33
‘So, that’s the story of how I met my Sarah. It sounds rather ridiculous, but it really was love at first sight for both of us. You could say we rode off into the sunset that very first moment we met.’ Francis’s eyes misted at the memory.
‘She didn’t go back to Adelaide with Kitty?’
‘No. She stayed at Hermannsburg with me. They were glad to have her, what with her sewing skills.’ Francis indicated the embroidered cushion covers. ‘And her natural way with the young ones. She was born to be a mother. The irony was, it took us years to have our own child.’
‘My mother?’ I whispered.
‘Yes. Sadly, the doctors told us she was the only child we could have. We both adored her.’ Francis struggled to suppress a yawn. ‘Do excuse me, it’s getting late.’
Before he made a move to stand up, there was one more question I had to know the answer to before I could sleep. ‘What about Kitty and Drummond?’
‘Now there was a happy ending. He went with her when she left for Europe. God knows how he acquired a passport to do it, given he’d been declared officially dead, but knowing him, he probably paid for a forged one. You could do that kind of thing in the old days.’ Francis smiled. ‘They made their home in Florence where no one knew their past, and lived happily together for the rest of their lives. Kitty never did get to Ayers Rock, mind you. She stayed on at Hermannsburg until just before my grandmother died.’
‘Did Kitty tell you that day that she was your grandmother too? And that Drummond was your great-uncle?’
‘No, she left that to Camira, who told me the whole story on her deathbed a few days later. After they went to Italy, Drummond and Kitty kept in touch regularly with Sarah and me, and in 1978, when she herself died, Kitty left us her apartment in Florence. We sold the apartment and bought this place with the proceeds, with a view to retiring here. The Broome house Kitty had left in a trust for Lizzie, along with her stocks and shares, which had grown over the years to a sizeable sum.’
‘What happened to Ralph Junior and his family at Alicia Hall?’ I queried.
‘Dear Great-Uncle Ralph,’ said Francis with a smile. ‘He was a good man; trustworthy and steadfast to the last. His family always welcomed us at Alicia Hall on the rare occasions we travelled to Adelaide. Little Eddie did rather well for himself too. He blossomed under the tender care of Ruth and Ralph, and once he knew he was safe, he began to speak. Sarah, who kept in touch with him to her dying day, always said that he hadn’t shut up since! He was as bright as a button and became a very successful barrister. He only retired last year. Perhaps one day, I could take you to visit him at Alicia Hall.’
‘Yeah, maybe. So . . .’ I needed to ask the question. ‘Is my birth mum dead too?’
‘She is, yes. I’m sorry, Celaeno.’
‘Well, I suppose you can’t grieve for someone you’ve never known, can you?’ I said eventually. ‘And my dad? Who was he?’
‘He was called Toba and your mother met him while we were still living in Papunya, when she was just sixteen. Papunya was a village full of creative types, and a hub for the local Pintupi and Luritja Aboriginal communities. Your mother fell in love with him but he was an . . . unsuitable man. He was a talented Aboriginal painter, but far too keen on his grog and other women. When she announced she was pregnant with you, we’ – Francis’s fingers curled round each other in tension – ‘suggested that she shouldn’t go through with the pregnancy. I’m sorry, Celaeno, but that’s the truth of it.’
I swallowed hard. ‘I understand. I really do. It was like your history playing out all over again.’
‘Of course, your mother refused to listen to us. If we wouldn’t give permission for her to marry her lover, she threatened that they would elope. She always was impulsive, but I suppose that trait runs in the family.’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘Sadly, neither Sarah nor I thought she would go through with it, so we stood firm. A day later, the two of them left and’ – his voice broke – ‘we never saw her again.’
‘That must’ve been really awful for you. Was there no way of finding her?’
‘As you have already learnt, it’s quite easy to disappear here. But everyone was on the lookout for her, and for years Sarah and I trekked all over the Outback following up on possible sightings. Then one day, we simply couldn’t take it any longer, and decided to finally give up.’
‘I understand. Too much pain when the leads came to nothing.’
‘Exactly, but then when Sarah became seriously ill two years ago, she begged me to have another try, so I engaged a private detective. Six months after she died, I got a call telling me he’d found a woman in Broome who claimed she’d been present at your birth. I admit to not having been enthused with hope – I’d been up too many blind alleys before. But nevertheless, this woman knew your mother’s name: Elizabeth, after Sarah’s beloved English queen.’
‘Elizabeth . . .’ I tried the name out loud for the first time.
‘This woman had been a nurse at the hospital in Broome and I was able to see the date that Lizzie had arrived there in the hospital records, apparently in the throes of childbirth. The dates fitted exactly.’
