While Mrs Settree flicked gingerly through the book on Rosa-Marie Norton, Les drove on in silence, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. There was a fortune in paintings in the boot of the car, and it looked like he was going to have to give them to Mrs Settree. It was the only right thing to do. The money they’d bring would help her and the kids when they got booted out of the orphanage. But it would have looked a lot better in his bank account. What about poor, innocent Mrs Settree, though, thought Les. The last thing she would have been expecting was to find out who and what her mother was after all this time. It also looked like sneaky old Father Shipley might have been her father, too. Before Les knew it, he was approaching the pier and coming into Lorne. He hung a left near the church, drove up the hill and next thing he’d pulled up in the orphanage driveway.
‘Well. Here we are,’ said Les, switching off the motor.
Mrs Settree looked up from the book. ‘Oh. We are too.’ She closed the book and turned to Les. ‘There’s quite some interesting things in here,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I show Angie?’
‘No. Bring my bag with you,’ said Les. ‘I’ll get the paintings.’
They got out of the car. Mrs Settree waited while Les got the paintings from the boot, then opened the door in the gate for him and they walked round to the kitchen. Mrs Settree opened the flyscreen.
‘Round to the left, Mr Norton,’ she said. ‘Put them in the lounge room. I’m going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?’
‘How about a coffee?’ said Les. ‘Milk and two sugars.’
‘If you want.’
Les followed a corridor with a tattered blue runner into a large cedar-panelled lounge room full of furniture that had seen better days. Three old grey Chesterfield lounges and a half-a-dozen lounge chairs of different shapes and patterns were sitting on several stained scatter-rugs. And about the same number of vinyl chairs sat round an old varnished table that had been cut down and turned into a long coffee table. A huge marble fireplace faced the blue-curtained windows looking out over the ocean from across the verandah, and to the side was a TV and a cheap stereo with a small CD stacker. Rock posters and a poster of the Sydney Swans were blue-tacked to the walls, church sale lamps sat in the corners and cheap light fittings hung from the ceiling, replacing what had probably once been chandeliers. Les placed the paintings on a lounge near one of the windows and turned on the lights at a switch near the door.
The green canvas bundle was tied securely. But the knots in the old white rope were thick and easy enough to get your fingers into, so there was no need for a knife. Les started pushing and pulling around and before long he’d loosened the knots. He was starting to undo them when Mrs Settree walked into the lounge room with his overnight bag over her shoulder, carrying a tray with two white mugs on it and a plate of mixed biscuits. She placed the tray on the coffee table and put the overnight bag next to it.
‘Here you are, Mr Norton,’ she said. ‘Yours is the biggest mug.’
‘That’d be me all right. Thanks.’ Les turned and smiled at Mrs Settree. ‘So how are you feeling now, Tania? You all right?’
‘Yes. I’m a little better,’ replied Mrs Settree. ‘But my word, Mr Norton. This has certainly been a bolt out of the blue.’
‘Yeah. I can understand that,’ nodded Les. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. It was instant. But it was all right.
Mrs Settree sat down in one of the vinyl seats and sipped her coffee.
‘Do you need a knife, Mr Norton?’ she asked.
Les shook his head. ‘No. I’ve just about got it undone already.’
‘Oh good.’ Mrs Settree looked up at Les. ‘I must admit, Mr Norton, even though I’m absolutely flabbergasted, it’s still very exciting.’
‘Yeah,’ muttered Les. He drank some more coffee, put the mug on the table and went back to the green canvas bundle. ‘Anyway. Let’s see what’s in here. And see what all the fuss was about.’
Les dug at the knots and his strong fingers soon had them undone. He removed the rope and put it to one side, then carefully unfolded the canvas. Inside were six paintings, a metre square, three were in plain, wide, pinewood frames. Rosa-Marie’s were in the middle with the others surrounding them, as Emile Decorice had described in the letter. Les placed the three other paintings on the floor, leaning against the lounge, then spread Rosa-Marie’s across the lounge facing away from the window and stood back.
‘Oh my God!’ gasped Mrs Settree.
Les picked up his coffee and ran his eyes over the paintings. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded appreciatively. ‘I think I know why they wanted to burn your mother’s paintings years ago.’
