Watercolours (26 page)

The afternoon tea, however, had been surprisingly good: a spread of moist lemon cake, crisp almond biscuits (of course, Mira insisted on calling them
biscotti
, as though biscuit was too plain a word), some fig tarts and nice strong coffee. Joy wasn't afraid of giving credit where it was due and Mira was a decent cook. No wonder she had such a full figure if she was in the habit of baking every day. Joy generally tried to stay away from sweets and had a trim little body to show for it. It wasn't easy staying slim at her age, it took self-discipline; nevertheless she had accepted a slice of cake out of politeness and agreed to take a plastic container of the biscuits (
biscotti
, rather!) home. It would mean no dinner tonight, or just a light salad to make up for it.

She found the toilet, flushed without using it and gave her hands a thorough wash. Glancing in the bathroom mirror she was dismayed to see her face looked tired and gaunt. That grey! It made her look so old. She
hated
missing her salon appointments. But it had been rather tiring, trying to act positive all afternoon. Eleanor had been silly enough to ask to see Novi's pictures so of course Mira had dragged them both down to the shed for the full show. For goodness sake, the fuss everyone was making over that boy! He was prolific, certainly, thanks to all that Rotary money (what on earth had Gerard been
thinking
?), but really, his pictures
were either childish scenes full of gaudy colour or strange dark pieces that made no sense at all — nothing you would actually want hanging on your wall. Being an oil painter herself, she had an eye for these things and she could tell right away that his work lacked proper composition and tone. Plus his perspective was all off; you couldn't make head nor tail of most of it. That his work was hanging at Riverside — a professional gallery — was absurd. It only demonstrated how out of touch Liz was and it went a long way to explaining why she'd never accepted any of Joy's paintings, with their respect for classical training.

It was all just a novelty. Novi's art was only getting attention because he was a child.

An inspection of the bathroom cabinet revealed no medications of interest, just an array of vitamins and lotions. Joy checked her watch; it was time to be getting back. She was about to return the way she'd come, but an impulse made her turn left instead. Mira's bedroom would be worth a look. She'd just pop her head in quickly.

She found it at the end of the corridor and stepped inside, her heart thumping a little at her own nerve. The bedroom was as untidy as the rest of the house and all the deep red gave it a lurid sort of ambience that reminded Joy of some theatrical setting she couldn't put her finger on. Silently, she tiptoed past a faded armchair draped in a shawl and made her way around a stack of books, narrowly avoiding treading on a half-empty teacup. With a quick exhalation of breath, she took a moment to steady herself. Proceeding more slowly this time, she stepped over a pile of discarded knickers and jeans towards the four-poster bed hung with a ragged mosquito net. Covered with scarlet damask and scattered with cushions, the bed was positioned directly in
front of the room's large window, protected by nothing more than a flimsy set of gauze curtains threaded with gold. If anyone happened to walk down the side of the house they could easily look right in. Mira and George obviously didn't give two hoots about privacy.

Careful not to make a sound on the floorboards, Joy inched over to the low timber bookshelf, where some little bottles of oil (
rosewood
,
ylang ylang
) nestled among the paperbacks and some fat candles had been allowed to drip wax straight onto the varnish. Her eyebrows shot up when she scanned the titles:
Your Erroneous Zones
,
Worlds in Collision, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying
— decidedly cultish material. The bottom shelf was stuffed with tomes on navigation, South-East Asia and the South Pacific and a pile of faded old boat manuals. She shook her head. The whole lot would turn to dust before construction of that eyesore in the yard was ever completed. Her eye was drawn to a small print mounted high on the wall beside the bed. Taking a step towards it she saw it was an oriental picture, drawn simply and painted in neat, muted colours. It was an indoor scene with a Japanese man … Joy inhaled sharply —
a Japanese man with a huge erection!
He was kneeling beside a woman who didn't seem at all perturbed that her kimono was sliding off. Joy peered closer, shocked. It was nothing short of pornography, and yet the picture appeared so innocent from a distance! She frowned, unable to take her eyes off it. Soon her cheeks were hot and she could feel a warm pulsing between her legs. Embarrassed, she forced herself to turn away.

She knew what this room reminded her of: a bordello.

She glanced at her watch. In a minute the others would start to wonder what had happened to her and the last thing she wanted
was to be caught in Mira's bedroom, staring at pornography. The humiliation would be unbearable.

She darted over to the chest of drawers and lifted the tops of a few trinket boxes but found only cheap jewellery, lip balm and hair-bands sprouting black frizz. Her hands felt quickly beneath the tangle of underwear in the top drawer but nothing of interest was stashed there. Scowling in frustration, she closed the drawer carefully and turned to take one last look at the room. And that was when she saw Mira.

