by Judy Nunn
Angie flopped back in an exhausted heap, hair splayed messily about on a pillow wet with the sweat of her labours. Well he’s not gay, she thought.
It was evident to all from the very start of first term that Matt Witherton and Angie Marsdon were ‘an item’. Reactions were varied, particularly amongst the male students. Why him? thought the studs who’d been rebuffed; Lucky bastard, thought the merely envious and more generous of spirit. The female students were less taken aback by what appeared a mismatch, for many found Matt Witherton attractive, but they were nonetheless surprised that Angie, who could have had her pick, hadn’t settled on one of the real high-flyers.
Angie and Matt were perhaps in love, it was a little early to tell, particularly with sex consuming them as it did. But Matt had never in his life felt this way about a girl, and Angie was happier than she’d been during the whole of her time at university.
In truth, it had never been easy being Angie. The curse of beauty was ever-present. She had a healthy libido and enjoyed sex, but a casual fling often resulted in a boastful claim to fame and ‘I scored with Angie Marsdon’ joined the whispers around campus. Then there were those she rejected, many of whom, considering themselves scorned, were quick to deride her. ‘Angie Marsdon’s up herself,’ was a particularly common whisper. It had been a no-win situation right from the start.
Being in a steady relationship solved a lot of things for Angie, but Matt was far more than a convenient way to scotch the whispers. He was a lover who excited her and even more than that a constant source of intrigue, retaining as he did such inscrutability. In fact there was so much Matt held back that sometimes Angie felt she didn’t know him at all. Does he do it deliberately? she wondered. Like the very first time he’d taken her home to his flat on that Saturday afternoon. They’d been going out together for a whole month by then and he’d never once said a word! Why hadn’t he told her?
‘These are originals.’ She hadn’t even looked around at the flat itself, a beautifully renovated studio with perfect natural light that flooded in through huge skylights and windows, all of which would normally have thrilled her. She’d been immediately transfixed by the paintings that adorned the walls of the open-plan living room: there must have been a dozen at least.
‘Yep,’ he replied, ‘they’re originals.’
Matt had brought several girls back to the flat over the past two years, often a girl he’d met that same evening, fleeting dalliances only, understood by both parties to be a casual one-night stand. There was always a reasonable chance his parents would see the girl leaving the following morning via the side pathway that led to the street, which was of little concern and should really have presented no cause for comment. When an exchange student from Germany had progressed to a three-week affair, however, Lilian had been unable to resist.
‘Good God, Mattie darling, if she’s going to become a regular girlfriend why not ask her in to meet us?’ she’d blithely suggested. Matt, feeling his privacy thoroughly invaded, had flashed a murderous glance at his father, but Dave had just returned a shake of his head and a why-bother? shrug.
Matt was far too serious about Angie to let such snooping happen again. He had not invited her to the flat until his parents were safely away in London for the long-overdue opening of Lilian’s exhibition. The first time Angie would meet his parents would be when he introduced them face to face in the main house, he’d decided, because Angie was the woman with whom he was in love. Of that fact Matt was now certain.
Angie wandered around, studying each work closely. She’d recognised the artist the moment she’d entered the room; she didn’t need to look at the signature on the paintings. ‘But these are Lilian Birches,’ she said incredulously.
‘That’s right.’
She continued from one painting to the next. How come I haven’t seen these works before, she wondered, or at least reproductions of them? And what are they doing here of all places?
‘I’ve never seen any of these before,’ she muttered more to herself than to him. She was utterly mystified.
‘No, these are the ones she thinks aren’t quite up to scratch,’ he said, ‘but she doesn’t want to get rid of them either. They seem to sit somewhere in between.’
‘So how come you have them?’ She turned to him in amazement. ‘How come you have an entire collection of Lilian Birch?’
‘She’s my mother.’
If a young woman as beautiful as Angela Marsdon could look comical then that was the moment.
‘She’s what?’ she said, jaw agape.
‘Lilian Birch is my mother.’
