Watercolours (27 page)

Dom nodded uneasily. ‘How's Novi taking it?'

‘He's all right, I think. In the shed as usual. Actually, it doesn't seem to have slowed him down at all. The money from the exhibition should keep him in supplies for a while, so I suppose it's not the end of the world.' This thought cheered her and she smiled. ‘He's looking forward to getting back to school and seeing Camille again. He's got a stack of sculptures for the kiln!'

Dom swallowed. He straightened up. ‘She's looking forward to seeing him, too. But listen, Mira, in these cases the Department has to send a counsellor to talk to Novi, first. It's procedure, when accusations like this are made.'

Mira's cheeks turned bright red.

Dom ploughed on. ‘And the school says Novi should take a break from the art program until after his … assessment.'

She frowned. ‘The school says?'

He nodded, glancing away. ‘It's just procedure. You can be there with him during the session, of course. And we can pick up again once this is all over.'

The power tool screamed. Mira shot a dark look across the garden. Then she faced Dom squarely and folded her arms. ‘And what do
you
say?'

He squirmed. ‘I don't know, Mira. I'm sorry. I haven't had any experience in this.'

‘What do you mean —
this
?' she demanded. ‘Experience in child abuse? Is that what you mean?'

‘Of course not!'

Her breath was coming fast now. Short wisps of hair stood out around her face as if electrified. ‘Do you want to see the portrait, see how disgusting it is?'

He didn't. He was too scared. ‘I'm sure it's fine.'

She glared at him. ‘You think I'm a bad mother.'

‘No, I don't!' He felt flayed. This was beyond his abilities. Mira knew, she could see it plain as day. He was nothing but a giant fraud.

Suddenly Dom felt exhausted. Keeping up a facade of competence all these months had been more arduous than he'd realised. He wilted against the railing. His body felt as shattered as it had the day he'd ridden his bike up here, his heart as strained. He hadn't thrown up in the garden bed this time but from the look of revulsion on Mira's face he might as well have. At least
the truth was out there now and he could surrender. There was a sense of relief in letting go at last.

‘It's not the portrait so much, Mira,' he said weakly. ‘It's the other stuff Novi's been painting. I admit I've felt a bit worried, about Novi and what's on his mind. I mean — what did
you
think when you saw the babies?'

Her face went blank. ‘Which babies?'

Dom paused. He proceeded with caution. ‘The picture he drew of you and the … babies. Your babies, the ones you lost?'

He watched the colour drain from her face.

‘He hasn't shown you?'

She shook her head.

‘Maybe he thought you wouldn't want to see?'

‘Of course I want to see!'

Dom shrugged helplessly. ‘Novi worries about these things, Mira. He worries about getting into trouble and he hides pictures when he thinks people won't approve.'

She looked away. Her eyes welled up with tears. ‘My little boy,' she said. ‘He drew a picture of his brothers and he didn't show me?'

Dom said nothing.

‘But we don't keep secrets in our family!' she insisted. ‘We share everything!'

After a minute, Dom said gently, ‘Look, Mira, maybe a break wouldn't be such a bad thing for him.'

She flung her arms out in anguish. ‘And how do we enforce it? You know what he's like! It would be like telling him to stop breathing.'

Dom tried to be positive. ‘Maybe put his materials away for a little while. Encourage his other hobbies.'

‘He doesn't have any other hobbies, you know that!'

‘Well, maybe he should! I don't know.' He sighed, ‘I'm really sorry, Mira.'

‘Sorry for what?' she responded scornfully. ‘Having to be messenger boy or not trusting your own judgement?'

He hung his head. He deserved all of it. After a while he said, ‘I'll go and talk to Novi.'

‘No,' she said coldly. ‘I'll do it. He thinks the world of you.'

Dom slumped. ‘Okay. I'll see him tomorrow, then.'

He waited for a few seconds, hoping for a conciliatory hug or a fig tart or even a request that he take away more laundry for drying. Nothing. Miserably he turned and trudged back down the stairs. He crossed the lawn and gave her one last wave before getting into the car.

