Searching for Sofia, page 11
Jack stopped listening to Sunday’s words as his mind grappled with the offer that she’d made. Certainly, the serenity of Heide was undeniable. From the minute that he’d walked through the house, he’d sensed its soothing effect. The place was a paradise.
Sunday’s offer was tempting, but what if Sofia returned? What if she came looking for him?
Jack chided himself. Sofia was gone. She was in Spain. Maybe she would change her mind and return to Australia. But if she did, there were others who would direct her to him. His parents, for instance.
‘Yes, Sunday. I think that I would like to come and live here, if you think it would be alright.’ The spontaneity of Jack’s decision surprised even himself.
‘Wonderful!’ Sunday clapped her hands together. ‘When can you come?’
‘Anytime... there is nothing to stop me.’
‘Next weekend then,’ Sunday said decisively, and Jack agreed.
Companionably they wound their way along the river, onto the path and back to the house in silence. It was as if their walk had served its purpose. The plan was made, and now it was time for practicalities.
* * *
‘Guess what, love? Jack has agreed to come and live here at Heide with us,’ Sunday exclaimed as soon as they entered the dining room.
‘Excellent, Jack. It will be wonderful to have you!’ John seemed genuinely pleased and not at all surprised by Sunday’s comment. Jack realised that her invitation had been planned before his arrival at Heide today. Perhaps even the walk they’d just taken had been choreographed for that very purpose! Jack didn’t mind. He felt sure that it was a good decision.
He glanced at Margaret, who was looking at him, wide-eyed. He wasn’t sure whether it was because she had not expected such an offer to spring forth, or whether she had known but hadn’t expected him to agree. Most likely it was the latter, and she’d anticipated that it would be her job to talk him into moving to Heide. He smiled. It felt good to see Margaret disconcerted for a change.
Chapter 10
Preparing to leave Montsalvat for the second time seemed surreal. Repeatedly, Jack’s thoughts returned to that time barely six months earlier when he and Sofia had packed their belongings. It hurt to recall how excited he’d been that week, how much they had looked forward to living in the cottage in Eltham, just the three of them—and then how, in a moment, it had all gone so horribly wrong. As quickly as the memories arose, Jack shut them out. Now was not the time to be overwhelmed with sadness so debilitating that he’d turn to alcohol to numb the pain. He needed to focus on getting his life together.
Last week, when she’d dropped Jack back at Montsalvat, Margaret had volunteered to drive him and his possessions to Heide, but he’d declined. She’d done enough for him. Too much, even. If he were to take control of his life, he wanted to do it alone. He needed to be strong, to stop leaning on Margaret, relying on her to organise his life and pick up the pieces when it fell apart.
Jack hoped that Heide would deliver the healing he needed. Maybe Sunday was right; he should be painting. Perhaps he’d take up her offer to get him going again. That week he’d seen Mr Macintyre, the Manager of Finances at Goldsbrough, Mort & Co, who’d agreed he could take leave. Three months would be a good break. A chance to restore his health. His holiday pay plus savings would see him through until February. At Heide, his expenses would be minimal, with a few hours’ work in the garden each day in exchange for his room and meals. The prospect of working outdoors energised Jack. For the first time in months, the fog of depression and self-loathing that overwhelmed him each morning as he awakened was absent.
His parents had been thrilled when he’d told them he was taking leave from work, leaving Montsalvat and taking a room at Heide. His mother would have preferred that he’d come home, where she could care for him herself, though.
‘No, Marian,’ his father had spoken up. ‘This is a good plan for Jack. The Reeds are respectable people.’
William had never met John or Sunday. However, merely knowing that Sunday was from the Baillieu family and that John was a solicitor provided reassurance enough for him. People with backgrounds of wealth and distinction invariably carried an aura of decorum in William Tomlinson’s mind. Beyond that, Jack knew his parents were glad to see him living anywhere other than Montsalvat.
