27
The sun sank lower in the sky as I looked at my grandfather. At Francis, once a baby boy who had been rescued from the desert by a man who had not even known they were related.
‘How could it be?’ I murmured and brushed a fly away from my face, only to find my cheek damp with tears.
‘I am living proof that kin finds kin, that miracles occur.’ He gave me a weak smile and I could see that the telling of the story had both exhausted and shaken him. ‘We can’t ask what the reasons are for the extraordinary things that happen to us. They up there – the Ancestors – or God – are the only ones that know the answers. And we won’t have those until we too go upwards.’
‘What happened to Kitty and Drummond?’
‘Ah, Celaeno, that is quite a question. If only he’d had the patience and fortitude to wait, they could have eventually shared a happy life together after Andrew’s death. But he was impetuous, lived for the moment. There is some of my Great-Uncle Drummond in me, I confess,’ he admitted with a smile.
‘Me too,’ I said, wondering if I’d have done the same as Kitty and sent the man – or woman, as Chrissie jumped into my thoughts – that I loved away.
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘That is the next part of the story, but we shall have to save it for another time. I suddenly feel as old as I am. Are you hungry?’
‘I could eat, yes,’ I said. My stomach was rumbling like a train on a track, but it wasn’t like we could just pop round the corner for a burger here.
There was a pause as he gazed across at the creek in the distance. ‘Then why don’t I take you back to my place? I have plenty of food, and it’s not far.’
‘Er . . .’ The sky was beginning to turn to delicate shades of pink and peach, the precursor of nightfall. ‘I was planning to go back to Alice Springs tonight.’
‘It is your choice, of course. But if you come with me, we could talk more. And if you want, I have a bed for you.’
‘Okay, I will,’ I replied, remembering this man was my grandfather. He’d trusted me enough to share the secrets of his – and my – family, and I had to trust him.
We stood up and walked back through Phil’s bedroom and out into the courtyard, where we found Phil himself leaning against a wall.
‘Ya ready to go, Celaeno?’
I explained the change of plan and he ambled over to shake my hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure. Don’t be a stranger now, will ya?’
‘She can take my place on the committee when I retire,’ my grandfather joked.
‘The ute’s not locked by the way,’ Phil called as we walked away from him.
I opened the rear door of the truck and went to pull out my rucksack, but my grandfather’s strong brown hands were there before mine. They lifted the rucksack out as if it weighed nothing.
‘This way.’ He beckoned me to follow as he set off.
Maybe he’s parked his car somewhere else, I thought. But as we walked away from the mission entrance, the only vehicle I could see was a pony and cart waiting on a patch of grass.
‘Climb aboard,’ he said, throwing my rucksack up onto the rough wooden bench. ‘Can you ride?’ he asked me, as he clicked the reins.
‘I took lessons as a kid, but my sister, Star, didn’t like it, so we stopped.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘I loved it.’
He proceeded to ignore the road and steered the cart onto the rough earth, the pony taking us up a gentle slope.
‘I can teach you to ride if you’d like. As you’ve heard, your Great-Great-Uncle Drummond spent much of his life on horseback.’
‘And on camels,’ I added as the pony picked its way confidently over the bumpy ground. My grandfather was gazing at me, his hands loose around the reins.
‘If your mother and grandmother could see us now. Together, here.’ He shook his head and reached out to touch the side of my face. I felt the roughness of his hand, like sandpaper, yet it was a gesture full of love.
A question floated to the front of my mind.
‘Can I ask you what the Dreamtime is?’ I began. ‘I mean, I’ve heard some Dreamtime stories, and about the Ancestors, but what actually is it?’
He gave a chuckle. ‘Ah, Celaeno, to us, the Dreamtime is everything. It is how the world was created – where everything originated.’
‘But how?’
‘I will tell it the way my grandmother Camira told me when I was a young boy. In the Dreaming world, the earth was empty when it all began – a flat desert, in darkness. No sounds, no life, nothing. Then the Ancestors came and as they moved across the earth they cared for it and loved it. They created all that was – the ants, the kangaroos, the wallabies, the snakes—’
‘The spiders?’ I interrupted.