From the veranda she watched him turn the hatchback. As he drove towards the gate he glanced at her figure in the rear-view mirror. Her arms were crossed tightly. She made no gesture of farewell.

My parents have said I should
take a rest
from art but I know what they really mean. They want me to stop. I'm in trouble but they won't admit it, not even to themselves.

To break the news they sat me down for afternoon tea. My mother had baked a pile of little cakes and iced biscuits but her smile was tight and nobody could eat anything, least of all me. They are trying to pretend it's no big deal, but it is. They think I'm disturbed. Their worry is like a terrible smell wafting around the house, giving us all the jitters.

Losing the fellowship wasn't that much of a surprise. Right from the start I had a feeling it was too good to be true. They were always going to change their minds about me once they realised what sort of pictures I did. They said it was because of Mum's portrait, but that can't be right because galleries are full of nudes. The Gallery in Sydney had heaps of sculptures and paintings of men and women completely naked and everyone was allowed to look at them, even kids my age, even little babies in their prams. Caz's nude prints at Riverside were sold out. So it can't be that.

It's because of my grandfather. Something about my picture of Nonno scared Mr Roper and now he wishes he hadn't given me all that money and encouraged me to have an exhibition. I've been thinking a lot about Mr Roper lately. I've been thinking
how it was a shame he never got to see the rest of my murder pictures, so today I made some copies at the library. I plan to put them in a big envelope and post them to him at Sinclair's. I wonder what he'll do when he gets them. Maybe he'll offer to buy them all?

To encourage me to
rest,
my parents have packed all my colours and clay and paper and canvases away in the cupboard. They even locked the door. They said it was time to concentrate on other things for a while. My mother is trying to be positive about it. She pulled out my microscope and set it up again, along with the boxes of stones and feathers and insects I shoved under my bed months ago. But my collections seem stale now, just empty shells and dead stuff. Compared with the cicadas alive inside me, a bunch of old rocks and sticks seems uninspiring.

At school, Mr Best is acting weird. He's trying to be all friendly and reassuring, saying things like
Hang in there, mate!
But I can tell he's been spooked. He doesn't like the art I've been doing. The picture of my brothers upset him. I don't get it. Mr Best was the one who told me not to be afraid of what I put into pictures. He was the one who said it was healthy to explore my feelings through art.

I only see Miss Morrison during school-time now. She told me not to worry about the fellowship, most people are too narrow-minded to appreciate challenging art. ‘The life of an artist is not always a comfortable one, Novi,' she warned me. ‘You have to be prepared to feel lonely sometimes. But the most important thing is to be brave and stay true to yourself.'

I miss our lessons.

The most exciting thing in my life now is that Liz at Riverside wants more of my work. She even wants to show my portraits of
Mum and Dad, although I won't be selling those. I have some ideas for new exhibition pieces, bigger this time, more sculptural. It's frustrating, not being able to get at my materials.

You can make art out of anything, though, there are no rules — that's what Miss Morrison taught me. And so at dinner time I find myself creating little landscapes of baked potato boulders and broccoli trees with their roots in rivers of gravy. In the bath I discovered how easy soap is to carve, soft but firm. I turned all the bars into birds, although I am not happy with the colours; yellow and lilac are completely wrong. Tonight, while I was washing up, I gave the detergent bottle an extra squeeze and got a huge amount of suds. For ages I played around making a map and got a bit carried away. When my mother came in to ask what was taking me so long her eyes went all wide when she saw the hills and valleys of soapsuds stretching from the sink to the stove and onto the table. She stood with her mouth open, not knowing whether to be angry or impressed. Anger won out. She ordered me to wipe it all up and then sent me to bed without me even brushing my teeth. It was probably just as well — this morning I used up all the toothpaste gluing together a model of Morus Bridge made out of miniature bread sticks. She probably won't be happy when she finds out.

So here I am lying in the dark, my hands stinking of washing-up gloves. I feel flung out into the current again, like a speck swallowed by a blue whale and then spat out. But I'm getting used to it.

