The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I don’t know. Mrs Witherspoon is most insistent we can’t go ahead. They have extended the previous exhibition. I’m not sure quite what to do, or what it has to do with Mr Quinn.’

  Probably nothing at all; Mrs Witherspoon was using Michael as a scapegoat.

  ‘Mother is planning to stay in Maitland for a while and do some painting. We’ll have to cancel and I’ll return to Sydney. The drawback is I have no way of contacting them and nowhere to store the paintings. We intended to rent some rooms, somewhere to stay. That’s my job. Find accommodation. Organise the exhibition.’ He pushed a shock of damp hair back from his forehead and slumped in the chair.

  ‘You must stay with us. We have plenty of room.’ Oh, perhaps not. It depended on Elizabeth. Maybe it was the thing to bring back a bit of interest in her life. Give her something to think about instead of taking all those draughts Dr Lethbridge kept recommending. One to make her sleep, another to wake her up. It couldn’t be good for her. ‘I’ll have to speak to my aunt. She’s been a bit poorly.’

  ‘We couldn’t impose.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Jane jumped up. ‘I have the perfect solution! We’ll hold the exhibition here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Downstairs in the auction hall. It would be perfect. Your mother could use one of the rooms up here as a studio.’ She cast a look around; it would need a little bit of a clean-up. ‘There’s a room through there with a large window overlooking the street, which would make the perfect studio. Michael and Elizabeth lived here when they first came to Maitland, before they built the house in Church Street.’ For goodness sake, she sounded like Mrs Witherspoon. Gossiping! There was no other word for it. The entire idea filled her with such enthusiasm. ‘I’m sorry, I’m jumping to conclusions. It might not be what you want.’

  ‘It sounds marvellous.’ Timothy pushed himself to his feet. ‘Maybe you could speak with Mr Quinn and I could call tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be perfect. Don’t forget to let me know if you have difficulty finding rooms. Aileen House, Church Street is where we live.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He threw her the most rewarding smile, deep dimples marking his cheeks.

  His gratitude, charming as it was, seemed embarrassing; she hadn’t expected him to be so enthusiastic. ‘It’s all settled. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’ She tried to sound businesslike but she couldn’t control the smile on her face or the lift in her voice.

  By the time Jane cycled off down the road, the rain had stopped and there was no sign of Timothy. It did nothing to diminish the bubble of excitement growing inside her. Elizabeth’s old bedroom would make a perfect studio for Mrs Penter; they’d have people lined up waiting to see her exhibition, and the artist in residence. Jane could move her accounts into Michael’s office, and the auction rooms downstairs would make the perfect display space. That would give Mrs Witherspoon something to think about!

  As Jane expected, Michael was in his study when she got home. She knocked on the door and walked straight in.

  ‘Jane, you’re home early.’ He pushed a large manila folder into the drawer and stood up.

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry to disturb you but I have some exciting news.’

  ‘Do you indeed. Better pull up a chair and tell me all about it.’ He nudged the folder to the back of the drawer and closed it.

  ‘Timothy Penter turned up today.’

  ‘Timothy Penter?’

  ‘Do you remember Mr Langdon-Penter, the man we met at the national gallery in Sydney? Timothy is his son, and Timothy’s mother, Marigold Penter, painted one of the paintings we saw, and there’s another on display at the technical college. Major Witherspoon had promised a full exhibition, then he cancelled because he’d extended the Tost and Rohu exhibition. Apparently he’d spoken to you about it.’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘I expect Mrs Witherspoon got everything muddled. It doesn’t matter. I have a solution and I’d like to talk to you about it.’

  Michael’s hand drifted to the drawer. ‘Now might not be the best time. I’ve a few things on my mind.’ For a moment he had an overwhelming urge to confess his secret to Jane. With the clarity of youth and her overblown sense of logic she’d surely get to the bottom of it.

  ‘Timothy brought all the paintings, from Melbourne.’

