‘What about art lessons outside school? That could be a good incentive. Imagine what Novi could do with some proper materials!’
Mira and George exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Dom remembered what Jean Mackey had told him and added quickly, ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find some funding. I’ll see what’s available. But listen, I want you to know that Morus Primary will support Novi in every way we can.’
They sat in silence. Outside, the sprinkler had ceased its rhythmic ticking and the afternoon had fallen still. Dom observed how clear his mind felt. A hard nut of certainty had formed inside him. For once he knew what to do and it felt fantastic.
Suddenly Mira leaped up and grabbed him in a damp, fleshy embrace. ‘Thank you!’ she cried, squeezing him tight.
Dom patted her back awkwardly until she released him. George shook his hand vigorously, his eyes swimming with emotion. ‘We’re lucky to have you, mate,’ he said gruffly. ‘Some of these teachers have solidified over the years. It’s good to see some young blood running through the place!’
Flushed, Dom saw them to the door. ‘I’d love to see more of Novi’s art. And I’d like the opportunity to talk to him about how this program might work.’
‘Well, come and visit!’ Mira insisted. ‘This Saturday — come and stay for dinner.’
After they were gone, Dom stood there happily for a minute. He restored Novi’s painting to the wall, shaking his head in wonder, then he switched off the fans, put the folder away and left the classroom.
He floated through the empty school grounds, his head full of rivers and birds and crazy orange skies. As he passed the library another sprinkler started up. The sound released a bubble of elation within him. Before he knew it he had dropped his backpack, stepped into the garden and was flinging his arms wide, turning in circles to let the cold water fall over him.
His clothes were getting drenched. It would be a wet ride home. He didn’t care.
Chapter 3
Camille smoothed soft plastic over the spine of a new book. She took her time, trimming the covering so it didn’t bunch at the corners, making sure to secure each fold properly with a neat strip of invisible tape. As she handled the books she set aside a few to read herself before putting them on the shelves for loan. She liked to be able to advise the kids on their borrowing choices, fitting the right book to the right reader.
The afternoon sun bore down, illuminating the office blinds like bright pink eyelids. Only Tuesday and already the week had lost its impetus. It was her birthday, thirty-five, and yet she felt nothing: no anxiety or happiness or even a sense of doom, just the ennui of another day passing. She had a stack of cataloguing to catch up on and some research lessons to plan; the art room needed a clean-out, too — it was still a mess from last year, but the thought of embarking on any of it made her feel limp. Instead she had convinced herself it was important to cover the new books and the past hour had been spent in drowsy preoccupation.
The order arrived once a month and Camille looked forward to the delivery. Mostly because she loved the smell of new books, the purity of their crisp pages, the vapour of glossy binding and milled paper. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of all the unknown adventures hidden within, while her mind drifted to the other reason she looked forward to the monthly order: the Book Deliverer.
This was the time of day he turned up, but usually on a Friday, in the calm of the afternoon when the school was digesting its last lesson and her office was quiet. They never arranged for it to be that way and yet he always appeared at the most convenient time when they wouldn’t be disturbed. He was practical like that.
He had a crop of thick dark hair that always needed a cut and his flecked blue eyes crinkled gently at the edges when he greeted her. His navy work uniform was always neatly ironed and she liked the way he rolled his shirtsleeves up to reveal the hard curve of his arms. He wasn’t a show-off, though; he always used a trolley to bring the heavy boxes in from the truck to protect his back; he was sensible as well as considerate.
Each month he deposited the boxes of books on the bench so she wouldn’t have to bend and strain herself, those strong arms hardly noticing the weight. He stood patiently while she sliced through the tape with her Stanley knife, then inspected the contents of each box, shredded paper escaping to the carpet like errant party streamers. She lifted out each book deliberately and skated her eyes over the covers to check the titles against her order form, book after book. They didn’t speak throughout this ritual, only checked and ticked, checked and ticked, until the cardboard boxes were all emptied. Then he handed her his blue clip folder and she signed her name at the bottom of the delivery form with the pen attached by a little silver chain. At last he clipped the pen back in place and snapped his folder shut and they arrived at Camille’s favourite moment.