I can hear my mother storming around the house and arguing with my father. Dad is on my side. He understands I can't help it, I have the bug, just like him. My mother is upset. She says she feels as though they're torturing me.
This town
is poisonous,
she cries.
We should just move! We'll never be accepted!
She says she can't stand that someone like Joy Kelley has made her doubt herself. Things go quiet. I hear Dad murmuring, comforting her. There is a honking sound — my mother blowing her nose. They agree to hang in there until they talk to an expert.

I'm on my own now.

 

Her father was over the worst of his cold, but there was a rattle in his chest that Camille didn't like. He looked thinner than usual, too. Out in the courtyard he sat with a cup of tea and watched her weed the pot-plants.

‘What's got you all riled up?'

She scowled. ‘This place. All the small-minded, puritanical fear-mongers who live here.'

He took a bite of his biscuit. ‘Oh well, you can always move back to Sydney.'

‘No, I can't!' She dug hard into the wet soil and stopped herself from saying more.

He laid his biscuit on the saucer. She felt him looking at her, full of concern. ‘Don't stay if you're not happy, love. Don't feel like you have to be here on my account.'

She wheeled around to face him. ‘Why not? What other account is there? You're all I've got, Dad. Tragic as that is.' The crumbs on his lips and the look of his hunched shoulders made her turn away. She reefed grass out of the cracks in the pavers.

After a while he said quietly, ‘It's times like this I miss your mother.'

‘Only times like this?' she snapped.

He ignored her tone. ‘She was always better at matters of the heart.'

Camille stopped weeding. She crouched on the damp bricks, her anger vanished. Suddenly she thought she might cry. She was just so
disappointed
with Dom. She knew he'd tried to reach out, to talk to her about his confusion, but it was his confusion that she found so repellent. It made her feel old and tired. She wanted him to have more courage. He should
know
what was right! The task of having to explain it felt too enormous. She wiped her eyes and shook her head. It had to end sometime, she thought with a sigh. He was too young for her anyway.

She picked up a handful of weeds and dumped them into the bin. ‘I'm no good at relationships, Dad. I'm better at just being on my own.'

Her father nodded sadly. With bony fingers he popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and reached for another.

 

Dom rode home the long way. He sat erect and pedalled mechanically, in no rush. There was nothing at the flat to look forward to. Not his own company, that was for sure.

The days were dry but bloated. Everywhere moisture continued its slow evaporation. The sun still shone with powerful intensity through the opaque white membrane of the sky. Dom squinted in the glare. He often had a headache by nightfall, but it felt good to exercise. There was comfort in exhaustion and the throbbing in his head helped wipe out his thoughts.

He could tell Camille was avoiding him. At school she kept to the library. In the afternoons she had to visit her father and then
she had work to do in the garden. At night, when he phoned, she was tired from all that gardening.

Clearly, he'd let her down. He wasn't the man she'd thought he was, whatever that might be. It was hard to know because she'd barley spoken to him for days. She had no patience for the doubt he was grappling with, she couldn't understand it, just as he couldn't understand how she could be so certain about the whole Novi thing. At first he'd felt ashamed, then indignant. It was unfair of her to punish him for having a different opinion. If only she'd talk to him.

He wished Novi's assessment was over and done with, too. Till then he was in limbo. Once the results were in he'd know what to think. Then at least he'd have something firm to discuss with Camille.

The evenings were getting cooler. He sat alone on the veranda and listened to the night air prickling with activity. The rushing river sounded cheerful now, no longer a destructive force. He could hear the miniature industry of insects rebuilding their washed-out lives, and underneath it the slow sigh of groundwater soaking into soil. In the aftermath of the flood, a strange quiet had come over the town. Even his neighbours were subdued.

All alone, Dom couldn't prevent paranoia creeping in; he wondered if the widows had heard what had happened and were disapproving. Perhaps, in a gesture of female solidarity, they were avoiding him, too? He hadn't seen much of Mavis lately. She was lying low. ‘Preparing for my winter hibernation,' she'd explained when he last knocked on her door, but her tone had been evasive and Dom had withdrawn to the solitude of his own flat with a sense that she was holding something back. Since then he'd barely heard a peep out of her.

