What the Light Hides (6 page)

When I am satisfied with the pieces I begin to work on the dovetail joints. I measure and double check, and then I begin to carve out the joints with chisel and hammer. Wood chips fall to the floor and I work up a sweat.

After another hour I stop for a break. I find the ground coffee in the freezer and rediscover how to use a percolator. As I wait for the coffee to brew I lean against the kitchen bench and admire the framed Kandinsky print in the living area.

Two weeks before we got married Vera was contacted by the Russian embassy in Sydney and offered a solo exhibition at the Moscow State Museum. They had a cancellation and asked if she could fill in the space. I am sure they knew she had spent time studying in East Berlin, but most of all I think it was the article she had written on Russian contemporary art that did the trick.

We had planned to spend our honeymoon in what Neil called his ‘romantic fishing cottage' down the south coast. In reality it was a small windswept fibro shack that turned out to be full of asbestos and later had to be pulled down by a white-clad team who looked like a bomb squad. Instead Vera and I booked two tickets to Moscow. Neil was wildly jealous, seeing himself as the only true red in the family.

Vera worked day and night to finish the installation. We had to take out a loan to afford the vast amounts of bronze she needed, but the end result was worth it. The sight of the Giacometti-inspired trees, very tall and very thin, was intrinsically sad for reasons I still can't fathom.

During the exhibition we asked a museum official to translate the poster next to the entrance. It appeared that Vera, without knowing it, had created ‘A salute to the victorious and unbroken Russian regime.'

During our time in Moscow we were accompanied wherever we went by three men in fur hats and heavy overcoats. For our protection, they said, but I am fairly certain it was to protect the Russian people from any bourgeois ideologies that might have trickled out of us had we been given the chance to engage in conversation. I still think they must have been just a tiny bit disappointed by our lack of political agenda.

One morning while it was still dark we made our way to the Kremlin. It was snowing and our ‘three friends', as Vera called them, were following behind us. The glow of their cigarettes bobbed like lanterns on a string.

Standing knee-deep in snow in front of the Kremlin it was hard to imagine summer in Sydney. A few slow-moving Å kodas passed by, but otherwise it was too early for anyone to be out.

We were giddy with excitement; neither of us had seen snow before, but it was more than that. The political landscape was changing everywhere and, even though we didn't know what was coming, we felt we were standing on the brink of something new, something bigger than us. Two days after we returned to Sydney the Berlin Wall fell.

The coffee finishes brewing and I bring it with me to the workshop. But instead of continuing with the dovetails I decide to ring Vera. I get my phone and walk out into the windswept backyard.

‘Vera,' I say, as she picks up.

‘Yes.'

‘Are you in the studio?' I ask and try not to picture her in front of an empty workbench.

‘Yes.'

I shiver in my shirtsleeves. The jasmine on the fence is being pulled and pushed by the wind.

‘Neil called last night,' she adds.

‘Yes?' I say.

‘He told me you're having dinner together.'

I have completely forgotten tonight's arrangement with Neil.

‘Maria is making lamb,' says Vera.

I can't bear the polite way we speak to each other. It's much worse on the phone, much worse when I can't see her and at least assure myself that she is still there with me.

Then, in an instant, the wind slams the back door shut. I feel for the keys in my pocket, but know already that I haven't got them with me.

‘Vera?' I say.

‘What?'

‘I've locked myself out.'

She laughs just a little. ‘Oh, no.'

‘I was going to describe the jasmine for you,' I say, feeling strangely brave in my stranded position.

‘You were?'

‘It's white and dark pink,' I pause, ‘and there are so many flowers it looks like…it looks like the sea when the wind blows on it.'

I feel like I am reading some obscure love poem out loud. I can hear Vera clear her throat. A black bird lands on the children's table next to me. It slides on the plastic and takes off again.

‘I'm coming to the city tomorrow afternoon,' she says. ‘I have a meeting at the gallery. Do you want a visit afterwards? We could have dinner.'

‘Why don't you stay the night?' I say, feeling like I am asking her on a first date.

She doesn't answer, just says softly, ‘I'll see you tomorrow.' Then she hangs up.

