Watercolours (13 page)

Dom put a hand to his eyes and peered down. He was about  the same age and height as Kane but Kane looked as though he'd been pushing a mower in the sun with his shirt off every day since high school. His broad shoulders were deeply tanned, his hairless chest tight as a drum and glistening. His back rippled as he flung the mower over another lumpy section of turf. From Camelot's balconies, all eyes followed his progress.

Dom was shocked. He watched the women perving, first with disgust, then admiration. Then he grew indignant. ‘But … look at those edges!'

Mavis didn't hear him. She was too busy regarding Kane's pecs as he accidentally massacred a corner of the flowerbed.
‘Hmm? Oh no. Don't bother yourself, love. We're used to Kane. He always does the lawns, doesn't he, Beryl?'

Beryl nodded vigorously, reached for another cracker and sat back comfortably in her chair. Dom stood speechless. The women ignored him.

‘How long do you think it would take to ride to the winery?' he asked after a minute.

‘Ride?' Mavis turned and pushed up her sunglasses to stare at him in horror. ‘On a bicycle?'

‘Yes.'

‘You'd be mad,' she said simply. ‘It's uphill all the way.' She drained her glass. ‘Why do you want to ride up there?'

‘I'm having dinner with Mira and George Lepido.'

Mavis airily waved a hand at him. ‘Just take the Falcon, love. The keys are on the sideboard.'

Dom sensed she wanted to be rid of him. He was torn. He'd been dying to take Mavis's old car for a spin but he felt snubbed. ‘Thanks anyway,' he said, ‘but it's not that far. I've looked at a map. Besides, I'm getting pretty fit with all this riding.' He slapped a thigh to prove it.

‘Honestly, love,' said Mavis, unable to hide her doubt, ‘you're welcome to use my car any time.'

‘Thanks for the offer. I might take you up on it some time, but it's a beautiful afternoon for a ride.' He inhaled deeply and exuded what he hoped was a profound masculinity.

Mavis shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine, a little sloppily, he observed. How long had they been sitting here?

‘You know how to get there, then? Just take Serpentine Road and follow it …' she paused for emphasis, ‘…
all the way up
through the orchards.'

He nodded. ‘So, about half an hour, you reckon?'

She flashed him a smile. ‘Maybe longer.' She pulled her glasses down and sank back into her chair, a shopfront closed for siesta. Dom let himself out. Not even the dogs noticed.

 

He set off in the late afternoon with plenty of daylight to spare. Without even a glance at the Falcon he mounted his bike, attacked the driveway, hit the road and pedalled over the bridge. Adrenaline shot power to his limbs. He was carving up the kilometres.
What are your legs? Steel springs!
It was pleasant riding. On his face and forearms he sensed the sun was beginning to lose its ferocity at last. Summer was on its way out, mellowing in its old age, fancying it might be remembered fondly if it could leave looking pretty enough. The light had changed. It was as though he were viewing the world through a gold lens and it gave a kind of overripe quality to the landscape; gum-tree trunks glowed pink, the distant orchards were a luminous green. Novi's pictures had him noticing subtleties like this now.

He headed west towards the hills, feeling fantastic. The weeks of cycling had toughened him up and he felt ready for a ride like this. His blood was pumping, his core was strong, he was sucking in deep breaths of fresh air. It had been so long since he'd been dependent on a bike that he'd forgotten the joys of riding, how it immersed you in the environment and made an explorer out of you. He felt the underlying texture of the road, how it vibrated through the handlebars; the way the air pulsed cool and warm as he passed under trees and out again. He felt the space around him as he shot through it, how it seemed to shrink and expand — and the things he caught sight of in people's yards!
Soft toys discarded in flowerbeds; muffled, salivary sounds of dogs wrestling; an inferno of sausages on a backyard barbecue. Through a gate closing he glimpsed a pale, bloated figure raking leaves in ancient underwear.

A couple of cars overtook him. Renewed in his passion, he felt pity for the drivers. Cars were so confined! On the bike he was limitless, constantly testing himself, always searching for the opportunity to cut across corners and tackle gutter and dirt and grass until he was back on bitumen again and a good twenty metres ahead. Riding was a conquest!

He turned off the highway towards the hills and pedalled with smooth, even strokes until he was surprised to see the turn-off to Serpentine Road. He was making great time.

