The Artisan Heart

by Dean Mayes

  Isabelle frowned. “Ribbons? What sort of bin has ribbons?”

  Hayden smiled. “Ribbons of timber. From the lathe. My father used to sweep them into a bin. That’s where you found Harris—I mean, Lily. Isn’t it?”

  Genevieve features dropped.

  Hayden appraised the bear’s weathered face. “Well, I’m pleased you rescued Lily,” he signed. “I would have been sad, had she been lost forever. You’re very responsible, Genevieve. I want you to take good care of her.”

  Relieved, Genevieve sat straighter and placed Lily beside her gaudy, dreadlocked companion.

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said. “I am sorry for her poking around.”

  Hayden dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I couldn’t break up a pair like Lily and Rameeka America. It’s clear they belong together.”

  Isabelle tilted her head towards the house. “Shall we get back to it? We can start some of the painting while we wait for the plaster to properly dry.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Hayden patted the table in front of Genevieve. “Come on. I’ll show you how to use the roller.”

  AS SHE HAD WITH THE plastering, Genevieve took to painting with relish. She stood on the scaffold, wielding a roller on the end of a pole across the face of the wall. Hayden stood close by, manipulating a second roller and ensuring Genevieve was safe.

  Though Isabelle kept an eye from the top of the ladder, she allowed herself to trust that Hayden wouldn’t let Genevieve get hurt. In any case, Genevieve was enraptured as Hayden guided her. As the roller ran dry, Genevieve would hand it to Hayden, who would dip it into a tray at his feet and cover it in fresh cream-coloured paint. She worked studiously, maintaining her intense concentration.

  As Genevieve prepared to hand the roller over yet again, Hayden stepped forward and jutted out his chin, causing the roller to swipe across his face and paint a thick streak across his cheeks and nose.

  Genevieve froze and she looked up at Isabelle, worried. A mischievous grin had spread across Hayden’s paint-streaked face and, as she looked back at him, Genevieve began to giggle. Hayden tiptoed theatrically towards Genevieve, his own roller outstretched like a weapon. Genevieve squealed with delight and tensed her body as Hayden daintily passed the roller over her face three times, touching it to her cheeks and nose in turn.

  Hayden winked at her and gestured with a nod towards Isabelle.

  “What do you reckon?” he asked aloud, facing Genevieve so she could understand. She nodded eagerly.

  Anticipating their burgeoning conspiracy, Isabelle waggled a finger at both of them. “Oh no,” she warned, even as she began to laugh. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Hayden was already approaching, brandishing his roller. Isabelle steeled herself, holding her brush up in her hand, while Genevieve squealed and clapped her hands.

  “No, no!” Isabelle protested. “Don’t you dare!” Hayden had become more animated than she had ever seen him. He was filled with mischief. And she liked it.

  As he widened his stance, Isabelle jumped down and prepared to face him head-on, all the while trying hopelessly to suppress her laughter.

  Hayden whipped the roller up and Isabelle parried with her brush—a useless gesture.

  With the same gentleness he had applied to Genevieve, Hayden held the roller in front of Isabelle, touching it to her cheeks and nose. Genevieve slapped her hands to her knees in delight. Hayden bowed in invitation and Isabelle glowered at him humorously. She raised her brush and slowly dragged it from the top of his forehead all the way down to his nose. She ended by touching it to his chin, leaving a perfect blob of paint there.

  Hayden turned, allowing Genevieve to witness her mother’s handiwork, and she clapped and cheered.

  Turning back to Isabelle, who had leaned against the ladder to catch her breath, he froze. Their faces were mere inches apart.

  Their eyes locked.

  Isabelle felt that surge, that pull towards him she had experienced earlier, and she could see Hayden felt the same way. A smile formed on his lips and, suddenly, desperately, she wanted him to lean in and kiss her. Their laughter had dropped away and in its place was something powerful.

  An attraction she hadn’t felt in years. Her breath hitched.

  Then, Hayden hesitated.

  The moment passed. Catching herself before she fell over a precipice, Isabelle looked away. Hayden withdrew, and she cleared her throat and laughed nervously.

  Hayden’s eyes drifted back to Isabelle and she met his gaze.

