Black Diamonds (32 page)

‘My word, I see what you mean,' he says; they are lined up against a clutter of trunks and parcels in this narrow room that barely fits us as well; Mr Duncan is leaning so as not to keep bumping the ‘Forgotten Coats' rack behind him and his feet crunch on the bumpy sea of brown packing paper all over the floor. He turns to me, blank-faced, and his first adjective is: ‘Repulsive.'

I gape, knees about to give way: how dare you.

But he nods into my stunned glare, turns back to the paintings, and adds: ‘Adamant about it, isn't he, but the subtleties … Extraordinarily confident, in every way. And the boy is. well, simply exquisite.' He edges closer to young Fritz who's asking his eternal impossible, then turns back to me again, eyes alive again, glittering. ‘You say he's never painted
anything
before?'

Knees about to give way with stunned relief now; recover yourself, Francy: ‘Not that I'm aware of, apart from the weatherboards of our house.'

Then he clears his throat, returns his attention to the paintings and says: ‘Name your price.'

Pinch me or excuse me?
I wouldn't have the faintest notion of price. ‘There isn't one,' I blurt: ‘He doesn't want to sell them, just to get rid of them. But I want them somewhere where they'll stay, perhaps mean something one day …'A couple of fat tears blob down my face, along my neck, into my blouse, but that's all right; it's as it should be, because I'm not gaga, and my bias is good: Daniel's paintings are important, and not only for what they express: he is clever. ‘I want them at the gallery, archived or whatever they do with items of interest.'

‘Where at best they'll only collect dust? They'd be better off staying here as lost property. I know of a collector, however, a European chap, who would be most interested, most interested indeed. At the very least he'd want to meet your chap; I'd be more than pleased to arrange that.'

‘No. Thank you.' Too fast, too far from the plan and my grasp of what's happening here. A collector? ‘I'd have to ask him first. I mean, you know, well, it'll be a while before he's up and about.' And at a guess I'm afraid he'll deliver an outright no: as far as Daniel's concerned, this is my mischief, and he's not a proper artist; which is the crux of my caper for him. He is not going to want to meet a
European chap
for a chat about it.

‘Of course. Until then, may I look after them for you? They can't stay here.' Mr Duncan smiles, one that deepens as he explains: ‘No more than I would have them at the gallery. I could walk them into the dusty depths for you myself, but I'm loath to do that: it's not unheard of for items lacking sufficient
appeal
to be misplaced these days, if you understand?'

Oh. ‘I understand.' The depth of my naivety, at the very least, and from Mr Duncan's tone I think I'm being told that I would not only have been laughed away by the curator, but reported to the Commonwealth Police on my way out: it didn't occur to me that censorship could reach that far. Quick prayer of thanks to Mr Lawson and the Leprechaun for timely encouragement; but to this
The
Mr Duncan, champion of monsters: ‘I'm much more than grateful for the advice and the offer, so yes, please, I'd very much like you to look after them.'

‘Good. I'll arrange for their collection.' He looks at his fob. ‘But now, if you don't mind, could you get me back to the track? I need a drink and a flutter after viewing this lot.'

‘Of course.' I could probably do with a drink too; don't need a flutter though, feel like I've just won four hundred pounds worth of something right, whatever it is. So instead I indulge in a natural impulse: stand on the tips of my toes and kiss him on the cheek, saying above the scrunch of paper: ‘But there's a proper thankyou first, and a request that you have a malt and a bet for my father.'

‘No need to request, Mrs Ackerman.' Chuckling away his surprise, at both the kiss and his collision with coat rack: ‘I'll have one of each for you as well, and another for your chap's elbow, eh?'

I am so, so teeth-gnashingly sorry, children: abandoned at the hotel now, in their room next to mine, for around about two hours, and they must be starving for lunch. But I must make one last detour: Daniel.

‘Just one minute, please,' I beg Matron, who is Mrs Moran to the power of ten. ‘I only want to see him.'

‘Not on your life, Mrs Ackerman,' she says. ‘Not today. Doctor would not approve.'

I say: ‘Yes, on my life. One minute, that's all. ‘Woeful beseech.

St Christopher intercedes and she relents: ‘One minute.'

