Searching for Sofia, page 7
Jack smiled, suddenly feeling calmer than he had in weeks. Yes, moving back to Montsalvat, living amongst his friends was definitely the best thing for him.
Lena and Margaret joined them, settling the tray of cups, the teapot and a plate of oatmeal biscuits on the table; and for the next half hour they chattered about Montsalvat’s vegetable garden, the completion of the Great Hall’s kitchen, and the latest group of students that Justus had enticed from his city lessons to join them on weekends.
‘Okay,’ Jack said, emptying his teacup and rising. ‘I suppose we’d better clear your house of my rubbish. You’ll need every bit of space you can get, now that you’ve got the grandchildren.’
‘No hurry, Jack. Just grab what you need for now. The babies won’t be running too far for a while yet,’ Lena said as she led the way through to the back porch, where a dozen boxes and assorted suitcases were stacked—the goods and chattels of his, Sofia’s and Scotty’s life together. The large box held Scotty’s toys—he’d packed it himself. And the red suitcase—it held Sofia’s belongings, her face cleansers and the special soap she loved, the gaberdine trousers and flannel shirts she’d worn in the garden and the soft blue polka-dotted dress that she liked to wear on her trips into Melbourne. Her shoes... oh, those remarkable embroidered slippers that they had finally managed to laugh about; they would be tucked away in there, too, he knew.
‘This looks like a box of kitchen items, Jack. I’ll take them to the car?’
Jack nodded. ‘These are my clothes.’ He grasped the handle of a large brown suitcase, and as he lifted it clear, a tea chest was exposed. The chest that held all of Sofia’s treasures from her life in Malaga: paintings created by her father and brother, along with her father’s collection of Sorollas, Picassos and Matisses. Jack had been so pleased when he’d saved it from the fire, imagining her devastation had it been destroyed.
Again, the vision of Sofia pounding on the chest’s frame, her blows so hard that the plywood had almost split, erupted before him. Her accusing eyes ... as she’d shrieked at him. ‘What, Jack? You saved the paintings, but not Scotty!’
‘Margaret—take it... get it away from here...’ Jack held his arms up before him, as though shielding himself from the chest. His voice cracked as he backed away; then turning, he ran through the house and across the driveway to the safety of the van.
* * *
By the time Margaret left him, it was five o’clock and Jack was glad for the silence inside the van. Lying on the bed, he looked at the discoloured patches that formed cloud-like shapes on the van’s ceiling, glad for the thoughtless distraction they provided as his eyes drifted over their meandering lines.
It was good to be alone. It had been a big day, and he was exhausted. With a bit of luck, he’d sleep for an hour and then he’d go over to the dining room and join the Skippers. Routine. That was what he needed. No more searching for Sofia. No more wallowing. He’d get back to work as soon as he could organise it. He liked it here at Montsalvat. He always had. The bush, with its swaying gumtrees, the whistling of birds, and the fragrance of eucalyptus offered peacefulness. He had friends here—the Skippers and Justus and Lil. The students would be up on the weekend. Their noisy banter and enthusiasm for the building projects would help take his mind off things. He would work alongside Matcham, the way they used to. Before... well... just before. Matcham’s company would be excellent medicine for him.
* * *
A loud knocking startled Jack into alertness, and he was not sure where he was. Grey light filtering through a small window revealed shadowy outlines. The odour of bleach filled his nostrils, and it came back to him. Of course—he was in the caravan at Montsalvat—he must have fallen asleep.
‘Coming...’ He opened the door.
Lil’s silhouette was barely visible in the deepening twilight, her hands full. ‘Sorry to startle you, Jack. I just thought I would check that you’re okay. It’s good to have you back. The Skippers said that you were here. They’d thought that you might come over for dinner. I’ve brought you some soup and a bit of lamb casserole. Would you like it?’
‘Thanks, Lil. That would be great. I thought that you had gone to San Remo?’
Jack wondered how long it would take for the sound of his voice to feel normal again rather than like an echo in his ears—disconnected, as though someone else was speaking.
‘Not today, Jack. Today was a day in bed for me. Quite pleasant to have a few hours to oneself, really. I am sorry that I never heard you earlier. I would have come over to help.’
