Black Diamonds (31 page)

 

DANIEL

Unexpected benefit of this Great War and my stupid part in it: France makes love to me, for the first time. I've always made love to her, always made it when and how. But now, in this room with no sideboard, it's her, here on this massive mahogany bed, in the Metropole, this flash squatters' palace bang in the middle of the city, making love to me. Who is this woman? With our life somewhere there inside her. I can't tell you. I can't describe her; I have to paint her. Please.

I don't know what goes on in other people's private lives; don't care; but I don't know that too many blokes get this. I think you'd hear about it. Or maybe not.

I actually tear up as I'm …

The luckiest bloke in this world, our world. Best wife. Best life.

Which will hopefully continue well beyond today. I am, if that's possible, more rattled than I have ever been. No, I'm petrified. Last time, with Doctor Myer, I was still in enough of a fog that I wasn't really thinking beyond what I wanted. But now, as we head out to Waverley, I'm a bit too clear about what I have, and a bit too aware that in too short a while I will receive a huge serve of pain, if I wake up. I tell France to drop me outside, partly because any minute I'm going to chuck, and partly because I'm thinking of pissing off. Stratho's big girlie favourite that I am.

But I've forgotten she's a witch; she says: ‘Daniel, I'm not going to put you out on the footpath and drive off.' And she leaves the kids in the car and sees me right up to the front door. It's just a big weatherboard, just a nice house, a bit like home, I tell myself, except for the brass plaque saying
St Christopher's Private Hospital
, and I'm thinking I hope he doesn't hold my lack of religion against me. And then she makes sure Doctor Adinov finds me for this eight o'clock appointment before she hands me over and shoots through with a quick kiss, whispering: ‘It'll be all right, darlingest.' Wish she sounded a bit more certain.

This Adinov sounds Russian, definitely when he says, ‘So, how do you do, Mr Ackerman,' and I can only nod and probably guess who he's barracking for in the revolution: doesn't look too proletarian to me, with his fat gold ring and silvery silk tie, and I hope he doesn't hold my Bolshevik sympathies against me. We're not likely to have that conversation, I suppose.

We don't. It's all very straightforward according to this straightforward bloke, who's got a face set so hard from concentrating it looks painful. Good. But I'm not listening to his talk about what he's going to do to me; I'm busy thinking about septicaemia and amputation and having had probably way too much luck. And I'm thinking, mostly, what if you wreck my hand? I would like to leave, now. Leave it the way it is; it's not that bad. That's a joke: he shears the cement off and the whole thing looks on the brink of death already, after only four weeks. It's nothing in his hands, which seem like they're hardly touching me as he lifts it and turns it this way and that.

Adinov can see me wandering off as he starts talking about the range of movement, the fortunate condition of some tendon or other. ‘Don't worry, Mr Ackerman, I've had too much experience. Russian surgeons are the best because we all have too much experience. Lots of war for practice, and icy streets for lots of broken bones.' He's not joking. I'd like to ask him about it, and how he ended up here, how it is he knows Myer, but now's not the time for a settling chat. He's a very busy man. Wants to hack through the end of my
humerus
, then make it happy with some
external transfixion
, and he's going to. And I'll be paying him a small fortune for the privilege.

France is fairly dancing round the tub and I flick her with the flannel, just to get the bell sound. There it is. Opium is fantastic when you're not having nightmares, or maybe it's just a better class of brew here. What is this stuff? I can understand how you could get addicted to it, how anyone could. I can look at the
external transfixion
and say that's a new shade of wrong, every time I open my eyes and look right. Fuck. But at the same time, I can say that's what an arm looks like, my one, and despite logic, not that logic is the greatest strength in me at the minute, I can say that's as it should be. The Russian was here a few moments ago and he smiled like he knows what I mean, well I think he did; it's a bit hard to tell on that face; he looks like a middleweight boxer … with girl's hands. I can still hear him saying, ‘Yes, that's the heroin', and I'm thinking: where is she? And France is back again now, except I think she's actually here this time, since she's fully clothed. She rushes into view, I can smell her; she says: ‘Hello darlingest not supposed to be here been very seditious see you tomorrow.' Kiss on my forehead. And she's gone again. Don't go. I want a proper kiss. Doesn't matter. Pass out again. For me and my doll.
Great big beautiful doll. Let me put my arms about you, I could never live without you
…

