Night Street (7 page)

To appease her, he said, ‘Thought I'd drive over to St Kilda in a bit. I don't suppose you want to come along . . . we'll have our own art camp?'

The day had grown yellower and broader.

‘Duty calls,' she replied, somewhat tetchily. ‘They'll be wanting their breakfast.'

‘And what will
you
be wanting?'

‘I won't be studying with Meldrum much longer,' Clarice found herself saying, after a moment. ‘Not much longer at all.' It had been in her thoughts, had been coming on, but she had not announced the decision until now; her path sounded surer than it felt. This was not to do with Arthur. She must try working as an independent artist. Herb was watching her, curious. Perhaps he was impressed. She got up. ‘I'm off. Thanks for the tea.'

Her teeth were chattering on the way back. Not even the forced pace of the walking warmed her, yet she was hot-cheeked and, unusually, found herself craving domestic work, that well of dullness; she wanted to drown in it. Could the others believe that Arthur liked her? Liked her, not platonically? Could this be a common view? When she stopped going to Meldrum's classes, she would no longer have to see him, not in the flesh, anyway. Would it be easier?

At home, she hurried to put her cart away in the shed and set the awful painting to dry, then headed for the kitchen for something to occupy herself with. She stood savagely rigid in the centre of the room. The first thing her eyes caught on was a cookbook lying on the counter. She seized and aggressively opened it at random.

‘
Cakes
,' she read aloud.

‘Clarice, dear?' Her mother's light singsong from the front room.

‘Yes, Mum. I'll be in shortly. I'm getting breakfast on.' In a lower voice, she continued, “
The success of a cake will depend entirely on the baking, and on constant attention. Be sure to test the heat of your oven
.” She repeated these lines several times over, one hand gripping the book, the other on her hip to keep it quiet.

Once the trembling arrived in her, it did not leave. It dwelled there. Sometimes it was slight, hardly noticeable, but not so she could forget it; other times, it was as if she were just then emerging dripping from the bay on untrustworthy legs. It was always there, thrumming along with other pulses that threaded invisibly through life and were its vital energy. Her shaking affected things around her in such a way that nothing was left slack and certain ideas were given a breathtaking impetus. Though it was an impetus that, for a very long while, would have nowhere to go.

10

During the year since she had ceased to study with Meldrum, she had continued to drop into his studio from time to time to show him her work, and he invited her to exhibit several pieces in his first Group Exhibition. It was a serious, Spartan affair, the paintings listed in the catalogue without titles, black frames all around. The look of that long wall of the Athenaeum Hall, dense with art. Forbidding. Pure! Five of her paintings were there, an honour.

The hanging had captivated her. What next to what? What above what? And beneath? The arrangement of a show was not straightforward; it was a question of design, rhythm. She took a long time over the hanging of her works. She agonised, her back burning. She dithered till she was— almost—content. Paintings grouped together could be mirrors. The right placement would angle them towards one another so that each melted into and deepened the others, giving a feeling, soft, powerful, of amplified space.

At the opening, she was unspeakably proud of her temerity. She—yes,
she
, Clarice—was exhibiting. This was part of being an artist; you had to do this. She was elated and terrified. It was a rowdy crowd of intellectuals, art people, eccentric and original, or more conventionally fashionable, and others who belonged to who-knew-what passions, fixations. The talk flowed in excited eddies and she did not follow its circles. Her position in relation to any group was always at its edge or beyond. Arthur was there, though he had nothing in the show; painting for little more than a year, he had not felt ready. It was months since her last glimpse of him at the studio. He was like a painfully handsome groom, in a black suit and extremely white shirt that gave his skin the appearance of milk tinged with coffee. He looked as though he had not expected to find himself there, yet he was not out of place. She had an urge to stand near him, but did not give in to it. They did not speak or meet one another's eyes. People were attracted to him; he was always in a binding conversation.

Ada, on the other side of the room, was a little pale, her face serious and disbelieving. Was she quaking too? Clarice's eyes kept returning to the places on the wall where her own paintings hung, severely edged in black. Would she remember anything of that night, other than clamorous voices, a brightly coloured, slippery surface? She tried to focus on some of the details in all that fuss.

