Spirit of Progress (13 page)

And this is also why she does not want things to change, even though she knows they will and they must.
She would be happy for the moment to never end. Would have been happy, yes, for the war to have gone on, for the walls that the war built around the city to stay up, and for everything to go on, if not forever, then, at least, for a little longer. For there will come a time, she knows, when they have all scattered, when they have all gone their separate ways into the great world, that elsewhere for which they all yearn, when she will want it all back again. But that will soon be impossible. And she, more than any of them, knows full well that this is not just an exhibition but a farewell to a small miracle. And so even as she brings it all together, this farewell, there is excitement and sadness, just as there is at the end of an affair. And, of course, an affair has ended. For an affair, like a small miracle, can only exist for so long.

It is while she is contemplating all of this that she looks about and sees the figure of Sam standing in the doorway of the gallery, a cigarette in his mouth, blue smoke rising to the ceiling, like the matinee actor she sometimes thinks of him as (and she is also aware that part of the resentment directed towards Sam by the others comes from this — that it is the matinee idol looks, not talent, that brings him favoured spaces in galleries). The promised painting is resting against him — shiny, sparkling even, as if the paint is still wet, which it quite possibly is. Then, his one affectation, he impatiently blows smoke into the air in the manner of the European intellectual and steps forward.

Simultaneously the two other painters turn to stare, curiosity and resentment in their eyes, at this figure of
whom grand things are spoken and for whom a prominent place has been reserved on the wall. And, as much as they know that the exhibition would not be the same without him, the collective sentiment, like an invisible shrug of the shoulders, is ‘It’s not
that
good’. And Tess reads this in their eyes as she approaches Sam, accepting it, knowing that it is all part of this moment.

He looks, she notes, like someone whose time has come. Like the famous look just before they become famous. As though their lives have been leading to this point, and the next step will be no surprise to him, as it will be no surprise to anybody else. Certainly not to those, like Tess herself, who have said all along that he will do great things. And it was, she confesses, an adventure to be his eyes and ears for a short time. It was part of their affair, but not as much as Sam may now imagine (fed by the small-town rumours telling him that she is going around saying all of this, that she was his eyes and ears, that he was an untutored talent until she tutored him, a rough diamond she polished just as her Swiss finishing school had polished her). And this is why she wanted Sam to herself today. To say this. To set things right. To say that she fell in love, and that it was as simple and vast as that. So that he won’t go away thinking the wrong things of her and that she has been talking behind his back. For if he goes away remembering her like that, he may
always
remember her like that. Which would not only be sad but wrong. But it will have to wait. Even though he’s just there, standing in the doorway, on the threshold of great things. But not for long. Soon all that will be left will be
the doorways they once stood in, and the memory of them standing there.

So instead of saying the words she wants to say, she says words that anybody could say, nods in greeting, noting that there is distance in his manner, not regret, when he nods back. You were never my eyes, his manner says. My eyes are mine, always were. Here, this is what they see. I don’t need anybody. At least, this is the way she reads it. A painting was promised, a painting has been delivered. This is, his manner says, a transaction. Nothing more. What was, was. And the future, to which I will soon go without you, is just outside that door. But their talk doesn’t say any of this. It is detached, even light. In fact, for some time she simply stands and stares at the painting, noting that her first impressions were right, that the paint has not yet dried and that the brush has only just left the board. It sparkles. It is an event. But, so as not to show any favouritism (for the other three have gathered round), she is reserved in her comments.

‘Good. Now everybody’s here. We can get on with things. Shall we?’

Nothing about the painting itself. And her brief comments he takes as resentment, not reserve, resentment that her eyes were not consulted and that the painting, quite possibly, is a lesser painting because of that. Inwardly, however, she sees immediately that the painting is worthy of the place reserved for it. And the other two painters, on closer inspection, nod in approval. They are, she recognises, like the whole assembly, a mixed lot. The painter beside her calls himself a Marxist and
wears a suit (even when he paints, a smock over it), a painter and a party member, no decadent bohemianism for him. The other has a goatee, a glint in his eyes like Toulouse-Lautrec, goes his own way, always has, and won’t be told what to do or say by anybody or anything. And, she knows full well from years of working with him, has (like so many of the others) the capacity to ‘turn’. Without warning. Like so many unexploded bombs, just waiting to go off.

