After She Left Read online

  ‘I don’t know how you’re defining “decent” but after the bank let me go I’ve managed to make a living from buying and selling English hunting prints,’ said Charles.

  Howard was greatly amused by Charles’s notion of trying to support his family. He laughed. ‘Shady dealing in English hunting prints, eh? I’d better be careful about being seen in your company, mate, since the Vagrancy Act – you know, it’s illegal now to be seen with reputed criminals or those with no visible means of support.’

  ‘Mock me if you like,’ said Charles with equanimity, ‘but there’s no shame in poverty. It is an inconvenience, merely.’

  Howard threw back his handsome head and gave a loud belly laugh. ‘Oh! Inconvenient, merely, is it? Nothing to worry about, then!’ He laughed some more and then looked grave. ‘Seriously, mate, if you need any help, just ask me – I’m doing all right and I can afford to help you out.’

  Lizzie whispered into Deirdre’s ear, ‘Yes, anyone living off gambling dens and protection rackets will be doing all right, I imagine!’

  ‘What are you two harpies cackling about?’ said Howard. ‘What do I have to do to get another drink around here?’ And he walked between them towards the kitchen, holding his empty glass aloft as if he were afraid they would take it from him.

  *

  Deirdre, who had not drunk much of Howard’s sly grog the night before, was up at dawn with her swimsuit under her clothes and walking along the beach next to Clovelly, Coogee Beach, sandals in hand and the sun’s early rays warming her back.

  She stopped on the sand, left her towel, dress and sandals there, ran to the water’s edge and waded out, plunged under a wave and felt the salty water wash over her, cold in her long hair. The frothy foam was soaping her skin clean. She floated in the shallows, the gentle waves washing forth and lifting her up, again and again and again. She lost all sense of time as she became absorbed in the flowing water, hearing the squeal of seagulls and gazing at the vast sky above. Her mind eased into a drifting dream and the colours of the collage she was working on swam into her mind. She loved the combination of green, blue and any shade of yellow, dark or light. There was a rhyme Aunt Ettie was fond of quoting:

  ‘Blue and green

  Should never be seen

  Without a colour in between.’

  Aunt Ettie was wrong. Instinct told one which shades of a colour went together – which ones sang together – and nature did too. All one had to do was observe and listen to one’s heart. Colour was good for the soul. Painting was a swim in pure feeling. She floated on her back. She was the water, she was the warmth of the sun, she was the sand and seaweed, the fish and seahorses.

  When at last she stood up and balanced on the squidgy sand, she made her way to the shoreline and walked along it, kicking the foam. A light breeze dried her skin. She felt purified, washed clean, as smooth as the piece of driftwood she found further from the shoreline. It was eroded into fantastic shapes and bleached by the sun. She brought it to where she had left her clothes, dried her hair and put her clothes on over the damp swimsuit.

  She would drag the driftwood back to add to the artful pile in the southern corner of the garden near the rockery with its cactus plants. To dream and paint and to paint one’s dreams – this was the life! She made her way up to the pavement.

  The Australian sunlight was so bright that it did not model form but seemed to dissolve it. All looked insubstantial. To depict reality here appeared surrealistic but much of it was in fact objective reality!

  To take elements of that reality and rearrange them was what she did in her garden and in her paintings and collages. It was like falling in love – the rules were gone. Anything was permitted and whatever she did felt right. It was so exciting.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a tall figure dressed in black stopping in front of her on the footpath and blocking her sun.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Wild.’

  *

  When Deirdre arrived home she laid the driftwood on the pile and went in the side door. Charles had made tea and they sat down to drink it. Maureen was sitting beside Charles, colouring in.

  ‘I had a wonderful swim and then I was virtually sleepwalkin’ home with so many ideas about my new collage when I was rudely interrupted by Father Muirhead!’ said Deirdre.

  ‘What did he want?’ asked Charles, stirring sugar into his tea.

