That weekend Gerard had endured fencing, rock picking, nettle pulling, cattle drenching and every other wretched, back-breaking chore John Sinclair could think up to test him with. But Gerard had just smiled and told him it felt good to be out from behind the desk and doing something useful. During family dinners, Eleanor’s father made no attempt at conversation, so Gerard had amused them all with stories of various characters from college, making fun of those flashy, handsome city types and their foolishness in believing they could ever learn business from textbooks alone. He offered unflattering anecdotes about his privileged childhood and pandered to Sinclair with probing questions as to how he had taken Sinclair’s Produce from the modest rural supply store of his father’s day and built it into an agricultural produce monopoly. On subsequent visits, Gerard made sure he took an active interest in the older man’s hobbies, and especially in his Aberdeen Angus cross-breed cattle, accompanying him on long and dusty drives to auction sites where, in the pubs at night, Gerard allowed himself to be humiliated good-naturedly in front of the landed gentry and to have his tolerance for whisky pushed to inhuman limits.
Looking back he could see that all this had been valuable training. The years he’d spent as Eleanor’s beau had familiarised him with a foreign language, the language of the country. He’d learned how to talk to farmers, how to listen, how to exert influence. All this came in handy down the line, adding to Gerard’s natural flair for marketing and allowing him to contribute to Sinclair’s growth. That was before he started turning his mind to business ventures he could put his own name to. But by then he’d discovered that he didn’t need to have been raised on the land like Eleanor or even understand the finer points of the products they sold; all that really mattered was what farmers wanted to hear and how they wanted to hear it: man to man and straight as a die how best to improve their profits. In the end, he and John Sinclair formed a strong friendship based on genuine respect. When Sinclair gave his consent for Gerard to marry Eleanor, Gerard’s confidence in his own abilities was sealed. If he could win over John Sinclair he could win over anyone.
Out on the highway, the streetlights well behind him, Gerard felt swallowed up by the darkness. There was nothing but countryside out here, the odd glimmer from a distant farmhouse the only sign of life. He always found it a little disturbing, how quickly civilisation fell away. This emptiness made him miss the city at times, the old haunts of his youth. There were places, most of them around Kings Cross, where, no matter how late at night, an atmospheric bar could be found, or a bright all-night cafe to keep the gloom at bay. Gerard switched to high beam. He watched as metre by metre the road was illuminated under the powerful thrust of his headlights before being sucked down beneath him. In the dark, alone with his thoughts, Gerard felt his mood begin to waver. Suddenly he felt in danger of being sucked down, too.
Trying to stay on top of it, he turned his mind to Novi. The notion that George Lepido might have spawned a prodigy was hilarious and Gerard allowed himself to snort heartily at the thought. Who would have put money on that one? More likely it was Mira’s influence, all that passion for life; all that raw emotion and shameless sensuality. Gerard had always thought it a shame that she’d ended up with that sorry sack of a husband. With her looks she could have done much better. She’d been a beauty since she was four years old; a handful, yes, but on the odd occasions when he and Eleanor had looked after her they had found her captivating: those big dark eyes full of defiance, the crazy black hair always in a bird’s nest — she wouldn’t let anyone brush it after her mother left, not until Eleanor presented her with her own special hairbrush printed with tiny rainbows, the most feminine object she owned. Bert had been clueless about such things. That was before they’d had their own children and it had given Gerard a glimpse of the mother Eleanor would become: affectionate, playful. He remembered watching the plucky little imp holding onto Eleanor’s hand, the two of them wandering around the garden picking flowers, a wild creature tamed for an instant. Gerard remembered how it used to melt him. Now the thought made him sad. Bert had turned out to be a two-faced son of a bitch, but despite it all, Gerard still had a soft spot for Mira.
