The Stranding (26 page)

None of this could be shared with Lex. Not ever. She had tried to show him an alternative viewpoint on whaling. Not because she necessarily believed it herself. But she had to try to persuade him because if he could not accept a different view he could not accept her. Truly, she had failed all round.

With a canvas on the easel, failure was not something she could contemplate. She pushed thoughts of Lex aside and worked through the moods of the storm, drawing out its texture. Thinking. Painting. Visualising. Working with sensation. Driving through the maze of her emotions.

It was an obsession. She could think of nothing else. Food became something she indulged in when she felt weak. She drove up the coast and bought canvasses with money borrowed from her mother. When one canvas was too wet to work further, she set it aside and put another on the easel, moved into the next phase of the storm, its next mood.

She couldn’t remember ever working like this before. It was like a re-creation. Like a reworking of the colours that made up her own complicated personality. And she liked it. Within the mire of all that bruised and boiling sensation, there was the birth of a new rose for her. And its name was confidence.

But today she was feeling distracted and it was annoying her. Helen Beck had rung a couple of weeks ago and asked her to do a portrait of Henry. It was a commission for the church and there was good money behind it, but Callista couldn’t motivate herself to start it. She was making good progress on her storm paintings, but this commission was going to cause her trouble. She had flicked through the photographs Helen had given her and she knew Henry wasn’t going to come easily.

The problem was his eyes—what was in them, and also what wasn’t. He was supposed to be a devout, passionate man of the church. And yet what Callista saw was a man who was arrogant and intolerant. Compassion was missing, and kindness and humility and tenderness. The underlying issue was that she didn’t like him. Never had. She had avoided him, preferring not to run up against his abrasive personality. Of course she’d known him. You couldn’t grow up in a small town like Merrigan without knowing people. But he had left high school the year she started, so he could slot into the family business. No need to stay at school when he was needed in the shop. And Callista’s family didn’t eat meat or go to church, so they rarely saw him.

Helen Beck was another matter. Callista had always felt sorry for her, suppressed as she was beneath Henry’s patriarchal glare. They had never been friends, but Callista had watched Helen shrinking during her marriage to Henry. She had watched the fear growing in Helen’s eyes. Often she had wished she could reach out to the poor isolated woman, buried in the church and in Henry’s dominance. But she knew better than to interfere.

When Helen had come to her with the photos, Callista had wanted to reject the job. Yet how could she, when this poor woman’s entire life had been rejection. So she’d taken the photos and said she’d see what she could do, knowing at the same time that she couldn’t do it. How could she possibly paint Henry in a sympathetic light?

Several times she’d fanned out the photos of Henry on a table and tried to begin by sketching him, first in pencil and then in charcoal. But the drawings were flat and unrewarding. Her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t get inside him and didn’t want to. And as each day went by with Helen’s down payment sitting on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, Callista’s guilt grew. She would have to do something proactive. She’d have to go and talk to Helen.

That evening, she drove the Kombi into town, bought a bottle of red wine with twenty dollars of Helen’s money, and knocked on her front door.

‘What’s that?’ Helen asked suspiciously, as she let her in.

Callista followed her down the white hallway to the kitchen. ‘Sacramental wine,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘Don’t you ever do communion?’

Helen’s lips pulled back with distaste. ‘Not out of a bottle.’

‘Have a glass anyway,’ Callista said.

Helen took two tumblers from a cupboard and placed them on the table.

‘How are you going?’ Callista asked.

‘All right,’ Helen said with a tight smile, flicking her eyes away quickly. ‘We’re managing.’

Callista knew that meant Helen was barely hanging in there. She had heard all the outraged gossip going round town about Helen taking over the butchery. Mrs Jensen was promoting Helen’s takeover as scandalous. Silly old woman. Callista hoped it wasn’t affecting business, but, apart from the pitiful array of prepackaged sausages at the supermarket, there weren’t any other options in town for buying meat.

‘How’s the portrait going?’ Helen asked.

Callista hesitated. ‘I don’t think I’m much of a portrait artist. I’m having quite a bit of difficulty getting going on it.’

‘Aren’t the photos good enough?’ Helen’s face sharpened with concern.

