Watercolours (24 page)

While Mira heated soup and pasta sauce and put the water on to boil, Dom sprinted down to the shed with Novi and George. Inside he noticed the place had reached new heights of organised chaos since his last visit. It was overflowing with boat apparatus, unidentifiable items under construction and art supplies — the atmosphere was one of serious industry. With his easel set up in the light from the window, Novi had been working on a large canvas and Dom went over and stood before it. It was a portrait of George on the deck of a boat at sea and he cut an impressive figure, dressed in an old-fashioned admiral's uniform complete with brass-buttoned coat, knee-length boots and feathered tricorne. In the distance, a lushly overgrown island shone golden in a patch of sun and George's face was golden, too, his eyes fiery behind their glasses. As usual, Mira was the boat's wooden figurehead carved to mermaid proportions, her breasts smashing through the waves. To one side, the boat's cabin windows glowed behind a set of red curtains and a long row of window boxes. Dom leaned in. On one of the boxes a grey cat was crouched, tail high, bum positioned directly over the flowers.

Arms crossed, Novi looked up at him for his reaction and at that moment Dom was struck by the maturity of the boy's expression; in the pursed mouth and shrewd eyes there was a glimpse of the man he'd become soon enough. Dom glanced over at George and saw that he'd assumed a stately pose by a stand of clamped timber, a real tricorne perched on his head. With a proud glint in his eye, he gave Dom a salute.

Novi frowned. He picked up a paintbrush and dabbed at the hat in his picture. George shuffled off and began sanding timber
in long rhythmic strokes. Dom sat down in the busted armchair and made himself comfortable, soaking up the atmosphere and feeling slightly envious. He wanted to be immortalised in a painting, too. How would Novi style a portrait of him? he wondered. At the blackboard, chalk in hand, perhaps? Or on his bike, toiling up Serpentine Road, his head about to explode?

Gazing around, he was quick to identify the new works. As well as some clay birds drying on the windowsill there were three larger maps that seemed as though they were meant to go together. No longer confined to basic acrylics, Novi was experimenting with more natural tones and in the dim light of the shed these new maps looked dark and shadowy, a layer of shellac giving the impression of landscapes under water. When Dom hopped up to have a closer look he saw that what from a distance looked like topography lines were actually veins etched with painstaking precision. With a jolt he realised he was looking at the anatomy of something organic: a leaf or the flesh of some animal caught under the tide. Although the complexity of the image was impressive, Dom felt a little chilled by it, and the birds didn't help, either, hovering in a thin black cloud over all three pictures like a flock of carrion crows. Against the suggestion of living flesh, Dom found their appearance vaguely gruesome. An uneasy feeling crept over him. He could see Novi's style was maturing; this was a good thing, he knew, but he had to admit he missed the cheerful colours of the younger works.

He stepped over to the bench and found some heavy charcoal sketches of yet more birds. Beside them were some pictures of Novi's grandfather, the ones that at first he'd been so reluctant to show. Dom flicked through them and was again struck by the same spooky sadness to see the old man, eyes closed, lying
in the brown water. Then he found a picture he hadn't seen before. He picked it up with interest. It was a simple coloured-pencil drawing from an earlier time, a single large mulberry tree with wide spreading branches and roots snaking into the river. Underneath the tree, among a scattering of fallen mulberries, stood Mira, barefoot and wrapped in a red shawl. The fallen berries were odd-looking, long but strangely pale and unripe. Dom frowned. He brought the picture nearer to the light bulb hanging above him and felt his blood run cold. They weren't berries at all but
babies,
tiny unformed creatures with bulbous heads and slit eyes, their arms too small to hug their bodies. In the picture, Mira was singing, or wailing maybe, her mouth wide, her arms outstretched.

At that moment the door to the shed flew open and in she came, shaking a dripping umbrella. Dom found himself looking straight into the haunted eyes of the woman in the picture, the woman singing lullabies under a tree for all her lifeless babies.

‘Lunch is ready!' she said.

