Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Well whatever you decide, you really must go to Europe at some stage or other,’ Lilian said. ‘After Slades I took off to Paris for a year and just painted and painted and painted, mostly horrible stuff, but there’s a lot to be said for starving in a garret and devoting oneself to one’s art. Both the artist and the art mature through hardship – at least that’s my belief and I’m sticking to it.’

  She raised her glass, Angie raised hers, and they drank in unison, whether to each other, whether to starving in a garret or whether to art in general was difficult to say, but Matt and Dave shared a smile. It would appear that Angie, despite her beauty, had finally been granted the Lilian Birch seal of approval.

  ‘Your mother’s wonderful,’ Angie said later that night as she and Matt lay snugly curled up under the quilt, a strenuous bout of sex having left them both deliriously sated. ‘She’s the most exciting woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt agreed drowsily, already on the brink of sleep, ‘she’s extraordinary all right.’ Lilian was mercurial at the best of times and he wondered, with a sense of trepidation, how long the honeymoon would last.

  Not long, as it turned out. But to give Lilian her credit she did her utmost best to disguise her disenchantment and offer encouragement.

  ‘Very interesting, dear,’ she said when, upon request, Angie arrived at the house with a folio of her work. ‘You certainly have an eye for composition.’

  Then later to Dave, ‘The girl’s all talk,’ she said accusingly. ‘She has no particular artistic talent at all.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Dave’s reply was jovial, ‘beauty and brains, you can’t have it all.’

  But Lilian wasn’t prepared to dismiss things so easily. ‘She’s superficial, that’s what worries me. There’s something lacking in the girl. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t think she’s aware of it herself, she certainly seems genuine enough, but Mattie needs someone with more depth, someone –’

  ‘Leave it, Lilian.’ Dave cut her off right there. ‘Leave it alone. Angela’s a nice girl. She can’t help being gorgeous. Furthermore, Matt’s deadly serious about her. You need to back off.’

  For once Lilian did as she was told. She remained always pleasant to Angie, even dredging up a warmness she didn’t feel for Matt’s sake, but she couldn’t muster any interest in the girl herself; she couldn’t play that game.

  ‘Your mother didn’t like my work, did she?’ Angie made the rather confronting remark to Matt one day when they’d returned to the flat after an extended Sunday lunch, seafood and salad now that summer was upon them.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he replied. ‘Mum said she found your work interesting, didn’t she? She said you had a great eye for composition. That’s big praise from Lilian, believe me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Angie remained suspicious, ‘but she doesn’t discuss art with me these days. She asks how I’m going at uni and when I bring up a topic for discussion she changes the subject. I don’t think she respects my opinion.’

  ‘Oh that’s just Lilian being Lilian, Ange, take no notice, she runs hot and cold all the time.’ Matt was fully aware his mother had dismissed Angie as ungifted, but then his mother was the most shocking talent snob, as many artists were. He rather wished she could pretend, or at least try to, but then he also respected the fact that she couldn’t and didn’t. Matt had decided not to let the matter bother him. He did not need his mother’s unequivocal endorsement of the woman with whom he intended to spend the rest of his life. He hoped Angie didn’t need it either.

  When the results of his final exams came through Matt discovered to his delight, although not to the surprise of his tutors for he was an excellent student, that he’d passed with flying colours.

  ‘You are now looking at a Master Surveyor,’ he proudly announced to his parents, who gave him a hearty round of applause.

  The further announcement that followed not long after, early in the New Year, however, received an altogether different reaction.

  ‘I’ve asked Angie to marry me.’

  He’d called into the main house at breakfast time, knowing he’d catch them at the table over their toast and coffee before Lilian disappeared upstairs to her studio and Dave left for work.

  ‘She said yes, by the way,’ he added in the shocked pause that followed. His statement was brazenly directed at his mother. He didn’t expect either of his parents to wholeheartedly embrace the notion, but the most volatile reaction was bound to be Lilian’s.

  ‘That’s a bloody ridiculous idea and you know it!’ Lilian did not disappoint. ‘You haven’t even turned twenty-three. Angela’s only twenty-one. You’re children!’