 

FRANCINE

I hadn't intended to do this today. Got plenty of time: Doctor Nichols said we could be here for weeks. I was only going to loiter about with the children, give myself some time to imagine my assault upon the curator before executing it. Rehearse my lines some more. Plan was I'd do a good show of desperate war wife with talented, valorous, headcase husband who's on the verge of losing arm altogether. So these paintings would be rather rare then, and they might be. Don't think about that. I was going to appeal to the curator's sense of cultural interest, present them as a gift, something to keep in the vault, as curiosities: after all, do you know he's really just a miner? Lithgow coal. Left school at fourteen for pit. Spontaneous genius forged on the fields of France. Of course they wouldn't be hung: apart from War Precautions, one only needs a glance through the Art Gallery of New South Wales to know why: where would you put the obscenities amongst the gentle impressionism, the pastoral landscapes and stately portraits and emphasis on British best bland? Even Streeton's
Fire's On!
manages to make the act of blasting through the face of a sandstone wall an idyllic, transcendent image, wild blue sky and shimmery, languorous gums overriding the fact: tunnel at Lapstone needed for faster train over the mountains. I never thought about it at school, of course — Sister Margaret, who instructed us in The Creative Arts, was as inspiring as a metronome — but I can see it so much more clearly now without even looking at it: a false impression: Streeton's painting is as tall as a man, but the men in the picture and their labour appear incidental shapes against the grandeur of rock and bush. Why did he call it
Fire's On!
I wonder; should have called it
More Rock And Bush: Since You Like It So Much.
Wonder what sort of war pictures he'd make
en plein air.
Pleasant ones, I suppose. So, my small act of sedition is to try to find a place for Daniel's unpleasant monsters, a place to lie with their own truth, beneath the acceptable lies: like unexploded bombs perhaps. But knowing I'll be laughed away, shown the door. Silly woman. Silly or not: you get nothing if you don't ask your silly questions.

And here I am with Kathryn, Harry and Charlie, mounting the sandstone steps of the gallery, about to give them a taste of our culture on their first full day in the Big Smoke. I can feel their boredom already, when we pass two well-preened Dame Wowsers on the way into the vestibule; one's saying to the other: ‘And can you believe there's a race meeting at Randwick today? Don't they know it's banned?' I dawdle to hear the reply: ‘It's not banned, dear. Only frowned upon. But it should be banned — and they should all be sent to France. But they're all Irish: what can you do?'

Hmn. Fine example of the calibre of woman who voted yes to the conscription referendums, if they voted: perhaps they're against female suffrage too. But I'm not going to bother thinking about that: I'm having a flash of inspiration as I take the children into the first hall. They are not all lazy bog Irish no-hopers at the races, are they? And some of them are my father's old associates. I know the name of at least one who might be there right now too: Captain Duncan's father. He'll be a Mr Duncan, won't he. And he'll be a gentleman.

I'm standing in front of Longstaff's portrait of Henry Lawson and I swear the old soak winks at me: Go on, Francine, the snakes at the track won't kill you. But Mr Lawson, I have no idea what I'm doing, I tell him. He replies:
Who ever does?
He's got a good point there. No courage, no reward. Oh Leprechaun, what are you laughing at?

I say to the children: ‘This was a very silly idea. Too dull by half here. Let's go to the racecourse instead.'

My heart is thumping not with morbidity but with the fear of doing something I don't know Daniel would approve of: because Captain Duncan is someone sacred to him. This is a man's world, though, and I will have a better stab at succeeding if I have a man's support, a man's introduction to someone who can introduce me to someone who must know someone who can assist me with a proper introduction to the curator. Just now I was preparing to embarrass myself in front of a complete stranger; why do that when I could do it in front of a man who already knows my name? And what if he's not there? Not interested? It won't matter; just give me more time to get my bottle up.

‘You're in charge, Harry,' I tell him, handing over some money for a treat from the shop across the road, as well as the law to be upheld: ‘Don't stray too far from the car. I won't be long, I just have to deliver a message.'