And there he is. Oh —

Propped up on pillows, unconscious, fortunately, so he can't see me gag at the first sight. There's a sort of scaffold on his upper arm, attached to two pairs of bolts that appear to be driven into his flesh either side of a stitched-up wound, and he's encased in plaster from shoulder to waist, and from elbow to wrist, with more scaffold from elbow and wrist to waist holding his arm out at an angle in front of him. There's also a thick dressing around elbow and I can see blood seeping up to the surface of it.

Lunch very doubtful for me now; perhaps Matron had a point. No; had to see him, and it's not going to be any less what it is tomorrow.

He opens his eyes and smiles, mumbles something, then closes his eyes again. Compulsion to wash his face, but Matron ahems and my minute is up. Kiss him and see you tomorrow; don't think he even knew I was there anyway. Leave with a heart full of tight screws and loose miracles.

Must be a miracle that drives me back to the hotel, I'm so distracted. Charlie bounces about in front of me: ‘Can we see Uncle Daniel yet?'

‘Not yet, kiddo.' Certainly not while Uncle looks like he's being attacked by a Thing that's grown fangs. ‘What about fish and chips at Bondi Beach instead?'

Famished children rip open newspapered treat and while they lick greasy, salty fingers and the seagulls screech and swoop about us, I take my first long, steady breaths of the day. Thank all my angels.
Ave
anyone who's watching. Send some rapid-fire salvos for quick healing up the steep hill behind us for St Christopher to catch, and imagine that this shorter distance means they'll be even more powerful this time around.

Kathryn comes and sits next to me while her brothers build a sandcastle. ‘He is going to be all right, isn't he?'

Her huge brown worried eyes swallow me up, and I cuddle her, half to hide the weep: ‘Course he is.'

Motor start of love and anger: how dare this world have made her so afraid.

 

DANIEL

First thing I ask the Russian when I come to properly is: ‘How long will I have to stay in bed?'

But he says with that face I'm still not sure is a smile: ‘No need to stay in bed, better to be as mobile as possible, though you will not be travelling far for a while. I'll be back later to show you how to get up without falling over, yes?'

Yes. Good. No stay in bed, very little pain, and no traction: apart from the inconvenience, very impressed. But I haven't got a clue how I'm even going to sit up with this lot.

He says: ‘The wounds look very good, and as soon as there is sufficient correction and union of the bone here in the shaft, I can take away all this metal. The pin at the base of your elbow, however, is permanent, so you must tell me if there is any pain there at all, beyond what you have now, of course.'

‘There's a what in my elbow?' Serves me right for not listening in the first place; or maybe it's better I wasn't.

‘A small pin,' he says patiently, ‘the most important piece of metal here. You see, the interior prominence at the end of the humerus, otherwise known as your funny bone, was fractured completely, and malunion occurred, which means, for you, when it healed it had moved out of position. I have moved it back again, and it is, if you like,
nailed
there with this pin. As a result of that and the alignment of the shaft above, you will have an elbow that works. Better than ever, yes?'

Will I? This bloke's got some serious tickets on himself but I'm more than happy to believe him. Might take some time to believe there's a permanent piece of metal in there, though. What if I rust? Don't ask.

Can't now anyway: he's off, busy man, and I'm alone again. Completely. Except for a tall potted plant by the window, some sort of palm. Can't even hear anyone about, it's that quiet. Of course I have to have a go at getting up straightaway. Can't. Stratho has a good long laugh. Go back to staring out the window at the sea beyond Bondi and the sky that's so clear it looks flat enough to walk on, and I'm feeling envy for the plant that's swaying a bit in the breeze: got more freedom of movement than me. Have another go. Nearly roll off the bed. Just leave it. Wait.

Wait for France; she's come in twice a day for the last few days but I've either been asleep or in the land of Best Brew Ever. Wonder what the time is now; wouldn't know, beyond morning. I've had my breakfast, been shaved, and Nurse even asked me if I wanted to clean my teeth. Yes please, and the service here is amazing, thank you. So it should be for the cost. I should track down Sister Pam Taylor one day and tell her about this for a laugh. I even got a copy of the
Herald
with the slice of lemon for my cup of tea with breakie. Haven't read it, though: apart from news from the Western Front, front page is news of a cyclone wrecking several towns on the Queensland coast. I haven't had a nightmare or a daymare for more than two months and I'm not going to give myself one by reading the details.

