The Beloved (12 page)

Chapter Eleven

April 1959

The international terminal at Jackson's Strip was an old Quonset hut left over from World War II when Port Moresby had been a base for B-17 bombers. There were no bombers on the runway that morning; there were no planes at all apart from an ancient Avro Anson. Qantas Empire Airways were on strike and a bunch of people desperate to get to Sydney had banded together and chartered the only plane they could find.

‘Don't go poking the old girl's sides,' Dad said, jiggling coins in his pocket. ‘It's just a mishmash of wood and fabric and your finger might go through.' He pulled out a small parcel. ‘This is for you.' Inside was a fountain pen, a beautiful lapis-blue. ‘Write to me, CP, and don't grow up too fast.'

A man in khaki shorts waved us towards the Anson. ‘Time to go, folks.'

Dad folded me in his arms. ‘I'm going to miss you; I'm going to miss both of you.'

I pressed myself against his crisp shirt and he lifted my chin. ‘Goodbye, my Roberta. Have a wonderful trip. Think of your old dad sometimes, slaving away in the tropics while you build snowmen.' He planted a soft whiskery kiss on my cheek then turned to Mama and pulled her close.

‘Five months, Bean. A long time. Will you miss me?'

‘Yes, of course.' She smiled. ‘But it'll go like that.' She snapped her fingers. ‘Well, mustn't keep them waiting. Come on, Bertie, let's go.'

It wasn't hard to spot Aunt Tempe among the crowd at Sydney airport. Her long face and gypsy shawl made her look like a beatnik. Mama, in a swirly silk dress and narrow belt, looked like a movie star.

‘Slug!' said my aunt. ‘Look at you – so tall, so grown up. Ten already.'

‘Eleven.'

‘Oh, well. That makes
all
the difference.'

We laughed. She shook her head. ‘The duckling's becoming a swan.'

A swan. A beautiful, long-necked gliding creature. I could feel myself glowing.

That evening we had dinner on Tempe's balcony overlooking the harbour. Afterwards, Mama set up her new tripod and took some night shots, but I was tired and went to bed. Sounds drifted through the open door – dishes clattering, water gurgling down the sink and snippets of conversation. Mama told Tempe how disappointed she was that Tim had missed out on going to Vic Grammar but said she wasn't going to make the same mistake with me. My name was down for St Catherine's in Waverley and Dad had been warned.

‘Sounds serious,' said Tempe.

‘It is,' said Mama. ‘Bertie's bright enough but she needs a lot of pushing. Lousy at math, unfortunately.'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Yes, it does. I want her to have a career. Medicine, I hope.'

Medicine? No way. I was wide awake now, listening.

‘What does Bertie want?'

‘She doesn't know, she's too young.'

There was silence, and the clink of coffee cups.

‘How will you manage her schooling while you're away?' Tempe asked.

‘Correspondence.'

‘Bell's has lots of teaching material. Can I help?'

Bugger.

‘Grade five supplementary math would be wonderful.'

The next day Tempe and I waved Mama off to Melbourne to spend a few days with Tim before we sailed. Then we went to Tempe's office at Bell's Books. Port Moresby had two good bookshops, Beadles and Boroko Books, but Bell's was astounding. Books were stacked on every counter, lying on tables and crammed into shelves so high you needed ladders to reach them. There was a whole section for children and I found my old favourite,
Eloise
, which I loved because of the drawings. Eloise's slitty eyes and wry mouth told you so much about what she was really like.

‘You like books, Slug?' said Aunt Tempe.

‘Mmm, especially ones with pictures.'

‘Well, I missed a few Christmases and birthdays so why don't you pick out some things you fancy.'

I eyed a stack of boxed pencils, opened one and sniffed the woody fragrance. ‘May I have these?'

‘Of course, but what for?'

‘Drawing.'

‘Oh, HBs are no good for drawing. We can do better than that.'

‘Do you have Lakeland colouring pencils, Aunt Tempe?'

‘No, I mean pencils for sketching. And let's drop the “aunt”, shall we? It makes me sound old. Now, come with me and I'll introduce you to someone.'

She led me to a wide bright room overlooking the bustle of Pitt Street. A woman sat at a big table by the window, sketching. She looked like an overgrown kid, with masses of loose flaming curls and freckles across her nose. When she smiled she reminded me of my old doll, Molly.

‘My niece, Roberta,' said Tempe to the lady. ‘Bertie, this is my friend, Mrs Valier. Our resident artist and book illustrator.'

‘Did you do
Eloise
?' I asked.

‘No, not children's books, unfortunately,' said Mrs Valier. ‘Ordinary things: birds and flowers.' She handed over a book with a drawing of a kookaburra, so detailed and lifelike it looked as if it could fly off the page.

‘It's beautiful.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Mrs Valier is heading off to your part of the world, Bertie, to draw New Guinea's wildlife. Her brother owns Boroko Books in Port Moresby. Do you know it?'

‘Yes, it's Mr McIntyre's shop. Mama buys my school books there.'

‘Supplied by me,' said Tempe. ‘Mr McIntyre is going overseas so Mrs Valier will be minding his shop while he's away.' She smiled at her friend. ‘Bertie and I need sketching pencils and maybe a tin of good paints.' She turned to me. ‘Yes?'

