20
‘You gonna wake up or what?’
I felt someone’s breath on my face and struggled to rise to consciousness through the deep fug of my usual late morning sleep.
‘Christ, Cee, we’ve wasted half the morning already!’
‘Sorry.’ I opened my eyes and saw Chrissie sitting on the bed opposite me, a hint of irritation on her face. ‘I’m a late sleeper by nature.’
‘Well, in the past three hours, I’ve eaten brekky, taken a wander round the town and hired us a car that you need to pay for at reception. We need to leave for Hermannsburg, like, pronto.’
‘Okay, sorry again.’ I threw back the sheet and staggered upright. Chrissie watched me quizzically as I pulled on my shorts and rooted in my rucksack for a clean T-shirt.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her as her eyes followed me to the mirror where I ran a hand through my hair.
‘Do you often have nightmares?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, sometimes. My sister told me I did anyway,’ I said casually. ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘You don’t remember them?’
‘Some of them, yes. Right,’ I said, shoving my wallet into my shorts pocket, ‘let’s go to Hermannsburg.’
As we drove out of town onto a wide, straight road surrounded by red earth on either side, the sun beat down on our tiny tin-can car. I was amazed it didn’t explode from the heat it was enduring.
‘What are they called?’ I asked, pointing to the jagged mountains in the distance.
‘The MacDonnell Ranges,’ said Chrissie without missing a beat. ‘Namatjira did lotsa paintings of them.’
‘They look purple.’
‘That’s the colour he painted them.’
‘Oh, right.’ Then I wondered if I could ever paint a realistic representation of what I saw in the world. ‘How does anyone ever survive out here?’ I mused, looking out of the window at the vast open landscape. ‘Like, there’s nothing for miles and miles.’
‘They adapt, simple as that. Did you ever read Darwin?’
‘Read it? I thought Darwin was a city.’
‘It is, idiot, but a bloke called Darwin also wrote books – the most famous was called On the Origin of Species. He talks about how all the plants and flowers and animals and humans have adapted to their surroundings over millennia.’
I turned to look at Chrissie. ‘You’re a secret boff, aren’t you?’
‘Nope.’ Chrissie shook her head firmly. ‘I’m just interested in what made us, that’s all. Aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, that’s why I’m here in Australia.’
‘I’m not talking about our families. I mean, what really made us. And why.’
‘You’re sounding like my sister, Tiggy. She goes on about a higher power.’
‘I’d like to meet your sister. She sounds cool. What does she do?’
‘She works up in Scotland at a deer sanctuary.’
‘That sounds worthwhile.’
‘She thinks so.’
‘It’s good for the soul to be responsible for something or someone. Like, when our Aboriginal boys have their initiation, they’re circumcised and then given a stone – it’s called a tjurunga – and on it is a special marking showing them what they need to look after in the Bush. Could be a waterhole or a sacred cave, or maybe a plant or an animal. Whatever it is, it’s their responsibility to protect and care for it. There used to be a human chain all the way across the Outback that had a responsibility to look after the necessities. The system kept our tribes alive as they crossed the desert.’
‘That sounds incredible,’ I breathed. ‘Like the traditions actually have a point. So, do only boys get one of those tju—’
‘Tjurunga stones. Yeah, only men get one – women and children aren’t allowed to touch them.’
‘That’s a bit unfair.’
‘It is,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but we women have our own sacred traditions too, that we keep separate from the men. My grandma took me out Bush when I was thirteen, and I’m not joking, I was scared shitless, but actually, it was really cool. I learnt some useful stuff, like how to use my digging stick to find water or insects, which plants are edible and how to use them. And’ – Chrissie tugged at her ears – ‘by the time I came back, I could hear someone sneeze from halfway down the street and tell ya exactly who it was. Out there, we were listening for danger, or the trickle of water nearby, or voices in the distance that would guide us back to our family.’
‘It sounds amazing. I’ve always loved that sort of stuff.’
‘Look!’ Chrissie shouted suddenly. ‘There’s a buncha ’roos!’