  ‘Money! I do want Maureen to have the good education the nuns can give her, but when it comes to Father Muirhead cadging money at an ungodly hour I could get angry at the Church’s priorities. In this parish are migrants, Aborigines and other poor people, who must scrape oysters off the rocks and get fish from the sea or they would starve – and how skinny too – and our priest collects money not for his needy parishioners, but to build a marble altar for his church!’ And she made a small furious sound of exasperation.

  ‘Did you give him any, Mummy?’

  ‘No, I did not, and I told him why I would not, so.’

  ‘Do you like my drawing?’

  Deirdre stood behind Maureen. ‘It’s the new Harbour Bridge!’ she said.

  ‘That’s beautiful, darlin’ – an’ those are the cars and even a train.’ She glanced at Charles. ‘Maureen, it’s a wonderful drawing but the cars will go here, on the flat part of the Bridge, not over the top.’

  Maureen looked disappointed. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go and see it when it opens,’ said Charles. ‘We can walk across it if you like, on the first day. You’ve only seen it from a distance.’

  ‘I’ve seen Olivia’s picture of it too.’

  ‘Oh, the one in the bedroom – yes,’ said Deirdre. ‘Olivia bought one of Grace’s. Have you seen it, Charles, the series she’s painted of the stages before the two halves meet?’

  ‘I can’t recall them, no,’ said Charles.

  ‘They’re stunning but too avant-garde for most people. Olivia and I love them. And now I have my own picture. It’s very beautiful, Maureen. An’ we’ll all go on the day it opens – when’s that? Six or seven sleeps away, darlin’. And now I must work.’

  Deirdre went to the studio, leaving Charles and Maureen in the front room.

  Through the window, a sudden movement caught their attention.

  Maureen gasped. ‘Daddy – look! There’s a little white kitten sitting on our white rocks!’

  ‘I can’t see any kitten,’ said Charles, suppressing a smile.

  ‘There!’ said Maureen, pointing. ‘Right there!’

  ‘Oh, yes – it was completely camouflaged.’

  ‘Let’s go and say hello,’ said Maureen. ‘Quick, before it runs away next door.’ She leapt up and ran to open the front door. The kitten was not running anywhere. Maureen was kneeling on the grass patting the tiny creature when Charles caught up with her. The kitten looked up at Maureen with its big green eyes and miaowed pitiably.

  ‘It might be hungry, Daddy,’ said Maureen.

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Can we give it a saucer of milk?’

  Charles thought for a moment.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  They went inside again, Maureen carefully holding the kitten against her chest. Maureen put the animal on the linoleum kitchen floor and took a saucer from the cupboard. Charles opened the door of the Coolgardie safe and took out the bottle of milk. He poured a little into the saucer.

  They watched as the kitten lapped greedily, audibly, until the dish was clean.

  ‘Oh, it’s so lovely,’ said Maureen, ‘and probably must have been very lonely. Could we keep him, Daddy? Please say yes!’

  ‘Well, I suppose he’s part of the family now.’

  Maureen spent the next hour fussing over the kitten.

  When Deirdre emerged from the studio, and was introduced to the new family member, she said, ‘But I thought you were picking up one of Lizzie’s puppies tomorrow!’

  ‘That I am,’ said Charles.

  ‘Are we going to have two extra mouth
s to feed now?’

  ‘They won’t eat much – just our scraps. We can afford this, Deirdre, don’t worry.’ And he walked across the room and hugged her.

  Next day Charles and Maureen went on the tram to Lizzie Carlson’s house in Annandale and Maureen picked the one she wanted from the litter of five. When they brought the Airedale puppy home to meet the kitten, the two small balls of white fluff walked towards each other, their eyes big, cautious and wondering at first. Then in a rush towards the end, they tumbled together, playing, nuzzling and softly biting.

  Maureen called the kitten Merlin and Charles’s preference for the Airedale was Sir Dudley de Chair, after the former Governor of New South Wales.

  *

  Deirdre was in the studio, immersed in swirling cerulean and lime with her palette knife, trying to mix a turquoise that she could dive into. The depths of the resulting colour drenched her soul and she could swim in it forever and a day.