‘Yes, even those, Celaeno. Everything is connected and important, no matter how ugly or frightening. The Ancestors also made the moon, and the sun, the humans and our tribes.’
‘Are the Ancestors still here?’
‘Well, after doing all that creating, they retired. They went into the sky, the earth, the clouds, the rain . . . and into all the creatures they had formed. Then they gave us humans the task of protecting everything and nurturing it.’
‘Do all Aboriginal tribes have the Dreamtime?’
‘Yes, although the individual stories vary here and there. I remember how annoyed Grandmother Camira would get when one of our Arrernte stories would disagree with one she’d been raised with. She was Yawuru, you see.’
‘So do you speak Yawuru too?’ I asked, thinking of Chrissie.
‘A little, but at Hermannsburg I learnt to speak German, Arrernte and English, and that was more than enough languages to fill one head.’
Half an hour later, we arrived at what looked to me like a large garden shed that was placed on concrete stilts over the red earth. Behind it was a small stable that my grandfather steered the pony and cart towards. There was a veranda at the front, shielded from the burning sun by a tin roof. It was dotted with bits of furniture which looked like they belonged inside, reminding me of Chrissie’s grandmother’s house. I hauled my rucksack up the steps and turned to admire the view.
‘Look at that,’ he said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder as the two of us stared at the landscape in front of us. The fast-sinking sun was seeping its last rays across an outcrop of rock, and beyond that snaked the line of a creek, glistening in the red sand. In the distance I could see the white huts of Hermannsburg, suffused with a deep orange glow behind them.
‘To the northwest of us is Haasts Bluff, near Papunya,’ he said, gesturing behind us. ‘And to the northeast are the MacDonnell Ranges – Heavitree Gap was always my favourite place to paint.’
‘That’s where the photograph of you and Namatjira was taken?’
‘Yes. You’ve done your homework,’ he said approvingly.
‘Phil did it for me. He recognised it.’
‘He would, we’ve been there together many times.’
‘The view’s amazing,’ I replied as my fingers started to tingle. I wanted to paint it immediately.
‘Let’s go inside.’
The hut smelt of turpentine and paint. The room we were in was small, with an old sofa placed in front of an open fireplace. I saw the rest of the space was taken up with a trestle table splodged with paint and littered with jars full of brushes. A number of canvases were propped against the walls.
‘Let’s go and see what we have for supper.’
I followed him into an adjoining room that contained an old and noisy fridge, a gas stove and a sink that didn’t have any taps.
‘I have some steak if you’re interested? I can prepare it with a few vegetables on the side.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘The plates and cutlery are in that cupboard. There’s a frying pan and a saucepan in there too.’
I rooted through the cupboard and set the required items on the little wooden table in the centre of the room. Meanwhile, he took some carrots, onions and potatoes from the fridge and began to peel and chop them deftly. I sat down and watched him, my brain trying to fathom out the genetic pathways that linked us. I would have to draw myself a family tree at some point.
‘Are you a cook, Celaeno?’ he asked me as he worked.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘My sister, Star, did all that stuff.’
‘You live together?’
‘We used to, up until a couple of months ago.’
‘What happened? You fell out?’
‘No . . . it’s a long story.’
‘Well,’ he said as he lit the flame on the gas ring and tossed the vegetables into a pan, together with some unfamiliar herbs, ‘after dinner, you can tell me all about your life.’
We sat out on the veranda eating what tasted like the best steak ever, but maybe it was just because I was starving. I realised it was my first meal with a blood relative of mine, and I marvelled at how people could do this every day without even thinking how special it was.
Once we’d finished eating, my grandfather showed me the barrel of rainwater at the back of the hut. I used a pitcher to take some to the sink and washed up the plates while he brewed some coffee on the gas ring. He lit an oil lamp on the veranda and we leant back in the wooden chairs, sipping the coffee.
‘Just in case you doubt me, I want to show you this.’
It was another black and white photo, this time of two women standing on either side of a man. One of the women, although darker skinned than me, could have been my double. It was the eyes that clinched it – they had the same almond shape as mine.
‘See the likeness?’
‘Yeah, I do. Your eyes are the same shape too. She was your mother?’