After packing his clothing and toiletries and tidying the van, Jack spent most of Saturday working with Matcham. Together they’d helped Sonia and Arthur install three of her stone finials onto the front eave of the Great Hall. The Gothic carvings looked fantastic when they were finally set in position. The sight of them made Jack glad that he’d been at Montsalvat to participate in the construction of the Hall. The building was a remarkable achievement, and for Justus’ sake he was pleased that it had come together so well.
On Saturday night, it was with mixed feelings that Jack joined everyone in the dining room for dinner, sharing this last meal with the Skippers, Jorgensens, Arthur and Sue as well as Mitch and Dell, Cyril and Jim; a friendly group of young people who’d been travelling to Montsalvat from Castlemaine in recent weeks, keen to learn the techniques of building with pisé and mud bricks. Sue made a rabbit stew for dinner, knowing how much Jack liked it, and as usual, red wine flowed, though he limited himself to one glass. He did not trust himself to the dark moods that descended upon him when he consumed too much alcohol, these days. Justus was at his most charming, and the table was full of cheerful conversation, as if everyone had conspired to ensure that his farewell dinner would leave an impression of the Montsalvat community at their best.
* * *
Waking to the raucous cackling of kookaburras on Sunday morning, Jack dressed quickly and stepped out into the early dawn. Cobwebs glistened with morning dew and a fine mist lingered in the air as he crossed the grounds, treading a path that he’d avoided for months.
The cabins, now abandoned, their charred interiors filled with debris, the windows broken from the heat of the raging flames, were a grim testimony of that terrible day six months earlier. Jack inhaled deeply and tried to control his breathing.
Resting on his heels, he rubbed his hand over the wall beside the entry of the cabin he and Sofia had shared, and picked up a handful of the charred earth.
‘I am so, so sorry, Scotty. I should have been there for you. For you and for Mummy.... Please, little man, forgive me!’
Jack wiped a hand across his eyes, not caring about the black trail it left across his face. He continued, feeling he should offer a message from Sofia to their baby, and yet in her absence what could he say? Honesty seemed to be the best approach.
‘Scotty, I am not sure where Mummy is, but I know that she misses you badly. I promise, I will find her, make sure she is well. We love you, Scotty... please remember that. We love you!’
Standing, his heart heavy, Jack walked into the village of Eltham, a suitcase in each hand, and flagged the sole taxi waiting at the rink outside the station.
Chapter 11
As the taxi wove through the country roads, Jack felt sad to be leaving Montsalvat, yet sure that he’d made the right choice. He was even more sure when, arriving at Heide, he felt a sense of homecoming. Perhaps it was the calm orderliness of the gardens, reminiscent of his childhood. The rose beds and herbaceous borders were soothing; the warbling harmony of the magpies calling to each other, welcoming. The taxi rested at the front door, and the Reeds appeared, a two-person welcoming ceremony.
Grasping his hand, Sunday led him through the house, while John trailed behind with Jack’s second case. ‘Here, Jack—this is a lovely room, don’t you think? From here you can see right down to the river.’
‘It’s very nice. Thanks, Sunday. I really appreciate you having me here.’
‘Don’t mention it. John and I are glad that you agreed to come! Take your time to unpack. No need to rush. It’s such a beautiful day, I thought we would have lunch down by the river. Albert’s coming over. You will like him. Joy will be with him, too. They are both artists. We’ve known them for years.’
After emptying the contents of his suitcase into the chest of drawers and hanging his trousers and shirts in the cupboard, Jack sat on the bed. Suddenly, it all seemed bizarre. What was he thinking, moving in with these strangers, living in their house? Perhaps he should have stayed in the van, straightened himself out at Montsalvat, remained among the people who understood him. He could have worked on the building projects that he was familiar with, perhaps even built himself a cabin on the grounds. Justus would have been thrilled to help him. Jack shook his head, reminding himself that this change was important. He just needed to take one day at a time.
Soon, voices from the hallway revealed that visitors had arrived. Determining to be more sociable in this new life, Jack rose to join them.
When he reached the door of the dining room, Sunday drew him in, her slender arm firm on his as she introduced the visitors—Albert Tucker and his girlfriend, Joy Hester.
