Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'I like the other one better.'

  The second painting was of Olga, a large full-length portrait. In a bright red dress, grey-black hair loose about her shoulders, she was seated at a table, her feet bare, her head resting on the palm of one hand, and her eyes were gazing into the eyes of the artist.

  'It's beautiful,' Jo said. Even from this far away, the painting, in the simplicity of its lines, was more than beautiful, she thought, it was extraordinary.

  Olga tapped her husband on the shoulder. 'I think you'd better join them, my darling,' she prompted gently. She'd noticed that, up on the dais, one of the official party was checking his watch.

  'Yeah, rightio,' Muzza said, a little reluctantly, not relishing pushing his way through the crowd. He pointed out two of the dignitaries to Mike. 'The one in the pin-stripe's the Australian ambassador and the bloke next to him's the curator of the gallery. Olga and I met them last night.'

  'At a cocktail party held in Murray's honour, what's more.' Olga did the boasting on her husband's behalf. 'Now go along, darling, they're waiting.'

  'Come and find a place down the front,' Muzza urged, wheeling his way through the crowd, flustered, apologising as he ran over a man's foot. But his wife and his friends, including young Allie, knew better than to try and pave a path for him. Muzza always tackled obstacles his own way.

  The curator and the Australian ambassador led a round of applause as he wheeled himself up the ramp to the dais, Olga following to stand beside him. Muzza had insisted right from the start that she was to remain by his side throughout the ceremony.

  'But it's your moment, Murray,' she'd argued. 'Why should I be there?'

  'Because you're my wife and I want them all to see you.'

  'They'll see me in the portrait.'

  'And they'll see you in the flesh,' he'd said, putting on one of his sulky turns, 'or I won't go to the ceremony at all.'

  As the curator stepped forward to open proceedings, Muzza looked up at his wife and, reaching out, he took her by the hand.

  'Works such as these two portraits we see here before us,' the curator said, 'are an asset to the National Gallery and we are honoured to have them in our collection.' He commented with the opinion of an expert upon the individual merits of both paintings, then went on to speak glowingly of Murray Hatfield's rising prominence as an artist of international standing. He talked of the awards the artist had won, and of the various major galleries in which he was hung, and at the conclusion of his speech he introduced the Australian ambassador.

  The ambassador, after admitting with all due humility that he was not a connoisseur of fine art, chose the safely patriotic path. 'This is a proud day for Australia ...'

  Jo wasn't listening to the speeches, she was gazing at the portraits. The descriptive plaque on the wall beside Mike's read: Life's Purpose. Oil on canvas, 1967. The young Mike McAllister. Life's Purpose, she thought, how apt. Mike had certainly fulfilled his purpose in life. And his purpose had become hers too – strange how things worked out.

  The plaque beside Olga's portrait read simply: Olga. Oil on canvas, 1980. Jo found the painting extremely moving. The intimate body language, the look in Olga's eyes, the very sensuality of the brush strokes – the feeling between artist and model was palpable, she thought.

  Beside her, she was aware that Mike, too, was staring at the portrait.

  'There's so much love there,' she whispered. 'You can actually feel it, can't you?'

  'Are you surprised?' he whispered back. 'Just look at them.'

  Up on the dais, Muzza and Olga remained hand in hand, each other's lifeline.

  'On behalf of my fellow countrymen,' the ambassador concluded, 'I heartily congratulate Murray Hatfield. And I thank the National Gallery,' he nodded humbly to the curator, 'and Murray,' he nodded just as humbly to Muzza, 'for the honour bestowed upon all Australians.'

  Muzza and Olga exchanged a squeeze of hands. The speech had been a mixture of pomposity and sycophancy that they both found cringe-making. The ambassador stepped back, graciously accepting the polite patter of applause, and the curator called upon the artist to 'say a few words'.

  Muzza took him up on the offer – literally. 'It's a great honour to be hung in such company,' he said, looking around at the other portraits surrounding them, many of which he considered true masterpieces. 'And I thank you very much.' They were few words indeed, but he meant each one of them.

  The ceremony had come to an end and Muzza couldn't wait to get away from the crowd, but as he wheeled himself down the ramp, Olga following, an elderly gentle-man with thinning grey hair materialised from where he'd been standing quietly up the back. He introduced himself. Unnecessarily.

  'Magnificent pieces,' he said, shaking Muzza's hand, 'quite magnificent.' He shook Olga's hand too. 'My congratulations,' he said. Then he and Muzza started talking art.

  Mike, Jo and Allie hung back watching as the two held an animated discussion for a full ten minutes, the curator and the ambassador standing to one side respecting the artists' conversation.

  'Who is he?' Allie whispered, gathering it was someone important.