Together, they all carry the painting across the floor and lean it against the wall where it will hang when there is time to hang it. And it is then, as they stand back observing the work, that the door of the gallery opens and a stranger enters.

They stare. As well as carrying a Gladstone bag, he carries an air of unease, uncertainty, of never having been in such a place before, which, in the minds of the others, immediately raises the question of why he is there. He has, they all conclude without as much saying, the look of ‘the people’ about him. And, as much as they might paint ‘the people’, they are ill at ease with them. Don’t even like them much, and are quite sure that, in turn, ‘the people’ don’t like these arty types too much either. And so there is a feeling among Sam and his kind that there is an ‘us’ and a ‘them’. And that it is one of ‘them’ who has just entered the gallery.

It is then that Tess steps forward. It is her gallery, after all. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for somebody called Sam.’

There is no threat in the stranger’s voice and Sam
turns from his painting and looks at him, noting as he does that although he is one of ‘them’, there is a certain tribal resemblance. A familiarity that Sam detects immediately, which is why he felt no threat in his voice or manner. In fact, although they don’t know it, Vic and Sam were born in the same year, a month apart, and grew up in the same suburb. It is, in this way, a small city. But it is not just the familiarity, for this stranger gives no hint of hostility or dismissiveness like most people in this city do upon discovering that you’re a painter, looking you up and down as if they are dealing with a petty criminal or a spiv on the street selling dodgy goods at high prices.

‘I’m Sam.’

Vic, awkwardly, produces the card Sam left with Katherine that afternoon and explains that he is there on Miss Carroll’s behalf, that she is his aunt, and that she has asked him to come. He is vaguely apologetic, but not too much. There is a silence and Vic continues, explaining that his aunt has considered Sam’s offer, and, after thinking things over, has changed her mind. That she will sit. For … and here Vic is distinctly awkward (as much to let them know that it’s not his idea as anything else), for a fee. But it is at this point that the small group parts and Vic sees, directly in front of him, the unmistakable figure of Aunt Katherine, striding across the sodden ground of her block of land towards him. And clearly in no mood to be disturbed. And, with this, Vic allows himself a trace of a smile, concluding that this young painter will have realised what he was up against from the moment he met Aunt Katherine, but also conceding that he has caught
Katherine, and all her ways, in one go. But as soon as he has formed this thought, he suddenly remembers that he has seen this image before and remembers that it is the newspaper photograph. That this painter has copied it, and not copied it. That it is the same as the photograph but different. And, in the same instant, he comes to the conclusion that he prefers the painting. He also realises that his visit is a waste of time. The painting is done.

Sam smiles, a smile that says it’s too late for all that, and adds in an accent not unlike Vic’s that nobody has any money for fees. That he’s come to the wrong place. But Vic is distracted. He has taken his eyes off the painting of Aunt Katherine and is now looking about at the strange images all around him: back lanes, pick-ups, GIs, marines, Diggers, uniforms and more uniforms, lipstick smiles, trams like roller-coasters about to leave the rails, children in grimy streets, mothers stooped over coppers, brawlers in alleys, grins halfway to becoming sneers, jokes halfway to becoming jests, a hand waving in greeting not far from being a fist. And, immediately, he knows it all, the place, the people and the sad and violent years they have all just lived through. He knows it all, and yet doesn’t. It is the same place but not the same place. For he feels as if he is standing in the middle of a freak-show. And, what’s more, as though the likes of Vic and Paddy Ryan and all the others who gather at the public bar of The Railway and have no idea of the Concept of Too Much could easily be freaks in this show. And he’s not sure if he likes that.