On Thursday afternoon Camille came around to see him at last. When he saw her blushing in the doorway he was filled with relief; the week had felt so empty without her. She smiled briefly and the sight brought him such a dazzling rush of pleasure that he couldn't help grinning back.

‘I've come to pick up my things,' she said.

He refused to acknowledge what this meant. ‘Cup of tea?' he offered.

She hesitated. ‘Okay.'

Inside, she went first to the bedroom and quickly collected items of clothing and toiletries before returning to the living area. She stopped for a minute by the dining table and then sat down stiffly on one of the chairs, her bag on her lap. Her eyes took in the piles of old newspapers, junk mail and pizza boxes covering the table. Dom swooped on the boxes and took them into the kitchen. There was a smell coming from the bin; it was almost overflowing. He hadn't realised what a mess the place had become.

Camille remained at the table, her eyes downcast. She didn't speak. Dom couldn't think of anything to say either. The silence became excruciating. He busied himself rinsing dirty mugs. When he opened the fridge his heart fell. He poked his head around the door with a rueful smile. ‘I'm out of milk.'

‘Don't worry about it. I have to get home anyway.'

She stood up, hoisting her bag to her shoulder. Dom rushed forward and caught her hand. ‘Camille, please stay.'

Gently she drew away. She wouldn't look at him; instead she focused on the lino at his feet. They could both see it was filthy.

‘Let's talk,' he pleaded.

When she finally glanced up her expression was cool, but she sat down again. He shoved the mounds of rubbish against the
wall and took the chair across from hers, struggling to find a way across the divide.

‘Look, we're not going to agree on everything,' he said at last. ‘We'll have our differences. But I thought we were stronger than that.'

She raised her eyes. ‘We?'

‘This. Us.'

She shook her head and gave him a sad smile. ‘You're twenty-four, Dom.'

‘So?'

She sighed gently. ‘I mean, really … where's this going?'

‘I don't know,' he answered truthfully.

‘It won't work. I just don't have time to muck around.'

Dom didn't know what to say. It hadn't felt like mucking around to him. He gazed miserably towards the balcony. Then he remembered.

‘Novi's assessment is tomorrow.' He looked at her anxiously but her expression remained closed. ‘You're really not worried, not even a little bit?'

‘I worry about him socially,' she said with a frown, ‘because he's copping it at school. I guess it's gross for kids to think of mothers as having any kind of sensuality … but as an artist he seems more confident than ever, experimenting with different styles. He's hitting his stride. If he can survive growing up in this place he'll be a major talent.'

‘But his art, Camille. It's kind of morbid.'

‘Sometimes. His family has been through a tough time, though. He's drawing from the world around him and let's face it, Dom — life can be horrible! I mean, have you
met
Joy Kelley? God! If you're going to worry about anyone, worry about her.'

He let out a puff of air. At least there was one thing they agreed on.

‘Look,' she said, leaning across the table in a last-ditch effort to make him understand. ‘It's not right or wrong, it's
art
. Everyone's projecting their own crap onto Novi's work — their own black thoughts and bad experiences and hidden agendas. Something weird is going on, Dom. Can't you see that? This is a small town.'

He ran his hand over his chin.

‘How can you be afraid of Novi?' she cried in exasperation.

‘I'm not afraid of him! I just don't understand what he's doing.'

She slapped the table. ‘Well, there you have it! You fear what you don't understand, that's natural. But come on, Dom. You're smarter than that! You know Mira and George. You've been to their house — they're good people. And straightaway you spotted Novi was special. Right from the start you believed in him.'

Dom flicked at a bit of paper. She was right.

‘You were so passionate, so full of enthusiasm. But now that someone has questioned your beliefs, you've crumbled instantly!'

He was in agony. ‘Camille, I'm inexperienced! I don't understand these things like you do.'