Page 181 of The Pearl Sister
‘No need to thank me,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘Now, you’d best get to bed before you fall asleep right here. Goodnight, Celaeno.’
‘Night, Francis.’
* * *
We drove into the town the next morning, as Francis had suggested I take the canvas I’d painted out Bush to show Mirrin, and because I needed to go to a travel agent and book my flight home.
‘Is it a return?’ the woman behind the computer screen asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly.
‘And the return date?’
‘I need about a week there, so that would be the sixth of February,’ I said.
‘Are you sure that’s long enough?’ said Francis. ‘You should take as much time as you need. I can cover the extra cost on a flexible ticket for you.’
‘I only need a week,’ I reassured him, and went ahead with the booking. Although, it turned out that hedidhave to pay, because my credit card had finally decided to conk out from exhaustion. It had obviously reached its limit and I couldn’t pay it off until I got home and went to my bank. I could have died of shame when it was declined; I’d always made it my golden rule never to borrow money.
‘It’s no problem, really, Celaeno,’ he said as we left the travel agent with the ticket, ‘it’s all going to come to you eventually anyway. Think of it as an advance payment.’
‘You’ve already given me so much,’ I moaned in embarrassment. ‘Maybe whatever Mirrin offers me for the painting can cover it.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied.
At the gallery, Mirrin cast her eyes over the canvas and nodded in approval. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Better than good.’ Francis eyed her. ‘I’d say it was exceptional.’
‘We’ll try it on the wall for a thousand dollars.’
‘Double that,’ Francis countered. ‘And my granddaughter will expect sixty-five per cent of the price.’
‘We never give more than sixty, Mister Abraham, you know that.’
‘All right then, we’ll take it to the Many Hands Gallery down the road.’ Francis made to pick up the canvas, but Mirrin stopped him.
‘As it’s you, but you’re not to tell the other artists.’ She flinched suddenly and put a hand to the large bump of her belly, covered in a luminous kaftan. ‘The little fella is getting ready to come,’ she said as she rubbed the side of her stomach. ‘And I still haven’t found anyone to replace me. At this rate, I’ll have the baby at my desk!’
A thought sprang into my head. ‘You need someone to cover your maternity leave?’
‘Yes, but it’s so hard finding the right person. The artists need to know they can trust ya, and you have to be able to understand what they’re creating and encourage them. That, and you have to be able to negotiate – though, luckily, not everyone is as killer as you, Mister Abraham.’ Mirrin raised an eyebrow.
‘I might know someone,’ I said, as casually as my excitement would allow. ‘Do you remember the girl that came in with me a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Chrissie? The lady who bargained nearly as hard as your grandfather?’
‘Yes. She studied History of Art at uni,’ I exaggerated, ‘and she knows everything there is to know about Aboriginal art, especially about Albert Namatjira. And loads of other art too,’ I added for good measure.
‘Is she working in a gallery now?’
‘No, she’s in the tourist industry, so she’s used to handling foreigners and, as you know, is from an indigenous background, so the artists would like her.’
‘Does she speak Arrernte?’ Mirrin’s face had brightened.
‘You’d have to ask her,’ I fudged, ‘but she definitely speaks Yawuru. And as you saw, she wouldn’t take any messing when it came to the sale.’
‘Is she looking for a job then?’
