Searching for Sofia, page 14
Sofia was gone. Vanished. If she wasn’t in Spain, then where could she be?
Jack opened his drawer and pushed the letter deep into the back. Although the words were empty, the warmth of Father Sebastian’s hand, extended across the oceans via the fold of paper, offered a degree of comfort. Jack could not bring himself to throw the page into the bin, but neither did he want to see it—the tangible evidence that Sofia was beyond his reach and his hopes had been futile. Everything about Father Sebastian’s message had the potential to send Jack seeking the comfort whiskey could provide—an urge it took every ounce of his strength to resist.
Restless, he walked towards the back door. His legs felt heavy, as though they were someone else’s, with a purpose of their own.
Outside, Sunday was throwing a ball to the dogs, and she seemed to sense the change in Jack’s mood.
‘You have news from Sofia?’ she asked, her voice cautious. Of course, she knew of the letter from Spain—it was she who’d left it on the hall table.
‘No, Sun. I received a letter, but no news.’
‘No?’
‘Sunday, if I talk about this, I will break. Do you understand? Something in me will fly apart and I’ll never be put back together again. Please, can we leave it alone?’
She gazed into his eyes intently, as though weighing up her words.
‘Jack. Come with me.’
To his surprise, she approached him and, taking his arm, she tugged him, entreating him to return inside.
‘No, Sunday. I don’t ...’
‘Shhh... Follow me.’
As they walked along the hallway, Jack remembered his vow never to enter Sunday’s and John’s bedroom again. He hoped that wasn’t on her mind, for at this second, he felt disconnected from his body, his thoughts and certainly from his willpower.
She stopped and turned his attention to a painting on the wall.
‘Remember this painting?’
He nodded. It was the portrait of her, painted in Montparnasse by Agnes Goodsir.
‘You knew immediately when you first saw it that it was not me at my best, Jack. Not the portrait of a member of the esteemed Baillieu family. Anyone can see that. But like I told you, I hang it there as a reminder of my foolishness.’
‘But what happened, Sunday? What foolishness?’ Jack’s voice was low, sounding like a stranger’s to his own ears. Grief had filled his body, and he wasn’t sure if he could bear another ounce of sadness.
‘The foolishness of letting one person hold your happiness in their hands. Of letting someone who doesn’t care for you, who doesn’t love you, destroy you.
‘That painting was completed just weeks after my heart was shattered by the man I loved. A man who was supposed to care for me. My husband. Instead, he cheated and lied and stole from me. And then, after filling me with the disease of his filthy behaviour, he abandoned me—left me broken and dying in a room in Paris.’
Sunday’s words did not make sense to Jack. ‘But you are married to John...?’
‘Yes, now, but I am speaking of Leonard, my first husband. A man whose charm and promises were fulfilled by his putrid contamination. Who served his own pleasure and in doing so, infected me—–my insides—–and destroyed my unborn child. Thanks to his infidelity and gonorrhea, I will never have a child of my own. May the bastard rot in prison.’
‘Sunday, I am so sorry. That’s terrible. I feel dreadful for you!’
‘As you know too well, all of the sorries in the world can’t make up for the loss of a child, or the hurt inflicted upon you by someone you trust and love. But you can survive. What you need to do is walk down to the river...to that scar tree, you know the one? Lay your hands on it. Wrap your arms around it. Anchor yourself to something bigger than yourself, something that understands both the weight of pain and the power of regeneration. Draw from its strength. Learn the lessons it can teach you. Your scars will always be there, just as mine are. Every minute of every day, they’ll cast a shadow on your happiness, but despite them you can grow and perhaps even become great. Just like that river red, the songline tree, down by the river. Or alternatively, you can wither and die, for heaven help us, we both know that would be the easiest thing to do.’
Jack swallowed and nodded. Waves of grief flowed through him, this time for Sunday and her losses. How dreadful! What sort of man could treat his wife like that? He looked at her. So strong and determined. So dignified.
‘Thanks, Sunday.’
