A Perfect Square E-Book

Isobel Blackthorn

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On a winter's day in the Dandenong Ranges of Australia, pianist Ginny returns home to her eccentric mother, Harriet, trying to find out the truth about her father's disappearance. In an effort to distract her daughter's interrogations, Harriet proposes they collaborate on an exhibition of paintings and songs.

Meanwhile, on the edge of Dartmoor, artist Judith paints landscapes of the Australian Outback to soothe her troubled heart, as her wayward daughter Madeleine returns home... and fills the house with darkness.

Brimming with mystery and intrigue, A Perfect Square is a beautiful and redemptive novel about mothers and their daughters, and the creative process that binds them.

Leseprobe

A PERFECT SQUARE

ISOBEL BLACKTHORN

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

I. Construction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

II. Composition

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

III. The Inner Need

Chapter 17

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Isobel Blackthorn

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PRAISE FOR ISOBEL BLACKTHORN

‘The author, like an artist slowly dabbing paint upon a canvas, methodically yet tauntingly brings to life complex, damaged characters, their pasts, their struggles to relate to each other and the paths they are set upon. I strongly recommend it.’

MICHELLE SAFTICH, AUTHOR OF PORT OF NO RETURN

‘A Perfect Square is a clever, thoughtful literary novel which still manages to have a cracking plot and complex characters. It should appeal to lovers of psychological thrillers too—think artistic Gone Girl.’

KATE BRAITHWAITE, AUTHOR OF CHARLATAN

‘Isobel Blackthorn is a clever author, I very much enjoyed her biting wit.’

LOLLY K DANDENEAU

‘Isobel Blackthorn is a gifted and insightful writer who has penned this slow burning and intellectually demanding literary read.’

PAROMJIT, GOODREADS

‘Some books haunt you. You rarely know this will happen when you are reading them—the sensation creeps up on you after the last page. With A Perfect Square there was a moment as I read where my heart dropped and I knew this book would stay with me.’

RACHEL NIGHTINGALE, AUTHOR OF HARLEQUIN’S RIDDLE AND COLUMBINE’S TALE

‘Flawless’

JASMINA BRANKOVICH, WRITER

‘Blackthorn is an exceptionally skilful writer, not only at the technical level (characterisation, description, structure and so on) but at the thematic level. As she writes about the power of art, she evokes a range of emotional responses in the reader. The beautiful

language in the book inspired me to create, while at one point I felt heart pounding anxiety and at the end, when I realised how few pages were left, I felt bereft because I didn’t want to leave the characters whose lives I had become absorbed in. The descriptions of art and the creative process are a reminder that there is much more below the surface than we often notice. I don’t keep many books anymore because I’ve run out of shelf space, but this is one that I will keep and return to. A marvellous work.’

GOODREADS REVIEWER

For Dr Lesley Kuhn and Elizabeth Blackthorn, without whom A Perfect Square would never have been written.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Kathryn Coughran, Jasmina Brankovich, and Rod Beecham for taking the trouble to read my words and give valuable feedback. Suzanne Diprose for taking me for walks and drives in the Dandenong Ranges east of Melbourne and for furnishing me with all sorts of nuggets. And my heartfelt thanks and deepest gratitude to my daughter Elizabeth Blackthorn, who travelled with me from the beginning. A Perfect Square is based on her Honours thesis in Music Improvisation, for which she received a 1st at the Victorian College of the Arts/University of Melbourne in 2014. Her interest, dedication and insights have been profound, and are highly prized.

Elizabeth Blackthorn composed the music to accompany this novel. Also called A Perfect Square, her EP can be found on Spotify and iTunes.

PART1

CONSTRUCTION

CHAPTERONE

NUMBER

That twelve signified completion was not in dispute. They both knew the symbology. Setting aside the Imams, Apostles and Tribes, of concern to each of them, mother and daughter in turn, were the twelve signs of the zodiac and the twelve notes in the chromatic scale. Yet all things ended at twelve and Harriet felt ill-disposed towards the containment the number implied. As if through it the cosmos had reached its limit of emanation and, duly sated, foreclosed on thirteen, a number doomed to exist forevermore as a mere twelve–plus–one.

Her gaze slid from the pianola to her lap, a soothing dark green, and she found she was able to liberate herself from her musings, at least for a brief moment. For Harriet Brassington-Smythe was apt to read much into life when there was not much to be read. Happenstance would lodge in her imagination, resonant with significances. She saw rainbows of colour when there was nothing for others but grisaille. Her mission, for she was that zealous, was to make manifest through her art this unique perception, as if she, one of but a special few, were privy to nature’s inner secrets. It was not an altogether ill-founded zealousness; the one time she ignored the colours of her perception she found herself, nay the flesh of her flesh, in immense danger, and when at last she did tune in and saw the sharp glitter of black iridescences, she was so alarmed she gathered up her necessities, the tools of her trade and her daughter, and took flight.

