The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘I’m not quite sure how to answer that. You see, I’m doing this for my father. He’s the one who wants the Colahan painting.’

  ‘I understand. Would it be best if we met? Or perhaps I should meet your father and we could discuss exactly what it is he’s after. If it’s a portrait of somebody significant, obviously it would be more difficult for me to acquire the painting on his behalf. Having said that, I am acquainted with all the major collectors of Colahan’s work, and I can make enquiries. Naturally, things like the Bernard Shaw portrait will not be attainable, Mr … I’m sorry, I don’t believe I got your name.’

  ‘Oh sorry, I should have said. My name’s Tom. Thomas Raeburn.’

  The name isn’t familiar.

  ‘Mr Raeburn.’ I say it louder than necessary so John will be sure to catch it.

  I needn’t have worried. Molly is abandoned on the easel and John is watching me. He screws up his nose and shakes his head.

  I press the button to put the call on speaker so John can get it all. ‘Would it be best if I met your father? Perhaps saw what else he has in his collection so I can see how a new acquisition would fit in?’

  ‘Well that’s the thing, you see. That’s why I couldn’t answer your earlier question. He doesn’t really collect art. In my entire life I’ve never known him to buy a painting. Then suddenly, I’m over for a visit and he was obsessed. Carrying on and getting himself quite worked up. He’s an old man, you know, and that sort of thing can’t be good for him. In the end I agreed to try and find what he wanted just to calm him down. I must say – and I tell you this in confidence and only because I don’t want to waste your time …’

  I make an encouraging hum.

  ‘I must say I wondered if it wasn’t a form of dementia or something, this sudden obsession with a painting. But he seemed perfectly lucid otherwise. Still knew what year it was and that sort of thing.’

  There is an expectant pause, but I’m not sure what he’s waiting for me to say. Tom Raeburn sounds perfectly harmless, but I’m sure all the best psychos do. Every time I see a news story about the arrest of a crazed killer, they always interview the neighbours and, without fail, the neighbours say what a nice, polite gentleman he is; and so quiet! Just once I want to hear a neighbour complain about how they were kept up all night by the sound of chainsaws and maniacal laughter. Bottom line, I’m going in with my eyes wide open. ‘How can I help you then, Mr Raeburn? What exactly are you looking for? On behalf of your father, of course.’

  ‘A portrait of a young woman painted by Colin Colahan.’

  I stop myself from sighing. We need to move this conversation along. ‘Fine. Well, a few have gone through the auction rooms in recent years, but I know of several other portraits the owners may be willing to part with for the right price. Do you have any idea if your father has a preference for tone and colour? A blonde or a brunette? Full length or just head and shoulders? Ballgown or more casual attire? Direct gaze or looking away? That’s quite important to some people, you know, especially art historians.’ I’m being extremely facetious now and John is helpfully rolling his eyes at me to emphasise that fact, but I’m tired of this guy dancing around and I want him to get to the damn point.

  ‘Well I’m not sure about all that, but it’s the portrait of one specific girl.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Not that specific. At least, Father didn’t say.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re going round in circles. You say it’s a specific portrait but you can’t give me any of the details. I’m not quite sure how you expect me to help you. Colahan painted dozens of portraits of women.’

  ‘Oh. It’s just that Damien Savage led me to believe you’d bought such a portrait recently.’

  There it was.

  ‘And how would you know that was the portrait in question? Assuming I had it. I buy and sell things all the time.’

  ‘Because Mr Savage said you bought the painting at Lane & Co., and that was the sale Father was bidding at. On the phone.’

  Finally we get to it. Raeburn senior must be Rob’s cranky underbidder.

  ‘I’m a bit puzzled by all this,’ I say. ‘The painting I assume you’re referring to was not auctioned as a Colin Colahan, yet you said your father isn’t a collector. How did he identify the artist?’

  There is silence. I look at John, John looks at me, and then we both stare at the phone which I’m holding in the air between us.

