‘Of course. Follow me.’
I was grateful he understood my urgency without explanation and I followed him to a greenhouse that he used as a storeroom. I set up my canvas and easel in a shady part of the back garden, and Francis lent me his special sable brushes. I selected the right size and began to mix the paints. As soon as the brush touched the canvas, that strange feeling that sometimes happened when I was painting came over me, and the next time I looked up, the canvas was full and the sky was dark.
‘Celaeno, it’s time for you to come inside,’ Francis called from the back door. ‘The mosquitoes will eat you alive out here.’
‘Don’t look! It’s not finished yet!’ I made a pathetic attempt to cover the enormous canvas with my hands, although he’d probably seen it through the sitting room window already.
He walked across the lawn to put his arms around me and hug me tight. ‘It’s a need, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said with a yawn. ‘I couldn’t stop. This is for you, by the way.’
‘Thank you, I will treasure it.’
I’d been sitting in the same spot for a very long time and my legs weren’t working properly, so Francis helped me up and let me lean on him as if I was some old person.
‘It’s probably terrible,’ I said as I slumped exhausted into an armchair in the sitting room.
‘Perhaps it is, but I already know where I’m going to hang it.’ He pointed to the space over the mantelpiece. ‘You need some food?’ he asked me.
‘I’m too tired to eat, but I could murder a cup of tea before I go to bed.’
He brought it to me then propped up my new canvas in front of the fireplace and sat down to study it.
‘Have you decided what you will call it?’
‘The Pearl Fishers,’ I said, surprising myself, as I was usually crap at choosing names. ‘It’s about, well . . . our family. I had a dream I was in Broome, swimming in the sea. There were lots of us and we were all looking for a pearl and—’
‘So is that a moon in the centre?’ Francis broke in as he studied the painting. ‘You know my mother was called Alkina, which means “moon”.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,’ I mused, ‘but the white circle represents the beauty and power of female fertility and nature, the endless cycle of life and death. In other words, it’s our family history.’
‘I love it,’ said Francis, studying the big, sweeping shapes of the sea below the moon, dotted with small, pearly spots lying beneath the waves on the seabed. ‘And already your technique is improving. This is seriously impressive for a day’s painting.’
‘Thanks, but it’s a work in progress,’ I said, yawning again. ‘I think I’ll head to bed now.’
‘Before you go, I wanted you to have something.’ He reached into his pocket and drew out a small jewellery box. ‘I’ve held on to it ever since Sarah died, but I’ve been waiting to give it to you.’
He placed it in my hand, and I opened it nervously. Inside it was a small ring, set with a smooth amber stone. ‘It’s the very same one my father Charlie gave to Alkina the night before she left him,’ said Francis.
I held the ring to the light and the amber gleamed a rich honey colour. A tiny ant was suspended in its centre, as if it had just been caught out on a stroll. I could hardly believe that it was thousands of years old. Or that I’d had that vivid dream about the little insect sitting in the palm of my hand. It had looked just like this one.
‘Camira brought it with her to Hermannsburg after Alkina died,’ Francis continued. ‘And on the day I told her that I wanted to marry Sarah, she gave it to me.’
‘Wow.’ I took out the ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of my right hand, where it winked up at me. ‘Thank you, Francis.’
‘No need to thank me,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘Now, you’d best get to bed before you fall asleep right here. Goodnight, Celaeno.’
‘Night, Francis.’
*
We drove into the town the next morning, as Francis had suggested I take the canvas I’d painted out Bush to show Mirrin, and because I needed to go to a travel agent and book my flight home.
‘Is it a return?’ the woman behind the computer screen asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly.
‘And the return date?’
‘I need about a week there, so that would be the sixth of February,’ I said.
‘Are you sure that’s long enough?’ said Francis. ‘You should take as much time as you need. I can cover the extra cost on a flexible ticket for you.’
‘I only need a week,’ I reassured him, and went ahead with the booking. Although, it turned out that he did have to pay, because my credit card had finally decided to conk out from exhaustion. It had obviously reached its limit and I couldn’t pay it off until I got home and went to my bank. I could have died of shame when it was declined; I’d always made it my golden rule never to borrow money.
‘It’s no problem, really, Celaeno,’ he said as we left the travel agent with the ticket, ‘it’s all going to come to you eventually anyway. Think of it as an advance payment.’
‘You’ve already given me so much,’ I moaned in embarrassment. ‘Maybe whatever Mirrin offers me for the painting can cover it.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied.
At the gallery, Mirrin cast her eyes over the canvas and nodded in approval. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Better than good.’ Francis eyed her. ‘I’d say it was exceptional.’
‘We’ll try it on the wall for a thousand dollars.’
‘Double that,’ Francis countered. ‘And my granddaughter will expect sixty-five per cent of the price.’
‘We never give more than sixty, Mister Abraham, you know that.’
‘All right then, we’ll take it to the Many Hands Gallery down the road.’ Francis made to pick up the canvas, but Mirrin stopped him.
‘As it’s you, but you’re not to tell the other artists.’ She flinched suddenly and put a hand to the large bump of her belly, covered in a luminous kaftan. ‘The little fella is getting ready to come,’ she said as she rubbed the side of her stomach. ‘And I still haven’t found anyone to replace me. At this rate, I’ll have the baby at my desk!’
A thought sprang into my head. ‘You need someone to cover your maternity leave?’
‘Yes, but it’s so hard finding the right person. The artists need to know they can trust ya, and you have to be able to understand what they’re creating and encourage them. That, and you have to be able to negotiate – though, luckily, not everyone is as killer as you, Mister Abraham.’ Mirrin raised an eyebrow.
‘I might know someone,’ I said, as casually as my excitement would allow. ‘Do you remember the girl that came in with me a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Chrissie? The lady who bargained nearly as hard as your grandfather?’
‘Yes. She studied History of Art at uni,’ I exaggerated, ‘and she knows everything there is to know about Aboriginal art, especially about Albert Namatjira. And loads of other art too,’ I added for good measure.