The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  It’s almost five by the time I speed reverse the last spool back to its beginning and dump all the little boxes on the returns trolley. I gather up my stack of printing and my bag and hurry toward the exit. I only have to wait a couple of minutes for a train and I’m still ahead of the after-work crowd. As we roar out of the city loop, I listen to the Morse code double tap of the train on its tracks and wonder what the hell really happened to Molly Dean.

  Melbourne, 1930

  Despite the press of other passengers, Molly had her notebook out and was writing furiously as the St Kilda train rattled into Flinders Street. As it screeched to a halt and a chorus line of red doors was thrown open, she tucked her pencil behind her ear and scooped up her bag, ready for the dash to her next platform. Her stylish chestnut bob stood out in the sea of homburgs and trilbys, cloches and sun hats, and more than one man turned for a second look as she whisked past, a trail of 4711 cologne and electricity in her wake.

  ‘Molly! Molly!’

  A round face popped briefly into Molly’s view between the suited shoulders of Melbourne’s businessmen, and moments later Sarah Fields pushed her way through to stand next to Molly at the edge of platform five.

  ‘I didn’t see you on the train!’

  ‘You wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been sitting in front of you. I didn’t want to interrupt your writing.’ Sarah stared at her for a moment. ‘How do you always manage to look so smart? No matter what time of day it is, you look as though you’ve just finished modelling at Buckley’s!’

  Molly struck a pose, pointing the toe of one double-strap pump, showing off her trim suit and patterned scarf. ‘Not all of us look like Carole Lombard. You’d look divine if you were wearing hessian. I’m just trying to keep up with the competition.’

  There was a surge of people behind them as a train rounded the bend and bore down on the platform. Sarah let out a squeak of surprise and grabbed at Molly, who simply dug in her heels, shot a glance at the wall of suits behind them and loudly stated, ‘I know it’s supposedly the busiest railway station in the world, but I had no idea it was the rudest.’

  A small pocket opened up around them as the train was pulling in, more for the benefit of those getting off than because of Molly’s words. Still, they managed to get aboard quickly and find seats for the short trip to North Melbourne. It would have been quicker to change from her earlier train at Spencer Street, but Molly always tried to snatch every free moment she could, and sometimes sitting on a crowded train could feel like a desert island. Molly jotted a few final observations in her notebook and shut it with a satisfied snap. Looking up, she saw Sarah watching her closely.

  ‘You’ve had news, haven’t you?’ Sarah said.

  Molly pressed her lips together but couldn’t contain a broad smile. ‘I’m published. Just a poem, but …’

  ‘Molly, that’s wonderful; absolutely splendid!’ Sarah bounced in the seat then bumped her shoulder against Molly’s. ‘Only twenty-five years old and you’re already on the way to becoming famous. Show me?’

  Molly rummaged briefly in her bag until she found the slim, blue-green journal and passed it to her friend. ‘I’m trying to get a few extra copies, but it’s only the second number, so they’re still not printing very many.’

  Sarah studied the cover of Verse, smiled when she saw ‘Mary Dean’ fourth in the list of contributors, then leafed carefully through to page eleven. She smiled again as she read the title, ‘“Merlin”. I love this one.’

  ‘I changed it quite a bit after you read it. Tell me what you think.’

  Sarah began to read as the train pulled into Spencer Street. Their carriage exhaled a gaggle of commuters, only to catch its breath and replace them, a conjuring trick that left the casual observer wondering if these were really different people. The train was nearing North Melbourne when Sarah lowered the pamphlet, her eyes wide. ‘The ending – you didn’t have that before.’

  Molly waited as around them people began to edge closer to the doors.

  ‘This bit gave me goosebumps.’ Sarah held the page out to Molly, pointing to the lines.

  ‘“My doom is written thus, and now I take/ What might be stay’d for many crowded years./ Death will be a great darkness and a terror/ On my tired soul”.’ Molly’s eyes were shut as she recited. ‘I was rather pleased with that.’

