Robyn Hogan

Del is trying to re-build a career; she has an admirer.

She drove as far as Bathurst before checking herself into a motel. The drive was easy with the sun behind her but, as darkness gathered, Del felt she had driven as far as she could safely do so. She had resolutely kept all thoughts of the day at bay as she drove but now they were clamouring for release. She had surprised the others with her need to flee; to put distance between the well-wishers and herself. But, as she stood in the reception of the first motel she had come to with both ‘Vacancy’ and ‘Restaurant’ signs lit up, she suddenly realised, with a jolt, that she had wanted, most of all, distance from her family.

‘A room, yes,’ the receptionist was efficient, ‘but if you want a meal you will have to go to the dining room immediately.’ She smiled a type of apology, adding, ‘the chef leaves in five, maybe ten minutes.’

Del needed food; she had not stopped for lunch and breakfast had been very early. She had been unable, or unwilling, to eat at the wake. If ‘wake’ was the correct term for the afternoon tea; appropriate for the conglomeration of news, views and comments that had swirled round her; involved her reactions. And the remembering of people: that had been the hardest part. And everyone, of course, had known who she was. Her head felt quite full, almost to the point of aching as she stood at the receptionist’s desk. She gave herself a mental shake and pulled her credit card from her wallet.

‘Are you going to take the room?’

‘Of course. And I’ll order breakfast too.’

‘And dinner tonight?’ as Del hesitated, being weary and slow minded rather than uninterested, the receptionist added, ‘I must let Chef know.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Now? You must go in now.’

I’ve got the point, Del thought crossly, but forced herself to smile. ‘Sure. I’ll just go to my room, use the toot and come back.’

The receptionist tossed her long hair, ran Del’s card through the machine, pushed a key and breakfast form towards her. ‘Very well. But you must come straight back; I’ll let Chef know. Before he has packed up.’ Perhaps Chef was on triple time after nine p.m.?

Del parked outside the room and carried her small overnight case in. She used the toilet and brushed her hair before closing the room and heading towards reception and the restaurant. If she’d been with Kevin, they would probably have had a drink first, eased the travel out of their bones, then set off seeking a quality specialist restaurant, Chinese or Thai, Indian or Italian. But Del no longer felt the need to explore new taste sensations; she was happy enough settling for the motel’s offerings. A simple grill was all that appealed tonight. She entered the restaurant as the last customers were leaving, and was determined not to appear embarrassed by her late entry. Even so, she glanced quickly at the menu, not really considering it, and gave her order to the waiter. Steak. Plain rump steak, medium rare. A salad. A small bottle of red. And some water, too, please.

She sat back. The room was darkened and probably always was rather dark. Deep reds and blacks with a trace of cream or yellow in carpets, walls and chairs. ‘Intimate atmosphere’ would be the description. The one light, on her table, was bronze, oil-lamp style, with a creamy opaque glass. Del had brought a book in with her but there was no way she could see well enough to read by the lamp. Somewhere, a compact disk was softly playing old-time rock and roll. The day began to fold back, raising raw thoughts to the surface. The thoughts piled up but her mind, like a tongue exploring a hole in a tooth, insisted on examining her mother’s dying words again. She had mostly managed to keep them from her consciousness for four days now; had thought them properly buried as her mother’s dying delusions that they had to be, but, now, they were bright and fresh around her. And, she had to admit, the reason she had opted to leave for the city so soon after the funeral. Anne, Michael and George, Davy and Sarah had decided to stay over, at least for one night, to catch up with friends. Gert Ryan, who had run the Royal since forever, assured them her rooms were now ‘state of the art’, whatever that might mean, and she would give them a special discount in the circumstances. Sarah had sulked a little, which was surprising considering she was an old town girl, but the others had decided to remain there for the night, catching up with some friends they had only spoken to fleetingly. Del realised, with a sharp jab of envy, that, apart from Barry Jackson of her misspent childhood, there was no one her age she could call ‘friend’. She had left the town long before and had deliberately cut herself off after her father had died. She had been devastated by his death. Everyone else had expected it since before her birth; to Del he had always been so vibrant, not a man on borrowed time as all others saw him. The fact that her mother and Davy had sold up so quickly, as if they had been waiting, counting the days, still puzzled and hurt her. Within weeks of David’s death, her mother had moved into town, never giving Del the opportunity to say farewell to the farmhouse and the paddocks she had roamed. It had been her first year at university and, from then on, she cited study and part-time work as excuses for making rare visits only. Sarah, of course, was behind Davy leaving the farm. They weren’t married then and Davy was besotted. Pure putty in her hands, and she fancied a cleaner job for him. It seemed he had done well in the real estate business, Sarah urging him along until they finally settled in Sydney.

