Going Back
Ava Marchette had fulfilled a lot of promises in her lifetime, both to herself and to those dearest to her. One remained undone, so she was going back.
Back to a place where she’d known a love like no other.
Back to Candlebark Creek.
*
When the dust cloud that had accompanied her for the last twenty-five kilometres of dirt road had settled around the parked car, Ava regretted the poor choice of navy gabardine trousers with a cream-coloured Nehru jacket. Its mandarin collar was suffocating.
‘Too late to do anything about that now,’ she mumbled, something she seemed to do too often these days – as if she was a doddery woman old before her time and losing her mind. Maybe you are!
Why else would she have told her family that she was attending a health retreat in the hills behind Noosa but ended up outside Ivy-May? The rustic weatherboard house that had charmed twenty-seven-year-old Ava was, three decades later, greying, like her, and in need of some TLC. Unlike Ava, the old Queenslander with the rust-coloured tin roof still stood firm on robust foundations made from bricks and wood, while her jelly-like legs today made the staircase she’d climbed hundreds of times seem insurmountable.
With one hand on the handrail, the other searched for courage and strength from the bejewelled dragonfly brooch pinned to her shirt.
After three raps on the door Ava waited, trying to force some semblance of a smile. The carved welcome sign, One Homebuilder and One Tool Live Here, helped, but nerves kept her mouth a little too tight for anything more than a slight upturn of her lips.
The door creaked open.
‘Good afternoon!’ Ava said.
The man in front of her looked nothing like she’d imagined and every bit the unconventional creative genius he was renowned to be. When his stare shifted from quizzical to a look she couldn’t identify, Ava wished she’d checked her teeth for lipstick in the rear-view mirror.
‘Can I help you?’ He craned his neck to look beyond her, most likely inspecting the small car she’d left in the guest parking area at the bottom of the gravel driveway.
‘I believe you’re expecting me.’ Ava waited, but with his face showing no recognition she was forced to clarify. ‘The man at the gallery in Brisbane?’ Still no reaction. ‘I do hope he passed on my message.’ The same man had suggested she prepare herself for disappointment. If only she’d listened.
‘Yes, right, I’d forgotten. You’re the portrait.’
‘I’ve been called plenty of things in my time,’ she replied, her smile guarded. ‘It’s nice to, er, meet you.’
The artist looked down at the hand she extended, then to his own paint-stained fingers, promptly wiping them on the seat of equally paint-encrusted trousers before he took it. Although his grip was firm, Ava was sad to see arthritis already taking its toll on fingers that had once been strong and sinuous. The wear and tear on a man still relatively young was most likely from years of wielding paintbrushes to achieve the painstaking detail that had distinguished John Tate’s whimsical early works. She’d seen the profile photograph in the magazine article: his once-tanned face, while still chiselled, was now washed out. The man who still held her heart could not have been more different thirty years on.
‘Yes, right, well, I’m sorry,’ he said, breaking their grip. ‘If you’d left contact details with the gallery I would’ve called back. I could’ve prevented you from travelling all the way out here because—’
‘Because it’s a very long way to come, you’re absolutely right. Too many hours of driving along the appallingly narrow national highway has left me quite rattled. Although I believe your front path might have been the most challenging part of the journey. I do hope you won’t make me tackle the stairs again without a rest.’
The familiar amber-speckled brown eyes stared at Ava over frameless half-glasses, then glanced over her head. Was he noticing how overgrown the garden had become, how the wattle trees were taking over the grevillea shrubs, and the profusion of dead palm fronds that had dropped on the driveway were a hazard for visitors who failed to watch their step? As if on cue another frond landed with a thud.
‘Could I bother you for a glass of water and a sit-down while I catch my breath?’
Ava wasn’t sure if he’d stepped aside before or after she made her move, easily ducking under the arm still bracing the door frame. She was just glad he hadn’t closed the door in her face. Now to find a seat so she could collapse and let go of the breath she’d held onto since that first tentative knock. Choosing the closest wingback armchair, one of several in the expansive living area that was now home to a jumble of art and dusty antiques, she was pleased with his prompt removal of the newspapers from the seat. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was feeble or fragile, or any combination thereof, even though, two years away from her sixtieth, her condition was slowing her down. She’d long ago given away her weekly tennis game and no longer did she bother to time herself while swimming, content that some laps were better than none at all, even if she did have to use the pool ladder these days, rather than hoisting herself out. Agreeing to an early retirement had been a stressful transition, as had adhering to her doctor’s advice – three words unfamiliar to Ava: ‘Take it easy.’ While priding herself on staying mentally, physically and socially active, some things remained out of reach: to be twenty-eight again, beautiful again, loved again.