‘They’re fine. But I’m frustrated. That’s why I’m here. I’ve tried a few sketches, but I’m struggling. I didn’t know Henry well enough.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Drink this,’ said Callista, pouring some wine into one of the tumblers. ‘It’s lubricant. To help you talk. Don’t worry, I’ll have one too.’ She poured a second glass. ‘Here’s to portraits.’

She offered her tumbler to clink and they sipped. Helen looked unsure.

‘Call it an investment,’ Callista said. ‘I’m hoping it will help me get to know your husband.’

‘He’d be cross with me, drinking this.’

‘But he’s not here. You can do what you want now.’

‘I don’t want to do anything wrong.’

‘Does it feel wrong?’

Helen glanced up and the suggestion of a smile touched her lips. ‘I feel like having another sip.’

‘Do it then. Be outrageous.’

‘What do you need to know?’ Helen asked, one glass down. She was already flushed and a little unsteady.

‘Everything except the saintly. That’s the boring stuff. I know all that. I read the obituary the church put out.’

‘You did? How did you get a copy? They were only supposed to be for the funeral.’

‘John Watson was handing them out at the newsagency. They were on the counter, so I took one. I hope that was okay.’

‘It would have been nice if he’d asked me first.’

‘Your husband was a local personality,’ Callista said. ‘Perhaps John thought he was doing the right thing.’

‘Perhaps . . .’

Helen drifted off somewhere, floating on wine, and Callista wasn’t sure how to press on.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I want to do this painting for you, but I’m having trouble with it. I need to know more from you. I need to get inside your husband’s skin.’

‘That sounds a bit strange.’

Callista shrugged. ‘Maybe, but it’s the only way I can paint.’

Helen sighed. ‘What can I tell you?’ she said. ‘My husband was a very good man.’

Callista stared at her for a moment then topped up both the tumblers. This was probably a hopeless mission, so she might as well enjoy the wine. She’d love to tell this woman what everybody really thought of her holier-than-thou husband, but it’d be too cruel. Even though the man was dead, Helen still wouldn’t betray him, despite his substandard treatment of her while he was alive. At least the poor woman was released from all that now.

‘Perhaps Henry could have spent more time with his son,’ Helen was saying. She gave a small strained laugh and fluttered her eyes nervously away from Callista. ‘I’m trying to think of some of the not-so-saintly things you said you were looking for. He . . . Henry . . . was very serious about his job and he was also very devoted to his church duties, so I think, perhaps, Darren might have missed out sometimes . . .’

Callista drank more wine and tried to look interested. Internally, she was rolling her eyes. Was this the best Helen could think of?

‘Perhaps, also, Henry might have sometimes been a little indiscreet about his donations to the church,’ Helen admitted. ‘I think perhaps he may sometimes not have been as wholesome in the giving as God intended. A little boastful, maybe. But then he was very proud of his efforts to support the church, and there’s nothing wrong with that . . . being proud of your service to God . . .’

Callista nodded and tried not to yawn. She noticed Helen take a deep breath as if she was psyching up to something.

‘All right then,’ she said with a small frightened smile. ‘I’m going to be very daring.’

She looked directly at Callista, and even before she spoke Callista knew it was a step in the right direction. Helen looked stronger.

‘I hope you won’t be too shocked if I tell you that Henry enjoyed making love.’ Helen’s face paled and her fingers tightened around the tumbler. ‘And he was very good at it . . . Is it wrong to talk about this?’

Callista laughed. ‘No. It’s just what I need to hear. When is sex ever wrong if it’s good?’

Helen took a nervous sip of wine. ‘I suspect Henry probably felt guilty about how much he enjoyed it. Our church says it’s only supposed to be for procreation. But Henry definitely quite liked it.’ Helen blushed. She stopped and glanced at Callista. ‘You’re not horrified?’

‘No. This is all normal stuff.’

‘I can’t think what else to tell you.’

‘Have some more wine.’

Helen giggled. Her cheeks were starting to fizz red from the alcohol. ‘This feels so naughty,’ she said.

‘But you’re having fun,’ Callista said. ‘It beats communion, doesn’t it?’

Helen nodded and took another careful sip. ‘Have you ever taken communion?’ she asked.

Callista snorted. ‘Even if I could get my blackened soul through the front door of the church, I don’t think the minister would have me.’