That had been a long time before and far better forgotten, and to that end she had never spoken of the event to her daughter.

Harriet was in the prime of her life and in excellent form. Her long, sculpted face, untroubled by the vicissitudes of aging, had grown into its virtues, with large eyes the blacker side of brown, and a mouth at once pert and proud, the lower lip protruding a little beyond its counterpart, capable of a moue as much as an extravagant smile. The whole visage set off by a mane of wavy black hair that shone in the sunlight without a flicker of silver to be seen. She was a woman of grandiosity, bedecked as she liked to be, in a calf-length dress of vintage Twenties. She had taken on the dowager look, her presence imposing, perhaps off-putting to all but the most courageous.

Over the years she had attracted few lovers and ever since her one passion curdled she had remained single. She led a secluded life, one that provided fertile and slightly acidic soil for her eccentricity to flourish like an azalea. Yet quirkiness was a quality she reserved for her friends, the two women with whom she shared much of her time, hardy perennials Rosalind Spears and Phoebe Ashworth. Together they were three stalwarts, for decades remaining in the same garden bed set against the same stone wall of personal tradition, enjoying the comforts of moisture and shade.

She was suddenly uncomfortably hot. After a quick glance in the direction of the pianola, she stood. It had been an unusually warm late winter’s day and at last a cool breeze blew in through the front windows. She went and drew the curtains further aside, curtains of luxurious sanguine velvet, gorgeous to touch, curtains her daughter had said in one of her vinegary moments were more likely to be found in the boudoir of a courtesan.

The garden was admirable at that time of year: Long and wide and south facing, and shaded on the high side by a stand of mountain ash, with a half-moon raised bed that coursed much of the garden’s width, retained by a low bluestone wall. Her gaze lingered here and there over the ajugas, columbines, penstemons and erigeron daisies, at last settling on the delicate leaves of the weeping Japanese maple, and the hellebores and euphorbias at its base. A wide drive of crushed limestone wound its way from door to carport and thence to gate, skirting the wall where the raised bed was widest. To either side of the gate, two rhododendrons provided privacy and, together with a row of tree ferns, dogwoods and camellias, formed a dark backdrop. At times she felt like liberating the garden from that herbage screen, throwing the space open to The Crescent, but her privacy mattered more. A handful of youngsters had gathered outside the garden of next-door-but-one and she could hear their laughter. It wouldn’t be long before they were gone, but she pulled the windows to the mullion, fastened the handles and moved aside. She wasn’t normally bothered by juvenile activity, any more than she was given to gazing out her front window, yet she wanted to shut out distractions, even as she shut in the dissonance: dissonance at once familiar and disappointing.

Her daughter had taken possession of the other end of the room, ambulating the space between the pianola and the fireplace like a cougar in a cage.

Ginny was nothing like her mother. A tall and willowy woman, with hands narrow and long, as were her feet. From an early age her hands appeared destined for the keys, her feet to slosh about in too-wide shoes, manufacturers assuming that long feet were also always wide. Feet aside, she was the image of her maternal grandmother. She had the same fine mousy hair and wan pallor, the same small and round mouth that formed an ‘o’ when she parted her lips, and the same grey eyes that looked through to the back of you with innocence and suspicion. Grey, accented by her choice of grey slacks and matching grey shirt, the only colour about her person that ghastly paisley-print jacket, a relic from the paisley period of her teenage years.

It was a bizarre spectacle, watching her grey squirrel of a daughter, more quarry than predator, more suited to a birch wood than a rocky range, prowl back and forth across the Kashan rug. She had not been an assertive child and there was a time Harriet had worried her biddable nature would be a disadvantage in a competitive world, but as a teenager Ginny had acquired a measure of defiance, a sure sign of an independent will.

The symbol she had chosen for this defiance was paisley. Whatever she wore, dress, skirt, trousers or shirt, it had to be paisley.

Harriet was steadfast in the belief that Ginny wore the design not because she liked it, but to cause her mother distress. William Morris, Harriet may have endured, at least he was contemporaneous with her era, but there was something so Seventies in the look. The Seventies, that accursed decade when the hippies took hold of the occult and turned it into fairy floss.

And there her daughter was in her Paisley jacket, pacing back and forth. If she kept that up she would wear a track in the Kashan rug. With every circuit the mirror that took up much of the far wall captured her reflection, doubling the impact. It was fast becoming a sensory overload and Harriet felt relieved to find herself a good distance away.

