Watercolours (10 page)

When autumn comes the koel disappears and the river is quiet again. That's when I do my collecting, scavenging for clues along the bank. I lay them out on the shelves in my bedroom — feathers and stones, bark and insect hulls, leaves and see-through tubes of snake skin — and draw them. Last year my parents gave me a microscope for Christmas. It was the best present ever, because now I can look at each piece of my collection even more closely, times six and times twelve. It's amazing, the patterns I have discovered under the lens, the way a leaf looks like skin and a feather looks like fish scales. It makes my insides twitter and churn because I feel like I'm finally on to something.

Maybe that's why the cicadas have made a nest in me. Now that I'm so close to proving it was the river that murdered Nonno they have moved in to help. They beat their wings impatiently, encouraging me to race through my pictures like a detective flipping through photos. They don't like it when I rest.

But it isn't photos I need. Photos only show what's on the surface, they can't show what my microscope can, what's buried underneath. At night, in the kitchen, I try to capture these deeper patterns, the patterns linking the koel and the river, my grandfather and me. It's slow going. Sometimes I sit there for hours.

Every now and then the fridge shudders into life and carries on for a while. Sometimes I am interrupted by my parents. Their sleep sounds drift down the hallway to me: my father snoring, my mother muttering. Sometimes Mum laughs or says whole sentences from her dreams; her dreams always sound like hard work. Sometimes my father stumbles out to the toilet for a torrential piss. Afterwards he wanders half asleep into the bright kitchen, naked, hairy and confused. Without his glasses he looks younger and sort of fuzzy. Without his clothes he looks like a yowie. He clutches his goosebumped arms and squints at me in a rumpled way, then puts my mother's shawl over my shoulders, kisses me on my head and lumbers back to bed, his feet slapping on the floorboards.

And I am left alone again to draw.

Dom sat in the principal's office and listened as Malcolm Donaldson explained how it was for small public schools. ‘We are terribly under-resourced. We never catch up. Even with fastidious budgeting there's barely enough money for basic stationery and photocopying needs. We depend on fundraisers simply to cover costs — spellathons, walkathons, raffles, fetes — these are crucial events on the school calendar now.' Malcolm sighed and tossed his pen onto the desk. ‘Allocating money is by far the most stressful aspect of my job.'

Dom studied him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an angular face and the mottled complexion of someone from generations of weather-beaten Anglo farmers. He'd been principal of Morus Primary for ten years and a senior teacher for five years prior to that. Dom thought he looked as though he could do with a good lie-down, a decent holiday, a long spell by a swimming pool under a palm tree. His forehead was etched with deep lines that crept like a desert into his thin, grey-blond hair. Years of fiscal manoeuvring had given him those lines; they were scars that would never fade. It was exhausting just to look at him.

Malcolm had been an approachable and encouraging boss so far, but the state of his office didn't bode well for Dom's request for funds. Among the framed photos of family and pets
cluttering his desk there were mountains of merit certificates requiring his signature, chequebooks poking out of a calico bag and masses of departmental correspondence he surely had no hope of getting through. Industry leaflets and brochures multiplied beside a tall filing cabinet crammed so full it couldn't be closed. Documents were stacked into sagging towers across the carpet. A single loyal plant drooped pathetically in the corner, deeply aware of its neglect. Dom sensed that if there was any spare money in the coffers the school would probably invest it first in a few extra cupboards. He gave it his best shot anyway.

‘Surely we can offer Novi something?'

Malcolm rested his elbows on the uneven spread of paper in front of him. The look he gave Dom was sympathetic. ‘Well, that depends. What can
you
offer him, Dominic?'

That was the problem. Dom wasn't sure.

The phone rang. Malcolm ignored it. ‘Plenty of kids would benefit from the special attention you're talking about, but it's hand-to-mouth around here, I'm afraid. Any money we have has to benefit everyone. It's big-picture stuff and Novi is small picture.'

Dom was crestfallen. But he gave it one last try. ‘Can we really say that? Novi is extremely talented — he
deserves
something, Malcolm.'

The phone stopped ringing. Malcolm shrugged. ‘Novi's lucky. He has support at home. Parents who love him, who want him, who look after him. He has an outlet for expression. Plenty of kids have a lot less. They're the ones I have to worry about.'

The phone rang again. After a few seconds Jean poked her head around the corner, acknowledged Dom's presence with a
wink and said, ‘It's Rhonda, Mal,' before retreating with a swish of her floral-swathed bum. Malcolm reached for the receiver.

‘My wife,' he explained. ‘Won't be a sec.'

