Watercolours (16 page)

The Rotary Club of Morus met at six o'clock every Tuesday evening at the bowling club. Dom could have walked but he borrowed the Falcon, keen to make a good impression. With Novi's artwork beside him on the seat he barely had time to admire the two-tone upholstery and enjoy the old-fashioned gear system (or notice the faint smell of cigarettes — curious, because he had never seen Mavis smoke), before pulling in to the club's car park.

He was far too early. He lingered in the lobby, dazzled by the carpet's upbeat geometric design. A large sign warned:
No bare feet, swimwear, untidiness, training apparel, singlets, brief shorts, leotards, football jerseys, scuffs, thongs or overalls.
And then in bold red lettering:
Strictly no thongs on the dance floor.
Dom wondered if this last rule was more of a safety issue; he imagined a stiletto could inflict serious injury to the flesh of a thong-clad foot, especially if worn by someone hefty throwing off a dull week with the abandon only club rock and bourbon could inspire. He studied the list again and wondered how strict they were about enforcing the regulations. Was he dressed appropriately? Could his shoes be classified as training apparel?

Looking around, he thought the interior of the place must have been given a recent overhaul, although the lighting was still the unforgiving fluorescent kind that drained everything
of ambience and showed you what you'd look like if you were dead. Fake-looking indoor plants were propped here and there, shivering in the air-conditioning under stoles of coconut fibre, dreaming sluggish dreams of rainforests. In the corner a snack machine was illuminated like some modern-day shrine, offering, if not eternal salvation, at least the comfort of sugar, salt and oil.

Through the reek of decades-old beer he made his way to the bar and ordered a Coke from a cheerful middle-aged barmaid in a blouse that echoed the carpet. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the serious drinkers, he took his Coke back to the lobby to look in the trophy cabinets. Plaques and shields cluttered the shelves but most of their bronze patches were engraved with names too small and tarnished for him to read. On the opposite wall hung a list of the annual bowling champions stretching back to 1962, and further along were six neat rows of framed photographs honouring the club's past directors. At first glance the portraits seemed identical, every one of the subjects old, grey and balding, but on closer inspection Dom felt it was one of the oddest collections of faces he'd ever seen: more bulging foreheads and frog eyes, rubbery lips and thin, fly-away hair grown long in all the wrong places, than surely was possible in one small town. It was both funny and disturbing.

Dom presumed the Rotary men would look pretty much the same. When his father had been invited to join years ago after the aluminium windows hit paydirt he was considered one of the young ones at fifty. He knew his father had benefited from the business network that had opened up to him and the local prestige associated with being a member, but beyond fundraising and hosting exchange students Dom wasn't sure what actually went on at Rotary. The organisation wasn't appealing to somebody
his age; even at university he was never much of a society guy, and he didn't see the attraction of belonging to a club that didn't allow women. He wondered if he'd be forced to partake in some kind of secret handshake or weird ritual involving aprons and ancient manuscripts, but when a set of double doors opened near the dining area beyond the poker machines, the scene looked pretty ordinary. He wandered over and saw that a function room had been set up for the event with three trestle tables arranged boardroom style, clothed and skirted and set for dinner. To the left was the servery, a fluorescent portal into a stainless-steel world where a giant in a hair net prepared plates of roast of the day, helped by a couple of matronly waitresses.

Dom waited by the doorway for Malcolm to arrive. He watched the members greet each other with normal-looking handshakes and jovial comments, standing in small groups to chat over their schooners, everyone showered with hair neatly combed. Dom clutched Novi's portfolio and tried to stay optimistic. He counted twenty-two men and one girl, an olive-skinned exchange student sporting a green blazer studded with dozens of little gilt badges. Watching her, Dom felt like a scuba diver spotting an exotic shell stranded on a reef of bleached coral, and yet the girl was smiling and joking with the men and seemed very much at home. Maybe this lot were more open-minded than they appeared? After all, Malcolm seemed to think Novi had a shot at the fellowship, didn't he? Where the hell
was
Malcolm?

