Page 3 of Birds of a Feather

Like Mum, Jarrah moved with an effortless fluidity, which was made even more graceful by the long, flowing skirts she often wore. The bracelets that adorned one of her svelte wrists softly jingled when she moved, creating an ethereal soundtrack for her journey through life. The closest I had to this was a squeak that had developed in the left shoe of my favourite pair.

She gave Gran a hug, me a wave and made her way to one of the armchairs where she tucked her legs underneath her, sat down and rested her head on one of her slender arms.

‘Elise? Beth? You having a drink?’ Dad asked while already pouring them.

Elijah emerged from his dark, cavernous bedroom, grunted in my direction, gave Dad a thumbs up and pecked Gran on the cheek. He sat opposite Jarrah, in front of a vase of peacock feathers Mum had collected when she worked as an artist in residence at a winery in the valley. The feathers looked like they were extending out of the top of his head like a riotous fascinator.

Elijah had followed in Dad’s footsteps and become a musician. He was in a band called One Girl, Three Lovers with one girl – Olivia – and his high school friend, Sam. The trio had decided on the name without realising what it implied about the nature of their off-stage relationship. They were indeed lovers (being in a band had its perks, apparently), just not with each other. But, by the time someone pointed this out, they’d already had posters made up to promote their first gig, so they decided to keep it. Besides, sexual ambiguity was at the heart of many successful bands, they figured.

‘There he is …’ Dad said, handing Elijah a drink. ‘How was your gig last night?’

Elijah explained that the gig, which was at a small suburban pub, was a little dull until a twenty-first birthday pub crawl turned up. A gaggle of drunken girls heckled the band with requests for mainstream pop songs, while the birthday girl’s mother threw up in a pot plant by the stage. A couple of the attending males were caught trying to pull a condom vending machine off the toilet wall, and someone else jumped the bar and took off with a bottle of vodka. The entire party was escorted from the premises as the band played some new material, which went down well among those sober enough to notice it.

Predictably, Elijah’s tale prompted Mum and Dad to recall stories of the good ol’ days, when Dad had played at some of the city’s shadier venues. Like all their stories, we’d heard Mum and Dad tell these ones hundreds of times before, which meant their delivery was well-rehearsed. They finished each other’s sentences, paused at key moments for suspense and even threw in some sound effects while ascending towards a suspenseful climax.

The story we’d heard them tell most often was the one of how they’d met. It happened when they were in their early twenties, at an art auction fundraiser at a posh western suburbs private school. The event supported local artists, by exposing them to members of the school community who had deep wallets and a desire to publicly demonstrate their generosity.

Mum was one of the exhibiting artists and Dad had been hired to play the backing track for conversations about overseas ski trips and property portfolios. It wasn’t his usual style of gig, but Dad had hoped it might lead to other bookings for cocktail parties and corporate functions. Unfortunately, the evening’s program contained a typo and incorrectly identified him as Thorn Dwyer, rather than Thom Dwyer.

Having noticed Mum from across the room (his overused cliché, not mine), Dad had tried to make a beeline for her between each of his sets. But she had spent the whole evening shrouded by bougie folk who asked her about the origins of her inspiration and whether she’d considered painting in a more conventional style. She hated these types of people, but she indulged their inane conversation, as she was desperate to make a sale. The original-painting-selling business was slow, and, as a vegetarian pacifist, she was reluctant to work any more hours at her job as a casual counter-hand in a butcher to make that month’s rent.

My mother’s painting was the last lot of the evening. It was an abstract landscape she’d created with bold and textural brushstrokes in rich colours.

Aware he was running out of time to meet her before the end of the evening, Dad decided to bid on Mum’s painting. He planned to invest every cent he had – $227.60, including the $200 he was to be paid for the event – to procure the painting and secure an introduction to the artist.

Armed with a numbered paddle and a keenness to buy whatever my mother was selling, Dad started his bidding out strong, confidently committing $60 – $10 over the starting price. As he lowered his paddle on the first bid, he realised he’d been so transfixed on the bewitching artist that he hadn’t even looked at the painting he was so determined to buy. Fortunately, he thought it was as magnificent as the woman who created it.

A bidding war ensued between Dad, an elderly lady wearing a fur coat and too much perfume, and the father of the school captain. The bidding bounced around between them, increasing by ten- and twenty-dollar increments. Then, just as Dad was about to bid $240 (he felt sure he could procure the shortfall from the coins that occupied the cracks and crevices of his car), the school captain’s father delivered a decisive $20 blow.

Dad was disappointed, but he had no time to lament; he was contracted to play a final set to entertain the masses while they settled their purchases and headed out into the evening and back to their waterfront mansions.

But my father’s efforts had not gone unnoticed. My mother had been impressed by his deep sultry voice as he played pared-back acoustic renditions of some of her favourite songs. She’d noticed that he moved his body towards the microphone when he sang high notes. And she liked the way he closed his eyes when he played instrumental guitar solos. She also appreciated that his valiant involvement in the bidding war had driven up the price of her painting well beyond her expectations. Thanks to him, she would be able to pay that month’s rent and have some money left over for some new paints.

When she’d finalised her sale, my mother wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and had planned to put it in the open guitar case next to Dad. But as she approached the stage, he stopped mid-song and, with childlike enthusiasm, asked: ‘Want to get a drink?’

Startled by the abrupt pause in his stunning rendition of Jackie DeShannon’s ‘What the World Needs Now Is Love’, my mother hesitated for just long enough that the lady in the fur coat called out: ‘If she doesn’t, I will.’

My mother nodded, my father smiled, and the other lady huffed off into the night.

Mum scrunched her phone number into a ball and tossed it into a nearby bin; she had a feeling she wouldn’t need it. She was right. My parents went for a drink that night, and within three months they were engaged; within two months of that my mother was pregnant with Jarrah; and three months later, they were married. They’ve been inseparable as ‘Rosie and Thorn’ ever since.

This story had been told to us like a fairytale over and over again. Jarrah – a hopeless romantic – pored over every detail.

‘How did you know he was the one?’ she’d ask Mum.

‘What did you first notice about her?’ she’d quiz Dad.

‘I wonder if love at first sight happens to everyone?’ she’d pose to no one in particular.

I was far more interested in the practical elements of the story.

‘What would have happened if you’d won the auction and couldn’t pay your rent or afford to eat?’ I’d challenge Dad, judging his fiscal carelessness.

‘What would you have done with the painting if you’d won it and she’d said no to your invitation?’ I’d inquire, appalled that he’d tried to buy her affections.

‘Weren’t you concerned about starting a family without any financial security, assets or conventional careers to fall back on?’ I’d ask them both, knowingly picking at a wound first inflicted by my father’s parents, who disapproved of their relationship.

But their answer to my questions was always the same: ‘It all worked out, and we wouldn’t change a thing.’

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