‘Not necessary, Lil. Margaret was here, and she was like a whirlwind. There was barely room for me in here. Would you like to come in?’
He stood aside and Lil squeezed past him through the narrow doorway. It felt strange, her being in the confines of the small van. He could not remember a time when Lil had ever been inside here before.
‘You have been busy—that bleach is strong. I can barely breathe! I don’t know how you can stand it,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is strong, isn’t it? I thought I must have slept heavy, but perhaps I was unconscious.’
‘You have to wonder how good it is for you,’ Lil said. ‘I don’t like chemicals much. Perhaps you should open up some windows.’
That was what Margaret had suggested. He opened them now and reached for the candle he’d set up, ready for nightfall. Its flickering light turned their forms into gigantic shadows dancing across the walls.
‘Do you mind if I sit for a minute, Jack?’
‘Not at all. I’d make you a cup of tea, but I haven’t found my teapot yet. I guess it’s buried in one of the boxes up at the Skippers.’
‘Don’t worry about that—I’ve drunk enough tea today to float the Titanic. I swear that I would spring a leak if you stuck a pin into me. You eat your dinner while it’s still warm.’
‘I will. Thanks, Lil.’
‘So. Have you been able to find Sofia?’
Lil’s question shattered the companionable atmosphere. He felt her eyes boring into him and knew that despite the dim light of the van, he was being subjected to the scrutiny of her psychologist’s gaze.
‘She’s gone... back to Spain.’
‘Spain!’
‘Yes, Lil, Spain! I had a telegram from her. She could not forgive me for Scotty’s death, and so she’s gone. Now I just need to accept that, and get myself together, somehow.’
‘Oh, Jack, no! It seems very odd that she would go back to Spain, but then she was in a terrible state after the accident. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone in such a deep state of grief before. I am so very sorry, Jack. ’
‘Well, thank you, but being sorry is not helpful. I’ve had enough sympathy, and now I need to get on with my life. There’s nothing more for it, really. So, Lil—that’s how it is. Tomorrow I will go into Goldsbrough, Mort & Co, and arrange to get back to work. Get some routine into my life. All of this sitting around has been dreadful.’
‘Are you sure? It seems very soon, after all that you’ve been through.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Okay. You know best, I suppose. Just let me know if we can do anything...’
‘How’re the lessons in Queen Street going? Justus still inspiring the masses?’ Jack tried not to feel rude as he changed the subject.
Chapter 7
It was Saturday morning. Sitting outside his van, as had become his habit on the weekends, Jack inhaled the sweetness of the morning air. Already, the bees were at work on the eucalyptus tree beside him, harvesting pollen from its wispy cream coloured flowers. It was comforting sitting in the morning sunshine, listening to the sounds drifting across from the kitchen. The murmur of female voices. The deeper tones of Justus; he always rose early and cooked his own bacon and eggs. Jack had once enjoyed joining Justus at this early hour, sharing a quiet chat and a cup of coffee before the work day began. He could hear the intermittent cries of the infants and smiled, picturing a mother—probably Sonia, for she seemed to be the one who undertook the early morning care of the babies—coaxing cereal into firmly closed mouths, their tiny heads stubbornly turning away from the spoons loaded with the grey gruel that she’d be offering them. Yuk. He wouldn’t eat it either, he thought.
The squeaking brakes of a vehicle, followed by doors slamming, laughter and crunching gravel, drifted from the carpark. Justus’ students arriving, as excited as he and Sofia had once been when they’d first starting coming here, back in the early days of building the retreat. Jack knew that today they planned to complete the stonework around the entry of the Great Hall, which was already looking a picture. Certainly, the building had lived up to its role as the jewel in the crown of Montsalvat, with its picturesque balcony, leadlight windows and its oversized front door with its iron bolts that looked like something out of a mediaeval fantasy.
Jack wondered if Matcham would come across for a chat. He often did. He’d probably want Jack to join everyone at the building site. Perhaps today, he might. He really should make more effort; but then again, there would be more of Justus’ new students coming, and they were always so exhausting. Interested in everything, eager for him to answer their questions about his life here at Montsalvat—his art, the construction of the buildings, and the circumstances of when he first committed to living on the site. It would be easier for Jack to just stay where he was, out of the way of them all.
