‘Good.’ He nodded but said no more.
The following morning, I was up at the crack of dawn, simply because I couldn’t wait to get started. And so it was for the next few days. Francis would often be out during the day, but would return at sunset with something good to eat. After supper, I’d disappear into my room to study my painting and think about where I should head with it the next day. I lost track of time as one day fed into the next, helped by the fact that my mobile had zero signal up here.
It did cross my mind that Chrissie might be thinking I’d been eaten by a dingo or, more logically, didn’t want to know her after what had happened that fateful morning, and that Star might be worried about me too. So I wandered down to the creek in search of a signal, found a couple of bars and texted them both.
Painting in outback. All fine.
My fingers hovered as I wondered whether to add PS Staying with my grandfather, but I decided against it and just wrote:
Speek when Im bak. No signal heer.x
Then before my mind could go wandering off to reality, I went back to my painting.
*
I put my brush down for the final time and stretched, feeling my right arm pulse with indignation over the way I had abused its muscles. I stared at what was in front of me, tempted to pick the brush up again and add a little dab here or there, but I knew I was hovering in the dangerous territory of over-painting something that was as near perfect as I could get it. I dragged my eyes and body away from it and went inside to make myself a strong cup of coffee, then lay down on my bed in the cool of the fan, feeling totally out of it.
*
‘Celaeno, can you hear me?’
‘Yup,’ I croaked.
‘It’s half past eleven and you haven’t moved since last night when I came in and found you asleep.’
I looked at the bright sun pouring in through the window and wondered why it was still shining at eleven o’clock at night.
‘You’ve slept for almost fifteen hours.’ My grandfather smiled down at me. ‘Here, I’ve brought you some coffee.’
‘Jesus! The painting! Is it still outside?’ I jumped out of bed, almost knocking the mug of coffee to the floor.
‘I brought it in for you – good job I did, as we had some rain in the early hours. Don’t worry, I averted my eyes and put a sheet over it as I carried it in.’ He put a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘Doctor Abraham diagnoses post-painting exhaustion. I got it too after I went on a “painting bender”, as Sarah used to call it.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve no idea what I’ve produced, whether it’s good or bad or—’
‘Whatever it is, it’s a week of your life that will not have been wasted. If you feel like it, we’ll take a look together after you have had something to eat. I’ll leave you to have a wash and get dressed.’
‘Can we look at it now? I can’t take the stress!’ I explained as I followed him into the sitting room.
‘Of course.’ He indicated the easel with a white sheet thrown over the canvas upon it. ‘Don’t worry, I checked that it was dry first. Please, unveil it.’
‘You’ll probably hate it, and . . . I don’t know if it’s good or what, and—’
‘Celaeno, please, may I just see it?’
‘Okay.’ I walked over to it and, with a big intake of breath, I pulled off the sheet. My grandfather took a few steps back – it was a big canvas – and folded his arms across his chest as he studied it. I went to stand next to him and did the same. He then took a step closer and I followed behind him like a shadow.
‘Well?’ He turned to look at me, his expression telling me nothing. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘I thought you were the one meant to be telling me?’ I replied.
‘First, I want to hear what you have to say about it.’
His words immediately reminded me of being back in art class, when a teacher would employ this method of selfcriticism before he or she then tore the entire painting to shreds.
‘I . . . like it. For a first try, anyway.’
‘That’s a good start. Please, carry on. Explain it to me.’
‘Well, I had this idea about taking the landscape I painted a couple of weeks ago, but instead of using watercolours, using oils and dots.’
‘Right.’ I watched as my grandfather moved closer to it and pointed to the ghost gum and the piece of gnarled bark. ‘That looks like two eyes to me, and up there, in the cave, is a tiny cirrus of white, like a spirit entering it.’
‘Yup,’ I said, delighted that he’d noticed. ‘The idea came from Merope – the seventh sister; when the Old Man’s eyes are watching her as she enters the cave.’
‘I guessed it was something like that.’
‘Good.’ I couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think, Celaeno, that you have created something unique. It’s also beautiful to look at and it’s actually – for a first go with dots – very well executed. Especially the ghost gum, which even though it’s made up of dots and painted in oil, definitely has “luminosity”. It shines out of the painting, as does the cirrus of white.’
‘You like it?’
‘I don’t just like it, Celaeno, I love it. Yes, the technical side of the dots where they fade from one colour to the next could be improved, but I can show you the best technique to do that. The point is, I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. And if this is a first try, I can only imagine what you could do in the future. Do you realise that you have spent six days painting?’
‘To be honest, I’ve lost all track of time . . .’
‘“In six days, the Lord made the heavens and the earth, but on the seventh day, he rested.” Celaeno, you’ve found your own unique “world” this week, and I’m so very proud of you. Now come here and let me give you a hug.’
After that, and a few tears shed by me, Francis disappeared outside and came back with two beers. He handed one to me. ‘I keep a few at the bottom of the water barrel for really special occasions. And this is definitely one of them. Cheers.’
‘Cheers!’ We bashed our bottles together and took a sip.
‘Jesus! I’m drinking before breakfast!’
‘You forget that it’s almost lunchtime.’
‘And I am starving,’ I said, casting another glance at my painting and feeling a serious surge of pride.
Over lunch, my grandfather and I discussed it in more depth, and after we’d eaten, we sat side by side in front of a fresh canvas as he showed me his technique for painting the dots and then softening their edges so that from a distance, they didn’t look like dots at all.
‘Everyone has their own personal way of painting, and their own techniques,’ he said as I gave it a go, ‘and I’m sure you will develop yours. It really is a case of trial and error, and there’ll be a lot of the latter. It’s a part of the process as we improve.’ Then he turned and stared at me. ‘The most important question to ask is whether the painting style itself – never mind the result – felt right?’