Searching for Sofia, page 8
His head ached, and he leaned back, half-listening to Margaret while scanning the sidewalks, willing Sofia to appear. Perhaps he’d find her walking along Upper Plenty Road, a basket on her arm holding fresh bread and vegetables. Maybe she’d been living just streets away all this while. There was a line-up of people at a bus stop and he examined their faces. He shook himself. It had become a habit—perhaps even an obsession—this looking for Sofia. He couldn’t help it. Even though he knew that she was on a ship to Spain—there by now, he supposed—this searching among commuters, peering into the backyards of houses on his daily train journey, looking through the open doorways of shops, never ceased.
The drive took barely thirty minutes and before he knew it, Margaret was settling her vehicle into a park in a narrow back lane and leading Jack to a second-floor office in Collins Street. Already, fifteen or more people, male and female, were gathered around a long table, while a few others sat around the periphery of the room. He and Margaret quietly settled into the nearest vacant seats. Looking around, Jack did not recognise any faces.
* * *
The meeting was being run on formal terms, like one of the monthly meetings he used to attend at Goldsbrough, Mort & Co. A man stood at the front, clearing his throat, preparing to address the group.
‘Let’s get underway.’ His voice was by nature soft, and he forced volume into his opening sentence to gain attention. He glanced across to Jack and Margaret, and then scanned those seated along the periphery of the room, before speaking.
‘I’d like to begin by welcoming our visitors here today. I’m John Reed, secretary of our group—The Contemporary Art Society. Thank you for joining us... It is wonderful to know that so many people share our interest in the advancement of modern art in Australia.’
Returning his attention to those sitting at the table, Reed distributed a document for their perusal. For a minute or two he referred to various pages, paragraphs and sentences. It was a constitution of sorts; and from Reed’s comments, Jack deduced that he had tabled a draft version at a previous meeting where they’d wrangled over the intricacies of the legal jargon framing its terms. Today, the re-tabled document was unanimously accepted, and The Constitution for the Contemporary Art Society was officially instated. To Jack, it felt like a momentous event where applause might be in order, but nobody clapped.
Reed then introduced a Mr Peter Bellew, who stood and spoke about the key agenda item—the art exhibition Margaret had mentioned that morning. Bellew was a young man, barely twenty, Jack guessed—and at possibly half the age of John Reed—appeared to have twice the older man’s confidence and three times his volume. In Jack’s opinion he was full of self-importance, reinforced as with a flourish the young man turned to those sitting along the edges of the room—including himself and Margaret—advising them that he was a reporter at the Herald, then describing Murdoch’s plans to bring a series of important paintings from Europe. After being shown in Adelaide, the works would be transported to Melbourne, and then Sydney and perhaps even Brisbane. The Herald hoped to acquire Van Goghs, Cezannes, Seurats, Picassos, Matisses and Gauguins for the display. It would be an extraordinary collection of paintings, the likes of which Australians had never seen. Bellew continued, using tones as though he were speaking to small children, that whilst Murdoch was sponsoring the exhibition, and the Herald’s arts reporter Basil Burdett, was the key organiser, presently on a tour of London and Paris to search out paintings for the exhibition, the Herald—aka himself—was thankful for the Contemporary Art Society’s agreement to assist in the planning for the event. Bellows then returned his attention to those seated at the table, and suggested that it was time they agreed on a working title of the exhibition, so that promotional activities could begin.
For the next forty minutes, considerable toing and froing took place. The CAS members firstly agreed the title should include a reference to London and Paris, ensuring that Australians realised modern artworks were not a mere local fad, but highly esteemed in the leading art centres of the world. A quietly spoken man introduced as George Bell—the president of the CAS—suggested that they’d do well to consider substituting the word ‘Modern’ with ‘Contemporary’ in the exhibition’s title. He felt that while ‘modernism’ may be celebrated in Paris and London, in Australia it was viewed as ‘the product of degenerates and perverts’ as cited by the National Gallery’s director himself. The director’s description seemed to echo Jack’s own shocked reaction to Salvador Dali when he’d seen his work in the Musee du Luxembourg, eight years earlier, and suddenly he felt like an imposter; the one person in the room who didn’t wholeheartedly support the works of modern artists.