‘Yes, that was Alkina, or “Cat” as everyone called her. As you’ve heard, I never got to meet her.’
‘And who is that?’ I pointed to the handsome blond man who towered over the two women. He had an arm round both of them.
‘That’s Charlie Mercer. Your great-grandfather and my father.’
‘And the other woman?’
‘Camira, my grandmother. Apart from my Sarah, she was the most wonderful, kind and brave human being I have ever known . . .’
His eyes moved to the horizon and I saw they were filled with sadness.
‘So she came to look after you at Hermannsburg?’
‘Oh yes, she came. I grew up thinking she was my mother, and she could have been. She was only in her early forties when I was born, you see.’
‘Did Charlie Mercer ever know about you? Like, did you meet him?’
‘Celaeno,’ he sighed, ‘let’s leave the past for now. I want to hear about you. How has your life been?’
‘That’s a big question.’
‘Then let me help you. When I began to search for my daughter and eventually found you, I was told that you had been adopted by a rich man from Switzerland. You lived there in your childhood?’
‘Yes, in Geneva.’
‘You have brothers and sisters?’
‘Only sisters. And all six of us are adopted.’
‘What are your sisters’ names? How old are they?’
‘You’re probably gonna find this weird, but we’re all named after the Seven Sisters.’
His eyes widened with interest and I thought that at least I could cut out explaining who we were and what the myth was. This man would have been taught about them from birth. They were his Ancestors too.
‘You say there are six of you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Like in the legend,’ we both said together, then laughed.
‘Merope is there, even though she hides sometimes. Perhaps one day she will be found.’
‘Well, it’s too late now, for Pa at least. He died last June.’
‘I am sorry, Celaeno. He was a good man?’
‘Yes, very, although sometimes I felt he loved my other sisters more than me. They’re all so talented and beautiful.’
‘As are you. And remember, nothing happens by chance. It is all planned out for us before we even take our first breath.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘I think I must, given the way I was found as a baby by my blood relative, who then brought my grandmother to care for me as I grew. I don’t know of your religious beliefs, but surely no man or woman can deny that there must be something bigger than us? I put my trust in the universe, even though sometimes I feel as though it has let me down, as I did when I lost my own daughter. But that was her path to follow, and I must accept the pain.’
I thought how wise and dignified this man was, and, with a pang, how much he reminded me of Pa Salt.
‘Again, we have strayed away from the track of your life. Please, tell me about your sisters.’
I did so, reeling off the potted biographies of each of them as I had done so many times before.
‘I see. But it seems you have left one sister out.’
I counted them up in my head. ‘No, I’ve told you a little about all of them.’
‘You still haven’t told me about you.’
‘Oh, right, well.’ I cleared my throat. ‘There’s not really much to tell. I live in London with Star, though I think she’s probably moved out permanently while I’ve been gone. I was a dunce at school because I have dyslexia. It’s—’
‘I know what that is, because I have it too. And so did your mother.’
The word ‘mother’ sent a funny shiver through me. Even though from what he’d said so far I had to guess that she was dead, at least he’d be able to tell me about her. ‘It must be genetic then. The trouble was, Star – or Asterope – was the one I was always closest to because we were in the middle and only a few months apart in age. She’s really clever, and the worst thing is that me being stupid academically held her back. She won a place at Cambridge, but didn’t take it. She came to uni in Sussex with me instead. I know I put pressure on her to do it. I feel really guilty about that.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t want to be without you either, Celaeno.’
‘Yeah, but sometimes in life you should try to be the bigger person, shouldn’t you? I should have persuaded her to go, told her not to worry about me, if I’d really loved her, which I did. And still do,’ I gulped.
‘Love is both the most selfish and unselfish emotion in the world, Celaeno, and its two facets cannot be separated. The need in oneself battles against the wish for the loved one to be happy. So unfortunately, love is not something to be rationalised and no human being escapes its grip, believe me. What did you study at university?’
‘History of Art. It was a disaster and I left after a couple of terms. I just couldn’t hack the essays because of my dyslexia.’
‘I understand. But you were interested in the subject?’
‘Oh God, yes, I mean, art is the only thing I’m any good at.’