As if to help with this, Ada arrived beside her on the arm of a statuesque personage swathed in velvet and lace. ‘Let me introduce you to Mrs Hamlin,' she said, reassuringly.

The lady's hair was golden, thick, complexly vertical, like some fantastical plumage. ‘What a delight to meet you. I'm so taken by your paintings, which are absolutely exquisite. Delicate! I don't have words for them. You must be a highly, an unusually sensitive person. I can tell.' Her manner as velvety and intense as her dress. ‘I'm a bit of a patron of the arts.' She beamed an enormously satisfied smile, finding everything delectable. ‘This is one of the things I'm most proud of. You see, my husband, Mr Hamlin, has been successful as a jeweller and I've had advantages. I try to use them well. Some years back, I fought for our suffrage. I used my influence in little ways.' Clarice's own achievements, on the wall, now seemed rather questionable. ‘But returning to the topic of art, I'm a great admirer of Mr Meldrum. And I'd heard of you, but this is the first time I've had the pleasure of observing your art first-hand.'

‘Clarice is a unique talent,' Ada said. ‘It's almost unnatural—everyone is in awe of her, even if they don't let on.' She laughed modestly. ‘She intimidates us.'

Seeing Clarice's face, Mrs Hamlin said, ‘Surely you're not surprised. After all, you're the artist most represented here tonight, after Mr Meldrum.'

She desired and dreaded this singling out. She knew, of course, from his words and acts, especially from his mannerisms, that Meldrum appreciated her work. The choice of so many of her paintings for the exhibition had only really been a minor shock—more a confirmation. But she had not been sure of the others' opinions. They had laughed at her Princes Bridge; she was taken aback by the idea that she might intimidate them.

‘I'd be honoured to buy one or two of your canvases,' Mrs Hamlin went on, ‘but we'll talk about that later.'

‘There's so much confidence in her paintings,' suggested Ada, with an odd formality, as if too timid to direct this at Clarice. ‘I wish I had her confidence.'

Confidence seemed a strange word, when she was suffering this stage fright. ‘Painting, you can be yourself,' Clarice said, recalling that Ada was thought to copy her. ‘You try to be yourself. You don't always manage it.' She raced on: ‘At these things, who are you? I never know. I'm very awkward.' Rather pathetically, she blushed; you were not supposed to admit to social unease.

Mrs Hamlin took her hand for a moment and pressed it. The contact was calmly firm, anchoring. Clarice tried to smile. The lady holding her hand was long, solid, queenly, magnificently rounded in the shoulders, and the rest of her, too, was covered generously with flesh. Mrs Hamlin said, ‘You'll have to get used to intimidating people. Men will be alarmed, because you can do such things and you're beautiful, also, which will confuse them. One rarely sees a fair skin as radiant as yours. That's another sort of beauty I have an eye for. I'm a beautician. For my own pleasure—my husband sees it as a hobby, an interest rather than a profession, but I take it quite seriously. Manicures and pedicures are my area of expertise. I've been told that my own feet are a work of art.' Was this intimate information proffered to balance Clarice's declaration of discomfort? ‘And not just by my good husband.'

Ada wore a faint smile, perhaps picturing those feet, as Clarice was. She saw them oversized, on a statue, in marble, gleaming. Her brain was absorbing Mrs Hamlin, becoming permeated by her; people could flood you. Had Clarice been inclined to do such work, this woman would have made an intriguing subject for a nude—what would you find beneath that velvet and gloss, her solidity and great capacity for enthusiasm?

‘Your work would be interesting,' she said, not really able to imagine it but not insincere.

‘It is,' Mrs Hamlin affirmed. ‘And I think I feel so close to artists because my work is also about beauty and nature, natural beauty. We have a lot in common. I have many artist friends, we get on so well. We see the world in a similar way. I love being around you.'

Clarice laughed gauchely. And she noticed, when Ada said, ‘Your dress is a lovely colour,' how good the girl was with people, light-handed.

‘Lavender,' Mrs Hamlin said. ‘It's special, isn't it? And feel that.'