  ‘I’m sure something can be arranged …’ His mind was filled with the prospect of the trip to England; Melbourne and paintings were the last thing he wanted to talk about. ‘We’ll discuss it in the morning.’

  ‘It’s too late. Mrs Witherspoon told him to take the paintings away, and it was pouring with rain so I let him leave them upstairs at the auction house. I’ve had this truly wonderful idea.’

  She pulled the chair closer to his desk and leant forward, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, something Michael sorely lacked.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Penter are on the way here from Melbourne. Timothy has no way of contacting them and they are expecting to arrive for the exhibition, and spend some time in the area. Mrs Penter wants to paint Maitland. We can’t let them down. It would reflect very badly on the town. I think we should host the exhibition.’

  There had to be somewhere else. The church hall? No, it was undergoing repairs …

  ‘We could hold it in the auction house, and offer Mrs Penter studio space. Apart from anything else, people would flock to see her latest work, if only for a chance to see the upstairs of the building.’ She sat back, her arms folded.

  ‘Upstairs, you say.’ Jane was such a refreshing change. Such an innovative way of thinking. Why hadn’t he come up with that? ‘There’d be some cleaning up to do.’ Long overdue too, and perhaps if he went through his old office he might find the papers he was missing.

  ‘John, Timothy and I could get it done in no time. Mrs Penter does most of her painting outside but she could use Elizabeth’s old bedroom as a place to keep her paints and canvases. It has a lovely big window which lets in lots of light and we could use your old office for the auction-house business. It would be perfect, an excellent drawcard. We haven’t done anything different for a while.’

  She had him there. Business had become a little stagnant. He stood up. ‘Thank you, Miss Piper, for your excellent advice. You have a project on your hands. Now, when are the Penters arriving?’

  ‘We’ve got about three weeks to organise everything. Timothy’s looking for rooms and he planned to set up the exhibition while he waited for his parents to arrive.’

  ‘We should offer them accommodation here. We have plenty of guest rooms.’

  A faint pink tinge highlighted her face. ‘I’ve already said that, if he can’t find anywhere suitable.’

  ‘Elizabeth would benefit from some company.’ It might pull her out of her strange mood, give her something new to think about while he organised their trip. ‘Do you feel she’s recovering?’

  Jane sat for a moment chewing her lip, which was unusual—not so much the lip-chewing but the lack of response.

  She screwed up her face then sighed. ‘I don’t want to …’

  ‘If there’s something wrong with Elizabeth, I need to know.’

  ‘It’s not so much that anything is wrong physically, but she’s different.’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘I found a mistake in the Benevolent Society ledgers.’

  ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth doesn’t. She was most upset when I pointed it out.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘She seems distracted. She sits in the garden for ages staring into space, twisting a piece of thread around and around her little finger and to be honest, she’s been very short-tempered.’

  ‘She’s always impatient. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘No, not impatient. More as though her temper suddenly snaps and she loses control.’

  None of that reassured Michael one iota. He doubted Lethbridge would see it as a good sign either. This exhibition might
well be the very thing to perk Elizabeth up. Perhaps he’d commission a painting of her rose garden. She’d love that.

  ‘Very well. See what the boy comes up with, and get to work tomorrow bright and early cleaning everything out.’

  Elizabeth wouldn’t be the only one to benefit from a new venture. He felt inspired.

  Eighteen

  Hill End, 1872

  Elizabeth leant against the doorjamb, raising her hand and waving at the shouted greetings of the children as they paraded down the road. So much had changed in the last few years. Some were saying Hill End was now the largest inland town. It certainly seemed like it. They’d finished the new school and built a new Catholic church, many of the roads had gutters and footpaths, and there were more pubs in town than a drunkard could count.

  The town was booming. Mines dotted the barren stretch above the river: noisy and smoky, they flourished as never before, and finally the accusations against the Chinese miners—that they were diverting water, over-mining and taking opportunities intended solely for the Europeans—had waned.

