Watercolours (11 page)

Eventually an elderly woman emerged from behind a partition at the back of the room with a cup of tea and a Scotch Finger biscuit on a saucer. Slowly she led Dom back to the front desk, told him they closed in half an hour, but took his money anyway and proceeded to write out an excruciatingly neat receipt from a carbon copy booklet. While he was waiting he saw that there was in fact another visitor in the museum: a young backpacker, European, Dom guessed, skinny with small round glasses and a Gore-Tex travel ensemble designed to see him through the
most unexpected and extreme weather conditions. Dom had overlooked him because the guy was crouched down, earnestly reading some display cards and jotting notes in his travel journal. Dom felt the urge to apologise to him.

When Camille arrived she had a polite smile prepared. Dom met her at the door. ‘They're about to close.'

She tried to sound disappointed. ‘Oh!'

‘I saw a place back there, Fifi's Coffee Shoppe. Maybe we could get a coffee instead?'

She gave him a severe look. ‘Do
not
go to Fifi's for coffee. I know it looks like it knows what it's doing, but trust me, it'll only make you angry. Mario's is the best place, in the arcade off High Street.'

Dom was disappointed. He didn't feel like sitting in an arcade. Camille gave him a shy smile.

‘Come on. Let's walk down to the river.'

 

The Rotary Park had a small planting of rose bushes in clashing blooms; Camille liked to visit it this time of year when the roses were at their peak. It overlooked a broad grass levee fringed with ancient mulberry and willow trees and a stretch of dry riverbank. She and Dom headed down towards the shade. They passed the playground, which sat at the centre of a diamond-shaped concrete path and was the thrillingly dangerous kind that councils were sued over and beginning to phase out — all hardwood planks, thick steel and sharp angles; it had a diabolical slippery dip designed to wind the most robust child, a mighty set of swings, a wooden seesaw and a nuggety little roundabout all guaranteed to deliver painful but effective lessons in gravitational forces. Nearby was a bench seat painted brown and etched with
obscene graffiti. Camille avoided it, moving instead to sit on the grass under the dappled sprawl of a willow.

She slipped off her sandals, hugged her knees and considered Dom's request. One afternoon a week with Novi was hardly going to impact on her time. She felt ashamed that she hadn't thought to make the offer herself — had she grown so self-absorbed? And yet a part of her still recoiled from the commitment. She had studied fine arts as part of her degree and knew her theory, but she was an appreciator, not an artist. She'd dabbled here and there, found it difficult, and given up in frustration. As far as Novi was concerned, all she felt she could offer him was encouragement. So far she'd made a point not to interfere too much with his style. He was a natural, and he seemed happy enough to be left alone to work.

She inspected her toes. A nail on her right foot was purple and sore; her trainers must have shrunk from being wet. Her poor feet had taken a beating lately from all the running. She glanced over at Dom. He was pulling at a button on his damp shirt, fanning himself in the heat and watching a couple of teenagers throw fishing lines into the murk. She took the opportunity to study him up close. Dark stubble along his jaw, tanned hairy legs spreadeagled on the grass, large hands only inches from hers, muscled forearms; a boy in a man's body, she thought.

The intensity of her desire was worrying. He was too young, and a work colleague, but she couldn't help it. His vulnerability was disarming; all his emotions were apparent on his face. And his energy was infectious: his lack of cynicism, his infernal enthusiasm, it had worked its way under her skin. He couldn't know that by asking her to step up like this he was offering an antidote to the malaise she had allowed herself to drift into. It
was as though he had cheerfully dumped a bucket of cold water over her head: unrequested, undignified and utterly refreshing. Suddenly it felt vital that he know everything about her. Thoughts rushed into her head and crowded there, feebly. If only she wasn't so crippled and out of practice.

He let his shirt fall back against his chest, turned and dug around in the backpack beside him. Withdrawing a bottle of water he unscrewed the lid and offered it to her. ‘It's warm.'

She took the bottle, put her lips to it and drank.