Remembering, watching again in her mind’s eye, Davy moving round the church hall, she began to understand why Sarah might have been a little adverse to them staying. His voice had changed, slowed to a drawl, and he was talking wheat and oil crops rather than houses, with some authority. Del suddenly realised the city had smartened her brother, made him appear street-wise, but it had not really changed him. She then considered Sarah who was closer to her in age. The little country girl was missing; a savvy woman, familiar with galleries and boutiques, bridge and gossip, stood in her place. She had been a class ahead of Del, a stick insect of a girl who had called Del ‘pudden’. In fairness though, Del had to admit, now as she remembered, Sarah had never called her that as an adult. But, by then, it had been very obvious she had wanted Davy.

The drink arrived, then the salad. With an unexpected lump in her throat, she realised she had always been a little apart from her family. Sarah fitted in with Anne, partnered her in competition tennis, enjoyed many friends in common. Michael had been in the local bank when he and Anne married but had taken a city transfer in the early seventies so Anne had been well settled into a Sydney lifestyle when Sarah and Davy reached the city. Until these last weeks, when their mother had been ill, Del had had very little contact with them. Sitting there, letting the waiter serve her steak, she silently admitted she was an outsider in her family. Or, rather, danced to a different tune, as it were. But she was sure she had not been an outsider to her father.

She toyed with the second half of the steak. It had been cut thinner and was over cooked and dry, despite Chef’s need to hurry. She had had enough anyway and, pushing the plate away, brought the salad to her and began to eat from the bowl.

Hazel Watts had said her mother absolutely doted on her. News to me, she thought. She could not recall her mother ever even hugging her; spontaneously, anyway. Dad yes, but, staring into the salad bowl, she forced herself to feel her mother’s touch as a demand and could not. Even after Margaret had been admitted into the nursing home and Del visited her a couple of times a week, caresses had always come from Del, though returned well enough. But if Anne was also there, Margaret’s hands strayed onto hers, stroked her arms, tapped her face. The salad finished, Del signalled for the chit and drained her wine glass. She would make coffee in her room and, maybe, cry herself to sleep.

But back in the room with its Aztec-style patterned quilt, the dominating television set and the tasteful prints of farm barns positioned just so on the walls, more and more memories of her father crowded her. It was impossible to believe he was not her father and there was no evidence, other than those dying words, to suggest otherwise. Then, unbidden, George Watts and something he had said. Something coarse; she had shut her ears. Now she forced herself to think. Her father’s war injury; his early discharge; the luck that had allowed him to sire another daughter. That’s what George Watts had talked about. She knew from a very early age that her father’s intestines had been badly mauled; that he wore a colostomy bag. Sometimes, when out mustering, the horse’s jolting would make it fill up too quickly. He would have to dismount, hand Bunny’s reins to her to hold, and ‘do his doings’ as he called it.

Del sighed, folded the quilt back, stacked the pillows and slumped, letting those days flow over her. Sunlit, a dry wind rustling the few tall eucalypts left when the early settlers cleared the land and the smell of dust, horse sweat, leather and woolly sheep. Her pony, Crimson, obeyed her father’s every command; she, Del, had only to stay in the saddle so she was safe riding with him all day, if necessary. She could see him, dismounting by putting his leg forwards over Bunny’s neck and sliding from the saddle, apparently to minimise soiling himself. Crouched over, he would move away to a nearby shrub or a clump of tussock and, she guessed, empty the bag. All she could see was his bent back leaning into the foliage, flies buzzing round. Sometimes his khaki shirt would be black with flies. Then he would reach for the pad of folded newspaper, his ‘fodder’ he called it, which he kept in his hip pocket and, soon after, straighten up, turn, give his bright grin and amble back to his horse. His grin was not unlike Barry Jackson’s today. Somewhere, Davy had to have been in the scene sometimes but she could not picture him. Nor his horse though she fancied its name was Socks. The dogs she could recall; they would knock off from their work, drop into some shade and, tongues lolling, wait until the boss was remounted. Sometimes, particularly if they were moving weaners, or ewes and lambs, the sheep would begin to scatter and her father would wave his arms and shout instructions until the dogs brought the flock together again.

She had to be his daughter. That an even more sensitive part of him was injured, ‘had his balls shot off’, according to Watts, did not guarantee there would not have been ‘enough juice left’ to impregnate her mother. The mature Del knew you needed six weeks to be sure, after a vasectomy, that a partner would not conceive. If she could trace the date of his injury then she could be certain of paternity. Well, virtually certain.

