A Place to Remember Read online

  Ava Marchette smiled. ‘You have a passion. I can absolutely relate to that. Working warm, silken pastry in my hands, moulding it to bake, then watching it rise and turn into golden buttery goodness is one of the most calming and addictive things I’ve ever experienced.’

  John appreciated the analogy. It was always nice when someone made him feel normal. Journalists were usually only after the freak angle, digging deep to point out what made him different. ‘And I imagine there’s no stopping at one of your sweet pastries, Ms Marchette, whereas focusing my pen or paintbrush on one word can clear out my brain clutter… for a while.’

  ‘As I look at these walls I see words popping out at me, ones I hadn’t noticed before.’

  There was a touch of excitement in the woman’s voice, her reaction unlike that of any other stranger John had let into his frenetic domain. ‘Sometimes one word turns into a phrase,’ he explained.

  ‘I can see that too. There’s real poetry.’

  ‘My crazy mixed-up version anyway.’ While his visitor examined the murals, John examined her. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the thrill of witnessing a person discover the many hidden treasures amid his works. His wife certainly hadn’t appreciated his talent. ‘Even where there are none, I see patterns in every word and every object. Over time I’ve managed to rein in the need to draw, although these days it’s not the extent of what I produce that still has everyone, including me, stumped, it’s the detail.’

  ‘There must be so much work in this one word alone.’

  John smiled. ‘May I?’ He took her hand in his, lifting her flattened palm to the painted surface, holding it there. At the centre of the elaborate design in shades of green and yellow were the letters: WHY. ‘What do you feel?’

  ‘Lots of paint?’

  ‘This wall’s been primed more times than I can remember so I could start again, much to my mother’s dismay at the time.’

  ‘I can imagine her frustration and fury.’ She seemed quick to take back her hand, moving to another word to caress the brushstrokes.

  ‘No matter how many sketchpads and boards Mum bought me, there was no containing my work to a single canvas, even though most illustrations would start out small. No large flat surface that could accommodate a pen, a pencil or a paintbrush was safe when I needed to clear my head.’

  It had been a long time since John had felt compelled to explain who and what he was, and how he’d turned out as he had. Perhaps that was part of his reluctance to take on the portrait work… but there was something about this woman, now standing in front of him with anticipation painted in the letters HOPE across her face. Yes, he could visualise the word. She was already affecting him in ways he didn’t understand. Should he feel troubled or thrilled? Based on the rush shooting through his body at the thought of her sitting for him, John decided to stay circumspect.

  *

  Ava had wanted to feel excited about the sitting, but she was beginning to think the portrait idea had been ill-thought-out. There might have been a smarter way to reconnect, to see if there was any sign of the old John, but for the life of her she didn’t know what it might be. Besides, she was here now. What a shame he was making things so difficult. Perhaps if a sign was what she was looking for, surely his refusal to sit down, his preparedness to show her to the door at any tick of the clock, was one to heed.

  She’d have to try harder, dig deeper, show him the old Ava, the woman he’d once laughed with and loved. She had to let him see something other than a demanding and, after a day of driving, dishevelled woman.

  ‘You can see for yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m not your run-of-the-mill artist.’

  ‘I do see that and I’m told it’s part of your charm.’ She returned to the same chair and sat. ‘And, while your work is as impressive as it is unique, I would be content with something a good deal smaller and more portable than a wall or ceiling. You see, Mr Tate, I’m not asking a lot.’ Her grin broadened, and when his own disarming and slightly crooked smile appeared, she sensed a small victory, which allowed her to sink into the wing-backed armchair. She crossed her legs. ‘Who knows?’ she dared, one ankle swaying back and forth. ‘You may discover that I’m not your run-of-the-mill sitter.’

  ‘I see that already. However,’ he persisted, ‘portraits are not easy on the artist or the subject. They’re much more strenuous than you might imagine. Until you’ve been asked to sit still for extended periods you can’t possibly know how difficult it can be.’

  ‘I do believe I’ve mentioned, even though I may look a little worse for wear, I’m far from fragile. I scrub up well when I make the effort – even better when I’m not recovering from an arduous trip, of which the last hour driving along a dusty gravel road has deposited grit in places I’d forgotten I had. Nothing a cup of tea, some sleep and a touch of concealer won’t fix. Right now I’d settle for more water.’ She thrust the glass in his direction.

  *

  ‘Too easy,’ John said.