  ‘No we’re not.’ Matt glanced at his father, expecting if not approval at least a saner voice.

  ‘You are a bit young, mate,’ Dave said mildly.

  ‘We’ll wait until Angie finishes uni the end of this year,’ Matt directed his response at his father, ‘but we’re going to get engaged straight away. We want to make it official. Well at least I do; I don’t think Ange cares either way.’ Once again Matt had wondered at the intensity of his desire to observe convention. Did it have something to do with his mother? Was he rebelling? He truly didn’t know.

  Dave nodded. There wasn’t much else to be said. Matt’s made his decision, he thought. He’s a man now, and his life is his own to lead as he chooses.

  ‘But you’ve known each other less than a year.’ Lilian hadn’t finished. Her manner was no longer belligerent though – she was desperate more than anything now, desperate to buy time. ‘Why the rush?’ she queried. ‘This is the nineties, young people live together these days, don’t they? They live together for years before they get married – it’s a good way to test the waters, make sure you’re compatible.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Angie says.’

  ‘Good for her. How very sensible. And you’ve agreed?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So Angie will move into the flat with you?’ There was a definite note of hope in Lilian’s query. Perhaps things weren’t quite as drastic as they appeared.

  Matt grinned. He loved her transparency. ‘Bit close to home, Mum.’ Then, as disappointment clouded his mother’s face, he softened the blow. ‘But yes, Ange’ll move in for a couple of months till we find a place,’ and Lilian had to be content with that.

  As she joined her husband in bed that night, however, she continued to bemoan the situation. ‘I only hope we’re not going to lose him,’ she said.

  She’d been going on for quite some time already, but Dave hadn’t yet bothered offering an opinion: best to let her get it off her chest.

  ‘We won’t.’ He waited for her to switch off the bedside lamp and snuggle up beside him as she always did, but she remained sitting bolt upright, staring ahead, her mind somewhere else.

  ‘Lana was right,’ she said.

  ‘Lana was right about what?’

  She turned to him. ‘I’m not a good mother, am I?’

  ‘What’s a good mother?’ He left the comment hanging for a moment’s consideration. ‘You’re certainly not a bad mother.’ She continued to look at him, apparently uncertain, and he thought how rare it was to see her unsure of herself. ‘You are who you are, Lilian; you can’t be somebody you’re not. And there’s no point in pretending because you’re no good at it. Matt respects you for that.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes, now turn out the light.’

  She switched off the bedside lamp and snuggled up against him. ‘Thank you,’ her voice whispered from out of the darkness.

  A month or so after Angie moved into the flat there was a change of plans. Matt received a job offer from the recently created outback mining town of Roxby Downs, over five hundred and fifty kilometres north of Adelaide. He’d applied for several jobs and had received two offers, but the Roxby Downs contract was the most financially lucrative, as he would be working directly for the Western Mining Corporation, which was extending its road works and general infrastructure just
north of the town.

  ‘The mining sector pays big money,’ he told Angie. ‘I’d have a deposit for a house by the end of the year. Only trouble is if I take the job I’ll be gone for three months on the trot – do you reckon you could cope with that?’

  ‘A whole three months,’ she said, pouting sulkily. ‘I suppose I’ll have to if it’s what you really want.’

  ‘This’d set us up financially, Ange, and it’d be great for the future. Once I’ve worked for WMC offers will follow from other mining companies. The big guys favour those who have experience working in remote locations.’

  ‘All right …’ The sulky pout having been pretence only, she smiled her glorious smile, ‘I’ll live without you if I must.’ She kissed him. ‘No more than three months though,’ she said, holding up her hand and waggling the finger that bore the brand-new engagement ring. ‘Any longer and I’ll run off with someone else.’

  ‘I promise.’ They kissed again, a lingering kiss that became progressively urgent, leading them directly to the bedroom.

  On the day of Matt’s departure Angie skipped morning lectures in order to drive him to the airport. He insisted she drop him off out the front of the terminal: he didn’t want her to come inside.

