The Strays

Pater

Prologue

I once read that the heart’s magnetic field radiates up to five metres from the body, so that whenever we are within this range of another person our hearts are interacting. The body’s silent communications with other bodies are unmapped and mysterious, a linguistics of scent, colour, flushes of heat, the dilating of a pupil. Who knows, what we call instant attraction may be as random as the momentary synchrony of two hearts’ magnetic pulses.

Eva’s mother believed in past life connections, that two souls can be twinned over and over, playing out different roles so that in one life they may be mother and daughter, in another husband and wife, in a third dear friends. I only know that throughout my life I have felt an instinctive attraction to particular people, male and female, romantic and platonic; attraction inexplicable at the time but for a certain mutual recognition. It was this way with Eva, although we were only eight years old.

I remember that day, after it all fell apart, when Eva came to me through the misty garden so that her red coat bled into view from white to pale rose to scarlet, the pride I felt. That I was the one she turned to. That I could give her what her own family could not. All those years as part of the Trenthams’ lives. Feeling loved, but never needed, never family. I am an only child; it is my lot to be envious, even grasping, to long for the bonds that tie sisters together, the fearless, unthinking acceptance that we are social creatures, pack animals, that there is never, truly, the threat of being alone.

I am sitting outside at the wooden table marking student essays when I hear the tidy creak and clap as the letter slot opens and shuts its mouth. I shuffle the papers into a pile, set them on a chair and walk through the open French doors, across the lounge room and down the hallway, lit cobalt by the panels of glass that flank the front door. The envelope is narrow and rust-coloured, shot through with metallic strands. Inside is an invitation that I recognise immediately, to the opening of Evan Trentham’s retrospective at the National Gallery of Victoria. Tucked behind it is a sheet of notepaper folded into three. I open it and see Eva’s loose sloping handwriting, unchanged, so that some part of my mind slips, unsure if I am a middle-aged woman standing in her hallway in blue light, or if I am a girl again.

Beyond the front door I hear a man and a child walk past the gate, the man’s head swimming, rippled, across the panel of glass, the child’s voice falling indistinct from a high note like the carol of a magpie. I turn and walk back through the blue tunnel of the past towards the clear kitchen, reading as I go.

Dear Lily,

It has been so long. Far too long. I know it’s difficult to keep people in our lives, and I know that what happened in the past has made it hard for us to be in contact, although I’ve thought about you often over the years and have started letters to you several times. I’ve thought of you more since Heloise’s death, and now that the grief has eased a little bit, I’m determined not to let it go any longer. Being back in the country for Dad’s retrospective seems a good opportunity to reconnect, although I’ll understand if you don’t want to after all this time. Mum and Dad would of course love to have you at the opening, and for me it would be wonderful to see you again, dear friend of my childhood.

I know you are in contact with Bea, and she has my dates and details.

Please do come.

Love always,

Eva

I brace my body against the edge of the sink and pull my eyes up from the page. It is so many years since the last time I saw her. Three full decades at least. And now, Eva has come back to me like a good deed returned. Already I am imagining how it would be to see her again, and I become aware of that old compulsive pain I have pressed like a bruise again and again throughout the years.

Who else will be there, which members of the circle willing to be brought together once more, alongside art historians and critics who are aware of how it all went and who will no doubt be nudging one another and staring blatantly as greetings are exchanged and the past flashes between Evan and Helena Trentham and the artists, now old, whom they once took into their home?

And Eva.

I stop myself, tuck my grey hair behind my ears. I gaze out at the garden. The silver birches at the fence ease my mind along their straight, kind trunks. I notice that the mulberry needs pruning. I take the letter and invitation to my study and sit down, lining up the invitation along the edge of the desk, running my thumb along the card as though absorbing it gently through the skin. I have already received a copy of the invitation from a colleague in the art history department who works in Australian modernism and who has some involvement in the exhibition. As far as I know she is not aware of my past connection with the Trenthams. But I had no intention of going until now.