Tess and the others follow his eyes as he glances from
wall to wall, trying to gauge what he is thinking, for he is not what they have come to expect in the gallery. He is, yes, one of the people. And although they (including the man in the suit who calls himself a Marxist and paints scenes of everyday working-class struggle) rub shoulders with the people, it is more than likely as subjects, not as viewers in the gallery, for the subjects rarely come to galleries. Along with Sam, George, whose work brings him into contact with all sorts, feels a sense of familiarity with the stranger. May even sense a story. If it wasn’t for the note in his pocket that was passed on to him just a little while ago, a brief one, from the editor of the newspaper, telling him to be in his office at one-thirty the next day. There is, for George, something ominous about the note. It has that look. Short, no nonsense. A sort of summons, really. And it is this, more than the stranger, that is preoccupying him.

Vic looks back at the group, some of those who have created this freak-show, he assumes, and nods. ‘I guessed there’d be no money. Who’s got money?’

‘Money? What’s that?’ the man with the goatee grins, but like the paintings around the hall, it is one of those grins that comes with the hint of a sneer and shows every sign of turning nasty in an instant.

‘What do you do?’ Sam asks, curious, because as well as possessing a tribal resemblance, the stranger also possesses something of what he can only call the unconventional, someone not born for either factory or office.

‘I drive engines. I’m an engine driver.’

And Sam nods, for it is almost rhythmic in its delivery,
a touch of poetry in the way he says it, the statement of a free spirit. And a proud one. And as Vic speaks, as Sam informs him that his father was a tram driver, as they all ease into conversation, Vic begins to realise that there is something familiar in the nature of this company. For soon they stop talking to him and are asking this Sam, who has caught Aunt Katherine in one go, what paint he used. What brushes. What preparation. And soon they are all lost in talk of paint, canvas, board, brushes and oil. And more that Vic doesn’t take in because he is asking himself why this is all so familiar. Why he feels as though he’s heard conversations such as this before. Participated, even, in such conversations. But where? And with whom? And it is as he is contemplating all of this, as he is listening to their talk about their different methods and styles, those touches of difference, their various ways that are theirs and theirs alone, or the mystery of how so-and-so gets such-and-such an effect, that he realises he could just as easily be sitting in the drivers’ shed at the railway yards, listening to drivers talking about other drivers, about their styles, about their little tricks and touches (that other drivers notice or hear about), such as the stories of Paddy Ryan, the master of the smooth ride, and the spoon in the metal tea mug beside him in the cabin, whose most minute tinkle tells Paddy that adjustments are required so that the journey returns to one of smooth progress.

It is as he is listening to these painters that he begins to understand that their talk is not so different. That
they
might not be so different. And it is at this moment, and
probably for the first time in his life, that he begins to think about his work, about engine driving, as a sort of, well … art, in ways that are not so different from the ways these painters talk about
their
work. And, as mad as it first seems, the idea starts to take hold and the familiar feeling he experienced just then listening to their conversation is not such a mystery after all.

An artist without an art is no artist at all. But perhaps, just perhaps, Vic’s art has been there in front of him all the time — he just never saw it. And it is while he is dwelling on this, turning this thought over (which goes from mad to plausible to mad again, even as he thinks it over), while he is turning over this way of looking at what he does every day of his working life in a completely new light, that Tess, sensing his interest in everything around him (and, perhaps, as compensation for the lack of a fee), hands him two invitations for the opening night of the exhibition the next evening. And Vic, distracted by his own thoughts, only vaguely aware of what she is saying, reaches out and takes the invitations, barely realising what they are.

Then he is on the street, standing in front of his bicycle, which he had propped against a lamp-post only ten, fifteen minutes before. And although the bicycle is the same, and the lamp-post and the street, for that matter, the Vic who has walked out of the gallery is a different Vic from the one who walked in. Can it be that when we know something well enough, and perform it as well as we can so that it feels good and makes us feel better than we were before we were doing it, when we’re doing
something as perfectly as we can, that we’re doing all we can ask of ourselves? And because of that we’re not just existing or getting by, but
living
. The trick being, Vic realises, standing at his bicycle and looking around the city, the trick being to find that something. And when and if you do, can it be that it changes you and that you look at things differently, the way Vic is looking at things now so that this business of going to and from work itself is changed? And was it there all the time in front of him, and did he fail to see it because it was just work, after all? Can it be, engine driving, a kind of art? Depending on how you do it and how you throw yourself into it?