On the right was a painting of a man, half eagle, half human, with an enormous erection, having sex with a woman, half tiger and half human, with massive breasts and nipples. The background was a whirlwind of amazing colours and strange, esoteric little figures with bulging eyes. On the left were two Medusa-type women with snakes for hair. Only the snakes were all soft penises. The women had huge bushes of pubic hair and growing out of the pubic hair were more snake-penises. Flying around in the background were sinister masturbating little cherubs with devil’s horns poking out of their heads. The painting in the middle was a circle of stupid-looking fat pigs wearing policemen’s hats and tunics, all sodomising each other. In the middle of the unbroken circle, one of the pigs was wearing a judge’s wig and robes. Dancing around in the background on stumpy little legs with stumpy little genitals hanging down were moneybags with the old pounds and shillings signs on them and cunning, laughing faces. Although the subject matter in the paintings was open to discussion, the figures were wonderfully and skilfully composed and, as usual, the colours were fantastic.
‘Are you absolutely positive this woman was my mother, Mr Norton?’ said a shocked Mrs Settree.
‘Absolutely positive, Tania,’ answered Les. ‘That’s her all right.’ Les pointed to the name. ‘But, before you condemn anybody, Tania, just remember the old saying, never mind the quality, feel the width. Those paintings are worth a packet.’
‘Dear me. I wouldn’t like the children to see them.’
Les shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But shit, the bloke I work for would love to hang that middle one in his office.’
‘Yes. I noticed in one section of the book Rosa-Marie Norton didn’t have a great deal of affection for the police.’
‘Neither does this bloke.’ Les put his mug of coffee down and turned to Mrs Settree. ‘Well. They’re your mother’s paintings, Tania. What do you reckon?’
‘I’m … I’m lost for words,’ blinked Mrs Settree.
‘Yeah. I see what you mean,’ said Les. ‘Anyway. Why don’t we have a look at the others, and see what they’re like?’
‘Very well,’ agreed Mrs Settree.
Les picked up the first one, had a look then placed it on a lounge chair. It was four people seated at a bar. Two men and two women. The colours were soft, yet eye-catching, and the people were all dressed in the style of the forties. The men wore hats and ill-fitting double-breasted suits; the women had print dresses and cheap hats. The four figures all had sad, almost comical faces. Poking out from under the frame was painted in fine, white lettering WILLIAM. The rest was obscured by the frame. Les stared at the painting and picked his chin.
‘I’ve seen paintings by this bloke before,’ he said. ‘When I’ve been browsing through different books up at the library. Where’s that letter?’
‘It’s a very nice painting,’ said Mrs Settree.
‘Yeah.’ Les took the letter from his overnight bag, found what he was looking for and pointed excitedly. ‘That’s it. “Dobbo left a painting for you.” That’d be a nickname. I’ll bet that’s a William Dobell. He was friends with Rosa-Marie from the Cross. She used to model for him. Shit!’
‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Mrs Settree.
‘Yeah. He had a drama with the art establishment over the Archibald Prize.’
‘Is it valuable?’ asked M
rs Settree.
‘Valuable?’ said Les. ‘Are you kidding? It’s probably worth more than the others put together. Christ! What else is here?’
Les picked up the next painting. It was like a biblical scene of a half-a-dozen wide-hipped and buxom nude women seated out in the open on rugs, or standing holding parasols. Some were wearing hats or sandals. One of the women was holding a lion on a lead and in the background, two men in ancient Egyptian clothing were seated on horses. The colours were bright and the figures all had a casual haughtiness about them. At the bottom of the painting, just NORM was visible. The rest of the name was cut out by the wide frame.
‘That one’s a little risqué,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘It’s quite nice, though.’
Les put the painting on another lounge chair and picked up the letter from where he’d placed it on the coffee table. ‘There it is,’ he said, stabbing his finger at the letter again. ‘“Normo”. Another nickname. That’s got to be a Norman Lindsay. Rosa-Marie used to model for him too. Holy shit!’
‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘There was a movie?’
‘Yeah. Sirens.’