She eased herself onto the chair and a sigh slipped out, the enormity of her situation causing her heart to flutter. That wasn’t good. As John approached with the requested glass of water she became conscious of her laboured breaths, the nervous sweat in her armpits, and her appearance in general. Ava smoothed the slicked-back hairstyle in case a wayward silver-grey strand had slipped from the trademark knot that always sat a little above the nape of her neck. Then, while telling herself to stop fussing, she fingered the fancy buttons on her shirt to check all were as they should be – done up.
With both good and bad memories fighting for headspace she could have done with a shot of something alcoholic to loosen her up. How unfortunate that assorted medication and her specialist’s advice had limited such pleasures to special occasions, robbing Ava of her one and only vice and making her feel old and vulnerable. This was one such moment.
‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ She sipped the water he had handed her. Returning to Candlebark Creek was already the bittersweet homecoming she had known it would be, wrapped in more regret and melancholy than she had thought possible. ‘That’s better,’ she told him. ‘Now, about the portrait.’
‘As I said, Mrs… ?’ He paused so that she might prompt him.
‘Marchette,’ Ava said while hoping for a glint of recognition.
Nothing.
‘Right, yes, Mrs Marchette—’
‘Ms, actually,’ she added.
The correction produced a reaction. At last! How unfortunate that his expression showed nothing more than frustration. Her first impression was not turning out to be a good one.
‘Ms Marchette.’ He paused again, as if expecting another interruption. When Ava said nothing he eased himself onto a nearby stool, the adjustable, padded type on wheels a hairdresser uses. ‘As I explained, and as I’m certain the gallery owner would’ve mentioned, I’m not painting so much these days.’
‘I’d suggest all the evidence is to the contrary.’ Ava exaggerated her visual assessment of the once neat-as-a-pin parlour where sweaty B-and-B guests had gobbled down iced tea and cake, their bodies pressed against open louvres that struggled to circulate the barely there breezes of a Rockhampton summer.
Today, however, the same room was a mess of easels and a jumble of artist’s tools illuminated by the golden glow of a setting sun.
‘Of course I paint for myself,’ the man clarified. ‘Art has been my life for three decades, much to the annoyance of my family.’ He looked momentarily surprised, as though he couldn’t quite work out why he might admit something so personal to a stranger. ‘As for commissioned works, it’s been a very long time, and portraits are—’
‘A long time can be a luxury, Mr Tate, and not something we all have.’
When his head cocked to one side Ava dared dream he’d recognised something in her and that, by some miracle, three decades had not changed her so much that all he saw was hair that had lost its colour, skin its luminosity, and eyes that lacked the spark of a woman in love.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘We’re all born with an expiry date. Mine happens to be dependent on medical intervention and Fate, as well as a dose of good fortune.’ Ava placed the water glass on the small side table. ‘I’m sorry to blurt out such information. I realise I’m a stranger to you, but it explains why the portrait is important. I want my children to remember me as I am now.’
‘So necessary that you’d drive six hours in such a condition?’
There it was, Ava thought. That expression – a blend of boyish curiosity with the concern of a caring man. He knew something, or remembered perhaps, but what? She had to keep trying. Time to instigate Plan B, the strategy she had decided to try in the event he turned her away. ‘I quite enjoyed the journey.’
‘In vain, I’m afraid.’ The man stood again. ‘Had you called in advance I could’ve suggested any number of city-based artists who specialise in portrait work. In fact, I believe I may have suggested a few to the gallery owner who called me regarding your enquiry. It’s a shame he didn’t pass on the information to save you the trip.’
‘He was quite chatty. I wrote down everything he said.’ Ava lunged for the bag she’d let drop at her feet and began rifling through it.
*
John didn’t know whether to feel peeved or pleased with the gallery owner for directing the woman to his doorstep. Although happy to have a distraction this morning, something in his visitor’s demeanour suggested that it would be hard to deny her request. Diplomacy was not John’s forte, even though he’d had no trouble turning away the suit-wearing weekend warriors who used to knock on his Sydney studio door on a Sunday afternoon to sell God. John was never buying.
