A Change of Texture Read online

  I fell back on the bed and breathed deeply, tried to be strong, but in seconds I was back in that place. Tears oozed from my eyes and my nose overflowed, and once again grief’s momentum rocked me back and forth whilst the bed creaked a ludicrous chorus.

  Eventually, the sobs stopped, I got off the bed and walked the floor of my lonely house. It was too early to start drinking. Soon I was back on the bed, but I was awake. Sleep wasn’t going to rescue me now. There was nowhere to hide. It was my fault.

  CHAPTER 4

  At ten in the morning, I collected Stephanie, who I’d phoned the previous night. My second bottle of wine seemed to think it was a good idea but now I wasn’t so sure; we had little in common, except, of course, Maxine. Max had told me that I was one of the few males Stephanie liked.

  ‘Jeez, there’s not much room in these cars, is there? Sometimes wish I was one of those short, petite sorts.’ She leant over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘So, how’re you?’

  The car’s indicator clicked like a pulse as I manoeuvred out of the gutter. ‘All right, I guess.’

  ‘Good. I mean, of course, you’re not good but…you know… I’m always here if you feel like you want to talk. I mean…whatever suits you. Sorry, I’ll shut up.’

  I looked at the road ahead. ‘I’m all right.’ I was pleased to have silence visit.

  Stephanie broke first. ‘So, what’s it a painting of?’

  ‘I think it’s a beach scene, a house…I’m not sure.’

  ‘A beach scene….with a house …did she know who the artist was?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘How much did it cost?’

  ‘Not sure.’ I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, I was trying to crush it. Better than telling her to shut up.

  Stephanie turned her gaze to the passenger window.

  Eventually, we weaved our way around the Western Ring Road.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I know it’s painful.’ She put her hand lightly on my arm, and I patted hers quickly, as if to say, ‘I know.’

  ‘I just want to get it right. So, you’re saying that Max said that she knew the place – you know, the house, the scene, whatever – in the painting?’

  I swallowed, took my time. ‘She said that she’d seen this painting in a shop in Kyneton, that she just walked in to look around and there it was. I think she said something about feeling like she knew the place in the painting but couldn’t work out why.’

  I realised my voice was getting louder and that my shoulders were hunched, saying, ‘Don’t ask me.’ I could see Maxine, I could hear the words she used that night in the kitchen. I breathed deeply, made myself return to the moment. ‘And then she said she just had to have it and that she’d left a deposit.’

  I left out one word: ‘haunting’. ‘It’s haunting me,’ she’d said it casually,’ a glass of wine in her hand and an unconvincing smile. Or was that just my memory? She could have used the word ‘confused’, or ‘disconcerted’. I hated the word haunting. I hated that she’d stopped in Kyneton, at that shop.

  ‘Wow’, said Stephanie. ‘Weird, can’t wait to see it.’

  I nodded; the old Magna grunted. There was music playing in the car – ‘How to Make Gravy’ I hate that song, we played it on Christmas day. Fucking Paul Kelly. I turned up the volume.

  I drove slowly down the main street of Kyneton.

  ‘There it is, over there.’ Stephanie’s hand tapped my arm. I looked where she pointed and saw a sign that said ‘Kyneton Collectables’ on a fading brown awning. Underneath was the word ‘Antiques’.

  It was a plain red brick building that needed painting. There were others nearby of a similar style, all the same, all different, like they’d been leaning on each other for a long time, each a witness for the other. It was a Monday, and there were not many people around.

  Stephanie asked a question that I had asked myself many times. ‘Wonder why Max stopped here?’

  We got out of the car; I was nervous but couldn’t afford to hesitate. I moved quickly, I had to show myself that I was in control. I put one hand on the door but it didn’t move. It eventually obeyed and set off a buzzer.

  The room was dull. I blinked several times and saw a woman sitting in front of a laptop at a small desk. She looked up through large spectacles, her face almost lost in a mass of brown wavy hair. She wore a loud floral shirt. Her smile was real and warm, and it filled the gaps in the room that were not already covered in things. She removed the oversized spectacles,

  ‘Hello, welcome; feel free to look around.’

