On our way back to the ute my mother says, ‘Shall we stop in at Riverside and have a cup of tea with Liz? She’s been wanting to talk about your next exhibition.’
I clutch my parcel, wondering what it all means. ‘Is my rest over now?’
Mum flicks the indicator, looks over her shoulder and swings us into the High Street traffic. ‘I think you’ve rested enough, don’t you?’
We drive through town with the windows down, not talking, happy. Autumn is finally here. I can feel it in the cool dry breeze that rushes in the window and flows around us. The colour of the light is changing, too. All the cloud has gone and now a pinky-orange washes over the buildings and the grass and trees, making everything blush. I plan to try to mix that colour as soon as I get home.
There is only one other car at Riverside when we pull in, a white Land Cruiser, and as we climb out and walk towards the gallery our steps start to lose their bounce. The new cheerful mood we’ve been sharing fades away. Both of us know who that car belongs to.
Before we make it to the path, Mr Roper comes out of the gallery. He is carrying some large rectangles wrapped in brown paper. When he sees us he gets such a surprise that his foot almost misses the top step, but he recovers at the last second. His shark eyes blink a few times, trying to decide on an expression.
‘Hi there!’ he says. ‘I was just picking up our paintings.’ He lifts the rectangles under his arms like a set of clumsy brown wings. He is smiling, but looks guilty.
‘Hello, Gerard,’ my mother says stiffly.
Mr Roper saunters over. ‘What are you doing out of school, kiddo?’
He has a knack for making me feel like I’ve done something wrong. I feel my mother bristle next to me. As Mr Roper comes closer, her body starts whipping up ions like an electrical storm. He stops right in front of me, blotting out the sun. My mother draws herself up as tall as she can and looks him in the eye.
‘Novi had his assessment with the counsellor today.’
‘Oh?’ Mr Roper’s shark eyes flash. The curiosity is killing him. He tries to control himself and look concerned but I’m sure he’s hoping they’ll chuck me in the loony bin and throw away the key.
‘How did it go?’
Mum puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Fine,’ she says firmly. ‘Novi’s fine. The counsellor said you’re a very talented young man, didn’t she, darling?’
I nod. Mr Roper’s eyes narrow into mine. We are in the depths now, the open ocean, just the two of us. There’s a thread of blood in the water. The monster fish have fled for their lives. But is it my blood or his?
‘Well,’ Mr Roper says, ‘we all know that. Novi’s a clever boy.’ He keeps me there, his big shoulders looming. Then he says in a quiet voice, ‘Too clever to do anything silly. You’ll just have to be a bit more careful what you paint from now on, won’t you, kiddo? You don’t want to get into any more trouble.’
I swallow at the danger in his voice. My heart is pounding, but not from fear alone. The cicadas whiz about; they want to fly into his face. Holding Mr Roper’s gaze, I manage to shrug like I couldn’t care less.
‘Artists are supposed to cause trouble,’ I say. ‘It’s our job to stir things up.’
My mother squeezes my shoulder. Together we push past him and along the path. We walk up the steps to the gallery and just before we go inside, Mum turns back. She points to the paintings under Mr Roper’s arms.
‘You should hold onto those, Gerard,’ she calls. ‘They’ll be worth millions one day!’
Mr Roper’s mouth curls. Even from the car park I can feel his shark eyes locked onto me. But I’m too far away now to care.
Chapter 23
Eleanor set off early for Sinclair’s. They were in the middle of an unscheduled stocktake due to the emergency rush on goods and long hours were necessary. It was well before opening time when she pulled the Jag into her space by the entrance and yet a small crowd was gathered in the car park of the Roper Centre. She looked across to where the dozen or so people were milling about. Gerard was among them, she could make out his tall figure and brown Akubra, distinctive even at this distance. Eleanor had seen little of him the last few days, they’d both been busy in the aftermath of the flood, and this morning he’d left the house before she’d even come down for breakfast.