‘Mr Tate.’ The woman’s voice grabbed his attention, her tone a little anxious, or perhaps uncomfortable with such formality, yet still determined. ‘I appreciate your concern for my health, but be assured my condition remains manageable. I’ve trekked a lot further than Candlebark Creek in my time and travelled quite happily through life, often on my own, which is my situation now. Or do you feel a single woman of my years should be cheerfully ensconced somewhere – perhaps a lifestyle village or community hall – playing bingo and knitting while she waits to die?’
‘No, I, ah, wasn’t suggesting any such—’
‘I may be seven years your senior but I assure you I am neither fragile nor feeble in mind or body.’
‘I see.’ There was no doubting her resolve – and she seemed well informed of his age. He wondered what else she knew.
‘This portrait is for my daughter, for her to pass on to her own child – God forbid I should go before she gets around to having one.’ She muttered something else while blotting her top lip with a tissue she’d plucked from the handbag now on her lap. ‘Do you enjoy a good relationship with your children, Mr Tate?’
‘I have a son, whom I love dearly.’
‘A boy?’ She sounded distant. ‘That’s nice.’
‘A man now. About to turn thirty. I consider myself lucky in that regard. If we are granted one miracle, he’s mine.’
‘And what about Fate? Do you believe in it?’
‘Twists of Fate, Ms Marchette, yes.’ What else could he say to that? ‘I am living proof of unpredictable random occurrences and I’m very aware of the far-reaching consequences of Fate. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, not very long ago I was seated in a waiting room speculating about my fate and counting down the minutes until they called my name so a doctor could deliver news that proved miracles either did or didn’t happen for me. On an adjacent seat was an old magazine. You were featured in an article, so I took it as a sign.’
‘A sign of what?’
‘Of my fate.’ She spoke as though he should have known. ‘My coming all the way out here was meant to happen. I’d like to sit for you. I want you to be the one to paint my portrait.’
John hovered between acceptance and refusal. What was it about the woman that stopped him showing her out? Having returned to the family’s Candlebark Creek farm for peace and quiet, he’d still had to throw the odd interloper off the property, both male and female.
‘But Mrs… Ms—’
‘Please…’ It was almost a whisper, her voice cracking a little, her eyes pleading. ‘Don’t send me away.’ She shifted forward in the chair, sitting a little stiffly as if she wasn’t altogether comfortable. ‘Only my pride and a joint replacement brought on from years of tennis is stopping me dropping to my knees right now.’
She wasn’t making this easy.
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ His hand rasped the stubble on his chin, his index finger stopping on the dimple. ‘There has to be someone better than me. Look around you, Ms Marchette. Portraits are not what I do.’
The wave of his arm urged her to take in the artwork that covered every spare space on the interior walls. They weren’t paintings on canvas or board, but entire wall murals. Not even the doors, architraves or cornices were left untouched, while on the ceiling there was a constellation of stars, along with a moon painted red. John followed her gaze there. He’d never painted over that ceiling work. For some reason, he’d never wanted to. Now, physically, he doubted he could. He was no Michelangelo and at fifty-one he was also no spring chicken. He kept in shape only because his son badgered him and encouraged him to help out in the yards more often. He knew he should be doing more around the place, but he lacked the motivation – had done for years – and he certainly wasn’t interested in making portraits or any other commissioned work. By pointing out the distinctive artistic style he’d developed over the years, he hoped to make the woman see he was everything those magazine articles suggested and more: manic, a master painter, a so-called medical miracle.
Shame John didn’t see himself that way. He might have once, but only because people kept telling him it was true. All John knew was that when he woke up in a big city hospital thirty years ago a chunk of his memory had been stolen. The brain injury hadn’t been cruel enough to rob him of his entire past. Just the few years prior to the aneurysm were missing. In his mind he’d been about to sit the school certificate. As if once wasn’t enough! Of course the reality was different. He wasn’t still at school. At the time he’d just turned twenty-one, and he had a girlfriend – a pregnant one. How could he not remember losing his virginity? The doctors had poked so many holes in John’s brain he figured his past had kind of leaked out, leaving him totally unprepared for a future that involved marriage and fatherhood. On top of all that, he’d acquired an unexplained need to transcribe the images and words that crowded his head onto any flat surface.
