She spoke of intimacies, of quarrels, private hurts and secret marital disappointments. She bared her soul to Luke, and told him:
“These things are not what I tell ASIO or the royal commission. This I only tell you, but all of it about Vladimir and me is true. If it makes him furious when the book is published, it is still true.”
There was a lot of her earlier life to be researched, and in the end it took six weeks of meetings, while he was writing chapters of the book late into each night. She was very afraid of what might happen to her family in Russia, and already knew her father had been dismissed from his job. In recounting one event when she and Petrov were first moved to the safe house, she broke down in tears and was unable to continue talking about it.
Luke found out what had happened by talking to one of the ASIO agents who remembered the incident. Her husband was pining terribly for his pet, an Alsatian dog named Jack.
“We retrieved it from the pound in Canberra, and Petrov was wild with excitement. He insisted the Alsatian sleep on the floor in the bedroom, and completely ignored his wife. He was a real prick. It was humiliating for her, because she was scared of the dog. It had bitten her once, and she ended up sleeping in the spare room. We could hardly believe how the animal meant more than her. He never showed consideration for his wife. Taking the dog for walks, then sneaking off to tarts in Kings Cross was more to his taste. She was a nice looking woman, but Petrov no longer bothered to look at her.”
Luke became fond of Evie, and felt sorry for her. Petrov had been callous and uncaring about her being taken back to the Soviet Union. One of the people Luke interviewed said he was like a sailor, “straight off a ship, always searching for grog and harlots.” She was now in the difficult position of having to spend the rest of her life in a safe house with him. So if Terry, her ASIO guardian, was attracted and putting the hard word on her, who could blame her for being flattered and taking what was on offer if she wished?
He worked solidly on the book, knowing the publishers wanted it before the market was flooded. Ben showed him a proposed cover for his approval. A bleak shot of Sydney airport with her abandoned shoe a lonely sight on the tarmac in foreground, and a teaser across the scene: From the wife’s side of the marriage bed in Australia’s most notorious spy case. The book would be published in two months. It was time to spend a few days catching up with friends, like Helen and Rupert, before heading back to London. And from them perhaps he could at last elicit some recent news of Claudia and Steven.
It was extraordinary how tentative he felt about bringing up the subject. They met for lunch and had so much to talk about. Rupert was full of zeal about a new radio series he was producing for the ABC, and excited he’d soon be involved in television. It was less than a year away, the national network was planned to be up and running in time for the Olympic Games in Melbourne. He’d been asked to devise a drama series. Helen had her own news: after working for nearly ten years as a solicitor she was considering the next step, an application to sit for the Bar exam. It prompted amusing reminiscences about her famous walkout on Barry at the Florentino.
Then Luke was answering questions about his book, and what Mrs Petrov was like. The lunch was almost over, and he hadn’t yet mentioned Claudia and Steven. It would seem odd to avoid discussing them. Especially as he genuinely wanted to know. He regularly thought about them, even once in Chelsea had picked up the phone with the idea of ringing Helen to ask how they were coping, then hung up before he’d completed dialling. But it was absurd to be here with two of his closest friends and not attempt to find out what was so often in his mind.
“Do you ever hear from Claudia and Steven?” he asked suddenly, and Helen immediately responded, as if she’d been hoping he’d raise the subject.
“We saw them last year.” She told him about their visit to Noosa and the new job. “Rupert and I went up there looking for a weekend cottage for him, but ended up helping get Steven get a job with the estate agents.”
“So he’s actually able to work? That has to be a good sign.”
“It’s made a difference,” Rupert said. “He’s still in the wheelchair, of course, but working three afternoons a week now, and enjoying it.”
“Will he ever get out of the wheelchair?”
“Hard to say, Luke.”
“But it is an improvement,” Helen said. “He was getting depressed, not able to leave the house or do anything without Claudia’s help.” Then she asked, “Do you mind me talking about Claudia?”
