Searching for Sofia, page 42
Instead, a burly young man with a reddish tinge to his beard filled the doorway, his eyes familiar, his grin broad. Within seconds, Jack found himself hauled into strong arms.
‘Jack!’
‘Matcham!’
The pleasure of seeing each other was mutual, and Jack laughed joyfully.
‘Where has that wild lad who raced around annoying everybody gone?’ he asked.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, he’s still here. Just give me time.’ Matcham laughed with the same loud guffawing that Jack remembered so well.
He led Matcham into the lounge and poured two sherries, and they caught up on each other’s news. Jack asked about Helen and Sonia, and was pleased to learn that they and their babies were doing well. Helen now had a second child, a little boy called Sigmund, while Sonia had moved into a small cottage on the grounds with Arthur. His parents were the same as ever—doting grandparents—and Lena acting as a sort of secretary to the daily running of Montsalvat, whilst Mervyn still wrote articles for The Bulletin and now also dabbled in writing stories for children.
They spoke of the Jorgensens, and Matcham described how Lil’s health had continued to decline, although––as always––she and Justus treated her condition as psychosomatic, thereby giving it very little attention. Matcham seemed aggrieved by this. He’d known Lil almost his whole life and now, as an adult, he realised the lack of treatment sought for her illness was questionable. Seeing her confined to bed for days without the intervention of medical advice troubled him.
‘That reminds me, Jack. I have a message from Lil. When she heard that I was coming here, she said to tell you that she has some news from London that you might be interested in. You remember Justus’ friend, Colin Colahan?’
Of course, Jack did. Colahan was the charming artist who’d been linked to that murder case, way back in 1930 when his girlfriend, Molly, had been found dead in a laneway in St Kilda. A chill ran through him as he wondered if Colahan had met up with Sofia in London. Was he the man that she’d fallen in love with? He’d certainly known how to attract women. Back in the days when he used to visit them at Montsalvat, he always had one female or another on his arm.
‘I’ve already heard,' he said. ‘Sofia’s living in London, too. She’s remarried. Had another baby.’
‘Oh, so that’s it, then. Lil didn’t go into details, just said for me to ask you to call over. That’s bad news. I am so sorry, mate!’
‘What about you?’ Jack asked, changing the subject. ‘Has any woman managed to tame your wild and reckless heart?’
‘Oh, there’s been one or two that had me going for a bit,’ Matcham laughed.
Their conversation turned to art and jewellery making. Arguing that he was a conscientious objector, Matcham had avoided overseas service and instead been appointed to a munitions factory. There, he’d developed an interest in metalwork, which had inspired a fascination for the craft of silversmithing. Presently, he was making women’s brooches and necklaces in his spare time, and quite enjoyed it.
In turn, Jack told Matcham of his appointment as a war artist, and then of painting Sofia and how the work had made the cut as a finalist for the Archibald Prize.
‘Incredible, Jack. I’d love to see it! Congratulations! Justus did mention that you’d submitted an entry to the Archibald. They’ll all be thrilled to know that you're a finalist. All the best to you, mate! I hope you win!’
‘We’ll see,’ said Jack.
It was after eleven when Matcham rose from his seat, and while Jack was almost staggering from consuming sherry followed by two bottles of red, he looked as alert as when he’d arrived. Jack watched fondly as Matchum walked across the room and picked up the photo of Scotty that had remained resting on a cabinet from when Jack had painted his portrait of Sofia. He gazed at it, then looked at Jack in silence for a few seconds before returning his eyes to the photo.
‘Love you, little man. Miss you!’ he said softly, and then held the photo to his chest, as though hugging him. Jack appreciated the gesture. Besides himself, Sofia, Marian and William, no one had loved Scotty more than Matcham.
‘Mate, where is the Archibald being held? I’d normally avoid those fancy dos, but I reckon a drive to Sydney would be fun, and I can think of no better reason to go than to see you win the Archie.’
‘Good on you, Match! Love to see you there!’ Jack was sure that Matcham would have forgotten his enthusiastic offer by the time he woke the next morning.