The dining and living rooms had been combined years before Harriet inherited the house, along with the means to reside comfortably in it, the result a spacious high-ceilinged room with walls of exposed clinker brick. Evidence of its former design was a heavy beam spanning the width of the room and supported at each end by a stout post. The floorboards were the original oak, for Harriet would not countenance floor covering as pedestrian as carpet. The fireplace at Harriet’s end of the room had been removed to make way for bookshelves. Shelves she had filled with volumes on art and art history, mostly confined to the 1920s: Surrealism, The Dadaists, Art Deco, Expressionism, The Cubists, and Pure Abstraction. There were books on individual artists, books on movements, and books on technique. The shelves sagged in the middle beneath the weight.

Facing each other across a low mahogany table, two sofas, upholstered in a sanguine hue a shade lighter than the curtains and festooned with gold cushions, bore witness to Harriet’s affection for comfort. Beyond the oak beam, the remaining fireplace was set in a wide clinker brick chimneybreast that tapered in steps to the ceiling. Beneath the mahogany mantelpiece, the arc of bricks that defined the hearth wore the soot of many fires.

On the far side of the fireplace was the entrance to the kitchen, accessed through a vintage glass-beaded curtain. Black, diamond-cut and varying in size, the glass beads were arranged to form several undulations, the curtain’s scalloped fringe not quite brushing the floor. The curtain was Harriet’s most treasured piece, lending her living quarters an air of authenticity. But alas reinforcing in Ginny’s eyes the stamp of the bordello.

Harriet’s expressionist artworks, hung with a keen eye for balance, adorned every expanse of wall. There was not a thing to be out of place in the room, no knick-knacks, mementoes, objet d’art, or pot plants, the room uncluttered save for two tiffany lamps, each centred upon an occasional table that filled an otherwise empty corner, an antique pedestal ash tray that was never used, an old record player housed in its own teak veneer cabinet, and a carriage clock on the mantelpiece bookended by photographs of Kandinsky and Klee in ornate oval frames. Absent from the arrangement was a photo of Ginny, Harriet having long before decided she was not sentimental when it came to her daughter.

Harriet left the window and ambled around the back of a sofa, running a hand lightly along the upholstery as she went, before sitting and leaning back, ankles crossed, one hand dangling from the arm rest, as if in repose she would take command of her side of the room.

Ginny paused in her perambulations, shot a cool stare in Harriet’s direction then, as if following her mother’s lead, took up the pianola stool, going so far as to open the instrument’s lid and run a single hand down the keys.

The glissando intruded on the silence.

Ginny pressed a run of notes in slow succession. ‘Not twelve then,’ she said without shifting her gaze from the keys.

‘Not twelve.’

She played the notes again, her composure thoughtful. Perhaps she would run through the scales or play something from memory for there was no sheet music on the ledge. Harriet watched in anticipation. That she showed an interest in the pianola, however half hearted, was, Harriet hoped, evidence of recovery.

Three weeks earlier Ginny had pulled into the driveway in her small hatchback. She alighted with a quick scan of the garden, paused at the sight of her mother crouched by a window box deadheading pansies, then she heaved from the boot a heavy looking suitcase and her keyboard and stand lashed to a trolley, and lugged them to the front door. She seemed forlorn and Harriet’s heart did a squeeze. She knew straightaway that Ginny had left her weasel boyfriend and hoped this time it was for good.

For three years she had endured their relationship, suffered whenever she pictured his faux muso appearance, a mismatch uniform of drainpipes and unkempt suit jacket, woollen scarf and sunglasses. The despicable Garth, who Harriet had from the first considered talentless, played a perpetual circuit of dead-end gigs, his showy singer-songwriter pretentions little short of delusional. She could never fathom what Ginny saw in him.

She dusted off her hands and followed her daughter inside.

Ginny parked the trolley and her suitcase in the hall and entered the living room.

‘Tea?’ Harriet asked.

‘Why not,’ Ginny said and flopped down on a sofa.

The glass beads tinkled as Harriet parted the curtain. She slipped through, releasing her hand slowly to let the beads settle. She set about making the tea, the fragrant leaves swirling in the pot a mockery of the motherly obligation that swirled about in her heart.

She returned with a tray and set it down on the coffee table. ‘You can stay as long as you like,’ she said, hoping that would stretch to no more than three nights.

She sat down on the other sofa and poured, passing Ginny her tea.

‘I’ve lost my job,’ Ginny said, directing her comment more at the cup in her hand.

‘At the Derwent?’ Harriet said, hoping to keep her tone natural.

‘I can’t make ends meet in North Melbourne without it.’ Her voice was faint and small.