Then, slowly, he began to climb.

Up out of his seat for more power, he began to experience a burning in his thighs that he knew would only get worse and he tried to put Mavis and the Falcon out of his head, tried to appreciate instead the intimacy of his surroundings. Inhale fruit trees, exhale bushland. Inhale farmland, exhale gullies.

He crossed a high narrow bridge and from here the road grew even steeper. Soon his legs were in agony and he couldn't look anywhere but down at the few metres of bitumen ahead. The backpack was like a heater against his wet back. He tried to listen past the pounding in his ears for some of that wildlife the library book had mentioned: a lyrebird, a bell frog, anything. All he could hear was cicadas — or was it his ears ringing? Sweat stung his eyes, he was gasping for breath, but he kept on pedalling.

At last the road flattened out a bit and he saw a few houses set back from the verge, mostly ramshackle structures with closed-in verandas. Lax wire fences contained an odd assortment of
animals with no apparent interest in escape: goats and chickens, the occasional cow. He could smell horses, dusty and pungent. He passed a couple of brick mansions with large professional-looking vegetable plots, but most of the properties had nothing more than a sprawl of netted fruit trees and the odd rusted swing set, or a psychedelic bus on concrete blocks, or discarded car bodies with grass growing through the windows. Land was cheap this far out of town, he gathered.

After a while the road grew steep again as well as treacherous, with potholes, loose gravel and narrow shoulders falling away vertically into scrub. He had to focus hard not to wobble off the edge and doubted anyone would ever find him if he did. Exhausted, his eyes latched onto each approaching letterbox with growing desperation until finally up ahead he saw a roadside stall:
Tomatoes with flavour! Luscious fresh figs! Organic oranges — spotty but yummy!
There was an open gate with a sign in the shape of a boat painted with the glorious word
Lepido
. As he veered into the driveway, he saw the sign was carved with three little figures: a man, a child and a cat. At the front of the boat was the mermaid again, so busty and wild of hair it could only be Mira.

He coasted down the short driveway like a champion. He'd done it, and without once needing to dismount! Admittedly, it had been a tough slog, much harder than he'd expected. His hands were numb and his arms itching madly from the relentless vibration, his thighs felt like concrete and his heart was pounding in a disturbing sledgehammer kind of way, but he'd made it.

He pedalled slowly, drawing thick breaths. The driveway opened onto a wide front lawn with a clothesline at one end and a boat frame at the other, down behind a deep tangle of garden.
He cruised towards the house, recognising it from some of Novi's drawings: peeling yellow paint with a red tin roof faded in stripes. Dom, who noticed windows out of habit, saw that these were original timber with corner squares of stained glass, the sashes broken long ago and chocked up with various objects — a wooden spoon, a candlestick; his father would have had those windows out in a flash, and replaced them with functional, easy-slide aluminium.

He dismounted near a flogged-looking ute and the bike fell out of his hands. He wrenched off his helmet and his sodden backpack and staggered a little, concentrating on adjusting his feet to solid ground again.

His breath was coming easier now. He felt tired but strong. Then all at once he had to plant his legs and focus on staying upright because the house and the garden and the grassy lawn were all rolling into one nauseating blur. A white light blossomed across his vision and began to pulsate in time to his heartbeat. There was an odd pressure in his eyeballs, as though they might pop. His burning cheeks felt weirdly cold and clammy.

He staggered towards the veranda, rested a hand on the nearest railing and closed his eyes. They shot open again almost immediately when he heard a bloodcurdling scream come from inside the house. He froze, his heart in his throat.
What the fuck was that?

He stood rooted to the spot while his fatigued body struggled to process the rush of adrenaline. The house had fallen silent again. He strained to hear. There were thuds and the sound of running. He almost jumped out of his skin when the screen door above him was flung open, its flimsy frame clattering like a firecracker against the outside wall. Mira came thundering down
the steps towards him with a broom above her head, her face contorted with rage.

He tried to run but his legs were water. He made to utter some kind of protest but she was already charging, set to bash his brains in with the broom. Fuelled by an unexpected cocktail of life-preserving chemicals he fled backwards, stumbling, hitting stairs and bushes and a cross-hatch of lattice. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the crunch as she was on top of him, then beyond him, flying through the yard. He swung his head in time to see her launch the broom like a javelin into the trees beside the clothesline. Birds flew skyward.