‘Right. Did this woman mention my father?’
‘She said that Lizzie had been alone. Remember I told you earlier that Kitty had left the Broome house to Lizzie? Your mother had visited it with us and probably thought it was the perfect love nest for her and her waster of a boyfriend. I can only assume that he dumped her somewhere between Papunya and Broome. In her condition, and given the rift at home, your mother probably felt she had no alternative but to continue to Broome alone.’
‘So what happened after she gave birth to me?’
Francis stood up, walked over to a bureau and pulled out a file. ‘Here is your mother’s death certificate. It’s dated seven days after you were born. Lizzie had a severe postpartum infection. The nurse told me she just wasn’t physically strong enough to fight it. Forgive me, Celaeno, there was no easy way to tell you this.’
‘It’s okay,’ I murmured as I stared at the certificate. It was past two in the morning by now, and the words were a mass of jumping squiggles. ‘What about me?’
‘Well, that’s where the story gets a little better. The nurse told me that after your mother died, they kept you for as long as they could, hoping they could find a family who would adopt you. It was obvious when I spoke to her that the nurse had a fondness for you. She said you were a very pretty baby.’
‘Pretty?’ I blurted out. ‘Me?’
‘Apparently so,’ Francis said with a smile. ‘However, after a couple of months they had no choice but to make preparations to hand you over to a local orphanage. Sad to say, even twenty-seven years ago, there was no one who wanted to adopt a mixed-race baby. Just as the paperwork was being processed, she said that a gentleman in expensive clothes turned up at the hospital. From what she recalls, he’d come to Broome to look for a relative, but had found the house in question empty. A neighbour had informed him that the former owner had died, but there had been a young girl living there for a few weeks. The neighbour also told him the girl had been pregnant and he should try the hospital. When the nurse met the man and told him Lizzie had died and left you behind, he offered to adopt you on the spot.’
‘Pa Salt,’ I gasped. ‘What was he doing in Broome? Was he looking for Kitty?’
‘The woman couldn’t remember his name,’ said Francis, ‘but given the circumstances, she suggested he took you back to Europe with him and completed any adoption formalities there. The man left her the name of a lawyer in Switzerland.’ Francis rifled through the file. ‘A Mr Georg Hoffman.’
‘Good old Georg,’ I said, disappointed that Pa had managed to hide his true identity yet again.
‘It was Mr Hoffman I wrote to when I was trying to trace you. I told him you’d been left a legacy – the money and property that Kitty had put in a trust for your mum, which was rightfully yours as Lizzie’s daughter. Once the Broome house was sold, combined with the proceeds from the stocks and shares, it amounted to a healthy sum, as you know. Mr Hoffman wrote back to confirm that his client had indeed adopted you, and that you were well. He promised any funds would be passed on to you directly. I directed the Adelaide solicitor to transfer the money and I also gave him a photograph of me with Namatjira, to be sent alongside the payment.’
‘Why not a photo of Sarah and Lizzie?’
‘Celaeno, I didn’t want to disturb your life if you didn’t want to be found. By the same token, I knew that if you did want to find me here in Australia, it wouldn’t be long until someone recognised Namatjira and his name on the car in the photograph, and pointed you in the direction of Hermannsburg.’ Francis gave a small smile of pleasure. ‘My plan worked!’
‘It did, but I wasn’t going to come at first, you know.’
‘I’d already decided that if you hadn’t turned up within the year, I would contact Georg Hoffman and come and find you. You saved me and my old bones the trouble. Celaeno.’ He took my hands and held them. ‘It’s been so much for you to take in, and a lot of it has been upsetting. Are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m glad I know everything now. It means I can return to London.’
‘Right.’
I could see he thought I meant that I’d changed my mind. ‘Don’t worry,’ I added quickly, ‘as I said earlier, it’s only loose ends that need to be tied up before I move here permanently.’
The grip on my hands tightened. ‘You’re definitely coming to live in Australia?’
‘Yeah, I mean, I reckon that you and me should stick together. We’re the last of the Mercer line, aren’t we? The survivors.’
‘Yes, we are. Although I never want you to feel that you owe me – or your past – anything, Celaeno. If you have a life back in London, don’t do the wrong thing out of guilt. The past is gone. It’s the future that matters.’
‘I know, but I belong here,’ I said, feeling more certain than I’d ever felt about anything in my life. ‘The past is who I am.’
* * *
I woke up the next morning feeling like I had a really bad hangover – caused by information overload, not alcohol. I lay in the room with the pretty flowered curtains under the patchwork quilt that no doubt my grandmother, Sarah, had sewn over many a hot and sweaty night here in the Alice.
