After She Left

by Penelope Hanley

  ‘Oh wow, that sounds brilliant – this is just what my honours essay is about.’

  ‘Yes. Deirdre was telling me about it. I have –’

  ‘When’s it on?’

  ‘The end of next year. I have funding. We need another researcher. Someone with photography skills to document works would be ideal. I was wondering if you’d like to write an expression of interest for the position,’ said Gemma, giving Keira her card.

  Keira was speechless with excitement for a moment. Then she said, ‘Yes. Yes! Is there a deadline?’

  ‘Fifth of November. Call me if you need any help.’ She went to mingle with some other guests.

  The air rang with the buzz of conversation and bubbling laughter. White wine and red splashed into Geoffrey’s generous glasses. People ate stuffed olives and cheese on crackers. The fragrance of tomato and basil tarts and pigs-in-blankets wafted through the rooms. Keira turned to Deirdre and hugged her.

  By the end of the evening red stickers were beside eleven of Deirdre’s paintings. A young couple wanted to buy The Silent World. Deirdre and Keira looked at each other, and Keira explained that this one was not for sale. This was the picture of the strange underwater world, the bequest that Deirdre had sent as a catalyst for Keira’s curiosity, and ended with Deirdre reuniting with her family.

  ‘No way could I ever part with this,’ said Keira.

  *

  Olivia came inside again with the morning papers she’d bought from the Coogee newsagent. She made tea and toast and brought them to Deirdre on a tray with the little hill of fresh newspapers.

  ‘Oh, you wonderful person!’ said Deirdre, sitting up in bed.

  Olivia sat on the edge of the bed in her grey jeans and a white cheesecloth shirt. ‘Would you like me to read them first?’ she said, and opened the Sydney Morning Herald.

  ‘I’d be grateful – this is always nerve wracking,’ said Deirdre.

  The paper made a crackling sound as Olivia found the relevant section. She read in silence for a moment while Deirdre sipped her tea.

  ‘Is it good? Is it bad? Don’t keep me in suspense any longer,’ said Deirdre, putting her cup on the bedside table.

  ‘Listen! “The collages with their meticulously drawn insects and birds teeter on the brink of kitsch but what saves them from this is the artist’s pitch-perfect tone of whimsical irony. Creatures float and dance and swim and curl their way across bizarrely hued, eerie landscapes.” Et cetera et cetera. He calls your Clovelly Seven series “the essence of disquieting poetry” and talks about “a restless striving and experimentation with a variety of materials and techniques”.’

  Olivia opened another newspaper. ‘Here, the Tribune describes you as courageous and reminds readers about the fire in forty-six: “To view Deirdre Wild’s works on display in Pettifer’s Gallery is to step into a strange world where young boys float in the sky and banisters bloom into flower, where black swans fly with white horses across a red sky and where creatures lurk in the shadows and nothing is what it seems.” Okay, it’s all positive, he says the works are “lyrically infused with a sense of her Celtic past”, talks about “a painterly investigation of the dark places of the heart” and he really likes the Dreams of Leaving series and Midnight Swimmer.

  ‘The Eastern Sydney Times writes your “Romantic approach tempers the surrealistic bent with an atmosphere that is rich and strange.” That’s the headline: “Rich and Strange”. “The artist has created a new pictorial language that speaks to us of a feminine sensibility nourished by her past and expressed in a combination of precise drawing and dramatic chiaroscuro.” He likes the recent acrylics on paper, thinks the narrower focus makes for “restrained elegance” and likes the poplars “in a garden suffused with the watery light of a London winter”. He ends with this: “These are strong works of great perception and technical skill”. Marvellous! You see – they love it! You should be happy.’

  ‘God, what a relief! I am happy, and thank you again for all your help – your photographs went over well too, remember. Any mention of them?’

  ‘They do mention them. Gelatin silver photographs taken with a Leica – you know, they’re going to look respectable.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest – your photographs are stunning. Now, come here, you modest woman.’

  ‘Don’t you want to read your reviews properly?’

  ‘Later. That can be much later.’