  I recognised the voice and cleared my throat. ‘Hi, I’m Carter Burke. We spoke on the phone yesterday, about a painting I need to collect.’

  ‘Oh, hello Carter. I’m Sandy, nice to meet you. Maxine not with you?’

  I hated that question, and hated the answer more. Maybe one day, maybe ten years, one hundred years, the words will just be words.

  I avoided eye contact, and heard words coming from somewhere: ‘Car accident, five weeks ago.’ I didn’t mention she was on her way to the shop. I sensed Sandy’s face change but I kept talking. ‘Had you met Maxine before that day; before she found the painting?’

  ‘No, she just dropped in. You know, most people just browse, killing time...oh…I didn’t mean to…I am so sorry, it’s awful. So awful, I wish…’

  Suddenly she was crying and shaking her head, hair flying everywhere like a mop being twirled. I tried not to look at her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stephanie put her handkerchief to her eyes, then turn her back. I wanted to yell at her to stop it, to say I wasn’t crying and didn’t want to, so you stop, you met her once, what the fuck. I felt my blood rise, my fingers scratching my head hard, felt them come down and my fists hit my thighs. I was somewhere in flight, some parallel place. I made myself stare at an old desk with a broken leg.

  Sandy sniffed again. ‘I’ll get the painting.’ When she returned, she was carrying what we had come for. It was larger than expected: maybe a metre by a metre and a half.

  ‘I was going to wrap it, but I know you haven’t seen it… I thought you might want to… that day, when she saw it, she was quite taken with it. I mean, she was really absorbed, she looked at it so long.’ Sandy paused, and made a waving motion with her right hand, like a magician casting a spell; maybe she hoped it would make the right words appear. ‘When she saw the painting, she asked me if I knew where it was, the scene in the painting, but I have no idea. I’m sorry I don’t, really sorry.’ I wanted to tell her that it was all right, but my mouth wouldn’t work. She continued, ‘I don’t even know where I got it. I used to have a manager here, I think he bought it. It might have been from a deceased estate, maybe two years ago. Maxine was so annoyed she had forgotten her credit card, said she would be back the next day….but…but…’ Sandy sniffed, ‘Did she tell you about it?’

  ‘Yes, she told me she thought she knew that place but didn’t know why. It had her going, she was trying to…’ I started to feel a thickening in my head, a twisting in my stomach; it was time to stop.

  The room was on pause, then the phone rang. Sandy jumped, mumbled something about having to get it. I was pleased, it gave me the space to do what I knew I had to. All I could handle was a fleeting glance; I would ease myself into this piece of canvas later.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. My first glance revealed nothing familiar but, thankfully, no demons. I breathed easier and looked harder, trying to see it impartially. I saw a garden scene. To the left of the canvas was a corner of a white weatherboard house with a pitched tile roof; it wasn’t a grand house, it was quite small, nothing extraordinary. The scene, muted colours, elegant, was dominated by a large Moreton Bay Fig tree, and around it was an expanse of lawn and some garden. In the distance was the sea, a small yacht on the water; there wasn’t much blue in the total area of the canvas. I saw a small patch
of beach. A swing with a simple wooden seat hung from one of the branches. Under the tree was a wooden garden bench; it was exotic, with big, curly arms at each end. That would do for now.

  Stephanie moved past me. ‘Oh, it’s great; it’s just the sort of thing Max would like.’

  Was that right? Why didn’t I know that? They had known each other since primary school. She’s allowed to know, but so should I. It was me who Maxine had lived with for the last seven years. Now I was angry again, but this time it was at me.

  Sandy returned, carefully picked up the painting, saying something about better light, and moved it to a table near the window. Stephanie bent in front of it for a long time, like a tree that had given up against time and wind. Then she stood, shook her head and said, ‘Yep, it’s her…’

  She carefully touched the surface. I stepped around her, my hand moving slowly, nervously. The closer I got, the painting had more depth, the scene more vivid. My finger slid over paint thicker than expected; the feel of it frightened me. I removed my finger, then looked at it; nothing there, I wiped it on my trousers.