She had relinquished her lofty ambitions at least, or so it seemed. All through her doctoral studies Ginny had craved an academic position. After much fretting over her prospects, upon completing her thesis she had managed to acquire a twice-weekly residency at the Derwent Hotel. It was only a stopgap, she said, while she waited for something tertiary to come up. She would scowl at the music industry, the paucity of opportunities it afforded when she had had to go all the way through university and gain a doctorate to get the sort of gig she could have managed in her first year. Harriet never mentioned that her unmet aspirations might have had a little to do with her attitude, not to mention the low-life company she kept.

‘They can’t just fire you,’ she said, worried that Ginny’s return home would prove more permanent than she might have liked.

‘They can and they have. The job was casual. I am, as they say, a dime a dozen. Besides, they had every right. You know their reputation. All these years I’ve been dressing up like a Gucci doll for that swanky joint and then Garth walks in and it’s ruined.’

‘Looking like a bum?’

‘Oh Mum.’ She paused, shooting Harriet a reproachful look before lowering her gaze. ‘Well yes, with his guitar in hand. He came right up to where I was performing and knelt on one knee and played his latest song to me. I was halfway through “Moonlight Sonata”. He was so drunk he lost his balance and fell at my feet. Then security came and dragged him away.’

‘But you did nothing wrong.’

‘By association. I would have disowned him but as they steered him off he launched into a loud lament about how much he loved me and would see me back at home.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Not oh dear,’ Ginny said, at last lifting her face. ‘It’s totally understandable that I’m fired. The hotel couldn’t risk him turning up again.’

Harriet gave her an awkward smile. It was an inevitable ending; Garth had been a drag on Ginny from the start. Even the circumstances of their meeting were symbolic of the seedy underworld life he would later weave around her.

They had met in the underground of Flinders Street station. She was readying to submit her thesis. On her way back to her flat after her final meeting with her supervisor, she encountered him standing in the tunnel, busking. The incongruity could not have been more apparent. When Harriet had phoned Ginny that evening, curious to hear of her supervisor’s comments and poised to enthuse and praise, Ginny had described the encounter, her voice all light and girlish. Harriet hadn’t heard that tone since Ginny was fourteen with a crush on her peripatetic piano teacher. How Garth had caught her eye as she passed him by and she had stopped and turned. He serenaded her, she said. With Hotel California. She was transfixed, she said. Dropped a dollar in his guitar case, then another, and he kept on singing and playing, ignoring the others who had gathered to witness the moment, directing exclusively at her his gaze, his smile, his lust. Harriet knew then that Garth was no good. Her daughter love struck dumb. Whoever in any event calls their child Garth? And it mattered not one jot that he made good money busking, or that he had a prime pitch, and of course Ginny’s insistence that he really had talent, Harriet took to mean he had absolutely none at all.

Garth moved into Ginny’s North Melbourne flat a few weeks into their relationship and that was when Ginny discovered his whisky habit. He was a stupid soppy drunk, argumentative when riled, in the hair trigger manner of the alcoholic. Harriet only visited the once.

There was an exhibition at the Sutton and it seemed to her appropriate enough that she should make use of her daughter’s spare room. After all, it was only for one night. And a ghastly night it proved to be.

The flat was small and dim and plainly furnished, although nicely laid out with a narrow hall and separate kitchen. The living room was Spartan: two drab chairs, a television and a clutter of musical gear shoved into one corner. Ginny was at the Derwent and not due back until nine. Garth had returned early from a bad evening’s busking, carrying a bottle of whisky and a parcel reeking of fish and chips. Harriet wished she had ignored the heavy footsteps lumbering to the door, the grunts then the turn of the key.

Entering the living room to the smell was bad enough—a sickly mix of fish supper, whisky and sweat—and the sight of Garth devouring his repast with all the manners of a hog made Harriet bilious. When he started slugging back the contents of his glass and reaching for a refill over and again, she succumbed to a mounting disgust.

She did nothing to mask her displeasure. He did nothing to hide his relish of her disapproval. Nothing was said. They both made pretence of watching television.

When Ginny at last arrived, Garth staggered to his feet and slobbered her with kisses. She pushed him away and Harriet caught a flash of annoyance in his face. Not wanting to add to the tension she chose that moment to retire, and she was then forced to listen through her bedroom wall to raised voices, one gruff the other defensive.

Ginny stayed loyal to her beau and Harriet could not contain her chagrin. After that night, she hardly saw her daughter. They were three difficult years. Harriet called it her Persephone period and she broke away from abstract art and produced a series of moody landscapes in pen and ink which, thanks to her friend Phoebe, she promptly sold to a cohort of mothers who met each Wednesday in Olinda for Yoga and to bemoan their wayward daughters.