While he waited, Dom looked at the pictures on the office walls. Above the filing cabinet was a poster of a stern-looking bald eagle with the caption:
I
am
smiling.
The bird's craggy resemblance to Malcolm was uncanny. Hanging opposite was a succession of group staff photographs in a sort of evolutionary timeline — a progression of bad haircuts, misguided shoulder pads and unflattering glasses. He was peering at a blown-up shot of Malcolm receiving an award from the local Rotary Club, a group of men who looked even older and more worn out than Malcolm, when the principal hung up the phone.

‘What's the deal then with the school counsellor?' Dom asked.

‘Yvonne's shared among all the schools in the area. In theory we have her one day a week. But the high schools have priority, what with their high rates of depression and family breakdown, teen pregnancies and the like — typical problems in a low-income area like ours.'

The weight of all these domestic struggles seemed to overwhelm Malcolm for a moment and he leaned back heavily in his chair. He frowned. ‘If Novi is sensitive, he may be at risk of bullying. Is he getting picked on?'

Dom thought. ‘Not that I've noticed.'

‘Is he acting out?'

‘No. He seems okay. He's pretty quiet. His parents say he won't swim in the river since his grandfather drowned.'

Malcolm snorted. ‘I don't blame him. The Lewis is filthy.'

He looked down at his desk, taking vague stock of its insurmountable terrain. ‘Look, I'll mention it to Yvonne. It can't
hurt. I know she's booked solid for the next few weeks, though. First term's always busy for her. But I'm sorry, Dom, there's no money for a gifted program.'

Dom understood. It was up to him now. But he wasn't prepared to embark on the task alone. He needed an accomplice.

Outside the day belted him with brilliant sunshine. The quadrangle was a web of girls jumping over elastics. Dom picked his way between them and turned right, taking the path down to the library.

 

Lunchtimes were spent on duty. Camille took her breaks when everyone else was in class, an aspect of the job that isolated her from the other staff, but she didn't really mind. She enjoyed chatting to the children about the books they were reading and listening to them gush about their favourite authors; she was introducing them to the greats — Roald Dahl and Victor Kelleher, Robin Klein, CS Lewis, Maurice Gee — so many unforgettable storytellers who had them gasping in astonishment and reading by torchlight under the blankets at night, their little hearts hammering in their chests. In turn, she was revered simply by association. She encouraged the kids to write to the authors they liked, and when a child approached her, bursting with excitement at a reply they'd received, she'd witness a profound moment in their lives as they realised the small impact they had made on the adult world. She watched them grow before her very eyes, the tendrils of their imagination unfurling, gathering strength. She was raising another generation of book addicts. It was immensely satisfying.

Today she had retreated into her office to sort through the piles of paperwork on her desk and, if she was honest, to contemplate
Dominic Best. He wasn't much taller than she was and kind of stocky. But he had a nice face, with that boyish grin and kind brown eyes. She thought about the outline of him, his wet shirt plastered to the curve of his back, the taut rise of his chest. She thought about him up close, imagining details she couldn't have seen from her position by the library wall the other day: tiny droplets clinging to his thick lashes, lashes she'd kill for; his close-cropped dark hair standing in wet spikes; the glossy redness of his lips. She thought about him on his bicycle, streaking across the car park to the bike racks, how he looked in that dopey helmet. She liked the casual way he dressed, the Converse sneakers he wore, rather than middle-aged leather lace-ups. She'd been trying to guess his age — late twenties, early thirties maybe? It came as a shock when she'd secretly looked up his details on the computer system and discovered he was only twenty-four. That had put her off and made her feel like a lecherous old woman. He looked much more mature! It was that swarthy five o'clock shadow and the way he cut his hair so short. When she glanced up and saw that he was standing in the doorway she got such a shock that her arm shot out and sent a stack of brochures sliding off the desk.

‘Jesus Christ!'

He grinned. ‘Just me, I'm afraid.'

She frowned. ‘You scared me!'

‘Sorry!' He lunged forward to help. Together they crouched on the carpet, gathering papers in awkward silence. Briefly, Dom's shoulder touched hers, transferring warmth. For a moment, Camille felt her whole body reduced to that single warm point on her right shoulder, the disc of skin where Dom's was. Her blood rushed instantly to meet him, crowding into her shoulder until she began to feel light-headed. Drawing away she heaved the
brochures onto her lap, rose and dumped them on the table. Then she grasped the corner for support and whisked hair out of her hot face.

He stood up too and smiled with such openness that all thoughts deserted her. The moment stretched on. He ran a hand nervously over his head. Helpless, she wondered if she'd ever speak again. Then a girl came to the office door with a book pressed to her chest. ‘Miss Morrison?'