With the official proceedings over they were free to indulge in a few minutes of chat. Their rapport had been painstakingly built up over several deliveries and was gently flirtatious. She knew that if he suddenly swept her up she wouldn’t resist. She wished he would.
She imagined him carrying her into the little stationery storeroom, closing the door and making love to her unhurriedly, sweetly, while the school emptied itself of people, until the only sounds to be heard were sprinklers panting over gasping garden beds. This scene played out in her head while they discussed the bypass roadworks, the state of the highway, the weather — all banal on the surface, but Camille could read the nuances. She waited for the moment when those strong hands of his would grab her. Sadly, he was even shyer than she was.
Before leaving he took care of the empty boxes, flattening them down and stacking them by the bins (very thoughtful), then he took his trolley and was gone. Alone, she tidied up the books, placing them into neat piles on the bench, gently buzzed from the encounter. She knew it was silly, nothing had ever happened between them, but if she let the feeling merge into the general relief of Friday afternoon it blossomed into something like joy. It warmed her as she shopped for dinner, helped her choose a particularly nice bottle of wine. It followed her home and draped itself around her shoulders while she cooked, listening to music with the volume up defiantly loud. It snuggled up to her in bed when she slipped between the covers, made her smile as she took time to run through her storeroom fantasy in detail before reaching for her book. It lay beside her as she read, until her eyes were dry and tired and at last she switched off the lamp.
Then it left.
And alone in the darkness she pulled the pillows into her folded body and sobbed.
Into an empty cardboard box Camille placed the new books she’d ordered for herself. On top she she placed the plate of leftover birthday cake and on top of that she dumped her handbag. She couldn’t wait to get home, toss the rest of that tasteless sponge to the birds and collapse onto the lounge with no interruptions. She longed to read until her mind was far away from cataloguing and crashing computer systems and ratty schoolkids, far away from all the obligations that cluttered her life, and the things that were absent.
She switched off her computer and headed out of her office and through the library. Outside, the sun was blinding. She turned and struggled with the key to the door with one hand while the other clutched her bounty. The lock was stiff. She had to put the box down and jiggle the knob with both hands and the effort made her break out in a sweat. At last the latch caught. With a deep breath in, she rummaged in her handbag for her sunglasses.
Ah, much better.
She gathered up the box again, heavy with treasure. There was a stack of novels in there, among other things. She knew it was naughty to have ordered the gardening manual on the school’s budget but there were other teachers who’d appreciate it. Quickly she retrieved her car keys and was about to set off when she heard a noise coming from the garden, a strange shuffling sound.
She froze. It must be Pete, setting up the sprinklers.
She pressed herself against the wall of the library
and concentrated on making herself invisible. It wasn’t easy, carrying a box of books. But she couldn’t bear to run into him right now, not today when all she wanted was to get home. Her mind scrambled for pleasantries and an excuse that would allow for a quick getaway: My father’s expecting me — he’s elderly and worries when I’m late. Partly true.
So far this term she’d managed to avoid Pete. It was ridiculous, she knew; they worked at the same place and were sure to run into each other eventually. Oh God. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered at the heat seeping into her back and the memory of last year’s Christmas party.
Beneath one of the willows at the edge of the bowling club lawn, she and Pete had shared a drunken fumble. Camille had her excuses: the festive season, the cheap champagne, the damaged look in Pete’s freshly divorced eyes. Her unsatisfactory progress with the Book Deliverer. Pete had been leaving messages on her answering machine all summer, but they really had nothing in common and she hadn’t returned any of them. Now her guilt was as heavy as her regret.
