Searching for Sofia, page 41
‘And I suppose then you’ll be sailing off to America to marry a millionaire?’
‘No, sadly, I won’t be. Gregory is not a millionaire, nor are we talking about getting married. But he is very good company. I met him and Lawrence at the Young and Jackson, and we got chatting. Of course, with Chloe there––you know, the nude––we got on to art, and from there, our shared interest emerged. They’ve nominated me as their tour guide, and I’ve already taken them to the National Gallery and a few of the smaller places. They’ve asked me to go to Sydney with them! I’ve got a few contacts already. Apparently, the Sydney art scene is fabulous!’
‘So I’ve been told,’ said Jack, further irritated. ‘Nora was full of it––the excitement of living around King’s Cross surrounded by artists. How boring we all are in Melbourne!’
Margaret laughed. ‘One thing I do know, there are some fabulous women artists in Sydney. Grace Cossington Smith and Margaret Preston, to name a couple. And there’s Dorrit Black, who has her own Modern Art Centre there and is pushing for women artists to be recognised. Greg and Lawrence can’t wait to meet her.’
Margaret was clearly excited, and Jack felt guilty. Here she was, after all these years, finally seeing someone. Hopefully she’d overcome the loss of her childhood sweetheart—the boy whose lofty ideals about serving his country had been blasted out of him by enemy fire twenty-five years earlier, along with his lifeblood and final breath. To Jack’s knowledge, Margaret had never even gotten close to a romance since then. He resolved to be a little more pleased for her.
‘Sounds wonderful, Margaret. I am happy for you!’
Apparently, his words didn’t have the desired effect.
‘Don’t worry, Jack, I won’t forget about you! And if you keep painting like that, you’ll knock the Sydney artists out of the water. Now, sorry to rush, but I have a dinner date.’ She raised her eyebrows at him, suggesting the date held the promise of something more.
He laughed. ‘Okay, then. You go and have some fun. You deserve it.’
‘Don’t forget the Archibald. You’ve got a couple of weeks to get this finished, dried and packed! It’ll have to go by courier, I imagine. Drop by the National Gallery, you’ll find an entry form there with all the necessary details.’
Jack shook his head as he returned to the living room. The Archibald! Honestly, there was no end to Margaret’s aspirations for him.
* * *
Over the next few days, a peace descended upon Jack. He’d packed up most of the contents of the chest, but still a few objects remained scattered about. He decided Sofia needed a frame, but rather than wrestle the large painting to a framer, he purchased the materials ready-cut and framed her himself. Daily, he found himself gazing at the painting and adding touches of detail. It was as though by dabbing a brush stroke here, a highlight there, he was gently caressing her. Sofia was with him again, and Jack no longer felt alone. Perhaps a day would come when he would finally let go of the other Sofia. The one who’d made a new life for herself, across the world, far from him.
* * *
It was a Wednesday afternoon, two weeks later, that Jack opened his door in answer to a knock and found Margaret standing there, flushed with excitement. Behind her stood a tall man with an easy smile, whom she introduced as Gregory.
‘We're heading off to Sydney in two days, Jack, you know, on the trip that I told you about. I wanted Gregory to meet you before we left.’
The man was quick to shake his hand, and Jack sensed his warmth immediately.
‘Hi there, Jack. Nice to meet you. Margaret has told me so much about you.’
‘I am sorry that I can’t say the same about you, because it seems that Margaret is far too busy to see the likes of me these days!’ Jack laughed, hoping that Gregory hadn’t noticed the trace of petulance that seemed to have crept into his voice. Even after all these years, Margaret had a way of drawing from within him the behaviour of a teasing younger brother.
‘Come on in. Is it coffee or sherry time?’
‘Jack! Sofia’s still here! You haven’t even packed her! Why? She was due in last.... No... What day is it? Next Wednesday, Jack, we’ve got five days to get her to Sydney!’
‘Margaret, slow down. I can’t enter Sofia into the Archibald Prize. Haven’t you read the terms of the competition? Famous people. A painting created from sittings.’