I examine the invitation again, reading the text on the back. You are invited to the opening of the retrospective exhibition of Evan Trentham’s work at the National Gallery of Victoria. 6 to 8 pm, Friday the 10th of May, 1985. I turn it over and look closely at the image for the first time. I had thought it was simply an early self-portrait, Evan’s face aligned with the narrow card, his shaggy red beard and blue-pale skin. But now I see that there is a thin green line protruding from the corner of his mouth and curving over the paler green background behind his head. Above his right ear I notice a small house, a replica of the Trentham home with its gabled roofs and the portico over the door. Smoke is swelling out of a downstairs window and the green line has become a hose in the pink dot hands of a tiny man who must be Ugo.

I feel a tenderness in my chest, and the past rushes in as a deluge I can no longer hold back: the house and garden, the smell of smoke that will always be the scent of things gone wrong. Those twilight days in the hotel room with my dear, sad Eva.

I flip the invitation over again and search for the title. It is there, in small letters along one edge: Self-portrait with Miniature Disaster 4.

After a time, I haul myself back to the present, to the daylight and the fact that I am cold. I search for the cordless phone and find it stashed behind the empty bowl from the muesli I ate at my desk this morning, the residue in the bottom like a fortune waiting to be read.

It is a reflex, by now, to go to Bea when the old scars begin to itch.

‘Bea, it’s Lily.’

‘Hi, Lily.’ Her voice is an instant salve. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m okay. You?’

‘I’m well. How’s Tim?’

‘He’s good. Busy, as usual. Can you chat for a minute?’

‘Sure. I’ve just got my little Mardi here. You know I’m minding her one day a week now.’

I picture Bea with her adored grandchild, the way she explains everything so patiently. ‘I’ll call back later,’ I say.

‘No, no. We’re just sitting here with some playdough, aren’t we, Mardi? As long as you don’t mind my divided attention.’

‘Not at all.’

‘What are we making, Mardi?’

‘Snakes!’ Mardi says in the background.

‘I’m so glad you rang actually,’ says Bea. ‘I’ve been meaning to call and ask you and Tim over for dinner this week. Is it too late?’

‘Lucinda’s moved back home for a bit, so I feel like I should probably be around for her. She and Eli are having problems.’

‘Again? That’s difficult, isn’t it.’

I laugh. ‘That’s what I said when she told me – Again? – and she got angry with me.’

‘You must just want to smack that boy.’

‘I do. But Luce is very good at telling me when to back off.’

I hear Mardi’s voice again.

‘Yes it’s very slithery-snaky,’ Bea responds. ‘Maybe now you could make a basket for them to live in … Sorry,’ she says as she returns to me. ‘Well, let me know when you’re free and we’ll organise something.’

There is a banging of playdough.

‘Bea …’ I begin and then hesitate.

‘Hmm?’

‘I just got a letter from Eva.’

‘Oh, you did. She said she was thinking of making contact while she’s back.’

‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

Bea pauses for a moment.

‘I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t think. I forget it’s been so long since you two have seen each other.’

‘I feel like I’m slightly in shock,’ I say, thinking how much of an understatement this is.

‘Careful, bubby,’ says Bea.

There is a crash, and Mardi begins to wail.

‘Oh no, upsadaisy. Lily, I’m so sorry. I’ll have to go. We’ve had an accident.’

‘No, no, of course, go.’

‘I’ll call you back later, but you know you don’t have to see her just because she’s decided to make contact now. Although I think it’d be great for both of you if you did. But I know she’s left it far too long.’

Mardi’s shrieks grow louder as Bea bends close to her.

‘I know, I know. You go, Bea. We’ll talk later.’

I hang up and walk back to the garden, but the table has fallen into shade and the essays have blown onto the pavers. I gather them up and come back inside, shutting the French doors behind me. I set the essays on a shelf in my study, watch a pigeon curtseying to its mate outside the window, allow myself to fret about my daughter and her heartbreak, to take my mind off Eva’s letter. Eventually I give in. I open the deep bottom drawer of my desk and pull out a pile of journals. I place them on the desk in front of me and rest my hands on top of the solid stack. I let my mind turn back once more, to recreate again that distant, still wracked past.

1

The Switchgate

I

This is how I recall it.

