Searching for Sofia, page 9
‘Margaret!’ Had he spoken? Warm tears trickled down his face and he felt them pooling against the pillow. Opening his eyes, he saw Margaret scrubbing her own face with the back of her hand.
‘Oh, Jack! We will get you through this. You rest—I’ll sit here for a bit longer.’
He nodded and closed his eyes, glad for the warmth of her hand in his as he retreated into the abyss that sleep offered.
* * *
When he woke late that afternoon, Jack felt embarrassed and tried to make amends by cleaning his van until it was spotless, and then taking a long shower. When Sonia offered to trim his hair, he accepted.
Evaluating his life, Jack resolved that the mid-week drinking needed to stop. From now on, he would join the Skippers and Jorgensens for dinner, just like he’d done in those first few weeks of his return to Montsalvat. Before he’d decided the evening gatherings were too difficult and avoided them by eating alone in the caravan, or at the pub.
He’d get more involved with the building projects, too. Do some carving with Sonia. She had less time for her stonework now that she had Saskia, and would be glad of some help. Fresh air, sunshine and physical work would do him good. He’d stop wallowing in despair. The third thing Jack planned was to visit his parents more frequently. He knew they worried about him. William called in to Jack’s office twice a week and they’d eat lunch together, chatting about their work at Goldsbrough, Mort & Co, but he hadn’t seen his mother for weeks. He found the sadness in her eyes hard to bear; she too was heartbroken by the loss of Scotty, and though they’d never say it, he suspected that his parents blamed all that had happened on his and Sofia’s choice to live at Montsalvat. As though they’d made an irresponsible decision and were now reaping the consequences.
The other thing Jack planned to do was to write a letter to Sofia. Not one of the rambling drunken letters that he’d started more than once, but a serious letter. Certainly, there were things between them that needed to be worked out. Her belongings, for one thing—not just her clothing, but there was also the issue of the tea chest, which was now in Margaret’s care. He assumed that Sofia would make her way to Malaga, and so he’d write to Father Sebastian. He wondered why he hadn’t thought to do it earlier. Of all the people in Sofia’s life, she would surely turn to him. The priest had cared deeply for Sofia and been very suspicious of Jack’s motives when he’d arrived at the finca with the twins eight years earlier. Jack would tell him how happy he and Sofia had been, assure Father Sebastian that he loved her, that he’d done his best to care for her. That he’d never meant to cause her this terrible pain.
* * *
‘Just Jack! You are back,’ Margaret said the following morning, grinning at him, using the nickname she’d given him on their very first meeting years earlier.
Together, they sat in the sun, making small talk. He felt embarrassed by yesterday and apologised for the state he had been in when she’d arrived to take him to Heide, but she waved his words away. He appreciated Margaret’s capacity to mend things. She was never one to harp, but rather, she sought solutions. Made the best of things. He knew she’d have no more wish to revisit yesterday’s nightmare than he.
‘You should see Heide, Jack, it’s beautiful! Like a paradise, really. And Sunday Reed! She’s the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. Quite a stunner, too. Just like Cynthia—remember her? You met her at the CAS meeting. Sunday and Cynthia are sisters-in-law, though with their willowy limbs and stylish haircuts, you could think they were sisters. Too thin, if you ask me, but that half-starved look is all the rage in Europe, and now it’s trickling over here. Sunday’s taste in clothes is exquisite—so very chic... I felt positively drab in her presence.’
Thinking for a minute, Jack realised that Margaret was referring to her visit to John Reed’s house yesterday–to Heide. He was supposed to have gone with her.
He felt contrite, but Margaret was not seeking to make him feel guilty. ‘You would love everything about the place... it’s just your thing.’
‘How so?’