At Serpentine Road he slowed to make the turn and then powered up into the hills. The gully that fell away to the right was invisible at night. He felt like he was cruising through deep space, plunging into a gaping mouth that could never be filled. For those unfamiliar with its twists and turns it was a dangerous stretch and cars were often pulled out of the ravine — P-platers, usually — but Gerard knew the road well and accelerated hard. His memories were meandering now, looping backwards, threatening to trip him up. He had to make an effort to keep ahead of them, determined not to let the blackness take over. For a moment he allowed anger to wash through him and harnessed its rousing energy. The way they all mourned Bert like he was some kind of saint! They didn’t have a clue. None of those men really knew him, not like Gerard did. And although he would never admit it to anyone, in some ways he felt Bert got what he deserved in the end.
Along the roadside tree trunks flashed pale under the headlights, looming and disappearing again like ghosts. The effect was unnerving, an endless army pressing in from the darkness, limbs clawing, trunks the colour of lifeless flesh. Gerard pulled down a gear and tried not to think about what had happened to Bert. Overall, he preferred not to dwell on it — it wasn’t his fault. But from time to time he kept an eye out for his family.
He sat up straight and pushed back into the plush leather. Tonight went well. He’d handled it nicely. Yet the further he drove away from all that bright light and comfortable ritual and convivial male company, the harder it was for him to hold onto it. With a deep breath he tried to revive the benevolent feeling from before.
A good deed done, he should be pleased with himself. He’d had the power to help Mira, to give her boy a break, and he’d exercised it. He didn’t have to put himself out like that. He wasn’t obliged.
To his relief he saw the lights of the house up ahead, radiant in the dark. He pictured Eleanor, cosy inside with a glass of wine and the TV on, or perhaps upstairs in bed already, reading. He still loved her, he couldn’t help it. He hoped that things would be mended between them over time. She’d approve of what he’d done tonight for Mira. It might even make her tender towards him for a while. As Gerard turned at the gate and drove slowly down the winding driveway, he looked forward with something like happiness to relaying the story of his good deed to her, and yet he couldn’t stop a bitter thought from creeping in. Given the circumstances, any other man could be forgiven for washing his hands of them completely.
Camille opened the door. Fresh from a shower, her skin was dewy and she was dressed in white cotton pants and a singlet. She looked luminous.
‘How did it go?’
Dom was still a bit stunned from the meeting. ‘Great … I think.’
They stood there for a few seconds. He could smell hair conditioner and her body lotion.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she asked shyly.
He stepped forward, scooped her up and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her back. After a long moment they fell against the door frame. Laughing, Camille slammed the door shut with her foot.
He followed her into the kitchen. Dom liked Camille’s kitchen. He’d only been here once before, after their drive to Banio, but immediately he’d been impressed with how comprehensively her place was kitted out, and how she’d whipped up a really good pasta from basically nothing and even made a salad as well. He was impressed with her whole house, in fact. It was small but it was light and airy and had a grassy backyard with flowers and a couple of big shade trees with a hammock. Her bed was high and firm with nice sheets and it looked right into the trees — a treat compared with the apricot chenille he’d been slumming it on over at Camelot. And this was the source of his uneasiness: it was a grown-up house. Not an over-ornamented retro throwback like his parents’ place, but a woman’s house, tidy and clean, with
vases of fresh flowers and furniture that matched and literally hundreds of interesting books on the shelves and real paintings on the walls. It was a place that felt inviting and properly lived in. It was an expression of the character of the person who lived there. Dom had never had a house like that.
‘White or red?’
He wandered into the lounge room and collapsed into one of her big armchairs. ‘Anything!’
She came around the corner with two glasses of white wine, handed one to him and sat in the chair opposite. Her face was bright with excitement. ‘So you think he’s got a chance, then?’
Dom nodded slowly. ‘Yes. I don’t know why I feel so surprised. He deserves it. And we had to wrestle it from the grip of twenty sports-crazed old codgers. But we did it, I think. We’ll find out soon, anyway.’
‘Well done.’ She raised her glass and gazed at him admiringly. ‘You’re pretty cool, you know that?’
He grinned and took a slug of wine. ‘I’ve got the Falcon tonight. Mavis said to drop the keys off to her tomorrow. And that, my sexy librarian, means I can stay over.’
Camille leaned back in her chair, her blue eyes glittering.