I feel encouraged. She had laughed, just. And she is coming to see me. I put the phone in my pocket and inspect the house. I know that I won't be able to break my way in. The downstairs windows have bars on them and even if I hauled the plastic table across the yard I wouldn't be able to reach the first floor. I remember the card Pat gave me, still in my back pocket.

I dial her number and notice my phone is almost out of battery.

‘Hello,' a girl answers.

‘Hi,' I say. ‘Could I speak to your mum, please?'

‘Who are you?' she asks.

‘I am staying in the house your Mum looks after,' I say. ‘Could you run and get her, please?'

‘I've lost a tooth.' She says it slowly as if she is trying to understand the mystery of losing teeth as she speaks.

‘I'll tell you what,' I restrain myself from raising my voice, ‘you get your mum, okay? And then I want to hear all about your tooth.'

‘Okay,' she says and then I hear her shout, ‘Muuum, there's a man who wants to talk to you.'

I hear Pat's voice coming towards the phone. ‘A man?' she asks.

‘Yes, and he wants to hear about my tooth, Mum.'

‘Hello?'

‘It's David,' I say. ‘David Oliver. I locked myself out. I'm standing in the courtyard and my phone is almost out of battery. Would you be able to come and let me in, please?'

Ten minutes later Pat walks through the courtyard, holding the hand of a young girl in a yellow raincoat.

‘Oh,' says Pat when she sees me in shirtsleeves. ‘You poor thing.'

The girl looks up at me. She's the spitting image of her mother.

‘Have you got your key upstairs?' Pat unlocks the door.

I nod.

‘This is Eloise, by the way,' says Pat. ‘She's home from school again today, although she is not really sick any more, are you, baby?'

‘Mum,' says Eloise, ‘the man wants to hear about my tooth.'

‘Not now, darling,' says Pat and lets me in before her.

I put coffee on for a second time while Eloise and Pat go to buy cake. I pull out some sheets of paper from my sketchbook for Eloise and place two pillows on a chair for her the way I used to do for Ben.

They return with a cake in a box. Eloise flashes me a demonstrative smile, revealing a big gap between her front teeth.

‘It's from the bakery down the road,' says Pat. ‘They make cakes that look like fairy gardens.' She lifts the lid and shows me a cake with candied lemon, purple flowers and shaved coconut.

Eloise gets out of her coat. She is wearing a pink skirt and an orange cardigan. ‘We should sing happy birthday, Mum,' she says as Pat lifts her onto the pillows.

‘It's pretty obvious we don't buy cake that often, isn't it?' Pat sits down and turns to Eloise. ‘We can sing,' she says, ‘but it's no one's birthday and I don't have a candle.'

‘Doesn't matter,' says Eloise.

‘What do you want to sing?' I ask.

‘“Bumblebee Is Lost”,' she says.

‘You might be on your own there.' Pat turns to me. ‘Do you know any bumblebee songs?'

‘No,' I say, ‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Doesn't matter,' Eloise says, ‘be quiet.' She sits for a moment with a look of deep concentration on her face.

We wait. Pat raises her eyebrows at me.

Then Eloise starts singing in a loud voice, ‘Bumblebee, bumblebee, where are you? Where are youuu?' She looks at her mum and nods.

‘Finished?' asks Pat.

‘Yes,' says Eloise.

‘That was a pretty song,' I say, as Pat cuts into the cake.

Eloise nods.

‘So,' says Pat, putting a piece of cake on Eloise's plate, ‘it's your second day in the Palace.'

‘The Palace?'

‘That's what we call it.'

‘Fitting.'

She chuckles. ‘We think so.'

Eloise attacks the cake.

‘Do you take milk?' I ask Pat.

‘Only if you've got it, I can drink it black.'

I get milk from the fridge and she puts up her hair with an elastic band, revealing a tattoo of a blue and green hummingbird on the back of her neck.

‘You are as colourful as your daughter,' I say and put the milk next to her.

‘I should hope so.' She smiles, then glances through the door to the workshop. ‘Have you always worked with wood?'

‘Pretty much,' I say. ‘And you? Are you an artist?'