And her mother. Did she have any opportunity to take a lover? Highly unlikely. With two small children, the responsibility of keeping the farm at least intact, the basic grind of milking, making butter, growing vegetables and picking, preserving fruit. Del had to admit she had no idea how her mother had coped; what life had been like for them during the war. Had men, too old for active service, helped out? Had her mother dallied with an aged neighbour? Del sat up suddenly: was that why mother had never liked or approved of Kevin? ‘Why are you marrying an old man?’ she’d said, and Del could feel her cheeks burn again with the scorn in her mother’s voice.

She slipped from the bed and began to undress. Now you are being fanciful, she told herself sternly, take a shower, get into bed properly and go to sleep. As she showered, rubbing a miniature cake of oatmeal soap under her breasts, across her stomach, along her inner thighs, the thoughts continued. Who was around who could have had great-granny Fidelma in his genes if not her father! she snorted. Why even the undertaker, when she recalled their conversation, had seemed in no doubt of her parentage. And she doubted there were any town secrets that did not eventually reveal themselves to him. No. That he commented was a positive for her. That thought brought a smile and, as she dried and slipped the nightdress over her head, she allowed her body to relax at last, slumping into the pillows.

The arrival of the breakfast tray woke her; hers had been a surprisingly deep sleep and her body felt slow and heavy. The waiter knocked loudly again, called ‘Breakfast!’ Drowsily, she unlocked the door and cleared a place on the table for the tray.

‘Thank you, that looks nice,’ she managed to croak.

‘Put the tray outside the door when you’re finished, love,’ and the woman left, closing the door behind her.

The glimpse through the open door declared the day to be quite lovely, calm and glowing with early autumn. As she set her breakfast out and pulled a chair up to the table, Del concentrated on shaking her thoughts clear. A funeral meant closure; she resolved to put yesterday and its dark, unhappiness behind her and get on with her life. Bathurst had been just the place to stop-over though it had not occurred to her the evening before. Her sub-conscious must have been working for her. Last evening she had forgotten about a conversation with her old friend, Susan O’Hare, the work proposal, but now the memory was crisp and bright in the morning air. Del wished she’d brought her notes with her but, in their absence, began jotting down what she could remember.

She and Susan had been friends from university days. There were four of them then, almost inseparable in those days, rivals for the A+ mark and thinking, in their innocent, naïve way, they were challenging the world. On graduation, serious, bespectacled Laura had taken a school position in Western Australia where she continued to teach; Susan had married Alan and settled into motherhood, their first child, Byron, born the week before Del’s twins and Barbara; well, Barbara was Barbara.

Susan was now a commissioning editor for a large international publisher. Of the four, she and Del had remained most in contact, particularly when the children were young. When Susan learned of Kevin’s illness she had called a few times, dropped in a prepared meal or two, saving Del the chore of food preparation. Once, she had shown Kevin a sample of her new publications. He had acted the old professor, admiring her work, but later, coughing and wheezing, had described them as ‘Susan’s tantalising little vanities’ to Del.

A short while ago Susan had arranged for she and Del to have lunch in a Skygardens café.

‘Catch up with the gossip and I’ve something particular to discuss with you,’ Susan had said as she made the arrangements.

The ‘something to discuss’ was an idea of Susan’s to profile a number of Australian women artists as a biography collection.

‘And I’ve found just the one for you.’ Del had raised her eyebrows, playing to Susan’s touch of drama. ‘Jean Bellette.’

‘I haven’t time,’ Del had protested. ‘My mother is ill, dying in all probability, and I’m still sorting out Kevin’s things.’

‘Hush up! Let me tell you about this woman before you knock the idea on the head.’

‘I guess you are going to anyway,’ Del had smiled.

‘Yes. I am.’

‘She was part of the Sydney push of artists in the forties and fifties, was thought to be an excellent teacher. Was married to the Herald’s art critic.’

‘That would help.’

Del, alone in her motel room, smiled at the casual sarcasm she recalled but the subject was racing through her mind now.

Susan had definitely mentioned Bathurst. And Hill End. They’d lived at Hill End. Had she taught in Bathurst? She seemed to remember Susan mentioning her winning a Sulman. Or two.

‘Bit of form, don’t you agree?’ Susie had commented passing over a print out for Del.

‘It looks to have possibilities but, I don’t know, I doubt I’ve the ability.

‘Well, if you haven’t, it will soon show up and we’ll call the project off.’ Susie was a businesswoman to her fingertips. ‘But I think you’re a wasted talent just mooning around as you are.’

Del had dropped her head onto her chest, focussed her eyes on her coffee. Susie left her to her thoughts for a moment or two then, placing a hand over hers, and, with a change of tone, gently added, ‘You need to do it.’