  His smile was warm.

  ~ Chapter 18 ~

  THAT NIGHT, ISABELLE STOOD BEFORE THE KITCHEN TABLE, HER HANDS IN A LARGE CERAMIC BOWL, WORKING A globe of bread dough. Genevieve was perched on a chair beside her, watching as her mother kneaded and massaged the mass.

  She held a cup in her hands filled with walnuts and currants, and she glanced between the bowl and her mother’s face, waiting for the signal to drop the ingredients into the mixture.

  Isabelle’s concentration seemed absolute as she focused on her fingertips, on how the mixture felt between them as it transformed from a liquid to an elastic form.

  Several times, Genevieve nodded in question, mouthing, “Now, Mum?” and holding up the cup, but Isabelle didn’t respond.

  In truth, Isabelle’s mind was whirling. It kept pulling at her memories from earlier in the day: the moment with Hayden, the thrill she felt when he stood so close. The images passed in front of her, teasing her, competing for her attention.

  She hadn’t felt such a connection to anyone, ever—not even Genie’s father. There was something undeniably attractive about Hayden. It wasn’t immediate, not overwhelmingly masculine, but the longer she spent with him, the more she wanted to be around him.

  And the more she thought about him, the more she felt her concentration spinning off its axle.

  Genevieve studied her mother as her normally careful and considerate treatment of her dough became rough and physical. After several minutes, Genevieve nudged her arm and shook it with consternation.

  Isabelle stopped as if she’d received an electric shock, and she blinked at Genevieve in a daze.

  Genevieve set down the cup of dry ingredients and signed forcefully.

  “Have you got something on your mind, Mum?”

  Even without the benefit of speech, Genevieve’s interrogatory stance was clear.

  Isabelle shook her head. “N-no. Of course not.”

  Genevieve raised her eyebrows skeptically, and Isabelle snatched up the cup and poured the ingredients into the bowl.

  Isabelle stood straight and defensive as her daughter continued to scrutinise her.

  Her cheeks reddened and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  “Genevieve!” she exclaimed aloud. “Will you stop that!”

  HAYDEN RAN HIS HAND OVER his father’s wood lathe, then appraised the little broken chair Genevieve had been using for Lily and Rameeka.

  Having prised the damaged leg from the seat, he mulled over what he could do to repair it. The ornate, round-topped table and the undamaged matching chair sat nearby.

  Despite never having witnessed his father craft such small furniture, the setting was undoubtedly Russell Luschcombe’s work. The meticulous bulbwork in the legs, the delicate carving, and the scrollwork were unmistakable. As unique as a fingerprint.

  Hayden regarded the battered black-and-white photograph pinned to the wall. Though his father’s arms encircled him protectively, Hayden’s childhood expression conveyed—not so much fear, but certainly bewilderment.

  He was embarrassed by the image of his childhood awkwardness. He regretted not having the confidence—the self assuredness—of his father. It was a failing Hayden attributed to much of his recent predicament.

  Turning his attention back to the chair, Hayden adjusted the arm of a dusty lamp, shining its beam across the bench as he lifted the leg and inspected the split, holding the broken sections together.

  He considered gluing t
he pieces, but the wood in the region of the crack had splintered badly. Even if he joined them successfully, he wouldn’t feel right settling.

  He would start from scratch.

  His last failed attempt at turning a replacement chair leg returned to taunt him, and with it came the echo of Bernadette’s voice.

  Stop wasting your time with that rubbish.

  Hayden clenched his jaw. Bernadette had rarely encouraged his recent efforts, whether it be his woodworking or his attempts to support her. In fact, he struggled to think of a single instance in the past year where she’d expressed her appreciation for anything he’d done.

  Then other, more pleasant memories swept her voice away.

  That moment with Isabelle at the bakery. Genevieve’s delighted giggles. Something powerful had been set off between him and Isabelle. He saw her face, her smile. They had imprinted on his consciousness and they wouldn’t leave.

  He didn’t want them to.

  Pure joy rose inside him and suddenly, he felt as though he could do anything. He inspected a pair of squat bins containing various off-cuts of timber Russell had collected, some from hardware stores or timberyards, while others appeared to have been retrieved from nature: tree branches and stray limbs he’d found on his innumerable bush walks.