1930: My mother and I paused on the brick path and she straightened my uniform – a navy blue tunic dress with a starched white collar, a blue felt hat and white gloves. I clutched my toy dog, the one upon whom I had heaped all my guilty love since my mother told me I didn’t appreciate the things she bought for me. She took my hand, and we continued up the path to the third-grade classroom. It was still early, and the summer sun had not risen beyond the roof of the school building. The path and garden were in shade, the leaves of camellia bushes freshly varnished by the morning, and blackbirds turned the soil, pausing, listening, scratching again in darts. They froze as we passed and flicked their yellow eyes towards us.

And then we entered the classroom, and there was Eva, the smallest child in the room, with her dark bob and brown eyes beneath a heavy fringe. She was kneeling with several other children on the carpet beside a wooden doll’s house. On one hand she had a threadbare velveteen hand puppet in the shape of a dog. She smiled at me, and the teacher, Miss Butterworth, pushed me forward.

‘Lily, this is Eva, and Christopher, and Phyllis. Children, this is Lily. She’s going to be joining our class this year, so make her welcome.’

‘Hello, Lily,’ said Eva.

‘Make room for Lily,’ Miss Butterworth said. ‘What are you playing? Doll’s houses?’

Eva shuffled over and patted the carpet beside her.

‘We’re playing Deadybones the Wolf,’ she said.

‘Oh. I see,’ said Miss Butterworth, raising her eyebrows.

I glanced back at my mother. She was taking a seat awkwardly on a child-sized wooden chair along with the other mothers. She nodded to me and turned to the woman next to her.

‘Which one is your mother?’ I asked Eva as I sat down beside her.

‘None of them. She’s gone home. But you can see my sisters at recess. Have you got any sisters?’

I had to admit that I did not.

After a while, I was drawn back to the comfort of my mother, and retreated for a moment to her familiarity in the midst of all this newness. She lifted me onto her lap, still talking. I listened to the whispers of the women while I sat, pinching the skin on the back of her hand as I had done since I was a baby. They were talking about Eva, saying that she was the daughter of Evan Trentham, the artist, that her mother was ‘old money’. I pictured a woman made out of dirty pound notes and tarnished pennies.

Miss Butterworth approached the seated women and told them that it was time for them to leave. My mother stood, and I slid from her lap. I began to cry, and she hushed me and then squeezed me tightly for a second. Eva got up and came over to me, holding out her hand, and I put my hand in hers, still sniffling, and went back with her to the game.

At recess I met Eva’s two sisters, who came to find her on the quadrangle, where children were jumping rope, playing hopscotch or marbles, and the older ones were starting a game of British Bulldogs. Her older sister was called Beatrice, or Bea for short, her younger, Heloise. It was obvious that Beatrice and Eva were sisters. Their faces were free of the roundness that conceals the future shape of most children’s faces. They were fine-boned, but did not seem delicate or cosseted. Their arms and legs were brown from the sun, and their hair was dark and, in Bea’s case, tangled. There were scratches on their shins, and Bea had a scab on her knee as big as a tombola. Heloise was different. She was a serious little girl with milky skin, copper hair, and an uncertain, freckled face. It was her very first day of school, not just at a new school as I was, and she would not join in the game of British Bulldogs.

‘You’ve got big teeth,’ she said to me.

She sat down cross-legged on the asphalt and ran her hands over its gritty surface. Bea took Eva and me by a hand each and ran with us across the quadrangle at the call of ‘bullrush’ so that we would not be scared of the boys who were the bulldogs. When I looked back at Heloise, she was absorbed in a secret game of her own. Her lips were moving, and she was pecking at the loose gravel with the beak of her thumb and fingers.

At the end of the day my mother returned to collect me, and I clasped myself to the front of her dress, burrowing into the laundry soap and porridge smell of her. I glanced around to see whether Eva’s mother had arrived, but Eva was standing beside a tall man who was speaking to Miss Butterworth. Eva waved to me, and I ran over.

‘Is that your dad?’ I whispered.

‘No. It’s Patrick,’ she replied without further explanation.

‘I’m sorry, but her parents are busy,’ the man was saying.

As we left the classroom, Eva waved and called out, ‘See you tomorrow.’ I waved back, the next school day suddenly a gift held out to me, then turned to my mother’s hand around my own, pulling me homewards.