‘That’s it,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘He was quite famous — I think.’
‘Quite famous?’ said Les. ‘Just a bit. Bloody hell. This is worth a heap too.’ Les put the letter back and picked up the last painting.
‘Oh my God!’ gasped Mrs Settree.
Les ignored her for the moment and placed the painting on another chair. It was just a mass of coloured lines and dots. As if the artist had squeezed the paint over the canvas like toothpaste. Nevertheless, in garish patterns of reds and blues and yellows and whites, the painting had a colourful intricateness about it that drew your attention. In the corner was written JACKSON. Like the others, the rest of the name was covered by the cheap frame. Les picked up the letter, looked at it, then dropped it back on the table.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Les. ‘No. This isn’t happening.’ He turned to Mrs Settree who was staring at the painting. ‘Mrs Settree,’ said Les. ‘In that letter Emile Decorice refers to a drunken bullshit artist called Jacques San. It was probably a false name he was getting around under. And in the book it says how he fell in love with Rosa-Marie, and she turfed him out. She called him Jacques the Dribbler. There was a movie about an artist with Ed Harris. Because of his style of painting, they used to call him Jack the Dripper. I was singing the lyrics the other night from the song by Alabama 3. “Reachin”: “Talking like Soprano, Thinking like …” oh shit!’ Les turned to Mrs Settree, who was still staring at the squiggly painting. ‘You’d have to pull the frame off to be sure. But I’ll bet my life that’s a bloody Jackson Pollock. And if it is, it’s worth millions.’ Les threw back his head and tore at his hair. ‘Bloody millions.’
Mrs Settree continued to stare at the painting. ‘This Jackson Pollock,’ she said. ‘Was he having an affair with my mother?’
‘Yeah. Pretty heavy too,’ said Les. ‘He was in love with her.’
Mrs Settree turned to Les. ‘Mr Norton, I’d like to see my daughter. And I want you to meet her too.’
Les stared morosely at the last painting. ‘Yeah, righto. Why not.’
Mrs Settree stood up and Les followed her along the hallway and out through the kitchen. What have I done, he asked himself as they walked down the verandah to the courtyard. I’ve just turned this skinny old bat into a multimillionaire. And it should be me. Me. Shit! She’s got to give me one fuckin painting.
A set of steps ran from the courtyard up to a gravel path crossing the land behind the orphanage, to a door at the front of the white building in the middle of the block. The door was painted bright red, with a brass knocker shaped like a monkey. A sign in Gothic print above the knocker read WELCOME TO ANGELA’S WORLD OF THE WEIRD AND WONDERFUL. Mrs Settree rapped on the door then pushed it ajar.
‘Angela,’ she said. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes. Come in, Mum,’ replied a deep female voice from inside.
Mrs Settree opened the door, Les followed her through and she closed it behind them.
Inside was one big room made into an art studio, with a partitioned-off kitchen and bedroom at the rear. There were dark curtained windows on either side and a single fluorescent bulb in the ceiling, next to several mobiles of bats and spiders, partially filled the room with milky white light. A lounge, a small stereo and a TV sat along the left-hand side of the room and on the other side were shelves of gothic bric-a-brac and a bookshelf stacked with magazines, novels and hardbacks. Several abstract paintings hung on the walls, along with some weird posters and painted masks, giving the place an atmosphere of sinister gloom. The floor was covered in cheap green carpet and spread across the carpet was a large paint-spattered canvas tarpaulin. A girl dressed in a black top and a maroon velvet miniskirt over black stockings and blue Doc Martens was standing to one side of the tarpaulin, holding a can of paint in one hand and a long, skinny paintbrush in the other. A black beret was shoved on her head and a white cigarette holder with a roll-your-own in it, poked out from one side of her mouth while she dripped yellow paint onto a piece of plywood sitting in the middle of the tarpaulin. The young girl was very attractive, with loose black hair, sensuous purple glossed lips and plucked eyebrows that arched up, giving her a sinister haughtiness. Two obsidian green eyes peered down at what she was doing and, despite the girl’s youth, she was the spitting image of Rosa-Marie Norton. Les gave a double blink and realised why Mrs Settree had reacted the way she did when she saw the photo in the book. He then noticed the painting on the floor and the ones hanging on the walls were in the same drip style as the Jackson painting sitting in the lounge room.