Chrissie steered the car onto the dusty verge of the road and slammed on the brakes, flinging our heads backwards into their rests.
‘Sorry, but I didn’t want ya to miss them. Gotta camera?’
‘Yup.’
The kangaroos were much larger than I’d been expecting and Chrissie encouraged me into silly poses in front of them. As we walked back to the car, swatting away the interminable flies that investigated our skin, I couldn’t help remembering the last time I’d used my camera and what had happened to the roll of film inside it. Standing in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of kangaroos and Chrissie, Thailand seemed a world away.
‘How far now?’ I asked as we set off again.
‘Forty minutes, tops, I reckon.’
And it was at least that before we finally turned off a dirt track and saw a cluster of whitewashed buildings. There was a hand-painted wooden sign telling us we’d arrived at Hermannsburg mission.
As we climbed out, I saw that we – and the occupants of a pickup truck parked close to the entrance – were the only humans that had arrived by car. I wasn’t surprised. The small cluster of huts was surrounded by miles and miles of nothingness, like the surface of Mars. I noticed it was almost completely silent, not a whisper of a breeze, just the occasional buzzing of insects. Even I, who liked peace and wide open spaces, felt isolated here.
We walked towards the entrance and ducked inside the tin-roofed bungalow, our eyes slowly adjusting after the blinding sunshine.
‘G’day,’ said Chrissie to the man standing behind the counter.
‘G’day. Just the two of youse?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’ll be nine dollars each.’
‘Quiet here today,’ Chrissie commented as I paid him.
‘Don’t get many tourists out here in the heat this time a’ year.’
‘I bet. This is my friend Celaeno. She’s got a pic she wants to show you.’ Chrissie nudged me and I pulled out the photograph and gave it to the man. He glanced at it, then his eyes swept over me.
‘Namatjira. How did you come by this pic?’
‘It was sent to me.’
‘Who from?’
‘A lawyer’s office in Adelaide. They’re in the process of tracing the original sender for me as I’m trying to find my birth family.’
‘I see. So, what ya wanna know?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling like I was a fraud or something. Maybe the guy faced possible ‘relatives’ of Namatjira here every day.
‘She was adopted when she was a baby,’ put in Chrissie.
‘Right.’
‘My dad died a few months ago, and he told me I’d been left some money,’ I explained. ‘When I went to see his Swiss lawyer, that photograph was in the envelope he gave me. I decided I should come here to Australia and find out who’d sent me the picture. I spoke to the lawyer in Adelaide, but I’d no idea who Namatjira was, hadn’t ever even heard of him before and—’ I rambled on until Chrissie put a hand on my arm and took over.
‘CeCe’s basically come here ’cos I recognised Namatjira in the picture. She thinks it might be a clue to who her parents originally were.’
The man studied the photograph again.
‘It’s definitely Namatjira, and I’d say the pic was taken at Heavitree Gap, sometime in the mid-1940s, when Albert got his pickup truck. As ta who the boy is standing next to him, I dunno.’
‘Well, why don’t me and Cee take a look around the place?’ suggested Chrissie. ‘Maybe you could have a think. D’you have archives here?’
‘We have ledgers of every baby that was born here or brought to us at the mission. And a crate load of black an’ white pictures like that.’ The man pointed to my photo. ‘It would take me days ta go through them, though.’
‘No pressure, mister. We’ll just go take a look around.’ Chrissie shepherded me past a postcard stack and a fridge full of cold drinks to the sign that proclaimed the entrance to the museum. We walked down another dusty path and found ourselves out in a large open space, surrounded by what was a vague L-shape of white huts.
‘Right, let’s start in the chapel.’ Chrissie pointed to the building.
We wandered across the red earth and stepped inside the tiny chapel with rickety benches acting as pews, and a large picture of Christ on the cross hanging over the pulpit.
‘So, this guy called Carl Strehlow came to this mission to try to get the Aboriginals to turn to Christianity.’ Chrissie read the words on the information board out loud. ‘He arrived from Germany with his family in 1894. It started out just like a regular Christian mission, but then he and the next pastor became fascinated with the local Arrernte culture and traditions,’ Chrissie explained while I stared at rows of dark faces in the pictures, all dressed in white.
