Islands

by Peggy Frew

  Going to paint, fuck it.

  (Later)

  Three watercolours of Red Rocks, not bad. Only saw two other people, one fishing, one walking. Tomorrow I’d better go into Cowes. Stupid name for a town when you say it out loud, moo, but quite pretty written down, a pleasing shape.

  Cat showed up, good, so I could call M to say all is well and I’m looking after her. Him? Can’t remember.

  Don’t feel like eating anything other than cheese and biscuits, and drinking WINE. But M wittering at me over phone to harvest vegies from her cornucopia, ‘pick the beans while they’re tender, silverbeet’s full of iron,’ blah blah, so okay I will. She uses seaweed for fertiliser. Stinks.

  Tues May 19th

  Didn’t try to call Ally last night so why do I not feel any better today? Went for walk on beach, saw one person, a girl. Wonder what she’s doing here. Young, early twenties? Looks a wreck, I have to say, probably even worse than I do, thought we might exchange smiles of fellow isolates but she wouldn’t look at me.

  Gearing up to go to moo-Cowes, better call M first.

  (Later)

  Missed M, tried a few times, idiot at motel reception couldn’t say if they were actually in room or not. Visions of poor M trying to contain G. She was worried about taking him out of familiar environment. But she did get extra meds to ‘calm’ him, i.e. stupefy. Teeth must be seriously bad to warrant all this, trip to Melb, paying for motel. She must be as broke as I am.

  Poor, poor M. What would Mum think? ‘You make your own luck.’ Yeah, Mum, but you didn’t have a kid like Greg. Your two kids are just fuck-ups in the regular sense of the word. Actually, M isn’t a fuck-up, she’s just had her life hijacked by G and his illness. So that leaves me and what excuse do I have?

  Wed May 20th

  M rang last night. They’ve done some of the stuff to G but it’s more complicated than they thought, they’ve booked him in for ‘priority surgery’ but prob won’t happen till Fri. She says he’s quite settled at motel so they’ll stay there. I asked about money and she said it’s okay, she has quite good savings and she’s never spent her half of what Mum left us. She sounded quite chipper, considering, maybe she’s enjoying the change of scene. Maybe the motel room has a good heater. Writes me, wearing two jumpers, scarf and sitting in bed with electric blanket. Cat has decided it likes me now electric blanket is on.

  Big relief, actually, that M okay for money. Been feeling bad I didn’t offer her my place to stay in Melb. But she knows it’s a studio. Where would G sleep? And what if he did something to my paintings?

  (Later)

  Should I regret spending Mum’s money on trip to Europe with Ally? Probably. But fuck it was beautiful, fuck she was beautiful, it was like everything was a hundred times more glorious when I looked at it, then her, then it. That painting I did of her in our room in Paris will never be a great painting but it will always be a favourite.

  This too shall pass, I know. Wallowing is a privilege, I know this too. M has never wallowed in her life, no time for it.

  Apart from G’s room with camping mat and paint chipped (picked?) off walls and no curtains or anything, this is the most orderly house I’ve ever been in. Poor as all get out, but never seen a house so clean and tidy. Reckon M cleans the bathroom every day. Stove has not one mark on it, like never used. Pot plants drooping, have I watered them too much?

  There is a sunset, I’m going for a walk.

  (Later)

  A development. Sitting on beach, not too cold and wind dropped for once so got out pastels and sketchbook. Deep in work, eventually realise someone standing behind me. The sad girl walker. She says, ‘Wow, you’re good.’ Then she says, ‘Really good.’ I look at her, she’s pissed. Swaying on her feet. She kneels down beside me, I can smell the booze on her. ‘I’m a painter,’ she says. ‘Yeah?’ I say. Feel a strong sense of being the responsible adult (new experience). She’s in a bad way, slurring her words and leaning all over me.

  She says she’s staying at her grandma’s house, grandma dead, had a stroke three months ago. ‘I’ve been coming here my whole life. But it’s different now.’

  I don’t say anything, keep drawing. Feel kind of nervous. She seems v volatile. Not in a threatening way. She seems raw.