  'Sidney Nolan,' Jo whispered in reply.

  Twenty minutes later, having said their dutiful goodbyes to the curator and the ambassador, Muzza and Olga joined them. Muzza's face was glowing with pleasure and he made no attempt to disguise his sheer delight.

  'Did you see who I was talking to?'

  'We sure did,' Mike replied.

  'He likes my work. Sidney Nolan likes my work!'

  'He didn't just like your work,' Olga corrected him. 'He said the portraits were "magnificent pieces".'

  'Yeah,' Muzza grinned. 'Do you reckon it was bullshit?'

  'No.'

  He laughed – he didn't reckon it was either. Sir Sidney Nolan was one of Muzza's heroes and today was one of the best days of his life.

  He glanced around the gallery. Much as he wanted to have a proper look at the exhibition, the place was still crowded. 'Let's get out of here,' he said. 'I'll come back later when everyone's gone.'

  The five of them wandered up St Martin's Lane, where they had lunch at an outdoor restaurant, talking nineteen to the dozen. Since Mike's return to Perth, he and Muzza saw a great deal of each other on a regular basis, but conversation never ran out, and Jo and Olga had formed a very close friendship. Mike didn't find it in the least surprising – they were alike in so many ways: strong, intelligent women. The bond between Olga and Allie had confused him a little, however. While at times rebelling against her mother, Allie seemed to unquestioningly accept Olga as the voice of reason.

  Far from finding the relationship a threat, Jo had encouraged it. She'd tried to explain the phenomenon to him. 'Adolescent girls need an older female influence who isn't their mother,' she'd said. 'It's healthy.'

  Mike had accepted her reasoning – she obviously knew what she was talking about – but Jo herself had questioned her right to speak as if from personal experience. Hers was hardly the background from which to quote, she'd thought with irony. Certainly, there'd been Nora in her early child-hood, and Nora again when she was in her twenties, but there'd been no-one during those in-between years. She'd wished there had been. Jo welcomed Olga's relationship with her daughter.

  They dawdled over lunch, much to Allie's chagrin – she was eager to explore more of London. It was nearly three o'clock when they finished their coffees and paid the bill. Jo had quelled her daughter's impatience by promising a visit to the Covent Garden markets and then a walk down Fleet Street to the old City of London, and Muzza planned to return to the gallery. The mob from the ceremony would be well gone by now, he said, and the lunchtime visitors would have left.

  'I'll come with you,' Mike offered as they left the restaurant.

  'No need.'

  'I want to, believe me. They've run me ragged all morning.'

  'Rightio.' Muzza was secretly pleased.

  Olga opted to join Jo and Allie on their walk. 'Well, perhaps just the Cov
ent Garden part,' she said, heeding Mike's warning look. 'I'll see you back at the gallery in an hour or so, my darling.' She kissed her husband and left the men to enjoy each other's company, as she invariably did.

  Apart from the several students wandering about the modern section of the gallery, Muzza and Mike had the place pretty much to themselves.

  Ignoring his own paintings, Muzza examined each piece in the room, positioning himself at various angles, studying every nuance. Here were some of the greatest painters in the modern art world, he thought as he slowly circled the gallery. Max Beckmann, Chuck Close, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Lucien Freud ...the list went on.

  Forty minutes later he joined Mike, who, not wishing to intrude, had left him to his own devices.

  'My God, but the company I'm in,' Muzza said, obviously overwhelmed.

  'You deserve to be here, Muz.'

  Mike, having also wandered about the gallery, had found himself once again drawn to the portrait of Olga.

  'I don't pretend to know anything about art,' he said, 'but surely this has to be the best thing in the whole exhibition.'

  'I don't agree.' Muzza wheeled his chair back several paces, studying the painting analytically. 'As a piece of artwork it's good, yes, but there's something missing. I haven't really captured all that she is. Her freedom . . . the inner essence that's Olga . . . maybe just her sexiness.' He shrugged. 'I don't know what it is.' He was edgy, unable to put his finger on what he felt was lacking.

  Mike didn't know what to say, he thought the painting was terribly sexy himself. 'Well, you've certainly captured the love,' he said.

  'Yeah, maybe that's the problem. I'm too close to the subject.' Muzza's eyes remained critically focused upon the portrait. 'Too much of me and my love in it. Not enough of Olga herself.'

  Mike gave up. Who was he to be talking art anyway?

  'The one of you is much better, I think,' Muzza said, turning his attention to the other painting. 'I sure as hell captured the young Mike McAllister.'

  Swivelling his chair around, he suddenly directed his full focus upon Mike himself. 'I should paint you again.' He studied the face objectively: the grooves in the cheeks, the tinges of grey at the temples – it was a strong face. But there was something more, he thought. There was an integrity, a commitment. This wasn't a man brimming with expectation; this was a man who had arrived. 'You've changed, you know, and it's not just age.'