‘Yes,’ Bellew agreed with the CAS president. ‘And moreover, last week Menzies was linking modern art to communism! Can you believe that even the prime minister would stoop to using politics to prejudice the public against anything with a whiff of “modernism”.’
Jack nodded his agreement when Bellew added that since they were, in fact, the Contemporary Art Society, using the word ‘contemporary’ in the exhibition’s title would strengthen the credibility of CAS.
Still on the subject of the exhibition’s title, Bellew gathered steam, his confidence further increased by the success of his previous suggestions. ‘I think it goes without saying that we include the word ‘Herald’ in the title. After all, Keith is sponsoring the exhibition.’ Jack couldn’t help but smile. Anyone would think Bellew knew the owner of the newspaper—and one of Australia’s richest men—personally. ‘It’s a real boon for us to have him onside. The possibilities are enormous, not only because Keith is influential, but also because it gives us tremendous opportunities for advertising as well as for controlling the reviews that are published.’
Jack nodded again. All Australians knew of the remarkable power Murdoch single-handedly wielded as publisher of Australia’s largest newspaper group—a vehicle that was perfect for shaping and influencing attitudes towards contemporary art, or anything else that he chose. It made good sense to exploit Murdoch’s endorsement of the exhibition.
And so, the vote on the title was unanimous: ‘The Herald Exhibition of Contemporary Art of London and Paris’. Quite a mouthful, but every word carried a weight that would surely further Australians’ opportunity to appreciate modern art.
After confirming that despite the National Gallery flatly refusing to house the exhibition, Reed revealed that Melbourne’s Lower Town Hall was available for them in October, and the opening date was set for the sixteenth. Finally, the meeting was over.
Within seconds, a woman with short-cropped hair appeared beside Jack and Margaret, accompanied by John Reed. She smiled broadly, greeted Margaret with enthusiasm, and turning, introduced herself to him as Cynthia Reed. Jack rightfully guessed that she was the woman whom Margaret had met the previous week—the one who’d given Margaret the pamphlet and invited her to this meeting.
‘John, this is Margaret. Remember, I told you about her. She is very interested in what we are doing here. What did you think of our meeting, Margaret!’
‘It certainly was interesting! Usually, the only artists that I talk to are the self-opinionated bores promoting their views at the pub. It’s wonderful to meet a group that is actually doing something constructive. The exhibition sounds fabulous!’ Margaret turned to John. ‘Let us know if we can do anything to help—you know, sell tickets at the door, anything. We would love to assist, wouldn’t we, Jack?’
Jack smiled and nodded. Of course, what else could he do?
‘Thank you. Margaret, is it? I will remember that. There’ll be plenty to do as the date gets closer. Twelve months will go fast, I am sure. At present it is all discussions about packaging, transport and insurances. It’s quite an ordeal to bring almost three hundred of the world’s most famous paintings across the globe.’
Cynthia interrupted. ‘I am glad that you came, Margaret and you too, Jack. I am sorry to be rude, but I have to dash, so I will leave you to it. Margaret, do tell John about your cousins! He will be fascinated.’
Reed laughed. ‘Okay, off you go... catch up soon, love.’ He then turned to them. ‘So, you are both artists?’
‘Jack is. He studied and exhibited in Paris, met Picasso and all.’
John turned to Jack with interest. ‘So, you studied in Paris! Good for you. It sounds like the most wonderful of places. My wife, Sunday, has been there, but unfortunately I haven’t yet made the trip. And you, Margaret? Did you also study in Paris? Are you an artist, too?’
‘Oh, well. I paint, and yes, I did do a brief stint of lessons in Montparnasse. Unlike Jack, I’m not up to exhibition standard, but it’s in my genes, you could say. Ness Bell’s my cousin, and... well, she and her husband, Clive, they introduced me to painting when I was a child.’