Got to do something, though. Probably only been ten minutes and I'm bored already. There is something wrong with me in that respect, I'm sure of it. A bloke should be able to be still, and not fidget. But I am so bored I'm scrunching the end of the sheet in my toes and my left hand is twisting the end of the cord in my pyjama duds. I do these things without thinking: I can stop doing them, but as soon as I don't think about it, I'll start doing them again. What else is there to do? Resist the temptation to touch the
external transfixion
; just because it's right there and I can't work out how it is it doesn't hurt. My elbow does, a bit, but not the fat pins going through my skin and into my bone. How can that be? Doesn't matter: all the fingers on my hand work, that's all that matters. Make a fist to prove it, sort of. Awch: that does hurt.

But now here's footsteps, at bloody last, save me from disappearing up my own arse.

It's France. ‘Hello,' she says. ‘You're with us,' and she's glowing, little bit sunburned, brought the sun in her hair; her eyes are so blue against the sky behind her and blinking: no cranky nonsense, Daniel. I'm not about to give her any, unless she doesn't hurry up and kiss me. Reliable as ever, there she is. She tastes of peppermint and Francine taste. ‘Poor darlingest,' she says. ‘Is it too awful?'

Wonder what she's referring to for a second; laugh: ‘No.'

‘Sure,' she says, and there's a trace of my mother in that
sure.
She thinks I'm having her on.

I say: ‘Really, it looks a lot worse than it feels.'

She's not convinced; can't blame her: it does look revolting. ‘Well, that's almost as credible as my mischief-making,' she says.

Here we go, this'll be entertaining. ‘You've done it, then, have you?' Not that Francine can't do anything she puts her mind to, but I didn't think she'd have a hope of getting in the door of any gallery with my rubbish, let alone the state one. Still don't expect she has. I'm waiting to hear all about the
debacle
, and she says: ‘Not exactly …'But then looks a bit guilty about it.

‘What happened?'

‘I ran into a certain Mr Duncan, father of your Dunc …'

‘Ran into him?'

‘Not exactly …' And she tells me all about it. Then: ‘I hope you're not cross.'

‘Cross?' Jesus, I'm still taking in the tale, but I'm thrilled she's off-loaded them; wouldn't care if she exchanged them for a chook under the counter at a pub. If Dunc's father wants the mad, ugly things, he can have them.

Then she says, ‘Um …' and she never says
um.
‘He was quite impressed, you know, quite very impressed actually. He mentioned a collector he knows, whom he thinks would be even more impressed, suggested this fellow would be keen to meet you.'

Keen to meet me? What for? A laugh? ‘I'm sure he was just being polite, France,' I tell her.

‘No. I don't think so,' she says, staring at me. Blink, blink. Waiting.

‘Well, I do think so.' Think about it: if this Mr Duncan is really interested himself, then it's probably only because he's lost his son and I knew him; and if France believes it's anything more than that, it's only because she wants to believe it, or maybe needs to; and Mr Duncan would have seen that plain in her big blue eyes, as anyone would, so he'd have said something extra nice to her about them:
I know a fellow who knows a fellow, et cetera … and if you ever mention it again, I can say oh what a shame, he's just left town.

Now she looks cross. ‘Mr Duncan knows what he's talking about. He wanted to
buy
them, first thing:
name your price
, he said. I told him they weren't for sale, but neglected to add that the
artist
is averse to anything which might suggest he is of value. I don't know why I bothered with the
caper
'

I do: because you love me. But I don't say that; can't anyway, she's not finished.

‘Anyone would think you were afraid of praise, though Mr Duncan also knows very well that you're not a coward. And so do I. He knows all about your
record.
Record of
abandoning.
'

Whoa. ‘What would you know about it? What did he tell you?' And I am a bit more than cross now myself: whoever he is, he's got no business having an opinion of me, let alone having chats about it with my wife.

She grabs my hand. ‘He didn't tell me anything, I promise. Just that his son told him about you. Please, can you pretend I didn't say any of that. I don't know what I'm talking about and I don't want to know.'

No, you don't, and I'm never going to tell you; very good thing you can't read my mind right now. I tell her: ‘But you know enough to work out why
I'm
not interested in the Holy Fucking Monsters, don't you.'

‘Yes.'

‘Shouldn't you be off somewhere with the kids now?'

‘Yes.'

And I've made her cry. She leaves me like I've kicked her.

And I'll spend the rest of the day thinking about how I'm going to apologise for that.