“No, of course not. I want to hear news. We haven’t kept in touch, but I’m over it,” he insisted, and after a moment added, “Well, I have to be. I nearly got married, as I believe one of the papers here reported.”
“So you’re not married?” Helen looked surprised. “Claudia saw it.”
“So did Baz, who wrote to me. I had to tell him not to believe all he reads in the papers.” Rupert grinned, but Helen looked thoughtful, wondering if Claudia knew this.
“You’d have liked Hannah, and I know she’d have liked both of you,” Luke said. He really wished he could ask if they thought Claudia was happy, but refrained because whatever the answer, it could not be what he wanted to hear. If she was happy he would find it hard to bear, if not he would feel worse.
That afternoon Helen rang Claudia to dispel the false rumour about Luke’s marriage.
“How did she take it?” Rupert asked, when they were alone in his apartment that evening.
“She just thanked me and changed the subject,” Helen replied.
“What did she say when you told her Luke was here in Sydney?”
“Changed the subject again.”
Rupert shook his head. “Strange are the ways of our friends in love.”
“Speak for yourself, poppet,” Helen said. “People are still trying to work out what gives with us. Whether we’re lovers or just friends.”
“Yes,” he said after a few moments, gazing at her.
“What do you mean ‘yes’, Rupe?”
“Just yes. I keep thinking about it.”
“Thinking what?”
“Thinking if we can we be both. Lately I have a very strong feeling that it could be possible.”
She gazed intently at him for some moments. Rupert held out his arms to her, and she came and nestled against him.
“Should we find out, Rupert?”
“I’m finding out already,” was his answer.
She looked up at his smiling face, then caught her breath as she felt the evidence of what he meant. Her surprised laughter was soft but excited.
“I’ve never been able to think of anyone else since the day I first met you,” he said. “And in my dreams I’ve been wanting to do this.” He unzipped her dress, undid her brassiere and his hands fondled her breasts. Her eyes were bright and excited by surprise, then she moved so their lips met and he kissed her long and passionately. Rupert started to take off his clothes, she slid out of her pants and he led her by the hand to the bedroom.
Much later that night, after they’d made love for a second time and lay naked together with their legs entwined, they talked about the future.
“Should we try living together?” Helen suggested.
“If that’s what you want, my darling,” Rupert said.
“I’d be happy, but only if it’s what you want.”
“Or, there is an alternative. Would you marry me?”
Luke was leaving Sydney the following weekend. The day before his departure he received a request to be a best man and witness at their wedding. It was just he and Len Richmond, the police sergeant, who was wearing a suit he’d worn for his own wedding, a suit so old that they all agreed it must soon be coming back into fashion. The father of the bride looking rather bemused and slightly anxious.
“Do you think this is going to work?” he muttered to Luke. “I mean is he one thing, or the other, or both?”
“Take it easy, Len,” Luke cautioned. “Stop worrying. Rupert is a truly nice b
loke. He’s so fond of her. He wouldn’t take a risk that might make her regret it and be unhappy. And just have a gander at how beautiful your daughter the bride looks at this moment.”
She was wearing a smart new dress and was radiant, even her father had to admit it. There was a lump in his throat as he gazed at her, and he had to discipline his emotions to avoid a rush of tears.
Luke was becoming newsworthy. Australia took pride in those who succeeded overseas in the mid-to-late nineteen-fifties. That the thirty-year-old journalist turned author had flown to meet Mrs Petrov and had written a book on her life was now reported in most major newspapers. It was also reported that instead of flying directly back to London, he was first visiting Alice Springs. On being asked the reason for this detour, he said he had never seen this part of Australia before, and it was just a short visit.
Claudia saw this in The Courier-Mail, but didn’t mention it to Steven, forgetting that he saw newspapers at the estate agency. It was he who raised the subject when she was driving him home. “Luke’s been in Sydney. Did you know?” he asked.
“Helen mentioned it. He was working, and only had a very short time in Sydney after that, and he was a witness at their wedding.”