  ‘Huh. I’ve no idea. Do you know I can’t even think when the name first came up.’ Silence again, then Tom comes back with a triumphant note in his voice. ‘Father must have seen the painting years ago and remembered it. That must be it. After all, he’s only seen the picture in the catalogue, so that’s the only thing it could be. He recognised it when he saw it.’

  John and I shrug at each other. Raeburn senior may or may not have known the artist, but he must have recognised Molly Dean. And if you knew her, Colahan would be the first name you’d think of. The picture in the catalogue was bad, but if you’d met Molly it would be enough.

  ‘Forgive me for asking, Mr Raeburn, but if your father was so keen to buy the painting, I’m very surprised he didn’t go to look at it, let alone bid in person.’

  ‘Oh Father almost never leaves the house.’

  ‘Is he an invalid?’

  ‘He’s frail, but he still gets about the house reasonably well. He’s just a recluse really. Has been for years and years. And besides, even when he does go out, he can be a little … crotchety, and I believe he may be persona non grata in some of the auction houses. He used to collect antique silver, but after a few nasty scenes in the auction room … Plus he believes all auctioneers are crooks and if they know he’s bidding, they bump the price up. These days if he wants to bid on anything he has to get someone to do it for him, or use a different name.’

  ‘The painting I purchased is with my conservator at the moment, and to be perfectly honest I’ve already offered it to one of my clients, so he has first right of refusal.’ John has both hands up and is bowing repeatedly at me. I’m not sure if it’s the snooty art dealer tone I’ve adopted or the bald lie about a client with first dibs, but I’ve impressed him somehow.

  ‘We’re, that is, Father is prepared to pay whatever you ask.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ I almost choke on how pompous I sound. ‘But I still have to honour the offer I made to my client.’ I wink at John. I’m going to push a bit harder. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take a look at the painting in the meantime? While it’s with the conservator. Just to be sure it’s what your father wants. I’m sure if it turns out this painting’s not available, I’ll be able to source something similar for you.’ I hear the sounds of a muffled conversation, one voice quiet and placatory, the other querulous and sharp. Then a scrabble and Tom Raeburn is back on the line.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Would today be suitable?’

  ‘Let’s say five o’clock today. I’ll check with the conservator that the time suits him, but if you don’t hear back from me, consider it confirmed.’ John flips through an imaginary diary, then places an index finger on his cheek, tilting his head to one side and gazing at the ceiling. I throw a copy of Art and Australia at him.

  I give Tom Raeburn the address details and end the call, feeling anxious and excited at the same time.

  I turn to John. ‘This is either your worst idea ever, or your best.’

  John picks up a swab and moves back in front of the easel. ‘Just glad I’ve got a ringside seat for the next bit.’

  1930

  Just as she’d expected, Molly had heard nothing from Donald Raeburn. When she wasn’t over at the Yarra Grove house, she phoned Colin each evening to check for messages, but there were none. Nothing from Donald and nothing from any prospective publishers desperate to read more of her work. It was plain to Molly that wr
iting this article was the only chance she was going to get for a long time. She had to come up with something sensational.

  But Molly was putting her time to good use. Working from the notes she’d made in the Public Library, Molly had compiled a list of all the names that came up in connection with Donald Raeburn. She intended to work her way through as many of them as she possibly could to build up a profile of the man. Hopefully she would be able to piece together enough information for an article. The list proved to be quite lengthy, given that at every social occasion Raeburn’s name seemed to be linked with that of a different woman. In addition to all the ladies, there were several businessmen, a prominent QC and a number of professional sportsmen. Raeburn even turned up at a recent dinner to celebrate the reappointment of General Thomas Blamey as Chief Commissioner of Police. There had been a curious incident some five years ago when Blamey’s police badge was found in the possession of a man during a raid on a Fitzroy brothel. But after the attending officers swore the unidentified man was not Blamey, and the Commissioner himself claimed the badge had been stolen, the matter simply went away. Molly’s interest was piqued: perhaps she could write about Blamey next. She took copious notes on the scandal before returning her focus to Raeburn.