Flattened against the hot bricks she berated herself sternly. You are thirty-five, for God’s sake! This is no way to behave. Just talk to him.
The sound in the garden persisted, a rhythmic shuffling of woodchips being disturbed. With any luck he hadn’t spotted her and she could creep away, retreat to her cottage and draw the evening around her, let her new books keep at bay the shameful knowledge that she was pathetic and cowardly.
She decided to call him as soon as she got home. With a firm nod she promised she would set the situation straight this afternoon. Over the phone.
Holding her breath, she peeked carefully around the corner. From behind her sunglasses she scanned the length of the garden bed and sighed with relief; it wasn’t Pete at all. It was Dominic Best, the new teacher.
She switched the box to her other arm, hooked a finger through her key-ring and was about to launch herself towards the car park when she paused. What was he doing? Quietly, she emerged from her hiding place to stare.
He was under the sprinkler with his arms out and his eyes closed, turning slowly. Every now and then he gave a little kick. His wet clothes clung to his body. His face, turned skyward, looked rapturous.
Camille stepped back towards the wall. Dom Best was frolicking under the sprinkler!
She slipped away, taking the long way round to the car park, while the image of his drenched and grinning figure danced in her head. She felt an overpowering urge to drench herself, too, to plunge into the river and wash this nothing-birthday from her skin. But first she had to see her father.
His villa was one of eight in a complex up on Vernon Street, behind the hospital, the place he and her mother had moved to six years ago when her mother’s health started deteriorating. Camille had never liked the place; it was small and depressing. She missed the old family home on Couper Road with its luxuriant back garden and big old frangipani. But her father didn’t seem to mind. The villa was on the bus route and he could walk to the small group of shops down the road. Once a week, Bill and Bernice at number 4 had him over for dinner. Gardens were too much work anyway, he said.
She knocked on his door and stood waiting in the dark-brick courtyard. She saw that the pot of petunias she had planted for him to brighten up the place had withered. A minute passed. Her heart started pounding as it always did when he took this long to answer, but then the door opened and there he was, tall and hunched and smiling. He reached out with both hands to kiss her.
‘Happy birthday, love.’
They embraced. She pointed to the petunias.
‘What happened?’
He shrugged. ‘Damn heat.’
‘You have to water them, Dad!’
‘Ah,’ he said with a wave of his hand.
She followed him in. The place was dim and spartan and smelled like old man. Nobody would have guessed he’d been married thirty-eight years unless they saw the photo of his late wife beside his single bed or noticed the tapestry cushion on the chair in his study. It stirred in Camille an uneasy mix of feelings; she was glad he was so resilient but it disturbed her to think that her mother’s life could be so thoroughly written off, her presence all but disappeared.
In the little kitchen he had set out a fruit tart from the patisserie and a bunch of yellow roses. She smiled to see the flowers and buried her nose in them. He poured them both a finger of cognac.
‘Happy birthday,’ he said again, raising his glass.
They drank and he handed her a present wrapped loosely in blue tissue paper. Inside was a silk scarf.
‘Your mum’s,’ he said, smoothing a hand across his slick white hair.
Camille nodded, touched. He cut them both some tart.
‘Any plans for tonight?’ he asked, shovelling tart into his wobbly mouth.
She wasn’t the least bit hungry but she ate up. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I’m over birthdays.’
He grunted in agreement and took a sip of cognac.
It was true; thirty had been the last big year for Camille. It was the year she returned to Morus from Sydney when her mother went suddenly into decline, the year she called it quits with Simon, and that on-again, off-again rollercoaster, and took leave without pay from her job at the university library. When her mother died three months later she decided to stay and keep her father company. Back then she didn’t know he was even better at being alone than she was.
He wiped his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘How’s work?’ He never asked about the men in her life, which was fine by her. It meant she didn’t have to acknowledge that there weren’t any.
‘Same. Still battling for that computer upgrade.’ She watched him chase a glistening strawberry around his plate. ‘Hey, you’ll have to come over and see my foxgloves before they finish.’