The three of them look at me with complete bewilderment; can't blame them, can't explain either. They are not having a very interesting day so far, but I'll make up for that later. I can't take them with me; I have no idea what will happen when I step up to that entrance gate, and, besides, I realised on the way here that Daniel, as such a confirmed abstainer of vices, would most definitely disapprove of me taking the children to the races. Poor Kathryn looks especially flummoxed; she used to be a little chatterbox; not any more: she's taken her father's death very hard, and she's also very fond of her Uncle Daniel, who was so beside himself this morning he didn't even manage a ‘see you later'. I'm supposed to be distracting her from her worries with the wonders of Sydney, or at least the summer circus at Coogee, not my own erratic behaviour. I'll pay her particular attention when I've finished making a fool of myself, or at worst prodding a terrible wound in a man I don't know.

There's the members' gate: seen it hundreds of times before from the road, never been inside it. There's a man there: just walk right up to him and ask him to find out if, among the throng inside, there's a Mr Duncan, a gentleman, old acquaintance of the late Frank Connolly in attendance and, if so, could he give him this message, please. The man on the gate looks like a wiry grey rat. He's looking at me now, a question on his face already. ‘Can I help you, miss?' He's got one of those nasal voices, so twangy and high I'm sure that's exactly how a rat would sound if it could speak.

My request bumbles out of me, my little note trembling in my hand, and I wait to be told there are a thousand Duncans here. This is the most preposterous thing you've ever done, Francy. Congratulations.

But Ratty says: ‘
The
Mr Duncan? Sure he's here. Been here all day. Saw him come in. I'll give him your note, miss. You don't want to come in yourself?'

I shake my head. Ratty scuttles off, my two bob for the favour jangling in his pocket. I've gone far enough as it is; possibly too far. Close enough to the heart of Babel right here, where I'm sure I can hear the punters being skinned beneath the hubbub beyond. Anyway, if this
The
Mr Duncan is not interested, or has never heard of me, he will not come out to meet Mrs Francine Ackerman nee Connolly, daughter of Frank. I'll give him twenty minutes, no, fifteen, and then I'll take the children for a drive along the beach roads, so they can pick which one we'll go to tomorrow.

He's here in less than five. He is enormous; pinstripe swallow tail, stiff collar, massive shirt front a wall that fills the space in front of me as I turn to the sound of my name, look up from under the brim of my hat. And I can't speak: I simply lose it on the spot: cap blown off a bottle of Brainless Girl Schweppes fizzy. For everything. For the awful presumption I am making, for every stinging nerve. Because I suddenly miss my father so sharply I can't breathe, and because, to be plain with myself, I've been a flea in a jar of absolute fret since I left Daniel at St Christopher's Never Heard Of It Before with cold-eyed Foreigner for Ortho- Whatsit molestation.

But this Mr Duncan is so kind. He says, ‘Oh, my dear, dear girl,' with a soft, disappearing burr and guides me to a bench nearby, sits down with me and waits while I compose myself; try to, quickly.

Force out: ‘Please excuse me.'

‘No need,' he says: ‘But you can tell me what's the matter.'

Couldn't possibly, but must ascertain: ‘You do know who I am?' Other than strange and overwrought.

‘Of course.' He smiles as I look up. ‘And I was very sorry to hear of your father's passing, sorry when he vanished from Sydney, to be more precise. So please, tell me what I can do for you.'

Face-slapping embarrassment will not let me tell him any such thing; searching for return condolences, I blather instead: ‘My husband knew your son …' Can't get further.

‘I know,' he says.

Stare:
You know that?

‘Richard mentioned him rather a lot in his letters to me. How is he?'

How is he?
The intimacy of the question, mentions in letters throws me, then jolts me back to my senses. ‘Not the best today,' I tell him. ‘He's having an operation on a bad elbow. But other than that he's … well … mostly. He grieved terribly for your son, and he still does, I think. I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr Duncan.'

He smiles again, but with the wound. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ackerman. So am I. Richard was my only child, a very loved one. But I must say that he was most relieved when your husband was sent out of it. Your chap gave him all sorts of trouble, and as many reasons for admiration.'