  Several men had left the Chinese camp and moved into Hill End, and Jing’s uncle had opened a shop next door to the Diggers Rest. It did a brisk trade, mostly due to his reputation for honesty. Elizabeth and many of the women were more than happy to shop there. The week before he’d presented her, and all his other customers, with a blue earthenware jar nestled in a delicate wicker lattice. When she’d taken it home and opened it, she’d found the most delicious preserved ginger inside, the flesh plump and soft, the sticky syrup pure heaven.

  Michael’s drays carted their imported goods from Sydney, same as he did for the other business owners, and he spent half the time at least in Bathurst. In some strange way the focus of Elizabeth’s life had shifted; she didn’t miss him as she once had. The sun didn’t rise and set with his every whim.

  ‘They’ve opened another pub; that makes twenty-seven, and there are over two hundred registered mining companies now. I don’t know how we’ll fit anyone else in.’ She flipped the newspaper aside.

  ‘A long way from the place I first came to.’ Jing picked up the teapot and poured the fragrant liquid into the two cups then handed one to her. They’d finished the weekly accounts early and were sitting outside on the new verandah enjoying the spring sunshine.

  She stared down into the tea and plucked the single stranger floating on the top. Old Ma Genty reckoned it was good luck. Elizabeth brought it to her mouth and bit down on the stalk.

  ‘Do you remember my Mam and Da?’

  He turned his head and stared into her eyes. ‘I remember your Da most. He was a good man. Helped my uncle when we came.’

  Jing didn’t often talk about the past so she nudged him on. ‘You can’t have been very old.’

  ‘Old enough to come with the men.’

  ‘And leave your family behind.’

  He brought his head up with a snap. ‘We look after our families.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know. I didn’t mean to suggest that you didn’t.’

  It was common knowledge the Chinese sent gold home to support their families and their villages. Rumour had it that they packed the bones of their dead relatives with gold before sending them back to China for burial. Something Elizabeth didn’t like the idea of at all.

  ‘I keep records for all the families of the gold they send home,’ said Jing. ‘Quinn Accounts does very good work.’

  ‘There’s no stopping Michael. It’s just as well the Sydney bankers moved in, otherwise we’d be running Quinn’s Bank.’ Savouring the refreshing jasmine tea, she took another sip and almost choked when a roar of excitement billowed up the street from the direction of the mines.

  Jing leapt to his feet and stood shading his eyes, staring down the road. ‘What is that?’ He held out his hands and drew her to her feet.

  The roar built in the air, carried down the street, overpowering the constant noise of the stamper batteries, or had they stopped? ‘What’s going on?’

  A band of men with their picks slung over their shoulders swarmed down the street, shouting and carrying on as though the world had ended.

  Jing grabbed her hand and tugged. ‘Come on. Let’s go and see.’

  The men approached, a raucous army, their hoarse voices filling the street, and behind them a dray pulled by four bullocks.

  Jing dragged her aside and her mouth dropped open. Mr Holtermann stood on the back of the dray, waving like Prince Alfred, one arm draped around the biggest lump of quartz, gold streaks sparkling in the sunlight, almost as tall as the big man himself and nearly as wide. ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘Hawkins Hill. Star of Hope Mine. Last night they said. Gawd blimey. What I wouldn’t give …’ One of the miners standing on the footpath took off his hat and wiped a dirty hand across his brow. ‘Reckon that’d be worth over twelve thousand quid. It’d have to weigh six hundred pounds at least.’

  ‘Not bad for a barber!’ Jing’s warm breath grazed her ear.

  ‘A barber?’ she whispered back.

  ‘That’s what they say, until he teamed up with Beyer and they sank the mine.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much call for barbers in Hill End.’ She gazed at the crowd of men, all with beards almost reaching their chests, then turned back to Jing, the blackbird sheen of his hair and the honey tones of his skin accentuated in the bright sunlight. He smiled down at her, and her stomach gave the strangest twist.

  ‘Look over there.’ Jing pointed down the street.

  ‘It’s Mr Merlin with his camera. Let’s go and have our picture taken.’

  ‘I think he’s too busy with Mr Holtermann and his nugget.’

