Rupert, too absorbed in his work to bother attending before, now decided that he wanted to be included in the art show and would display one of his more controversial works from the Pigs of War series. At breakfast on the day of the show, he entered the kitchen with the thing under his arm, wearing his usual paint-splattered shirt and trousers, his hat pushed back, and a fag dangling from his mouth. I was fascinated by the garish slashes of furious oils, the smug, triumphant pig, its pouting lipsticked mouth, knickers down around its trotters, a bikini top of the Stars and Stripes barely covering its enormous jutting breasts, and colourful streamers of intestines hanging behind it. Across its base was painted the title, Pig Celebrates. The pig waved triumphantly, bloodied war medals in one hand and a bottle of Coca-Cola in the other. The painting was grotesque, ugly and confronting, and clearly not suitable for the genteel Mount Bellwood art show.
‘Oh, darling, do you really think so?’ said Doris with a warning look at Shalimar, who’d gone into a fit of the giggles on sighting the thing.
‘Yep, I bloody think so,’ replied Rupert, and all of us Flowers exchanged glances before joining in Shalimar’s laughter.
This was one of our rare outings to the village; as it turned out, it would also be our final outing together. A hush descended on the crowd in the hall when we entered. The Rhododendron Princess had been dancing in her long red ball gown with a wreath of rhododendrons pinned around her head, while her princes – several local boys of varying ages dressed in pink vests and white trousers – took turns waltzing with her. At the piano, Patrick Bishop looked like a prize turkey in a bright pink vest and with a rhododendron in his hat. He stopped the tune at our appearance.
To the watching, silent villagers we must have seemed an odd group. Was it my imagination, or did the mothers present clutch their children closer? The men eyed the Flowers hungrily, as if believing all the rubbish about orgies at Currawong Manor. Each of us had made an effort for the occasion. Kitty looked especially fairy-pretty in a pink cotton dress with her blonde hair pinned up.
Lois had been left at home with Miss Sharp, and Shalimar and Dolly walked in arm in arm, in a rare moment of harmony. Shalimar was resplendent in a rose-coloured dress with a pattern of white and blue daisies. Her shining blonde hair hung down her back and she wore a bright red ribbon around her head. ‘She’ll be a heartbreaker,’ I overheard one woman flap her seven chins to another equally stout friend, who resembled a teapot. ‘She’ll make a beautiful Rhododendron Princess one day!’ Teapot agreed.
‘Poor Dolly Sharp,’ another woman whispered to her friend. ‘She’s a pretty child, but next to Shalimar in her finery the poor girl’s as plain as a gingernut biscuit. Still, when you consider how Dolly came into the world . . .’
This sounded interesting and I strained to hear more, but the gossips moved away. Unfortunately, Dolly had also overheard the woman’s words, and her face grew stony.
‘Come on,’ Shalimar said to her. ‘Let’s go and get some toffee apples. Mummy gave me some money to treat you.’ This seemed to thaw Dolly, and the pair ran off together.
‘Rupert! What a surprise to see you here. Hello, Mrs Partridge.’ Patrick Bishop bustled through the crowd towards us. ‘And the lovely Flowers have honoured our gathering today!’ His eyes went to me and I heard Wanda’s snort of amusement. ‘You ladies all look very fetching in your floral—’ He broke off to exclaim, ‘Good Lord, Rupert! Is that a painting under your arm? Don’t tell me you’re planning to participate this year?’ He looked panicked at the prospect.
Rupert nodded grimly. ‘I thought the show could do with a bit of a shake-up. You must be getting tired of Monica’s bluebell studies or When Koalas Fart over Megalong Valley oils.’ Wanda tittered, chewing her gum. She had a wicked sense of humour, Wanda. Not that it did her any good in the end – there aren’t many laughs to be found in dementia at Peppermint Tree Aged-Care Nursing Home, that’s for sure.
Rupert ripped off the paper with which he’d wrapped the canvas and turned it around to face Patrick. Wanda burst out laughing at the stunned expression on Patrick’s face when he saw the pouting pig. Even I smiled at Patrick’s expression of horror.
‘Is this a joke, Rupert?’ he cried, his face turning puce. ‘You must know that you can’t possibly display that thing here!’