  Armed with her list of Raeburn’s associates and acquaintances, Molly spent the next couple of weeks tracking down as many of them as she could. It meant asking for several days leave from her teaching job, a request that was met by ill-disguised displeasure from her principal. Every tiny step she took toward a career as a writer was another blight on her future prospects with the Education Department.

  It was easy to make appointments with the various society women and bright young things. She simply telephoned and told them she was writing a piece on the best-dressed women in Melbourne, or the expected must-attend parties for the coming season, and every one of them practically begged her to come and take tea at her earliest possible convenience. Molly even purchased a new frock for the interviews, and clad in her red floral Celanese dress with its flounced sleeves and scarf trailing from the shoulder, she felt quite at ease in Melbourne’s most stylish homes. Once she was comfortably settled in the parlour (or on the terrace if the weather was fine), cup of tea and biscuit by her side, it was a simple matter to gently steer the conversation in the right direction.

  ‘I recall you were dressed in one of the Paris models when you attended the Mayor’s ball. And Mr Raeburn looked a charming escort …’ Or perhaps, ‘Having the right mix of guests is so important for the success of one’s party. What sort of person is your ideal guest? Someone like Donald Raeburn? I gather he’s quite a charming gentleman. Oh but of course you’d know him better that I.’ And then Molly would sit back and see where the conversation took them. She didn’t want to probe too deeply, but she certainly needed more than platitudes.

  The responses she got were quite surprising, but Molly quickly realised she had to allow for the sheer vacuousness of some of her interviewees. One or two simply dissolved into fits of giggles at the mention of Donald Raeburn, but the same thing happened when she dropped the names of other men as conversational camouflage. Comparisons to Rudolph Valentino were not uncommon, as was the use of words such as ‘dashing’ and ‘fast’. But as Molly spoke with more women, and at the same time became more subtle and adept with her questions and delicate hints, she began to see a pattern emerging. And it was a pattern that painted Donald Raeburn in an entirely different light.

  At first it was just a couple of little things that almost passed without Molly noticing. A slight change in her hostess’s tone, a glance that slid away and did not reconnect until a new topic was introduced, or the sudden offer of more tea. One woman brought a hand to her throat, then changed the gesture to rearrange her pearls. Another unconsciously cradled her wrist, rubbing back and forth, back and forth, with her opposite thumb. Then, noticing these things, Molly also became aware of the frequent quick intake of her hostess’s breath when the name Raeburn was mentioned and, when her interviewee did pick up the conversational thread and speak of her date with Donald or their meeting at the Hunt Ball, the woman’s voice became brighter, but it was the brightness one associated with a shard of ice, ready to crack the moment pressure was applied. Most significantly, Molly became aware that even those women who spoke at some length about their encounters with Raeburn told her precisely nothing.

  Molly dutifully recorded each quote in her notes.

  Janice de Vries: ‘We hardly spoke, simply danced for a couple of songs and then moved on to new dance partners. He’s a commanding lead.’

  Phoebe Davidson: ‘Oh, he’s always telling jokes. Such a funny man! Although sometimes a little risqué.’

  Violet Carstairs: ‘Yes, I invited him to our last garden party but we’re really barely acquainted. It’s simply hard these days to find eligible young men to make up numbers.’

  The Hon. Amy Roberts: ‘I played mixed doubles with him at the club, but all the talk was of tennis. He has a strong backhand.’

  After several of these strange interviews with their swirling undercurrents and tensions, Molly was convinced the urbane personality Donald Raeburn presented to the world hid a far more callous heart. Yet each conversation left her more and more frustrated, and as Molly crossed names off her list she began to think the whole exercise was pointless and would result only in a chatty, superficial piece on things that apparently matter to some of Melbourne’s most influential women. Sadly, in Molly’s opinion, those things did not amount to very much at all.