Reaching for her briefcase and handbag she wondered what everyone could be doing over there. Inspecting the bitumen? The floodwater around the Centre was draining away at last and had likely caused some damage, but surely potholes weren’t that interesting? She paused and peered over at the gathering. Strange, how a crowd of onlookers inspired curiosity. There was no sign it was about to disperse, though; a couple more people had wandered over to stop and stare. That was it. Tossing her bags back onto the seat, Eleanor locked the car and headed over to see what the fuss was about.
She made her way through the scattering of cars to arrive at Gerard’s side. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she gazed across the vacant lot beyond the car park, still covered with a sheet of shallow water. She couldn’t see anything at first; the reflection was too brilliant. Then her gaze was drawn to the water’s edge, where Aaron Cherry from the local newspaper was snapping pictures, ankle deep in a mess of silver. For a moment Eleanor simply stared, astonished by the sight of hundreds of fish, belly up, gleaming in the sunlight.
‘How did they get there?’ she asked at last.
‘The flood, obviously!’ Gerard said loudly, a note of panic in his voice. ‘The river must have dumped them.’
Eleanor frowned. She turned to look at him. ‘But there are so many of them! I wonder how they died?’
‘For God’s sake, Eleanor!’ He shot her a savage look. ‘The king tide would have forced salt water up the river from the ocean! These’d be freshies, right?’ He was addressing the man next to him. The man nodded uncertainly.
Eleanor crossed her arms and studied Gerard, contemplating the pulse in his jaw. For a man with no love of fishing, and little interest in the river, he suddenly seemed to know a lot about estuarine ecosystems.
She pointed. ‘What about the birds?’
Several ibis lay decomposing among the debris, white feathers in disarray, leathery black heads drying to paper; their long beaks, curved down, made them seem displeased with their own demise. Something that looked like an osprey flapped pathetically a little way off. A woman abandoned her handbag to wade out and rescue it.
Gerard spread his big hands in exasperation. ‘The storms, Eleanor! All sorts of animals have washed up around the place. A lot of livestock has been lost as well.’
Aaron Cherry let his camera rest on his chest. ‘There were cattle carcasses on the beach at Port Torft,’ he offered. A few members of the crowd muttered verification. Then everyone pondered the fish in silence. The woman tried gingerly to grab the flapping bird. Aaron took a few more snaps.
‘That’s really going to stink,’ someone warned.
Eleanor’s nostrils twitched. It stank already. ‘We’d better call the council.’
‘No!’
Everyone turned to Gerard in surprise. His glance shot round the crowd. ‘It’s my Centre,’ he reasoned, pulling his tone down a notch. ‘I’ll deal with it. I should be the one to deal with it.’
Eleanor looked at him as though he were mad. ‘There are hundreds of them, Gerard! It’s a health hazard. I’m calling the council.’
She turned and walked in the direction of Sinclair’s. Gerard sidestepped people to race after her. They continued in tandem, the two of them striding silently past trolley docks and over speed humps until they reached the shop. Inside, Eleanor headed straight for the office. She flung open the doors of the cupboard beside the photocopier. She turned to Gerard. ‘Where’s the phonebook?’
‘I’ll get Reg to do it when he comes in, Eleanor.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! This needs to be dealt with immediately.’ She rifled through the stationery. ‘Have you seen the phonebook?’
‘Listen, I
’ll call council. I will! Don’t you worry about it.’
He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. It stuck straight up from his forehead, increasing his appearance of alarm. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to make a coffee. Do you want one?’
She ignored him.
‘Ten minutes isn’t going to make any difference out there, Eleanor,’ he pleaded. ‘Come on — I sure as hell need something to chase that stench away.’
She flung open a few more doors and searched in vain. Then she sat down at her desk with a sigh.
‘All right, then. But don’t leave it too long.’
‘I won’t!’ he said with obvious relief. ‘I’ll get onto it. Coffee first, though!’
He disappeared into the kitchenette. She heard him fill the kettle and take cups from the cupboard. She reached for the mail and began sorting through it efficiently.
‘Gerard?’ she called, perusing the contents of an envelope. ‘What did you do with the paintings?’