Joy's heart almost stopped. It was just a painting, but still it gave her a shock. She'd missed it on her way in because it was right beside the door.

In the portrait, Mira stood at a sideboard with a cat perched next to her at eye level. She was standing with her head turned in profile, one hand on her hip, the other raised to touch the cat's ears. Her hair was gathered loosely at the back in a floral scarf and she was wearing a few long strands of beads and a shawl draped over one shoulder. And that was all.

Very slowly, Joy walked towards the painting. Mira was so shamelessly relaxed with her nudity! One full hip was cocked slightly to the side and her plump breasts hung carelessly among the beads, one slightly bigger than the other. There was a shadow of dark hair in the armpit of the raised arm and down below a small triangle was partly obscured by the shawl. For a long time Joy could do nothing but stare at her; the wanton pose, the playful smile on her lips. Then her astonishment subsided enough for thoughts to start trickling in.

Novi had painted that portrait. Although it was different from his usual muddled style, it was definitely his — Joy had seen enough of his wretched pictures in the past two hours to
recognise his work. This painting had the same brash colours, the same childish lines around the faces of the woman and the cat. And what it meant was that this picture, the one so carefully concealed in the Lepidos' bedroom, the one Joy had stumbled across quite by accident, was not just any old picture but proof that Novi Lepido was troubled. His mother was violating his talent — this was child abuse, not art! As Joy saw it, the only responsible action to take for the sake of the boy's innocence was to stop him painting at once.

She had struck gold. And in cases like this the outrage of discovery was so dazzling it could shine right through the shadow of guilt. Every now and then a find came along that allowed her to be filled to the brim with white-hot indignation, a sense of offence so deep that it successfully swept all shame aside. And this feeling was much stronger than if she'd made the discovery legitimately; her behaviour might be considered bad but what she had unearthed was far worse and her loathing for it fierce because she had to justify her own antisocial actions. At these moments Joy was at the height of her power, a deadly comet building momentum, gathering heat, tearing through the threshold of culpability to burst out, sparks flying, into the blissful firmament of condemnation.

A nude portrait of Mira Lepido, painted by her eleven-year-old son!

The visitor's seat in Malcolm's office was piled high with papers but it didn't matter, Dom didn't feel like sitting. He stood with his hands clasped on top of his head and avoided Camille's eye. Instead he stared into the yellow leaves of the pot-plant in the corner of the room, wishing pathetically that
he
was a plant, in need of nothing but water and sunlight, expected only to inch upwards and live. Responsible for nobody.

‘Dom?'

Malcolm's voice was gentle. Dom couldn't look at him. He couldn't stand to see the new lines of worry on his face, knowing that he was the cause. Only Malcolm could look so shattered, fresh from a two-week break.

‘We just have to be patient and let this process run its course,' the principal went on.

Dom felt sick. He took a step towards the pot-plant, thinking he might vomit there and then. This
process
? Talk about a euphemism. Whatever the outcome, the damage was already done. Novi's welfare had been publicly called into question and now the Lepidos would have to scramble to prove their innocence. Right or wrong, the accusations were laid and Dom couldn't do a thing about it. There was no way he could protect Novi from the fallout.

He squeezed his head harder and turned a slow circle. He felt
utterly useless. He was a fucking useless teacher! And he had no idea how Novi was taking it; the river had peaked four days ago but the kids from Serpentine Road hadn't made it back to school yet. Soon their isolation would be over, but Dom suspected Novi and his family would remain in exile long after the floodwaters had receded. He was disgusted to think of that low-grade busybody violating the Lepidos' privacy. And he was furious with the way Rotary had been so quick to condemn, withdrawing the fellowship with absolutely no discussion, encouraging rumour and innuendo to rampage through town. But riding on top of all of it like some fetid brown foam was the fear Dom felt for himself, the fear of what he'd set in motion. His mind kept jumping back to that afternoon in the Lepidos' shed when Novi had first opened up to him. He'd dismissed his concerns so flippantly, but in fact Novi had been right to be frightened. His instinct had been spot on. He'd been afraid of getting into trouble and now, with Dom's help, trouble was exactly where he'd ended up.

Even worse, Dom couldn't decide how he felt about the portrait. In some ways it sounded like the perfect representation of Mira, just as Novi had managed to capture the essence of George in that admiral's uniform. He hadn't even seen it yet so he couldn't really judge, but the
idea
of it embarrassed him. Like Mira embarrassed him sometimes, the way she was so full on. And those new pictures he'd seen the other day had been haunting him, the gruesome crows and the sad little mulberry babies with their malformed heads; he couldn't get them out of his mind. Maybe Rotary was right to be concerned about Novi's subject matter: dead fish, dead men and now dead babies. Let alone his naked mother … Was this really appropriate for a boy his age? Maybe Novi
had
been exposed to information that was
too adult. What did it mean when a child produced pictures like this? Dom didn't know, but he didn't want to admit it just yet.