‘Yes,' I said, so quickly they both laughed.

Mrs Valier picked out pencils, brushes, a tin of paints and paper. It wasn't smooth like the paper Dad brought home from his office but thick and rough.

‘We're off to lunch,' said Tempe. ‘Then home to show Bertie how to use these things before she goes to Canada.'

‘Canada!' said Mrs Valier. ‘How wonderful. Lucky you.'

‘Yes,' I agreed.

‘When you get back to Port Moresby, come to the bookshop and bring your drawings so I can see what Canada looks like.'

Tempe looked at her watch. ‘Lunch time.'

We ate in the elegant gloom of a Cahill's Restaurant, in our own leather-padded booth with silver cutlery, starched serviettes and a vase of carnations. I studied the menu. So much to choose from: soups, soufflés, roasts, galantines, cakes and custards.

‘I'll have a toasted cheese sandwich with tomato sauce and a chocolate malted milk.'

‘That's it?'

I nodded. ‘Em tasol.'

Tempe snorted. ‘How prosaic.'

My milkshake came in a heavy glass with a waxed yellow straw and my sandwich was exactly right: crunchy outside and squishy inside with tomato sauce oozing out the edges.

‘You know what else tomato sauce is good for?' I said, watching how Tempe followed the waitress with her eyes.

‘I'm not sure I want to know.'

‘Painting.'

‘Painting?'

‘Vegemite's even better. Vegemite, tomato sauce, peanut butter, jam – all good. Dirt's all right too. Mud. You know.'

‘No, can't say that I do.'

‘You should try.'

‘You should try paint – a viable alternative. Now, tell me about New Guinea. Does Josie go around in a grass skirt and no top? Do her husbands have feathers in their hair and bones through their noses?'

‘Don't you know anything?' I said, rolling my eyes.

Tempe wrinkled her nose. ‘Nup.'

Her shirt came down below my knees and I had to roll up the sleeves but I felt like a real artist. Tempe's garage door had been replaced with big windows. More windows ran the length of the room and at the end a large desk overlooked the bay. Canvases leaned against the walls; there was a clay-spattered pottery wheel and a sagging leather sofa. She cleared the clutter from her desk with a sweep of her arm and pulled out a sheet of heavy paper. She drew a few sweeping lines then handed me the pencil. I drew it across the page as I would have with an HB and left a thick black line.

‘Whoa,' said Tempe. ‘Let's start from scratch. These aren't ordinary pencils. You have to use them sensitively, as an extension of your hand, like drawing with the end of your finger.'

This time I guided the pencil softly across the page, feeling how responsive it was. Nothing like ordinary pencils. It didn't need force, but seemed to know what I wanted and pictures began to drop onto the paper.

‘I didn't know you could draw so well,' said Tempe. ‘These faces are great.'

‘I can do caricatures.'

‘Can you? Can you do one of me? No, wait. I've a better idea.' She rummaged around in an old shoebox and pulled out a picture of Grandma.

Poor old Grandma, it didn't seem right to make her nose even longer and her chin more wreathed in fat. ‘I can't.'

‘Okay. What about this?' She gave me a photo of a lady with a heart-shaped face, dark curly hair and round button eyes.

‘Who's this?'

‘My friend Allison.' Tempe's voice was light but her ears had gone bright red and for some reason, I didn't want to do a caricature of her friend either. ‘No.'

‘Well, what about someone we don't know?' She flipped through a
Women's Weekly
magazine. ‘How about the gorgeous Garbo?'

The gorgeous Garbo was a series of lines – a wide thin mouth, triangular cheekbones, heavy eyelids and a snooty expression. I began to draw, setting the eyes far apart and darkening the lids. I sharpened the cheekbones, widened the mouth and narrowed the haughty nostrils.

‘It's terrific, Bertie. I couldn't do a caricature that well. Now let's try something else.' She drew the outline of an apple, shaded it and put shadows underneath. By leaving a little blank square on the side she made it look as if the sun was shining on it.

‘You try.'

I drew an apple and used the side of the pencil to fill in the leaves, soft and quick. ‘It looks like a face,' I said.

‘Put a face on it, then.'

I drew half-moon eyes, dots for nostrils and a curved mouth. Tempe took the pencil and made fuzzy eyebrows. She shaded beneath the eyes and mouth and smudged them with her finger, finishing with a dimple in one cheek. I stared at it. All with just one pencil, no colours at all.

We drew all afternoon, using four different grades of pencil.

‘Tomorrow we'll play with paints,' said Tempe. ‘Unless you'd rather do something else? Go somewhere, perhaps – on a picnic, to a movie, or maybe take a ferry ride?'

‘Could we go to Luna Park?'

Tempe scowled. ‘Must we?'

‘I suppose not.'

She lit a cigarette and studied me through the smoke. ‘I suppose we must. But if I have to get seasick watching you go up and down on pieces of machinery, I want my friend Allison to come so I'll have someone to talk to. Don't look like that – you'll like her. She's a good sort.'

We ate dinner on the balcony. The air was still and the moon rose huge and golden and spread its reflections over the water. Tempe had set the table with straw place-mats and red linen serviettes and she served a tender, tasty kind of meat, spinach in cheese sauce and potatoes with lashings of butter.