Farewelling each other at the door, they promised to catch up soon, and Jack was glad to feel the warmth of the brotherly affection that he’d always shared with Matcham rekindled.
Chapter 42
As she’d done for the past few years, Margaret joined Jack, Marian and William for Christmas lunch. Gregory and Lawrence had returned to America two weeks earlier, and with no family in Australia, it was an expectation that she’d spend Christmas Day with the Tomlinsons.
Weeks earlier, she’d been thrilled when Jack had told her that he’d made the finalists for the Archibald, and she remained adamant that he’d win the fifty thousand pounds prize money. She described the painting to Marian, explaining how truly amazing it was, and when Marian told her of their intentions to fly to Sydney and stay in the small apartment by the harbour that Jack had booked, Margaret asked if she might join them.
‘Why, yes! That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Jack? William, did you hear that? Margaret’s going to come up to Sydney with us! Won’t that be lovely!’
‘Really? You’d come to Sydney with us, Margaret? That would be incredible! Thank you! Our place has two rooms, but you can have mine. I’ll sleep in the lounge!’ While Jack had looked forward to the week in Sydney, having Margaret along with them triggered a whole new level of enthusiasm for the trip.
‘The thing is, I may not see you for a while after that, because in February, I’m going to America. Greg has been talking to Peggy Guggenheim. She’s the one in the family who is the serious art collector, and she is full of plans. Wants to open up a museum, apparently.’
‘So, you are getting married then!’ Jack exclaimed, fighting the disappointment of knowing that, should Margaret marry Gregory, she’d live in America and be as good as gone from their lives forever.
‘Now Jack! Don’t get ahead of yourself. Greg and I will just see how things go.’
‘Of course. And honestly, Marg, I hope that they go really well. You deserve to have a nice man in your life. And Greg is really very nice. All the best to you and all!’
* * *
The flight to Sydney was a thrilling experience for both Jack and his parents. Sitting in the plane's cabin, feeling it vibrate as its engines roared to life, they braced themselves for the ascent. Their apprehensions were diminished by the calm manner of the immaculately dressed stewardess—who guided them through the safety procedures that would be applied in the event of a mishap—and by Margaret’s squeals of excitement as the airplane began moving along the runway. Since her journey through the Outback with Greg and Lawrence, she claimed to adore flying, and the anticipation of hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour had her quivering with the enthusiasm of a child.
As Margaret had promised, after the plane burst through the grey Melbourne sky, they entered a whole new fantasy world where sunlight bounced off snow-white puffs of cottony clouds with dazzling brightness. They drank the cups of tea accompanied by scones and jam offered by the air hostess; no sooner finishing them when the plane began a smooth descent, circling over the most beautiful harbour Jack could imagine. Hearing his mother’s delighted cries and seeing the thrill of pleasure in his father’s ever-moist eyes, he was glad that Marian had suggested this trip.
By the time they left the airport and taxied to their apartment––not the one in Manly that his mother had originally suggested, but instead a city apartment offering a more central location for sightseeing––it was after four pm. After unpacking their cases and seeing Marian and William settled on their bed for a rest, Jack and Margaret went in search of takeaway fish and chips to take back to the apartment for their dinner. Later that evening, the two of them wandered up and down the roads around the harbour, finally settling on a small pub by the water that offered spectacular views of the Harbour Bridge. There they drank beer and wine, and chatted about Margaret’s recent trip via Alice Springs; and she tried to describe the complex line paintings that were being created by the Aboriginal people living there.
The following day, Jack, Margaret, Marian and William again returned to the harbour, where they caught a ferry across to Manly. They had pies for lunch and wandered around the seaside village before returning to their apartment for a rest. That evening was the opening of the Archibald. Each time he thought about it, a shiver of excitement ran through Jack. He already knew that some of his friends would be there. Sunday and John were coming, as was Nora, who had recently returned to Australia. Jack wondered if she would be accompanied by the doctor.