  She does a big sway, says, ‘I’d better go.’ I help her up. Skinny little arms. I touch her hand and it’s freezing.

  I ask who’s with her at her grandma’s house and she says no one. She says she’s ‘having a break’ from her boyfriend. Then she says, ‘Actually, we’re splitting up.’

  I say, ‘Yeah?’ But I don’t tell her about Ally. Why not? Don’t know. Instinct. Respect? I’ve never been the competitive type and she’s clearly way worse off than I am. I’ve done early-twenties break-ups and what I’m going through now is not a patch on one of those. Poor kid.

  I help her up to the track. Her grandma’s place backs on to it, same as M’s, but she’s down the road end, near the car park. I ask if she needs me to come up to the house with her but she says no.

  Thurs May 21st

  Went for another walk this eve. Windy this time, v cold. No sign of girl. I even loitered on track near steps up to her place. Could see a light on.

  Spoke with M. Everything okay, surgery tmrw. Reckons she’ll be back w G on Monday, says I’m welcome to stay longer. Maybe I will, for a day or two, give M a break. Haven’t done that for a long time now, feel bad. Fucking Ally, bewitched me for five years, made me forget my poor sister.

  Started three more watercolours today. V happy with one in particular.

  Fri May 22nd

  Went into Cow-town this morn. On impulse stopped at girl’s house and knocked on door, thought I’d ask if she needed anything but no answer. Her car there, little rust bucket, even worse than mine. Curtains not drawn and light left on in kitchen. Wasn’t snooping but did see table with paints laid out, cheap brand, and she’s working on paper, must be flat broke. I remember those days.

  Called Meredith and told her I’m doing some watercolours if she wants to book a show later in the year. She sounded chuffed; ‘Oh, Lindsay, I’m so pleased,’ in her fake English accent. Good old Meredith, she’s put up with me when others wouldn’t. Felt quite jolly, went down to beach and started two more paintings.

  (Later)

  M rang, all went well. A day’s rest at motel then they’re driving back Sun if G okay by then.

  (Later)

  Restless.

  I WILL NOT CALL ALLY.

  Why did I buy this nice shiraz? And this unfiltered grenache? And this brie? Down to $170 in bank. If only my income could keep up with my middle-aged tastes.

  Lonely!

  Sat May 23rd

  Hungover. Monster bruise on shin.

  What was I thinking? Forty-something semi-successful (i.e. dirt poor) lezzo artist drinks a bottle of wine then staggers along poorly lit track to house of recently deceased old lady to ask lady’s granddaughter who is almost total stranger if she’d like some brie. And trips on stairs on way.

  Truth is I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t think it was horniness, or attempt to fill an Ally-shaped hole. Restless, yes. Lonely, yes. But not horny. Not for that poor kid.

  She let me in. I saw her work, her paintings, before she cleared them from the table. I said nothing because I didn’t want to scare her, but they’re very good.

  We drank the shiraz. We ate some brie. We smoked my rollies and listened to Sonic Youth on her grandma’s tape deck. Eventually, after enough wine, we sketched each other. Nothing sexual, not at all. She’s good, an exceptionally good artist. It was fun, it was what I needed, to get out of my own brain. And maybe the same for her. Hard to tell though.

  But then she brought out the brandy. And things got blurry. Not sexual! (Why do I keep saying this? Because there were vibes? Were there vibes? Two-way vibes, or maybe just my usual non-specific sad middle-aged vibes at the sight of youth, the excruciating, ungrateful beauty of youth, which I get all the time,
over anyone, female or male, which I even got over the teenaged boy with the mullet at the supermarket in Cowes yesterday. Or is it because I didn’t tell her I’m gay, because I didn’t want to scare her, to spoil the mood? And that feels weird, to lie by omission, but also I know that if I told her she’d probably freak out and it would be awful because no encounter in which the words ‘I’m not hitting on you’ are uttered ever goes well.)

  Aaah! Whatever, things got blurry in a completely non-sexual way. And she started to talk.

  Sitting at the table, room full of grandma stuff, row of photos on a shelf above her head, I could see her up there, young and gawky, school uniform.