“I wish we’d been able to see him,” Steven said. “And to be there to see Helen being married.”
“But how would that have been possible?” Claudia felt defensive. “I’m working every day at the hospital, you’ve got four mornings of treatment and your job. I’d loved to have been there for Helen and Rupert, but doubt if Luke was going to take a plane to come all this way and visit us.”
“He might’ve, Claudia, if we’d been in touch and asked him.”
“Do you really think he’d want to?” Conversations like this were rare nowadays, but they still made her upset. “It could’ve been awkward.”
“I suppose,” Steven reluctantly admitted. “Anyway, he’s heading back to London. Via Alice Springs. I wonder what he’s going there for?”
“Perhaps he wants to meet Namatjira.”
“Why would he do that?” Steven asked.
“I don’t know, Steven. He always admired Namatjira’s paintings, so now he can afford to buy one. Anyway,” she said as they reached home, “soon be time for your walk.” She knew if there was one thing that could divert him, it was his daily ‘walk’. Three slow steps from the wheelchair to the wall of the living room, where he steadied himself then walked the three cautious steps back to the chair. It had begun with just standing for a few seconds, and had then gradually improved. His aim was to walk to the car outside the flat by the end of the year, and be able to get into it without her needing to help him. And after that, to walk across the beach to have his daily swim. He was enthusiastically planning to pursue this ambition within the next few years, with the aid of a walking frame.
Claudia watched him with pride, as he managed his third step back to the wheelchair. When she saw this each day, she felt such pleasure in what she had been able to accomplish. Had his brute of a father prevailed, Steven would now be helpless in an iron lung. Instead, he was going to walk again, and it was through her belief coupled with his courage and perseverance that this would happen. It was just sometimes, she wished he could refrain from speaking of Luke, and making her feel cheated out of the different kind of life she might’ve had.
THIRTY
There was light snow falling across London, enough to make the pavements slippery, but not enough to daunt the Christmas shoppers or dull the glitter of decorations in Oxford and Regent Streets. Luke went past a well-wrapped street vendor selling roast chestnuts, the smell of them momentarily tempting him. He was on his way to find Christmas presents for Louisa and Charles, then down to Foyle’s Bookshop in Charing Cross Road to buy books to send Helen and Rupert. He promised himself there’d be other vendors with their braziers, for London was redolent with the aroma of roasting chestnuts in December. Some people hated English winters. Luke always surprised his British friends by saying it was his favourite time of the year. He loved fires in his cottage and enjoyed the festive gatherings. He also astonished friends by relishing the shorter days, the encroaching darkness at four in the afternoons ideal for writing.
In Foyle’s window he was pleased to see his recently published book on Albert Namatjira well displayed. His flight to Alice Springs to meet the artist with whom he’d been corresponding had been an impulse. The chance of discussing a biography on him while in Australia had been an opportunity too good to miss. He was attracted by sensitive subjects, and for some time had wanted to expose the way white society and the painter’s own Aboriginal tribe had wreaked such havoc on Namatjira’s life. For years he had been one of the country’s finest artists. People loved his distinctive outback landscapes. His exhibitions sold out. Queen Elizabeth was a fan, and he’d been presented to her on her first Australian tour. His Ghost Gum paintings brought him wealth, but he was a member of the Arrernte Tribe whose traditional law meant the sharing of everything.
Somehow, before long, his extended tribal family had reached a bizarre total of six hundred people, and Namatjira, in trying to provide for them by purchasing a cattle station where they could all live in harmony, ended up bankrupt and in poverty. At a time when he was acclaimed as the country’s greatest painter, he and his wife and children lived in a squalid hut on a dry creek bed. His plight became a public cause, and attempts were made to compensate.