Harriet was not the only one to hold Garth in disregard. Ginny’s peers at the university fell away one by one, presumably after suffering an encounter with the inebriated lover.

That he had devastated her career was little short of tragedy. Whenever Ginny telephoned, Harriet would inquire after this friend and that, or the progress of a band or collaboration. The truth was hard to elicit but between the lines of Ginny’s evasive remarks she gleaned that Garth was at the root of the shedding.

Seated across the coffee table, Harriet watched her daughter take short sips of tea from the cup she clasped in her hands, her lowered gaze, her worn and pale face. She would be sure to remain in withdrawal from the mayhem of her relationship for some time. Harriet felt concerned. Yet it was concern tinged with consternation. It was one thing having her daughter move back home, that was challenging enough, but to have her misery move in with her would be intolerable. Something would have to be done. Without that something, her daughter’s mood would thwart her creativity. She wouldn’t focus. She wouldn’t paint. And seated there, sipping her tea, Harriet saw her immediate future cloud over.

For three weeks she put up with Ginny’s glum mood. Then one night, she could endure it no longer. They were having dinner and for a good ten minutes Ginny shunted about her plate the salad Harriet had so painstakingly prepared, picking at the olives and little else. Harriet was ready to blast forth with frustration, incredulous that anyone, especially her own daughter, could wallow so wilfully.

She downed her black cohosh tea in several large gulps before its bitter taste took hold, then stood and leaned her hands against the table, commanding Ginny to the living room with, ‘We need to talk.’

She went and held aside the beaded curtain, waiting for her daughter to pass through. She was determined to lift her up by her paisley socks if need be.

Rather than let her sit down on a sofa, she accosted her on the Kashan rug, blocking her movement with a sharp, ‘Stop.’

Ginny tried to walk away and Harriet put out her arm to block her. Defeated, Ginny stood limply and Harriet was about to tell her that she wanted her to pack her bags in the hope of shocking her out of her mood, when she saw her daughter in part profile together with the pianola and the artwork behind her, and she had an idea.

She envisaged a collaboration of music and art, an exhibition that was a concert, or a concert that was an exhibition. Either way, a marvellous ruse.

At first Ginny seemed nonplussed. Then resistant. Eventually, after much walking back and forth and Harriet trying every means of persuasion from the obvious, ‘It will lift your spirits,’ to, ‘It will be a splash on the local arts scene,’ the comment that secured her co-operation was, ‘It will give the gallery a lift,’ as if Ginny had been waiting for the real reason to come along and that was it.

Ginny agreed, in principle, and went to her room, leaving Harriet in mild shock.

She pondered the artwork hanging above the pianola, her homage to Kandinsky, painted in the Eighties when she had been her daughter’s age and her passion for abstraction had exploded on canvas upon canvas. And she wondered if this collaboration might afford her something of a renaissance, a chance to recapture her prolific pre-Ginny creativity.

Two years before Ginny was born, Harriet had been as free as any sandstone graduate could afford to be. She was the daughter of a corporate lawyer and a Bible-worshipping headmistress of a private school. They were British ex-patriots who had left South Africa with their wealth long before the collapse of Apartheid, and lived an erect and moral life in Mont Albert. In the face of her parents, Harriet felt an additional pressure to conform. Yet she forewent all their suggestions of careers that could be pursued with a degree and a Masters in Art History. ‘The Heide Museum is looking for a curator,’ her father would say, staring at her over the rim of his glasses. Or, ‘Here’s one for a conservator,’ and her mother would look at her keenly, willing her to step in line. Harriet had no predilection whatsoever to become a curator or a conservator. She yearned to spend a few years exploring her creativity while she was still young enough to make an impression in the art scene. And she was naïve enough to believe she stood a chance.

Once, at her mother’s birthday lunch at which Rosalind had been the only other guest, they were seated at the dining table, her parents at either end, both dressed formally, him in a grey suit, the collar of his shirt cutting into his plump neck, all shiny freckly pate and jowly cheeked and looking more judge than lawyer, her in a plain blue dress, grey hair permed curly, straight backed as she cut into her tuna terrine. Harriet, seated midway between, shot Rosalind an uncertain smile and scooped the last of her curried egg. Then, on an upwelling of courage she announced she had spent the last five years attending art classes wherever she could find them.

Her parents exchanged glances, but she persisted, stressing the virtues of following her passion and insisting that they always said they only ever wanted her to be happy.

Her father looked stern, her mother equivocal. Then Rosalind spoke wistfully of her own youth and how she had longed to be a concert pianist but her parents thought her not worth the additional investment so she turned to philosophical pursuits instead. At first Harriet thought Rosalind was siding with her parents, until she said, ‘I often thought I’d have been equal to Eileen Joyce given the chance but of course we’ll never know.’ Harriet bounded in with pleas and assurances. Her parents were swayed and, despite their disappointment, they gave her a small living allowance.

