She opened an exhibition in Melbourne that turned out a complete disaster and saw her once again charged with obscenity. One critic described her art as ‘Stark sensuality running riot’. Another said, ‘Rosa-Marie Norton paints with a lurid brush dipped in nightmares.’ When the exhibition virtually closed overnight, Rosa-Marie was said to have broken down, then she disappeared from public view till she was arrested at Apollo Bay for urinating in a public place. She later showed up in Sydney and died not long after when she fell out of a tram in Taylor Square one night and broke her neck. Naturally this made headlines and a huge crowd of people and various identities from the art world and around Kings Cross attended her funeral. Her ashes were sent back to her family in New Zealand and most of her paintings simply disappeared. The biggest irony Les found was that, although she died broke, as well as that one painting selling for $50,000, the owner of a restaurant in Kings Cross that used to be a bohemian coffee lounge in the fifties found one of her paintings in an attic and knocked back an offer of $85,000 for it.
Les tapped his fingers on the book and looked at his watch. Warren would be home soon and the beer had put an edge on Norton’s appetite. He got a pile of vegetables and rice together, then marinated some lamb chump chops in Taka Tala sauce. While the rice was cooking, Les perused Emile Decorice’s letter again and did a little deducing.
Rosa-Marie and Emile had probably caught Father Bernard Shipley with his pants down somewhere, taken photos and decided to blackmail him. Bishop Elsworthy had bailed his priest out by buying two of Rosa-Marie’s paintings. Rosa or Emile probably still kept a couple of photos, which was why Emile sent the paintings to Father Shipley for safekeeping. Rosa-Marie never got the letter Emile sent telling her. Emile died not long after he sent it. Rosa-Marie died not long after that. And Father Shipley still had the paintings. When he found out Rosa-Marie and Emile were both dead it would have been a blessed relief. No more connection with the Witch of Kings Cross and her deviate friend. There was no next of kin that Father Shipley would have been aware of and he was the only one who knew about the paintings. He could have destroyed them. But then again, he might not have. Les picked up the old letter and tapped it softly against the table. Well, if that’s the case, he surmised, hidden somewhere in Lorne, Victoria, still bundled up in heavy green canvas quietly gathering dust and cobwebs, are two hundred grand’s worth of paintings. Possibly under an old church. Les slipped the chops onto the griller as the front door opened and Warren walked into the kitchen wearing a white-on-white shirt and a pair of black jeans.
‘Woz,’ said Les. ‘How are you mate?’
‘Rooted,’ yawned Warren. ‘I must have drunk enough margaritas last night to fill a bathtub.’
‘Good turn eh?’
‘Too fuckin good,’ Warren yawned again.
‘Hey have a look at this,’ said Les. ‘I got a book on Rosa-Marie Norton.’
‘You did?’
Les showed Warren the book he got from the library and the printout Clover had given him. Warren read the printout and started flicking through the book.
‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘What about some of these paintings.’
‘Yeah. She was a wild woman all right,’ said Les. ‘Wait till you read her story.’
‘I’m going for an Edgar. I’ll flick through it before I have a shower.’
‘Okay. You hungry?’
‘Reckon. I had fuck-all for lunch.’
Warren went to the bathroom. Les set the table and got the dinner together. Warren eventually walked back into the kitchen freshly shaven, wearing his grey tracksuit. He put the book and printout on the table, got a beer and smiled at Les.
‘What a gal,’ he said. ‘I didn’t read all of it. But didn’t she like a root?’
‘Yeah,’ laughed Les. ‘Rosa would have been in a shit sandwich if you cut the crusts off.’ He moved the book and started serving up the rice. ‘You know, Warren, I’ve got a bit of a theory.’
‘What? About Rosa-Marie Norton?’
‘Yeah. I’ll tell you about it while we’re eating.’
While they were having dinner, Les referred to the book and the letter and told Warren his theory about what happened to Rosa-Marie’s paintings. Warren hadn’t read all the book and couldn’t remember everything that was in the letter. But he agreed Norton’s theory did hold water.