‘Who are the Arrernte?’
‘The local Aboriginal mob.’
‘Do they still live around here?’ I queried.
‘Yeah, in fact, it says that in 1982 the land was officially returned to them, so Hermannsburg now belongs to the traditional owners.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it’s awesome. Come on, let’s go see the rest.’
A long building with a tin roof turned out to be a schoolhouse that still had words and pictures scrawled on the blackboard. ‘It also says here that no half-caste Aboriginal was ever brought here by force by the Protectorate. Everyone came and went of their own free will.’
‘But were they actually made to become Christians?’
‘It doesn’t exactly say that because they’d all have had to attend services and Bible readings, but apparently the pastors turned a blind eye if they wanted to celebrate their own culture.’
‘So actually, they believed – or pretended to – in two different religions?’
‘Yup. A bit like me,’ grinned Chrissie. ‘And all the rest of our mob in Oz. Come on, let’s go and have a sticky-beak at Namatjira’s hut.’
The hut comprised of a few basic concrete rooms, and I recognised Namatjira’s face in a picture on the mantelpiece. He was a big man with strong, heavy features, grinning and squinting in the sun, standing next to a demure woman in a headscarf.
‘“Albert and Rosie”,’ I read. ‘Who was Rosie?’
‘His wife. Her given name was Rubina. They had nine children, although four of them died before Albert did.’
‘I can’t believe they needed a fire in this heat,’ I said, pointing at the fireplace in the photo.
‘Trust me, it gets pretty cold at night in the Never Never.’
A painting on the wall caught my eye and I went to study it.
‘Is this by Namatjira himself?’ I asked Chrissie.
‘It says it is, yeah.’
I stared at it, fascinated, for, rather than looking like a typical Aboriginal painting, this was a beautifully formed watercolour landscape with a white ghost gum tree to one side of it, then gorgeously soft colours depicting a vista that was backed by the purple MacDonnell Ranges. It reminded me of an impressionist painting and I wondered how and where this man who had grown up in the middle of nowhere – Aboriginal by birth, Christian in life – had found his particular style.
‘Not what you were expecting?’ Chrissie stood next to me.
‘No, because most of the Aboriginal art we saw in town was traditional dot paintings.’
‘Namatjira was taught by a white painter called Rex Battarbee, who was influenced by the Impressionists and came out here to paint the scenery. Albert learnt how to paint watercolours from him.’
‘Wow, I’m impressed. You know your stuff, don’t you?’
‘Only ’cos I’m interested. I told you that art – especially Namatjira’s – is a passion of mine.’
As I followed her out of the hut, I thought how art had been a passion of mine too, but recently it had got lost somewhere along the way. I realised that I really wanted it back.
‘I need the toilet,’ I said as we went back out into the glaring heat of the day.
‘The dunny’s over there,’ Chrissie pointed. I walked across the courtyard towards it and saw an illustrated sign hung outside on the door.
SNAKES LIKE WATER! KEEP THE LIDS DOWN!
I had the quickest pee of my life and bolted back outside, feeling sweatier than when I’d gone in.
‘We should make a move,’ said Chrissie. ‘Let’s go and grab some water for the journey back.’
Inside the hut that comprised the ticket office and gift shop, Chrissie and I went to the till to pay.
‘You got that photo, miss?’ said the man we’d met on the way in. ‘Reckon I could show it to one of the elders. They’re due here for our monthly meeting tomorra night. They might recognise the boy Namatjira’s standing next ta. The eldest is ninety-six and as sharp as a tack. Brought up here, he was.’
‘Er . . .’ I looked at Chrissie uncertainly. ‘Would we have to drive back out here to get it?’
‘I’ll be in the Alice on Saturday, so I can always drop it back to ya if ya give me your mobile number and the address of where you’re staying.’
‘Okay,’ I said, seeing Chrissie nod at me in encouragement, so I handed it to him, then scribbled down the details he’d requested.
‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll keep it safe for ya,’ the man said with a smile.