He looked up. Malcolm and Camille were both watching him.

‘There's nothing wrong with Novi,' he insisted as firmly as he could. ‘Mira and George … they're
uninhibited
, that's all.'

‘It's a storm in a teacup,' Camille agreed, folding her arms. ‘There are fish kills all the time. His grandfather drowned. These things aren't secret. Pyramus and Thisbe have been round since Roman times — it's a
story
Novi's heard.'

‘The portrait is concerning, Camille,' Malcolm said.

‘There's a similar Norman Lindsay print in the Lepidos' sunroom!' she cried in exasperation. ‘Novi probably used it for inspiration because it looks so much like Mira. For God's sake, this is what artists
do
! There's nothing shameful about the human form. Nudes are fundamental to life drawing. Should we ban all Norman Lindsay pictures now? Burn some Botticelli while we're at it?'

Malcolm raised his hands. ‘Look, I'm not saying your involvement with Novi has to stop—'

‘Good! Because it won't. You can't tell me what to do in my spare time. Nobody can.'

Malcolm sighed. ‘I know that.'

‘And right now that family needs all the support they can get, don't you think?'

‘True, but this is about Novi's wellbeing.
Novi
, first and foremost. Rotary's decision aside, this is a sensitive area and the school has a duty of care. So do you, Camille. Until the allegations have been investigated and Novi is assessed, it would be inappropriate for anyone associated with the school to encourage him in any activities outside normal classes.'

Camille bit her lip. She nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging Malcolm's point. Continuing the classes now could jeopardise Novi's future at Morus Primary, and make a bad situation even worse.

Malcolm rubbed his forehead with his fingers, momentarily ironing the crinkled surface flat. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I'm sure you're right. If so, everything will be fine. I'll speak with the Department today and book Yvonne straightaway. We'll try to get his assessment done as quickly as possible. We'll also need to get hold of the parents and explain what's going to happen.'

‘I'll do it,' Dom muttered. He dreaded the task but he knew the news should come from him. ‘I'll go and see them this afternoon. The road should be open by then.'

Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, whatever you think is best.'

That was the problem. Dom had no idea what was best. Outside, Dom and Camille crossed the busy quadrangle, half blinded by the glare. The departing rain had bleached the sky to neon white and the effect was eye-watering. Dom was quiet, wondering how he was going to explain all this to Novi. He was afraid of how Mira would take it, too.

‘There's something more to this,' she said with a scowl. ‘It stinks. Well, he has the support of the art community, at least. Liz wants to get the portrait up in the gallery with his next round of work, so that'll stick it to them! How can they label a painting perverted when they haven't even seen it? It says more about their own sense of shame than anything to do with Novi. I'll speak to Liz again, see if I can get in touch with some of her artists and find someone to take Novi on. It's time he started learning from a professional, anyway.'

Dom bent to grab an empty chip packet and tossed it into the bin. Nervously, he ventured, ‘You don't think it might be a good idea to let him cool his boots for a bit?'

Camille stopped walking. She put a hand up to her eyes and peered at him. ‘What do you mean?'

Dom cleared his throat. ‘Well, you don't think some of his recent pictures are kind of … dark? You don't find all those crows a bit odd?'

She frowned. ‘They're koels, not crows. There are koels all over Morus. It's not odd at all.'

Dom hadn't known that. He felt stupid for not asking Novi about the birds himself. He tried again. ‘What about the dead babies? You don't find that disturbing?'

Camille shrugged. ‘It's confronting. Do you think miscarriage is something artists shouldn't explore? Something Mira should keep hidden from Novi? Something kids should never hear about?'

‘Well, no, but …'

‘Too edgy for you, is it, Dom, women's business?'

‘No, I just …'

‘What about death? You were happy enough to see pictures of his dead grandfather. You loved that one of Pyramus bleeding his guts out.'

Dom ran a hand over his freshly clippered hair. ‘Look, don't get angry. I … I just don't
know
. I mean, he's eleven! I can't help wondering if he's really mature enough to be dealing with stuff like this.'

She studied him coldly. ‘Are you?'

Dom looked away. The bell rang. Lunch was over and children scampered in all directions. They walked on. When they reached the library he turned to her.

‘We should have been more careful about the exhibition pieces.'

‘There's nothing wrong with those pictures. Or any of Novi's work.'

His uncertainty obviously annoyed her, but Dom felt that her refusal to acknowledge the murkiness of the situation was unreasonable, too.

The playground had emptied. Silence filled the space between them like a solid mass.

Eventually Camille spoke, as if to a stranger. ‘I'm doing a shift at the library in town this afternoon. Do you need my car to get to Novi's?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

‘You can drop it back to me when you're done.'