‘What about those artists that gave her a painting?’ said Warren. ‘Normo and the other bloke. Who were they?’
‘Don’t know,’ answered Les. ‘There’s nothing in the book about them. And that Yank, Jacques San, was just a pisshead she ate up and spat out.’
Warren picked up the book again. ‘Look at that cover. Shit! She sure had an eye for colour.’
‘Yep,’ agreed Les. ‘She was a female van Gogh.’
When they’d finished eating, Warren made a pot of coffee and they had a cup each while the food went down.
‘So what’s doing tomorrow, Woz?’ Les asked.
Warren shook his head. ‘Don’t ask. I have to be up at six. We’re doing a shoot at Whale Beach in the morning.’
‘Who for?’
‘A rock band called Knife Edge.’
‘Never heard of them,’ shrugged Les.
‘You’re lucky,’ said Warren. ‘A greater bunch of no-talent, shit-for-brains adolescents with attitude I’ve yet to come across. I know what I’d like to shoot the pimply-faced cunts with. An AK-47.’
‘Of course they won’t look like that after you’ve finished with them,’ said Les, sipping his coffee.
Warren looked Norton straight in the eye. ‘Les. When you see this ad on TV, you’ll think they’re silverchair, the Rolling Stones and Oasis all rolled into one.’
‘TV commercials,’ said Les. ‘The science of arresting human intelligence long enough to get money from it.’
‘Right on, baby,’ said Warren. ‘And talking about TV. There’s not a bad movie tonight on the ABC. The original Thing From Outer Space.’
‘Shit! That old black and white clunker,’ said Les. ‘I remember my old man saying he saw that in Brisbane when he was a kid. And it scared the shit out of him.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Warren. ‘If you get too frightened, you can sleep in my room.’
‘Be a bit crowded in there with the three of us, wouldn’t it, Woz?’
They washed up, then made a delicious each and took it into the lounge room. Warren produced his bong and packed a couple of cones, pulling them in with relish. He offered some to Les. Les shook his head and sipped his delicious. While they were waiting for the movie to start, Les turned and looked at the boarder.
‘Hey Warren,’ said Les.
‘Hey yeah,’ replied Warren.
‘What do you think of this for an idea?’
Warren picked up his drink. ‘Go on.’
‘What if I was to go down to Lorne in Victoria. Take that old letter with me. Find Father Shipley. And tell him Rosa-Marie Norton was my mother. I’m the only son. I’ve come to collect my mother’s paintings.’
Warren looked at Les and gave him a long, slow double blink. ‘What did you just fuckin say?’ he asked deliberately.
Les repeated what he’d just said. ‘My name’s Norton,’ he added. ‘I could show him a heap of ID. Plus I got my mother’s letter … Who’s to say I’m not telling the truth? He’d probably be glad to get rid of the horrible bloody … creations of the devil.’
After the two cones, Warren started laughing that hard he had a coughing fit. ‘I don’t fuckin believe you. That has to be the stupidest idea I’ve ever fuckin heard,’ he spluttered. ‘You’re completely fucked.’
‘Okay, sorry,’ shrugged Les. ‘It was just a thought.’
‘Just a thought?’ said Warren. ‘And you’ve got the hide to bag me about making TV commercials. You fuckin moron. Get fucked!’ Warren swallowed some of his drink. ‘Jesus! What next?’
‘All right,’ said Les. ‘Don’t shit your pants. It was just an idea. I’m
sorry I bloody asked.’
Suddenly Warren changed tack. ‘No wait,’ he said. ‘I’m wrong. It’s a good idea. Do it. Fly down to Melbourne. Hire a car and drive down to Lorne. I’ll even see if I can work you a deal through the agency on a car. That’s a terrific idea, Les. You’re a genius.’
Les looked at Warren suspiciously. ‘Yeah that’d be right. You only want to get me out of the house so you and Clover can play chasings up and down the hallway. You two-faced little cunt.’