  ‘Deirdre! Deirdre!’ She jumped and looked up. Charles was beside her. ‘It’s Olivia,’ he said. ‘You must come and talk to her. I’ve put the kettle on.’

  Deirdre looked back at her work.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ said Charles. ‘It might be good to have a break anyway. You’ve been working for hours and hours.’ He put an arm around her narrow shoulders and squeezed.

  She tore her gaze away from the shimmering pool of blue, turned to him and said, ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She trailed a hand down his arm to find his hand and together they walked down the backyard and into the house.

  Olivia was sitting at the kitchen table with a nearly empty glass of water. She looked up and said, ‘Thank you. I needed that – I must have lost so much from crying!’ She had attempted a tone of histrionic self-mockery but she burst into tears again. ‘Sorry!’

  Deirdre bent and put her arms around her. ‘Don’t be sorry, darlin’ – what’s the matter?’ She pulled up a chair close to Olivia and stroked her forearm.

  ‘It’s Howard. I know I’m slow on the uptake sometimes but Howard is so mean to me! He said: “I knew you were stupid when I married you. But I didn’t think it would matter so much.” I’ve just been so naive about everything!’

  Charles proffered a clean white handkerchief to Olivia.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘That beast,’ said Deirdre. ‘You have intelligence in art and people and beauty. All his intelligence is in rat cunning. And his connections.’

  ‘Connections like Jake Phipps. I didn’t know what their business was. I just thought – I didn’t think about it at all. But Nellie Crean told me all about it. She seemed like such a nice girl but she’s been mixed up in Jake’s brothels and the gambling dens … He’s in the Razor Gang!’

  ‘Oh, my God, Olivia – is Howard in it too?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he mixes in those circles. I thought when we got married that we’d share things and that the world would open up for me. My parents disapproved but I wouldn’t listen. All I could see was that he was handsome and rich and charming. Then when my father died three weeks before the wedding my world collapsed and I leant on Howard because he seemed so reliable when everything was in chaos.’

  ‘Do you want to leave him?’

  ‘How can I? I’ve got nowhere to go!’

  ‘You can stay here – can’t she, Charles?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charles.

  ‘He doesn’t want me to leave. He doesn’t know I’m here,’ said Olivia.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I’m on my bicycle. I’ve been such an idiot. We have nothing in common. It was just the sex. And I don’t want that anymore.’

  ‘Olivia,’ said Deirdre. ‘It’ll be all right. And you can stay here any time.’

  11

  MAUREEN

  July 1961

  It was a Sunday evening at Beach Lane. Jim had taken the boys to the football. Keira and Maureen were in the living room, folding an enormous basket of clean washing. Maureen had been trying to have a heart-to-heart talk, ‘woman-to-woman’ as she called it, while Lucky slept blissfully in Jim’s armchair.

  ‘Are you scared I’ll end up in the Bad Girls’ Home in the Convent on top of the hill?’

  ‘One hopes it wouldn’t ever come to that! But seriously, Keira, you do need to be careful. And the nuns are right – it is dangerous to get into a car with a boy. Don’t do it, will you? Ever.’

  Keira folded a tea-towel into a square and flung her mother a look.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m just concerned for your welfare.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not nine years old!’

  ‘This is just the point! I was fifteen as well when I got my first period and Deirdre was too. We take a long time to mature – physically and emotionally – which is the reason I have to make sure you’re careful. Things have to change now. You’re not just a skinny kid anymore, kicking around a soccer ball with your brothers and the neighbourhood boys.’

  Keira sighed. ‘I’d like to stay a skinny kid. I’m not sure I want to grow up and get married and have babies. If I ate less maybe I could stop the clock.’

  ‘Now you’re really being silly.’ Maureen was pairing and balling up an endless hill of boys’ socks with more energy than necessary. ‘You must eat properly. And I want you to clean up your room. You are chronically disorganised. You wander around in a dream. There is more to life than art!’

  ‘The whole of life can be art. That’s what Miss Ambrus says.’

