Watercolours

by Adrienne Ferreira

  Gerard peered up at him. ‘Has Eleanor been here?’

  Bert stopped still. Carefully, he laid his bow-saw on the top rung of the ladder and leaned against a branch. Nothing was said for a minute. The ground beneath them oozed and trickled, small sounds distinguishable from the rushing of the river. With a frown, Bert stared across the water. He didn’t hurry to deny it as Gerard had expected, as he had desperately hoped. He merely leaned there, his face grim, his moustache twitching.

  ‘I’m in love with her,’ he said at last. It was a proclamation, sad but unapologetic. Bert’s sense of entitlement, his lack of shame, disarmed Gerard and for a moment he was dumbfounded. Then he felt he might cry from the injustice of it.

  Bert thumbed a pale disc of raw wood and shook his head. ‘I’ve been a coward. I’m not proud of it. But now you know. It’s about time you knew. We’re in love and we have to face up to it. We can stop pretending.’

  He glanced down at Gerard and the lack of kindness in Bert’s eyes made Gerard wonder if they had ever really been friends, if Bert even liked him. His only regret seemed to be that he’d been forced to sneak around — no mention of betrayal or treachery, no acknowledgement of the moral decrepitude involved in stealing another man’s wife.

  Watching him, Gerard began to tremble with rage. Perched up there so high and mighty and sure of himself, Bert didn’t even have the decency to climb down and face him like a man! It was his arrogance that incensed Gerard, and his presumptuousness. How could he be so sure of Eleanor’s feelings, of whom she would choose? It swept the tender, wounded heart of him away and into its place sprang something else, a primal force that wanted nothing but to hurt this man who had so hurt him.

  With a roar Gerard lunged at the ladder and gave it a mighty shove. It bowed slightly and then sprang back. The saw slipped along the top rung and, clutching at it, Bert slipped, too. For a second his weight was drawn along the smooth wood, and off into mid air. Gerard saw his eyes widen in alarm, his free hand grabbing desperately at leaves, at sky. There was a moment’s silence before he landed on the ground with a thud.

  Gerard stood over him, breathing hard. Bert moaned. Not so unshakeable after all. His face was flecked with mud and his eyes were closed. The rain had started up again, Gerard felt the tickle on his hot cheeks, watched it bead on the hairs of his arms. His heart was pounding. The scene seemed etched in high definition.

  But with Bert knocked flat the confrontation was over. Gerard’s rage subsided in a wave of disgust. He stalked away, expecting Bert would be nursing a splitting headache when he eventually roused himself, and he was glad. He hoped the pain would make him sorry for what he’d done, even if his conscience seemed unable to.

  Gerard didn’t know the river would rise so quickly. He didn’t know the water would wash up to the foot of those trees and carry Bert away to ensure that he would never be roused again. Later, on learning what had happened, he didn’t know whether to feel horror or satisfaction. Either way there was nothing to be done about it; Bert was gone. It was an accident, after all. For his sake and for Eleanor’s, for the sake of their future together, Gerard decided to hide his knowledge of the affair from her. He tried not to think about the incident in the orchard. And if from time to time he couldn’t help remembering, then he made damn sure he had his facts straight.

  An ear-splitting screech caused Gerard to wheel around in alarm. He realised it was just the sound of the roller door opening at the back of the building; someone had arrived for work. Mechanically, he turned to the pile of mail in front of him. Among the letters was a large yellow envelope addressed to him in childish handwriting. Frowning, he sliced it open and pulled out a wad of pages.

  Umberto struck him in the face.

  Gerard clutched the drawings. He looked at one or two. Then he crumpled them up as hard as he could and shoved them to the bottom of the rubbish bin.

  The phone was ringing again. Gerard stepped away from it. He grabbed the bin and took it outside and threw the whole thing into a skip.

  Chapter 24

  Unopened for days, Dom’s flat was warm and airless. Without noticing it he’d spent every night since the accident at Camille’s.

  Something had shifted between them; there was a new intimacy that was easy and less cautious. Surprisingly, his impromptu display of macho bike riding had hit the mark. His injuries had brought out the nurse in Camille; he was still sore and stiff and he’d done something weird to his ankle, but he was recovering under her gentle ministrations. Hearing Novi’s assessment had gone so well had been a relief. Of course, Camille wasn’t surprised. She agreed that Joy Kelley’s paintings alone were proof that the woman’s intentions towards Novi were suspect.