‘Shit Les. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Yeah. I’m awake up to you. No, fuck you. I’m not going now. You can get fucked.’
‘Gee! That’s nice, isn’t it,’ said Warren.
‘And just for that, I’ll have some of your pot, too. Fuck you.’
Les pulled a couple of cones while Warren watched him out of the corner of his eye and laughed. Then they settled back to watch the movie.
Half stoned and half pissed, the old black-and-white clunker wasn’t bad. Even for another ‘America saves the world’ saga. The dialogue was snappy, it had plenty of pace and the music did add a sense of menace. It wasn’t scary. In fact when the thing showed up at the end, it reminded Les of the camp android in Red Dwarf. It finished and Warren stood up.
‘Okay Les,’ he said. ‘I’m hitting the sack. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Not if you’re getting up at six o’clock you won’t,’ yawned Les, switching off the TV. ‘I’ll probably see you before I go to work tomorrow night.’
‘Whatever,’ said Warren. ‘Hey. I still reckon that’s a good idea, going to Lorne to get those paintings. You should do it.’
‘Yeah. Thanks Warren,’ answered Les. ‘I’ll give it some more thought.’
Warren went to the bathroom, followed by Les, then they both went to bed. The booze and the cones had made Les tired and he always enjoyed an early night when he wasn’t working. His head had hardly hit the pillow when he was snoring soundly.
Les slept in the next morning and got up around eight. Warren was long gone when Les walked into the kitchen and made some tea and toast. Outside it looked a little cloudy and the wind had come up. Les decided to brush the beach and have a run in Centennial Park. He got into his shorts, trainers and T-shirt, and drove up, parking outside the gates in York Road.
Not having to keep up with Billy, Les took his time jogging around the trees, nodding to the rangers and anybody else who cared to pass the time of day. While he was trotting along, Les figured Warren was right. It would be stupid going to Victoria looking for a batch of paintings that could be anywhere after all these years, and he deserved to be laughed, chaffed and poked shit at. It was a thought, though. Albeit a devious one. But Les was still curious about Rosa-Marie Norton. And if there was one person who’d know about Rosa-Marie Norton it would have to be Price. Les decided he’d bring the subject up when they had a drink after work, then casually produce the old letter from inside his jacket and see what sort of reaction he got. Les finished his run with a few sprints, did some crunches and drove home.
He didn’t get cleaned up straightaway. Instead, he guzzled down a bottle of mineral water, put some old clothes and a pair of protective sunglasses on, and whipper-snipped the patch of lawn at the front of Chez Norton. When he’d finished there, he did Mrs Curtin’s across the road and finished up doing Mrs Beaty’s next door to her. They thanked Les and made him a ‘nice cup of tea’ then gave him GBH of the earhole about the cost of living and the local council. Before they could get too much of a roll on, Les said he had things to do, said goodbye then went inside and got cleaned up.
Les drank some more mineral water and changed back into his shorts and T-shirt. While he was having another glass of water Les had another quick look through the book. The author’s Melbourne address was in the back. The Obelisk Bookshop, Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. Les decided he had to have a book for himself. He rang assistance, got the number and rang Melbourne.
‘Good morning. Obelisk Bookshop,’ came a man’s voice on the other end.
‘Yeah. Is Kenneth Raymond there please?’ asked Les.
‘Speaking.’
‘I’d like to order a copy of your book, The Mystic Mind of Rosa-Marie Norton.’
‘No worries. I have some in stock.’
‘Okay. I’m ringing from Sydney. Can you send me one?’
‘No worries. It’ll be forty-five dollars with postage.’
‘No worries,’ smiled Les. He gave the author his name, address and credit card details.
‘You say your name’s Norton?’ asked Raymond.
‘Yeah. That’s right,’ said Les.
‘No relation — surely?’
‘No,’ laughed Les. ‘But I’m interested in her art. And her.’
‘Yes. She was a fascinating woman all right,’ said Raymond.
