you know, those plastic bags you collected with the beach sand and –’
‘This new work isn’t about environment, Stef. Did you read the catalogue essay?’
‘Of course. But it’s hard to see exactly what you have in mind for the … you know … what you intend to –’
‘Not even I know that. Not precisely. I want osmosis and transmutation to play a role.’
Longstanding experience had taught Stef that it was time to switch subjects. She took a sip of wine and leaned back in her own armchair. The radio was whispering in the corner and Stef heard mention of a squabble for leadership. It reminded her of the special service they’d attended at the National Gallery for the passing of a leading Labor man.
‘We should invite that couple we met at Clive Cunningham’s funeral.’
‘It was a Memorial Service, Stef.’
‘You know what I mean. Those collectors, what was their name?’
Simon discharged one of his trademark huffs. ‘Those two haven’t been buying for years; they just live off their reputation. I can’t stand people like that, swanning in and swanning out, expecting the art world to court them.’ He looked away. ‘But I think it was appalling that our own National Gallery director didn’t show.’
‘At the service?’
‘Yes. He should have been there.’
‘He was there, I saw him.’
‘Really? Damn it, why didn’t you mention it?’
Just then Jess came through the front door, their daughter. As she reached the foot of the stairs, her mother called after her.
‘Jess.’
‘Yes Mum.’
‘Hi.’
‘Oh, hi Mum.’
‘How was your day?’
‘Good.’
‘Did you go to the interview?’
‘Yep.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Won’t know for a while.’ She put her hand on the banister.
‘What do you intend to do now?’
The girl turned to face them. Jess was typical and atypical; she did not look like many eighteen-year-olds yet she looked exactly like some. Self-created tartan bondage pants, platform boots, remnant top over a grey T-shirt, a clutter of silver rings and requisite piercings, spiked hair both black and fuchsia-red, black kohl surrounding fiery green eyes, face as pale as parchment. She was not quite goth, not quite emo.
‘You mean right now, this minute, or some other time?’
‘Tomorrow. Are you going to apply for something else, or do you intend to wait on the job at the electrical store?’
Jess thought for a minute, avoiding her parents’ eyes.
‘I’ll let you know, okay?’ She turned and stomped up the stairs.
Her mother watched her retreat. The girl was younger than James by two years and when she was born, Stef had already decided on a different approach to her upbringing. James was squeezed out less than a year after she and Simon married – and was completely unplanned, completely unprepared-for. During that pregnancy she’d cursed ten times a day – putting the tally somewhere near three thousand – spat bile regularly into the bathroom sink and kicked the vanity which vibrated the full-length mirror causing her reflection to shake its head disapprovingly. It was one thing to flout the rules and ignore social correctness, another to disregard the incredible stamina of sperm. But she lived through it and before long she was pregnant again. Stef was now equipped with considerable experience and expected to raise the newborn differently. But her plan had anticipated a particular type of person, a version of herself. Jess, unfortunately, seemed like the product of another woman’s genes.
If James was a crier, Jess was an outright anarchist, even as a four-year-old. Was it a clash of personalities? Couldn’t she expect her darling daughter to respond decently, logically, sensibly? But the tiny child had screamed and kicked and rejected every approach. What were she and Simon failing to notice; what were they missing; what did the child want? She had toys, books, musical instruments; they took pains to explain complex issues, introduced her to the best art, food, restaurants, people – and still the child rebelled.
Even now as she sat sipping wine with her husband, Stef knew that they’d failed in some way. They’d both long recognised that being highly trained artists did not equip them for parenting. Yet couldn’t they expect a little encouragement? Like the children they were attempting to raise, they needed nurturing too, just a little confirmation, a sign that their actions were a tiny bit appreciated. But they received no such incentive and found it very easy to capitulate.
Stef recalled her daughter going through puberty and shuddered. It was then that the girl adopted a real penchant for deviation. Beyond logic or reason, she’d entered a behavioural realm that required two years of mental-health professionalism to finally dispel. Stef was reminded of the sleepless nights monitoring her daughter, and the day the kitchen knives came out of hiding and were again returned to the drawer. Was that period finally behind the girl?
‘Anyway, I’ve never liked that man.’ Simon appeared to be addressing the bookshelves.
‘What?’
‘He always acts so superior, when it’s the curators who do all the work. A figurehead, that’s all he is; someone to address the media.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I’m talking about the Director.’
Stef wondered where her wine had gone, and poured another, her eyes drifting again to the empty staircase.
SHAUN CRAWLED under the Fringe Myrtle. Sure enough there they were: a small cluster of Gnat Orchids, their flowers not much bigger than gnats. With his stomach embracing the warm earth, he counted them: about twenty, and each was turned in the one direction; towards the best light, the boy assumed. Why were they there? He’d not seen Gnat Orchids in the forest before. But he was used to nature’s peculiar way of throwing up something unexpected, as though all things were possible if one only waited. That was the interesting thing about life: watch patiently, remain observant and the nuances revealed themselves.
‘Shaun! Wood! Wood!’ It sounded like the cry of a native pigeon echoing through the forest – wood wood wood – but his mother’s high-pitched calling reminded him of a different mission. He sat up to see her in the distance, standing on the deck, leaning out like the figurehead on the front of a sailing ship. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. He took hold of the wheelbarrow and pushed it down the track. Further into the bush, his father had taken the chainsaw to a fallen wattle and the logs were still scattered in the grass. Twenty Gnat Orchids; who would have thought it?
STEF AND SIMON wanted their daughter to remain living with them, even if they were obliged to support her forever. At least that’s what they told others. But whispering across a yellowing pillow in the dead of night, they sometimes wished to Christ she’d snap out of her morbid self-pity