  There are blanks in my memory. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention, but I thought she was talking about her boyfriend, the break-up. In fact, she was, because she said, ‘We speak on the phone and it’s the same thing every time, he says, “Why can’t you be happy?” and I say, “I don’t know.” And then he says, “Is it me?” and I say, “No!” And he says, “What is it then?”’ etc. etc. and then suddenly she’s got her head down on the table and she’s not talking about him any more, she’s saying, ‘I hated her. Not all the time, but still, I did. I thought she was a brat, that she just wanted attention. I hated that she still loved Mum. I hated her for choosing Mum over me. And now she’s gone and I can’t stop thinking if I’d been different, if I’d been nice to her …’

  She said other things, but that’s all I can remember, and then right in the middle of this head-on-the-table speech she jumped up and said, ‘Thanks for the wine, you have to go now,’ and next thing I’m out on the lawn, groping my way down the steps and back here in the dark.

  (Later)

  I thought it was the grandma she was talking about. ‘Now she’s gone.’ But then what about the stuff about being a brat, wanting attention? Can a grandma be a brat?

  Sun May 24th

  The girl has left. Her car wasn’t there when I walked past last night, and not there today. All the curtains closed, lights off. Gate locked with padlock.

  Poor kid. Feel quite shaken up.

  Beautiful, mild day. Sitting out in garden, listening for M’s car.

  In a week I will be 42 years old. Realise with a shock that I am actually going to be okay. Thinking of that girl, what I could have said to her, about art and pain and work and salvation, what lessons I could have passed down, worldly wise guru that I am. But who listens, at her age? Some things can’t be known until later.

  In the boot of my car are my new paintings, ready to show Meredith. Also in there are the sketches from Friday night—both sets. Funny, she looked so sad to me, the whole time, from when I first saw her on the beach to when she jumped up and ran out of the room at the end, but in my sketches she doesn’t look sad. She looks smart and tough. In one she holds a cassette, cigarette between her lips, and she is slyly smiling. And how do I look, in her sketches? With my little crow’s-feet, my knobbly nose? I look—ha—I look kind. Gentle, and kind. That’s a surprise.

  Sun on my face, breathing the tang of M’s seaweed garden beds—I am having a moment of hope, sweet hope, and am glad no one’s here to see my foolish grin and a couple of tears sneaking out. The tears are for her, I think, the girl. I hope she makes it, gets over whatever it is she needs to get over—to do with that person who is gone, the brat. And maybe I’m crying for M a bit, too, for her garden, her work of art, her salvation, which she has gone about making so quietly, so privately, that it puts me to shame.

  I will stay for a while, if M will have me. Give her a hand. Spend some time with G. Maybe I am kind. Kinder than I thought I was, anyway.

  PAINTINGS, 2005

  NO ROOM AND CURVES

  by June Worth

  All paintings oil on canvas.

  Sex Is a Mind Game

  Thickly daubed paint, white and flesh tones on a deep blue background, small amounts of crimson, pink and yellow in details. Execution is rough; the painting is almost primitive in style. A room, a window, a bed, sheets falling towards the floor. On the bed two naked figures—a woman with shoulder-length dark hair, and a man with shorter, fairer hair. They are in a sexual embrace; both faces have broad smiles; the woman covers her eyes with one hand. On the floor at the far end of the room lie a pair of scissors and some cut-up pieces of fabric, pink and red lace-trimmed satin.

  Lingerie

  On a dark background, brownish-red, a pair of lace underpants floats, skimpy, crotchless. The underpants are a salmon pink colour, rendered in chunky paint; the effect is almost skin-like. The slit in the crotch of the underpants is angled to face the viewer, the lace at its edges looks like teeth against the very deep red that shows through.

  Anna

  A bathroom, brightly lit by a beam of sunlight from a window. The walls are pale green, paint applied thickly and unevenly. There is nothing in the room but a showerhead, reaching in from one side, crudely rendered. Paint is dabbed and streaked in luminous white, pale green, yellow and grey to create a cascade of water filling most of the space below the showerhead. Behind these dabs and streaks there is a whitish-pink shape, featureless, ghostly, recognisable as human only by the thin arm that protrudes from one side of the veil of water, holding a cake of soap.