‘She sure was,’ agreed Les. ‘How long before it will get here?’
‘Oh. It should be there within a week.’
‘Okey doke. Thanks a lot.’
‘No worries.’
Yeah. No wuckin furries, Les smiled to himself. Good old Melbourne. Les got some money and left the house, locking the door behind him.
He went to the photo shop in Hall Street and xeroxed a copy of the letter, plus the envelope. Then Les went to the Hakoah Club and had a meal of matso ball soup, and veal schnitzel with creamed spinach and veg. Washed down with a coffee and a quick flutter on the keno in the Maccabi Bar. After losing a few dollars, Les walked home, full, contented and on top of the day. After putzing around the house sorting out his washing and a few things, it was time to iron a shirt, put on his black trousers and bomber jacket, have a cup of tea and get ready to be at work by seven-thirty. Warren wasn’t home when he left. Les tucked the old letter inside his jacket, locked up and went out to his car. The traffic wasn’t too bad and Les was parked in an office driveway down from the club and jogging up the club’s stairs a little before seven-thirty. Billy was inside, dressed pretty much like Les, talking to Price and George. Price was wearing a single-breasted, cream suit with a yellow silk tie, George was in a blue yachting jacket, grey trousers and a regimental striped tie. Around them the staff were preparing for another night of gambling. Everybody said hello to Les. Les said hello back then stopped to take in the new two-tone blue carpet and the distinct smell of freshness in the air.
‘Very nice, Price,’ said Les. He pointed to the ceiling. ‘You’ve even shouted the club a new chandelier.’
Price made a magnanimous gesture. ‘You know me, big fellah. Money’s no object when it comes to providing the best for my customers.’
Les nodded. ‘Yes. It’s doubtful Saddam Hussein would have spent as much on one of his palaces in Baghdad. Do you and Saddam have the same insurance company, Price?’
‘No. Just the same accountant,’ replied Price.
Les smiled. ‘Hey. There’s something I want to see you about after work, too.’
‘Good. Because I want to see you about something myself. Has Eddie rung you at all?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t matter. He’ll be here later.’
Norton’s antenna went up and started turning. ‘You want to see me? Eddie was going to ring me? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. You’ll find out after work,’ said Price.
‘Okay.’ Les turned to George. ‘I like the yachting jacket, commodore. All you need is a mono-grammed pocket and you’d look like a poker machine supervisor at the Double Bay Yacht Club.’
‘All you need with that nose of yours is a white glove and you’d look like Michael Jackson,’ replied George.
Les gave them all an indignant once up and down. ‘Well I didn’t come in here to be insulted by riff raff. I’m going down to the foyer where it’s more suited to a man of my congeniality and bearing.’
‘Yeah. Ball bearings,’ said George.
Les turned and walked down to the foyer, pleased he’d managed to get a rise out of George so early in the night. Altho
ugh Les had to admit, George didn’t tap dance too bad and often gave as good as he got. Straightaway, a team of Hungarian Jews, very astute German whist players, came up that Les recognised. There were smiles and high-pitched Hungarian greetings all round as Les welcomed them inside, then they walked up the stairs just as Billy came down.
‘So how was the trip to the dentist?’ asked Les.
The boys had been going to a Vietnamese dentist at Double Bay named Jim Ho, who they called Uncle Ho. He was a fantastic dentist. An artist. And with a great sense of humour.
‘How was it?’ said Billy. ‘An hour of misery and pain. And then you have to pay for the privilege. But check this crown.’ Billy showed Les his new tooth in the front. It looked better than the original.
‘Jees, he does a bloody good job,’ agreed Les.
‘Yeah. His wife just had a baby so he shouted me another shot of novocaine. I didn’t feel a thing to be honest. Until I got the fuckin bill.’
Les had a stretch. ‘So what’s going on with Eddie and Price? You heard anything?’
Billy shook his head. ‘No. Nothing.’
‘Oh well,’ said Les. ‘I’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.’
Rosa-Marie's Baby Page 3