Chapter 13
When I get home from school I am surprised to find Mr Roper waiting for me. I have only ever seen Mr Roper in Sinclair’s, striding around and sucking up to customers or sneaking up on me between the shelves. It feels strange to find him sitting at our kitchen table. The room is full of honey sunlight and the smell of Mr Roper: aftershave and toothpaste. I breathe it in, hungry for it, even though I sense it’s somehow dangerous, like sniffing petrol fumes.
‘Darling,’ my mother says, ‘sit down. Mr Roper has some news.’ She is filling the dragon teapot, the one she likes to use on special occasions, but her face is serious and I feel a stab of fear, wondering if I’m in trouble. Maybe Mr Roper is tired of me skulking around his drums of pesticide and has come to sort it out once and for all?
Although my mother sets the dragon teapot carefully in the middle of the table, I notice she has given Mr Roper one of the gumnut mugs. The gumnut mugs are made of grey pottery, a wedding present that has been around forever and proof, Mum says, that the ugliest gifts are always the most indestructible. We did an experiment once, dropping one from increasing heights onto the floorboards, but it never broke, although one of the gumnuts popped off, which gave my mother some satisfaction. Mr Roper is unaware of what the mug means. He grasps the chunky handle and rests his thumb comfortably on an indented gumnut, which is what it’s there for.
I drop my school bag to the floor and slide into a chair. All afternoon the cicadas have been prickling me and my fingers have been itching for a pencil. During social studies and science Mr Best let me draw the lessons, but after lunch we had maths and I had to write like everyone else. I’ve been trying hard to ignore the scratching, waiting until I get home, but now that I’m here sitting across from Mr Roper the cellophane wings flutter and go quiet. It’s like Mr Roper’s foot has snapped a twig and put them on silent alert.
‘Hey, kiddo.’
Mr Roper raises his arm to shake my hand. I don’t move. After an awkward second or two he reaches instead for the plate of biscotti in the middle of the table. ‘How was school?’
‘Good.’
I watch Mr Roper warily. He is wearing khaki pants and a light blue shirt, open at the collar. It shows off his loose, tanned neck and I can see some chest hair turning grey. The thick hair on his head is still damp from the shower and swept back. He has dressed specially for this visit.
‘Did you do any of those great drawings of yours today?’ he asks, biting into the biscotti. He has to adjust the biscuit and bite hard using his back teeth. From the crack of it, I can tell it’s stale. I shoot my mother a look.
‘Not really. I usually work on them at home.’
Mr Roper’s eyes are watering a little; the biscotti must be hurting his gums but he manages to keep smiling as he chews. The sight of this sore smile makes me slide further down in my chair. At last he works up enough spit to swallow. ‘I’m impressed! You do all that art on your own?’ He shakes his head, making a show of disbelief. ‘Your mum’s lucky to have such a clever boy.’
His eyes turn to my mother. She smiles back brightly, without teeth.
‘Very lucky,’ she says.
‘Absolutely. Absolutely.’ Mr Roper’s voice is thick and rich and makes me think of a Mars bar commercial.
I notice that the heat of the kitchen is making my mother flushed. With one hand she gathers up her thick ponytail and tries to catch a breeze from the open window behind her. Mr Roper stares at her, nodding, apparently overcome with just how special I am. His eyes flicker to her underarm, settling on the dark moist hair there. Quickly she lets her hand drop. Mr Roper turns back to me.
‘Art is an expensive hobby, isn’t it, kiddo? Paints and pencils and paper, it all adds up, right?’
It doesn’t sound like an accusation but I feel guilty anyway.
‘How would you feel if you could have all the art materials you could think of? Make anything you want?’
The cicadas have been quiet, listening. Now they rearrange their legs and trill to each other with interest. I’m not sure what to say. I look at my mother and see that she’s smiling properly now. Mr Roper continues, his voice filling up the room. ‘Morus Rotary Club has decided to grant you a fellowship, Novi. We award one each year. We think you’re a talented boy and we want to help you to grow as an artist.’ He leans back in his chair, relaxing into the generosity of his amazing message. ‘We’re not just a sporting community, you know — although the girls are certainly making us proud in the hockey! The arts are important, too, and Rotary feels it’s our responsibility to encourage talent like yours. It’s kids like you who are going to give this town a bit of depth.’