I closed my eyes then, thinking of my momentous decision of yesterday, and the weird dream I’d just had, and my hands tingled. It felt like all the angst and pain that had made me needed to be set free so it didn’t poison me from within.
And I knew how to do it.
I got out of bed and pulled on one of my grandmother’s blouses and a pair of her shorts that were flared at the bottom and made my legs look like two lamp stands that were too thick for the lampshades at the top of them.
Francis was eating breakfast in the kitchen at a table that was set for two.
‘Do you by any chance have a spare canvas? Like, the biggest you’ve got?’ I asked him.
‘Of course. Follow me.’
I was grateful he understood my urgency without explanation and I followed him to a greenhouse that he used as a storeroom. I set up my canvas and easel in a shady part of the back garden, and Francis lent me his special sable brushes. I selected the right size and began to mix the paints. As soon as the brush touched the canvas, that strange feeling that sometimes happened when I was painting came over me, and the next time I looked up, the canvas was full and the sky was dark.
‘Celaeno, it’s time for you to come inside,’ Francis called from the back door. ‘The mosquitoes will eat you alive out here.’
‘Don’t look! It’s not finished yet!’ I made a pathetic attempt to cover the enormous canvas with my hands, although he’d probably seen it through the sitting room window already.
He walked across the lawn to put his arms around me and hug me tight. ‘It’s a need, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said with a yawn. ‘I couldn’t stop. This is for you, by the way.’
‘Thank you, I will treasure it.’
I’d been sitting in the same spot for a very long time and my legs weren’t working properly, so Francis helped me up and let me lean on him as if I was some old person.
‘It’s probably terrible,’ I said as I slumped exhausted into an armchair in the sitting room.
‘Perhaps it is, but I already know where I’m going to hang it.’ He pointed to the space over the mantelpiece. ‘You need some food?’ he asked me.
‘I’m too tired to eat, but I could murder a cup of tea before I go to bed.’
He brought it to me then propped up my new canvas in front of the fireplace and sat down to study it.
‘Have you decided what you will call it?’
‘The Pearl Fishers,’ I said, surprising myself, as I was usually crap at choosing names. ‘It’s about, well . . . our family. I had a dream I was in Broome, swimming in the sea. There were lots of us and we were all looking for a pearl and—’
‘So is that a moon in the centre?’ Francis broke in as he studied the painting. ‘You know my mother was called Alkina, which means “moon”.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,’ I mused, ‘but the white circle represents the beauty and power of female fertility and nature, the endless cycle of life and death. In other words, it’s our family history.’
‘I love it,’ said Francis, studying the big, sweeping shapes of the sea below the moon, dotted with small, pearly spots lying beneath the waves on the seabed. ‘And already your technique is improving. This is seriously impressive for a day’s painting.’
‘Thanks, but it’s a work in progress,’ I said, yawning again. ‘I think I’ll head to bed now.’
‘Before you go, I wanted you to have something.’ He reached into his pocket and drew out a small jewellery box. ‘I’ve held on to it ever since Sarah died, but I’ve been waiting to give it to you.’
He placed it in my hand, and I opened it nervously. Inside it was a small ring, set with a smooth amber stone. ‘It’s the very same one my father Charlie gave to Alkina the night before she left him,’ said Francis.
I held the ring to the light and the amber gleamed a rich honey colour. A tiny ant was suspended in its centre, as if it had just been caught out on a stroll. I could hardly believe that it was thousands of years old. Or that I’d had that vivid dream about the little insect sitting in the palm of my hand. It had looked just like this one.
‘Camira brought it with her to Hermannsburg after Alkina died,’ Francis continued. ‘And on the day I told her that I wanted to marry Sarah, she gave it to me.’
‘Wow.’ I took out the ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of my right hand, where it winked up at me. ‘Thank you, Francis.’
‘No need to thank me,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘Now, you’d best get to bed before you fall asleep right here. Goodnight, Celaeno.’
‘Night, Francis.’
* * *
We drove into the town the next morning, as Francis had suggested I take the canvas I’d painted out Bush to show Mirrin, and because I needed to go to a travel agent and book my flight home.
‘Is it a return?’ the woman behind the computer screen asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly.
‘And the return date?’
‘I need about a week there, so that would be the sixth of February,’ I said.
‘Are you sure that’s long enough?’ said Francis. ‘You should take as much time as you need. I can cover the extra cost on a flexible ticket for you.’
‘I only need a week,’ I reassured him, and went ahead with the booking. Although, it turned out that he did have to pay, because my credit card had finally decided to conk out from exhaustion. It had obviously reached its limit and I couldn’t pay it off until I got home and went to my bank. I could have died of shame when it was declined; I’d always made it my golden rule never to borrow money.