‘Patrick, calm down,’ Doris began, but it was too late.
‘Of course it’s not a bloody joke, you cretin, any more than the war was a joke,’ shouted Rupert, losing his temper. ‘The whole world’s gone bloody mad and you’re down here in your little bow tie and rhododendron vest, entertaining grannies with another painting from your bit on the side, Monica. Don’t talk to me about indecency, you bounder, when you’re constantly around at Monica’s place with Olive, making merry.’
There were outraged gasps from the crowd. I had never seen Rupert in such a rage – not even when Shalimar had spilled paints in the studio.
‘Rupert, please, I didn’t mean to offend you – I know what you’ve been through with the war, but watch the language in front of the ladies,’ said Patrick. ‘And refrain from making personal comments about my wife and friend.’
In reply, Rupert cursed even louder and a couple of older women shook their heads, disgusted. ‘Well, really!’ I heard one of them say. ‘They should throw him out.’ There seemed to be very little sympathy in the room for Rupert.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Rupert,’ Patrick said firmly.
At that, Rupert punched Patrick. Unprepared, Patrick went down like a sack of potatoes. Women screamed, grabbing their children as if terrified Rupert would attack them next.
‘Rupert, no!’ Doris was pulling on his arm, almost in tears. ‘Come away!’
‘You miserable worm,’ Rupert said to Patrick, who now lay on the floor holding his nose. ‘You dare tell me I can’t exhibit at this tin and whistle show? What would any of you know about art? What did you do in the war, Patrick?’
‘You know where I was,’ Patrick said, struggling to his feet, his nose dripping blood. ‘Locked away in gaol because I didn’t believe in the war. I still don’t, and by God I paid for my beliefs, but I stand by what I did. I didn’t go marching off like a bleating sheep. And you really only got as far as the military hospital; not like poor Christopher, sent overseas. It was an easier war for you than for many others, who really had it tough.’
‘You sneaky coward!’ Rupert made to move towards him again, and Wanda and Doris jumped in to restrain him. I was dimly aware of another woman and a little boy holding on to Patrick. They must have been his wife, Olive, and son.
‘Stop it!’ I ran over between the two men, took hold of Rupert’s shoulders and shook them, looking into his crazed eyes. ‘Fighting over it won’t change a thing, Rupert. Don’t be a fool. Shalimar’s here, you bloody idiot. You’re upsetting her.’ The words had the effect of a bucket of ice water on Rupert. His face went blank, and he stepped back, picked up his painting and dully began to rewrap it. He looked worn out, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to his irregular hours and sleepless nights. Something about his bowed posture made me want to cry.
People were whispering amongst themselves. Snatches of words like dirty tentacles slithered over me: ‘Not half-brazen, and in front of poor Doris with a new baby!’
‘Dirty little ginger tart. Doris should throw her out.’
‘All those whores need their backsides kicked. Poor Doris and Shalimar . . .’
Doris glanced and at me and I knew then that she saw me as a threat to her marriage. Although I had tried to tell myself otherwise, her husband sleeping with one of his Flowers didn’t sit well with her. I felt fearful and sick when I saw her hostile expression.
Shalimar stood at his side, looking up at him with her knowing eyes. ‘Why are you rowing with Patrick, Rupert?’ she asked.
‘The beautiful little thing! Isn’t that Shalimar an angel?’ Seven Chins exclaimed from the crowd.
‘Aren’t you going to
show the piggy?’ Shalimar said.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Rupert said. He held out his hand to hers. ‘Let’s go home, pumpkin.’
I watched, tense and slightly nauseated, as Shalimar and Rupert walked away. Doris was murmuring apologies to Patrick. I caught a few words: ‘. . . not himself. Far too sensitive . . . Whatever I can do to compensate . . . I do understand. No, no one is to blame . . . Don’t be silly, Patrick. He’ll forget, he always does . . . Please, let it go, Patrick.’
Kitty, who had cowered back during the altercation, stepped forward again. ‘Patrick should have let him show his pig,’ she said to Wanda and me. ‘Would it have mattered if a few old hens got upset? After all Rupert’s been through . . .’
I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with Rupert in which I had disparaged his work so scathingly. He had taken that comment in such good humour. In a short space of time, though, that relaxed man appeared to have vanished forever.