  49

  MAUREEN

  October 1973

  She couldn’t seem to get the timing right. It was just a matter of synchronisation but driving was much trickier than it looked. In the driver’s seat there were so many different things to remember and too many things to coordinate and she really did not want to kill someone on a Saturday morning. For one thing, she had to make lunch.

  Rowan was teaching her to drive in Michael’s utility truck. Michael had picked up the 1953 FJ Holden ute cheaply. It was buttercup yellow, not the colour he would have chosen, but within his price range and he would have it spray painted – maybe next payday.

  Maureen liked the colour. It was the responsibility she didn’t like, being in sole charge of a lethal weapon. And the embarrassment she was putting herself through as she let the handbrake off and tested the accelerator as gently as she could, while simultaneously lifting her foot from the clutch, and kangaroo-hopping along the thankfully quiet Coogee backstreet.

  ‘Sorry! Oh, God, I’ll never get the hang of these gears,’ she said.

  ‘’Course you will. Just think – every car on the road is being driven by someone who’s been where you are now. We’ve got all the time in the world for you to master the gears. Don’t stress – it’s not going to take all the time in the world. It’s going to take about half an hour, Mum. It’ll feel automatic soon.’

  ‘I wish it were automatic!’ said Maureen as she lifted the handbrake off and it happened again.

  ‘An automatic ute!’ said Rowan, laughing. ‘Better to have the feeling of driving a car, not of being driven.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t it be as easy as possible?’

  ‘Because. And once you’ve mastered this you can drive any car.’

  She heaved a big sigh. ‘Is it enough practice now?’

  Rowan looked at his watch. ‘Near enough. Let’s head back. Chuck a uey here, turn right at the end of this street and go up the hill. Then chuck another uey right at the top.’

  When Maureen pulled into the driveway of Beach Lane, Steve, Michael and Sean were in the front yard playing handball, with Lady going after the ball when she got the opportunity. Every now and then Sean was grabbing a mouthful of something from a plate on the side of the action.

  ‘What are you eating?’ she asked Sean.

  ‘Pancakes. Steve makes the best pancakes ever!’

  ‘I hope you haven’t spoilt your appetite for lunch.’

  ‘You know, Maureen,’ said Steve, ‘that’s a flawed concept. Boys have unlimited appetites. I couldn’t spoil Sean’s appetite for lunch if I tried.’

  ‘What are we having for lunch?’ asked Rowan.

  ‘Stir fry.’

  ‘What?’ said Michael, flipping the ball to Steve and wandering over. ‘We never have that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But now we can – without Dad,’ said Rowan. He turned to Steve, who had joined the group, and said, ‘Dad couldn’t stand rice – he had to live on it and not much else when he was a POW in World War Two.’

  A satin grey Citröen eased to a stop by the kerb and Keira got out of the passenger seat. Linh got out of the driver’s seat. Keira opened the little gate and introduced Linh to everyone.

  ‘How are you?’ Keira asked Maureen. ‘You look a bit done in.’

  ‘Exhausted. I’ve just been for another driving lesson in Michael’s ute.’

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘She did really well,’ said Rowan. He turned to Linh.

  ‘Yours is the only car that would make me consider trading two wheels for
four. Good taste!’

  ‘Oh. It’s not mine,’ said Linh. ‘It is, but someone gave it to me.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Rowan. ‘That’s generous.’

  ‘Howard is a good man.’

  Maureen and Keira exchanged a glance. Linh continued.

  ‘He taught me to drive and he lent money to my parents for the restaurant.’

  ‘Which restaurant?’ asked Rowan.

  ‘The Little Saigon, on Bronte Road.’

  ‘I should go there,’ said Rowan.

  ‘You would be welcome.’

  ‘Would you like to come inside and stay for lunch, Linh?’ said Maureen. ‘If I don’t sit down for a meal soon I’ll be collapsing on the front lawn. I can’t believe how tiring learning to drive is.’

  ‘It is the concentration,’ said Linh, nodding. ‘Thank you. It will be nice to stay for lunch.’

  ‘So she did well?’ Steve asked Rowan, as they all trooped into the house.

  ‘Yeah, really good,’ said Rowan. ‘She’s improving all the time.’

  ‘She’s the cat’s mother!’ the other boys and Keira chorused.