‘Oh, rubbish, Jack! Who cares about that? Those rules are designed to keep the ordinary folk out. Which artists have access to Important People, you tell me? Just tell them that Sofia is a Spanish princess or something. They’ll never know! In any case, I have attended the Melbourne exhibition of the Archibald every year for the past decade, and believe me, the rules seemed to have relaxed considerably. The exposure you’ll get for showing Sofia will be wonderful, even if you don’t win.’
‘I’m not so sure. To be honest, I am quite attached to the painting. I like having Sofia here with me. What if something happens to her?’
Margaret looked at Jack as though suddenly remembering all that he’d lost; he saw the compassion in her eyes.
‘I know, Jack. I understand. But you will get her back. She’ll only be gone for a few months. Imagine the commissions you’ll receive when everybody sees what a marvellous artist you are. You’ve never capitalised on your time in Paris. You know that, don’t you? What with burying yourself with Jorgensen and his ridiculous ideas about exhibitions, and then taking yourself off to war!’
‘I don’t know, Margaret.’
‘Of course you do! This portrait needs to be shared, and where better than at the Archibald?’
‘See what Margaret’s like, Gregory! I will get no peace unless I submit to her demands. She’ll probably sneak in and whisk Sofia away in the middle of the night if I don’t give in!’
‘I think you may be right, Jack. That painting is wonderful, though, and deserves to be seen,’ Gregory replied.
‘Thank you, Greg!’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Come on. If we are going to get her in, we better get organised! I don’t trust that a courier would get Sofia to Sydney on time. Do you think that we could squeeze her in with us, Gregory? Take her to Sydney ourselves? It would mean that you, I and Lawrence would have to squash into the front seat for the drive, but the Archibald is Australia’s most prestigious art prize. Fifty thousand pounds to the winner!’
‘Sure, Maggie. No worries.’
Jack had no doubts that if Margaret had asked the tall man with bright blue eyes smiling down at her to reach out and pluck a star from the sky, she would have received the same answer.
With Margaret’s powers of persuasion having their way, they sprang into action. While she grabbed a pen and worked on the application form Jack had left on the bench two weeks earlier, Greg helped him carry the painting into his studio. They used the wrapping materials intended for the paintings for the War Memorial to package Sofia and then carried her down to the enormous Mercedes Benz that Gregory and Lawrence had hired for the duration of their visit in Australia.
Afterward, in a celebratory mood, they agreed that a drink was called for. Squeezing into the front seat of the Mercedes, they drove into the city, and in no time at all they were ensconced in what Margaret and Gregory referred to as ‘their table’ in The Latin. The casual statement revealed the amount of time that Margret and Greg had been spending together over the last few weeks. Laughing, they toasted Jack’s entry into the Archibald and, of course, Margaret announced her conviction that he’d win.
Jack found Gregory to be a nice chap who was clearly besotted by Margaret. He smiled and nodded at everything she said, and leapt up and returned with one tray of drinks after another, followed by meals of steak and chips, and then more drinks. He refused Jack’s offer to pay for anything with a wave of his hand. The Guggenheim expense account was unlimited, it seemed. Margaret’s affection for Greg was equally obvious, and she was clearly looking forward to her trip with him and Lawrence—a trip Jack discovered had been extended—and now Margaret was accompanying the Americans as they explored the mines in the Northern Territory and Western Australia!
Margaret explained how she’d received a month’s leave from her job at the munitions factory, gaining special permission to undertake what she’d described as the equally important duty of escorting the Americans to the mines to investigate potential business interests. Jack could only imagine that her supervisor had withheld any arguments opposing her plans, knowing that he wouldn’t stand a chance of denying her request.
Leaving on Friday, they would drive to Sydney, stopping first at Canberra to explore the capital city, only decades old—and built to the design of the prize-winning entry of Gregory’s distant relative, the American architect Walter Burley Griffin. In Sydney, they intended to peruse the art galleries for a few days before continuing their journey into the Australian Outback. A small plane had been chartered to hop, skip and jump them from Sydney to Ayers Rock and then all the way to Mulga Downs Station in the northwest––the home of Lang Hancock, owner of Australia’s largest mining company.