‘You are an artist?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I got a place at the Royal College in London, which was cool, but then . . .’ Shame at my failure poured through me. This man had gone to so much trouble to find me and wanted to hear what a success I was making of my life, but on paper I’d achieved absolutely nothing in the past twenty-seven years. ‘It didn’t work out either. I left after three months and came here. Sorry,’ I added as an afterthought.
‘There’s no need to apologise to me, or to yourself,’ my grandfather said, only out of kindness, I was sure. ‘I will let you into a secret: I won a place at the Melbourne School of Art. It was organised for me by a man called Rex Battarbee, who was the person responsible for teaching Namatjira. I lasted less than four days, then ran away and came back to my home in Hermannsburg.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. And it was a nerve-racking moment, having to face my grandmother Camira when I eventually arrived home after a month’s journey back here. She’d been so proud when I’d got the place. I thought she might beat me, but she was just happy to see me safe and well. The only punishment she gave me was to lock me in the shed with a barrel of water, until I’d scrubbed myself from head to foot with carbolic soap!’
‘And you still went on to be a famous artist?’
‘I went on to be an artist, yes, but I did it my own way, just as you are doing. Are you painting again now?’
‘I’ve really been struggling, to be honest. I lost all my confidence after I left college in November.’
‘Of course you did, but it will come back, and it will happen in a moment when something – a landscape or an idea – strikes you. And that feeling in your gut will make your hand itch to paint it and—’
‘I know that feeling!’ I butted in excitedly. ‘That’s exactly what happens to me!’
Out of everything my grandfather had said to me so far, this was the moment when I really, truly believed we must be blood. ‘And,’ I added, ‘that feeling happened to me a couple of days ago when I was driving back with my friend Chrissie from Hermannsburg and saw the sun setting behind the MacDonnell Ranges. The next day, I borrowed some watercolours, and I sat under a gum tree and I . . . painted! And she said, my friend Chrissie, I mean’ – my words were tripping over each other now – ‘she said it was great, and then she took it to a gallery in Alice Springs without me knowing, and it’s being framed, and they’re going to put it up for sale for six hundred dollars!’
‘Wonderful!’ My grandfather slapped his knees. ‘If I were still a drinker, I would make a toast to you. I look forward very much to seeing the painting.’
‘Oh, I don’t really think it’s anything special and I only had an old tin of children’s watercolours to work with . . .’
‘But at least it was a start,’ he finished for me, his eyes shining with what looked like genuine happiness. ‘I’m sure it’s far better than you think.’
‘I saw your Wheel of Fire in a book. It was amazing.’
‘Thank you. Interestingly, it is not my favourite, but then often the artist’s preference for one particular work does not match the critical or public view.’
‘I painted a mural of the Seven Sisters out of dots when I was younger,’ I told him. ‘I didn’t even know why I was doing it.’
‘The Ancestors were guiding you back to your country,’ Francis replied.
‘I’ve always struggled to find my style . . .’
‘As any painter of note does.’
‘This morning, when I saw the way that you and that Clifford Possum guy had mixed two styles together to create something new, I wondered about trying something like that too.’
He didn’t ask me what, just fixed his extraordinary eyes upon me. ‘Then you must try it. And soon. Don’t let the moment of inspiration pass.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And never ever compare yourself to other artists. Whether they are better, or worse, it only leads to despair . . .’
I waited, for I knew he had more to say.
‘I fell into that trap when Cliff’s paintings began to gain national recognition. He was a genius and I miss him to this day – we were great friends. But jealousy ate into me as I watched him rise to fame and receive the adulation that I knew I would never get. There is only one seminal artist from the first generation of a new school of painting. Once it was him, it could never be me.’
‘Did you lose confidence?’ I asked.
‘Worse than that. Not only did I stop painting, but I started drinking. I left my poor wife and went walkabout for over three months. I cannot tell you the jealousy I felt, or how my art seemed pointless at that moment. It took me all that time out there alone to understand that success and fame for any true artist is a mirage. The true joy is in the creative process itself. You will always be a slave to it, and, yes, it will dominate your life, control you like a lover. But unlike a lover, it will never leave you,’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s inside you forever.’