  ‘Saying goodbye’s hard enough,’ he said, ‘no point in dragging it out.’

  She alighted from the car as he hauled his case and backpack from the boot and they stood together on the pavement, at a loss for words. Angie didn’t trust herself to speak at all, but she didn’t need to. The embrace and the kiss they shared said everything.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispered as they parted and she nodded, managing to whisper ‘Me too’ in reply. He shouldered his backpack. ‘Mum and Dad’ll look after you while I’m gone,’ he said, cheerily trying to lighten the mood.

  She nodded again and as he set off with his suitcase she watched until the last minute when, at the doors, he turned back to wave to her. She returned the wave, tearful now, a forlornly exquisite figure unaware of the admiring glances she drew from passers-by.

  During the drive home Angie thought about Matt’s parting remark, which seemed somehow ludicrous. She doubted Lilian was capable of looking after anyone.

  But strangely enough, Lilian did try. She tapped on the door of the flat that very same day, late in the afternoon when Angie had returned home from university.

  ‘I thought you might be lonely, dear,’ she said, ‘would you like to come over to the house for dinner? Dave has said he’ll cook something special – I’ve no idea what.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Lilian, but no thanks. Matt’ll be ringing. He’s promised he’ll ring every weeknight. And besides I want to do some reading up for tomorrow’s theory lecture.’

  ‘Sunday lunch then, yes?’

  ‘I’m going home this weekend. Actually I’ll be going home most weekends, I told Mum and Dad I would, that’s why Matt’s going to call during the week.’

  ‘Yes, of course, dear.’ Lilian was relieved to be let off the hook. She’d promised Matt she’d look after Angie, but she was glad the girl was proving independent. ‘Do give my very best to your parents, won’t you …?’

  She and Dave had met the Marsdons when they’d come into town for a joint family gathering in recognition of the official engagement of their respective offspring. The six of them had shared a very pleasant night dining out together, although Lilian had spent most of the evening studying Barbara and Bob and their daughter and pondering the contrariness of genetics.

  ‘And don’t forget I’m right next door if you need company. Just ring the house beforehand in case I’m in the studio.’

  ‘I will, thank you, Lilian.’

  Angie didn’t give the offer much consideration, aware that it had been made out of a sense of duty, but several weeks later, a thought occurred. Did she dare? Yes, she decided, why not? She needed an answer. She deserved an answer.

  ‘Hello, Lilian.’ She telephoned late in the afternoon upon her return to the flat. The phone had rung for quite a long time before Lilian answered. ‘It’s Angie.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Lilian was distracted. She’d been working in her studio and had forgotten to switch the answer machine on. Dave switched it on as a rule, but he was out of town for a fortnight. ‘How are you getting along, dear? Is everything all right?’ She did her best to sound pleasant.

  ‘Fine, thank you. I’ve decided not to go home this weekend and I wondered if I could pop over to the house for a moment, Saturday or Sunday, whichever you’d prefer.’

  ‘Of course, dear, let’s make it Sunday lunch as usual, shall we? Dave’s away on a job I’m afraid so it’ll just be sandwiches. I’m not very good in the kitchen.’

  ‘No I won’t come for lunch, thanks all the same. I just want to have a chat. How about three o’clock?’

  ‘Three o’clock Sunday it is then. I look forward to seeing you.’ Lilian hung up wondering what on earth the girl could possibly want to chat about. Only one thought came to mind. Good God, she’s pregnant!

  Angie arrived with a portfolio under her arm. ‘I’ve brought some more of my work to show you,’ she said bravely as Lilian ushered her inside.

  Oh dear, not again, Lilian thought. But she was so relieved a pregnancy announcement was not the cause for the visit that she found it quite easy to be nice. ‘Lovely. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t want any tea, just an opinion, that’s all.’ Having steeled herself for this moment, Angie wanted it over and done with as soon as possible. ‘I’d like your honest assessment, Lilian.’ She wasn’t prepared to be fobbed off this time.