At last Dom saw him hurrying across the lobby. They greeted each other and he ushered Dom inside to meet the club president. Somewhere in his fifties, Gerard Roper was one of the younger ones, tall, broad shouldered and handsome. He shook Dom's hand firmly: ‘Pleasure to meet you — great to have you here!'
With his tanned complexion, shaggy brown hair silvering in the most flattering way, cream cotton trousers and pale blue shirt rolled to the elbow, Gerard Roper was both the most casual and the most stylish figure in the room and he embodied such confidence and good humour that Dom couldn't help warming to him instantly.

‘Malcolm tells me you have a submission,' he said. ‘I'm looking forward to hearing it. You've only been here, what — a month? — and already you're getting stuck in! That's the kind of community spirit we like. You'd make a great Rotarian, Dom!'

Dom blushed, overcome with the sudden desire to be a part of this tribe, to nestle under the cologne-scented, freshly laundered wing of Gerard Roper and bask in his praise forever. Dom was about to tell Gerard about his father being a member when he was startled by a voice hissing in his ear, ‘
Where is she?
'

Dom turned. At his shoulder a pink, narrow-faced man with a clash of ginger hair stood staring at him, his pale eyes full of hostility. Dom took a small step back. ‘Sorry?'

‘Mavis,' the man said. ‘Where is she?' His arms hung loose and his voice was quiet but Dom could see an extra flush creeping up his neck, betraying some emotional storm he was trying to keep at bay.

Confused, Dom shook his head. Malcolm stepped in. ‘Dom, this is Stanley Kelley, chartered accountant, from Kelley Financial Management. Stanley, meet our new teacher, Dom Best.'

Stanley's flush deepened at Malcolm's conciliatory tone. He shook Dom's hand clumsily but his eyes remained cold, waiting for an answer. Dom shrugged in apology. ‘Mavis is at home, I think.'

Stanley snorted. People turned to look at them and Dom felt himself grow hot. He wanted to punch the accountant's blotchy face.

‘I know you came together,' Stanley insisted. ‘I saw the car. Did she tell you she's banned from the club? That they revoked her driver's licence and that's why she has to con people into chauffeuring her around?'

Dom's confusion abated. The Falcon — of course they all knew who owned it, and probably all knew he was Mavis's neighbour. He rushed to explain. ‘Mavis lent me her car. Mine's in the garage.' Humiliated enough, he stopped short of mentioning the bicycle and his mind struggled to process Mavis in yet another unexpected light.

‘Come on, Stan,' Gerard interrupted merrily. ‘You heard the man. Relax! Get yourself a Scotch or something. And another Coke for Dom, eh?'

For a moment Stanley fixed Gerard with a look of deep loathing. Then he walked away. Dom was relieved.

‘Mother-in-law,' Gerard explained quietly. ‘Bit of tension there. Long story.' He gave Dom an apologetic smile that made the world seem fantastic again. ‘So! I believe you met my wife a few days ago, at the shop?'

Dom tried to recall.

‘Sinclair's Produce,' Gerard prompted. ‘Over at the Centre? Eleanor said she served you.'

The link between Gerard Roper and the Roper Centre fell into place and Dom was surprised that this likeable man was responsible for the development. In the staffroom, heated discussions about the Centre broke out all the time — it was sucking the lifeblood from the heart of town; so-and-so from
the bakery or the drapery was going to have to sell up after so many generations because they couldn't compete with the big chains there; it was disgraceful that although council planning regulations long ago set out restrictions against a retail complex that size, somehow the development had been approved anyway. Everyone agreed that the level of corruption at Morus Shire Council was an embarrassment and deserved to be investigated. As for Dom, he thought the place an eyesore, as he did every other sprawling shopping mall, but each time he found himself there because its supermarket was bigger and open late, the place was always busy. He knew some locals made a stand and continued to buy only from the small shops in town, but no matter how much everyone complained about the Roper Centre just about everybody shopped there.

That Gerard was married to Eleanor, however, made perfect sense. Dom remembered the elegant woman who had emerged from the office at Sinclair's Produce to serve him when the other shop attendants were busy. They had chatted for a while about Sydney cafes and restaurants that they both knew, and although she was warm and well spoken, Dom had noticed there was a kind of sadness in her eyes, but this somehow made her beauty seem even more dignified.