‘Thanks.’
‘Safe drive home,’ he called as we left.
‘So, did you feel anything?’ Chrissie asked as we set off along the wide, deserted road back to civilisation.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did any instinct tell you that ya might have come from Hermannsburg?’
‘I’m not sure I “do” instincts, Chrissie.’
‘Sure you do, Cee. We all do. You just gotta trust ’em a bit more, y’know?’
As we drew near Alice Springs, the sun was doing the perfect curtsey, bowing down at the end of the MacDonnell Ranges, casting shards of light onto the red desert beneath it.
‘Stop here!’ I ordered suddenly.
Chrissie did one of her sharp brakes and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
‘Sorry, but I just need to take a photo.’
‘No worries, Cee.’
I grabbed my camera, opened the door and crossed the road.
‘Oh my God! It’s glorious,’ I said as I snapped away, and out of the blue I felt my fingers begin to tingle, which was the signal my body gave me when I needed to paint something. It was a sensation I hadn’t had for a very long time.
‘You look happy,’ Chrissie commented as I climbed back in.
‘I am,’ I said, ‘very.’
And I meant it.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up when I heard Chrissie tiptoeing around the room. Normally, I’d doze off again, but today, some kind of weird anticipation forced me out of bed.
‘Sorry I woke you. I was just going down to get some brekky.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll come with you.’
Over a strong cup of coffee and bacon and eggs, with a side of fruit to salve my conscience, we discussed what we would do for the rest of the day. Chrissie wanted to go and see the permanent Namatjira exhibition at the Araluen Arts Centre, but I had other ideas because I’d realised what it was that had woken me up so early.
‘The thing is . . . well, I got inspired on the drive home yesterday. I was wondering if you’d mind taking me back to that spot where I took the pics of the sun setting last night? I’d like to have a go at painting it.’
Chrissie’s face lit up. ‘That’s fantastic news. Course I’ll drive ya there.’
‘Thanks, though I need to find some paper and paints.’
‘You’re in luck here,’ Chrissie said, pointing out of the window and indicating the number of galleries along the street. ‘We’ll pop into one of them and find out where they get their gear.’
After breakfast, we walked along the street and into the first gallery we came to. Inside, Chrissie asked the woman on reception where I could find paper and paints, adding that I was a student from the Royal College of Art in London.
‘D’you wanna stay here an’ paint?’ The woman pointed to a large room to the side of the gallery, where a number of Aboriginal artists were working at tables or on the floor. Light spilled in from the many windows, and there was a small kitchenette area where someone was making a round of coffee. It looked far more cosy than the shared workrooms at my old art college.
‘No, she’s planning to go Bush, aren’t you, Cee?’ Chrissie winked at me. ‘Her real name’s Celaeno,’ Chrissie added for good measure.
‘Righto.’ The receptionist gave me a smile. ‘I have some oils and canvases, or does she paint with watercolours?’ she asked, glancing over me to Chrissie as though they were discussing a four-year-old child.
‘Both,’ I said, interrupting, ‘but I’d really like to try watercolours today.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can find.’
The woman stepped out from behind the counter, and I saw a sizeable bump under her yellow kaftan. While she was away, I wandered round the gallery, looking at the traditional Aboriginal works.
The walls were bursting with different depictions of the Seven Sisters. Dots, slashes, strange-looking shapes that the artists had used to depict the girls and their ‘old man’ – Orion, who chased them through the skies. I’d always felt embarrassed about being named after a weird Greek myth and a set of stars a few million light years away, but today it made me feel special and proud. Like I was part of them; had a special connection. And here in the Alice, I felt like I was in their High Temple.
I also loved the fact that I was standing amongst a bunch of artists whom I’d bet my poncey riverside apartment in London hadn’t attended art school. Yet here they all were, painting what they felt. And doing a good trade too, judging by the number of tourists milling round the gallery and watching them at work.
‘Here ya go, Celaeno.’ The woman handed me an old tin of watercolours, a couple of used brushes, some tape, a sheaf of paper and a wooden-backed canvas. ‘You any good?’ she asked me as I fumbled for my wallet to pay.