  Lilian looked into the splendid sapphire-blue eyes that held her gaze so boldly and thought, the girl’s got guts, I’ll give her that much.

  ‘All right then. Let’s go into the dining room.’

  Angie spread the contents of the portfolio out onto the large dining-room table and Lilian sifted through them. The selection was different, but not dissimilar to the work she’d seen on the previous occasion. There were life drawings in pencil and charcoals and there were still-life water-colours, insipid bowls of fruit for the most part, and vases of flowers, the sorts of arrangements concocted by art teachers who were neither talented nor imaginative. The paintings themselves could have been attractive enough if well executed, but they weren’t. She ignored the life studies altogether. Flat and characterless: there was no flesh to them, no muscle, no sinew or form – the girl’s drawing skills were sadly lacking. Among the still-life compositions, however, were several rather interesting arrangements just as there had been previously, some drawings in crayon and some paintings in acrylic, the subject matter imaginative, the colours vivid.

  She picked up one of the paintings. An old-fashioned earthenware pot with Flour drawn roughly on the side was crammed with modern kitchen utensils, their handles down, their purpose exposed; brightly coloured serving spoons, tongs flashing silver, heavy soup ladles and potato mashers, stylish whisks and pastry brushes.

  ‘This is effective,’ she said. ‘Your art teacher didn’t set up this arrangement, I take it? This is your own invention?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Lilian said and she started methodically gathering up the drawings and paintings. ‘As I said before, Angie, you have a definite eye for composition.’

  ‘Composition, but not much else, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  Lilian knew there was no way out. The girl wanted a straight answer.

  ‘I think you should concentrate on the academic, dear,’ she said, handing the portfolio back to Angie. ‘Why not continue with your history and theory studies? Given your passion for art, you’d make an excellent historian or gallery curator.’ There was silence. Angie appeared to be waiting for more. Lilian wasn’t quite sure about the next step, but she dived in anyway, determined to do her best. ‘Of course if you’re bent on a practical application of your studies, you could al
ways turn to design – you have a certain flair. There’s a wonderful career to be had in design. Fabrics and ceramics and …’ she didn’t dare say wallpaper ‘… and things like that … or so I believe.’

  Angie paused before replying. She wasn’t sure if this was exactly the answer she’d expected, but she’d come prepared in any event.

  ‘I’m going to concentrate on Pop art, actually,’ she said with a rebellious flick of her blonde mane. ‘I’ve met a highly successful entrepreneur, Josh Bradley, you may have heard of him?’ She’d been introduced to Josh Bradley at a rock concert she’d gone to with a girlfriend. ‘He’s mounting a major retrospective exhibition of Andy Warhol’s work next year and wants to showcase some local modern artists too. He intends to launch a “Pop art renaissance”,’ she lent the term the same gravitas Bradley had, ‘and he’s interested in including some pieces of mine.’ Josh Bradley hadn’t even seen her work yet, but he’d certainly been interested when he’d heard she was a fledgling artist.

  ‘Really? That’s excellent.’ Lilian had heard of Josh Bradley; who hadn’t? The man imported extravaganzas, anything from the Russian Ballet and the Welsh Choir to the latest rock bands and circus spectaculars: he was a showman. So Pop art had garnered his interest, had it, and a ‘Pop art renaissance’ no less. How pretentious, she thought, but not altogether surprising. Although a product of the sixties, Pop art remained eminently sellable to the masses as anything from that era did. But Angie’s work was hardly up to exhibition level. The girl’s salvaging her pride, Lilian thought, she can’t be serious.

  Angie, however, appeared deadly serious. ‘Yes, a whole new career is about to open up for me,’ she said, ‘I’m very much looking forward to the opportunity.’ And tucking the portfolio under her arm she set off briskly towards the front door.

  ‘Good for you, dear.’ Lilian followed and opened the door for her. ‘I’m sure you’ll do very well.’

  And if you’re not spinning a load of bullshit you just might, she thought. Pop art was principally design anyway and even more to the point it thrived on celebrity. Young Angie was an extremely marketable product, a fact that someone like Josh Bradley could hardly fail to recognise.