‘Kevin always…and I have to spend so much time with my mother.’

‘Kevin’s gone, Del. And as for your mother, you only have to visit her, not nurse her day and night as you did Kevin. You are making silly excuses.’ She had looked at her watch, ‘I must fly’ and picked up her briefcase. ‘It’s been great seeing you and,’ patting the print-out, ‘look into it. I think it could be a go-er.’

As Del looked out on the Bathurst morning she wished she’d brought the papers with her, before realising they didn’t really matter. She had a couple of pointers in her head without trying and today was a great opportunity to begin a project. The lethargy she had felt for months seemed to slough off, leaving her ready to begin, what? A new career? Mould a new self?

Del had hinted that she could return to academia but doing so was not panning out as she had expected. She had been somewhat surprised; mystified, too, that Kevin had not arranged something for her. Gerald Burns, an old rowing mate of Kevin’s at Joey’s, had returned from Toronto to take up Kevin’s placement when he, Kevin, had finally resigned – in more ways than one. Gerald had been their best man (Susan her attendant) and, not long after Kevin’s death, he and his wife, Nell, a Canadian, had invited her for dinner. It had been a strained affair, Nell chatting on about her quilting and Del, with no idea of sewing at all, quite at a loss. When the opportunity offered, Del had sounded him out about a likely position, felt his evasiveness rather than heard it. After what seemed like an evening of procrastination, Gerald had suggested, as she was saying good-night, that she might ‘try the arts department at Macquarie.’

Recent government policy had caused several institutes of higher education to upgrade to university status, making almost forty universities, with dozens of campuses flung across the nation, competing for students. That, and the rumour that McDonald’s was the largest employer of arts graduates, had seen the demand for the humanities decline. The few colleagues, all women, Del had spoken to seemed friendly enough but anxious and tense, a higher pitch in their voices registering their stress. Del had never understood the politics of academia — that had been Kevin’s forte — and, despite the years she had worked within the ‘hallowed halls’, now felt she had probably always been a rank outsider.

Del was sufficiently well enough off financially but recognised she had physical, mental, emotional needs which only worthwhile work could satisfy. She was a stranger to tennis days and the morning coffee/shopping lifestyle and, this morning, with the funeral having brought some closure to another episode in her life, her thoughts returned to Susan’s suggestion. Dare she think: commission?

She drew the motel compendium to her and began jotting on the complementary letterhead the very few details she remembered from Susan’s informal briefing. ‘Jean Bellette — husband ?foreigner — artist — art teacher — some merit — Sulman — initiated Bathurst Art Prize — lived in Hill End — habitation: house ? continues?’

She wrote the points one below the other, space in between for notes, and felt the glow of interest such small items aroused in her. Yes, she would spend the day carrying out a preliminary survey of the prospects. Her feet felt lighter, her shoulders ceased to ache and her mind fairly tingled in anticipation.

On this high note she showered and dressed, paid the account and collected a town map. It was all of twenty-five years since she had dallied here. She and Kevin. Dally was the correct word. She smiled at the memory: she was taking Kevin to meet the family and they had stopped off in Bathurst for the night, too weary, too uninterested, in driving the further miles to her home town. And had spent most of the next day enjoying Bathurst, arriving to her mother’s rather late.

‘You’re at the ‘Y’ aren’t you?’ her mother had stated rather than asked when they telephoned her to say they could not complete the full journey that night. It was easier to let her believe so.

Now she could not remember which motel she and Kevin had stayed at, had slept together in such wonderful companionship and gentle, delightful love. The atmosphere in motels was much the same; it was hard to distinguish or remember one from the other. She certainly hadn’t given that previous stay a thought last evening; thinking about the town, though, had brought it back in a rush of sweetness.

She turned into Keppel Street, a broad, gracious avenue with elegant white street lamps, and parked outside the Art Gallery. She walked up the curve of the building, past the library to the gallery. Admission was free and she took the breath of expectation she always felt when entering such places. When one of the first paintings to catch her eye was a Jean Bellette she felt it was truly her lucky day. A still life, called just that, its composition was vivid and strong. Del could feel the personality of an energetic woman shining in the blues and creams of objects and fruit; in the startling white of a chair back and the lively green of what seemed to be a bunch of leeks.

As the excitement bubbled through her she sought out the curator. He was more than helpful, telling her little bits of gossip as well as confirming some main points in Bellette’s life. She and her husband had bought a house in Hill End; she still owned it though she spent most of her time in Majorca. Paul Haefliger had died some years previously but he, the curator, understood Bellette was still alive.