The kettle began to hiss and bluster.
‘Gerard?
He remained silent, out of view.
‘There’s a note from Liz at Riverside. She says you picked up Novi’s paintings. Where did you put them?’
He didn’t answer. Eleanor tossed some junk mail into the recycling and placed Gerard’s mail on his desk. She frowned in the direction of the kitchenette. ‘Did you hear me, Gerard?’
With a click and sigh the kettle announced itself boiled. All was quiet. After a moment Gerard emerged. He stood in the doorway in silence.
She looked at him questioningly. ‘Well?’
‘I destroyed them.’
‘What?’
‘I destroyed them,’ Gerard repeated, firmly this time.
She gaped at him.
‘Eleanor, the boy’s troubled. His pictures are inappropriate, everyone agrees. He has a disturbed imagination and it’s tragic, poor kid. It would be tasteless for us to keep those pictures. A child shouldn’t be painting corpses and I for one won’t encourage it. It’s not right.’
Eleanor blinked a few times. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Gerard had been one of Novi’s biggest supporters. It didn’t make any sense.
‘But … they’re beautiful!’ she cried.
He shook his head. ‘It’s not right, Eleanor.’
For a long time she was speechless. Then, fearfully, she managed, ‘My picture of Umberto …?’
‘I told you,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s gone.’
She watched him standing there, tall and unflinching. There was spite in his eyes. Eleanor let her fingers creep up to her frozen face until the tips were resting on her cheekbones. A long time passed and she could do nothing but stare at the alien life form inhabiting the body of her husband. Eventually she said, ‘But that was my picture. I bought it. I loved it!’
Gerard exploded. ‘You loved it, Eleanor? You loved that dead picture of Bert? Why is that?’
She said nothing.
‘You mean you loved him?’
Eleanor felt numb. Her eyes slid sideways. There was a time when her heart had been alive and rampant with desire, overloaded with happiness and guilt. There was a time when this very conversation had been what she dreaded more than anything, and now here it was. The moment had arrived, six years too late.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I loved him.’
Sorrow washed over her. It was her punishment, self-imposed. Deep down she knew she deserved this half life she’d ended up with, this endless longing for a lover she would never hold again, this undignified ravenous craving for any scrap or fragment that fed Umberto’s memory; it was all she felt worthy of. She had been afraid to leave Gerard for her real love. Back then, the choice had seemed too difficult; she had felt loyalty to Gerard. She did love him in a way, and there was the business to consider. For months she had agonised over what to do. When Umberto died, a part of her was relieved that she’d never spoken up about the affair. She had assumed that she’d never have to. But over time she had come to the bewildering realisation that even though the burden of choice had been removed, the old anguish remained. Perhaps there were still choices to be made after all.
‘How long have you known?’
‘Years!’ he said bitterly. ‘And look at you, still mourning him!’
She closed her eyes. It was true. But anger boiled up at his accusing tone. She wasn’t the only one with a secret.
‘I know why those fish are dead, Gerard, and so do you. It’s what happens when you pour toxic pesticides onto a flood plain.’
Now it was his turn to freeze. Eleanor watched his face, saw the hurt twist into fear. She turned away.
It was madness to carry on like this — her spirit dead, contentment unreachable; denying Gerard a partner who loved him. At first it had seemed preferable to being alone, and for years she and Gerard had constructed a kind of complex scaffold as a way of living above their awful knowledge of each other, without having to address it. But here they were, exposed. The worst was out there, the ugliness beneath revealed and now the structure had become redundant. What was left? Eleanor felt around inside her heart. She found only pointlessness, indifference.
When she turned back she saw Gerard had sunk down on the edge of his desk. His face was pale. His grey eyes flicked up to hers and down again. Eleanor knew shame when she saw it; sadly, it was all too familiar to her.
‘I hate you for destroying my painting,’ she said, picking up her keys. ‘And if you don’t call the council, I will.’