  More intrigued by the woman with every second that passed, John was smiling in a way he hadn’t for a long time. She would make an interesting study for sure, but he hardly needed a real-life subject for inspiration. He was used to his own company and enjoyed time alone to paint Ivy-May’s ever-changing landscape. Each season provided ample stimulation, and when he tired of depicting scenery he had the myriad birds that found sanctuary among the paddocks and river banks and in the shambolic garden beds around Ivy-May. As this land was a cattle property there were also the cautious and curious beasts, whose faces were all different, if a person took the time to look closely at them. Then again, capturing a subject like Ava Marchette on canvas might be both amusing and satisfying.

  Still, his protective cloak stayed tightly wrapped: several times in his life John had been suckered in by duplicitous journalists and paparazzi. When he was shortlisted for the Wynne Prize, one of Australia's longest-running art awards for the best landscape painting of Australian scenery in oils or watercolour, they’d tracked him down to Ivy-May and pestered him for interviews and photos. If he never went back to the Sydney it would be too soon.

  When he returned to the living room, the woman was again dabbing her face with a tissue, and the Rockhampton summer was yet to kick in.

  ‘The thing is, Ms Marchette, portraits are as much about the subject as they are the artist. The process requires careful consideration beforehand: the appropriate position, the composition, the lighting. Proper planning takes time, and time is—’

  ‘I know all about time, but if that’s your final word…’ She rose, somewhat majestically, he thought. ‘Only thing is…’ She did a final visual sweep of the room before training her stare on him. ‘After seeing all this I can’t possibly imagine…’

  ‘Imagine what?’

  ‘How long can it take to paint one little old lady’s portrait?’

  *

  When he smiled, Ava dared sense another small victory. In fact, he more than smiled: he added an audible grunt-cum-chuckle. ‘Hardly old! Now I know you’re goading me.’ He followed her to the open front door, its once mighty brass knocker tarnished. ‘Might I suggest “shrewd” as a better description? One used to getting what she wants, no doubt.’

  Ava stopped to return his smile, hers forced by sadness. ‘If you say so.’

  How she wished that was true and that she would get what she so desperately wanted. The last thirty years of her life to live again, this time with the man she loved.

  ‘Can I ask you something before you go?’ he said.

  Ava paused, turning slowly. ‘Anything.’

  ‘When you were at the doctor’s office, did you ever prove that thing about miracles? Do they exist?’

  ‘I’m still waiting to find out,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your time today.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Ms Marchette.’

  An apology for rejecting her hid in the softly spoken farewell and for a moment she considered implementing Plan
C. If only she’d prepared one. She hadn’t expected to be turned away today any more than she’d expected it the first time, thirty years earlier.

  Chapter 22

  Waiting

  The jarring chime of the old-fashioned concierge bell trilled noisily to startle the uncaged cockatoo on a wooden perch at the end of the reception desk.

  ‘Welcome! Bwark!’

  ‘Well, hello to you,’ Ava replied.

  ‘Hello, you! Bwark!’

  A man’s head, telephone receiver attached to one ear, poked around the doorway of a back room. He smiled at Ava, cupped the mouthpiece with one hand and whispered, ‘Talk among yourselves. Won’t keep you long.’

  Glad of the distraction after a disappointing first attempt with John, Ava looked at the bird and wondered what to say. With everything she’d seen and done in her life she’d never before conversed with a bird.

  ‘I’ve had to deal with a few birdbrains,’ she told the parrot. ‘I reckon you’re smarter.’ She eased herself onto an uncomfortable plastic seat. ‘Nice weather,’ she tried.

  ‘Think it’ll rain? Bwark!’

  She snorted and leaned back into the chair, even more amused when the cockatoo mimicked the sound.

  ‘You are indeed a smart cocky.’

  ‘Smart cocky! Smart cocky! Bwark!’ He fluffed his feathers, the small comb on his head bristling, and when his feet danced up and down on the sturdy perch, Ava realised her own feet tapped out an impatient rhythm on a brown and white cow-skin rug.

  While the small hotel with the silly name was not her usual style of accommodation, Ava was enjoying the antics of her feathered friend and happy to be there. The Candlebark Creek Hotel on the opposite corner was the last place she’d wanted to stay. Back in ’86, after being dismissed from Ivy-May, she’d been desperate for a job and a room, and Rick Kingston had offered both. For three months she’d worked for food, board and cash in hand, all the while waiting for a miracle.