He swallowed. His mouth was a parched cavity. Relief had turned his legs all quivery and for a few dream-like moments in which adrenaline continued to warp everything in slow motion he watched her wrenching clothes from the washing line, her backside wobbling from the exertion.

His head lolled on his neck. He imagined laying its weight on Mira Lepido's cushiony arse. Then he swayed, leaned into the cool garden bed and vomited.

Dom was on the veranda steps with his head between his knees. The steps were smooth and soft from age and he felt thankful for their comfort. Never before, he was certain, had he rested on slabs of wood so hospitable.

‘Sit here for a minute,' Mira had instructed him before disappearing inside with the laundry. She had been embarrassed to find him there and they both needed a moment to collect themselves. ‘Just take your time,' she said. He would have hugged her with gratitude but his arms were elastic bands, wobbly and without bone.

Everything had improved since throwing up, except his opinion of himself. The garden still pulsed gently and occasionally his eyes were dazzled by little silver bursts, but the veranda's shade was restorative, cool. And the steps … the steps were incredible. Somewhere at the back of his brain a lone thought rang out: the return trip was all downhill.

Novi came to the screen door. He opened it with one hand, the other clutching a tall glass of water. Dom lifted his head and tried to focus on the boy.

‘Hey,' he gasped.

Novi approached and handed him the water, steadying the glass until Dom was able to grasp it firmly, then he retreated a little, unsure how to behave with his teacher on the front steps
in such a state. He hovered near the wooden railing picking paint while Dom sat and waited for his legs to work.

‘Are you all right?' Novi asked after a while.

Dom nodded. ‘Just overdid it a bit. Be okay in a minute.'

He took a sip of water, swilled it around his mouth and spat. Then he drank deeply.

Frowning, Novi leaned against the railing and twisted one skinny brown leg around the other. ‘Did you ride all the way from Morus?'

Dom heard the awe in his voice and nodded.

‘You didn't walk it once?'

Dom smiled weakly and shook his head. Novi's eyes widened in admiration and he came to sit beside him on the steps.

‘I like your bike,' Novi said, gazing out to where Dom's BMX rested in the grass.

Dom felt the usual twinge of embarrassment that accompanied every comment on his mode of transport. But the boy's face was full of longing. He was staring at the bicycle, leaning forward on his knees and clutching his thin ankles as if imagining the feel of those black rubber grips in his hands. Together they looked at the BMX. Its sleek metallic-blue frame glinted in the late afternoon sun, the tough tyres reared up stiffly, ready for action. He realised that it was in fact a very good bike. It didn't have a speck of rust. Clearly it was an eleven year old's dream.

‘Do you want to see mine?' Novi asked, then added hurriedly, ‘In a minute. When you're ready.'

Dom was touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘Sure.'

They sat in silence while Dom finished his glass of water and Novi picked splinters from the edge of the step. Then he turned his attention to a large scab on one of his knobbly brown knees.
The scab had dried into a concave disc and the surrounding skin was a ridge of puckered pink.

‘Omelette stage,' Dom noted.

Novi giggled. Dom watched him work his fingernail slowly under the disc of dark dried blood, picking with determination until he prised the whole thing off. Underneath was a triumph of raw skin and plasma. They exchanged a smile.

The sun had sunk behind the range now, leaving a trail of pink and purple clouds. Shadows were moving into the garden and a couple of stern-looking kookaburras had landed on a low branch nearby. Cooking sounds drifted from inside: an oven being wrenched open, the scrape of a tray on a metal rack, the sizzle of roasting meat. A warm aroma of herbs and garlic hit them and Dom was relieved to feel the stirrings of hunger. He turned to Novi.

‘I'm sorry about what happened with your timeline, mate. I know I let you down. It had every right to be up on the wall with the others. Some things just make people feel uncomfortable, that's all.'

‘I know.' Novi looked into the garden.

‘People like to get their knickers in a knot, but the school has to try and keep everyone happy.' Dom exhaled. He looked at Novi with a smile. ‘It was a really good timeline.'

Novi continued to stare ahead and said nothing.

‘Well! Let's see that bike of yours, eh?'