‘You are related to Ness and Clive Bell? Of Bloomsbury fame? Such connections! So that would make Virginia Woolf your cousin. My wife—both of us—are huge fans of the Bloomsburys. We love Virginia’s writing. Wait till I tell Sunday that you were here today. She would love to meet you both. Could I entice you out to Heide? Perhaps sometime soon?’
Jack immediately observed the transformation in John. Though he’d been charming and polite in his preliminary greetings, his eyes had taken on the glint of a zealot when Margaret mentioned her family connections in England. As always, it surprised Jack to discover that the Bloomsburys’ influence was so far-reaching.
‘Why, thank you. We’d love to,’ Margaret replied. ‘You just say when, John, and we’ll be there, won’t we, Jack?’
Jack nodded, uncertainly. As often had been the case since he’d known her, Margaret’s actions gained the momentum of a tidal wave, with him being swept along.
‘Let’s say next Saturday, then. Sunday will do us some lunch. She’ll be thrilled when I tell her you’re coming!’
Chapter 8
The following Saturday, Jack’s first conscious thought was of chilling moisture seeping through his body. Voices above him filtered through a foggy void, the sound contributing to a throbbing pain across his forehead. His effort to move incited a flurry of chatter.
‘He’s waking!’
‘Are you alright, Jack?’
‘Jack, sit up. You can’t stay here. It’s about to rain!’
Then came Lil’s voice. ‘Good Lord! He must have been here since yesterday. He came home from work on Thursday in a terrible state. Well, not directly from work, exactly. He’d had a few pints at the Eltham. We heard him come in. Could hear him from the dining room making a terrible ruckus. Mervyn and Matcham came over to see what was happening, but he just roared at them. They couldn’t do a thing for him.’
‘Yes, he lunged at us whenever we got close. We got him inside the van once, but he just came straight out again.’ That was Matcham.
‘And then, all day yesterday, he sat here in his chair. Quiet enough; subdued by the alcohol, I imagine. Sonia encouraged him to get changed—his clothes were soaking—and she brought some lunch across, and later some dinner. But from the looks of this, he hasn’t eaten anything.’ Jack pictured them looking at the enamel plate of cold mashed potato, beans and lamb chops he’d left sitting on the bench. He’d felt too ill to eat.
‘What’s that he’s been drinking?’ Margaret! Jack sensed movement close beside him and listened to the tinkle of glass fragments being dropped on the table. ‘Whiskey! An entire bottle! Plus all of that beer. What was he thinking?’
‘Yes... It doesn’t seem right. When Justus got home last night, we coaxed him into the van... We knew that the rain was coming and we didn’t want him outside for a second night, poor fellow. It’s just awful, all that he’s been through.’
Justus’ voice chimed into the conversation, surprising Jack, who hadn’t realised the Master was also there. ‘Somehow he’s got himself outside again. This is where we found him not five minutes ago.’
Jack squirmed, clarity increasing as the conversation filtered through. He felt uncomfortable, knowing that there was a crowd gathered above gazing down upon him.
Lil spoke—or was it Lena?
‘This isn’t right. Something must have happened on Thursday to set this off.’
Thursday! Something happened? Something happened alright. Jack had seen Sofia. Sofia and Scotty!
* * *
As always, the day in the office had been long. By two o’clock the rows of figures on the ledger had swirled before his eyes, making no sense at all. At five o’clock he’d been glad to leave, and on his way to the station a lady in the distance caught his attention. Small. Her dark hair was caught in a pony tail. Her dress was the blue polka-dot pattern that Sofia wore so often. Jack raced forward, excitement surging through him. It was hard to refrain from calling out. Before he’d covered the distance, a second woman arrived. A lady with a small child beside her. A little boy! The two women had embraced before transferring the child, and then the second lady departed.
Jack was amazed. Sofia and Scotty! Scotty alive! How this could be? But at that minute he hadn’t cared. With his heart singing with joy, he’d closed the gap between them and reached out to touch her. ‘Sofia! I have been looking everywhere for you!’