Gregory explained that, although the Guggenheim family had relinquished most of their mining interests, they’d recently bought a copper mine in Chile and were curious about the iron reserves that had been discovered in Australia, hence his and Lawrence’s visit down under.
Jack tried to picture Margaret flying in a light aircraft across Australia and suppressed images of the planes he’d seen at close hand––smoke and flames pouring out of their fuselages, the explosion of sound as they’d thundered into the ground––assuring himself that those planes had been under attack in very different circumstances. He thought he’d made a good show of looking excited for Margaret.
At six pm, a group of long-haired, casually attired men arrived: artists, accompanied by Justus Jorgensen. Of course, this was the old routine! Jack felt bad, for he had made no effort to contact anyone at Montsalvat since he’d returned to Australia. Occasionally, he’d thought that he should; certainly, he’d love to know how Helen and Sonia were faring and to catch up with Matcham, now a young man in his early twenties. However, part of Jack had held back, and he knew that he balked at the fear of arousing emotions by returning to the place that had cost him so dearly.
These days he was coping well. His work with the Military History Section at the barracks kept him busy, and more than ever he was enjoying painting again. Nonetheless, Jack knew that ‘doing well’ was a fragile state, and that given the right circumstances—an intrusive odour of eucalyptus, the call of a magpie in the early morning or the sight of a small, slim, dark-haired woman pushing a pram could plunge him into days of depression. He dared not think of the effects a visit to Montsalvat could have on him.
‘What a surprise! How are you, Jack? So wonderful to see you. Dodged the bullets, I see. Good on you!’ Justus clapped him on the back, and Jack was filled with affection for the man he’d once admired so much.
‘I’m well, Justus. A bit of a bust-up to the shoulder, but all is good now. Still teaching at Queen Street?’
‘Yes, yes. Some things never change. Are you painting, Jack? Perhaps you’d like to come along and have a look at what we are doing? Or better still, come out to Montsalvat! We’d love to see you there, though I fear your van has been taken over by some of these rascals.’
Jack smiled at the half-dozen faces turned towards him with interest. He could imagine them besotted by Justus’ big dreams and joining in the building projects in Eltham.
‘No worries,' he said. 'If people don’t use the van, the possums will move in! I've been painting for the Australian War Memorial for the last few months, painting up my experiences. You know the army gave me a commission as a war artist, would you believe?’
‘Jack’s just submitted a portrait to the Archibald, Justus.’ Margaret spoke from behind his left shoulder. She couldn’t help herself, Jack thought. She knew of Justus’ aversion to exhibitions and his disdain of artists who sought public approval. She was just trying to rile the old man!
‘Good for you, Jack.’ Justus was generous in his pleasure. ‘I'll make sure that I keep an ear to the ground. I’d be thrilled to hear if you’re following in Meldrum’s footsteps and adding to the annals of Australia’s illustrious portrait artists.’
Jack grinned self-consciously. While he didn’t share Justus’ disdain for exhibitions, it did feel awkward admitting that he was promoting his artwork in none other than the Archibald, yet Justus’ enthusiasm for his entry seemed genuine. Perhaps he’d softened his opinions as he’d aged, Jack thought.
‘Please don’t be a stranger. Lil, Helen, all of us, would love to see you at Montsalvat.’
‘Thanks, Justus. It’s wonderful to see you. Give my love to everyone,’ Jack replied, without committing to visiting. Somehow, his life at Montsalvat seemed best left to the past.
* * *
Four months passed, in which Jack’s routine of painting, work at the barracks and visiting his parents filled his days. Letters from Nora arrived intermittently, and he laughed as he read of her tales of life on the front: her meetings with soldiers like Bulldozer Bluey, the Queenslander who defied the fire of the Japanese to forge through the forest, making roads for army tanks on the bulldozer he’d named ‘Dearest’; and the astonishing skills of the surgeons as they performed work that was as wonderful as it was terrible. What Jack could not ignore were the repeated references to a Dr Robert Black, a specialist whom she said was making enormous gains in the treatment of malaria. Jack suspected that a romance had developed between Nora and the doctor, and he was pleased for her.