  ‘It seems to be an original,’ Stephanie said, looking at Sandy, ‘I mean, it’s not a copy of anything I know; do you know it?’ She was bent over again, not waiting for an answer. It was a Stephanie habit to ask, answer, then be unsure. It used to drive Max mad.

  ‘I don’t know the artist,’ Sandy answered. Then, with the two of them bent as in prayer, I saw nothing but their backs. Sandy pointed to the bottom of the picture, where it met the frame. ‘I remember Maxine and me trying to work that out. See there, I think it’s a signature; see just there?’

  ‘Oh yeah, you’re right,’ said Stephanie. ‘It’s hard to read, maybe initials.’ Her nose was almost on the canvas. ‘Maybe c, i, t and a capital C. I think small i and maybe capital t. Oh, it’s hard to see.’

  My chest hurt. I was buying this painting because I had to. Everything else was irrelevant.

  Stephanie turned, and looked at me. ‘Do you like it?’ Sandy’s eyes asked the same question.

  I wanted to say it didn’t matter what I thought. I forced myself to nod. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty good.’

  Sandy looked at me. ‘You don’t have to take it, if it’s a problem. I mean, normally I wouldn’t refund but, given all that’s happened… you know, if it’s too painful or whatever.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. What do I owe?’ I dragged my wallet from my pocket. My jeans felt loose, I must have lost weight.

  Sandy explained she was owed three hundred and seventy dollars, Max having left eighty dollars. ‘It was all the cash she had that day, she said…’ She was wise enough to stop talking. She nodded, and again her hair cascaded; it was alive, like birds taking off.

  ‘Why don’t I get some bubble wrap? It’ll provide some protection for the trip home.’

  When she’d finished wrapping the painting, I picked it up. I wanted to leave but I had to say something to her. ‘Thanks for this; for holding it and phoning. I know it’s not easy.’ The room seemed to shrink as I spoke.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine and, again, I’m so sorry. She seemed like such a nice ...’

  I stopped listening. In the reflection of the open glass door, I could see Stephanie hugging Sandy.

  ‘We were only five when we met, she was my closest…’

  I slammed the car door behind me, so I couldn’t hear Stephanie’s words.

  She wore an unconvincing smile as she got in. ‘That’s a good thing you did, Carter; Max would be pleased. It needs a new frame. I’ll help you, if you want…and then find a good place to hang it…well done.’ I felt her hand on my arm again.

  My mouth formed the words ‘Shut up,’ but they were swallowed.

  ‘Coffee,’ she said, ‘let’s have coffee. There must be somewhere here that has coffee and cake.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s do that, coffee sounds good.’ My answer surprised me.

  We drove a hundred and fifty metres and parked outside a café. The sign insisted it offered ‘Great Coffee and Home Made Cake.’ Inside, it was disappointingly dull, soon we were back in the car, with cappuccinos and blueberry muffins.

  ‘Wow, these are great.’ A chunk fell from Stephanie’s mouth as she spoke. She just caught it, ‘That was close, don’t want to waste this.’ She let out her hee-haw laugh; it was the first for the day, but still one too many.

  I bit into the muffin. ‘Yeah, it’s bloody good.’ I contemplated how, in the midst of unravelling emotions, something that simply tasted good could provide pleasure.

  On the trip home, Stephanie said, ‘You know, the style of the painting reminded me a bit of a modern version of a Heysen, except it wasn’t a gum tree.’ I didn’t know what she was talking about but didn’t want to give her fuel. She kept going. ‘Why did she stop at that shop? …What was it she saw in the painting? …Wonder if she had a place in mind to hang it?’

  I was pleased when we got to her place.

  CHAPTER 5

  Serena Cartright showed no emotion, she offered no sympathy. It was our third session of five.