‘Angela,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘This is Mr Norton. Mr Norton, this is my daughter Angie.’
‘Hello … Angela,’ said Les.
The girl nodded impassively and the obsidian green eyes studied Norton intently. ‘Hello Mr Norton,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good thanks, Angela,’ replied Norton, hiding his shock and an icy feeling the girl had sent up and down his spine. ‘And you can call me Les, if you like.’
‘Whatever,’ answered the girl.
‘Angie. Stop what you’re doing,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘And come into the lounge room. I’ve something interesting to show you.’
‘Interesting?’ said Angela.
‘Yes. Mr Norton and I uncovered some paintings in Apollo Bay. And they were done by my mother.’
‘Your mother?’ said Angela, screwing up her face.
‘Yes. I’ve found out who my mother was,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘Your grandmother. I think I’ve also found out who my father was, too, Angie.’ Mrs Settree turned to Les then pointed out the drip paintings around the walls and smiled. ‘What do you think, Mr Norton?’
Les stared at the paintings and shook his head in amazement. ‘Yeah. I think I know exactly what you mean, Tania.’
Angela looked curiously at her mother, then suspiciously at Les. ‘Okay,’ she said, putting down the paint and paintbrush and leaving her cigarette holder in an ashtray near the bookcase. ‘Let’s go inside.’
Mrs Settree opened the door and Les followed them outside then back down the path to the orphanage. As they walked through the courtyard and into the kitchen, Les felt a sinister sense of deja vu. A mother and daughter in a deserted bay near Cooktown that he’d never told anyone about. They stepped into the lounge room and Mrs Settree pointed to the paintings.
‘Well, Angela,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Angela studied the paintings then pointed to the ones by Rosa-Marie Norton. ‘Who did these?’ she asked. ‘They’re so cool.’
‘This woman.’ Mrs Settree took the book from Norton’s overnight bag and handed it to her daughter. ‘Rosa-Marie Norton. My mother. And I want you to read this letter.’ Mrs Settree handed Angela the copy of the letter, then turned to Les. ‘Would you like another cup of coffee, Mr Norton?’
‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Les
. ‘That’d be nice.’
Mrs Settree took the two mugs out to the kitchen leaving Les alone with Angela. Angela looked at the book then began reading the letter. Les sat on a lounge chair feeling very uncomfortable and as he watched Angela out of the corner of his eye, his mind started racing again. Mrs Settree returned with another mug of coffee and placed it on the coffee table as Angela finished reading the letter.
‘Well, Angela,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘What do you think? It appears she never came down to Melbourne to have an abortion at all. She came down for her exhibition. And to have me. Then she left me at Saint Benedicta’s.’
Angela nodded slowly and folded up the letter. ‘Quite amazing,’ she said. ‘Quite amazing.’ She turned to her mother. ‘So how did all this come about, Mum?’
‘I’ll explain it to you in detail later, Angie,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘But see the comparison between that painting and yours.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Angela quietly. ‘That’s quite amazing.’
‘Mr Norton said it’s by an artist named Jackson Pollock. And it’s worth millions. Not only that. It appears he was my father. Your grandfather.’
Angela studied the painting and looked at the name half-hidden on the bottom. ‘What an amazing coincidence,’ she said composedly.
‘Yes. Isn’t it,’ said Mrs Settree.
Angela turned to Les. ‘And you say these paintings are worth millions of dollars, Mr Norton?’
‘I’m positive,’ answered Les.
‘Does anybody else know they’re here?’ asked Angela.
‘No. Just the three of us, Angela,’ said Les.
Mrs Settree smiled at her daughter. ‘Anyway, Angie. Mr Norton’s coming around for tea tonight and a few drinks. We can all talk about it then.’
Angela looked at her mother for a moment, then turned to Les with a half-smile on her face, and her snake-like green eyes glowed for a second in a shaft of light coming through the window. ‘You’re calling round tonight … Les,’ she said easily.
Rosa-Marie's Baby Page 22
