she rummaged around, I studied the canvas, seeing what I intended to paint, not what was there. I could stylise the background, had to, with such a large area to cover, but with the figures I wanted realism so I needed models.
Genevieve joined me, silently waiting for my attention. I turned and she lifted a soft carton that held some stale crackers.
'I'm not that hungry,' I told her.
'What were they doing in the fridge?'
'It's the mice. Pickings are so poor, they eat the labels off cans. Anything that's remotely edible goes in the fridge. They haven't worked out how to get in there.' I smiled at her expression. 'Isn't there any bread?'
'Stale.'
'Toast it.'
'There's nothing to put on it.'
'Try Milo.'
'Milo?' She rolled her eyes.
I shrugged and began to clean my palette. I needed the exact shade of intense blue that you found in a hot summer's sky. To give a feeling of bright light, I was going to under-light the trims on the white-painted shop front. I just knew it would work, I could almost taste the excitement. Letting the colours mix themselves I blocked in the sky trying to match what I saw in my mind's eye.
'Gee, that got done quickly,' she marvelled, returning to my elbow.
I finished the last patch between the buildings and put the brush down, surprised to find my hand had cramped. As I massaged it, I stepped back to study the effect. 'This building's white, glowing with reflected light. The one next to it is red for contrast - '
'Want some?' She offered a plate of buttered toasted bread, topped with Milo.
I looked at it. 'Are you kidding? Milo on toast? What do you think I am, weird or something?'
Her eyes widened, then amused outrage made her thin face almost beautiful.
Taking the toast I crunched into it. Milo and melted butter mixed on my tongue. 'It's nice.'
She tried her piece. 'Nice.'
'It's good you think it's nice.'
Self-conscious, she wrinkled her nose and wandered over to the heater. Holding the toast in one hand, I ate and painted, needing to block in the buildings while I had the vision clear in my mind. It was best to get as much done as possible, before I hunted up models. A rush of pleasure warmed me, swelling to include Genevieve. Joe could be the tramp wearing some of my old clothes. He was enough of a ham to enjoy that. Once I had the tramp's pose worked out, I'd start on the background figures.
'It's a weird kinda painting,' the sparrow informed me, then heard what she'd said. 'I mean, it's not the sort of thing you'd hang over the mantelpiece.'
'Exactly. I want to challenge the viewer.' I turned to her. If she knew why I was doing this she might feel better about posing. 'You see, I'm going to enter it in the St Kilda Art Show. I want to-' Suddenly, what I wanted seemed pretentious. I battled on, telling her about the youth we'd found in Fitzroy Street.
'It'll be hard to imagine without seeing the finished painting, but I want to contrast the lives of the comfortably-off in the form of Sunday tourists, with the lives of the street people, as represented by the street rat, the tramp. I want to confront the same well-off people who ignored the kid. They'll be the ones who go to the art show.'
'Boy, will that cause a stink,' she muttered gleefully, then frowned. 'But will they hang it?'
'We'll just have to see. Maybe I can stir up some publicity.'
'Why do you want me to model for you? I'm not comfortably-off.'
'No,' I paused. 'But I want to paint people who really do walk the streets of St Kilda. You'll represent the arty people, punk rockers, painters and poets. You'll wear all black and your-'
'I was sick,' she whispered.
'You were sick, Genevieve.' She wasn't surprised that I knew her name. 'You passed out in the lane.'
'I ran out, an' Tuck didn't come after me.'
'That's right.'
She digested this, her eyes blank, concentration turned in on her drug-slowed perceptions. 'Think I'll have that shower now.'
'You do that.' I'd seen something I needed to change on the building so I picked up the palette to check that I had the colour right.
As I mixed more paint, I was vaguely aware of her moving off, closing the door to my minuscule bathroom. It was so narrow and the ceilings so high, that if you turned it sideways it would make a luxurious bathroom for dwarfs.
'Hey, mister?' A forlorn voice called. She stood in the doorway, thin white legs protruding from my red, flannel shirt. 'There's no hot water.'
I swore, stabbing the brush into the jar. The last thing I wanted was to stop painting and fiddle with the cantankerous gas.
Five minutes later, Genevieve waited for my signal. Her job was to spin the tap on full, so the gas would blossom into life the moment I had the pilot light lit. But each time a gust of wind extinguished the pilot light. To my frustration, the candle went out. I cursed.
'I don't want a shower, really,' she mumbled miserably.
'Wait. I'll get this bloody thing going, if it kills me.'
I struck a match, shielded it, lit the candle and ignited the pilot light all in one go. 'Now!'
She spun the hot water tap. Blue flames roared into life, and a gust drove them into my face. I threw myself back, collecting Genevieve. She squealed in panic, scrambling away from me.
'Hey, I didn't mean,' I rolled to my feet.
She was already standing. Unable to meet my eyes, she pointed to the window. 'It was that damn cat. It suddenly jumped onto the sill. One minute there was nothing, next there's these yellow eyes watching me.'
Yanking the old sash window open, I greeted the tomcat, and rubbed just behind his ear. 'Thought you'd get another meal outta me, eh, Pangur Ban?'
When I put the black cat on the floor he glided over to the fridge and I knelt to fix the safety cover over the heater, closing the door. 'Pangur Ban climbs onto the laundry roof, then jumps to the sill.' The cat let her stroke his back. 'You can take a shower now.'
'Funny name for a cat,' she muttered. He pivoted and stalked away.
I grinned. 'It's from a poem -
I and Pangur Ban, my cat
'tis a like task we are at
hunting mice is his delight
hunting words I sit all night.
'Written by a ninth-century Celtic monk,' I explained, coming to my feet. 'Only I hunt the inspiration for my painting. You can blame a friend of mine. Joe's a hopeless, romantic writer.'
The