A magpie settled beside his outstretched legs. Watching Jack, the bird’s head tilted from side to side as if assessing his mood. Jack flicked a piece of dried crust from the loaf beside him, and the bird’s beak snapped as he leapt for it.
In honesty, Jack preferred weekdays to weekends. Then he had a clear routine. Wake up, splash his face in the cold water in his wash basin, get dressed and walk to the train station. After boarding the train, he’d close his eyes, lose himself to the rhythmic rocking of the carriage, enjoying the minutes of oblivion as it rolled along the tracks into the city. Jack found that feigning sleep was best, a good way to avoid the morning greetings from the fellowship of workers who shared the daily commute.
It had been three months since he’d returned to work, and he’d survived the initial awkwardness where neither he nor his workmates knew what to say. ‘Sorry,’ was perhaps the easiest conversation to deal with. Just the single word. Then he could nod in acknowledgement, and they could move on to talk about wool prices or account discrepancies.
It was the ones who wanted to say more that wore him down. Especially the women in the secretarial pool. He could always feel it coming. ‘Oh, Jack.... It is so awful.... That poor little baby... I can’t imagine how you are feeling...’ How was he supposed to answer?
Some were at it for weeks. ‘Jack, are you eating? Can I do anything for you? Have you heard from Sofia?’ He knew that they meant well, but, their overtures of kindness were misguided. He came to work to escape his private life, not to expose his inner feelings. He’d discovered that by pasting a smile on his face and speaking first, bidding them good morning and asking if they had any messages for him, he had a better chance of deflecting comments of a personal nature. All day he was on guard—approaching every encounter with his workmates with caution. The last thing he needed was a probing comment at the wrong minute of the day, a “Poor Jack” coinciding at a time when all that was terribly wrong with his life bristled at the foremost of his thoughts, making his hands tremble, his eyes well and his throat close. A kindly enquiry at such a moment could bring his fragile façade crashing down.
At the end of each day, after the return train journey, he’d continued the long-held habit of the artists, dropping in at the Eltham pub for a couple of pints before dinner, and then walking back to Montsalvat. Sometimes he’d share dinner in the dining room with Lil and the Skippers, Arthur and anyone else who was staying at the retreat, but more frequently lately, he ate here at the van. It was easier. On Friday nights he’d stay at the pub for dinner, then pick up a carton of beer, and with the clinking bottles balanced on his shoulder, he’d make his way up the hill in the dark. A little weekend cheer.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel nearby caught his attention.
‘Margaret! I didn’t hear your car. Good to see you!’
‘Hi to you, Jack. How are you?’ Her eyes, from which nothing ever escaped, glanced around, and he knew she’d seen the pile of brown bottles heaped against the stringy-bark tree nearest the van. She’d be noticing the table that had tilted over, its contents—his washbasin and shaving gear—now strewn across the ground. A storm a few days earlier had created havoc around the van. Or perhaps it was last weekend. Jack couldn’t remember. He’d get to tidying it when he had a minute.
Margaret had visited him each weekend when he first moved into the van. She’d coax him to go with her for a drive, or, when he resisted, she’d sit with him in the sun. Margaret talked too much... always full of advice. Lately her visits had ended in arguments. Well, perhaps not arguments. Just her leaving abruptly, irritated with him, frustrated by his inactivity. She didn’t like seeing him at Montsalvat. She thought he was drinking too much and wasn’t painting enough. In return, he’d get annoyed with her for bossing him. ‘I’m fine,’ he’d say. ‘You worry too much. Leave me alone.’
That was it. He just wanted to be left alone. Today, he could see from the way Margaret stood, her body purposeful—her eyes shrewd—that she had a plan in mind, and she would not take no for an answer.
* * *
‘Get dressed. We need to go to Melbourne.’
Here she goes, he thought. Going to Melbourne! He’d just spent a week travelling back and forth to Melbourne each day for work. Why on earth would he want to go to Melbourne now?
‘I am dressed,’ he replied.