‘She’s brilliant,’ chirped Chrissie before I’d opened my mouth to speak, just like she was my agent. ‘You should see some of her work.’
I blushed red under my sweaty skin. ‘How much for the paints and paper?’ I asked her.
‘How about a swap? You bring me a painting and, if it’s good, I’ll hang it in the gallery and share the profits. My name’s Mirrin, and I run the gallery for the bossman.’
‘Really? That’s kind of you but—’
‘Thanks a mill, Mirrin,’ interrupted Chrissie again. ‘We’ll do that, won’t we, Cee?’
‘I . . . yeah, thanks.’
In the blinding sunlight outside the gallery, I rounded on her. ‘Jesus, Chrissie, you’ve never seen anything that I’ve painted! I’ve always been rubbish at watercolours, and this was just an experiment, like a bit of fun and—’
‘Shut up, Cee. I know you’re great already.’ She tapped where her heart was. ‘You just need to get yer confidence back.’
‘But that woman,’ I panted from agitation and heat, ‘she’s going to be expecting me to bring something to her and—’
‘Listen, if it’s crap, we’ll just return the paints and pay for the paper, okay? But it won’t be, Cee, I know it won’t.’
On the drive out of town, Chrissie decided to give me a lecture on how Namatjira approached his painting.
‘You said yesterday that you were surprised that he painted landscapes, ’cos most Aboriginal artists paint using symbols to depict Dreamtime stories.’
‘Yeah, I was,’ I said.
‘Well, look closer, because Namatjira does the same, just in a different form. I need ta show you what I mean exactly, but when you look at the ghost gums he paints, they’re never just a tree. There’s all kinds of symbolism painted into them. He tells the Dreamtime stories in his landscapes. Understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘He drew the human form into nature – so if you look closely, the knots in a mulga tree are eyes, and there’s one of his paintings where the composition of the landscape – the sky, the hills and trees – all shift and morph, so you’re suddenly looking at the figure of a woman lying on the earth.’
‘Wow!’ I tried to picture this. ‘Ever thought of doing something with your art knowledge, Chrissie?’
‘Like, on a quiz show with “Australian artists of the twentieth century” as my pet subject?’ she chuckled.
‘No, I mean, professionally.’
‘Are you kidding me? The guys that run the art world have studied for years to be curators or agents. Who’d want me?’
‘I would,’ I said. ‘You did a great selling job today. Besides, that woman in the gallery didn’t look as if she had a million degrees in art, yet she was running the joint.’
‘True enough. Right, we’re here. Where d’you want to set up?’
Chrissie helped me spread out the blanket and cushions we’d sneaked out of the hotel room. We sat down in the shade of a ghost gum and drank some water.
‘I’ll take a wander for a while, shall I? Leave you be?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ Unlike the artists in that gallery, I wasn’t anywhere near the stage of being able to paint while someone else watched. I sat cross-legged, with the sheet of paper taped onto the wooden-backed canvas. Panic clutched at me, just as it had every time I’d tried to pick up a paintbrush in the past few months.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the hot air, vaguely scented by a minty, almost medicinal, smell that was coming from the gum tree I was leaning against. I thought of who I was – Pa Salt’s daughter, one of the Seven Sisters themselves – and imagined that I had flown down to earth from the heavens and stepped out of the cave into this magnificent, sunlit landscape . . .
I opened my eyes, dipped my brush into the water bottle, mixed it with some colour and began to paint.
* * *
‘How ya doing?’
I jumped, nearly spilling the sludge-coloured water in the bottle all over the painting.
‘Sorry, Cee. You were lost in your own little world, weren’t ya?’ Chrissie apologised as she bent to stand the water bottle back upright. ‘You hungry yet? You’ve been painting for a good coupla hours.’
‘Have I?’ I felt drowsy, as though I’d just woken up from a deep sleep.
‘Yeah. I’ve been sitting in the car with the air con on full blast for the past forty minutes. Strewth, it’s hot out here. I brought ya a bottle of cold water from the car.’ Chrissie handed it to me, and I gulped back the liquid, feeling disorientated. ‘Well?’ Chrissie regarded me quizzically.