Clarice, too, automatically put out her hand to stroke the dress; the texture was quite hypnotic. Mrs Hamlin was now studying Ada, wanting to compliment in return. But they were so different. Mrs Hamlin large and full; Ada petite and slight, lightly freckled nose, plain dark dress, brown hair neither really fair nor dark, all quietly pleasant. She had an air of knowing herself to be unassuming, forgettable. And this made her a thin presence, somehow, the thinness accentuated by her gentle way with people—which was probably rather tragic.

‘You're charming,' Mrs Hamlin eventually told her, kindly, and the girl bowed her head.

Clarice was suddenly very grateful to be in the company of these gracious women, to have merged, however briefly, with the evening's stagey talk. It took her mind off Arthur, the too-handsome bridegroom, her paintings on the wall, her frightened vanity, the grandiosity and shocking immodesty of it all. It let her share her happiness.

As usual, Father was done with
The Age
before Clarice and her mother were up; he must not have seen the review, as he had not made any comment. He did not read the cultural sections, as a rule. Meldrum had told the class that it would be coming, and the anticipation had kept her awake all night. Now it was Mum's turn with the paper; she was perusing the front page, peeling and cutting into small pieces an apple, which she slowly chewed and ate. She had an upset stomach and had wanted nothing more, not even tea. Clarice was anxious that Mum would see it.

‘It'll only make me more nervous if you come,' she had said, when Mum offered to go to the opening. This was true. ‘It might be better if you don't. And it would tire you.' Her mother had agreed. Had she really wanted to go or only felt obliged?

After the apple, Mum lingered over a glass of water, the paper forgotten. A curious object, densely black on its whiteness, soft and thin, while so authoritative. If Clarice had taken it to her room, it would only have drawn attention. But she had to look now. ‘Are you finished with that?'

‘What's that? Oh, do you want this?'

Opening the paper nonchalantly, Clarice stalked it. There, there was her name. In print. In a real newspaper. With a deathly calm face and frozen lips that wanted to mouth the words, she read what a Mr Chesterfield had written.

Oh. And charged through to the climax: ‘And the lady has no right to obfuscate her subjects so tenaciously with mawkish veils of fog. The result is altogether dreary, and, I regret to say it, entirely without the lyricism in which we seek solace in art.' He had noted, subtly venomous, that her paintings were ‘sub-manner' and unfinished, as if this were something to be feared, abhorred. She had hoped but not expected that they would like her work; however, she had not quite foreseen this. She was not the only one from the exhibition to be condemned. In fact, condemnation was the general response, really—not even Meldrum was spared. But still, this felt appallingly personal.

Having read her first review, she folded the paper neatly, stood and left the room, abruptly reminded of Mr Dagdale, the day she had rejected him, his folding of a newspaper and stunned, grave retreat.

Like being cleaved through the middle, she thought, gutted—because maybe quickly describing the sensation would numb it. In the hallway, she paused and placed a hand on each wall. So the critics did not have much time for the ‘Meldrumites'; they were ‘mud-slingers,' with their dull, mucky palette. But why could art not show nature, as it was, without embellishment or forced emphasis? Trust nature to be beautiful, on its own terms? Reaching her bedroom and finally closing the door, she found herself on her knees. She might have to be sick.

Some time later, Mum knocked on the door and opened it.

‘Clarice? The telephone for you. What? What are you doing down there?'

‘Thinking.' The worst was passed, the nausea gone. She had not heard the phone.

Mum was waiting.

‘I was feeling off,' Clarice tried to explain.

‘Could it have been the porridge?' Mum asked carefully. Did she know about the review? If she did, neither of them was going to mention it.

‘Porridge does make me a bit queasy, sometimes.'

‘Porridge is like that.' Her mother was probably relieved not to be faced with any more substantial vulnerability. They were cautious together, when it came to anything private.

‘You might have this same upset that I have. Do you think you should see Dr Broadbent?'

‘I'm a lot better now.' She was. Almost strong. Standing, she was only slightly unsteady. ‘I'll get the phone.'

‘The porridge? Do you think?' Mum seemed concerned. ‘Something we had that your father didn't, because Daddy is fine.'