Since the newspapers had listed Jack’s name amongst the finalists, he’d been contacted regarding commissions, with offers to pay prices exceeding anything that he’d ever earned for a painting. One man, who told Jack that he’d previewed the Archibald entries, asked him to name his price; he’d pay whatever Jack asked if he would just remain in Sydney for a few weeks, to paint his wife’s portrait.
Knowing that he was a finalist for the Archibald was a great feeling; but in truth, Jack didn’t care if he won the prize or not. In honesty, the thing that he most looked forward to tonight was seeing his painting, seeing Sofia again. He’d missed her presence in his apartment more than he’d ever admit!
* * *
The National Gallery of New South Wales was impressive—a beautiful building with massive stone columns leading into an extraordinary lobby. The ornate arches that connected the high-ceilinged exhibition rooms and complex parquetry floors reminded Jack of the galleries that he’d visited in Paris.
They made their way through the crowded lobby, Jack's footsteps aligned to his father’s slow pace, his mother’s arm resting on his, while Margaret cleared the way before them to allow William a path through. More than one person seemed to know who Jack was; and every few steps people stopped to congratulate him, expressing their admiration for his painting. For his own part, Jack preferred not to meet with anyone until he had laid eyes on Sofia, and had reassured himself that she’d survived the trip to Sydney without mishap.
The exhibition room was full, of course. Jack wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but the artists seemed easy to pick out. Men with slightly longer hair, or a more flamboyant style of dress even within the constraints of their suits, with moustaches and beards groomed and shaped for the auspicious occasion. Women that wore their elegant evening wear a little more loosely, with flowing sleeves and colourful headscarves; their dresses adorned with chunky bangles and beads.
The Reeds found him immediately, and Jack introduced them to his parents. Sunday looking beautiful––contented and glowing––and in her arms, she held a young child.
At Jack’s puzzled expression, Sunday laughed. ‘It’s Sweeney,’ she explained. ‘Joy and Albert’s little boy. They are about somewhere, although with this crowd, we might never find them again!’
Whilst Sunday looked quite thrilled at the idea of never seeing Joy and Tucker again—hence claiming the baby for herself—the child appeared less certain. He looked back at Jack with a solemn expression, and Jack tickled his cheek in the same manner that he had once done to Scotty, pleased to see that the gesture achieved the same toothy response. Again, Jack looked at Sunday, and behind his smile for her, he felt sad. For now, Sweeney was hers, and she looked as happy as any new mother might; but soon he would be returned to his own parents, and her arms would be empty. Jack knew that a baby, her own baby, would have meant the world to her.
Walking along, seeing the paintings mounted on the walls, he marvelled at the quality of the works on display. Certainly, the notion of 'portrait' was diverse. Some paintings, like Jack’s, had sought realism, while in others the artists had adopted modern interpretations of their subjects. Others yet again had gone for minimalist effects, and one was almost a caricature of its sitter.
Suddenly, he found himself standing before his own Sofia, and he gasped, for the portrait was even better than he’d remembered. Hanging on the wall, with soft lighting enhancing the inner glow that she emitted, Sofia was displayed to her best. Tonight, she looked peaceful and serene, yet mischievous all at once. Although her stance was erect, almost that of a dancer, her shoulders were relaxed, and the arm that reached to the window sill was graceful. As he met her eyes, Jack almost felt that she was communicating with him. Had his Sofia come to life? He shook himself and looked closer, pleased to see that, even in this public space, and despite the hundreds of eyes now upon her, Sofia had retained her sense of intimacy; her gaze was for him alone.
‘Jack, it’s wonderful!’ Marian spoke first. As she looked at the painting, she reached for the handkerchief that was always folded neatly in her handbag. She dabbed the lace-edged cloth to her eyes before clutching it and again gazing at the painting of her lost daughter-in-law. Her eyes moved around the edges, and Jack knew that she noticed his rendition of the photo of Scotty that William had taken many years earlier.
‘So proud of you, Jack,’ his father said, and his mother’s eyes were again filled with tears. He squeezed her arm.
‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay!’
‘She is lovely, Jack. So beautiful!’