Ecstatic, she went home to her rooms in a two-storey house in Fitzroy—Number Seven Moor Street and she rented upstairs. The larger room she used as her studio: high ceilinged with a balcony that faced south. The room was bland. The rudiments of a kitchen lined the back wall. A box room at the back served as her bedroom. The bathroom, shared with the downstairs tenants, was down the hall. In the studio-room she had laid drop sheets on the carpet in the corner by the window and positioned her easel towards the natural light. She would spend many hours of each day standing by the window, pondering her latest work and at last she could do it with a modicum of financial security.

She leaned back against the window frame, for once at ease with her surroundings, despite the incongruities of domestic and personal style. She had adopted a ladybird look, although she liked to think of it as colourist meets noir: Curly hair, black as jet, held back from her face by a red silk scarf, her smock, black, protecting her turtleneck sweater of red cashmere, dog-tooth check mini-skirt and red tights. While many of her peers were pairing off or marrying, or moving away for promising careers and big mortgages, she clung fast to her bohemianism. Melbourne frustrated her. She yearned for Berlin, Paris, New York, cities where art thrived, where she felt sure she would find scores of her own kind. Yet here in downtown Fitzroy, thanks to her friend Phoebe, she was exhibiting, selling and receiving commissions and she had to be grateful for that.

Phoebe had a natural instinct for the niche market and a sharp eye for trends. Abstract, expressionist, symbolist—modernist art had been having a renaissance. All of their old student friends had a poster on their walls of a Matisse or a Munch or a Klimt. Being ostensibly naïve, Harriet priced her works accordingly and well below her competition. It was at once their subversion of the male-dominated neo-expressionist art scene and the all-pervasive Australian cultural cringe. Aussie art produced by a woman, selling like Rolexes from a suitcase in London’s Petticoat Lane: Phoebe and Harriet were rapt.

So it was with much confidence that she applied a touch of raw umber to the work on her easel. She was working in gouache for the matte finish. The piece was to be her homage to Kandinsky, part of her homages series that had been keeping her busy for months. Upon selling her first Homage to Matisse before the paint was dry and receiving a commission for a second, she had wondered if the title held the appeal, a title that framed and contextualised each painting, as if the buyer thought they were in some way taking home a real Matisse or Munch or Klimt.

Kandinsky was not so popular: Buyers, it seemed, had a preference for the French, presumably inspired by the arty popularity of Edith Piaf, exemplifier of melancholia, passion, the suffering of the disenfranchised artist fallen on hard times, and chic. Or perhaps it was merely the presence of some sort of representational form: a chair, however distorted, still recognisably a chair. Pure abstraction was too difficult, nay meaningless for the plebeians of Melbourne, who therefore deemed it pretentious. Alas the work on her easel was her indulgence, for it was really quite good and when finished would hang on her wall.

She stood back from the work, moving aside to let what light there was of a dull day shine directly on the canvas. The work depicted her faithful application of Kandinsky’s rules of colour and form, a series of interconnecting geometric shapes splayed along two intersecting planes that vanished at separate points. Shapes in muted tones, negative space earthy, and the three contrasting yellow circles tense before a blue rhombus. Then there was the dominating black moon that took up the top left corner. It was possible to see in the work representations of buildings, roads, pyramids and references to time, another viewing and a building became a city, the road a river and the pyramids pyres until there were no more mundane associations and the shapes became what they were, forms in themselves, and their interactions spoke then of something else, something ineffable, perhaps cosmological, even divine.

The piece had indeed achieved transcendence, and she knew she had fulfilled Kandinsky’s spiritual aims for abstract art. With quiet triumph she jiggled her brush in a jar of water, removed it and wiped it dry, setting it down on the table where all her other brushes were lined up in order of size; flat with flat, round with round, sable with sable, hog bristle with hog bristle.

She removed her smock, folded it in half and draped it on the back of a chair. Then she leaned against the window and looked up and down the street. To the east, the terraced houses with their lacework verandas receded in two straight lines into the grey of the day. Directly opposite, three bikes were chained to the railings. She was about to pull away when, cornering Nicholson Street, a figure approached in a steel-grey trench coat and matching fedora, and she recognised as well Phoebe’s purposeful stride.

She turned back to the room. On the draining board, saucepans and crockery were stacked about ten high. The bin stuffed full. On the floor before a low cabinet her records, in and out of their sleeves, arced like a fan. The lid of the record player was open, with Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on the turntable. She took it all in with the domestic indifference she had contrived to suit her persona, and walked from the scene and out to the landing, ready to call down to Phoebe that the front door was on the latch.