‘Well what?’
‘How’d it go?’
‘Er . . .’
I couldn’t answer, because I didn’t know. I looked down at the paper resting on my knees and was amazed to see that what looked like a fully formed painting had somehow arrived onto it.
‘Wow, Cee . . .’ Chrissie peered over my shoulder before I had time to stop her. ‘Just . . . wow! Oh my God!’ She clasped her hands together in delight. ‘I knew it! That’s bloody amazing! Especially considering you’ve only got that crappy little tin of watercolours to work with.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I said as I studied the picture. ‘I haven’t got the perspective of the MacDonnell Ranges quite right, and the sky is a bit of a muddy blue because I must have run out of clean water at some point.’
But even as I looked at it, I knew that it was far and away the best watercolour I’d ever painted.
‘Is that a cave?’ Chrissie had crouched down next to me. ‘It looks like there’s a shadowy figure standing in the entrance.’
I looked closer and saw she was right. There was a blurry cloud of white, like a wisp of smoke coming out of a chimney. ‘Yeah.’ I said, though I couldn’t really remember painting it.
‘And those two gnarly bits on the ghost gum’s bark – they look like eyes secretly watching the figure. Cee! You only went and did it!’ Chrissie threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly.
‘Did I? I’ve no idea how.’
‘That doesn’t matter. The point is, you did do it.’
‘Well, it does matter if I ever want to do it again. And it’s definitely not perfect.’ As always when people told me I was good at something, my critical eye began to examine it more closely and see its faults. ‘Look, the gum tree branches are unbalanced, and the leaves are really splodgy and not quite the right green. And—’
‘Whoa!’ Chrissie drew the painting from my knee and out of my reach as if she was afraid I was about to rip it to shreds. ‘I know artists are their own worst critics, but it’s down to the audience ta decide whether it’s good or bad. And as I’m the audience and a secret art boffin, especially on paintings like this, I am telling you that you just painted something great. I gotta take a piccie of this, have you got your camera?’
‘Yeah, in the car.’
After taking a number of photographs, we packed up and headed back to town. All the way to the Alice, Chrissie talked about the painting. In fact, she didn’t just talk about it, she analysed it to death.
‘The most exciting thing of all is that ya took Namatjira’s style and made it your own. That little wisp coming outta the cave, the eyes hidden in the tree, watching it, the six clouds sailing off into the sky . . .’
‘I was thinking about when your granny told me the Dreamtime story of the Seven Sisters just before I started to paint,’ I admitted.
‘I knew it! But I didn’t want to say so until you did. Somehow, just like Namatjira, you managed to paint another layer into a gorgeous landscape. But in your own way, Cee. He used symbols, and you’ve used a story. It’s awesome! I’m rapt!’
I sat there next to her, half enjoying her praise and half wishing she’d shut up. I understood she was trying to be supportive, but my cynical voice told me that however knowledgeable she seemed to be on Namatjira, she was hardly an art expert. And beyond that, if the painting did show promise, could I ever replicate it again?
She parked the car along the main street, and we went back to the café where we’d had the good kangaroo. I ordered burgers for us as I listened to her rabbit on.
‘You’re gonna have ta learn to drive, because you need ta go out there again. And I’ve got to fly back to Broome early tomorrow morning.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘I really don’t wanna. I love the Alice. So many people told me bad stories about it, about the problems between us lot and the whites. And yeah, I’m sure some of them are true, but the art movement here is just amazing, and we haven’t even started on Papunya yet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Another school of art that came just after Namatjira’s time. Like, most of the dot paintings you saw in the gallery earlier.’
I tried to suppress an almighty yawn, but failed miserably. I didn’t understand why I felt so exhausted.
‘Listen, why don’t you go back to the hotel and grab a kip?’ she suggested.
‘Yeah, I might,’ I said, too sleepy to object. ‘You coming with me?’
‘Nah, I thought I might take a wander to see the Namatjiras in the Araluen Arts Centre.’