‘You're not the only one who feels like you don't know what you're doing,' she said, handing it back. ‘Nobody has a clue. We all just wander around pretending, convinced we'll be found out eventually.'

He took a swig and his eyes widened. ‘But you're so smart!' he said, wiping his mouth. ‘You've had much more experience than me.'

He hadn't meant to highlight it but now the age difference hung between them. Eleven years. It was problematic, she knew. And yet it made her desire him even more: his blundering; his youth. Strangely, it put her at ease.

‘I knew Novi was talented,' she admitted, leaning back on her hands so she wouldn't have to look him in the eye. ‘I spotted it straightaway but I didn't do anything about it.' She played with a dry leaf, crumbling it in her fingers. ‘It scared me. I suppose I didn't feel qualified enough, either.' Looking out over the water she felt that wasn't quite it. ‘I've been getting lazy.'

Dom raised his eyebrows. ‘You don't strike me as lazy. Just the opposite.'

He was probably too young to understand. By my age, she thought, it's easy to confuse laziness with tiredness.

On the riverbank, one of the teenagers reeled in quickly, dragged up a dripping cord of algae, cast off again. They watched in silence for a while.

‘I read somewhere,' she said slowly, ‘the mistake people make with gifted children is to give them more of the same. You know — they show a talent for something so you reward them with twenty more activities just like the last. The idea is to challenge them, introduce them to different things. Extend them outwards.'

He turned to her, tense as a coiled spring. ‘I have this feeling there's a floodgate in that kid! It just needs to be blasted open!'

He collapsed back onto the grass and cast his gaze skyward. A warm breeze lifted off the garden behind them, carrying the heavy scent of roses. Camille inhaled the perfume deeply. Then she glanced at Dom and sighed.

‘Tell his parents any afternoon is fine. Except Monday.'

‘Great! Thank you, Camille!' He grabbed her shoulders in a brief sideways clench, a gesture she found devastatingly brotherly. Then he released her and sat for a few minutes deep in contemplation while his foot jiggled on the grass. ‘We're going to have to find money from somewhere, for art supplies. I'm thinking
huge
canvases,
buckets
of paint,
giant
bloody sculptures!'

Perspiration was dripping down the sides of his face. He looked down at the shirt plastered to his chest. ‘I'll have to change before dinner, I'm disgusting.'

No
, Camille thought.
You're divine
. ‘Where are you living?'

He pointed. ‘Up the river, on the other side. It's pretty close actually, just the bridge is so bloody far away.'

‘I'll drop you home. We can put your bike in the back of my car.'

‘My Corolla's at the mechanic's,' he sighed, getting to his feet. ‘It's rooted.'

They headed up the hill. By now the playground had a few children in it. A couple of kids from Morus Primary waved and Camille felt selfconscious to be seen out of hours with Dom. Then she scolded herself.
Don't be silly! There's nothing going on.
A couple of littler ones were playing on the roundabout while their mothers stood chatting at a distance. It made Camille dizzy to watch them spinning so fast and she was about to turn away when one of the children flew off and hit the dirt with a thud. The girl started howling. Camille and Dom both took a step towards her but her mother had seen; she was already strolling over without breaking her conversation, just projecting her voice a little louder to reach her friend over the distance and the screams. She dusted off the girl's hands and knees, wiped her face with a tissue and said firmly, ‘Hold on next time!' The girl was getting back on that roundabout, no question.

Camille and Dom continued to the top of the park. ‘You forget what it's like, don't you,' he commented.

She looked at him questioningly.

‘Being a kid. But it wasn't that long ago, really.'

Not for you
, she thought and took a deep breath.
Hold on indeed.

They had reached the road. Camille stopped before a circular sign in the shape of a ship's wheel and read the inscription. It gave her an idea.

‘You don't know any Rotarians, do you?'

 

Camille waited in the lounge room while he showered. He was quick, keenly aware of her presence on the other side of the thin
wall. In his bedroom he threw on fresh clothes and emerged to find her standing with her hands on her hips in front of one of the larger paintings.