‘Just a minute, Vivienne!' she snapped. ‘I'm talking to Mr Best.'

The girl blinked, backed outside and waited.

The interruption seemed to focus him. He spread out his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘Camille, I need your help.'

She noticed he had strong square hands, with dark calluses on his palms. Her mind raced through the possibilities of how he might need her, how those rough palms might feel pressed along the length of her body.

‘It's about Novi Lepido,' he said.

The name wrenched her back to earth with a jolt.
Novi
. Camille remembered the first time she'd noticed him in art class, his focus was astonishing. Some days she'd return after lunch to find him still at the tables, working away on a picture, reluctant to pack up. He didn't say much but he listened, applying her simple suggestions of colour, contrast and texture to his work selectively. ‘Novi's an artist,' she said.

Dom straightened. He looked at her as though she had spoken aloud a great secret. She watched a wave of relief pass over him and his eyes light up, flashing with questions. He glanced over his shoulder to the doorway where the girl was lingering.

‘Do you have any time this afternoon?' he asked.

Of course she did. Her social life was non-existent. ‘Um … I think so.'

‘Can I meet you after class?'

‘It's a date.'

‘A date?'

Inside, she collapsed with embarrassment.
I didn't mean it like that!

But Dom seemed as jittery as she was. He barely paused before forging on, pushing away any chance of a witty riposte. ‘Okay then. A hot date with Miss Morrison! Where shall we go? I've been meaning to check out the museum.'

Again she hesitated. The museum was the last place she would have suggested. But it was trivial. At last, in a rush in case he should take her silence as uncertainty about him, she managed, ‘All right. Good!'

‘Ah, I've got the bike, so … I'll meet you there?'

Camille nodded. They stood in silence as if neither of them wanted this to be the end of it.

‘We could get a bite to eat afterwards?' he suggested.

She nodded again, couldn't speak above the galloping of her heart.

‘How about the Steak House?'

Dear Jesus.
There was simply no way she could endure a visit to the museum and the Steak House in one day.

‘It used to be a funeral home.'

‘
What?
'

‘It was a florist before it was a restaurant. The fridges, I guess …' She shuddered. ‘But nobody eats there, nobody who knows.'

Dom looked horrified. ‘Just as well you told me!'

Their minds each turned to a confusion of beef cuts and cadavers. Suddenly struck by the absurdity of it, Camille dropped her head into her hands and guffawed. When she looked up Dom was watching her closely. Her laughter fell away at once but the energy remained, pressing up inside her and stopping her breath. For a moment they regarded each other, allowing something to pass between them, the invisible force of their combined curiosity.

The bell rang. In the doorway the girl was squirming. She clutched the book to her flat chest and gazed at them in despair. Dom shot Camille a grin and headed for the door. ‘I'll see you later.'

When he was gone, Camille leaned against the desk to steady herself. The girl darted forward speaking quickly, full of eight-year-old fervour, but Camille wasn't listening. There was a rushing in her ears and her thoughts were clamouring. One thing was clear, though: there would be no running this afternoon.

 

Straight after school Dom set off down Myrtle Street, crossed into Tyson and continued all the way down to Clement Road. The museum was next to the tourist information centre. He locked his bike to a pole out the front, took the short concrete path to the entrance of the small weatherboard building and leaped up the steps.

Inside there wasn't another soul to be seen. He eyed the empty chair at the front desk, had his $2.50 ready to hand over, but nobody appeared to claim it from him. It didn't take him long to see why. The place was stunningly dreary. The main exhibits consisted of nothing more than a few rusted tools and
bits of farm equipment and a series of old shop mannequins arranged around antique furniture, some sporting cotton-wool beards and pioneer outfits, others dressed in volunteer or war uniforms or embroidered nightgowns at odds with their alarming blue eye shadow and red painted lips. The wall displays detailing the local industries — shipping and timber, mining and farming — consisted of photocopied maps and newspaper articles, faded and yellow. Even the photographs were mostly photocopies. In a large glass cabinet Dom saw that a collection of Aboriginal artefacts had been given special prominence. Peering at the implements arranged on little piles of earth he felt uneasy; there was something insidious in the status given to the display when in reality the local Aboriginal people were sidelined to a dilapidated settlement on the outskirts of town. More than likely Novi's timeline wouldn't be welcome in this place either.

Dom looked around in disappointment. Everything was dated, but not quite enough to have character. The layout was ordered and dustless to the point of sterility; the place was completely devoid of enchantment or mystery. There would be no stumbling upon hidden treasures here. He sighed. It was probably the most tragic place for a first date he could imagine.