Dom stared at her, his breath stuck in his chest. He formed a word but his mouth was dry and no sound emerged.

Gerard Roper sped north along the highway. The rain had stopped for the moment. He could see the roiling weight of it suspended overhead and the light coming through was pale and eerie. Off the coast a great storm was gathering and he was heading straight towards it, not an ideal moment to be leaving the shop, to be driving anywhere, in fact, but he wanted to check the Banio house before the evening's onslaught. At least that was his excuse. Really, he was desperate for some air and a bit of space to think.

Leaning back into the Land Cruiser's upholstery, exhaustion swept through him. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep for ages, not since the exhibition. He couldn't get those pictures out of his head. And Sinclair's had been utter bedlam, teeming with ill-equipped holiday-makers and anxious locals, everyone in a panic about the weather warnings; even with all staff on board they'd been run off their feet. Gerard wished they would all just piss off so he could contemplate the problem of Novi. If he didn't get a handle on the situation he was in danger of falling into a panic himself.

That kid!
He forced down a fresh wave of fear and told himself to stay calm. For the next ten minutes he drove through sodden countryside flanked by ditches green with gangly weeds, past old farms racked with erosion and the new subdivisions that mocked
them, until he reached the Banio turn-off. Here he headed east, towards the sea.

Alone on the road now with a bit of distance between himself and town, he felt able to consider Novi's pictures and what they meant. He must know something about Bert's death. Could he have been in the orchard that day and seen Gerard there? Would he draw a picture of him next? His skin felt clammy at the thought and he drew a hand down hard over his face but still he couldn't stop the memories of that day advancing, along with the guilt that for years he'd tried to suppress. Gripping the steering wheel, Gerard concentrated on breathing in and out.

It was an accident. The river took him.
They're just drawings.

After a while he began to feel a little more composed. The twenty-minute drive to the coast was always soothing. Being up high in the Land Cruiser helped, the superior aspect it provided, and the comfortable leather interior the colour sand ought to be — when it wasn't contaminated by seaweed and unsavoury brown foam. To see the bypass progressing so well gave him a boost, too. In another twelve months the new route would be finished, taking motorists along the coast instead of inland through the flood-prone quagmire of Morus. Those who'd previously stopped at Morus out of convenience or tradition would soon be directed to Banio, a charming seaside village infinitely more attractive than a depressed river town of faded glory. Gerard had seen where the opportunities lay and invested early. Banio had boutique written all over it.

The rain held off. By the time he reached the national park the sky had darkened to gun-metal grey, gathering energy for its assault. He drove a little further through monotonous scrub and pine plantations before plunging into thick coastal heathland.
Sandy undulations of banksia and wattle spread before him, and a galaxy of tiny wildflowers with small sharp leaves. Gerard was fond of this gentle landscape. It wasn't overbearing like the gum-tree forests on Serpentine Road, it didn't tower over you or hem you in; it wouldn't shed strips of bark onto your lawn or toss endless indestructible leaves into your swimming pool. The heath was pretty: soft and low-lying; wild, yet conquerable. The soil was the sandy type that relinquished roots easily and drained well. Flooding certainly wasn't a problem out here.

He topped one final shaggy crest and the village appeared, spread out below him. There wasn't much to Banio: a few streets of fibro cottages, inhabited mostly by fishing families and the odd ancient bachelor cured to leather by the sun and pickled with brine and alcohol. It had a single service station, an unreliable corner shop that doubled as a take-away, and an oyster kiosk owned by a family as tenacious and sharp-edged as the molluscs they harvested from the estuary. Entertainment was provided by the bowling club, which had a healthy attendance and a decent set of greens. There was a passable Chinese bistro.