‘I finished a degree in accountancy last year. I work part time at the faculty looking after their admin,' she says and puts a hand on Eloise's back. ‘Slow down, Pumpkin, there is plenty to go.' She looks at me. ‘You seem surprised?'

‘I am,' I admit.

‘I just love numbers,' she says. ‘It was love at first sight when I was introduced to the times tables at school.'

Eloise pushes her plate to the centre of the table and says, ‘I want to draw.'

‘You can use the paper next to you,' I say.

‘The big ones?' she asks hopefully.

‘Yes, but I'm afraid I've only got pencils,' I say.

Pat opens her bag and puts a box of crayons in front of Eloise. She winks at me. ‘Let's just say black is not her favourite colour. Give it ten years and it will be all she likes.'

‘I want to draw a chimney, Mum,' says Eloise.

‘Good, darling,' says Pat, then turns to me. ‘Eloise is obsessed with the chimneys down at Sydney Park. I read
Rapunzel
to her the other day and now she is convinced there is a princess living in each of the chimneys, all waiting to be rescued.'

‘There are four chimneys, Mum. One, two, three, four.' Eloise keeps drawing. ‘And four princesses.'

‘She likes to count too,' Pat says. ‘Do you know that new water reserve they have down at Sydney Park?'

‘No,' I say and take a bite of the cake. It's creamy and tart.

‘It's attracted so many birds. It's just beautiful. But we had to stop visiting, because every time we went Eloise tried to count them all. It was a source of much grief, because they keep moving.' Pat laughs. ‘So unfortunately we're missing out on the only wildlife nearby, but you live in the mountains?' She leans over, adjusts Eloise on the chair and then gives her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Yes,' I say and notice how naturally Eloise receives Pat's love. Just like Ben did as a boy.

‘I used to have a boyfriend in Blackheath,' says Pat. ‘He lived in a caravan, can you believe it? Crazy artist. Every day he would get up and paint the sky. He did it religiously. Eloise was little then. She and I would get in my car and drive up on the weekends.'

I get out of my chair to fetch the coffee pot and pour more for both of us.

‘One morning,' Pat continues, ‘I woke up and it had snowed during the night. It had built up on the window ledge, completely covering it, and for a moment I thought the whole caravan was under snow. But there was this light pushing through the snow and it was the most beautiful light I've ever seen. I'll never forget it.'

‘Did I see it?' Eloise lifts her head from her drawing.

‘No,' says Pat. ‘You were sleeping.'

‘But I remember it.'

‘You do?'

Eloise turns back to her drawing, her face full of concentration.

‘She doesn't,' says Pat and she looks at me. ‘She was barely two and sound asleep.'

Pat is beautiful. There is both a wildness and an earthiness to her. I can hear her breathe between the words and sentences.

I look at Eloise. She is leaning over the paper with a purple crayon in her hand.

‘What are you drawing?' I ask.

She puts the crayon down with a theatrical sigh as if she constantly has to deal with adults asking about her creative process.

‘It's a chimney,' she says.

‘Right.' I stand up to get a better look.

‘And this,' she sighs again, ‘is you.' She points to a stick figure standing in the window of the chimney.

‘Me?' I ask, moving closer.

‘Mum says that you don't have to explain your drawings,' says Eloise.

Pat looks amused. ‘Don't let her boss you around.'

‘I am all for it,' I say. ‘It's never too early to set artistic boundaries.'

The house turns quiet when they leave. A ray of sun stumbles randomly into the room. It brushes over the leftover cake and lingers on Eloise's drawing. I look at the stick figure in the window of the chimney. She has given me a black moustache and long golden hair that falls to the ground in wavy locks. Next to the chimney it says ‘David Oliver' in crooked letters. Pat had turned in the doorway as they were leaving and said, ‘Sorry about the hair.'

It's early afternoon by the time I get back to work. I recheck the measurements of the remaining dovetail joints and begin to carve, slowly and carefully, step by step. A millimetre off and it won't work.

I stay in the workshop for a long time. The light changes from dark to grey. Suddenly a burst of sun breaks through the skylights. I stop work and stretch, and before I continue with the joints I fetch Eloise's drawing and tape it to the wall. She reminds me of Ben, headstrong and full of imagination. Although Ben had a fragile side to him as well.