‘It’s no problem, really, Celaeno,’ he said as we left the travel agent with the ticket, ‘it’s all going to come to you eventually anyway. Think of it as an advance payment.’
‘You’ve already given me so much,’ I moaned in embarrassment. ‘Maybe whatever Mirrin offers me for the painting can cover it.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied.
At the gallery, Mirrin cast her eyes over the canvas and nodded in approval. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Better than good.’ Francis eyed her. ‘I’d say it was exceptional.’
‘We’ll try it on the wall for a thousand dollars.’
‘Double that,’ Francis countered. ‘And my granddaughter will expect sixty-five per cent of the price.’
‘We never give more than sixty, Mister Abraham, you know that.’
‘All right then, we’ll take it to the Many Hands Gallery down the road.’ Francis made to pick up the canvas, but Mirrin stopped him.
‘As it’s you, but you’re not to tell the other artists.’ She flinched suddenly and put a hand to the large bump of her belly, covered in a luminous kaftan. ‘The little fella is getting ready to come,’ she said as she rubbed the side of her stomach. ‘And I still haven’t found anyone to replace me. At this rate, I’ll have the baby at my desk!’
A thought sprang into my head. ‘You need someone to cover your maternity leave?’
‘Yes, but it’s so hard finding the right person. The artists need to know they can trust ya, and you have to be able to understand what they’re creating and encourage them. That, and you have to be able to negotiate – though, luckily, not everyone is as killer as you, Mister Abraham.’ Mirrin raised an eyebrow.
‘I might know someone,’ I said, as casually as my excitement would allow. ‘Do you remember the girl that came in with me a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Chrissie? The lady who bargained nearly as hard as your grandfather?’
‘Yes. She studied History of Art at uni,’ I exaggerated, ‘and she knows everything there is to know about Aboriginal art, especially about Albert Namatjira. And loads of other art too,’ I added for good measure.
‘Is she working in a gallery now?’
‘No, she’s in the tourist industry, so she’s used to handling foreigners and, as you know, is from an indigenous background, so the artists would like her.’
‘Does she speak Arrernte?’ Mirrin’s face had brightened.
‘You’d have to ask her,’ I fudged, ‘but she definitely speaks Yawuru. And as you saw, she wouldn’t take any messing when it came to the sale.’
‘Is she looking for a job then?’
‘Yes.’
I saw Francis was watching me with amusement as I sold this person he’d only briefly heard of before.
‘Not gonna lie to you, Celaeno, the money’s not good,’ Mirrin said.
‘No one’s in art for the money, are they? They do it for love,’ I replied.
‘Some of us are.’ She eyed my grandfather. ‘Well, ya tell her to come and see me. Fast,’ she said as she flinched again. ‘I’m here every day this week.’
‘I will. Can you write down your number for me? I’ll get her to give you a call to arrange it.’
She did so, and I left the gallery in high excitement.
‘So, exactly who is this Chrissie?’ Francis asked me as we walked back to the truck.
‘A friend of mine,’ I said, as I hopped onto the passenger seat.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Broome.’
‘Isn’t that a little far to commute to work here every day?’ he asked as he reversed out of our parking space and we headed home.
‘Yes, but if she got the job, I’m sure she’d be prepared to move. She loved it when we were here together a couple of weeks ago. She’s an absolutely brilliant person, like, she’s totally inspirational and so passionate about art. You’d love her. I know you would.’
‘If you love her, Celaeno, I’m sure I will too.’
‘I’m going to ring her the minute I get home, tell her to call Mirrin. She’ll have to fly down here as soon as possible. It’s a shame I’ve just booked my flight and I leave tomorrow.’
‘You were the one who insisted on the non-refundable ticket,’ he reminded me.
‘Well, if she got the job, maybe we could share an apartment in town.’ My mind immediately raced forward to a future with Chrissie in it, both of us surrounded by art.
‘Or you could come and live with me, and keep house for your old grandfather,’ Francis suggested as we pulled into the drive.
‘That would be nice too,’ I said, grinning at him.
‘Tell her there’s a bed for her here. She’ll need to stop over for the night when she comes to meet Mirrin. I’ll give her some Arrernte lessons,’ he added as he unlocked the door and I ran to get my mobile from the sitting room.
‘That’s really great of you, thanks,’ I said, and dialled Chrissie’s number. She answered on the second ring.
‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘Thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘I texted you to say I’d been out Bush painting,’ I said, smiling into my mobile because I was so happy to hear her voice. ‘With my grandfather,’ I added for good measure.