Helen shook her head over-emphatically. The wine was exaggerating her movements. ‘I’m sure he’d take you in,’ she said. ‘The church is the house of the Lord, after all.’

The wine was enhancing the evangelising, not drowning it as Callista had hoped. ‘I think I’m doing fine just as I am,’ she said.

‘Not according to Mrs Jensen.’ Helen’s eyes widened as she realised her gaffe and she covered her mouth and giggled. ‘Oh dear. I’m not being very tactful, am I?’

‘Since when was Mrs Jensen ever tactful?’

They laughed together.

‘You know,’ said Helen, wobbling a little drunkenly. ‘There are some things I could tell you about Henry that would turn your toes.’

‘Really?’ Callista topped up Helen’s glass again. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Oh yes.’ Helen wagged a finger at Callista. ‘But the story I have isn’t very nice, and it might change your opinion of him, so I don’t think I can tell you.’

‘Surely it can’t be that bad.’ She handed the glass to Helen.

‘Yes, it is bad.’

Helen took a few more sips of wine, her face pale. She had loosened up as Callista had planned, but she was so wrought and tense, Callista wished she hadn’t asked. She wished she’d just painted the bland portrait this tortured woman was looking for.

‘You don’t have to tell me this, you know,’ she said. ‘It was unkind of me to pry.’

‘No,’ Helen said, eyes wide with stress. ‘I really should tell it.’

Callista filled her wine and looked at Helen. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m ready. Nothing you can say will shock me, so don’t worry about that.’

Helen smiled faintly, and then it all came out in a rush, as if she had been waiting for years to release everything she’d been holding so tightly within.

It had started two years after Darren was born. Henry had suddenly become serious about having more children. Before that they had been trying on and off, just on the chance that Helen might fall pregnant. Which she didn’t. Then two years after Darren, Henry decided it was time. Time to get on and fill all those rooms upstairs with children. They had a moral and religious duty to provide God with lots of little Christians. That was why they had married, after all.

For several months they tried to get pregnant. Henry was very persistent, and each night after dinner, once the kitchen was clean and they had showered, he insisted they make love. He wasn’t going to miss a chance. He said it was ‘God’s work’ and that there should be no rest. Then one month Helen’s cycle was late. She was just four days overdue and Henry was convinced she was pregnant. He made her cups of tea and sang hymns around the house with all the sunlight of heaven in his eyes. Then, of course, Helen wasn’t pregnant. She was afraid to tell him. Afraid to face her judgment. He had been waiting for so long.

So she waited all evening, until Darren was in bed, and told him when they were in the bedroom where she knew Darren couldn’t hear them if Henry raised his voice in anger. But Henry didn’t yell. He was silent, and Helen waited while he stared at her, disbelieving. Then his face changed and she knew she had to get away. She tried to escape into the bathroom, but he caught her and pulled her back. He hit her and tore her clothes off. He took her violently on the bed. That was the first time it happened like that, but it wasn’t the last.

Helen stopped abruptly, looking alarmed.

‘That’s enough,’ Callista said. ‘You can stop now.’

‘Can I?’

Helen looked so pathetically grateful. Callista was horrified she had pressed her into this. Then Helen turned even paler than usual and swayed to her feet.

‘I feel ill,’ she moaned. ‘What’s happening?’ She ran to the bathroom and vomited. ‘It’s Henry!’ she said between spasms. ‘He’s punishing me.’

‘No,’ Callista said. ‘It’s the wine. I didn’t realise you’d drunk so much.’

Helen clutched the bowl and heaved again, crying. ‘God will never forgive me.’

‘God will forgive you,’ Callista said. ‘What Henry did was wrong. No woman should be treated like that.’

Helen slipped to the floor, unable to stop weeping.

‘Come on.’ Callista helped her to her feet, found a bucket in the laundry and took her upstairs to bed.

Knowing about Henry didn’t bring inspiration. It brought only anger and disgust. Every time Callista pulled out the photos intending to get started, she wanted to kill him, to hurt him somehow, as he had hurt Helen. Henry’s violence was the most putrid thing she could think of. She remembered Luke kicking her on the stairs as he left, like she was a dog. And now there was Helen, powerless beneath a man with righteousness and the wrath of God in his spine.