Eva’s mother collected her the next afternoon and spoke briefly to my mother. I remember Helena as pale and long and light, like a taper, swathed in floaty cream fabric and with her dark hair set like ladies in magazines. She smelled of cigarettes and a heavy floral perfume, not the kitchen and laundry scents exuded by my mother.

A few days later I was sitting with Eva and Heloise on the slippery leather seat in the back of their Morris while Bea sat in the front and Helena drove, her face in profile with its flawless skin and rouged cheek, her bouncy hair visible over the seat. Her hand on the wheel was adorned with an emerald ring, and her perfume filled the cabin. We drove out of Box Hill and into the fields and orchards that lingered at the edge of the main streets in those days, until we reached a high gate. Helena sprang out to open it, leaving the motor running, and we crunched onto the gravel driveway and over the threshold. Bea was leaning into the back seat clapping hands with Eva – Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black, with silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back – while I gazed out the window at the garden and the house coming into view around the bend.

That garden. I still wander in dreams between the pale grey pillars of the lemon-scented gums, the eucalyptus citriodoras, towering out of mist, gigantic, as they appeared to me as a child in that magical place. Perhaps Eva showed me the house first, but in my memory we went straight to the garden, and she led me around its open spaces and secret nooks, trailed by a silent Heloise. The garden had a formal section in front of the house, but it had gone more or less to ruin. The hedges were twiggy, and the rose bushes stuck out their arms in all directions. The rest of the garden was wild, with banks of hydrangeas and scarlet geraniums and a huge tussock of sacred bamboo into which the girls had carved a warren of narrow paths like a crazed hedge maze with no centre. There was an old train carriage in the back corner of the garden, its walls and floor plumped and buckled by damp. It was called the seed train because it had been a seed and tool shed when Helena’s uncle had lived in the house. It still contained the skeletons of rakes and picks, their once-bright blades blistered with rust. Mice and spiders lurked behind ancient bags of bulbs and garden fertiliser. The sisters had their headquarters in a disused chook shed, and a secret den in the hollowed-out bowl of earth beneath the boughs of a casuarina. At the rear of the garden there was a high gate that Eva called the switchgate. It led out to a dirt lane that backed on to orchards.

‘We can’t go out there because we’ll be locked out,’ Eva told me.

‘Why?’

‘You can go out but then you can’t get back in. That’s how it works.’

‘How do you get back in then?’

‘You have to walk all the way around to the front gate. It’s a long way. Except I can’t reach the handle so we need Bea to go with us, and she never wants to.’

I stood back as Eva opened the latch, for fear that the switchgate would somehow suck me out.

Eva took me up to her bedroom on the house’s second storey, shutting the door against Heloise. She began to change out of her school uniform, flinging the discarded clothes onto the floor. When she was stripped to her singlet and knickers, she opened her wardrobe and roughed the hanging garments about, making the wooden hangers clack together and thunk against the back of the wardrobe.

‘Do you want to change too?’ she asked.

‘I don’t have any other clothes.’

‘You can wear mine if you like. You can pick whatever you want.’

Glancing back at Eva, I chose a straight smock dress in apricot cotton. She chose a green gingham dress with puffed sleeves. I felt that we were now linked in some important way.

Eva opened the bedroom door.

‘Good, she’s gone.’ She took my hand and led me to the top of the staircase. ‘Watch this,’ she said. She clambered onto the banister and when she was in position, facing backwards with one small leg over each side of the rail, holding on with both arms, she grinned at me and slid fast to the bottom of the stairs.

The Trenthams’ house had been in Helena’s family for three generations. Its charm was of the ramshackle kind, tacked together over years and across architectural periods so that it resembled those European churches with one Gothic wing and one Renaissance. The main building was of timber, but there was a bluestone former laundry and storehouse, now a vast kitchen; a cellar, cold and smelling of mildewed root vegetables; a sunroom and an attic that, through a dormer window, accessed a small platform between gables of the roof, fenced by a low wrought-iron railing, from where the surrounding paddocks and the roofs and gardens of neighbouring properties could be surveyed. Eva took me proudly to this crow’s nest balcony,