‘Strewth! So, are you related to Namatjira?’
‘No, although my grandfather is an artist.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Francis Abraham.’
There was a pause on the line.
‘Ya kidding me!’
‘No, why? Have you heard of him?’
‘Just a bit, Cee! He was in Papunya with Clifford Possum and painted the Wheel of Fire and—’
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ I stopped her mid-sentence. ‘Listen, can you bunk a day or two off work to come to the Alice?’
‘I . . . why?’
I explained, and the frostiness that had been in her voice when she’d first answered melted away.
‘That sounds beaut, though she won’t offer me the job when she hears I work on the tourist information desk at Broome airport. You’ve made me sound as though I’m the curator of the Canberra National Gallery!’
‘Where’s your positivity? Of course she will!’ I chided her. ‘It’s worth a shot, anyway, and my grandfather says you can stay at his place overnight.’
‘The prob is, Cee, I’m not sure I’ve got the moolah for the ticket. I used up all my spare cash last time I was in the Alice.’
‘Because you paid for the hotel, silly,’ I reminded her. ‘Hold on a minute . . .’
I asked my grandfather if Chrissie could use his credit card to book the flight in exchange for the dollars that I still had from the sale of my first painting.
‘Of course,’ he said, handing the card to me. ‘Tell her I’ll collect her from the airport too.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I said and reported the good news to Chrissie.
‘Am I dreaming? I thought that when I didn’t hear from you, I’d frightened you off . . .’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. Things were busy this end and’ – I swallowed – ‘I just wanted some time to think stuff through.’
‘I understand. Never mind for now,’ she said after a pause. ‘Ya can tell me all about it when I get there.’
‘Actually, I can’t, because I’m booked to fly back to England tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’ She fell silent.
‘It’s a return ticket, Chrissie. I’ve got to go home and sort my life out, put my apartment on the market and see my family.’
‘You mean you’re coming back?’
‘Yeah, course I am, as soon as I can. I’m gonna live here in the Alice. And . . . it would be great if you were here too.’
‘You mean it?’
‘I never say things I don’t mean, you should know that. Anyway, you’ll have my grandfather to keep you company when you arrive, and from the sounds of things, you’ll be far more excited to see him than me,’ I teased her.
‘Ya know that’s not true. How soon will you be back?’
‘In about ten days. Now, get off the phone to me and call Mirrin, then book a flight and I’ll text you my grandfather’s number so you can call him with the details.’
‘Okay. Honest, Cee, I dunno how to thank you.’
‘Then don’t. Good luck and I’ll see you soon.’
‘Yeah. Miss ya.’
‘I miss you too. Bye.’
I clicked off the phone and thought that I really did miss her. There was a long way to go because I wasn’t sure yet what form the relationship between us would take, but it didn’t matter because I was moving forward. One way or another, during the past few weeks it had been feeling much better to be me.
‘By the Grace of God, I am who I am,’ I whispered, and out of it all, I knew I had learnt something important: I was certainly bicultural, possibly bisexual, but I definitely didn’t want to be by myself.
‘All sorted?’ Francis wandered into the sitting room.
‘I hope so. She’s gonna book the flight and let you know what time it lands.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry. You?’
‘Starving, as it happens.’
‘I’ll go and do something with eggs then.’
‘Okay, I’m off to pack.’
‘Right.’ He paused in the hallway. ‘Does your Chrissie cook?’
Remembering her homemade cakes, I nodded. ‘Yeah, she does.’
‘Good. I’m glad you’ve found your person, Celaeno,’ he said as he ambled off along the corridor.
* * *
‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’ my grandfather said as he gave me a hug in the airport departures lounge and I thought how great it felt to have two people who really didn’t want me to leave Australia.
‘I will.’
‘Here, I’ve collected some documents for you.’ He handed me a large brown envelope. ‘In there is your birth certificate – I got it from the public records office in Broome when I visited the ex-nurse. If you’re serious about coming to live here for good—’
‘Of course I am!’
‘Then I suggest that you apply for your Australian passport as soon as possible. The form is in there too, as well as your mum’s birth certificate.’
‘Right,’ I said as I tucked the envelope into the front of my rucksack, trying not to crumple it up. ‘Say hello to Chrissie for me, won’t you? I hope you like her.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Thanks for everything,’ I added, as the boarding call was announced over the tannoy. ‘I hate planes.’
‘Perhaps you’ll hate them less when one is bringing you back home to me. Goodbye, Celaeno.’
‘Bye, Francis.’ With a wave, I walked towards security, bracing myself for the long journey to London.