‘Whose are these?' she asked.

‘The landlady's. The place was furnished.'

Dom looked around the room. Mostly he could ignore the art, although on returning home at the end of each day, in that first moment crossing the threshold, he felt desolation rise like a snake preparing to strike.

Camille moved to another picture and studied it closely. ‘They're hideous,' she marvelled.

Dom watched her athletic frame, her silky hair pulled up from her neck into a loose knot, her skin gleaming from the humidity, from his presence, too, he knew; he felt it in the twitch of her neck, the glance she had resisted as he moved from the bathroom to the bedroom with only the towel around his waist. She was a radiant figure in a room that despite its most desperate efforts utterly lacked life. It made him realise the art wasn't just ugly, it was oppressive.

‘They really are bad,' he agreed.

Her eyes met his. ‘So take them down.'

Dom was startled. He hadn't thought of that. The paintings were framed and mounted with an authority he had failed to question.

‘But … where will I put them all?'

‘Out of sight, for God's sake! Is there a spare wardrobe?'

There was, in the study, child-size, with fairy transfers on the door. At once Camille was up on the lounge and reaching for the worst offender, a couple of frightening lorikeets that were so flat they might have been run over. One by one she unhooked the
paintings and handed them to him. He stacked them inside the wardrobe, and as he wandered back and forth between the rooms he couldn't help thinking about Novi's art and how it was such a contrast to these efforts. He knew Novi had talent, just as much as he was certain this artist had none, but he found it hard to put into words.

He came back into the lounge room. ‘Why is Novi's art so good?'

‘Well, he's talented, for a start,' Camille sniffed. ‘And he isn't trying to reproduce things. He interprets them with his own style.' She grimaced at the depiction of a blurry cottage garden she held in her hands. ‘See? No depth, no detail and no composition.' She tossed it to him with contempt. ‘Novi's vision is original. He brings things into his own scale. It's refreshing because he makes you look at ordinary life and see it differently, like he does.'

Dom gazed at her in admiration. ‘You see! I could never have thought of that!'

She blushed, then busied herself gathering up all the baskets and doilies and dried flower arrangements. She took them into the spare room, too, and placed them in the cupboard beside the paintings. They walked back into the lounge room. The flat was now bare but eminently more liveable and Dom felt his whole body relax. Suddenly he could breathe again. It was another favour he owed Camille. Privately he began devising a list of wicked ways in which he hoped he might repay her.

 

That evening they had dinner at the local Chinese restaurant, at Camille's suggestion. She guided him through the menu, steering him away from the beef with blackbean sauce and the rainbow steak, which were his first choices. Over the clamour and
sizzle of scorching woks, a vase of fake flowers glistening with adhesive dewdrops and some surprisingly good dumplings, they exchanged their stories. Camille was a good listener. Dom found himself opening up, telling her about university and Ace and his father, and discovering, under the unwavering force of her interest, that the brief and haphazard history of his life suddenly sounded complex and amusing.

‘My father's seventy-two,' Camille said.

‘Wow! That's old.'

‘They had me late. I'm an only child. My mum died a few years ago.'

‘Sorry,' Dom said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. He'd never even been to a funeral.

Camille took a sip of her jasmine tea. ‘I don't know what's worse, Mum gone or Dad being so resilient.'

Dom gave her an enquiring look.

She tried to explain. ‘I mean, I moved back here to be closer to him, but he doesn't seem to need me, really. I think he wishes I was off doing more exciting things,' she said sadly.

Dom nodded. ‘All fathers wish you were doing something other than what you're doing,' he stated. ‘It's like they're wired to never show satisfaction. You could be a CEO and own three mansions and set up a charity abolishing world hunger and be awarded the Nobel Prize and all your dad would have to say is,
He didn't ring his mother on her birthday
!'

She stopped eating and glared at him.

He drank some Coke, his eyes wide and innocent. ‘I was backpacking! There was no phone!'

Camille couldn't help smiling. They ate in silence for a while.

‘Well, you can break the mould when it's your turn,' she said.