The men began sitting down at the tables and Malcolm guided Dom to a seat. At six-fifteen Gerard Roper struck a little bell and called the room to order. With a relaxed confidence he led them through the Rotary grace and a toast to queen and country before formally welcoming Dom and the few other guests. Dinner was served. Dom tried to make conversation with a big-bellied man on his left but his efforts were thwarted by the man's acute shyness and the distracting appearance of his nose, identical
in colour and texture to pumice stone. Dom, too, was hampered by nervousness, knowing his pitch was coming up soon.

When the meal was over and the last of the plates were being cleared, Gerard stood up and within seconds all the social chit-chat ceased. He smoothly directed various members to deliver updates on the club's community projects and one by one they took their turn to stand and talk about the bowel-screening drive, the construction of an indoor recreation centre and preparations for a charity auction dinner later in the year. Malcolm was called upon to report on the progress of the Pride of Business Awards.

‘Ah … we might have to extend the deadline on that one,' he said, scratching his ear. ‘We haven't had any nominations yet.'

Gerard shook his head in disappointment. ‘All right then,' he sighed, ‘let's all concentrate on drumming up some interest in these awards. If there's pride out there we'll find it.'

There was a call for other news. An obese and wheezing figure brandishing a flyer got out of his seat and began to inform them solemnly of a recent advancement in nasal-delivery technology for performance in the bedroom. With a displeased laugh, Gerard cut him off and quickly steered them back to the agenda, announcing birthdays and anniversaries and issuing some lighthearted fines. The pumice-nosed man had to pay up for sneaking a go on the pokies before the meeting, the sound of his winnings giving him away. Cake was served, covered in the sort of custard that reminded Dom of school camps, which he could eat none of because he was up next.

The waitresses swooped, pouring coffee. Gerard rose again.

‘As you know, we're still accepting nominations for our Youth Fellowship award,' he said. ‘Tonight, Dom Best from Morus Primary is here to present someone from his class, a
student whom he thinks deserves our support. Gentlemen, please make him welcome.'

Dom got to his feet to polite applause, placing Novi's portfolio on his chair behind him. The group fell silent. The only sound was the clink of spoon in cup and cup on saucer as coffee was sipped. Dom cleared his throat and swallowed.

‘Thanks, Gerard. Good evening, everyone! Thanks for having me here. As some of you might know, I'm new to Morus. In fact, I hadn't even heard of it before I was offered the job at the school …'

Some of the men frowned. A prickle of sweat sprang up along Dom's back. Sensing that this sort of honesty probably wasn't the best approach, he hurried on. ‘But my job at Morus Primary has been a fateful one. It's introduced me to an extraordinary student, a young artist who shows great promise and who is in genuine need of assistance. His name is Novi Lepido.' There was a stir of recognition in the room but Dom couldn't gauge if this was positive or not.

‘Novi has a special gift. As his teacher it's my job to develop it, but I can't give him the support he deserves without some help. Of course, all my students deserve equal attention and encouragement, each one has their own unique talent. But in the case of Novi Lepido, I really do believe we have someone exceptional.'

He reached for the portfolio, unzipped it and began passing pictures along the table. No matter how long and hard he sang the boy's praises he knew only the art itself would convince them. He and Camille had chosen carefully, omitting any of the more confronting images. They had selected some beautiful still-life drawings with impressive detail as well as a few of the larger landscapes and some lively town scenes with identifiable
characters. Dom felt a surge of excitement knowing that some of those characters were sitting across from him now, pushing their coffee cups aside and fumbling for their glasses. Camille had assured him that people always loved seeing a picture of themselves, and Dom had added the boat painting from the classroom wall, assuring her, in turn, that men always loved seeing breasts. Pictures were passed down the tables and studied in respectful silence. Nobody said anything. Moments passed and the silence stretched on. Necks were held at odd angles, stiff with uncertainty; eyes darted sideways, unsure of how to respond. Coffee cups were clutched for reassurance, moustaches smoothed by serviettes.