I looked around at the crowd. The young women clutched their men as if fearing one of us would run off with them. The older women’s faces were pinched with disapproval. They believed we were a bunch of tarts. It was impossible for them to understand why Doris would tolerate Rupert having us in the house. Meanwhile the men shot us shifty, lecherous looks that made my skin crawl. The whole gathering made me sick – yes, even the wounded war veteran, sitting against the wall in a wheelchair. They would all fuss over him and excuse his drunken babbling at the pub later because his injury was obvious. Rupert was no less damaged by his experience, I was beginning to see, but his scars were internal. Back then, nobody cared about ‘weak, sissy men’ who were unable to cope with the mental rigours of war.
For once I wasn’t interested in the lavish spread of sandwiches, jam rolls, vanilla slices, homemade sponges and sausage rolls. Patrick came sidling over with a guilty, whipped expression. I saw that Rupert had left a noticeable swelling under his eye. ‘I m-must apologise—’ he began, but I cut off his stammered apology by saying I had to go to the dunny. I wasn’t interested in Patrick Bishop in any way, shape or form. It was Rupert who was haunting my every thought.
I went outside and looked around. I could just spot Rupert and Shalimar, two specks in the distance. It would be a long walk for Shalimar, but I knew nothing would deter the pair from walking all the way home. They were as stubborn and determined as each other.
After queuing up to use the outdoor lavatory, I went to re-enter the art gallery. There was a group of half a dozen youths lounging around outside the hall. One of them made a sotto voce comment as I passed, and the others laughed mockingly. I hadn’t caught the words, but the tone was clear enough. My temper flaring, I turned around and addressed the boy who had made the remark. ‘If you’ve got something to say to me, say it to my face.’
The boys laughed again, a little more uncertainly, and looked to their leader for guidance. Nice girls didn’t talk back in the 1940s. The one who had made the comment had pale blue eyes and a festering mass of pimples covering his chin. He stared at me scornfully. ‘I said he must enjoy sticking his brush in your ginger bush,’ he drawled. There was more nervous laughter from the boys.
I marched closer. ‘He really does,’ I said. ‘But I’d also enjoy your tiny dick. How about we go behind the dunny right now, pimple face?’
His friends laughed harder. ‘Dirty-mouthed bitch,’ he said. ‘I’m up for it.’
But I noticed he didn’t move. I grabbed him by the trousers. ‘Let’s get these down, right here.’
‘Get off me!’ He pushed me away from him. ‘You mad cow! My mum’s right about you lot. You’re all sex-mad up there, having it off with each other.’
‘I’ll give you an orgy, right now,’ I said and pulled his trousers down, revealing a grimy pair of patched long johns.
‘Get away from me, you crazed bitch!’ he yelled. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole!’
‘Ginger? What on earth are you doing?’ Doris stood at the doorway with Patrick Bishop at her side. It looked as if half the town were gawping on behind them.
‘She’s trying to make me do her,’ the pathetic boy whimpered. ‘She pulled down my trousers like a bitch in heat.’
‘Ginger?’ Doris looked at me as if I really had gone insane. ‘Leave that boy alone right now!’
‘For God’s sake!’ I stepped back and he pulled up his pants as quickly as he could. ‘He’s the one that wants to watch his dirty mouth.’
‘I do hope you weren’t being rude to this young lady.’ Patrick scowled at the boy.
‘Even if he was rude, Ginger shouldn’t be pulling down the boy’s trousers in public!’ Doris was fuming.
‘I’ll do the same to any fellow who calls me names,’ I retorted and glared around at the pack of boys, who now wouldn’t meet my eye. But the words I went to say next – I haven’t done anything wrong – stuck in my throat. I had slept with another woman’s husband; I’d taken advantage of Doris’s hospitality. I had repaid her goodwill by falling in love with her husband. Although I had given back to them, and paid my way, I had still betrayed her. And, of course, deep down I knew that her husband wasn’t really interested in me in return. All he seemed to care about was Shalimar and his art. I was a grubby little tart and probably deserved the insulting behaviour the boys had dished out to me.
