. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave a note for Mum.’

  The three of them raced off to change and grab some beach towels.

  48

  DEIRDRE

  October 1973

  Deirdre was returning along the coastal walk from Bondi back towards Clovelly. All afternoon she had been working on a collage, using some of Olivia’s photographs and fragments from her own linocuts of insects and watercolour-washed paper. It wasn’t quite working the way she wanted and she needed to clear her head before meeting Keira. It was time for a good long walk.

  Deirdre was wearing loose white cotton trousers and a pale green top with three-quarter sleeves. As sunset approached, Deirdre sighed with the beauty of it and held her head back to take in the full panoramic sweep of the Australian sky. No one could paint that sky without producing kitsch. A tasteless extravagance of fluorescent lemon and orange flamed in the western sky. Reaching Hanging Swamp, she walked to the rock ledges high above the sea where sedges and blue-green grasses grew between the sandstone rocks. Striped marsh frogs sounded their thock-thock, thock-thock rhythm like two ping-pong bats hitting a ball to and fro.

  She walked on. Five seagulls stood in a large rock-pool repeatedly wetting and shaking their wings, rippling the shallow water from the centre to the edges. The clouds were ruffled satin now, dove grey underneath with apricot above.

  Deirdre looked out and saw a deep squally grey of falling rain over the distant ocean out from Coogee. Walking past the bowling club she took a shortcut along the road, past Burrows Park, past Beach Lane and down the hill, dodging a mini coming up the wrong side of the road crammed with four laughing girls about Keira’s age and a huge black poodle.

  Deirdre stepped up to the footpath and spotted Keira at the bottom of the park, her long dark hair blowing in the breeze. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Deirdre walked down the hill and Keira walked up until they drew close enough to hug.

  They started strolling along the promenade towards Olivia’s house, breathing deeply of the salty, seaweedy breeze.

  ‘Smells so good, eh?’ said Keira.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Deirdre, something’s been puzzling me for a while. Where does Owen fit in? I mean when? You were involved with him about the same time you were involved with Olivia.’

  Deirdre walked along, holding Keira’s gaze until a young couple in white shorts and T-shirts jogged close by, their legs toned and tanned, their bottoms pert. His ears stuck out, marring his handsomeness, hers were small with tiny diamonds in the lobes. A little further ahead they bounded effortlessly up the steep, stone steps of a house with the obvious name, ‘Ocean View’. Keira looked back at Deirdre and reframed her question.

  Deirdre raised her eyebrows. Keira stared at her.

  ‘You don’t mean …?’

  Still she said nothing.

  ‘A ménage à trois?’

  ‘Your generation didn’t invent sex, Keira. You know, back then it was truly beyond the pale but in this current climate your mother and Jim and Steve could have that arrangement!’

  ‘Oh, Deirdre – please!’ Keira said, snorting with apparent disgust and mirth, which amused Deirdre.

  ‘But whatever the social climate is,’ she said, ‘threesomes are rarely sustainable. They might begin with high ideals of generosity and love, but there’s usually one person who becomes unhappy and jealous. We wanted to smash through bourgeois hypocrisy and conservatism and we thought we could invent a better way to live, to love. I thought I could love both Owen and Olivia. I did, in different ways. It felt impossible to choose. We all agreed to give the experiment a go. We had a brief interval of happiness. You saw it in those old photos that Olivia only recently developed and printed. But it became clear that Olivia really didn’t want to share me.’

  They walked along for a bit, the wash of the waves and the call of the seagulls the only sounds. ‘Alfred Foote told me he’d look after Olivia and he did. He made my decision to go to Spain easier. And even if Owen had returned to Australia we could not have continued as our little triangle. She wanted me all to herself.’

  A magpie flew past them. In its beak was the curve of a slim, silver lizard, inert and shiny as a necklace. Keira looked at Deirdre, her expression serious.

  ‘Deirdre, I’ve known this for a while but it’s been a bit hard to bring up – did Mum tell you? She told me about Howard Dathcett.’

  Deirdre’s complexion went a shade paler and she took Keira’s hand. She sighed and said, ‘She did, at last?’

  ‘It took me a while to get used to the idea. But when I was calmer, I tracked Howard down and went to see him. He’s in hospital after a bad car accident.’

  ‘He’s got nine lives!’

  ‘I told him Olivia’s doing well and now I’ve told Dad – Jim – about him, that I know and all that. It’s good to have everything out in the open.’

  Deirdre nodded. ‘Definitely the best way. It’s what Charles used to say.’

  Deirdre and Keira walked along, listening to the waves thumping the sand and the seabirds calling. Oyster catchers stood on the distant rocks.

  ‘And how’s it going with Alan?’

  Keira sighed. ‘It’s over. I broke it off.’

  ‘You did? I thought he was what you wanted.’

  ‘I thought so too. But by the time his ears were ready to hear my music, I was singing a different song.’

  *

  At the retrospective no paintings on the south wall crashed to the floor or fell onto the heads of unsuspecting guests. Jim did not punch Steve. Both Steve and Maureen behaved with discretion, not even holding hands. Maureen wore a Schiaparelli pink linen skirt and a fine white cotton blouse and kitten-heeled gold sandals. Steve was dressed in a new T-shirt and his best trousers for the occasion. Sean did not appear to be bored.

  According to Keira, Deirdre’s grandsons had never set foot in a gallery before. But they seemed to be having an enjoyable time, talking and laughing, eating the hors d’oeuvres and everyone but Sean drinking the Australian sparkling wine.

  The general consensus was that the green and blue paintings and collages looked stunning on the white walls. Groups of people in their spring finery shifted like tropical fish past the works, and complimented the art
ist on her achievement. Deirdre dressed in the colours of her pictures as usual, her flouncy blue chiffon skirt moving gently when she walked, and a tight turquoise watered silk top. She’d put her hair up. Green drop earrings hung from her earlobes.

  Olivia wore white linen trousers and a silver blouse with tiny Fortuny-style pleats. Keira was wearing a magenta skirt and black silk singlet top with black strappy sandals.

  Geoffrey Pettifer had persuaded an eminent art critic, who happened to be in town visiting from New York, to give the opening speech. He did a typically informative, charming job. Several other art critics came, and a Victorian art historian took notes. She introduced herself to Deirdre.

  ‘Gemma Browne. So good to meet you. My connection is Heide Johnson, who’s put me in touch with some Sydney artists. I’m curating a women’s art exhibition in Melbourne next year.’

  Gemma was a petite young woman with short auburn hair, a freckled nose and warm brown eyes. They talked animatedly for some time until Deirdre said, ‘There’s someone you must meet, Gemma. Just a second and I’ll grab her.’

  Deirdre sidled up to Keira while she was talking to Jim and said, ‘May I borrow your daughter, please?’ Without waiting for a reply she linked her right arm through Keira’s left and led her a short distance to Gemma.

  ‘Keira, this is Gemma Browne. Gemma, this is Keira Bolt. Gemma’s from Melbourne.’

  Gemma’s handshake was firm. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Congratulations on curating this magnificent exhibition.’

  ‘Oh, Deirdre did all the work.’

  ‘I did the painting but you did the researching and organising and everything else that made these works go up on the wall for these crowds to see – don’t denigrate your own contribution, Keira,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gemma. ‘Curating is an important skill.’ She gestured to the walls around them. ‘A retrospective like this is a huge, demanding job and I’m impressed with it. I’m curating an exhibition in the National Gallery in Melbourne for next year. It’s on twentieth century women artists whose reputations have been forgotten and whose talent and innovation demands a revival. In other words, it’s to show the work of professional women painters whose success in their lifetimes has been buried by sexism.’