By the time she arrived back in Wollstonecraft, Del had mentally mapped out a program of research and was teasing out various styles she might employ to tell the story. It might be trivial in Kevin’s eyes but to her it was stimulating. Though she felt the need to caution her excitement; she would have to confirm that the story was still available to her.

Once in her apartment she filled the electric jug and switched it on, pulled back the curtains so that her view of Berry Island and the harbour leapt into the room, and dialled Susan O’Hare’s number. It was a little after five o’clock but Susie was at her desk.

‘Hello. It’s Delma.’

‘Well, you sound brighter than when last we spoke. I’ve been a bit worried about you. How’s your mum?’

Del sighed. She hadn’t told any of her friends about her mother dying. They didn’t know Margaret; it had not occurred to her they might be interested for her sake. ‘Mum’s gone. Actually, I’m just back from the funeral.’

‘Oh I am sorry, Del. Please accept my deepest sympathy.’

‘Thanks, Suse.’

‘Are you hurting much?’

‘No. I don’t think so. You see, I stayed in Bathurst last night and that gave me a chance to look up that woman artist you mentioned—’

‘Jean Bellett?’

‘Yes. Is the offer still open?’

‘Dear me, Del. You are straining a friendship here. I’ve just given it to this bright young graduate.’

‘All right. I understand.’ Del felt her eyes go moist and her throat contract.

‘On the other hand,’ Del could hear a pencil being tapped quite firmly on the desk, ‘was it that that made you sound so chirpy when you rang? Have you done some realistic work on it?’

‘No,’ she swallowed hard, ‘mainly footwork. I didn’t have your notes with me, only a name to go on.’

‘You scored?’

‘Well, I saw the oil which won the inaugural Bathurst Art Show. And she still owns the house in Hill End.’ She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice; she must project a professionalism in response to Susan’s.

‘How quickly could you get it done?’

Del shrugged her shoulders. ‘When do you want it?’ before adding, in a rush, ‘you know me. I can cope with tight deadlines.’

‘Mmm. And the grad is an unknown. Look, this is a bit unethical — bloody unethical — but I’ll make it up to the kid somehow. Okay, the job’s yours. And no favours. I need the first draft by the end of the month.’

‘You’ll have it, Susie. And I’d better stop yapping and get to it.’

‘You betcha. Glad you called.’

‘Before you go, what’s the length?’

‘As long as it takes, Babe.’ The line fell dead.

Del made herself a coffee, using the filter cup she hadn’t bothered with for ages, kicked her shoes off and set about organising her desk. She retrieved the original print-out from a drawer and ran her eyes down it. Comparing it with the notes she had made that morning she was surprised by how much recall she had had on a subject she had barely glanced at. It was a good omen for success, she felt.

The evening turned into night, ferry lights glided across the harbour and the far shore sparkled. A couple of fishing dinghies sat beneath the great dark mound of Berry Island. Her computer, nicely compliant, hummed softly. Then the telephone shrilled.

She picked up the receiver with a casual, ‘Hello.’

‘Where have you been?’ A man’s voice.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’ve been so worried about you; you should have been home before lunch.’

‘I think you have the wrong number.’ She replaced the handset. It rang again almost immediately.

‘You are Delly Dunne.’ The voice was a little less confident but Del was admitting nothing.

‘It’s Barry, Del.’ Silence. Del combed her memory. ‘You haven’t forgotten me as quickly as that, have you? I had hoped you’d stay last night, with the others. Good old Davy gave me your number.’

‘Oh. Barry Jackson?’

‘The same. But where have you been? You should have been home last night and certainly before lunch today if you were too weary yesterday.’

Taking the handset away from her ear, Del looked at it in disbelief. She shook her head and decided to be polite. ‘It’s nice of you to call.’

‘Yeah. Well. I wanted to catch up with you. Can’t let you slip out of my fingers twice,’ he laughed. When was the first time? she wondered. ‘I thought I might mosey on down your way in a week or two. We could kick up some bright lights between us.’

Del smiled wryly: was she being chatted up? She could only vaguely remember the feel. ‘I’m not much of a bright light girl, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t give me that, Delly Dunne!’

‘Besides I have a lot of work to catch up on and, anyway, don’t you have a wife?’

‘Told you, didn’t I? Kate and I are going our separate ways.’ He laughed in a deep, country way, rather as her father had and she felt herself melt a little. ‘I’ll keep in touch. Hooroo for now. Sleep tight.’

He’s incorrigible, she thought, amused. Flicking on the television, she began closing the computer down for the night. A gremlin of an idea teased her. Just for companionship, she assured herself.