‘No, Jack. That’s the suit you wore to work yesterday... you must have slept in it. Come on. I’ll help you find something.’
It wasn’t the first time that Jack had fallen asleep in his work clothes, and he didn’t resist when she stepped around him and clambered into the caravan. He smiled to himself. Won’t she have something to say when she sees the mess in there? he thought, waiting for a barrage of criticism to come hurtling through the van’s open door.
To her credit, Margaret said nothing, and he listened to the sounds of her moving things about inside the van.
‘So, these are the clean clothes?’ she called out. He guessed she’d found the wash basket that Lena delivered to him every week—freshly washed shirts and work pants, his singlets and socks neatly folded on top. The arrangement had started with barely a conversation weeks earlier, and it suited Jack well: Lena slipping into his van to do a quick scan for his dirty laundry while he was at work, removing the soiled garments, returning them clean.
The only words ever spoken had been Lena’s. ‘Did you get your washing, Jack?’ To which he’d replied, ‘Yes, thank you, Lena.’ She’d followed with, ‘I’ll pop over in a few days and collect your soiled clothing.’ And she had. Good old Lena. That’s what Jack liked about living here at Montsalvat. They left you in peace.
He followed Margaret’s voice, heading into the van.
‘Jack, put these on; we need to get moving.’ She waved towards the clean underwear, a shirt and a pair of trousers that she’d laid out on the table.
‘What’s the hurry, Margaret? Where are you taking me?’
‘There’s a meeting. I think you might like it.’
Jack smiled yet again. It was a funny habit that he’d grown into, this smile that came from nowhere. It was as though deep within himself he was watching the outside world, the people in it, and found them amusing. Sometimes he amused himself. This time his smile was for Margaret; for her choice of words. A month ago, she’d have said, ‘You need to get out, Jack. It would be good for you.’ The type of phrase that raised his hackles—people telling him what was good for him. Margaret was doing better, he decided; and because of this, he felt inclined to humour her.
It took all of twenty minutes for him to change his clothes, splash icy water from the steel bucket onto his face and run a comb through his hair.
‘You’re off, Jack,’ Mervyn commented as they passed him on their way to the carpark. Margaret answered for him.
‘Yes, Mervyn. We are going to the meeting at CAS. You’ve heard of them? They’re planning an exhibition.’
‘Oh, good on you,’ Mervyn replied. ‘They are doing a good job, for sure—sticking it to Menzies.’
‘Where on earth are you taking me?’ Jack asked, as he settled into her little beauty, a flicker of curiosity stirring. Sticking it to the prime minister? What sort of rebellion was Margaret leading him into?
‘The Contemporary Art Society’s meeting, Jack. They seem to be an interesting mob. Another bunch of artists who are fed up with the National Gallery School’s single-mindedness. And now, with Menzies on their side, sticking his bib into art policy, declaring that he wants to create an Australian Academy of Art.’ Margaret tweaked her forefingers to emphasise the title, ‘to preserve and protect traditional art and therefore, obviously, the status of traditional artists! What on earth will happen to modern artists? Who’s representing them? Well, a group has decided to fight back. I was down at the Wattle Tea Rooms on Tuesday and met a lady, Cynthia, who was talking about it. When she noticed that I was listening, she gave me this... Apparently The Herald is sponsoring an exhibition of modern artworks, to be brought from Europe next year. It sounds really interesting.’ Reaching into her bag, Margaret recovered a pamphlet and handed it to him.
Jack glanced at the crumpled pamphlet, titled, To Art Lovers. Just what Margaret would like. She was an art lover, there was no doubt. Was he? He’d been good at painting once, though he couldn’t be bothered anymore. Certainly, he’d once loved the lifestyle of an artist. The life that he and Sofia and Andrés had shared in Malaga had been wonderful. And here at Montsalvat, beyond the building projects, he’d enjoyed Justus’ demonstrations of the tonalist techniques beneath the gum trees on a Saturday afternoon. But was he interested in all the arguments about art anymore? The endless debates about the role of critics and the freedom of artists, of traditionalism versus new techniques, the vying for recognition of women and modernists? Really, did any of it matter? Not to him. Not today.