‘When you accepted that, were you able to paint again?’ I asked.
‘I came home, drunk and broken, and my wife put me to bed and cared for me until I was physically better. The mental recovery had already begun while I was out Bush, but it took a long time for me to gather the courage to sit in front of a canvas and hold a brush again. I will never forget how my hand shook as I first picked one up again. And then finally, the freedom of knowing that I was not painting for anyone except myself, that I would probably never achieve my original goal of world domination, gave me a sense of peace and freedom I cannot describe. Since then – over the past thirty years or so – my paintings have got better and, in fact, now command huge prices, simply because I only paint when my fingers itch. Well, there we are.’
We sat in silence for a while, but it was comfortable. I was learning already that – like his painting – my grandfather would only speak when he had something to say. I also felt I’d had a massive info-dump over the past couple of days, and, a bit like a kid holding a box of sweets, I wanted to store it all in my mind-cupboard and unwrap the facts sweet by sweet. I was sure there were a lot of hungry days alone to come . . .
‘Look!’
I jumped about six inches in the air at the sound of his voice, my immediate reaction one of panic in case he was pointing out a snake or a spider.
‘Up there.’ He pointed and I followed his finger to the familiar milky cluster hanging low in the sky and as close to me as I’d ever seen it. ‘There you are.’ He walked towards me and draped his arm around my shoulder. ‘There’s your mother, Pleione, and your father, Atlas. Look, even your little sister is showing herself to us tonight.’
‘Oh my God! She’s there! I can see her!’
And I could. Merope was as vivid as the rest of us – out here, we seemed to shine so much brighter than anywhere else.
‘She’s coming to join you all soon, Celaeno. She has finally caught up with her sisters . . .’
His hand dropped heavily to his side. Then he turned to me, reached out his arms and pulled me to him tightly. I tentatively wound my arms around his sinewy waist, then heard a strange guttural sound erupting and realised he was crying. Which then made me well up, especially as we were standing right under my sisters and Pa Salt in this incredible place. And I decided it was okay to join him in his tears.
Eventually, he drew away from me and cupped my face in his hands. ‘Can you believe it? You and me, two survivors of a powerful bloodline, standing together here, under the stars?’
‘I can’t take it in,’ I said, wiping my nose.
‘No. I just did and look what happened.’ He smiled down at me. ‘Best not to do that again. Now, are you happy to stay here with me tonight? There’s a nice bed and I’ll sleep on the couch outside.’
‘Yes,’ I said, astonishing myself, yet I had never felt so protected. ‘Er, where’s the dunny?’
‘Round the back. I’ll come with you to make sure it’s free from visitors, if you know what I mean.’
I did my business, then bolted back to the hut, where I saw that a door that led from the sitting room was ajar.
‘Just changing the sheets – Sarah would be angry if I wasn’t using clean linen for our granddaughter,’ my grandfather said as he placed a couple of spotless pillows with a pat onto the mattress.
‘Sarah was your wife?’
‘She was.’
‘Where did she come from?’
‘London, where you said you live now. There.’ He drew a top sheet out of the trunk and threw it over the mattress. ‘I’ll leave you a blanket in case it gets chilly in the early hours, and here’s a fan if it gets too hot. There’s a towel on the chair if you want to take a wash. Perhaps best tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, but are you sure about this? I’m used to bunking down anywhere.’
‘No problem for me. I often sleep outside anyway.’
I wanted to tell him that so did I, but it was becoming a bit corny.
‘Goodnight.’ He came to me and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Er, by the way, what should I call you?’
‘I think Francis will do, don’t you? Sleep well,’ he added, then closed the door behind him.
I saw that he’d placed my rucksack on the floor next to the bed. I stripped off and climbed onto the mattress, which was one of those old-fashioned horsehair ones with a crevasse made by bodies before you, all ready to sink into. It felt wonderful. I scanned the ceiling and the rough timber walls for many-legged creatures, but I could see none in the soft light of the lamp that sat on the nightstand. I felt as safe as I had ever felt, as if before today I’d been like a moth hovering near the flame that mesmerized it. And now I’d arrived.
Maybe I would crash and burn, but before I could worry about that further, I fell asleep.