But it hadn’t been Sofia. Nor was it Scotty. Lookalikes. There to taunt him. Shocked, he’d stood with his heart leaping in his chest, about to burst; a sob rising in his throat. He’d watched the mother pull her child close before turning and hurrying away.
‘Are you alright, mate?’ a man had asked, stepping around him.
Jack could barely remember the walk down the ramp to his train, or the journey home. He did recall stopping at the Eltham for a pint.
But he hadn’t stopped at one pint. There had been a second and then a third. The regulars—Tom the plumber and Cecil, who was a mechanic—attempted conversation, but he’d been in no mood to answer them.
And then it was six o’clock. He had asked for a bottle of Johnny Walker.
‘Are you sure, Jack?’ the barman had asked. ‘I’d say that you might have hit your limit today, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It’s for tomorrow,’ Jack had assured him.
But that night, after drinking the dozen beers he’d had stored in the van, he had opened the whisky, swallowing glass after glass. Finally, he’d managed to obliterate the cruel vision of Sofia and Scotty—the false joy that had filled his heart for those few moments.
Jack had dim memories of the previous evening—the yelling and thrashing, stumbling around in the dark, Justus and Matcham trying to restrain him. He groaned, prompting further comments from above.
‘He’s opening his eyes.’ The unmistakable deep tones were Mervyn’s. When had he arrived? Jack wondered. Were all of Montsalvat’s residents gathered around him?
‘Come on, mate. Up with you now. Let’s get you sorted.’ Matcham, again.
The kindness in their voices was like salt to a wound, and Jack couldn’t control the tears coursing down his cheeks. He didn’t deserve their kindness. He’d lost his baby and his wife, and now he wanted to lose himself.
‘Margaret, I doubt he will be going anywhere today, love.’ That voice was Lena’s. ‘You go on. We’ll look after him. Don’t you worry.’
‘But I hate leaving him like this!’
‘It’s alright. There is nothing to do but get him cleaned up and let him sleep it off. It’s not the first time. He’ll be okay. Matcham, go into the van and get rid of any beer. Make sure there is no more whiskey. I’d say our Jack has had enough drink for today.’
The van barely had room for two adults, and its small space was occupied first by Matcham, who, taking his detective duties seriously, opened every cupboard door in his search for liquor. When he emerged, Lena took his place, deftly filling her wash basket with dirty laundry and straightening the bed. When she retreated, Justus and Matcham helped Jack to stand, and half-pushing, half-pulling, they guided him through the narrow doorway and onto his bed. He lay still, listening as the van fell into silence and the voices outside faded into the distance.
While preferring the fresh atmosphere of the outdoors to the dank, cloying, mildewy confines of the van, Jack was thankful for the softness of the mattress and the pillow beneath his head.
‘Jack?’ It was Margaret speaking, and Jack didn’t know what to say.
‘I am worried about you, Jack.’
Jack ignored this, too. He could hardly defend himself and say that he was fine, could he?
‘We need a better plan for you. This can’t go on.’
Jack listened, his eyes tightly closed, not moving a muscle. No, he thought. This can’t go on. Life—his life—was not worth living. But what could he do? Time heals, Lil had said to him. And yes, he couldn’t deny, there were more moments of lucidity in his days. On balance, now, almost five months after the accident; perhaps eighty percent of the time, to all appearances, he was functioning. He could undertake tasks with sufficient aptitude to convince others he was coping.
Daily, he forced himself to rise from his bed, to put on the smile that was his mask; to adopt a polite, if not cheerful, voice, to provide appropriate responses to greetings, requests and instructions. But these actions were a façade adopted for the benefit of others. At night, visions haunted him—searing flames, billowing smoke, scorching eyes—blazed at him. And then there were the eyes—accusing and full of hate toward him. Jack hated himself.
Margaret’s voice interrupted his torment. ‘Jack, you need to rest. I’ll go now, but I’ll come back tomorrow.’
He sensed her pausing, the movement of her hand near his. He reached out, and clutched, gripping it tightly, as though it were a lifeline.