Most of Banio's residents had been born here, Gerard knew, although some had escaped from the increasingly industrial Port Torft when the sprawl set in a decade ago. Or, like Gerard, they owned holiday houses because the beach was pretty, if a little exposed. In summer it could be quite busy. The community had lived with the promise of a bypass for so long that it had become the stuff of myth; whole generations had been raised with the bypass pending, destined to transform their sleepy village, only for it to be delayed again and again. Booze-fuelled debates at the bowlo about the pros and cons — more business opportunities and improved property prices versus an infestation of tourists
and an end to tranquillity — had long receded behind the more pressing banalities of daily life. Most residents had given up on the prospect.

Gerard hadn't.

At first he thought he'd simply sell the house and land and make a tidy profit, but the more time he spent out here the more ideas began to hatch. The property in Morus was becoming too much to manage. Even Eleanor complained she was growing tired of the upkeep. He pictured them renovating the beach house properly and moving here for good. They could leave the river behind, start again.

Abruptly the ocean appeared, a foam-flecked paddock of blue. Gerard drove to the edge of a high clearing and parked the car. He wound down the window, let the salt air blast him and observed the wild seascape below. Nearby, a party of black cockatoos made prehistoric shrieks from a gnarled stand of trees. Gerard watched, struck by their majestic impudence. For a minute he envied them their savage, uncomplicated lives.

From here he could see where the new road was being built, a strip of orange clay among the trees on the far side of town. Decent infrastructure was arriving at last. Next would be an influx of people and a burst of new development. A proper supermarket and bottle shop were needed, among other conveniences — conveniences Gerard could provide. He pictured a fine-dining restaurant up here on the cliff, with some luxury accommodation. In time a new community would arise, a demographic more diverse, more connected, more cultured; a community Gerard could see himself pioneering. He took a deep breath of spray-filled air. Banio was ready to grow. And even if it wasn't, growth was on its way.

At the beach house he got out to inspect the place. A recent gale had blown the outdoor chairs about but there didn't appear to be any damage done. He stacked the furniture away in the shed, satisfied to see that the padlock showed no signs of tampering. Occasionally there were break-ins among the holiday homes, but the more time Gerard invested in Banio the more the locals looked out for him. He and Eleanor had owned the place for a while now and he loved coming here; life felt so much simpler, less cluttered. Sinclair's would have to be sold eventually; the kids weren't interested in taking over. Gerard knew this wouldn't be easy for Eleanor but he also knew she was too good a businesswoman not to see it coming. Then there would be no reason for them to stay in Morus. Banio would be their next adventure.

Hunger announced itself with a growl. He'd missed lunch, couldn't stomach anything much this past week, and it was a relief to finally have his appetite back. The sea air had cleared his head.

He drove over to the bowling club, where he greeted the barman by name and ordered a schooner and a steak sandwich, acknowledging with a casual nod the scattered glances of recognition or appraisal as he took a seat at the window. Demonstrating he could drink a beer in his own company built trust in a place like Banio. When he had the time he liked to shout some old salt a schooner and enquire into his story. The tales he heard were always riveting. It was amazing what people would tell him, what they were willing to reveal, just by being asked.

Stanley was like that. Gerard remembered the first time he'd made an effort to get to know him in his poky, mission-brown accountancy office back in the day; it was as though nobody had
ever asked him anything personal before and the result had been like dragging a carpet off a bathtub full of snakes. Stanley was a solid accountant with a healthy creative streak and his financial advice was inspiring, especially early on when the daily running of Sinclair's had threatened to overwhelm Gerard in its plodding predictability, its incremental, scrutinised creeping towards wealth. At his lowest moments, Gerard had felt nothing but a ring-in; Eleanor was the one who knew the business of agriculture inside out. Gerard had craved something else, a venture that made use of
his
contacts,
his
inheritance. Something he could build that was truly his own. Of all people it was Stanley who'd given him the idea for the Roper Centre.