Jack found himself surrounded by well-wishers: some he knew, most he didn’t. Margaret nodded at him, indicating that she would remain with William and Marian and see that they were okay, allowing him to mingle and chat.
‘It’s a wonderful portrait, Mr Tomlinson,’ offered a man with the notepad of a reporter, keen to ask a few questions.
‘Who is she? She is beautiful!’ came a voice from the side.
‘Well done!’
Overwhelmed with pride and the pleasure of the moment, Jack tried to answer the questions as quickly as they came at him.
After about twenty minutes, a stirring from the front of the room rippled through to the back, and quiet descended. It was eight pm, time for the official announcements to begin. Jack was surrounded by a gathering of well-wishers, all sure that Sofia would be named as the winning entry, including the Reeds, and Nora who’d squeezed through the crowd to hug him. Hearing the tap on the microphone from a man in a gaudy blue suit who was attempting to call everyone to attention, Jack cast his eyes around, looking for his parents and Margaret. With so many people around, he couldn’t see them.
The man with the microphone cleared his throat, in readiness to speak when the quietness was interrupted by a jostling from the back of the room. A group of late arrivals made a noisy entrance and proceeded to weave through the crowded room to the front.
As they came closer, Jack laughed. It was the Montsalvat crew, looking as eccentric as ever! Justus was out front, with Lil on one side and Helen on the other. Jack saw Lena and Mervyn close behind, clinging to three young children. The Skipper babies had grown! Along with them were faces Jack had never seen, but then that was Montsalvat! An ever- changing crowd revolving around the central orbit of the Jorgensens and Skippers.
‘Shh,’ said a couple of bystanders, clearly irritated by the disruption to the evening’s formalities, and Matcham’s voice rang out as, waving his left hand in the air, he pointed to his watch.
‘Excuse me! The catalogue says that formalities begin at eight pm. It’s only seven fifty-five! We’re not late! You are early!’
As Matcham finished speaking, he sighted Jack, and with a loud ‘Hoy, over here,’ he steered the group towards him. Back-slapping and kisses for the ladies ensued with much laughter and praise for Sofia, who smiled upon them from the wall.
Jack greeted his old friends one by one, amazed to think that they’d travelled so far to be with him. He laughed as Sonia stepped forward with a chuckle, grinning broadly, tanned and healthy, her eyes sparkling with pleasure as she congratulated him. But it wasn’t her that Jack’s eyes settled upon.
Beside Sonia, a dark-haired woman stood, her hair fixed in a bun, her dark eyes liquid soft, but also nervous as they locked onto Jack's.
He gasped. She was here? Before him? He looked up to the wall at his Sofia, and then back to her, confused. Two Sofias!
Once again, a voice rang out, calling the attendees to attention, announcing that the speeches were about to begin and inviting the Honourable Reg Bartley, the Lord Mayor of Sydney, to come forward to open the twenty-fourth exhibition of the Archibald Prize.
Jack did not hear one word of the announcements as first the Lord Mayor spoke and then the President of the Gallery. Then someone else, who spoke at length about the value of the Archibald, the contribution of artists, the high quality of work that had been submitted, etcetera.
A buzz filled Jack’s head as he absorbed the vision before him.
‘Sofia,’ he said, feeling foolish. Was this his imagination? Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time. He shook his head, and then noticed that, beside the woman, there stood a girl. Her eyes were dark, like Sofia’s, but her hair was fair and falling in soft curls around her face. The child looked up at Jack, her eyes wide. The child that had been referred to in Genevieve Winters' letter?
‘Jack.’ Sofia’s voice, saying his name with her soft Spanish accent, was unmistakable. ‘¡Hola! I am so proud of you. You have made a wonderful painting!’
‘Sofia? It’s really you?’
‘Yes, Jack. It’s me. At least, I think that it is. I can barely believe that I am here myself!’
Jack reached out to touch her, running his hand along the side of her face, as one might touch a priceless sculpture, scared of leaving a mark upon it. Automatically, his hands then reached for hers, and he gripped them tightly, without removing his eyes from her face, lest she vanish.