There was a pause while Angie absorbed the news. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know.’ He didn’t. ‘It didn’t occur to me I suppose.’ It hadn’t.
‘But I’ve never heard anyone mention the fact at uni. You’ve been there over four years – surely they know.’
‘I doubt it. I’ve never told anyone.’ His shrug was careless. ‘Why would I?’
Angie didn’t understand Matt at all. Every single person she knew would have dined out on the fact that their mother was one of Australia’s most famous artists.
‘Well you should have told me!’ she exploded after a moment of speechlessness. ‘I’m studying art! You know my passion for painters – why would you keep a thing like that to yourself?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was something he honestly couldn’t answer. The omission hadn’t been deliberate; he was simply unaccustomed to talking about himself on any personal level or in any great detail. When the topic of childhood had come up between them he’d simply told her his parents had been away a lot and he’d been brought up by his grandmother. He supposed now upon reflection that it had been rather thoughtless. He looked at her with a woebegone, hangdog expression, hoping it would raise a smile. ‘Perhaps I just wanted you to love me for who I am?’
Angie fortunately found the act amusing. ‘Bastard,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’ He kissed her and she responded immediately as she always did. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ he murmured.
After they’d made love they lolled back naked on the rumpled sheets, regaining their breath, her head cradled against his shoulder, both gazing up through the skylight at the grey clouds that gathered. Soon it would rain.
‘So when do I get to meet her?’ she asked.
‘Exactly one month,’ he replied, ‘first thing after Mum and Dad get back, I promise.’ In the meantime, he thought, we have a whole four weeks of freedom. He delighted in the knowledge that Angie could visit the flat safe from Lilian’s prying eyes.
Following the introduction to his parents, Matt had no compunctions at all about Angie staying at the flat and being seen coming and going by Lilian. Now that she was accepted as his steady girlfriend it didn’t matter in the least. He wondered why he’d felt the need to observe convention in such a way. Had he been protecting Angie? Had he been protecting his own privacy? Or was his conventionalism a form of rebellion against an unconventional mother? There were occasions when Matt was a mystery even to himself.
Over the ensuing months, the relationship intensified: things were clearly becoming serious. Angie invited Matt home to the farm for the weekend in order to meet her parents, a pleasant country couple who appeared vaguely bewildered as to how they’d managed to produce such a ravishing creature, and an older brother, Murray, big, beefy and born to take over the property. Matt very much met with Barbara and Bob Marsdon’s approval and they weren’t shy in showing it. ‘Don’t you be a stranger now,’ Barb insisted as they made their farewells, Angie doing an eyeballs-to-heaven act behind her mother’s back. ‘That’s right, son,’ Bob, also insistent, pumped Matt’s hand vigorously, ‘you come back and see us any time – you’re most welcome.’ Monthly trips to the country appeared set to become something of a routine.
Angie also became a regular visitor to the main house in Wakefield Street, particularly on the weekends when she didn’t go home. Sunday lunches were
a favourite. Dave would cook a roast or a stew, his two winter specialities. During the summer months he made hearty salads to accompany seafood he purchased at the markets. Dave very much enjoyed the preparation of food; he found it relaxing. Lilian never cooked. Apart from toast in the morning or sandwiches when Dave wasn’t home, Lilian was a stranger to the kitchen. ‘One can be only so creative,’ she would say, but the fact was cooking bored her.
When Matt had told his mother of Angie’s passion for the world of art, Lilian had been quite astounded. But surely with looks like that the girl should concentrate on the performing arts, she’d thought. Young Angie should set her sights on Hollywood, or if she couldn’t act, which didn’t appear essential these days anyway, perhaps a career as a catwalk model. Or she could become ‘the face of something-or-other’ like gorgeous girls did, skin creams and fragrances and things like that.