They got to their feet and Dom attempted a few awkward steps. His seized-up thighs sent him hobbling. The kookaburras eyed him but didn't bother retreating from such a pitiful figure. Novi led him slowly over the lawn and down through the garden past the boat. Ranged in front of a small grove of fruit trees and
a long vegetable patch was a wooden building half hidden in creeper. Novi pushed open the door. Dom ducked under tendrils of purple flowers to follow him inside.

It was a magnificent shed. A row of grubby windows gave light to a large open area where clamped timber shapes rested on sawhorses like a series of curious sculptures. Slowly Dom walked under strings of drying chillies and garlic towards a wall pockmarked and pegged with every imaginable kind of tool. A long workbench was strewn with ancient tobacco tins full of grimy nuts and bolts, nails and screws, fishhooks and sinkers, and drill bits. There were drawers spilling sandpaper and string; empty cardboard tubes that had once held bottles of whisky were now stuffed with dowels of varying lengths. When he saw some slender paintbrushes upended in a jar he felt a shiver up his spine.

This was where genius began.

Novi flicked on an overhead bulb and Dom watched as he reefed aside a lawnmower to get at a rusty little bicycle with chipped gold paint and a torn seat. Taking great care he turned the bike upside down and demonstrated to Dom the smooth whizzing of its well-oiled chain and the swift operation of its pedal brakes. ‘It's a Repco,' he explained proudly. Dom stared at the skinny little kid and his shambles of a bike and thought his heart would break.

With more light he could see just how cluttered the place was. Slung in the rafters were pieces of timber, plasterboard and corrugated iron, layers that created a muffling effect on their voices and drew the atmosphere in close. Over in the corner a tan vinyl armchair oozing foam, a patchwork rug thrown over it, sat hunched like an elderly relative. There were cupboards of gardening tools, golfing trophies draped with beads, a pile of
blue gym mats, a hanging basket full of snorkels, seed pods and feathered party masks. One wall was stacked high with crates full of dark green bottles. Dom moved closer to inspect the labels and was astonished to see it was all mulberry wine, even more than the ladies at Camelot could ever hope to get through.

For a long time he just stood there, breathing the scent of sawdust and grease, dust and varnish, two-stroke and grass sap while vague memories of his father and grandfather stirred within him, memories of school holidays spent absorbed in earnest, fruitless occupation. This was childhood he was breathing: boyhood, fatherhood. He longed to move into the place and set up camp, bed down on that pile of gym mats and submit to the comfort of a thousand humble, useful objects.

He noticed a drawing lying on the end of the workbench and his nostalgia scuttled away. This was the real treasure. He pointed. ‘Is that yours?'

Novi nodded.

‘Can I have a look?'

Novi didn't answer, just stood completely still beside his bike, his hand on his chest. It was a strange gesture, as though he were searching for a heartbeat. Suddenly Dom realised that he might be refused. He could see he'd blown it, and deep down he knew he deserved it. Why the hell would the kid trust him?

After the longest moment, the boy nodded.

Dom approached the workbench. He took up the sketch and tumbled into it. There he was among the different smooth and shaggy tree trunks by the river, peering up into the canopy full of cartwheeling cockatoos, gazing down to the sandy soil beneath his feet where spiky grass hid lizards and coiled snakes. The river was a twist of pink, purple and grey and full of parrots. Parrots in
the river? He peered closer. No, they were flying overhead — a reflection — and yet their outstretched wings gave the impression they were swimming. The perspective shifted and Dom felt he was looking across the landscape, into it and upwards all at once.

He heard a creak behind him and looked around to find Novi dragging out more pictures from a cupboard, his thin arms struggling under their weight. Dom helped him bring them over to the bench and settled down on a stool, determined to see each one.

It was the Lewis, page after page. It cut through valleys and curved around plantations, twisted through paddocks and plots. In one scene it divided a haphazard township of crazy construction, in another it swallowed camp sites and picnic tables, fences and shops as heavy rain drove in sideways like a giant sheet of corrugated iron. Each scene was composed so that every bird and shrub and person was clearly defined and in view. It was as though Novi had x-ray eyes and could see through ordinary barriers to reveal what lived and breathed beneath them. The pictures defied any real perspective or scale, but the jostling viewpoints drew Dom in, threw him around and left him faintly dizzy. He felt pleased to be able to distinguish some of the elements of Novi's style. He wished Camille was with him.