‘They are all about art there, too. Like here.’ Margaret looked around dubiously—Montsalvat’s rustic charm had never appealed to her. ‘Perhaps not exactly like here, but Justus and the Reeds share the same objectives. They want to create environments that nurture artists. John and Sunday are very wealthy. I did a bit of asking around. And as it turns out, Sunday is a Baillieu—they are one of Melbourne’s richest families. Perhaps even the richest! Her family home is not far from your parents, but, with all due respect, Jack, it makes your parents’ home look like a shack. Sunday is their only daughter, and as you can imagine, she’s been spoiled rotten. She comes from just the sort of people I usually hate. Like those rich young socialites we saw in London, running around like they owned the world. But here is the irony: not only are Sunday and John wealthy, but they are mad about art—live and breathe it—and what’s more, it’s where they put their money. And not the usual fuddy-duddy traditional works that rich people like to show off. Sunday and John are interested in new works. Unknown artists. Modern art.’
‘Contemporary, you mean,’ Jack added.
‘That’s right, contemporary. They are dedicated to developing a style of art that is uniquely Australian. One that will be identifiable and valued the world over. You should see their collection! They also support a number of artists. Financially, that is. They like to work really closely with them. “Co-creation,” Sunday calls it. It’s all quite unusual.’
Jack listened, but could not share Margaret’s enthusiasm for this new group of artists she’d discovered. He’d drawn and painted his entire life, and look where it had gotten him. Just like art throughout history, it had taken far more than it had given. He liked living at Montsalvat, but it was not so much because he was with artists as because he felt like he was amongst family here. He was among people who cared, without intruding. He knew that they watched out for him. Lil popped over every few days, and Matcham and his sisters often brought the babies across to the van, along with a date loaf or something from their oven, and he’d make a pot of tea for them to share. In turn, he’d work on the buildings or take a shovel to the garden. At Montsalvat there was no judgement or expectations. But as far as actually painting was concerned, Jack no longer had the heart for it, nor was he interested in the many conversations it inspired.
Not so Margaret, though. She was clearly captivated by the Reeds.
‘John is a lawyer. He and Cynthia come from Tasmania. They were raised in the strictest of conditions. Their father is a staunch Catholic and sounds truly awful. Selfish and self-seeking, John said. Full of religious dogma, but with no care for the poor or for the inequalities of society—only interested in preserving his wealth and status. John hates everything that they stand for. He’s even considering joining the communists, and just to annoy his father, he goes to their party meetings.
Jack was surprised. The Australian Communist Party always came under fire in the newspapers. While many times he’d scanned articles which described modern artists as communists, he’d always been amazed. Nobody he’d known had ever shown the slightest interest in politics other than where the next government grants for the arts were being relegated.
‘And Sunday?’ Jack asked. ‘What about her? Is she a communist, too?’
‘Oh, Sunday is all about art and culture. In fact, she talked non-stop about books—asked a hundred questions about my cousins. She was particularly interested in Virginia—her writing, her inspirations and childhood. The truth is, I’m sure Sunday knows more about Virginia’s writings than I ever will. She went on and on about how Ginnie uses “stream of consciousness,” whatever that is, and was very impressed with the way she’d addressed “the implications of a person’s sex” in A Room of One’s Own. Good gracious, Sunday doesn’t just read books... she studies them! Intellectualises about them. Not only did I feel drab next to her, I felt like a bloody clod-head for not even knowing about my cousin’s writing.’
Jack chuckled, the sound of his laughter foreign to his ears. He’d like to meet the woman with the capacity to intimidate Margaret!
‘They are keen to meet you, Jack. I said that we’d go out next weekend for afternoon tea. How does that sound?’
Jack nodded. In all honesty, the mere thought of talking to strangers exhausted him. However, after yesterday’s debacle, it was time for him to get a grip on himself.
For an hour they sat in the sun and chattered, and then he accompanied Margaret on the drive back into Melbourne, where she dropped him, along with his overnight bag, outside his parents’ home. She reminded him of his promise to visit Heide with her next week, and he agreed to be ready at two pm.
Chapter 9
‘Fruit Basket Country,’ Margaret said, drawing Jack’s attention to the neat rows of trees with their tissue-fine blossoms—pinks, yellows and whites—coating the spindly, leafless branches. Apples, peaches, plums and apricots. He identified each as they passed the chequered paddocks on their way to the Reeds.
