Page 180 of The Pearl Sister
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I woke up the next morning feeling like I had a really bad hangover – caused by information overload, not alcohol. I lay in the room with the pretty flowered curtains under the patchwork quilt that no doubt my grandmother, Sarah, had sewn over many a hot and sweaty night here in the Alice.
I closed my eyes then, thinking of my momentous decision of yesterday, and the weird dream I’d just had, and my hands tingled. It felt like all the angst and pain that had made me needed to be set free so it didn’t poison me from within.
And I knew how to do it.
I got out of bed and pulled on one of my grandmother’s blouses and a pair of her shorts that were flared at the bottom and made my legs look like two lamp stands that were too thick for the lampshades at the top of them.
Francis was eating breakfast in the kitchen at a table that was set for two.
‘Do you by any chance have a spare canvas? Like, the biggest you’ve got?’ I asked him.
‘Of course. Follow me.’
I was grateful he understood my urgency without explanation and I followed him to a greenhouse that he used as a storeroom. I set up my canvas and easel in a shady part of the back garden, and Francis lent me his special sable brushes. I selected the right size and began to mix the paints. As soon as the brush touched the canvas, that strange feeling that sometimes happened when I was painting came over me, and the next time I looked up, the canvas was full and the sky was dark.
‘Celaeno, it’s time for you to come inside,’ Francis called from the back door. ‘The mosquitoes will eat you alive out here.’
‘Don’t look! It’s not finished yet!’ I made a pathetic attempt to cover the enormous canvas with my hands, although he’d probably seen it through the sitting room window already.
He walked across the lawn to put his arms around me and hug me tight. ‘It’s a need, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said with a yawn. ‘I couldn’t stop. This is for you, by the way.’
‘Thank you, I will treasure it.’
I’d been sitting in the same spot for a very long time and my legs weren’t working properly, so Francis helped me up and let me lean on him as if I was some old person.
‘It’s probably terrible,’ I said as I slumped exhausted into an armchair in the sitting room.
‘Perhaps it is, but I already know where I’m going to hang it.’ He pointed to the space over the mantelpiece. ‘You need some food?’ he asked me.
‘I’m too tired to eat, but I could murder a cup of tea before I go to bed.’
He brought it to me then propped up my new canvas in front of the fireplace and sat down to study it.
‘Have you decided what you will call it?’
‘The Pearl Fishers,’ I said, surprising myself, as I was usually crap at choosing names. ‘It’s about, well . . . our family. I had a dream I was in Broome, swimming in the sea. There were lots of us and we were all looking for a pearl and—’
‘So is that a moon in the centre?’ Francis broke in as he studied the painting. ‘You know my mother was called Alkina, which means “moon”.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,’ I mused, ‘but the white circle represents the beauty and power of female fertility and nature, the endless cycle of life and death. In other words, it’s our family history.’
‘I love it,’ said Francis, studying the big, sweeping shapes of the sea below the moon, dotted with small, pearly spots lying beneath the waves on the seabed. ‘And already your technique is improving. This is seriously impressive for a day’s painting.’
‘Thanks, but it’s a work in progress,’ I said, yawning again. ‘I think I’ll head to bed now.’
‘Before you go, I wanted you to have something.’ He reached into his pocket and drew out a small jewellery box. ‘I’ve held on to it ever since Sarah died, but I’ve been waiting to give it to you.’
He placed it in my hand, and I opened it nervously. Inside it was a small ring, set with a smooth amber stone. ‘It’s the very same one my father Charlie gave to Alkina the night before she left him,’ said Francis.
I held the ring to the light and the amber gleamed a rich honey colour. A tiny ant was suspended in its centre, as if it had just been caught out on a stroll. I could hardly believe that it was thousands of years old.Orthat I’d had that vivid dream about the little insect sitting in the palm of my hand. It had looked just like this one.
‘Camira brought it with her to Hermannsburg after Alkina died,’ Francis continued. ‘And on the day I told her that I wanted to marry Sarah, she gave it to me.’
‘Wow.’ I took out the ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of my right hand, where it winked up at me. ‘Thank you, Francis.’