When Dom got to the end of the pile he sat up tall and stretched. His lower back had set into a hard coil from perching so long at the bench. His shoulders and biceps felt as heavy as sandbags. Outside, night was creeping in. He turned and looked for Novi, and found him sitting cross-legged in the patchwork armchair, watching. Dom eased himself off the stool, hobbled over and crouched next to him.

‘Your art is fantastic, Novi. You're talented — Miss Morrison thinks so, too, and she's offered to take you for private art lessons once a week after school. How would you like that?'

The boy's eyes flashed for an instant. Then his expression closed down. ‘We can't afford it,' he said.

‘She won't be charging anything. It'll be part of a talented art program we're putting together for you. To really lift the lid on this stuff you're doing.'

Novi frowned. He still seemed hesitant. Dom was puzzled.

‘Wouldn't you like to get your hands on some proper materials? Paints and canvases and whatever else you want?'

Novi looked torn. ‘Yes, but … what if I get into trouble?'

Of course!
Dom gave him a reassuring smile. ‘These will be special art lessons, just for you. You won't get into trouble, I promise. Not if you agree to concentrate on your schoolwork in class when I need you to and do your homework and your jobs around the house. That's your end of the bargain. What do you say?'

Novi sat very still. He seemed shrunken in the oversized armchair, a fragile, fairytale creature. Dom searched for a way to put him at ease. ‘Look, Novi, you're an artist. Your mum and dad … we all want to help you manage your time a bit better, that's all. Give you some space so you can be free to really express yourself.'

Dom glanced over at the drawings on the bench. He wondered how such a staggering output was produced by this slip of a kid; where on earth did it all come from? He gripped his thighs and stood up. ‘I want to see where you can go with this, mate. I want you to show me what you're really capable of.'

The boy simply blinked at him, his hand pressed to his chest.

 

Mr Best is smiling at me. It's a real smile, in his eyes. The colour has come back to his cheeks and sweat has dried his hair into tufts. There's only a faint smell of sick.

All the cicadas are moving their wings in me. I'm scared, but they're not. They're buzzing. They like Mr Best. His idea of art lessons has made them swarm, ready to burst out of me all at once. Maybe soon they'll have their chance.

That's when I decide to show him.

I walk over to the cupboard with the rakes and mattocks in it and pull open the bottom drawer. Nobody opens it anymore except me and I have to yank hard with both hands. Here, underneath a stack of old storybooks, is where I keep my other drawings, the ones I don't show anyone.

My murder pictures.

I pick one out and bring it over to the bench. Mr Best takes it from me like it's precious. He looks at it long and hard and doesn't say anything. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down a few times.

It's the scene of the crime. I know the river was mad and raging that day from all the rain. I've studied the clues on my walks in that sort of weather, searching the dirty water for objects the river has taken: sticks and rubbish and animals. I have put the koel in a few places up high, imagining where it could have been that day and what it might have seen. It must have seen something. All murderers leave clues.

Mr  Best puts the picture down and looks at me. ‘Are there more?' he asks.

I nod.

‘Bring them out,' he says quietly, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘All of them.'

And so I do.

 

In the kitchen, Novi held out a plate of little balls: fresh figs stuffed with ricotta and wrapped in prosciutto, he said. Dom chose one tentatively, he'd never had a fig before. He took a small bite, but it wasn't the sort of thing to be bitten, he had to throw it into his mouth whole and chew it up in one creamy, seedy, sweet and salty mouthful. It was unbelievably good. He took another one straightaway and had to work hard to resist wolfing down the whole plate.

George opened the wine and Mira pulled the roast from the oven. While the meat was resting and Dom, ignorant of most cooking procedures beyond reheating, was grappling silently with the concept, she gave him a quick tour of the house. Each room was painted a different colour and crammed so full of odd furniture, teetering piles of books, art and bric-a-brac it looked as though there had been a huge explosion and miraculously everything had landed in almost its proper place. Mira's bare feet padded the floorboards, navigating the labyrinth with ease, explaining where George had knocked out walls to improve the light, showing furniture he had salvaged and restored and frames he had made for Novi's pictures, which were numerous and hanging everywhere. Following behind, Dom was mesmerised by the swishing of her buttocks and decided that this woman and her house had the same look about them: abundant, chaotic and welcoming.