Lilian’s initial misgivings had been put to rest: Angie was not a femme fatale out to lure her son to his doom, but actually a rather nice girl. Nonetheless she found it difficult to take someone as beautiful as Angela Marsdon seriously. Angie was a crush that Matt would get over, she’d decided. Once the girl’s beauty lost its novelty and he felt himself in need of stimulating company he’d look elsewhere. She sincerely hoped he would anyway. She didn’t say so of course. But then she didn’t have to. Lilian was very readable on occasions, particularly to her son.
‘Good God no, Mattie,’ she said, ‘why on earth would I want to paint Angela?’ She was considering entering a portrait for next year’s Archibald Prize and he’d suggested Angie would be a good subject.
Matt was puzzled; surely it was obvious. ‘Because Angie’s beautiful,’ he replied, ‘she’s a beautiful person.’
‘Exactly! Beautiful is boring! Who wants to paint perfection? It’s the flaws that inspire, my darling – they reveal the character within. Your Angie offers no depth, I’m afraid,’ she added with a dismissive shrug.
She hadn’t intended to be cruel, she never did, but she had a habit of wounding nevertheless. She saw the flicker in her son’s eyes, a mixture of hurt and anger that she should be so contemptuous of a girl she didn’t even know, a girl with whom he happened to be in love.
Damn, she thought, I was only talking about art, doesn’t he realise that? But she knew she’d unwittingly displayed her true feelings and she cursed herself. Damn, damn, damn. Mattie being Mattie, he won’t say anything, he’ll just close off as he always does. Lilian resolved then and there that she must be nice to Angela. If she didn’t show some interest in the girl she risked alienating her son.
‘So tell me, Angie dear, what particular period or artists are you studying at the moment?’ She put her plan into practice two weeks later on a wintry August Sunday, after lunch when the four of them remained cosily gathered around the table sipping red wine, having consumed huge bowls of Dave’s lamb shank stew.
‘We’re looking at conceptualism,’ Angie said eagerly, thrilled that Lilian was finally showing an interest in her studies. She’d never once brought up the subject of art herself. She was aware the woman must get tired of being fawned over by admirers and those seeking her opinion. ‘The theory that concept takes precedence over execution, that the idea itself is the most important element of the piece …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lilian replied, rather wishing she hadn’t asked, ‘a bit like joining the dots in my opinion; I’ve never been a great fan of conceptual art.’ She smiled, however, determined to remain ‘nice’, and nodded for Angie to go on.
‘During first term this year we studied the Antipodeans and their manifesto of 1959 …’ Angie quickly dropped conceptualism and moved on to an area that was bound to be of interest to Lilian. She’d been longing to bring up the subject for months now, but hadn’t dared. ‘You would have known all seven artists involved, wouldn’t you, and Bernard Smith, the art historian who was catalyst to the movement?’ Even as she asked, Angie could see from the corner of her eye the quick glance exchanged between Matt and his father and she wondered if, in touching upon the personal, she was overstepping the mark.
Under normal circumstances Lilian would certainly have ended the conversation there, but she stuck to her resolve. ‘Well I knew of them,’ she said pleasantly, ‘I was only twenty when they wrote the manifesto, but I grew to know them all quite well over the years. Indeed I still do, except for Clifton of course,’ she added, referring to Clifton Pugh. ‘He died only two years ago, heart attack, sixty-six poor dear, far too young. Sad that this country should lose such a talent so prematurely.’
Angie nodded, breathless with anticipation as she waited for Lilian to continue. This was far more exciting than lectures at university. This was living history, straight from the mouth of one of Australia’s greatest painters.
‘They were all terrified that the new wave of American abstract expressionism was taking over the world,’ Lilian said with her usual nonchalance and her at times irritating tendency to generalise. ‘In hindsight a bit of an over-reaction, at least that’s what I thought and still do: there’s room for all schools of art, so long as it’s good art.’
‘But they were fighting to preserve the national identity of Australian figurative painting,’ Angie said, thrilled beyond measure to be discussing art with none other than Lilian Birch. ‘You don’t agree that the image, the recognisable shape, was the basic unit of the artist’s language?’ She waited for some input from Lilian, who was bound to subscribe to the Antipodeans’ concept since she was a figurative artist herself.