  Of all things, his accident had helped clear the air with Novi, too. At school the following week, the boy took one look at Dom’s thigh-length gravel rash and was fascinated. Dom had to admit it was impressive. He lifted up some of the bandages and together they spent a few minutes studying the dark uneven surface of his wounds, the long thin lines of incipient scab and spectacular bruising. Dom was beginning to wonder if all he needed was a good thrashing for everyone to forgive him until he enquired tentatively whether Novi had started his printmaking lessons with Caz yet. Immediately the boy had clammed up. Dom had felt stupid. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  He unloaded his bag and limped down to the laundry to put on a load of washing. On his way back to the flat he decided to call in on Mavis but her door was shut. There was no answer when he knocked and he was disappointed; he would have enjoyed some of her grandmotherly attention, even if her form of grandmother was a viper in a dressing gown. Back inside he opened the sliding balcony door to let the breeze in, then climbed carefully onto a chair and took down the lace curtains, making way for the bamboo blinds he had bought at Sinclair’s. Eleanor Roper had served him, and when Dom asked her if she knew when the Roper Centre would reopen, following the fish kill, she’d been uncertain. ‘That’s Gerard’s problem,’ she’d said, and given the fierce look in her eye Dom didn’t want to ask any more questions. The blinds he’d bought were cheap but they looked okay and they would help take the edge off the afternoon sun. Camille had been impressed when he’d told her about his purchase. ‘See,’ he said, ‘I’m learning!’ She hadn’t let him out of bed for hours.

  He climbed down from the chair and took a look around, pleased by his first attempt at interior decorating. The blinds were much better than the curtains. Those ducks would not be missed. He was inspecting the empty wilderness of his freezer and berating himself for not thinking to buy some groceries, when he heard a knock at the door. Mavis, he hoped. They could crack a bottle of mulberry wine and celebrate his return to Camelot. But it was a stranger, a skinny, middle-aged woman in white shorts and a pink polo top with a halo of carefully arranged auburn hair.

  ‘Dominic Best?’

  He smiled politely. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Joy Kelley.’

  Dom couldn’t believe it. Here he was, face to face with the woman he’d been despising with every fibre of his being for weeks now. He took his time to examine her, noting the salon set, the powdered nose, the drawn-on eyebrows and thin, pinched lips. He felt a perverse satisfaction to see she really was as ugly as he’d imagined.

  ‘Is this an inspection?’ he asked, making no effort to mask his hostility. ‘I haven’t received a letter from the agent and you have to give me at least forty-eight hours notice—’

  ‘No, no,’ she trilled, then her voice trailed off. Her gaze wandered around the lounge room. She made no further attempt to explain herself.

  Dom waited for the grovelling apology he assumed she had come to make, but she said nothing. After a while his anger began to dissipate. Joy Kelley was acting weird; it was as though she’d forgotten what it was she’d come to see him about. Her eyes were red-rimmed against her powder. She looked tired — probably from staying up all night plotting her evil schemes. The longer she stood there the more Dom dec
ided her face was just plain scary: the blush unnatural, the fake eyebrows truly awful. He began to feel a little unnerved by her.

  Over her shoulder he noticed that the door to Mavis’s flat was now open. God, how he wished this painful woman would go away! Nobody could dampen a celebration like a landlady. But Joy Kelley made no move to leave or speak. She just hovered in the doorway, looking round his bare walls and back to a set of keys clutched in her hand.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard,’ she said at last, in a prim voice. ‘My mother died on Saturday.’

  Hearing this, the last of Dom’s anger left him. Now he just felt embarrassed. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t been in,’ she said, and kept on standing there. Camille was right, he thought; this woman was unhinged. What the hell was she doing — wandering around the building telling everyone about her mother? He’d never even met her mother. And then it hit him. Mavis.

  He was stunned. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Stroke. A few, actually.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘She left you something.’

  ‘Really?’

  Joy held up the keys. He recognised them at once.

  ‘The Falcon?’

  ‘I always loved that car,’ she said, handing them over with a sigh.

  They stood in awkward silence.

  ‘You can come and sign the papers when you get a chance,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll be in and out the next few days, sorting things.’

  She turned and disappeared inside Mavis’s flat. Dom stood in the empty corridor. He looked down at the car keys in his palm. Something hot clutched at his throat.

  He went into his flat and shut the door quietly.

  SPRING

  Nobody can believe it, it’s the talk of the town and even my mother keeps pinching herself. Nobody can believe it, that is, except me. My father has finally finished the boat.

  In the end he completed it with recycled stuff, all the bits and pieces he’d collected over the years and stashed away. People are calling it a work of art. The paper even came to take a picture and strangers keep driving past the house to gawk at it and congratulate him. One man knocked on the door to tell us he’d known the boat all his life; he said he’d seen it from the school bus every day of his childhood and used to wonder how we’d ever get it in the river. He was so happy to know it was finished.

  Dad has been pretty emotional from all the unexpected support.