  They gathered up their things and inched toward the carriage door, Sarah following a chain of handles and hanging straps with her free hand, Molly absorbing the movement of the slowing train through her entire body.

  Molly and Sarah stepped from the carriage and made their way out of the station. There was still plenty of time before the first bell, and as they made their way down Union Street to the dour brick school on the Queensberry Street corner, Sarah peppered Molly with questions about the poem, the journal, and in particular the rather dashing (so she’d heard) composer and editor of Verse, Louis Lavater. Sadly, Molly had only corresponded with Lavater so had nothing to say about his looks or charm, or whether he lived up to his reputation.

  As they reached the school gate, Sarah put out a hand and stopped Molly. ‘Let’s celebrate at least. Let me treat you to Luna Park on Saturday night. We’ll have a laugh – go on!’

  ‘Luna Park?’

  ‘Trust me. The weather has been lovely for September. I promise you it will be fun and if you absolutely hate it we’ll have a milkshake and go for a walk instead.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m spending this weekend at Colin’s.’

  ‘The following Saturday then? Go on!’

  ‘Why not? Thanks, Sarah. I think you’re possibly the only person in Australia who could convince me, so Luna Park it shall be.’

  The girls parted, heading to their respective classrooms to start chalking up new lessons. Soon, the discordant strains of ‘God Save the King’ could be heard reverberating off the brick-walled courtyard, heralding the start of the day.

  #xa0;

  Finally it was Friday night, and after an interminably long week with her class at the State Opportunity School in Queensberry Street, Molly hurried home, eager to shed her Miss Dean persona. Much as she loved the children, much as she felt a thrill of triumph when one of her more challenged students had a breakthrough, Molly was becoming more and more convinced that every moment spent in a classroom was a moment lost from her true path. This weekend – tonight – she would have a chance to be her true self. Molly Dean, the writer: creative, vibrant, witty. A star in the ascent.

  She expected the regular crowd would be at Colin’s for dinner tonight, which meant the usual combination of brilliant debate with the men and an icy wall of indifference from the women. Fortunately, Molly was largely immune to the snideness of her own sex. She knew men liked her precocity just as much as women hated her for it, but she preferred the company of men. Regardless, Molly could dress for the evening entirely to please herself, and she knew just the thing.

  On the small verandah Molly paused before putting her key in the lock. The semi-detached house with its smart red bricks and white trim looked pleasant enough from the street, but Molly tensed every time she opened the door. In her bedroom, she pulled a small case from the top of the wardrobe, ready to receive the few things she’d take for the weekend. She tucked shoes and underclothes into the bottom, added a thin wrap in case the evenings turned chilly, then pulled open the wardrobe door. Apart from a couple of plain day skirts and simple blouses, Molly was greeted by a row of empty wooden hangers, gently clacking together. She stared for a moment then spun around. A shape filled the doorway, a dark shadow that stepped forward and became her mother, arms folded, lips pinched.

  ‘What have you done, Mother?’

  ‘I’ve warned you about the company you keep, Mary.’ Ethel Dean’s words uncoiled like a snake. ‘You’re fooling no one but yourself. I know exactly how debauched and sordid your artist friend
s are, and it’s high time you stopped behaving like a hussy. You’ll not be going anywhere.’

  ‘How ridiculous. You can’t stop me from associating with my friends. They’re creative and imaginative enough to understand me and my writing. Unlike you. You have all the artistry of, of … a dead fish.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to watch you throw away a perfectly good job for some ridiculous fancy. Besides, if you carry on like this, no man will look at you, let alone want to marry you.’

  Molly turned white. ‘That’s enough.’ She spoke softly, emphasising every word as she struggled for control. ‘Give me my clothes, please, or I shall find them myself.’

  Ethel Dean took a menacing step toward her daughter. ‘You’ll do no such thing, my girl.’