  She had only one woman left to call on and had been debating the wisdom of bothering to chase down any of Raeburn’s male acquaintances, but she’d come this far and the alternative was a meek return to her North Melbourne classroom. So it was with great determination but minimal expectation that Molly strode down Collins Street and pushed through the magnificent Gothic portal of the old stock exchange building. Inside, she was momentarily overawed by the vaulted ceiling and regal columns, but the ding of the elevator and a glimpse of its richly panelled interior as the door was being pulled closed reminded Molly of the reason for her visit. She hurried across the marble floor and pushed the ‘up’ button, then watched as the indicator above the door described a sedate arc counting down from four to ‘g’. Once inside the car, the smartly liveried girl operating the lift whisked her swiftly and silently to the sixth floor and Molly stepped out into the reception area of the Lyceum Club, where she had an appointment to meet Constance Jennings. Miss Jennings was something of a celebrity herself, partly due to her philanthropic pursuits, but primarily as a result of her work overseas during the Great War.

  Molly gave her name to the girl at the front desk who ran a finger down the ledger in front of her before picking up a phone and engaging in a brief, murmured conversation. ‘You’re expected and Miss Jennings is ready to receive you.’ She turned the book around and slid it toward Molly, then offered her a pen and inkwell. ‘Please sign in next to your name and I’ll also need to sign you out when you leave the building.’

  Molly did as she was asked while trying to discreetly read the names of the Lyceum Club members, then tucked the pen back into its stand.

  The girl spun the book back away from Molly and made a note of the time next to the new entry. ‘Thank you. If you just head directly through the doors behind me, there’ll be someone waiting to direct you to Miss Jennings.’

  Molly walked sedately across the thickly carpeted expanse of the reception area and through another heavy Gothic door. On the other side, a girl remarkably similar to the one she’d just left behind took charge. The young woman ushered her through the quiet of the tastefully decorated lounge, where various women were seated alone or in groups, reading, talking or simply cogitating. They headed toward the far corner and a tight cluster of deep club chairs, upholstered in dark burgundy velvet rather than the traditional leather. Two chairs, both empty, were side-on to the room,
but one completely faced the corner and, over its back, Molly could see a sleek blonde head. As she watched, a thin curl of smoke rose up and then a hand appeared to one side, languidly brandishing a cigarette in an amber and gold holder.

  Molly’s escort stepped to one side of the chair and with a deferential nod of her head announced, ‘Miss Jennings, your guest, Miss Dean.’ The girl then moved aside to allow Molly to take one of the vacant seats.

  ***

  Molly found herself gazing at a classic profile: sharp high cheekbones, an elegant patrician nose and glossy hair coiffed in a perfect Marcel wave. Constance Jennings was dressed in chic navy and white, a sapphire and diamond brooch gleaming discreetly on her breast.

  ‘Thank you, Doris. Coffee for two, please. Unless you’d prefer tea, Miss Dean?’ Constance’s voice was low and smooth, and she punctuated the question by drawing deeply on her gasper.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you.’ Molly directed her answer to the girl identified as Doris, then settled herself into the plush embrace of the chair. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Miss Jennings.’

  ‘Darling, it’s Constance, please. Miss Jennings sounds like a dried-up old spinster.’

  ‘Then you must call me Molly.’

  ‘Molly, is it? I approve. Sounds a far more interesting woman than Mary.’ She regarded Molly for a moment through the blue-grey haze of tobacco smoke. ‘I can’t recall reading anything of yours, should I have?’

  Although slightly taken aback by the directness of the question, Molly was immediately aware Constance Jennings was not someone who would take kindly to any dissembling or obfuscation. ‘I’ve had a poem published, but the article I’m writing now is effectively a job application. If the publisher and editor like what I give them, they’ll offer me a job as a staff writer.’