‘I know you,’ Joy declared.
‘Yes, you do. I was at the CAS meeting a few weeks ago.’
‘You were! Now I remember. Albert, you really should come along to the meetings. You meet the most interesting of people!’
Jack felt warmed by the couple’s banter. Albert was a likeable young man, perhaps a few years younger than himself, who was keen to chat, saying, ‘So, Jack, John tells me you studied in Paris!’
While used to this fascination many young artists had with Paris, Jack frequently marvelled that he, who’d had no thought for travelling across the world to paint, had been fortunate enough to have lived in Montparnasse and study at the Académie Julian, albeit for a mere three months. Almost ten years later, the experience gave him the status of a celebrity in their eyes. He’d lost count of the times he’d answered questions about Paris from Justus’ students, all envious of his adventure and determined to glean every ounce of information about it.
Jack answered their questions, describing the vast interior of the Louvre, the walks through the arrondissements of Paris, painting plein air along the Seine with his teacher, Monsieur Simon, and how by staying in Montparnasse, he’d lived among artists who’d travelled to Paris from across Europe. Thankfully, he was able to separate thoughts of Sofia and focus on the painterly aspects of his time in Paris.
‘You certainly landed on your feet, by the sounds of things. Fancy meeting Roger Fry and him organising all of that!’ Tucker said before turning to Joy. ‘What do you think, love, do you think we should get ourselves over there?’
Before Joy could answer, Sunday intervened. ‘Albert, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what is wrong with everybody. All so desperate to get to Paris and paint pictures of the Seine and the Champs-Élysées. Sit around in cafés all day, drinking absinthe, hoping to spot Picasso or Hemingway. Yes, granted, Paris is wonderful, but we need to learn from what Roger did and then adapt it to Australian culture. We don’t want to churn out a bunch of artists who are all doing what the French achieved thirty years ago! We want our own contemporary art movement. Something unique.’ The vehemence of her reply surprised Jack.
‘Then why are we having the exhibition?’ Joy voiced the question that had sprung to Jack’s mind.
‘The exhibition is not for us! It’s for the public, to teach Australians that modern art is not the evil they are led to believe! To show them that it is highly respected in the art capitals across the world!’
‘Come on, Sun, you’re just annoyed because Sam got away from you,’ Tucker teased.
‘Yes, I am, actually. He could have been extraordinary. Unique.’
All eyes turned to Atyeo’s paintings, and seeing them again, Jack wondered what the fuss was about.
‘There’ll be other artists for you, Sun. Jack here, perhaps he’s the man you’re looking for.’
They all laughed, and Jack shook his head, holding his hands up before him. ‘Don’t look at me—I barely pick up a brush these days. And really, modern art—abstracts and so forth—have never been my thing.’
‘Don’t be so sure, Jack. You might surprise yourself,’ said Sunday.
‘Come on,’ John said. ‘Let’s head down to the river—it’s going to be hot today. What would you like us to carry, Sun?’
Within minutes they’d gathered together baskets, blankets and towels. After following the same path to the river as he and Sunday had taken the previous week, they settled themselves under an enormous red-gum, its swaying branches offering welcome relief from the unseasonally warm rays of sunshine.
To Jack’s surprise, John produced fishing handlines and a tin that was full of writhing worms from the canvas bag he’d slung over his shoulder. Jack accepted the reel he offered, and for the next hour the men sat half a dozen yards apart from each other, resting on various stumps and logs along the bank with their lines in the river. They caught dozens squirming, plump yabbies, which they placed in a bucket of water, ready to boil over the fire that Sunday and Joy were now feeding with small twigs as they chatted.
The shadows diminished into small pools at their feet as the noonday sun hovered directly overhead. Moving to the shade of the willow trees by the river’s edge, they spread the blankets and set out the bowls and plates that Sunday drew from her picnic basket: an enormous bean salad, sliced carrots, fresh raw mushrooms, a rice mix and containers of cherry tomatoes, boiled eggs and lettuce.