  He turned to look at his earlier portrait.

  'Life's Purpose,' he said, 'the picture of a young man on the brink.' Then he turned back to Mike. 'We could call the new one Life's Achievement.' He grinned. 'The picture of a man who's made it.'

  Mike laughed. Muzza was joking.

  But Muzza wasn't.

  Spud and Cora had stayed on in Newport for the official presentation of the America's Cup, which was to take place in two days, but Ian and Arlene Pemberton had departed for Australia, as planned, the day after the race.

  They'd arrived in Perth relatively early in the morning, but by the time they'd got through customs, collected their luggage and caught a taxi home to South Perth it had been nearly ten o'clock. Being a week day, the twins were at school, delivered there by their dutiful grandparents, and after unpacking Ian had suggested to Arlene they go and see his mother.

  'Oh, for heaven's sake, can't we leave it until tomorrow? I'm so tired!'

  Ian couldn't understand why. They'd travelled business class and, with the help of a Normison, she'd slept nearly all the way.

  'Mum knows we're coming back today, poppet,' he said. 'I told her we'd call around. She'll be expecting us.'

  'Then you go,' she replied petulantly. 'I'll stay here.'

  'No, you won't, Arlene.' Ian surprised them both. 'I want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible and I need your back-up.'

  Goodness, she thought, he was being assertive.

  'I want Mum to know that this is a decision we've both come to, and that it's a decision we've made because we love her and we care about her. She can take all the time she wants before she makes the move, but I have to tell her now. I have to get it off my chest. And I need you there with me.'

  'Of course, sweetie.' Oh well, Arlene thought, if she must. 'I'm sorry, it was jet lag talking. I know how difficult this is for you.'

  She put her arms around him and Ian responded gratefully. Then he rang his mother, but there was no answer.

  A reprieve, Arlene thought, how fortunate. 'Tomorrow?' she queried.

  'No, she's probably just having a walk by the river. She'll be home by the time we get there.'

  Arlene heaved a sigh and followed him to the car.

  There was no answer when they rang the front doorbell.

  'She might be asleep, sweetie,' Arlene said a little testily after he'd rung several times. 'She gets so tired these days – we shouldn't disturb her. Let's call around tomorrow.'

  'No.' He opened the door with the spare key which he kept purely for emergencies. He never used it, not wishing to invade his mother's privacy, but he had a strange feeling that this might be an emergency.

  'Mum?' he called as they stepped into the hall.

  There was no answer. He went through to the garden.

  'Mum?' Again no answer.

  'I told you she'd be sleeping,' Arlene said as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. She refused to follow; he was being tiresomely over-dramatic. Then, seconds later, she heard his howl of anguish.

  When she entered the upstairs master bedroom, she discovered her husband on his knees beside the bed, his mother's hand in both of his. He was stroking her palm against his cheek and sobbing like a baby.

  Cynthia lay in state. Her hair coiffed, her make-up perfect, she was dressed in a satin lace-trimmed nightgown, which Arlene recognised as Givenchy. She looked immaculately beautiful and very, very regal. She also looked very dead.

  'Oh my goodness.' Arlene remained frozen at the bedroom door. 'Is she . . .?'

  'She's so cold,' Ian sobbed, rocking backwards and forwards, his mother's palm pressed against his cheek. 'She's so cold, Arlene. She's so cold.'

  Coming quickly to her senses, Arlene wondered what she should do. Should she ring for an ambulance? She felt the dead woman's throat for any sign of a pulse, knowing that there wouldn't be one, but feeling it was the correct procedure, and discovered that Cynthia's skin was indeed icy cold. She'd obviously been dead for some time. The ambulance could wait, Arlene decided. Her duty was to comfort her distraught husband.

  As she knelt beside him and cradled him in her arms, she noted the empty bottle of Nembutal sitting on the bedside table.

  Oh dear, she thought, she'd certainly never expected it to come to this. She'd considered she was doing the right thing when she'd told Cynthia about the nursing home. She'd popped around to see her the afternoon before they'd left – Ian had already said his goodbyes. She'd thought Cynthia might like to use the week they were overseas to plan what she wanted to take with her. It was only fair she should be prepared, Arlene had thought, and besides, it would save time.

  She remembered the scene. It hadn't been easy for her, she'd had to be very, very firm. Cynthia hadn't believed her at first.

  'But this is my home,' Cynthia had said. 'Ian would never expect me to leave this house.'

  'I'm afraid he's absolutely adamant, he won't budge on the matter.' Arlene had considered it kinder to be firm. It would be cruel, she'd thought, to leave the woman with false hope.