  Now it’s just a matter of launching it. The whole neighbourhood is buzzing with the logistics of the job. A crane will be needed to lift the boat from its stocks and place it in the river, then there’s the problem of the bridges. No-one’s sure whether the boat will fit under them. We’ll have to wait until the river is low and the tide is out, Dad says. He seems confident we’ll make it.

  Today I received my very first postcard. It’s from Eleanor in Florence. On the front is a picture of a nude man called David, and on the back she says Michelangelo is a genius and I have to come to Italy one day. She is studying Italian in the mornings and taking cooking lessons in the afternoons and her apartment has a view in three directions. She has no plans to come home at this stage.

  Just before she left for her trip, Eleanor came over and had a long talk with my mother. I was shooed away and didn’t hear all of it but it went on for ages and by the end they were both crying and hugging each other. After she left, my mother told me Eleanor wasn’t living with Mr Roper anymore. I don’t know why everyone was so sad. It was the best news I’d heard in ages.

  In the afternoon we have more visitors, Mr Best and Miss Morrison in Mr Best’s cool car. They climb up onto the deck of the boat and look around and then duck below to test out the velvet cushions Mum made and hear all about our itinerary. My mother says the art in Cambodia is supposed to be amazing and she’s always wanted to see Angkor Wat. My vote is to visit the dragons on Komodo — I’ve always wanted to see a lizard eat a goat. Kalimantan is another important stop on the list because of the coconut oil opportunities over there. Coconut oil, Dad says, has yet to reach its true potential in the Australian marketplace.

  I’m not sure how we’re going to manage all this before cyclone season starts. Dad says we might have to sit it out with Uncle Alan and the orangutans if we’re not back by then. All I know is that we need to be home in time for me to start high school next year — I can’t wait to get into the art rooms. We will definitely be back by then. I’ll go insane if I have to be home-schooled by my mother for too long.

  Here we are in the backyard, wandering up and down from the house to the shed to the boat, preparing for the voyage ahead, and then I hear it. The koel is back. It calls from one of the trees, lazy, because it’s only early in the season and it still has plenty of time to find a mate. I crane my neck, searching the gaps between the leaves for a glimpse of black feathers, a red-rimmed eye. The koel is hidden, but it sees everything.

  I haven’t drawn a picture of Nonno for a while. There are other people investigating the river now, a whole team of them. Its secret will be uncovered soon. I imagine Nonno up high, like the koel, looking down on us. I wonder what he’d make of Mum and Dad and me, three little specks on our boat. All of us together, ready to sail off into the sunset.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is a lonely business and my albatross wings would have fallen off long ago if it weren’t for a number of encouraging people to whom I am very grateful.

  Thank you to my family, the lot of you, for your enduring support. What stamina!

  Thank you to Rob, for urging me to be bold and for the galvanising wise words that kept me heading back to my desk.

  To Leo and Jim who give it all meaning.

  Thanks to Jan Clement, for nurturing my love of language and poetry at an age when I was most impressionable.

  Rachel Couper’s captivating artworks and her genius for map drawing helped me to visualise my world and untangle all the threads. Thanks for the many conversations about art we have shared during our friendship.

  To Kate Rossmanith, fellow albatross, whose advice and conviction I have cherished.

  I am grateful to the NSW Writer’s Centre for my first editing mentorship and to Jody Lee for her insight, way back when the manuscript made no sense at all.

  Thanks to the generous Ian Hale and Fairfield High School for letting me sit in on the gifted art classes.

  Thanks to Terry De Martin, Greg Evans, David Featherstone, Keith Hellier and Greig Ireland, for taking the time to talk to me about the bad old days.

  Thanks to my agent, Selwa Anthony, who was such an early supporter and who has followed through over many years to ensure that this story saw the light of day.

  To Jo Butler and the enthusiastic team at HarperCollins Australia, surely the loveliest people in the industry. Editors are amazing creatures, and the brilliant work of Clara Finlay and Amanda O’Connell has greatly contributed to this book.

  To the staff of Sandy Beach Primary School, for the memories, and to all the passionate teachers out there, thanks.

  About the Author

  Adrienne Ferreira was born in Sydney in 1975 and grew up in Sandy Beach on the mid north coast. She has a BA from the University of Sydney and has written short stories and poetry. Watercolours is her first novel. Adrienne lives on the NSW Central Coast with her husband and twin boys.

  Copyright

  Fourth Estate

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2011

  This edition published in 2011

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Adrienne Ferreira, 2011

  The right of Adrienne Ferreira to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This wor
k is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Ferreira, Adrienne.

  Watercolours / Adrienne Ferreira.

  ISBN: 978-0-7322-9216-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN: 978-0-7304-9421-8 (epub)

  A823.4

  Cover design and illustrations by Priscilla Nielsen

  Photography of cover artwork by Jennifer Soo