‘Great,’ Phoebe said as she entered the hall without an upward glance. She climbed the stairs in twos, wheezing at the last tread. Harriet looked on, thinking ones would have better suited her condition.

Phoebe followed her into the studio-room, tossed her fedora on the sofa and ran both hands through her slick-backed hair. Phoebe was petite, flat chested, and plain of face. Yet there was a slight hood to the eyes, a firm set to the mouth and a definite uprightness of gait. Altogether her presence was formidable, as if she had spent her whole life fighting for the spotlight, forever passed over by the tall and the beautiful. Condemned to the wings, she had learned to make the most of the obscurity, adopted the part of the hustler and, with ruthless resolve and an astounding efficiency, made herself indispensable in the local arts scene, undoubtedly in a similar fashion to her cor-blimey forebears. Phoebe hailed from rough and ready parentage from London’s East End and had been adopted for health reasons by an aunt on her mother’s side, growing up in Melbourne. The aunt managed to divest her of the accent but not the asthma or the attitude. Harriet, herself no mouse, might have cowered inwardly in her presence had she not been her closest friend.

Phoebe was in Harriet’s class at high school. They studied the same subjects, and became school-based best friends, neither Harriet’s parents nor Phoebe’s aunt enamoured with the bond. The only time Harriet did invite Phoebe home, Claudia Brassington-Smythe called Harriet aside and asked her why she was associating with a commoner. Harriet overheard Phoebe’s aunt say much the same when she visited her house, only in reverse. ‘She’s up herself, that one. You’d do better mixing with your own kind.’ Instead, their bond grew stronger. Flying in the face of their respective family’s wishes, each secured a place in art history at the University of Melbourne and their lives had intertwined ever since.

Phoebe stood in the centre of the room, one foot only an inch from The Firstborn is Dead. Harriet was about to rescue the record from her friend’s absent-minded foot when Phoebe said without preface, ‘Have you finished the Klee?’

‘Tea?’ Harriet said, wishing Phoebe would sit down.

‘The Klee, sweetheart.’

Realising she was not in a sociable mood, Harriet reached behind the sofa and pulled out a canvas.

‘Ah superb,’ Phoebe said, giving the work a brief but appraising glance before adding, ‘Can you knock out a Matisse by Thursday week?’

‘Sure, but…’

‘No buts. The buyer is a nonce. Couldn’t tell a Cezanne from a Mondrian.’

She went to the painting on the easel then took a step back, tilting her head to the side. ‘You’ve surpassed yourself with this one,’ she said and stared a while longer. ‘Have you thought more about the Klimt?’

‘Too fussy.’

‘Thought so. I’ll negotiate a Hirschfeld-Mack. Something gold though.’ She looked back at the easel. ‘That one won’t sell. Needs a human face, lovey.’

Harriet paused then laughed. ‘Or a chair.’

And so it went. Phoebe took thirty per cent of sales. They did good business and neither felt compromised. Naïve her work may have been yet Harriet was no dilettante. Not only had she attended art classes throughout her university years, during her Masters she had secured private tuition from a cash-strapped doctoral student in fine art. She would whip round to his flat in Carlton after her Wednesday tutorial, and spend an hour or two, sometimes more, acquiring the methods of the craft. His name was Fritz.

The night they had met was fated, of that she was sure. For it had been with much trepidation that she took the number ninety-six tram to St Kilda. Bauhaus were playing at the Crystal Ballroom, not her sort of venue but she was curious to hear the band live, having found their music conducive to the production of Kandinsky and Klee-inspired works. It was a muggy October evening and she was feeling peeved that Phoebe had chosen a night in. Hadn’t wanted to brave the air, she said, in case it set off her asthma, but Harriet suspected otherwise, a suspicion confirmed when she alighted the tram in Fitzroy Street and stepped into St Kilda in the rain and had to skirt two semi-conscious drunks propped against the façade of the Seaview Hotel before confronting a melee of Goths under the portico. Phoebe’s bugbears; the former would have brought to mind her father, the latter her derision. Goths, for Phoebe, were a pretentious perversion of good taste.

Harriet sympathised with Phoebe’s prejudices. The Siouxsie Sioux hair, the leather, the black, the theatricality of the garb, altogether the look might have carried vaudeville appeal if only the wearers wouldn’t take themselves so seriously. She filed in behind and headed upstairs, acutely aware of her own apparel: an over-sized vee-neck sweater of black, a red satin mini skirt, un-laddered black stockings, and fur-trimmed pixie boots. The kohl about her eyes, the pale make-up, the vermillion lipstick, the silky black locks of her hair, and the uninitiated might suppose her a conservative version of those hustling ahead of her. But she knew and the Goths knew as well, that they didn’t belong at the same gig.