Triumphantly he stabbed the strawberry with his fork and then gave a respectful nod. ‘You’ve got your mother’s green thumb.’
They finished eating in silence.
Camille didn’t regret coming home. She missed the city sometimes, the bookshops and restaurants, but it was good to wake up to birds in the morning, something other than a rutting pigeon or a brown myna stalking the hedges. Here, she had a proper garden and a house she could afford. And although they weren’t quite the buddies she’d imagined they’d become, it was nice, this ordinary time she spent with her father.
Driving home, she thought again about the year she turned thirty. At the time, the drama of all those events had felt overwhelming. She remembered worrying that she wouldn’t be able to cope. But in the five years since then, nothing much had happened at all and Camille was left with a sense of foolishness. Was this it? Had her flush of youth faded already, evaporated when she wasn’t looking, when she was taking for granted it would always be there to sting her, slap her, swamp her?
At home she changed into her running gear and set out, feeling bloated from sponge cake and tart. The koel was moping in the trees somewhere. She did her best to ignore it, picking up her pace and trying to clear her mind, concentrating only on shoes slapping bitumen, pulse pushing limbs, breath cleansing blood. Today it felt as if the bird was following her, pursuing her from tree to tree as she tried to escape its cry, its unguarded, unashamed desperation. In spring she didn’t mind it so much; it was a tentative enquiry across the trees, casual and soulful, a herald of warm days approaching. But now summer was almost over and the koel’s mating days were numbered; its cry had become high-pitched and insistent, a string of urgent calls, rising sharply. Its panic caught in Camille’s chest, pinching her breath into shallow gasps.
Four calls, five, six.
The pauses were heavy and loaded with longing. She couldn’t help but listen in hope of a reply, any evidence of another, no matter how faint or far away. The silence was like a weight upon her, pressing down slowly, threatening to crush her until she was nothing but a slab of bloodless meat. But the pauses didn’t last long. The bird was thorough and repeated itself quickly. On and on it appealed int
o the dying day and this sound, which for months had created a wistful backdrop to the afternoons, now left everything frazzled.
Camille ran harder.
She ran almost every day now, in the late afternoon when the heat had begun to ease, tackling the winding roads of her neighbourhood and finishing with a swim in the river. She welcomed the physical routine of it, watched with gratification as her legs grew strong and gained definition, observed the steady operation of her lungs. Her feet were battered but functional. She nursed shin splints with grim satisfaction and continued to pound the bitumen. Was she punishing her body or rewarding it? It was hard to tell, but she liked to know that she could still feel the strength of her heart; its brute force, at any rate.
On she ran, past the odd array of houses: red-brick boxes, all lawn and no garden but for a few yellow palms; sagging weatherboard cottages propped up by ancient mulberry trees; fibro places with bare dirt fronts hosting ragged assemblies of plants in plastic pots. She hurtled past cats blinking on sun-warmed concrete driveways and dogs that puffed out an obligatory bark but were too lazy to chase her. Her body was all breath now and her sense of smell acute; unwittingly she took in the odour of each house she passed: the halitosis of stale laundry and mildew; the chlorine fumes of swimming pools mixed with the Vegemite-on-toast smell of children; the musky reek of perfumed owners who, having grown desensitised over a lifetime of olfactory violence, continued their merciless dousing. She could tell when more honest odours were masked with a fumigation of Peach Bouquet, Vanilla Spice or Pine Forest. Already, this time of the afternoon, there were dinners cooking and she smelled chops bursting fat under grills and potatoes being pulverised. At one house a lone curry simmered, offering an exotic note. She was thankful it wasn’t Thursday — Thursday was garbage night and she had to make her way past wheelie bins full of putrefying prawn heads, sour milk cartons and indistinguishable items of waste, sweetly fetid in their twin towers of hot plastic.
Watercolours Page 5