‘Magazine photos don’t do your work justice. The results are much more dramatic in real life.’ The woman seemed genuinely impressed with her surroundings. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. The more I look around the room, the more words I can make out. So much detail, so abstract, so cryptic, and so very, very clever.’
‘And I hope, Ms Marchette, what you see will provide some insight into how I work and convince you I’m not the right man for the job.’ He walked over to one wall and pointed. ‘I see the things around me in a completely different way since my world flipped on its head. Nothing looked the same when I woke up after a brain injury. What I did remember was strangely unfamiliar. Rather than seeing everything around me as a single object, I saw a series of shapes and planes and angles, the urge to draw them impossible to ignore. Within a year my obsession with shape and colour shifted to the physical act of putting down on paper what I saw in my head. I had short-term memory issues – worse than now – so the things I drew were often prompts, reminders of whatever I didn’t want to forget.’
‘Oh?’ she said, with renewed interest, as if looking for something specific in the colourful cacophony of painted walls.
‘Life as I once knew it, working the land here at Ivy-May, no longer made me happy.’
‘Do you mind me asking what did?’
‘A sense of inner calm came when I had a paintbrush or a pencil in my hand. I’ve mellowed over the years.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ she said.
‘Of course. I’m not sure why I’m boring you with this.’ John hadn’t opened up to a stranger since the last journalist had got chatty over a few beers. The post-interview drink was supposed to be off the record; John had learned about those so-called casual chats the hard way. He had decided there would be no more interviews, and Ivy-May allowed him to hide away from everything and everyone. ‘Forgive my raving on and on.’
Ava Marchette smiled. ‘You have a passion. I can absolutely relate to that. Working warm, silken pastry in my hands, moulding it to bake, then watching it rise and turn into golden buttery goodness is one of the most calming and addictive things I’ve ever experienced.’
John appreciated the analogy. It was always nice when someone made him feel normal. Journalists were usually only after the freak angle, digging deep to point out what made him different. ‘And I imagine there’s no stopping at one of your sweet pastries, Ms Marchette, whereas focusing my pen or paintbrush on one word can clear out my brain clutter… for a while.’
‘As I look at these walls I see words popping out at me, ones I hadn’t noticed before.’
There was a touch of excitement in the woman’s voice, her reaction unlike that of any other stranger John had let into his frenetic domain. ‘Sometimes one word turns into a phrase,’ he explained.
‘I can see that too. There’s real poetry.’
‘My crazy mixed-up version anyway.’ While his visitor examined the murals, John examined her. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the thrill of witnessing a person discover the many hidden treasures amid his works. His wife certainly hadn’t appreciated his talent. ‘Even where there are none, I see patterns in every word and every object. Over time I’ve managed to rein in the need to draw, although these days it’s not the extent of what I produce that still has everyone, including me, stumped, it’s the detail.’
‘There must be so much work in this one word alone.’
John smiled. ‘May I?’ He took her hand in his, lifting her flattened palm to the painted surface, holding it there. At the centre of the elaborate design in shades of green and yellow were the letters: WHY. ‘What do you feel?’
‘Lots of paint?’
‘This wall’s been primed more times than I can remember so I could start again, much to my mother’s dismay at the time.’
‘I can imagine her frustration and fury.’ She seemed quick to take back her hand, moving to another word to caress the brushstrokes.
‘No matter how many sketchpads and boards Mum bought me, there was no containing my work to a single canvas, even though most illustrations would start out small. No large flat surface that could accommodate a pen, a pencil or a paintbrush was safe when I needed to clear my head.’
It had been a long time since John had felt compelled to explain who and what he was, and how he’d turned out as he had. Perhaps that was part of his reluctance to take on the portrait work… but there was something about this woman, now standing in front of him with anticipation painted in the letters HOPE across her face. Yes, he could visualise the word. She was already affecting him in ways he didn’t understand. Should he feel troubled or thrilled? Based on the rush shooting through his body at the thought of her sitting for him, John decided to stay circumspect.
