Page 150 of The Pearl Sister
‘Again, we have strayed away from the track of your life. Please, tell me about your sisters.’
I did so, reeling off the potted biographies of each of them as I had done so many times before.
‘I see. But it seems you have left one sister out.’
I counted them up in my head. ‘No, I’ve told you a little about all of them.’
‘You still haven’t told me about you.’
‘Oh, right, well.’ I cleared my throat. ‘There’s not really much to tell. I live in London with Star, though I think she’s probably moved out permanently while I’ve been gone. I was a dunce at school because I have dyslexia. It’s—’
‘I know what that is, because I have it too. And so did your mother.’
The word ‘mother’ sent a funny shiver through me. Even though from what he’d said so far I had to guess that she was dead, at least he’d be able to tell me about her. ‘It must be genetic then. The trouble was, Star – or Asterope – was the one I was always closest to because we were in the middle and only a few months apart in age. She’s really clever, and the worst thing is that me being stupid academically heldherback. She won a place at Cambridge, but didn’t take it. She came to uni in Sussex with me instead. I know I put pressure on her to do it. I feel really guilty about that.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t want to be without you either, Celaeno.’
‘Yeah, but sometimes in life you should try to be the bigger person, shouldn’t you? I should have persuaded her to go, told her not to worry about me, if I’d really loved her, which I did. And still do,’ I gulped.
‘Love is both the most selfish and unselfish emotion in the world, Celaeno, and its two facets cannot be separated. The need in oneself battles against the wish for the loved one to be happy. So unfortunately, love is not something to be rationalised and no human being escapes its grip, believe me. What did you study at university?’
‘History of Art. It was a disaster and I left after a couple of terms. I just couldn’t hack the essays because of my dyslexia.’
‘I understand. But you were interested in the subject?’
‘Oh God, yes, I mean, art is the only thing I’m any good at.’
‘You are an artist?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I got a place at the Royal College in London, which was cool, but then . . .’ Shame at my failure poured through me. This man had gone to so much trouble to find me and wanted to hear what a success I was making of my life, but on paper I’d achieved absolutely nothing in the past twenty-seven years. ‘It didn’t work out either. I left after three months and came here. Sorry,’ I added as an afterthought.
‘There’s no need to apologise to me, or to yourself,’ my grandfather said, only out of kindness, I was sure. ‘I will let you into a secret: I won a place at the Melbourne School of Art. It was organised for me by a man called Rex Battarbee, who was the person responsible for teaching Namatjira. I lasted less than four days, then ran away and came back to my home in Hermannsburg.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. And it was a nerve-racking moment, having to face my grandmother Camira when I eventually arrived home after a month’s journey back here. She’d been so proud when I’d got the place. I thought she might beat me, but she was just happy to see me safe and well. The only punishment she gave me was to lock me in the shed with a barrel of water, until I’d scrubbed myself from head to foot with carbolic soap!’
‘And you still went on to be a famous artist?’
‘I went on to be an artist, yes, but I did it my own way, just as you are doing. Are you painting again now?’
‘I’ve really been struggling, to be honest. I lost all my confidence after I left college in November.’
‘Of course you did, but it will come back, and it will happen in a moment when something – a landscape or an idea – strikes you. And that feeling in your gut will make your hand itch to paint it and—’
‘I know that feeling!’ I butted in excitedly. ‘That’s exactly what happens to me!’
Out of everything my grandfather had said to me so far, this was the moment when I really, truly believed we must be blood. ‘And,’ I added, ‘that feeling happened to me a couple of days ago when I was driving back with my friend Chrissie from Hermannsburg and saw the sun setting behind the MacDonnell Ranges. The next day, I borrowed some watercolours, and I sat under a gum tree and I . . . painted! And she said, my friend Chrissie, I mean’ – my words were tripping over each other now – ‘she said it was great, and then she took it to a gallery in Alice Springs without me knowing, and it’s being framed, and they’re going to put it up for sale for six hundred dollars!’
‘Wonderful!’ My grandfather slapped his knees. ‘If I were still a drinker, I would make a toast to you. I look forward very much to seeing the painting.’
‘Oh, I don’t really think it’s anything special and I only had an old tin of children’s watercolours to work with . . .’
‘But at least it was a start,’ he finished for me, his eyes shining with what looked like genuine happiness. ‘I’m sure it’s far better than you think.’
‘I saw yourWheel of Firein a book. It was amazing.’
‘Thank you. Interestingly, it is not my favourite, but then often the artist’s preference for one particular work does not match the critical or public view.’