  Molly dropped her gaze and slumped in defeat, then as her mother relaxed she lunged to the right, managing to get past and through the door, feeling rather than seeing the grab for her mercifully short hair. She headed straight for the kitchen. One thing about her mother, she was entirely without originality. Molly yanked open the door of the pantry. Sure enough, her clothes were wadded up behind the canisters. She pulled them out and began to shake the dresses. Nothing seemed to have sustained more damage than a few creases, but the situation with her mother was clearly getting worse and it was wearing her down. She couldn’t live with this constant state of tension, waiting to break her mother’s next unwritten rule.

  Molly hurried back to her room, fully expecting her mother to step in front of her at any moment, but for now it seemed she had won. She didn’t want to linger, and it took only a minute to throw some of the clothes she held into the case and snap the latch. Everything else she left on the bed. Getting out was the only thing that mattered right now. Molly snatched up her red beret and clamped it onto her head, then took a final look around the room, wishing it could be for the last time, knowing there would be weeks, perhaps months, before she could leave Milton Street for good. On the threshold, case in one hand, Molly paused and plunged her free hand deep into her shoulder bag. Her notebook was there, as it always was, but she needed the reassurance of touch. It was only a school exercise book, its cardboard cover softened from use, but it held the key to her future. It contained everything from random ideas to complete poems, drafts for magazine articles (yet to be submitted) and the rough outline for a novel (yet to be written). Molly’s notebook went everywhere with her. It was not just a matter of being able to jot things down as they occurred to her, it was also a case of keeping it safe from her mother. There was no doubt in Molly’s mind that the interval between discovery of the notebook by her mother and it being consigned to flames in the belly of the kitchen stove would be very, very brief. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Quietly, Molly made her way through the abnormally still house. When sun streamed through the leadlight panels of the front door, the plain carpet runner turned into a brilliant Turkish rug awash with crimson and blue. But now the narrow hall was full of shadows. She eased the door open and stepped out onto the verandah. The gate would creak, but by then she’d be on the street, and if there was one thing her mother tried to avoid, it was creating a scene in view of the neighbours. Mrs Goldstein in number 88 was always on the lookout. Small wonder; the arguments in the Dean house were frequently loud enough.

  As Molly stepped out into Milton Street, she finally let herself relax and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the salty tang of the ocean. The weekend was ahead of her and it would be good, no – marvellous. She’d have time to write, the company would be invigorating and of course there was Colin. Molly was too astute to believe he reserved his Irish charm exclusively for her, but for the moment they were a good fit. And for the next two days, Colin was hers. Thinking of him, the corners of her mouth teased their way into the beginning of a smile and her pace quickened. She didn’t see the man who stepped out of the gateway moments after she’d passed. Didn’t notice the hat pulled low or the coat, too heavy for a mild afternoon. Didn’t realise she was being followed.

  1999

  The auction was due to start at 6.30 p.m., so I’ve timed my arrival for 6.45. The idea is that I look as if I don’t care too much and, with a bit of luck, less of the competition will realise I’m even there – until it’s too late. Two of the sharper heads in the room still swivel in my direction. The first belongs to dealer and bon vivant, Damien Savage (Savage Galleries, Sydney and Melbourne) perhaps best known for telling a journalist that anyone with less than half a mil to spend was a waste of his time. He jerks his chin in my direction. I incline my head in response. Damien probably isn’t interested in the same lots, but with his deep pockets he may decide to bid if he clocks my interest, just on spec. Or to be an arsehole; it can be hard to tell with Damien.

  The other person who notices my arrival I immediately discount as a rival; I can tell you now which lots he’ll bid on. The brother of a famous Australian actor, he operates as his sibling’s agent, only ever buying specific artists, but always prepared to pay top dollar. We nod politely.

  The room has been completely transformed since last week’s viewing. Gone are the partitions and all of the paintings, except for a few works – too big to cart around easily – left on the perimeter walls. The lighting has already been dimmed. Spotlights focus on Rob’s podium, the Lane & Co. logo behind him, and on a curtained corner to one side, where the canvas stars of the show will appear.