‘Soon, they will be laden with juicy ripe fruit! How lovely.’ Jack supposed that Margaret’s ceaseless chatter was intended to keep his mind focused on the present, to stop him from withdrawing into himself as he so often did.
‘And here’s Heide. By the way Jack, I must tell you, Sunday is a little bit hard of hearing. She is quite sensitive about it, too. Was sharp with me when she couldn’t hear me properly a couple of times last week. She made it very clear that she doesn’t like mumblers! Just thought that I’d warn you!’
‘Thanks, Margaret. I will do my best! We don’t want to go upsetting the wonderful Sunday Reed, do we, now?’
‘No, Jack. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Sunday is lovely! Just sensitive about her deafness, that’s all. After all, it’s not as though she is an old lady. I imagine forever having to say pardon to people is very frustrating for her.’
* * *
The first thing Jack noticed as they turned into Heide’s drive was a sense of order. Lavender bushes in neat rows lined the driveway—not just randomly spaced bushes, but orderly hedges. The piles of iron, second-hand timber and rubble heaps that dotted Montsalvat’s carpark were nowhere to be found here. Margaret brought the vehicle to a standstill alongside the porch of a cream-coloured house.
Roses surrounded the entrance, their sweet scent filling the air. His mother would be envious of these, Jack thought, admiring the near-perfect blooms. The sound of pulsing trumpets, a double bass, saxophones and piano, accompanied by gravelly voices, drifted through the open windows. Their sound was strange; Jack hadn’t heard music for months. It was jazz and reminded him of Parisian nightlife.
Jack admired the sky-blue front door, the whiff of fresh paint lingering around it, and he’d barely finished knocking when a slim, fair-haired lady greeted them, kissing Margaret as one might a close friend even though they’d only met the previous week. Margaret was right. Sunday Reed oozed style. Not just in her apparel—slim-fitting slacks and tight shirt—it was something else. A subtle aspect in her presence, calm and poised but underpinned by a healthy vitality. She had tanned arms and bright, clear eyes. Her movements were at once delicate and yet commanding. When she turned to Jack, the eyes looking at him were candid, giving him the impression that she knew more about him than he would have liked. Squirming uncomfortably under her gaze, he nodded towards the roses.
‘Beautiful gardens you have here.’ Jack was conscious of speaking louder than usual, and hoped that he didn’t sound like he was yelling.
He must have struck the right note, for her face lit up. ‘Aren’t they just heavenly? They’re the delight of my life. The entire garden is, really. I can’t get enough of it. I’ll take you for a walk through it later, Jack, but first, come inside and we will have some tea. I have just taken a tray of scones from the oven—we must have them while they’re warm!’
Sunday’s voice was soft and feminine. Different to the brash tones of the Skipper women, who always spoke loudly, as though the people they spoke to were hard of hearing. Different to Sofia’s lilting tones with her Spanish accent that had always sounded like music to Jack’s ears. Different to Margaret, whose voice was... well... Margaret’s. Sunday’s voice was like honey. Sweet and seductive. Cultured. For the first time in years, Jack was reminded of Clarice Beckett, the beautiful woman and talented artist whose life had been steeped in thwarted love and denied opportunity, and then tragically ended in an untimely death. She had a way of speaking that was similar to Sunday.
It seemed odd, entering the Reed’s home. Jack felt like an intruder entering a sacrosanct space to which he didn’t belong. Beyond his parents’ house, he rarely entered the privacy of other people’s homes. Montsalvat had never had a sense of privacy; everywhere excepting Lil’s House, was communal, shared not only by the Skippers and Jorgensens, but by any visitor who wished to arrive. Jack was familiar with the communal lifestyle. It was this quietness and seclusion that felt unfamiliar.
As though sensing his discomfort, Sunday linked her arm through his and led him down the hallway. The promise of her baking infused the air, its inviting aroma merging with a tangy floral perfume, and Jack noticed small bunches of lavender placed in glass jars and vases throughout the house. He also noticed, in addition to the paintings on the walls, dozens of canvases were stacked along the hallway and even in the sitting room. Margaret was right—the Reeds sure loved art.