She was gone. Gerard was alone in the office. What should he do? He couldn’t think. He returned to the kitchenette and re-boiled the kettle. His hands made some coffee but the thought of drinking it repulsed him. He went back to his desk and sat down. The phone rang. He stared at it, too afraid to answer. After a while the ringing stopped.
It was all Bert’s fault. We can’t keep selling it, he’d said. And Gerard, being honourable, had promised to take care of it.
But it wasn’t that easy. He couldn’t risk calling the authorities to take it away; a store of that much deregistered pesticide would have looked suspicious. Dividing it up around the place and paying for its removal would have been far too troublesome and expensive. Bert and Stanley had simply left him with it — so what was he supposed to do? Then, from the doorway of Sinclair’s new premises, Gerard had seen the solution literally staring him in the face: the foundations for the Roper Centre, ready for the slab to be poured — a big, fat, fenced hole in the ground.
Bribing the workmen to keep quiet hadn’t taken much. The contractors were from Brisbane, brought in from the beginning for construction because Gerard didn’t trust locals to handle a project of such importance. He’d copped some flak for the decision but it had paid off in the end because the place was up and turning a profit months sooner than if he’d let some Morus team loose on the site. And it had paid off twofold when the remaining drums had been laid to rest, bar a few he kept at the back of Sinclair’s for his very special customers. The contractors had poured the slab and that was that.
Except Gerard had assumed Bert was an honourable man, too. After everything he’d done for him, was it so unreasonable to expect some gratitude? Instead of thanks, all he ended up with was betrayal.
The office was empty and quiet. There was nobody to distract him now, or comfort him. Tears welled up in Gerard’s eyes. Six years and the thought of what had happened still upset him.
It had rained hard for a week that April and Serpentine Road had been cut off. When he went to confront Bert in his orchard, he thought his friend would clap his hands in that way he did when something amused him, and his suspicions would be laughed off. Because suspicion was all Gerard had at that point, an inkling that had arrived quietly, just as the rain was ceasing and the world falling silent for the first time in days. Eleanor had been distant for so long it was hardly noteworthy, but her irritability — alternating with oddly weighted bursts of affect
ion that were quickly withdrawn — had intensified that week. At the time Gerard had put it down to cabin fever; the rain was relentless and everyone was out of sorts. Until she returned home from a morning she claimed had been spent at Joy Kelley’s and on impulse he had pulled her towards him and kissed her. She had stiffened at his touch. The taste of that kiss — a kiss Eleanor had submitted to for only a second before pulling away — was distinctly bitter. It had an odd alcoholic flavour he had noticed on her before and at that moment recognised as grappa, a liqueur he disliked. It took Gerard a minute to understand what it meant.
There was only one person they knew who drank grappa, and it sure as hell wasn’t Joy Kelley.
Complaining of the humidity, Eleanor had headed quickly to the bathroom and closed the door. A few seconds later Gerard heard the shower running. He came to a stop outside the bathroom door, unable to bring himself to burst through it and confront her; his doubts were still unformed. Instead, he took his car keys from the kitchen bench and drove up the road to Bert’s property. A search of the house and the sheds showed no sign of him. Gerard found him at last on the bottom terrace, taking advantage of the break in the weather to shear damaged branches from his mulberry trees.
When Bert spotted him he raised his hand in greeting from the ladder and continued sawing, keen to make headway while the rain held off. Overhead the clouds hung low in one broad mass, heavy as a sodden eiderdown. Just metres away the Lewis had already burst its banks. It was charging headlong, dirty and unstoppable. Watching it, Gerard felt something tearing through him, too; dragging out his guts and turning his insides to filthy liquid.
Tossing down branches, Bert launched into a rundown of the storm damage: erosion and collapsed trellises and the ruinous impact of so much rain on the fruit. But Gerard noticed that Bert himself didn’t seem ruined. He looked a little weary, perhaps, but in the face of disaster he hadn’t eroded or washed away like half his orchard, like Gerard’s insides. He wasn’t railing against the elements, raising his fist to the clouds looming insolently above. His tone was calm, aloof. He was as seemingly intact as any man might hope to be.
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