The fug of the Crystal Ballroom hit her as she walked in. Despite its size and high ceiling, the stench of sweat, dirty damp coats and cigarette smoke seemed to have nowhere to go. The huge chandelier that gave the venue its name was lost in the haze, its crystal indistinct and bereft of glimmer.

While the support act was playing she queued in the crush at the bar. Then she found a spot far from the Goths and downed her can of beer in long steady draughts. She preferred to drink wine but didn’t trust the labels behind the bar. The beer was bitter and gassy but left her feeling more courageous. She put the can on a window ledge and, even though it meant mingling with the diehards, she squeezed into the crowd until she was some way towards the front and equidistant from the speaker stacks. She wasn’t a diehard, here for the worship like the Goths. She could never lose herself to a pack. Yet Bauhaus were compelling. At twenty-one she was all attuned senses to the uncomplicated music, the insistent pulse, the melancholia. She shared with the crowd an impatient expectancy. When Bauhaus took the stage, and Pete Murphy the microphone, she felt deep inside her the jagged guitars and the rich baritone vocals.

Yet it wasn’t his bonhomie, his frenetic dancing, the way he dominated the stage or the sophistication of his voice that mesmerised her. Neither was it the aliveness of the brooding music coursing through every cell of her.

At first she thought it was the lighting, but the colours were too elaborate and too precisely bound to the music. Besides, Bauhaus would never be lit in pink. Ten bars in and she realised she wasn’t only hearing “Bela Lugosi’s Dead”, she was seeing the song, seeing every note, the whole forming an intense kaleidoscopic light show. She stood, transfixed, the audience rocking and swaying all around her receding into an amorphous blob of insignificance.

As the song ended someone jogged her arm and the moment was gone. The band launched into “Kick in the Eye” over the applause and Murphy was soon leaping from the speaker stacks. Yet for her, nudged back to the reality of the ordinary, heightened as it was, the song and the antics seemed trite. Suddenly, she wanted to leave.

She tried to slip through the crowd behind her, but her path was blocked by a plainly dressed man whose gaze could not be diverted from the stage. Not keen to force her way through the pack of Goths who seemed to have taken over the gig, she made to squeeze by him. He didn’t move an iota. At the end of the song she made a second attempt but he was oblivious to her, or so it seemed. She waited. Then, as if the piercing feedback at the end of “In the Flat Field” jolted him into an awareness of her standing before him, he looked at her, smiled and inched aside.

She went to the bar, empty save for one inebriated punk who lingered at the end, and bought another beer.

She took a large gulp, grimaced, then went to stand in the darkest corner furthest from the stage.

For Kandinsky it had been Wagner, for her Bauhaus. When she had read about Kandinsky’s synaesthesia in her undergraduate years she was convinced it wasn’t true. That he had been hallucinating, probably on something, or he was a fraud, for he could no more have seen in colour Wagner’s music than people see auras. She relied on this assumption to inform her final third-year essay, a controversial piece that raised an eyebrow or two, in which she argued that he had based a life’s work on a fabricated event and upon this false foundation erected a contrived, almost delusional set of correspondences between painting and music.

Standing in the corner of the ballroom, beer in hand, those assumptions collapsed and she cringed inwardly. She knew with the conviction of the born again that she, too, had seen into a secret realm, sharing with Kandinsky an inner knowing. He had been right all along, and her essay, which had earned her a high distinction, was crap.

After the gig, she beat the crowd downstairs and stood beneath the portico, sheltering from the drizzle. Her ears were ringing. She scanned from the corner of her eye the Goths filing by—raucous and drunk—and the contempt she felt in the ballroom was replaced by unease. In the melee she noticed the plainly dressed man who had stood behind her in the audience and blocked her path. He was heading for the tram stop. She threaded past the others until she was beside him and together they crossed to the centre of the road.

At the other end of the tram stop an altercation was breaking out between a spikey-haired punk and a thickset thug, some of the others jeering them on. Harriet faced her chosen ally, looking up to catch his gaze.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Harriet.’

‘Fritz.’

He was fair-haired with angular features, intelligent blue eyes beneath a high forehead lending him a serious yet not unattractive appearance. She assumed from the way he said his name that he was German.

‘Are you on holiday?’ she said.

‘I’m a student.’

‘Summer school?’

‘I’m a doctoral student.’

‘An international student? You must be talented.’

‘My mother is Australian.’

‘Father German?’

He frowned. ‘Bavarian.’

‘German then.’

‘Does it matter?’

She thought he sounded irritated and she placed her hand on his arm. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said.

He made no reply and they stood together in silence.