I stare at him and see that he’s serious. Fear prickles my skin like cold needles but inside my chest the cicadas are on fire, sparking embers jumping to get out. My fingers are tingling. I shake my hands underneath the table.
‘But … what if you don’t like my pictures?’
‘Not like your pictures?’ Mr Roper chuckles and looks over at Mum. ‘Modest too, eh?’ He fixes me in his gaze for a while. It feels like being in the molten rays of an alien grey sun. After he successfully liquefies me, he says, ‘Eleanor — Mrs Roper — is going to the city on business next week and she’s invited you to go along with her. Rotary will pay. You can visit one of those big art shops and pick out whatever you want. How would you like that? Ever been to Sydney?’
I shake my head. My mother comes to stand beside me. She puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘This is an amazing opportunity, Gerard. George and I want to thank Rotary for their generosity. We’re so grateful to be offered a gift like this.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘Novi’s a gift to us, isn’t he?’
I see my mother grimace but she’s trying to be nice. There is an uncomfortable pause. ‘Well!’ she exclaims, brightening her voice to bring the conversation to an end.
Mr Roper rises. In our little kitchen he looks huge, like a giant. ‘Okay, then. There’ll be a special Rotary meeting next Tuesday where we’ll present the award. You’ll have your photo in the newspaper, kiddo, with the mayor! How about that, eh? You’ll be a celebrity!’
I crunch desperately on rock-hard biscotti to drown out the scream of cicadas.
‘Councillor Wilder will want to say a few words, no doubt, get some use out of that new lectern the Port Torft club gave us. Hand-crafted, they tell us — artistic lot.’ His eyes narrow. ‘But we’ll be giving them a run for their money with you, kiddo!’ He turns to my mother again. ‘Eleanor will be in touch soon to arrange the flight.’
‘How is she?’ my mother asks. ‘I haven’t seen her in ages.’
‘Fighting fit.’ He steps towards me. This time he takes my hand and shakes it firmly. ‘Congratulations, son.’
My mother squeezes my shoulder. ‘What do you say, Novi?’
‘Thanks.’
My mother thrusts her hand out. It stops Mr Roper from kissing her. She sidesteps him and heads for the front door. Mr Roper follows, but before he leaves the kitchen he turns and gives me one last look. He is smiling, to himself, not to me.
Chapter 14
Through the shadowy blur of the propeller I watch the ground fall away. It’s hard to believe we’re in the air, it doesn’t feel like we’re moving fast enough, but up we go. It’s like being carried by a giant hand above. I was expecting full throttle, high velocity, watering eyes and flattened cheeks. Not this accidental lift. The screaming noise of the engine seems to be the only force making us fly.
Mrs Roper takes my hand and I am nervous enough to squeeze hers back. It’s soft and the skin on top is loose. I don’t know Mrs Roper very well, although she seems to know me. Eleanor, she says, you must call me Eleanor. During take-off she cranes her neck to see past me out the window instead of sitting back and staring straight ahead like everyone else. When the wheels go up she lifts her shoulders and scrunches up her nose at me. She looks like a little girl when she does that.
From the oval plastic window of our Ansett plane we look down onto Morus. I have never seen it like this before. At last I have a bird’s-eye view. What I’ve always thought was a mish-mash is actually a neat pattern of backyards and buildings, houses like Lego, roads like lines of lead pencil. The brown river flops down from the hills and in the shallow places where it bends the water is pale green. All that dark scrub, which feels like such a mad tangle when I’m in the middle of it, seems tidy and well behaved from the air, with straight edges sliced off for paddocks and plantations. On the slope of a hill I watch vegetables being sown, wobbly lines of dark dirt. I see the school with its oval among the trees. For a second the roofs flash at me.
Watercolours Page 17