‘And when you go down to the river, take your paints and easel. Trust me, there is no greater healing than through creation.’
Jack nodded, tears filling his eyes, not only for his own loss of Sofia and Scotty, but for the pain inflicted upon Sunday by her first husband, and for the deep scars she carried as a consequence. To think that because of that man’s callous behaviour, she’d never have a child of her own! Hugging her tightly, Jack sensed that she understood his pain, and was comforted by her sympathy.
Chapter 13
Throughout autumn, Jack immersed himself into his work in Heide’s garden by morning and painted in the afternoons. He sensed a change in himself—a hardening of his heart and a determination to get on with his life. Not that he had plans to do anything other than to get out of bed each morning, throw himself into clearing a patch of thistles, painting the back wall of the house or building a new run for the expanding brood of chickens. One day at a time, he repeated to himself as he tried to ignore the empty cavern within his soul.
Often, Jack caught himself comparing Montsalvat to Heide, as though his whole world was reduced to these two places. His mind was in a constant state of weighing and measuring, assessing and evaluating—as he grappled to make sense of them, to understand the power each place wielded.
He recognised that Justus and Sunday bore similarities and differences. Each were creators who understood the power of environment and its capacity to nurture artists. Each had a spouse to support and facilitate the realisation of their dreams. Although Justus was the dictator, designer and engineer of everything at Montsalvat—from the buildings and gardens to the very beliefs and philosophies for which the community stood—it was Lil who provided a firm financial base. With the Reeds, it was Sunday whose mind was ever churning with ideas for Heide’s purpose; its gardens, its ethos, its usefulness for advancing modern art in Australia. It was John who refined her raw thoughts into practical application.
Montsalvat and Heide shared a common ethos of self-sufficiency—both having extensive vegetable gardens, cows, bees and chickens. Furthermore, their dinner tables were rich with conversations that could be as interesting as they were exhausting—dissecting and debating the works of philosophers, theorists and artists in intricate detail. However, there were also undeniable differences between Montsalvat and Heide.
Like the subtle ambience of an underpainting, Heide’s tones were sweet and fragrant, colourful and imbued with light. Feminine, Jack concluded—its delightful atmosphere enhanced by Sunday’s cushions and curtains, her flower-filled vases and antiques, the inviting aromas that drifted from her kitchen.
In contrast, the substance of Montsalvat was muted and organic: earthy tones, the greys and browns of stone and mudbrick, the hefty slabs of bridge timber and the piles of second-hand metal and wood for recycling—materials that were dense and heavy, that demanded physical strength to work. And the work involved wielding iron tools, chisels and axes, massive saws that forever needed sharpening. Montsalvat’s interiors continued the rustic theme—its sturdy hand-hewn furniture standing on roughened slate floors amid chunky glazed pottery, heavy iron pots and skillets that could be set on open fires. If Heide’s core—its very heartbeat—was feminine, Montsalvat’s was surely masculine.
Jack found the most significant difference between the two places, the most welcome difference, was the sense of freedom that Heide offered. The Reeds had an inquiring approach to life and invited the opinions of others, and Jack always felt comfortable sharing his thoughts on any topic. He enjoyed the Reeds’ manner of discussing all angles of an issue before reaching a well-considered opinion, of encouraging those around them to read and contribute their thoughts. Because of this, Jack was introduced to Mirsky’s writings, which didn’t overly interest him; Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, which he loved; and the controversial Australian writer, Katherine Suzannah Prichard, who made him weep at the senseless tragedy of Coonardoo.
Conversely, although Justus exercised his own intellect through the writings of philosophers and theorists, he preferred to assimilate information and form conclusions alone which he later issued in the form of a lecture at the dinner table, representing himself as the all-knowing Master. To disagree and offer conflicting opinions was to invite the full force of his mockery and disdain.
A final difference between the Reeds and Justus was the way they viewed the outside world. The Reeds were vitally interested in international politics and economic forces. They rejected the ways that power served the wealthy at the expense of the poor, hence John’s growing interest in the Communist Party.