But Lilian merely shrugged and took a healthy swig of wine.
‘The manifesto claimed that the image communicated itself through the shared experience of artist and audience,’ Angie continued. ‘It even went so far as to say that abstract expressionism was not an art for living men.’
‘Yes, yes …’ Lilian tried not to sound terse. Having bits and pieces of the Antipodean Manifesto haphazardly quoted at her was annoying, but the girl was a student, and students were always intense. ‘Bernard was certainly conservative,’ she said drily, ‘but it was a bit tough on the Australian abstractionists who were struggling to make a name for themselves, wouldn’t you say?’ The question obviously rhetorical, she continued, ‘The Antipodean group were all rather successful at the time, it seemed a little unfair to me.’
‘So you don’t agree with the stance they took in defending tradition and preserving the cultural identity of Australia?’ Angie was surprised by the contradictory nature of Lilian’s response. Not only was Lilian Birch a figurative artist, her paintings very much mirrored the Australian landscape and its people.
‘I don’t agree with anyone dictating what art should or should not be,’ Lilian replied abruptly: she’d had quite enough by now. But she smiled brightly about at the table in general, still determined to be nice. ‘You’re obviously an excellent student, Angie,’ she said, ‘I admire your commitment.’
Matt and Dave exchanged another brief glance, this time of amusement. Dave was a little mystified as to why Lilian was working so hard to be charming, it was unlike her, but Matt, aware his mother was doing her best to make amends, flashed her a grateful smile.
‘So upon completion of your degree what particular path do you intend to follow, dear?’ Lilian asked. ‘Given your commitment, obviously something connected to art! I’m most interested to hear of your plans.’ She wasn’t at all, but she wanted to call a halt to the current discussion. ‘A teacher perhaps? Art historian? Gallery curator? What is your aim in life?’
‘My aim in life is to be an artist. I want to paint.’
‘Oh …’ The reply was so unexpected that Lilian came to a momentary halt. ‘Really,’ she said. ‘Well, well, how very interesting. Are you receiving any form of practical tuition?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve been doing evening classes in life drawing for the past year, and I’ve also studied still-life composition.’ Angie’s magnificent eyes were ablaze. ‘My life-class tutor is wonderful,’ she enthused. �
�He says drawing is the key that opens all doors.’
‘And he’s quite right.’ Lilian beamed, this certainly put a different complexion upon things. ‘The most important talent an artist must possess is the ability to draw,’ she said adamantly. ‘Once the principle of drawing is mastered, the artist can then branch into whatever form he or she wishes. Just look at Picasso, the perfect example.’ She drained the last of the wine from her glass. ‘Mind you, Picasso was a child prodigy,’ she said, reaching for the bottle and pouring herself another, ‘a born genius, the true Mozart of the art world. He could draw better at the age of eight than most trained artists of today …’
Matt took the bottle his mother had plonked down on the table and topped up Angie’s glass.
‘And then there’s the language of art, Angie,’ Lilian continued, ‘the experience shared between artist and audience …’
‘Absolutely,’ Angie agreed with fervour, ‘the painting must speak, it must have a voice.’
‘Exactly!’ Lilian was enjoying herself immensely: she liked Angie now. The discussion of theory and history she found boring, but to share one’s passion was something else altogether. ‘The very paint itself must speak,’ she said. ‘Someone who thinks they can become an artist without learning the language of paint is like a writer attempting to write a novel without command of their given language.’
‘We might need another one of those,’ Dave said, gesturing to the now-empty bottle. Matt rose from the table and went off to the wine cellar, his exit and return a few moments later barely noticed by the women.
‘So after you graduate next year,’ Lilian continued, ‘where do you intend to study? Will you go overseas? Slades perhaps?’ Lilian herself, after completing her BA, had gone to London at the age of twenty-two, where she’d studied for two years at the Slade School of Fine Art.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t really given it much thought,’ Angie admitted.