‘Okay.’ I put the necessary dollars to cover the lunch on the table and stood up. ‘See you back at the ranch.’
* * *
I came to a couple of hours later and sat bolt upright.
Where’s the painting? I thought immediately as I shook myself into wakefulness. My mind searched its memory files, and I realised that we’d left it in the boot of the car when we’d gone to find lunch.
And the car was due back to the rental company at six this evening . . .
‘Shit!’ I swore as I looked at the time on the clock and saw it was nearing half past seven. What if Chrissie had forgotten about it? I pulled on my boots and ran down the stairs, which probably took me far longer than spending a few seconds patiently waiting for the lift. I reached reception and saw her through the glass doors, sitting on a sofa in the little residents’ lounge. She was reading a book on Namatjira and as I pushed open the doors and walked towards her, my panic increased. There was no sign of the painting beside her.
‘Sleeping Beauty awakes.’ She looked up and grinned at me. The grin faded as she saw my face. ‘What’s up?’
‘The painting,’ I panted. ‘Where is it? It was in the boot, remember? And the car was going back at six and it’s half past seven now and—’
‘Strewth, Cee! D’ya really think I’d have forgotten about it?’
‘No, but where is it?’ As I put my hands on my hips combatively, I realised just how much that painting meant to me. Brilliant or rubbish – or more likely somewhere in between – that wasn’t the point. The point was, it was a start.
‘Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe, promise.’
‘Where?’ I asked again.
‘I said it’s safe.’ She stood up, glaring at me now. ‘You really have a problem with trust, don’t ya? I’m going out for a walk.’
‘Okay, sorry, but could you just tell me where it is?’
She shrugged silently and walked out of the lounge. By the time my legs had galvanised themselves into action and followed her into reception, she had left the hotel. I went outside and looked up and down the street, but she had vanished.
I went back upstairs to the room and lay on my bed, my heart beating like a tom-tom. Eventually, I calmed down and told myself that I’d overreacted, but surely it had been fair enough to expect a straightforward reply from her as to where my painting was? Because it signalled the return of something I’d seriously thought I might have lost forever. Something that was mine, that belonged to me, that no one could ever take away, except me.
Having given it away, both metaphorically and in real life, I needed it back. It wasn’t ‘safe’ unless it was with me. Couldn’t she understand that? I took a long hot shower to drown out my thoughts, then lay down on my bed to wait for her to come back.
‘Hi,’ she said as she walked into the room two hours later and threw her key down onto the desk.
‘Hi,’ I replied.
I watched her as she sat down and undid her boots, then stripped off her trousers to begin taking off half of her right leg. She didn’t speak to me, giving me the silent treatment like Star used to when I’d said or done something wrong. I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes.
‘Did you hear what I said when I left the hotel earlier?’ she asked me eventually.
‘Yeah, I might be stupid and dyslexic, but I’m not deaf,’ I said, my eyes still shut.
‘Jesus!’ Chrissie gave a long sigh of frustration, and I heard her manoeuvring herself towards the bathroom. The door slammed behind her and I heard the shower being turned on.
I hated these moments, the ones when everyone seemed to know what it was I’d done wrong, except for me. Like I was some alien who’d fallen to earth and didn’t get the rules of the game. It was really irritating and, after all the euphoria I’d felt earlier, a total downer.
Eventually, I heard Chrissie come out of the bathroom and the creak of the bed as she sat down on it.
‘Shall I turn out the light, or are you going to need it to get your clobber off?’ she asked me coldly.
‘Whatever you want. I’m fine either way.’
‘Okay. Night.’ She turned out the light.
I managed approximately five minutes – actually, probably less – before I had to speak.
‘What is your problem? I was just asking you where my painting was.’
There was silence from the bed next to me. Again, I held it as long as I could, but then blurted out, ‘Why is it such a big deal?’
The light was switched on and Chrissie glared down at me from her sitting position on the side of her bed.