  It’s a good crowd, following a variety of dress codes from very casual to night-at-the-opera formal. The better dressed also seem to be the ones most likely to be clutching complimentary glasses of wine and champagne, while the shabbier among us know there is a very good reason auction houses try to get the bidders slightly pissed. I’ve only been here a minute and already the room feels too warm (another salesroom gambit) and the air is cloying with the mingled perfume and cologne of this expectant horde. I need to get into position.

  Murmuring the occasional ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’, I ease my way around the edge of the room to one of my preferred spots. Standing at the back partly hidden by a pillar, I am less visible to the majority of the punters but easily seen by the auctioneer or one of his spotters when it matters.

  Rob’s opening spiel is just winding down. ‘… the fall of the hammer is final, although in the event of dispute, the auctioneer may reopen bidding.’

  Translation: if they miss someone’s waving paddle – someone they think is loaded, mind you – they can pick up the bidding again even if Rob has already sold the painting to another party.

  The crowd shifts impatiently.

  ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado,’ Rob has already been banging on for fifteen minutes, ‘let me draw your attention to lot 1.’ As he says this, the black curtain is pulled aside by an unseen hand and two gloved porters step through, thrusting the first canvas into the spotlight. A few heads crane, people keen to remind themselves what they’ll potentially be blowing their money on. This is a Eugene von Guérard, a colonial landscape that speaks of wilderness and isolation; insignificant humans poised on the edge of an escarpment, dense forest as far as the eye can see.

  Rob is waxing lyrical about the painting, but I drown out the rest of his patter and focus on the room, trying to scope out who is here, who has money. I see a grey cowboy hat bob through the door and ease back behind the pillar. One of my competitors is here.

  The next couple of hours pass slowly. Rob runs at about sixty lots an hour, which is not bad, but the sale of a couple of paintings is drawn out by duelling bidders who hesitate, demur, murmur to their respective spouses, then dive in again. Still, the leisurely pace gives me a feel for the room and the rhythm of the auction. Phone and absentee bidders remain an unknown quantity, and one of the nouveau riche in the front rows could take an inexplicable liking to something I want, but otherwise I have the measure of the room. I also manage to discreetly slip my card to a disappointed Ab Fa
b type, all bleached-blonde hair and tottering heels, who’d underbid on a David Boyd.

  We are now twenty lots away from Molly Dean and the first of my dummy lots is up next. If I get this at the right price, I can still make a good profit and if anyone notices it’s me who’s bidding, they’ll hopefully stop wondering what else I’m after.

  ‘Lot 167.’ Rob casts his standard admiring glance at the painting held aloft by an aproned porter. ‘Herbert Badham, Bathers. Dated 1934. Rare to the market and a lot of interest in this lovely Modernist work. I have some phone bidders …’ He looks to his right where five of Lane’s bevy of grad. girls are lined up behind a table, phones pressed to their ears. Two of them nod in response to his unformed question. Rob returns his focus to the room and switches on, inviting his audience to come along for the ride, forget about how much they can afford, and think only of how much they want. Want this painting, want to win, and secretly, want to burst someone else’s bubble.

  ‘Shall we start the bidding at, say, twenty thousand?’

  The room is silent, except for the murmuring of the two phone workers, breathily relaying information to their punters.

  ‘I should be seeing dozens of hands at twenty, but all right then, fifteen.’

  A few people shuffle their catalogues. One of the phones stiffens, half raises her hand, then shoots it all the way up. ‘Sir.’ Someone clearly can’t control themselves.

  ‘I have fifteen thousand! Twenty?’ A paddle flicks above heads down in the front row. ‘Thank you, madam. Twenty-five!’ One of the spotters has alerted Rob to a second paddle over the other side of the room. ‘Twenty-five against you, madam, and against you on the phone.’ Rob looks at the girls taking calls. The one with the opening bid is clearly coaxing and cajoling, the other shakes her head. Her client has already called it a night.