  Hayden shook his head.

  Always the bowerbird.

  Selecting a short, fat round of red gum, Hayden held it up and compared it to the chair. Though it was almost as tall as the chair itself, it wouldn’t take much to cut it down.

  He appraised the lathe, a relic from another time. Coated in a layer of dust and trailing cobwebs, the machine had stood dormant for years.

  Hayden ran a finger through the dust on the base, revealing painted blue steel underneath that glinted in the light. He inspected the head and tailstock, the drive mechanism and tool rest. At the very least, they appeared serviceable.

  But did it still work?

  Plugging the machine’s cord into a power point, Hayden checked a dial on the wall to see how much power was in the storage batteries of his father’s solar power system, and flicked the switch. The old lathe’s motor hummed to life instantly.

  “Well, what do you know?”

  Hayden examined the machine, watching the mechanism in the headstock spin. Taking up the length of red gum in his hand, he reached for one of his father’s chisels from the wall rack.

  “I can do this.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, HAYDEN BOUNCED down the cottage steps, armed with a cardboard box. He manoeuvred through the gate, paused to close it, and looked at the fence.

  It had been completely repaired, with new pickets standing proudly, waiting to be painted.

  Hayden shook his head and smiled. “Charlie.”

  He stepped out onto the road and walked through the township, turning as the morning sun climbed into view over the eastern ridge. Despite the winter chill, its warmth bathed his face.

  As he passed by the Band Rotunda, Bill Osterbrund looked up from a flowerbed at its base, where he was turning the soil. He fixed both the box and Hayden with a curious frown. “Morning, Doc.”

  Without skipping a beat, Hayden returned his greeting. “Morning, Bill.”

  Opposite the rotunda, Spencer Leckie, the proprietor of the Star Hotel, was tending to some touching up of the paintwork around the window frames. Armed with a brush and a small tin of paint, Spencer turned in Hayden’s direction. “G’day, Doc Luschcombe. How do?”

  “Fine, Spencer,” Hayden returned, gesturing with his elbow towards the building. “Looks good.”

  “Plenty to do in the lead-up to the Ljusfest, Doc. This is just the beginning. Well done at the meeting, by the way.”

  Hayden smiled and continued on.

  Rounding the bend at the Corner Stores, Hayden spotted Margaret Parton at the entrance to the post office, apron in place and armed with her broom. She noted the box in his arms and puckered her lips. “Ooh, Dr. Luschcombe. What have you got in there?”

  Hayden gave a mischievous wink. “Urgent business, Margaret. Very important.”

  Margaret scoffed and chuckled. “Best not keep you, then.” She resumed sweeping the stoop, and Hayden stepped around her and kept going.

  When he first arrived in Walhalla, he would have downright cringed at being referred to by his professional title, and indeed, he was still somewhat uncomfortable with it. It had been over a month since the incident at the hospital, but he hated the memory of those last moments of being a doctor. They had soured his long and successful career. But then, the Walhalla locals had always called him “Doc” anyway, from the moment he’d qualified as one.

  Today, he didn’t mind so much.

  HAYDEN WALKED UP THE DRIVEWAY of the bakery to find Isabelle and Genevieve at the outdoor table. Genevieve was sitting before her laptop, engrossed in her lessons, while Isabelle was pegging clothes on a rack.

  Genevieve looked up and blinked at the sight of the box. Isabelle turned and her brow furrowed as Hayden set it on the ground beside her.

  “What’s this?” Genevieve signed. “For me?”

  Hayden held out his hands. “Open it.”

  Genevieve slid her laptop aside, then turned and leaned over the box. She gasped as she lifted the little mended chair from within and set it down beside her.

  Hayden reached in and lifted out the accompanying chair, along with the table.

  “Oh wow!” Isabelle exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

  His hand fell to the chair. The new leg, while differing in tone from the rest, was a perfect recreation of the original.

  Genevieve took up her dolls and placed them in their respective seats at the little table.