  ‘Miss Ambrus this! Miss Ambrus that! I’m sick of Miss Ambrus,’ said Maureen.

  Keira was folding the jeans and T-shirts that her mother had piled in front of her. She said, ‘I’ve learnt more from her than from all the nuns put together. Miss Ambrus knows everything I want to know about. She knows artists and gallery owners. She exhibits in galleries, herself! She’s great!’

  ‘Keira, you put all your energy and time into one subject. Your father will be looking at the next report card to see if your other subjects get reasonable marks this time. Art will not pay the bills.’

  ‘What about commercial artists? They make a good living.’

  ‘They’re the exception that proves the rule. Trust me, Keira, almost no artist makes any kind of decent living from their art.’

  ‘What about Deirdre?’

  ‘She married a banker, you know that. You want to put some effort into other subjects so that you can get a decent job and some independence, at least before you get married.’

  ‘I’m not getting married.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly.’

  ‘Marriage is a bourgeois anachronism and completely unnecessary.’

  ‘Oh, I just can’t talk to you anymore. Where are you getting these unrealistic ideas?’

  ‘They’re not unrealistic. They’re the future. It’s you and Dad who are stuck in realities from the nineteenth century.’

  ‘We didn’t bring you up to be so rude!’

  ‘I’m only pointing out some facts.’

  ‘Facts! I can tell you some facts, young lady – about giving yourself the best opportunity to live a decent life …’

  Keira groaned. They heard the side door slam and a multitude of rushing footsteps. Lucky shuddered awake.

  Jim’s voice shouted, ‘Don’t run in the house!’

  Lucky jumped down from the chair and shook herself.

  Sean ran in, closely followed by Jimmy and Michael.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ said Sean. ‘They won! We won! And Dad bought fish and chips for tea!’

  12

  KEIRA

  September 1972

  ‘I worked at the Notanda Gallery in Rowe Street for two years and I was a barmaid on Friday and Saturday nights, saving up the money for my fees. I didn’t get a scholarship and I really wanted to study visual arts so that’s how I did it,’ said Keira.

  ‘That’s admirable,’ said Alan as they walked along beside the traffic. ‘And are you still doing the topic you really want for your hon
ours year?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keira, ‘My Deirdre Wild idea. I don’t care what the parents say.’

  She and Alan Bovingdon were walking to the Sydney University cinema.

  ‘That sounds good,’ he said. ‘You were undecided about it for a while, eh? And what about the fire?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought it wouldn’t be feasible without my mum’s cooperation, plus the loss of Deirdre’s paintings in a gallery fire. But my supervisor Heide reckons it’s a great idea and as long as I interview the right people I’ll find out everything I need to know. There must be works that weren’t in that gallery. And I reckon Mum will come round eventually and maybe it will heal this weird rift in my family where Deirdre is a dirty word.’

  They went up the steps and bought their tickets to Jean Luc Godard’s Tout Va Bien. The title was a good omen: Everything’s Fine.

  They found seats towards the front and the lights faded to black. Alan’s lime-scented aftershave smelt seductive.

  As the plot unfolded, Keira watched Jane Fonda speaking French to the working-class labourers. She imagined Steve’s guffaws if she said, ‘Hey Steve, wanna come to a movie? It’s about a strike in a French sausage factory.’

  Afterwards, while they walked to his car in the cool night air, Alan talked about how Godard was depicting the class struggle and how he was influenced by Marx and Brecht. Someone else to look up, Keira thought; was it Brecked? Breckt? She shifted the subject to Alan’s house. He was happy to describe it, the upper half of a semi-detached in Darling Street, Balmain, and how he wanted to improve it.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ he said.

  Keira hadn’t known him that long. She hoped he wasn’t an axe murderer. But surely not, with those direct blue eyes and angelic curly blond hair.

  When they arrived at number 410 he held the wrought iron gate open for her. They walked up the brown and white tiled path and stood in the yellowish streetlight while he slotted his key into the lock. The terrace house was divided into two flats. Alan’s was the upstairs one. He put his key into the door halfway down the ground floor hall.