‘Thanks. Camille —'

But she was gone.

 

Dom drove the hatchback out of the school car park. It was strewn with an assortment of items that Camille deemed essential, yet were never used or removed from the car. The back floor was home to no fewer than three pairs of shoes: a spare pair of joggers, some sandals and a dressy set of high heels he'd never seen her wear. On the back seat she kept an umbrella and a green cardigan. In the compartment between the seats were tubes of handcream, suncream, deodorant and a squashed box of tissues. On the passenger seat there was a garbage bag stuffed with clothes for the charity bin; Dom had been shunting it from seat to floor and back again ever since he'd become a passenger in Camille's car — almost three months now. He decided to drive
past the church and get rid of the damned thing. Afterwards he felt irritated that a task so easily dealt with had been delayed so long. A tendency to procrastinate was one of Camille's attributes he didn't admire. Haughtiness was another. And bossiness.

He switched on the radio for an update on the roads and swung by Camelot to pick up Mira's basket of laundry. Then he drove around for a bit, checking out the impact of the flood and delaying the inevitable. By all reports they hadn't copped it as badly as in 1990, when all of High Street had gone under. Still, the town had been given a drenching. Fifi's Coffee Shoppe and a few other places had been damaged and were in the process of mopping up. Downtown, a pair of lost white geese roosted in the flowerbed on the council chamber's roundabout, staring apprehensively at passers-by, and several families of wood ducks were busy roaming the verges. But only the lowest lying parts of town were still under water: the caravan park, parts of East Morus and the Roper Centre car park. He drove to the football field to find a raucous party of seagulls had taken up residence; the usual band of ibis seemed to be suffering the imposition gloomily. It had been two days since the rain had stopped. There were still showers at night but they didn't wake anyone. The worst was over.

He dropped in at the mechanic's for an update on the list of second-hand cars for sale. There was the Corolla, sitting stoically at the back of the lot in a jungle of tall grass. Dom felt so dispirited seeing his old car destined for the scrap heap that he couldn't take much interest in the selection of souped-up Commodores the mechanic had to show him. Soon he'd have to fork out for a replacement. He couldn't keep borrowing the hatchback and the Falcon; he'd been relying on others for too long. It was time to get some independence back.

 

As predicted, the bridge at Serpentine Road was passable. He crossed the fast-flowing river, marvelling at how much it had dropped in just six hours. Slowly he followed the road up into the hills. The bitumen had erupted into cavernous new potholes and branches and matted grass covered the surface, dumped there by the run-off. Everything was a mess. As he wound his way further up the hill Dom's heart started hammering. By the time he turned into the Lepidos' driveway there was a lump in his stomach, heavy as lead. Wildly, he hoped they might be out and that he wouldn't have to face them, but as he pulled up he saw the ute on the lawn and the clothesline weighed down with wet washing. Before he'd even parked the car, Mira came onto the veranda to greet him. There was no getting away.

‘Hey!' he called. The cheerfulness in his voice rang false. ‘How did you get on?'

‘Well, we didn't starve,' she replied, leaning over the railing.

He opened the boot and grabbed her basket of dry towels. The lawn was up to his knees. He walked towards her, his legs trembling. ‘Was there much damage?'

‘Not too bad. The bottom plots are ruined but the silt's good fertiliser. I can replant. We lost power for a couple of days.'

The sound of an electric sander tore through the yard. Dom glanced towards the boat, keen for any diversion.

‘It's all go,' Mira said. ‘George has been itching to get back to the boat now the fittings are done. He's been at it non-stop since the rain let up.'

Dom walked up the steps and paused at the top. Up close, he could see Mira's face was puffy and there were dark smudges
beneath her eyes. He wanted to hug her but hesitated, sensing a reserve in her. Glad to have the basket in his arms, he passed it over and she thanked him. Any other time she would have kissed him on the cheek.

‘How are you?' he asked.

She set down the washing. ‘Pissed off. Humiliated. Pissed off that they've made me feel so humiliated.'

He leaned against the railing. ‘Rotary called you, then?'

‘We got a phone call from Gerard. They've stripped Novi of his grant — it went to a vote. Gerard's hands were tied, he said. He sounded sorry.' She tossed her ponytail. ‘Wanker!'

Dom imagined how quickly that motion would have passed. Morus Rotary Club wouldn't be taking a risk on an artist again in a hurry, no matter how well connected. ‘I'm sorry, Mira. God, I can't
believe
Joy Kelley. Where does she get off?'

She shook her head. ‘Oh, that doesn't surprise me. Joy's a pathological gossip, always has been. What upsets me is her saying we had the portrait hidden away. It's not hidden! I'm proud of that painting!'