  “It was in the work shed. One of my father’s projects,” Hayden explained. “I didn’t have any wood stain or lacquer left to match the leg with the rest of the timber, I’m sorry. I’ll get some the next time I’m down in Moe.”

  Isabelle ran her hand over the tabletop, marvelling at the rich detail of the wood grain. Despite the size of the toy furniture, the craftsmanship was exquisite.

  “I must give you something for this,” Isabelle said. “This is… beautiful!”

  Hayden waved a hand in front him. “Of course not. I wouldn’t think of asking anything for it. Besides, I know how much Genevieve loved it.”

  Genevieve blushed, interpreting his last sentence.

  “Now.” Hayden clapped his hands together. “This isn’t the only reason for my call.”

  Isabelle titled her head. “Oh?”

  “Yes. I wanted to ask if you would like to take the morning off and come with me for a walk and a picnic.”

  Isabelle stiffened and she glanced at Genevieve, who was engrossed in arranging Lily. “Ah—I don’t know. I have some prep work to do for tomorrow’s bake. I don’t think—” Her voice faltered. She rubbed her forehead awkwardly.

  Hayden looked down at the ground, disappointment in his features.

  Her heart thudded.

  Say yes, you fool! “Um,” Isabelle stammered. “Where are you planning on walking to?”

  Looking up, Hayden gestured behind him and managed a nervous smile. “There’s a spot I know. It’s not far from here. It’s, ah…safe? It’s safe.”

  It’s safe?? Hayden scolded himself. What’s that supposed to mean??

  Seeing him floundering, Isabelle couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips.

  “I-I think that would be lovely.”

  A WINDING BUSH TRACK SNAKED its way up the hillside far above town. Genevieve, skipping happily, arrived at a clearing and stopped. Her eyes grew wide. The clearing was less an open space in the otherwise thick Australian bush, and more a natural amphitheatre, bordered by the mountains, tree ferns and monolithic eucalyptus. It was an explosion of bright pinks, purples, reds, and yellows of native flowers—pink heath, blue bush orchids and a smattering of wattle. It was as though she had arrived in a wondrous fairy garden. Far above her head, the foliage at the tops of the
towering eucalyptus glistened in the brilliant sunshine with droplets from an overnight shower.

  As Hayden and Isabelle caught up, she turned a circle and held her hands out wide.

  “Look, Mum! The treetops are glittering like diamonds!” she signed, shrugging her backpack from her shoulders and darting across to a carpet of wildflowers.

  Hayden and Isabelle took a moment to catch their breath. Grateful to be on a flat surface again, Hayden exhaled, lowering the basket he was carrying to the ground. Isabelle bent over to anchor her arms on the tops of her knees. “I know why I never bothered coming up here as a kid,” she wheezed, reaching for the canteen hanging from her pack and taking a generous lug from it.

  Hayden watched her as she squinted at the sunlight piercing the treetops. Together, they took in the view. There was an almost uninterrupted vista of the rugged Australian bush in all directions, with the mountaintops stretching away like a rumpled blanket.

  Hayden went over to Genevieve’s backpack and set down his own, placing the wicker basket beside it.

  “On second thought, I think I might have missed out,” Isabelle remarked, sipping from her canteen. “This place is beautiful. It’s like… something from a Monet painting.”

  “This,” Hayden said, lifting the flap on his backpack and pulling out a picnic blanket. “Is Mormon Town. Or at least what’s left of it.” Giving the blanket a brisk snap, he unfurled it on the ground.

  Hayden turned his attention to the picnic Annette had prepared. Inside was a veritable feast, with ham and turkey, sliced and sealed in airtight containers. There was a trio of cheeses, pickled olives, and sundried tomatoes and artichoke hearts. He lifted out two glass jars of chutney. And finally, of course, there was a loaf of Isabelle’s bread.

  Isabelle looked across to where Genevieve was exploring. Beyond the ridge, a track disappeared down the mountainside. Isabelle could see clear across the majestic valley towards the next set of mountains, where ethereal curls of mist dazzled in the sunlight. The sweet smell of the bush, crisp and clear, tingled in her nostrils. Though it was cool, it was by no means unpleasant. She turned her face towards the sun, its warmth touching her skin, and felt herself relax for the first time in a long time.