‘All right! I’ll tell you where the friggin’ painting is! At the moment, it’s probably in the store at the back of the Tangetyele Gallery waiting to be framed, which by tomorrow, Mirrin has promised me it will be. And maybe by the day after, it’ll be hung on the wall of the gallery, with a selling price of six hundred dollars, which I negotiated. Okay?’
The light was snapped off again, and me and my agitation – with added astonishment – were plunged back into darkness.
‘You took it to the gallery?’ I said slowly, trying to breathe.
‘Yup. That was the deal, wasn’t it? I knew you’d never value my humble opinion on the work, so I took it to a professional. FYI,’ she spelt out through gritted teeth, ‘Mirrin loved it. Almost grabbed it outta my hand. Wants ta know when more are on the way.’
There was too much in those sentences for my brain to take in, so I said nothing. Just breathed as best I could.
‘She bought my painting?’ I managed eventually.
‘I wouldn’t say that – she didn’t hand over any money – but if some punter does buy it, then ya get three hundred an’ fifty dollars, and the gallery two hundred an’ fifty. She wanted to make it fifty-fifty, but I beat her down on the promise of more Celaeno D’Aplièses.’
Celaeno D’Aplièse . . . how many times had I dreamt about that name becoming famous in the art world? It certainly wasn’t a name anyone could forget, being such a mouthful.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I mean,’ I added, beginning to see why she was so upset, ‘really, thanks.’
‘I said it’s okay,’ came the terse response from the blackness.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of sleep but it was impossible. I sat upright, feeling it was my turn to exit stage left. Groping for my shorts, and being as clumsy as I was, I tripped over Chrissie’s false leg, which stood like a booby trap between the beds.
‘Sorry,’ I said, fumbling for it in the darkness to stand it back upright.
The light was switched on again.
‘Thanks,’ I repeated as I looked for my shoes.
‘You running out on me?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m just not tired. I slept for ages this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, while I was off doing you a deal.’ Chrissie regarded me with her head propped up on her elbow. ‘Look, Cee, it’s my last night here and I don’t want us ta fall out. I was just gutted that you didn’t trust me to take care of that painting after all I’d said and done. And then today, I saw what kind of artist you could be, and I was so excited. But ya didn’t see any of that when you marched into the lounge demanding to know where your painting was. It just . . . shook me. I really thought you’d started to trust me. I was rapt when Mirrin loved it and I couldn’t wait ta tell you about it and go out an’ celebrate. But you came in so angry with me that the moment was ruined.’
‘I’m really sorry, Chrissie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Don’t you see? I came here to the Alice because I wanted ta be with you. I missed you when ya left Broome.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. A lot,’ she added shyly.
‘And I’m really happy you came,’ I said blandly, wondering whether my mind was correctly processing what I was hearing. Or, more importantly, its undercurrent. ‘I’m really sorry again,’ I said, wanting to blank the whole thing out, because I really couldn’t deal with it right now. ‘I’m such an idiot sometimes.’
‘Look, you’ve told me about Star and the relationship you had with her, and how she let ya down.’
‘She didn’t really, she just needed to move on,’ I said loyally.
‘Whatever. I know you find it difficult to trust, especially in love when it’s . . .’ I heard Chrissie sigh heavily. ‘I suppose I just want you to know before I leave that I . . . well, I think I love you, Cee. Don’t ask me how or why, but it’s just the way it is. I know you had a boyfriend in Thailand and . . .’ I watched tears come to Chrissie’s eyes. ‘But I’m just being honest, okay?’
‘Okay, I understand,’ I said, averting my eyes. ‘You’ve been fantastic, Chrissie, and—’
‘No need ta say anything else. I understand too. At least we can be friends before we go to sleep.’
‘Yes.’
‘Night then.’ She reached to switch off the light again.
‘Night.’ I lay back down on my bed, suddenly too exhausted to move as my brain took in the implications of what Chrissie had said.
Apparently, she loved me. And even I wasn’t going to be as naive as to think she meant it just as a friend.
The question was, did I love her? I mean, only a few weeks ago, I’d been with Ace. It struck me that now Star was gone, I seemed to be forming attachments to all sorts of people, male and female . . .