  ‘No, come on. I’ve wanted to have my picture taken ever since I first came here. Michael promised.’ Which wasn’t strictly true but she doubted he’d remember.

  ‘Mr Michael’s not here.’

  ‘Exactly, then it’s perfect. I can surprise him.’

  After much pushing and shoving they finally arrived outside Mr Merlin’s photographic shop. Elizabeth gazed up at the sign spanning the shopfront and pushed open the door before Jing could say a word.

  A boy, not much older than she was, stepped out from behind a curtain. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’d like a carte de visite.’

  ‘A calling card? Merlin ain’t here right now.’

  Jing tugged at her arm but she ignored him. ‘You’re Alfie Blyth, aren’t you? We went to school together.’

  ‘Who are you? Didn’t used to talk to girls.’

  ‘I’m Elizabeth Quinn, my brother owns the auction house.’

  Something in his demeanour changed and he straightened his shoulders. ‘And …?’

  ‘We’d like to have some carte de visite made to advertise the business, like the ones the tobacconist in Clarke Street has. First we’d like a sample, something to see if it’s appropriate.’

  ‘Elizabeth, we’ll come back another day.’ Jing turned for the door.

  ‘Well, maybe I could do something for you. Why don’t you step through here?’

  With a triumphant grin, Elizabeth towed Jing after Alfie through a curtain to the back of the shop.

  A chair stood in the middle of the room with a potted plant next to it. ‘You sit down here, Miss Quinn.’

  She settled herself on the chair while Alfie stuck his head under a black cloth and looked at her through the camera. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘No, no wait. Jing, come and stand next to me.’

  ‘Mr Michael won’t …’

  ‘What rubbish. Come and stand here.’

  ‘Haven’t got all day if you only want a sample.’ Alfie peered out from under the black cloth.

  ‘Quick, Jing.’

  He stepped up behind her and she looked up at him.

  ‘Hold it right there. Don’t move until I tell you.’

  Her lips twitched as she took in the startled expression on Jing’s face, then she caught his eye. He relaxed and smiled down at
her.

  ‘There we are. All done.’ Alfie pulled a plate from the side of the camera. ‘I’ll bring this around when it’s ready and Mr Quinn can decide if he wants more.’

  Jing couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough. Elizabeth followed more slowly, stopping to study the pictures on the wall. It was a very good idea. Just what Michael needed, a way of promoting the business. He could leave cards in Sydney and Bathurst, hand them out to people who passed through the town. She’d make sure he came down to get his picture taken as soon as he returned.

  By the time she was back in the street, Jing had vanished. People still crowded the roads, the news of Holtermann’s nugget on everyone’s lips. Elizabeth returned to the auction house and found Jing with his head buried in a pile of papers. He didn’t acknowledge her arrival.

  ‘Why are you cross with me?’

  ‘That wasn’t a good thing to do.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘That boy, Alfie, he is not supposed to take the pictures.’

  ‘How do you know? He’s Mr Merlin’s assistant.’ And more than likely he thought he’d done a good thing for the business. After all, Quinn Family Auctioneers and Accountants had a great reputation. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t get paid.

  Michael tightened the lanyard and grinned up at the flag snapping smartly in the breeze. Two o’clock every Saturday afternoon, before the miners had the chance to celebrate the end of the working week. The old timers reckoned you could set your clock by the auction house’s flag. Michael hadn’t missed raising it since he’d brought Elizabeth home. He tucked in his shirt and rammed his broad-brimmed hat down on his head, ready for business.

  Jing hauled out the tea chest, set up the table and his abacus, then helped Elizabeth out, settling her in a chair with as much care as if she were an aged aunt. She beamed up at him, eyes sparkling. Michael had never let her stay for the auction before, didn’t want her mixing with the rough crowd that gathered every Saturday, but Jing would see to her, he’d no doubt about that. Since she’d left school they’d become the best of mates, and saved him a heap of worry, let him continue what he did best, knowing Jing would see to Elizabeth. He’d trust him with his life.