* * *
During September, Jack finally focussed on his painting of the parachute landing, that event so bizarre that the disturbing emotions it aroused had never left him.
He drew on his memories, determined to portray the irony, the distortions, of that fateful day. As he’d always intended, he adopted the methods of surrealism, a style that he’d once deplored, but which so well suited this event. When he was finished, he took the painting to Treloar.
‘Tell me about it, Jack,’ the Treloar asked, his face expressionless. This was Treloar's genius, Jack knew. He never passed judgement on anything. Every item that he collected for the museum, whether from soldiers, enemies or civilians, offered perspectives and experiences that Treloar valued.
Jack pointed to the blue sky and sunshine that dominated the upper corners, depicting the perfection of the fine summer day. Next, he’d painted the planes––but they weren’t planes, they were large dragon-like creations, a dark menacing mass that was swarming directly towards the viewer.
‘You had to be there to see it, John. There were thousands of them. The sky was black, the roaring thunderous.’
Treloar nodded.
The largest of the creatures Jack had painted hovered directly overhead, and from its open hatch, an assortment of incongruous items spilled out.
Balloons––puffy and round––drifted downward. Pretty, like those that would be found at a child’s birthday party. The ones closest to the ground revealed that, attached to the balloons, were chains. And captured in the chains were grotesque shapes. Some were like the concentric circles of a dartboard. Others were like spacemen wearing strange uniforms and helmets. And others were like birds. More objects also fell from the sky, distortions of body parts with dripping splashes of red. On the ground, Jack had painted trees, but rather than branches, he’d drawn menacing-looking claws, and within the claws were naked, wide-eyed babies.
Helpless and innocent? Was that how Jack viewed the young German soldiers? Was that the truth of all the young men packed off to war with a gun and a hat the world over?
‘The thing is, John, when those fellows were dangling from their chutes, high in the sky, we didn’t see them as human. They were targets, and it was as though we were duck shooting. That’s why I’ve drawn the birds. They were like ducks. The chains symbolise how they didn’t have a chance, you know. They were utterly trapped and could not surrender, even if they’d wanted to. The minute that those lads left the plane, they were dead. It was only as they drifted close to us, or we saw them swinging from a tree or lying on the ground, that we really comprehended the reality of the battle.’
Where grass might well have been seen waving in the foreground, Jack had drawn hundreds of gun barrels. Old relics. A mix of handguns and machine guns, all pointed skyward. He’d also added women and children, wandering the landscape, clubs and nooses in hand ready to finish off that which the Allies had started. The civilians of Crete fighting to defend what was theirs.
John nodded, accepting Jack’s interpretation. Certainly, the finished product was every bit the bizarre contradictions of beauty and horror that Jack had described.
* * *
In December, Jack received a letter from the Art Gallery of New South Wales advising him that Sofia had been shortlisted for the Archibald Prize, and he could not deny his feelings of pride for her.
He lunched with his parents, and they discussed the award. He wondered whether to make the long trip to Sydney or not. The exhibition would open on the first week of January, and the prize winner would be announced.
‘Jack, of course you must go! It will be wonderful,’ Marian insisted. ‘In fact, we’ll all go. What do you think, William?’
‘Mum, it’s a two-day drive! That’s too far for you and Dad.’
But Marian’s mind was made up. ‘How about we make it a holiday? Fly to Sydney and stay in one of those lovely little cottages in Manly for a couple of weeks. I’d love to travel in an airplane. And how wonderful it would be to see the Harbour Bridge! What do you think, William, love? We’ll go to Sydney and see Jack’s painting?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ William nodded eagerly, his eyes bright and tearing up with pleasure for Jack’s achievement.
‘Okay, Mum. I will look into it,’ Jack agreed, amazed and pleased that his parents were so keen to attend the opening of the Archibald Prize with him.
* * *
Jack could barely wait to see the expression on Margaret’s face when he told her that he was an Archibald finalist. He tried phoning her at work, but she’d left early. When he answered the knock on his door the following Wednesday evening, he felt sure it would be her.