‘Ginger, would you care to see the show?’ Patrick gallantly offered me his arm and I took it, feeling humiliated and ashamed of myself. I looked at Doris’s pinched and anxious face. She had done so much for me – more than anyone, except for my ma.
‘I’m so very sorry, Doris,’ I said in a voice I had to squeeze out of my suddenly too-tight throat. ‘Will you please forgive me? I’m so very sorry and ashamed of myself.’
Patrick looked at us as if sensing that I was apologising for more than my behaviour towards the boys.
I saw a flicker in Doris’s eyes. ‘I just want him back from her.’ She said it so quietly I had to lean in to hear the words. Even then I wasn’t sure if I had heard them correctly. And, if so, who was the woman she was referring to.
The show itself was awful. It was probably fortunate that Rupert wasn’t there to see the bush landscapes, tediously overworked cottages and realistic, tight portraits. The sort of art Ma would have loved. To add insult to injury, Monica won second prize for her much-lauded Bluebells in Mountain Mist, and the first prize went to some unknown man from the lower mountains who had painted a halcyon image of his children playing in the yard of a suburban weatherboard home.
‘It’s marvellous, isn’t it?’ I heard Teapot gush to Seven Chins over the winning painting. ‘Much better than a photograph, even.’ Which was exactly the sort of remark that would have inflamed Rupert, who would have snapped back that art and photography were two different things and if the chap wanted a photograph why didn’t he just bloody well take one? Of course, as has been frequently pointed out, Rupert could easily have become a photographer if he had chosen to apply himself to that medium. The photographs that he took of his family and friends at Currawong Manor – the photos that remain – are testament to a keenly perceptive eye, an awareness of light and shadow, and the artist’s ability to see the remarkable in the insignificant and easily overlooked detail. But Rupert far preferred to work in the medium of painting. He was happiest – or the closest he ever came to a joyful state – with a brush in one hand and the canvas before him.
I watched the people milling around the paintings as the Rhododendron Princess was photographed with the winners. Wanda was flirting outrageously with the local boys. She always loved attention and relished the spicy reputation the Flowers had in town. I wouldn’t have put it past her to have spread some of the rumours about us herself. Kitty was standing with a sweet-faced older lady whom I knew to be her mother, Meg. Elsewhere in the crowd were many of Kitty’s twelve siblings. She was blessed to have such caring, loving parents and a supportive family. I almost revelled in my self-pity as I gazed upon her. Everyone appeared t
o love Kitty for her angelic face and nature. Even Rupert rarely raised his voice to her. To dislike her would have been like kicking a kitten. Whereas many of the locals were shunning me and I wasn’t oblivious to the icy looks Doris gave me. By openly attempting to placate Rupert in his temper, and taking on Doris’s role in public, I had overstepped an invisible boundary.
‘He’s a bad-tempered beast, isn’t he?’ Monica, elegant and tall with a pretty, lined face and ash-blonde hair clipped short, stood beside me, smiling triumphantly.
‘Do you mean Rupert?’ I asked coldly.
‘Well, who else would I mean? Talk about a sore loser! He knew he wasn’t going to win with that childish daub of a pig so he picked a row with Patrick. He’s always been like that. Patrick was a few classes below him at school and he’s told me that if Rupert didn’t come first in art, he’d be as mean as a cut snake. A poor sport, I’d call it.’
‘I disagree.’ As usual my mouth was open before I thought twice. ‘His objection wasn’t that he thought his pig painting was superior, but that the mediocre and banal is so celebrated here, year in, year out. Pretty little paintings of bluebells belong on biscuit tins, according to Rupert. And unlike many of the people here, Rupert did more during the war than sit at home, knit socks and grumble over rationing.’ I was shaking as I finished.
Monica’s eyes had become chips of ice. ‘What the hell would you know about what I did and didn’t do in the war, kid?’ she said. ‘I lost both my parents and a brother in the London Blitz. Kindly don’t presume to know what I did for my country during the war, but I also did my bit. We don’t all have to be forever hit around the head with unsubtle symbolism depicting what a barbaric species we are. Some of us might just like to contemplate the healing beauty to be found in nature. But seeing as we’re on the subject, what’s your contribution been to the world of art, or to the war for that matter? Getting out your breasts and baring your arse?’
Currawong Manor Page 19
