Page 153 of The Pearl Sister
‘No! It’s a fantastic idea! I mean, wow, yes! It’s just that, well, you’re so famous and everything, and I’m just worried you’ll think I’m rubbish.’
‘I would never think that, Celaeno, you’re my granddaughter for a start! Perhaps, having made no contribution to your life so far, I can make one now and help you find your way forward.’
‘Maybe you should see my work before you agree to help me.’
‘If it’ll make you feel happier, then I will. If we’re to stay here for a few days, we should drive to the Alice and purchase supplies and while we’re there, we can drop into the gallery that has your painting on the wall.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘although you’ll probably think it’s rubb—’
‘Hush, Celaeno.’ Francis put a finger to his lips. ‘Negative thought brings negative action.’
We cleared away the breakfast, sweeping every crumb from the table until it was spotless. My grandfather told me that even a sniff of the tiniest morsel would bring in an army of ants before we returned. Then we headed to the back of the stable, where an old pickup truck sat in the shade of a mulga tree.
We arrived in town three hours later, and my grandfather led the way to a supermarket so we could stock up. It was a slow process, as time and again someone came to slap him on the shoulder and say ‘g’day’. One woman even asked to take a photo with him and he stood awkwardly in front of the meat counter, looking embarrassed. As this continued through the town, I began to realise that my grandfather – even if he wasn’t Clifford Possum – was certainly a major celebrity here. This was confirmed as I trailed after him into the gallery and every artist inside stopped what they were doing and stared at him open-mouthed. They clustered round him, speaking in another language, and Francis answered them fluently. After more photos and a few signed slips of paper, my heart pounded as he asked Mirrin on reception where she had hung his granddaughter’s painting.
‘Your granddaughter?’ Mirrin gazed at me, looking flustered, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, it isn’t here any more.’
‘Then where is it?’ I asked, panic surging through me.
‘It was only hanging up for an hour yesterday before a couple came in and bought it.’
I stared at Mirrin, wondering if she was just covering her tracks because she hadn’t got round to having it framed yet.
‘So, now I owe ya three hundred and fifty dollars!’
‘Well now, that’s the best reason I ever heard for not being able to see your work,’ my grandfather said, with what sounded like pride in his voice.
‘Celaeno’s got talent, Mister Abraham. I’ll buy anything else she paints, okay?’
A few minutes later, with the first cash I had ever made from my painting stuffed into my back pocket, we left the gallery. As I walked down the street next to Francis Abraham, renowned artist, and my grandfather, I felt genuine elation.
* * *
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ my grandfather said, as he tightened the last nut on the easel that I’d bought out of the proceeds of the sale. ‘You have everything you need?’
‘Yeah, and the rest.’ I raised an eyebrow. On the fold-out table next to me sat a new selection of watercolours, oils and pastels, along with a range of brushes.
‘You’ll know which to use,’ he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Remember that panic stifles your instincts and makes you blind.’
He lit an insect repellent coil next to my legs to ward off the flies, then he left and I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. I’d never felt such intense pressure to perform. I opened tubes of orange and brown oils and mixed them together on the pallet. ‘Here goes,’ I breathed. Then I picked up a shiny new brush and started to paint.
Forty-five minutes later, I’d torn the canvas from the easel and thrown it to the floor because it was terrible. Next, I tried paper and watercolours, using Mount Hermannsburg as my subject in an attempt to replicate the painting I’d done a few days ago, but that was even worse than the canvas so I discarded that one too.
‘It’s lunch!’ Francis called out from the hut.
‘Not hungry,’ I called back, hiding the first canvas under my chair and hoping he wouldn’t notice.
‘It’s only a ham and cheese sandwich,’ he said, coming onto the veranda and plopping the plate onto my lap. ‘Your grandmother always said that an artist needs brain food. Don’t worry, I’m not going to look at anything you paint until the end of the week. So you’ve got plenty of time.’
His words – and a really great sandwich – temporarily calmed me down, but by the end of the day I was ready to collect my rucksack and hike back to the Alice to drown my sorrows in a few stubbies. It didn’t help that when I walked inside to cool down by the fan, I glanced at my grandfather sitting on a stool with a huge canvas in front of him. I watched as he mixed colours on his palette, then took a brush and filled in another section of intricate dots. Somewhere in the gorgeous mix of delicate pinks, purples and greens, I could see the shape of a dove, barely visible and made up only of a series of tiny white flecks.
He’s a bloody genius, and I can’t paint the wall of a kitchen,I thought as I put my face close to the fan to cool down, then got my hair entangled in the blades and nearly scalped myself.
‘Your painting’s brilliant. Just awesome – ouch!’ I said as Francis worked to extract my now considerable head of hair from the fan blades.
‘Thank you, Celaeno. I hadn’t worked on it for weeks, wasn’t sure where I was going with it, but seeing you sitting there outside gave me an idea.’
‘You mean the dove?’