  ‘Yes, I’m right here so you needn’t talk about me in the third person,’ said Maureen.

  ‘In no time at all you’ll be as aggressive as everyone else on the road,’ said Steve, putting his arm around Maureen’s shoulders.

  ‘Well, that’s comforting.’

  Maureen got busy in the kitchen while they all crowded in there. ‘You can chop the coriander please, Michael.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Maureen told the others what she wanted done and while they were busy chopping and sautéing, Keira and Maureen slipped into the dining room and put the tablecloth and napkins on the table.

  ‘Mum,’ said Keira, ‘I wanted to say sorry for being such a pain.’

  ‘What’s brought this on? Gosh, if only I could have a cigarette.’ She refolded napkins and looked at Keira’s embarrassed face.

  Keira shook her head and said, ‘I’ve just been thinking, and you know, I took you for granted and never thought about what you might be feeling.’

  ‘That’s all right, my darling daughter.’

  ‘Let me finish. Of course you deserve to be happy – even though you’re so old!’ she teased. ‘And if Steve makes you happy,’ she gave an elaborate shrug of total incomprehension, ‘who am I to question it?’

  Maureen gave Keira a quick hug and they returned to the kitchen.

  There was the repeated rap of the possum door-knocker coming from the front door. Jimmy walked down the hall and returned with Deirdre and Alfred.

  ‘We were just passing,’ said Deirdre. She introduced Alfred to her grandsons and Keira introduced them to Linh, explaining her connection to the family.

  ‘How d’you do?’ Deirdre said to Linh, looking at her with quiet interest.

  ‘How do you do, my dear?’ said Alfred, taking Linh’s hand and patting it.

  ‘Now, you must both stay for lunch,’ said Maureen, ‘there’s plenty here. You have the time? Good, that’s settled. Deirdre, make yourself useful and put the soy sauce on the table please. Everyone – come and sit down.’

  Maureen and Steve took the dishes of steamed rice and fragrant food into the dining room followed by Rowan, Michael, Jimmy and Sean jostling and elbowing each other, joking and playfully shoving.

  ‘Stop fighting,’ said Maureen.

  ‘We’re not,’ protested Michael. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Well, you’re doing a pretty good imitation of it.’

  ‘Yeah, Michael,’ said Jimmy, punching his arm, ‘stop fighting! Ow!’

  Maureen sighed. ‘Will you never grow up?’

  ‘We are grown up, except for this pipsqueak!’ said Jimmy, shoving Sean, who shoved him back.

  ‘Lord, give me strength,’ said Maureen.

  For a little while everything went quiet while they all helped themselves to the lunch.

  ‘How’s everything going with you, Steve?’ said Rowan.

  ‘Good! Except that I’ve got exams soon. I’m still working at the wine bar and there aren’t enough hours in the day. What about you?’

  ‘We’re all going to see Seamus tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s kind of like Mum’s uncle,’ Sean explained to Steve. ‘But no relation.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s taking us sailing,’ said Rowan. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity for you to drive us, Mum.’

  ‘Me? Drive to Balmain?!’

  ‘You’ll be fine. I know you don’t want to come sailing but I can drive this lot home and you can catch the ferry from Peacock Park wharf to Circular Quay and get home that way.’

  ‘Hey, Mum, why don’t you do that?’ said Keira. ‘I’m going to the Quay with Deirdre tomorrow. A journo from Art in Australia is going to interview her there. They want some photos of her with a background of the harbour.’

  ‘How will you get there?’ said Maureen.

  ‘We’ll just hop on a three thirty-nine. The interview is at eleven.’

  ‘That’s a grand idea,’ said Deirdre. ‘Let’s have a picnic. I haven’t seen the Opera House yet and I’d love to see it with you two. In the old days it would have been the first thing I saw but now we arrive on aeroplanes instead of ships. It’s a pity.’

  ‘A lot quicker though,’ said Steve, helping himself to more of the chicken stir fry.

  ‘I don’t think speed should be the sole criterion by which we judge everything.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Maureen, ‘a picnic in the park, and we’ll get a good view of the Opera House without the millions of people who’ll be there for the opening in a fortnight.’