Stanley was peculiar but he was smart and as they began planning, setting their sights on the appropriate land in East Morus, Gerard was pleased to discover that he also had a bone-dry sense of humour — the jokes few and far between but awe-inspiring when they arrived. Rather surprisingly, they became friends. Their properties were within minutes of each other on Serpentine Road and their wives held positions on the same committees in town. They shared an interest in real estate and investment. Both sensed there were opportunities to be had in Morus if they put their heads together. But at times Stanley could be tedious. He lacked charisma and there was always a whiff of social desperation about him. Some days just the sight of his ugly pink face irked Gerard, so he'd been pleased when Bert Cherubini came on board for the chemical operation.

The tip-off Gerard had received from a contact in Sydney had been too good to ignore. Even then Stanley had frowned, pressed the tips of his fingers together and tapped them against his lips in a grave and irritatingly protracted deliberation. God, he could
be pompous! It was straightforward enough: they would build up a reserve until the ban was announced, then sit tight for a while and sell it down the track quietly to Sinclair's most trusted clients. Despite Stanley's caution he wasn't immune to Gerard's magnetism, nor could he deny the benefits of this venture; black markets were lucrative, if short-lived, opportunities. In the end he agreed to come on board on condition they were meticulous and took the proper precautions. For a start they would need to disguise the barrels to prevent them being discovered. They would also need to distance themselves from the front line when the time came to release the stock. They would need an agent, a representative from the farming community whom people trusted and whom they could trust; someone who would benefit greatly from a free supply of illicit pesticide.

Bert Cherubini had a quiet dignity about him and had come to Gerard's mind straightaway. His wine business was promising but precariously poised; his Amaro was making ground and stood on the cusp of international export — a miracle considering the property had teetered on the brink of collapse for so long. Grapes and berries, like all thin-skinned fruit, needed plenty of chemicals to prevent them spoiling, and Mira, recently married, was struggling with her market-garden business and would soon be in desperate need of effective protection from pests. Most importantly, Bert had first-hand experience of the terrible legacy left by the old poisons, the arsenic and lead formulas of his father's generation. Gerard had heard Bert's accounts of watching his father's toenails blacken and drop off from working barefoot in orchards treated with arsenic pentoxide, how he'd seen him laid up in bed with nausea for a week after hand-spraying the groves. Bert had also overheard the horrified whispers of his sisters as
they spoke about the wife of the fruit farmer next door who had succumbed to some sort of terrible, private surgery after years of perching on fruit boxes in the packing shed. Bert was a farmer who'd welcomed the agricultural chemical revolution in the sixties, a passionate supporter of the safe new organochlorines and organophosphates; they'd never done him any harm, he insisted, when the rumblings started about their safety. Gerard had known he'd be perfect for the job.

Wiping grease from his fingers on a serviette, Gerard headed back to the bar and ordered another schooner. Alcohol was required if he was going to surrender to nostalgia and properly turn his mind to Bert. He still felt sad about the way it had ended. He nursed self-pity, too, at the loss of the friendship. Bert had been more than just a business associate, he was a friend for whom Gerard had made sacrifices. Like that time Bert had turned up on his doorstep with the news of Mira's last miscarriage. Gerard was sad to hear of it; Mira and George had been trying for years for a baby and he knew that disappointments like those took their toll on a couple. He felt for them, for his friend. It was obvious how upset Bert was; his suntanned face was etched in wretchedness, his moustache trembling with emotion. Gerard wanted to help somehow. But he wasn't expecting what Bert said next.

We can't keep selling it.

Gerard had been stunned. He pictured the warehouse, two-thirds of the stock gone already. Moving it had been easier than they had dreamed, despite the bad publicity the stuff had received before the ban. It was just so bloody effective. The new formulas were not nearly as powerful and needed to be administered more frequently: every season, twice a season, instead of once or twice a year. In the last twelve months they'd been able to increase
the price of the remaining black drums yet again. A bidding war had erupted. One turf company, threatened with annihilation by army worm, had just offered double the highest bid to date.

Gerard had been torn. He had tried to placate Bert by sharing his own experience. ‘Look, Eleanor had a miscarriage when we were first married. It was dreadful, but so many stories came out of the woodwork from her friends. We were surprised at how normal it actually is. And of course you want to search for reasons …'