In contrast, Justus’ world was that of his own creation and he largely disdained mainstream society. Where Justus perceived a problem in someone’s life, be it sickness, poverty or a broken relationship, he believed the solution was to reject social mores and instead submit to the lifestyle of the retreat: sure that the only world that made any sense, that would provide happiness and fulfilment, was the one of his own design. The world of Montsalvat.
* * *
Daily, as Jack set up his easel by the river, Sunday’s insistence that he would find healing in painting played on his thoughts. He was reminded of Picasso, the message that he’d offered years earlier when Jack had visited him in his studio. Standing beside the great artist, looking at his painting of an old man and woman staggering along a roadway, Jack had been challenged to look beyond lines and colour, and instead to feel the story of drooped shoulders and shuffling gait. Picasso had pushed for Jack to see hunger and pain. To see grief. The great artist, who had lost his sister and dearest friend to early deaths, had insisted that Jack’s own ability to be great would only evolve after he’d experienced deep pain himself.
‘Well, Pablo.’ Jack’s words fell upon the ears of the birds and beetles in the bush as he dabbed titanium white onto his canvas, sharpening the sunlight that was reflected in the smooth branches of the ironbark—the focal point of the scene. ‘I am not sure how much sorrow you think I must bear, but these days my work is far from great. In fact, it is barely good.’
Notwithstanding, Jack couldn’t deny that, as Sunday had promised, the act of painting was healing. With the sun on his back and his thoughts consumed with getting the lines, angles, depth, shadows and reflections right, it was easier to block out the stray memories of Scotty’s chatter and Sofia’s smile which constantly crept into his thoughts when he least expected them, and so easily brought him undone.
Jack recognised that his style had reverted to the technically perfect scenes he’d painted a decade ago—the realism that always came so naturally to him. He tried to incorporate the loose brushwork and the bolder colours he’d learned in Paris into his skies and trees, but it never felt right. More than anything, Jack knew that his work lacked feeling. A reflection of himself, he thought. A symptom of his own emotionless state, for since he’d received the letter from Father Sebastian, his heart had become heavy, his thoughts broody. Happily, his works were just the type of landscapes that sold well to a public with conservative tastes, and now with livelihoods recovering from the hardship of the Great Depression, men and women alike enjoyed having a well-painted river scene grace the walls of their dining rooms.
As Jack completed each work, John transported it into the city on his way to his office, dropping it off at a small shop where it was framed for a good price and later delivered to the Somerset Gallery, where it sold within the month. Reassured by the regular cheques that almost equalled the wage he’d once earned, Jack was easily persuaded by the Reeds to relinquish his work at Goldsbrough, Mort & Co altogether. He did have thoughts of moving to a small studio flat in the city, but John and Sunday insisted that he should stay on at Heide for at least another six months or so, insisting that his work in the garden was invaluable; and furthermore, they enjoyed his company. Because it was the easiest thing to do, Jack stayed.
* * *
Jack was relieved when, in April, news came that the Spanish Civil War had ended. Even though it meant Spain had fallen under the rule of Franco, he hoped the bloodshed and brutality endured by the Spanish people for the past three years had ceased. For as much as Jack tried to forget about Sofia, he constantly wondered where she was. Had she been caught up in London or Paris, and never returned to Spain at all, as the letter from Father Sebastian suggested? He pictured her working in Paris, perhaps in a fancy restaurant like La Grande Colbert or a café like the one her Aunt Christina had owned. Or maybe she was in London and had found a position at one of the many galleries he and Margaret had visited. He was sure that Sofia would have tried to deal with the heartbreak of losing Scotty by immersing herself in work of some kind or another, and he was comforted by the knowledge that she still had money from the sale of the finca to provide for herself. For years Jack had resisted Sofia’s offer to spend her money on their needs, but it saddened him to know the rainy day he’d encouraged her to keep it for proved to be one of tragedy and separation.
Chapter 14
In early May, as Jack painted in his usual spot, the sound of voices approaching caught his attention. It was John, accompanied by a young fellow with clear blue eyes and a shock of black hair.