  No Room

  This painting is more detailed, with finer, less textured application of paint. An interior with a window, sofa and television. The light is greenish; through the window a dartboard is visible, hung on a brick wall. Two girls, perhaps in their early teens, one fair, one dark, kneel, watching the television, their backs turned. Most of the room is taken up by an enormous woman—a giant—who lies on the sofa, but overflows so that one of her legs stretches over the heads of the girls, like an archway. She wears only red lace lingerie, bra and skimpy underpants. She is not fat, just oversized, out of proportion with her surroundings. She smiles gently, staring into space. Underneath the woman, between her body and the sofa cushions, is a dark area, in which another figure lies, very shadowy and with a barely discernible face. Hairy dark arms, inhumanly long, emerge from this figure to reach around the woman; they end in long-fingered hands, one resting on the woman’s breast, the other disappearing into her underpants.

  No Room 2

  The giant woman from the other painting lies on the floor of the same room. She is naked in this painting, and even bigger—she has grown so big that the sofa has been pushed by her body into one corner, the television into another. The woman’s face is averted; her hands reach between her own legs in a self-pleasuring action. Pressed against one wall by the enormous woman’s bent knee is the dark-haired girl. Her face is grim, her eyes closed. She wears a pair of shorts but no top; her arms are lowered and the side of one small breast is visible, flattened against the wall.

  Curves

  A dark background, thick slabs of paint, deep purples, reds and browns—nightmarish colours. From the left-hand top corner of the canvas descends a flesh-coloured shape, a large, soft semicircle, suggestive of a body part—breast or buttock. Near the left-hand edge of the canvas the flesh colour darkens, and is bisected by a line. Here also is a cluster of squiggly dark lines—pubic hair? The colours of this flesh vary greatly—parts are a very pale pink, others bright pinkish-purple, others grey and pale brown. The ‘flesh’, if it is such, has an almost map-like quality. There are small brown dots and light marks, which could be freckles, moles and scars.

  Curves 2

  The same bathroom as in Anna, but this time rendered with more detail, the paint applied less thickly. There is no falling water this time. The dark-haired adolescent girl stands under the dry showerhead with a towel around her waist. Her breasts are small, the nipples coloured very brightly, and they have an upwards perk to them—the girl looks down, frowning, and it is as if the breasts are a second set of eyes, gazing back up.

  Curves 3

  A very pale blue background, like a sky. Two figures in the middle of the canvas—teenaged girls in school uniforms. They appear to stand between the viewer an
d the sun: their figures are very dark, details such as the buttons on their dresses almost too much in shadow to make out, and, due to the backlighting, they each have two silhouettes, those of their dresses and those of their bodies underneath. A very close inspection reveals that there are in fact three silhouettes: the dresses, which are see-through; the girls’ adolescent bodies with their slight curves of hips and breasts, which are dark but not completely black; and then an innermost silhouette showing smaller, thinner bodies inside the adolescent ones—the girls’ prepubescent bodies, totally opaque.

  GOLD STREET

  The boyfriend’s house was small, stuck in between two other houses, stuck right up against them so that they shared walls. And this was in the middle of a whole row of such houses. A terrace, Helen said it was called, the row, and the houses were terrace houses.

  The front gardens had walls too, dividing them, and some of the walls, if the houses were painted different colours, had a line right in the middle of the top of the wall, where the colour changed. Sometimes one side was fresh and new, and the other flaking, worn. The boyfriend’s house was flaking all over; weeds grew up out of the cracks in his side of the wall.

  Once you were in, there was a feeling of being trapped. The hallway was narrow and dark, with dark brown carpet, and all it had was doors down one side, no windows. You had to get down that long tunnel and into the back room before you saw any light—and then it was green light, thick, because outside the windows of the back room was a roof made of heavy corrugated plastic, pale green. This room had a couch and a television, and half of it opened into a very small kitchen, dark brown tiles, yellow laminex. Beyond the kitchen was the bathroom, which had the same colours.