The government freed him from restrictive laws that applied to all Aborigines by granting him citizenship. It meant he was allowed to vote, to own land, to build a house and to buy alcohol. But it was this well-meaning benevolence and grant of assimilation that brought about his downfall. Alcohol was forbidden to any Aborigines except the artist and his wife, and when he shared drinks with his family in accordance with tribal custom he was charged with breaking the law, brought before a magistrate and sentenced to six months imprisonment with hard labour. Now out of prison and ill, he was living quietly, and Luke spent a few weeks with him, before returning to Britain. He had devoted the next six months to working on the book.
The title Two Thousand Paintings was inspired by the number of works the artist had completed in his lifetime, and the cover in the bookshop window was impressive: a background of the MacDonnell Ranges landscape with a white gum tree and a paddock similar to the ochreous colours his forebears had used. It stood out as a vivid glimpse of outback Australia in the December gloom, and for a moment Luke stood there thinking of the artist and what he had achieved; attending the Hermannsburg mission school, then spending a restless youth working as a stockman, blacksmith and camel driver, before meeting artist Rex Battarbee who’d encouraged him to paint. It was in many ways a sad life, but full of outstanding achievements, and he hoped his book paid the man the respect he deserved.
That night he was taking Rachel to see the Agatha Christie thriller The Mousetrap, now in its second year at the New Ambassador. Rachel was short-listed for one of the roles if the play ran a third year, because if it did keep running the producer intended to recast. Dame Agatha herself was surprised the play had run so long; the author had estimated it would only last about eight months, and had given ownership of the royalties to her grandson. Already the actors were saying the grandson was chuckling all the way to Lloyds bank.
After the show they were having dinner at the actors club in Shaftsbury Avenue. It had been a surprise, meeting up with Rachel Ives. She’d read both books and written to his publisher, the letter finding him at his Chelsea house, saying how much she’d enjoyed them, inviting him to the film set at Ealing Studios, where she was playing the daughter of Jack Hawkins in a new movie. Hawkins had become a star in The Cruel Sea, and Rachel’s role in his next film had been sought by a great many actresses. Since then they’d had lunch again, and now this invitation to the Christie play and dinner afterwards.
Although they’d kept in touch by mail over the years, the last time they’d seen each other was at Luke’s farewell before he we
nt to Japan, and just before Rachel herself left for London. They found a lot to talk about, both their careers so different to what they’d earlier envisaged, each achieving success beyond their youthful dreams. And so had a third member of their Northern Beaches group. Rachel had received a telegram from Rupert, saying Helen had just won a big case as a barrister, and there was another major trial lined up for her. There were even rumours that some day she might be invited to ‘take silk’, which would make her one of the very few women to become a Queen’s Counsel.
“I rang them last night. Rupert was excited, and Helen was telling him to cool it because she doesn’t believe in rumours. But I’ll tell you what I believe. It’s a truly happy marriage.”
“I believe that too,” Luke said, for he had letters from Rupert that never failed to be enthusiastic about Helen’s success in the courts. “I wonder how Bazza feels about it all?”
He’d tried to ring Barry while in Sydney, but getting no answer had gone to his address in Macleay Street, where a uniformed doorman had told him Mr Silvester was on his honeymoon in London. He’d left an ironic message about their planes passing in the night, and given the doorman a tip to deliver it when Mr Silvester returned, but he’d heard nothing from Barry since then.
“You didn’t see him, I suppose,” he asked Rachel, who laughed at the idea of Baz taking time on his honeymoon to visit old friends.
“His second or third wife, I’m not sure which,” she said. “I know he was your friend and protector in kindergarten, but I don’t think he’s worth a pinch of shit. I couldn’t stand the way he treated Helen,” she said, and although Luke knew it, she insisted on recounting the Florentino row of years ago when Barry had got his comeuppance. The comic way she told it actually made Luke laugh. Sometimes it was fun to retrace the youthful days, but it was less so when Rachel raised the painful subject of Steven and Claudia.
“Have you heard from Claudia since they went to Queensland?” she had asked him.
Above the Fold Page 24