‘Jack, how’s your day been? That’s coming along nicely... What do you think, Sidney?’
The young man nodded acknowledgement. ‘Good, mate!’ But his words lacked conviction. Jack didn’t blame him. The painting resting on his easel was hardly ground-breaking. A tinted photo might have achieved the same impact as the uninspiring scene.
‘Sidney, meet Jack Tomlinson. Jack’s being staying with us these last few months. Jack, this is Sidney...?’
‘Nolan... Sidney Nolan.’ The young man’s grip was firm in Jack’s hand and his smile friendly. Jack warmed to him instantly.
‘G’day, mate. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Sidney’s an artist, too. He’s very good! Well, I think so, anyway. I thought that we might subject him to Sunday’s scrutiny... Is she about?’
‘She slipped into town for the afternoon. Had a meeting with Bellew, but she thought that she’d be back for afternoon tea. She said that if you beat her home, there're scones on the bench. We should start without her.’
Since his conversation with Cynthia before Christmas, Jack felt uncomfortable mentioning Bellew’s name so casually. However, John didn’t so much as blink.
‘Late? Never known Sunday to be late for arvo tea in her life.’ He laughed, looking at Nolan. ‘Mealtimes are like a religion to her.’
Jack agreed. In the same manner as Justus at Montsalvat, Sunday was strict about mealtime routines—even with the ‘arvo tea’ that she served every day at three pm—and she was invariably annoyed if anyone dared be late.
‘Ah, here she is now...’
Sunday glanced at them as she steered into the driveway at speed, and Jack was reminded of the movie stars he’d seen on the covers of the magazines Sunday left in the lounge room, with her hair held in place with a scarf and large sunglasses obscuring her eyes.
They walked over to her.
‘How are you, love?’ John asked. ‘Had fun today?’
The teasing glance he passed to Sunday confirmed Jack’s suspicion. John was fully aware she was seeing Bellew for reasons beyond the planning for the exhibition. How bizarre!
‘No John, the day hasn’t been fun, actually. In fact, nothing has gone to plan.’ She turned towards Sidney. ‘And who have we here?’ Today her voice lacked any sweetness of tone.
‘I’m Sidney Nolan. John thought you may like to see my paintings.’
‘Pardon? You need to speak clearly, for heaven’s sake.’ Sidney was a mumbler, and Jack felt sorry for him as he received the ire of Sunday, who was clearly in a bad mood.
‘Sunday! I asked Sidney to bring his paintings for you to see. They are quite interesting. I’m sure that you will find his work fascinating.’
‘Not today, I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache. In fact, you all go ahead without me. I think I will take an aspirin and have a lie down. Excuse me.’ And with that, she was gone.
John looked at Nolan sheepishly. ‘Sorry, Sidney. Sun does get these headaches from time to time. Bad ones. The best thing that she can do is rest. Come on in and we’ll have a cuppa. Nobody makes scones, or jam, or cream quite like Sunday. What do you say, Jack?’ Jack agreed. ‘How about you, Neil, are you ready? It’s just going three.’
John’s artfulness as a host came to the fore as he thoughtfully made a cup of tea for Sunday and then returned to the kitchen, shutting the hallway door to stop their voices from travelling through the house and disturbing her.
For half an hour they made small talk, and Jack learned that Sidney had grown up in Carlton, the son of a tram-driver. Like himself, Sidney had always had a love of drawing and painting. He’d tried to make a living from it, but still relied on a range of income sources—wages from his job as a lunchtime cook at a Melbourne café and the money he earned picking asparagus—to pay his bills.
* * *
Over the next few days, Heide was cloaked in a veil of tension as the mood that Sunday brought home on Monday persisted. Bellew remained conspicuously absent, and Jack was glad. Whenever he’d been around discussing the advertising campaign, confirming copy he’d written and collecting photos for the exhibition, the young reporter’s loud tones never ceased to grate upon Jack’s nerves.