Dare: ‘What do you mean by that?'

Mr Duncan chuckles gently at my ignorance. ‘He hasn't told you about it at all?'

‘No.' Not much.

‘No, don't suppose he would have. It's hard for one to know what to say, to anyone, these days, isn't it?' And I'm sure he's drifting three sheets to the wind, just as Father no doubt would be if he were here.

‘Yes.' Indeed it is, but can you please be sober enough, or perhaps soused enough to tell me something more of what Daniel hasn't, or can't?

He considers me and his words for a moment, before divulging: ‘Well, I think I can say that your chap appears to have made a hard habit of following his own orders when things got rough. And whatever the record says is not entirely accurate: less to do with holding his post than with abandoning it. Took some dreadful risks on account of the safety of others; so many, Richard thought he must be bulletproof.'

I have no idea of Daniel's
record
, beyond the cryptic, gazetted citation, which sits folded up under my old missal in the back of the wardrobe drawer with the
Dear Madam, Sgt gravely injured
letter, and pronounces his
conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty on all occasions … blah, blah, blah, in particular something to do with a machine gun one day in July, blah, blah, blah
; and the present illumination suggests that it's probably a good thing I don't know more: not sure whether I'm monumentally impressed or somehow furious at multiple
dreadful risks on account of the safety of others.
He was supposed to be lamenting his
stupid decision
while getting on with it, and ensuring he came home in one piece. Seems Most Distinguished Conduct involves deliberate actions contrary to that; several loose screws and a predilection for dinner, perhaps. I say against the clattering reel: ‘Well, he wasn't shell-proof. Did you know that your son saved his life?'

‘No.' Almost a laugh, fond and bruised. ‘Only told me about the mess he was in.'

So, while we're swapping clandestine unmentionables, I tell him what I know: that his Richard gathered the mess of my Daniel and waved down a motor-lorry to take him direct to the nearest hospital that wouldn't decide he was already dead or legless before looking. I don't tell him that my Daniel remembers his Dunc as saying to the driver: ‘Take him or I'll rip your empty English head off your shoulders and post it to your mother.' Nothing unseemly as that.

Mr Duncan says: ‘There needs to be a new term invented to define how it is that we should be sitting here talking like this, that this is the way things are.' Indeed again. He adds: ‘Though presumably this is not the reason you've sought me out.'

Time for confession to intimate stranger. ‘No. I …' still can't say.

‘Please,' he says. ‘I don't mean to be impolite, but I haven't put a bet on for the three o'clock yet …'

He breaks through my hesitance and makes me giggle: it's only half past eleven now. ‘All right, then. I want to know if you have any connections in the … art world … perhaps the Gallery of New South Wales?'

Thick greying eyebrows jump; then: ‘I have connections everywhere,' he says, roguish. ‘But as for paint slappers and ink scratchers, you could say I'm rather well connected there.'

Stare:
you're not serious.

Now he does laugh. ‘I'm a principal contributor to the gallery.'

Gasp: ‘You're an artist too?'

Guffaw: ‘No, my dear girl: I throw money at the place, along with the odd item of interest. Why do you ask? Are you an artist?'

Only if you'd like to purchase my last watercolour of a wombat, which isn't too bad, but you'd hardly call it art. I tell him: ‘No, but Daniel, my husband is, I think.'

‘You think?'

‘He is. But his paintings are … not the usual fare.'

‘Good. I want to see this unusual fare.' He does, too.

No baulking now, Francy: ‘Anytime that's convenient for you, over the next few weeks or so. I have them at the hotel, the Metropole. There's just three of them.' Sent along by exorbitant express freight mail, crated up and marked all over
FRAGILE
, day before yesterday in my fit of super-optimistic maternal derangement; they're sitting in the guests' storeroom now.

He says: ‘Well, shall we go?'

‘What about your three o'clock, Mr Duncan?'

‘What about it? I don't really need to lose another ton on the dog meat — already spilled four this morning. I'll call for my car.'

Car: children: abandoned by roadside. ‘If you don't mind, I think we'd better take mine.' Good heavens. And did he mean that he'd lost four hundred
pounds
this morning? Good heavens again.