Jack was used to eating salads; throughout his childhood Marian had often sliced tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber and radishes, over which she squeezed lemon juice and vinegar, and at Montsalvat salads often accompanied meals. However, he was surprised by the array of raw food set out before them.
John must have noticed his expression. ‘Sun’s got us all eating like rabbits,’ he laughed. ‘Ever since she discovered the Hay diet, I am not allowed so much as a lamb chop. These yabbies are about as close as I get to satisfying my carnivorous leanings. It was quite a shock to the system when suddenly we were banned from eating bacon for breakfast, and don’t even get me started on the way her wonderful roasts vanished! Remember them, Tucker, the pork and crackling? All gone! Poor old Mrs Wells—she was our housekeeper—up and left! She couldn’t keep up with which foods could be combined with what and all the talk of acids and alkalinity; the poor old thing was utterly confounded.’
‘Mrs Wells did not leave because of the Hay diet!’
‘If you’d like a T-Bone, you’re welcome to my place anytime!’ Joy offered.
‘Thanks, Joy. I might take you up on that!’
‘It’s good for you to eat healthy, John... good for all of us!’ Sunday chided. ‘I feel so much better these days. Do you mind, Jack? I am sure you will get used to it.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Jack stammered, embarrassed for inciting the discussion about the food Sunday had prepared. For heaven’s sake, he was their guest! The least he could do was be appreciative.
Their bantering continued throughout lunch, weaving from one subject to the next. Tucker launched into a discussion with Jack on creative minds versus rational minds; he extolled how, in his view, society was becoming increasingly dependent on scientific solutions to problems; people were ceasing to think for themselves and listen to their own instincts. His arguments appeared familiar to the others, and they teased him for his earnestness.
‘I tell you what, Albert—you write the book, How Science Kills Creativity! The title sounds riveting; everyone’s bound to read it! I just don’t know who!’
‘Alright, there’s no need to be rude. All I’m saying is humans are becoming too dependent on scientific data to explain our behaviour. In the meantime, our instincts, and our capacity to think outside the square, are declining. We consult experts for every problem instead of being guided by our hunches. Just remember that you were forewarned by me, Albert Tucker!’
Jack was caught off guard when Sunday turned the conversation to him.
‘Have you read Rimbaud, Jack?’ she asked.
‘No, Sunday, I can’t say that I have.’ He knew Dorothy McKellar’s My Country, and of course, Patterson’s Man from Snowy River. At school he’d studied some English poems, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Milton’s Paradise Lost. They’d all bored him witless.
‘I must get you reading him. He’s extraordinary. Best read in French, of course. Perhaps I can teach you...’
Laisse-le venir, laisse-le venir
Le jour où les cœurs s'aiment comme un.
Je suis patient depuis si longtemps
J'ai même oublié
La terreur et la souffrance
She translated,
Let it come, let it come
The day when hearts love as one.
I’ve been patient so long
I’ve forgotten even
The terror and suffering
‘Are we swimming?’ Joy asked, and Jack concluded that she did not share Sunday’s fascination with poetry.
‘Let’s,’ agreed Sunday, and to Jack’s astonishment, the women stood up, peeled off their dresses, slipped off their brassieres and headed towards the river.
‘Coming, Jack?’ John stood up, shedding his trousers, but thankfully leaving his boxers on.
Jack tried to hide his embarrassment at swimming in the company of two bare-breasted women. Each time they climbed the steep side to take turns diving into the river, he’d time his paddling so that he’d be swimming towards the opposite bank. If either of the women spoke directly to him, he kept his eyes fixed upon theirs as he replied, and thought he did well to control his discomfort. Afterwards, lying under the trees, relaxed by the companionable murmur of voices in the background, Jack dozed. He awakened perhaps an hour later to find the others moving. Rising, he helped to pack the picnic before they returned to the house for arvo tea.
* * *
Late that night, lying on his bed, his hands behind his head, Jack stared at the ceiling. A volume of Rimbaud’s Illuminations rested on his chest. Sunday had pressed it upon him a few hours earlier, insisting that once Jack’d read it, he would forever view the world differently.