  My words scratched and stung on their way out, then reverberated around her cold office, with its muted shades of white and green. I heard them tell a story that should have happened to someone else. I would have accepted either disapproval or sympathy from her if it helped me understand. Serena leaned back in her chair and fixed her gaze on me. I’d decided her trick was to ask the same question over and over in different ways.

  I repeated some words: ‘It was my fault…I should not have been so selfish…. should have been me.’ It was hard to subdue anger; often, I didn’t want to. Guilt and I were bed partners now, I wasn’t planning to forgive me, so why should anyone else? But I’d somehow hoped she might put up a fight for the old me. All I got was ‘What do you think?’ I wondered how long she would let silence last if I said nothing. I tried to wait her out but I ended up repeating another cliché. Maybe her office had some device that made silence so overpowering every person who sat on that couch had to break it?

  At the second session, she’d asked me if I’d considered suicide.

  ‘Yes, I’ve given it some thought, but what’s the point? It changes nothing and, anyway, I’m not brave enough. Do you know anybody who can arrange it?’ My smile was as weak as the words.

  ‘I didn’t mean you.’

  The words cannoned into me. I stopped breathing.

  ‘What? No, no, of course not; why would she? Why the fuck ask that? The police report said she just tried to run the lights, that’s all. I mean, we all do that, don’t we… what sort of a question is that?’ Her eyes stayed on me as my confusion rushed to boiling point. ‘It was an accident… and…and that’s what they called it, by the way, an accident, the report said she swerved at the last moment to avoid... Are you seriously suggesting suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it at all possible she might have meant to do it?’

  ‘She was fine. I mean, there was this painting she had to have, I don’t understand why, but we were happy, we rarely fought. She would have told me if she had a problem.’

  ‘Some people struggle to communicate with the ones they love the most.’

  ‘Not us, no way. I mean, we lived together, saw each other every day, we talked.’

  Silence. Some sessions were waltzes; around and around, with the same partner.

  ‘You said she was angry about your car.’

  ‘Did I? Annoyed, maybe; angry isn’t right, she rarely lost her temper. I mean, she could get annoyed, you know, she was never afraid to make a point, she was a strong person, but never showed real temper.’

  Silence.

  ‘How long does grief last?’

  ‘That varies. Tell me about your grief.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?

  ‘How long do you think you will grieve?’

  �
��Forever. It’s not so much the grieving, it’s more what it does, what I see.’

  At that, she raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I saw something, someone, in the street. I assume it was sort of a manifestation of grief. I saw me.’

  I held my breath again, expected a big reaction. But she stayed infuriatingly calm. Had she heard me?

  I looked away, fixed my eyes on the Van Gogh poster. The sunflowers seemed to bounce to the beat of my anger. They were ugly flowers, irregular, distorted… I wanted to tear the poster down.

  ‘Why do you think you saw this vision?’

  ‘Vision? If that jogger was me, then does that make me a vision?’ She ignored my sarcasm. ‘I don’t know why I saw it…me. People say grief does strange things. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it can, but why would you see you and not her?’

  ‘You tell me. Maybe someone’s paying me back.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘I don’t know… something, some evil bloody deity?’

  ‘But you said you’re an atheist?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the other me, the evil one. That’s not a bad theory: the bad me is punishing the nice me. Yes, I’m going to go with that, unless you have a better theory.’

  Silence.

  CHAPTER 6

  Our house had two bedrooms. The second, which we called the spare room, had a single bed that had rarely been used. The day I returned from Kyneton I took the painting in the lounge room and tried to form some relationship with it, to make peace with it. I failed, so I placed the painting in the spare room. I didn’t go in there often, or into the lounge room. I watched television and ate in the small room at the back of the house. It had a nice couch and quieter ghosts.

  I wished the painting didn’t exist but tried not to hate it. It was a stranger in my house, just like me. Occasionally, I walked into the spare room and looked at it, but the visits were brief. It was like getting caught staring at a person you don’t know and I, embarrassed, had to look away, scared I might be intruding.