*
Ava had wanted to feel excited about the sitting, but she was beginning to think the portrait idea had been ill-thought-out. There might have been a smarter way to reconnect, to see if there was any sign of the old John, but for the life of her she didn’t know what it might be. Besides, she was here now. What a shame he was making things so difficult. Perhaps if a sign was what she was looking for, surely his refusal to sit down, his preparedness to show her to the door at any tick of the clock, was one to heed.
She’d have to try harder, dig deeper, show him the old Ava, the woman he’d once laughed with and loved. She had to let him see something other than a demanding and, after a day of driving, dishevelled woman.
‘You can see for yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m not your run-of-the-mill artist.’
‘I do see that and I’m told it’s part of your charm.’ She returned to the same chair and sat. ‘And, while your work is as impressive as it is unique, I would be content with something a good deal smaller and more portable than a wall or ceiling. You see, Mr Tate, I’m not asking a lot.’ Her grin broadened, and when his own disarming and slightly crooked smile appeared, she sensed a small victory, which allowed her to sink into the wing-backed armchair. She crossed her legs. ‘Who knows?’ she dared, one ankle swaying back and forth. ‘You may discover that I’m not your run-of-the-mill sitter.’
‘I see that already. However,’ he persisted, ‘portraits are not easy on the artist or the subject. They’re much more strenuous than you might imagine. Until you’ve been asked to sit still for extended periods you can’t possibly know how difficult it can be.’
‘I do believe I’ve mentioned, even though I may look a little worse for wear, I’m far from fragile. I scrub up well when I make the effort – even better when I’m not recovering from an arduous trip, of which the last hour driving along a dusty gravel road has deposited grit in places I’d forgotten I had. Nothing a cup of tea, some sleep and a touch of concealer won’t fix. Right now I’d settle for more water.’ She thrust the glass in his direction.
*
‘Too easy,’ John said.
More intrigued by the woman with every second that passed, John was smiling in a way he hadn’t for a long time. She would make an interesting study for sure, but he hardly needed a real-life subject for inspiration. He was used to his own company and enjoyed time alone to paint Ivy-May’s ever-changing landscape. Each season provided ample stimulation, and when he tired of depicting scenery he had the myriad birds that found sanctuary among the paddocks and river banks and in the shambolic garden beds around Ivy-May. As this land was a cattle property there were also the cautious and curious beasts, whose faces were all different, if a person took the time to look closely at them. Then again, capturing a subject like Ava Marchette on canvas might be both amusing and satisfying.
Still, his protective cloak stayed tightly wrapped: several times in his life John had been suckered in by duplicitous journalists and paparazzi. When he was shortlisted for the Wynne Prize, one of Australia's longest-running art awards for the best landscape painting of Australian scenery in oils or watercolour, they’d tracked him down to Ivy-May and pestered him for interviews and photos. If he never went back to the Sydney it would be too soon.
When he returned to the living room, the woman was again dabbing her face with a tissue, and the Rockhampton summer was yet to kick in.
‘The thing is, Ms Marchette, portraits are as much about the subject as they are the artist. The process requires careful consideration beforehand: the appropriate position, the composition, the lighting. Proper planning takes time, and time is—’
‘I know all about time, but if that’s your final word…’ She rose, somewhat majestically, he thought. ‘Only thing is…’ She did a final visual sweep of the room before training her stare on him. ‘After seeing all this I can’t possibly imagine…’
‘Imagine what?’
‘How long can it take to paint one little old lady’s portrait?’
*
When he smiled, Ava dared sense another small victory. In fact, he more than smiled: he added an audible grunt-cum-chuckle. ‘Hardly old! Now I know you’re goading me.’ He followed her to the open front door, its once mighty brass knocker tarnished. ‘Might I suggest “shrewd” as a better description? One used to getting what she wants, no doubt.’
Ava stopped to return his smile, hers forced by sadness. ‘If you say so.’
How she wished that was true and that she would get what she so desperately wanted. The last thirty years of her life to live again, this time with the man she loved.
‘Can I ask you something before you go?’ he said.
Ava paused, turning slowly. ‘Anything.’
‘When you were at the doctor’s office, did you ever prove that thing about miracles? Do they exist?’
‘I’m still waiting to find out,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your time today.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Ms Marchette.’
An apology for rejecting her hid in the softly spoken farewell and for a moment she considered implementing Plan C. If only she’d prepared one. She hadn’t expected to be turned away today any more than she’d expected it the first time, thirty years earlier.