  ‘Yes. Crowds disagree with me, anyway,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Okay, a picnic. I can make a quiche …’

  ‘Don’t go fussing – we don’t need to plan. We can buy some fish and chips and a bottle of Beaujolais or something.’

  ‘Beaujolais!’ Maureen laughed. ‘You’re not in Europe now, Deirdre,’ she said, handing the rice further down the table.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Alfred, ‘although wine will become more popular here – it’ll be cheaper soon. Whitlam is getting rid of the wine excise tax next month.’

  ‘What an enlightened man he is, indeed!’ said Deirdre.

  ‘You and your lack of planning, Deirdre,’ scoffed Maureen.

  ‘If you want to make God laugh,’ said Keira, ‘tell her your plans.’ She put a little more soy sauce on her meal.

  ‘I hear you have plans to go to Melbourne, Keira,’ said Alfred.

  ‘If I get a job I’m applying for. I hope I do – it’s a fabulous job.’

  ‘What about Alan?’ said Jimmy. ‘Is it off again?’

  Keira heaved a deep sigh. ‘Yeah. We had another big fight, about the Opera House opening actually, but it was really about compromise. Then he tried to make up. But I just couldn’t see it working. We want different things. I’m not ready to settle down. I had to choose between career and love and I chose career.’

  ‘Some say that women can have it all now,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Sometimes I think we can have it all,’ said Maureen. ‘Just not at the same time.’

  ‘But what if you give up one part of your life for another, and then come back to pick up the first part again, but it’s not there?’ said Keira.

  ‘Life bristles with second chances,’ said Deirdre. ‘Look at my life. The only way to live is to plunge into whatever it is you want to do most.’

  ‘But you do need to plan a bit,’ said Maureen.

  ‘I’ve never planned anything in my life. No, I just dive in, an’ then you can swim in any direction you like,’ said Deirdre.

  Keira asked, ‘What if there’s a rip?’

  50

  KEIRA

  October 1973

  Howard was sitting by the window in his wheelchair, smoking a cigarette. A saucer on the window-sill held ashes. He was wearing a maroon silk dressing gown with a paisley pattern in a darker shade of maroon. This
time he had no sock on the foot that was not in plaster and Keira noticed that even at his age he had a shapely, fine-looking foot, the toenails neat and shiny.

  Keira had not made a sound but something made Howard turn. Catching sight of her, his face brightened with a sudden smile, as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud.

  ‘Keira – what a delightful surprise. You look like a French sailor!’

  Keira was wearing blue jeans and her blue and white striped cotton jumper. She did feel nautical in this outfit. ‘Should you be smoking?’ she said.

  ‘Linh brings me the forbidden necessities.’

  ‘Mum’s given up,’ she said, walking further into the room.

  ‘Giving up’s easy – I’ve done it lots of times.’

  Keira didn’t smile at the old joke but said, ‘Speaking of lighting up, it was you who set fire to Pettifer’s Gallery that time, wasn’t it?’

  Howard focused on his cigarette and frowned.

  ‘You hated Deirdre that much?’

  Still he said nothing, just shook his head and sighed. Keira said, ‘The cat’s got your tongue again. You don’t like to be confronted with the truth.’

  Howard mashed out his stub in the saucer. ‘You’ll really have to get to know me better, Keira. In the meantime, give me some credit.’ He wheeled himself closer and she backed away until she came to a padded chair. She sat in it. He looked into her blue eyes, on the same level now, and said, ‘I didn’t do it, but I know who did. It was Jake Phipps. We were business partners in some ventures but I didn’t know he was going to do that.’

  Keira made a scoffing sound and Howard said, ‘Please, Keira – I don’t want to fight with you. I’d like us to trust each other.’ He gestured to a large bowl piled high with bananas, apples, mangoes, pawpaws and dark red grapes. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘No thank you,’ she said, sounding prim. ‘The way you made your money probably hasn’t been legal, has it?’

  ‘In the past – no. But I’ve changed.’

  ‘So you keep saying. You’re like Saint Augustine – “Let me chaste, Lord – but not yet”. Getting into heaven but getting away before that with a lifetime of sinning and having fun.’