‘Oh, Margaret, Jack, you made it. That’s wonderful. So lovely to see you again!’ Like Sunday, John greeted Margaret with a kiss and then turned to Jack, shaking his hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Jack. We were sorry to miss you last week.’
‘John, how about you take Jack and Margaret to the dining room? I will fetch the tea and bring it through,’ Sunday suggested.
‘Let me help,’ offered Margaret, and, without waiting for a reply, she followed Sunday out of the room.
‘You sure have some paintings here,’ Jack said, speaking first to avoid any uncomfortable questions about his absence the previous weekend.
‘Yes, we do... wonderful, aren’t they?’
Jack nodded. Indeed, some of the paintings were intriguing. Out of politeness more than anything, he moved closer to study an abstract. He couldn’t help thinking that it looked like a piece of string had been loosely dropped onto the canvas and the spaces between painted in various shades of yellow.
‘What do you think of that, Jack? “Organised Line to Yellow.” One of Sam Atyeo’s. We believe it is Australia’s first modern painting. These here are also Sam’s work.’
Jack moved along the wall, looking at the works John had indicated. They reminded him of the line paintings Sofia had in her chest by the Spanish artist, Miro.
‘They’re interesting, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine the traditionalists liking them.’ Jack wasn’t sure who would like them, beyond the Reeds. Not his parents, and neither did he think that he’d want them hanging on his own walls. He’d learned to like some abstract works, like those of Wassily Kandinsky and Paul Klee, but these paintings were far too strange for his taste.
He was relieved to avoid further comment when cheerful chattering, accompanied by the rattle of a tray, signalled the return of Margaret and Sunday. Within minutes, the dining room table was laden with a set of blue floral cups, saucers and plates and a matching sugar and creamer set. As Sunday lifted the cloth covering the scones, a sweet aroma was released. Jack couldn’t remember the last time that he’d eaten home-baked scones, and the promise of these, slathered in jam and cream, was enticing.
As they ate, Sunday dominated the conversation. Since she’d seen Margaret last week she’d delved deeper into Heide’s library, resurrecting two books written by Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse and Jacob’s Room, which were now laid upon the table.
As though not to be outdone by Sunday’s appreciation for Bloomsburys, John had unearthed a copy of Clive Bell’s book with the simple title Art.
‘I knew that I had this tucked away on our shelves, Margaret! Truly, your cousin’s husband Clive is an extraordinary man. And to think he wrote this over two decades ago! Listen to this...’
In a warm, well-modulated voice that revealed an enjoyment for reading aloud, John recited, ‘... The one good thing Society can do for the artist is to leave him alone. Give him liberty. The more completely the artist is freed from the pressure of public taste and opinion, from the hope of rewards and the menace of morals, from the fear of absolute starvation or punishment, and from the prospect of wealth or popular consideration, the better for him and the better for art, and therefore the better for everyone.
Finishing, he looked up, expectantly, and Jack nodded. These were in fact familiar arguments to him.
‘Isn’t that exactly what we say, Sunday? Artists should be free to get on with expressing themselves, not forever combating critics or being forced to paint like trained monkeys. That’s the problem with exhibitions—they force artists to focus on that which is sellable.’
Jack nodded, glancing at Margaret as if to say, ‘See!’, for Clive’s words reflected Justus Jorgensen’s criticism of exhibitions—how they resulted in reviews and judgements about paintings by people who knew nothing about art. This meant that in order to achieve success, artists were compelled to paint in styles that would please the taste of reviewers! Yet again, thoughts of Clarice Beckett returned to him; how male reviewers had repeatedly discredited her ability, as they did so many female artists. As if a canvas cared whether the hand wielding a brush upon it were male or female!
And hadn’t the paintings he and Andrés created for the finca’s gallery been tailored to tourists? Yes. Jack could see how painting for audiences limited an artist’s creativity.
Listening to John’s passionate analysis of Clive Bell’s words transported him back in time, to the afternoon when he’d sat in the dining room of Charleston, holding his breath, while Roger and Clive had scrutinised his paintings. He’d listened as Clive shared his theory of aesthetic emotion, explaining how true art would move the hearts of its viewers.