  As in most Australian country towns, the pub stood sentry in the main street and was the first thing visitors saw when they arrived. Once compact, the shops sparsely stocked, Candlebark Creek’s town centre was now spread out over several streets. Unlike some places Ava had passed through on her drive here, it seemed to have thrived, no doubt fed and nurtured by the same waterway that provided irrigation to Ivy-May and other properties further north. The twenty-room Moo-tel, complete with life-size cow statue, boasted a swimming pool in the forecourt, shade sail and barbecue gazebo. The complex occupied a corner block where once there had been nothing but scrub, and tall trees lining the centre of the street obscured Ava’s view of the hotel from where she sat.

  ‘Good,’ she muttered, while her stomach lurched at the memories she’d rather forget. If she never saw that pub again it would be too soon.

  With the telephone conversation in the back room showing no sign of ending, Ava pulled a small make-up mirror from the bag on her lap and inspected her face, dabbing away the moisture between the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She’d wept as she drove away from Ivy-May all those years ago, and she’d verged on it again today, especially when passing the spot where she’d crashed her car. Distraught and in such a blind rage that day, she’d been desperate and foolish. Then she’d been fragile enough to allow Rick Kingston to pull her from the precipice. He’d saved her, both literally and figuratively, or so she’d thought at the time.

  Her time in Candlebark Creek had been a lesson in love, loss and survival. Mostly she’d learned once again to trust no one, not to give her heart easily, and to rely only on herself. Marco used to say, ‘Persone forti si salvano.’ Had she been stronger the day Marjorie Tate had sent her away from Ivy-May she wouldn’t have crashed, and she would never have felt beholden to Rick. She should have saved herself.

  Rick could still be the pub’s licensee today, or maybe he was now the old codger at the bar, the one every country pub has, who occupies the same seat, telling the same tall stories every night to a new traveller. Rick had been one of those lovable loudmouths, the publican whose yarns entertained anyone prepared to listen, or anyone who didn’t have the sense to go home. Initially, Ava had been grateful for the chance to stay in Candlebark Creek, but as weeks turned into months and she waited for news of a miracle at Ivy-May, Rick’s advances had become harder to ignore.

  After those nights when the pub had been so busy they’d had little time for a break, she and Rick would sit in the empty bar to share a bottle of wine and a snack or some peanuts, laughing about the customers and the latest town scuttlebutt. When the gossip Rick relayed turned to the goings-on at Ivy-May, Ava would fall quiet. Fighting tears she’d thank Rick for the snack and after he brushed away the crumbs that had accumulated on his burgeoning beer gut, he’d point to his cheek, tapping his finger twice, waiting for a peck. Harmless enough, Ava thought, as she scooted away to avoid the inevitable pat on her bottom. In the sleep-out with the broken lock at the end of the veranda, she would barricade the door with a chair and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, convincing herself the wait would be over soon.

  Pub scuttlebutt continued to provide news snippets about the poor fellow out Ivy-May way, the occasional titbits teasing rather than telling her about John and the condition that remained a talking point in town. It was as much of a puzzle as his prognosis. Marjorie and Colin Tate might have been managing their son’s convalescence, but they couldn’t control community chatter at the bar. So Ava had waited, praying the town gossip would eventually let her know that John Tate was on the mend, recovered enough to remember, or at least to be told the truth – and the telling would be up to Ava because there was no trusting his mother. While she couldn’t be sure how long she’d have to wait for that day, she’d tolerate Rick’s advances and stick it out at the pub.

  If only the publican had remained the lovable loudmouth. Ava never knew what tipped Rick from larrikin to lech, only that he changed after the cool-room episode when Katie O’Brien had come into town.

  *

  That morning, Ava had been partway through her stock check in the cool room behind the pub’s kitchen when she’d heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and a car slow to a stop. Even with the door almost closed, and the low rumble of the engine, Ava heard the familiar female voice and Rick’s over-the-top welcome.

  ‘Well, who’s got their driver’s licence and nice new wheels! That really is a very cool car, Katie-girl.’

  ‘Marjorie sent me. I’m to see Alf. Is he around?’

  ‘Young Alf is bringing those extra booze boxes over now,’ Rick replied. ‘You want to pass me the boot key and we’ll toss ’em in the back?’

  ‘And here’s the money Marjorie asked me to deliver.’

  ‘Good on ya, love.’ Ava heard the click of the boot opening and Rick’s high-pitched whistle. ‘That’s a lot of champers. What are we celebrating out at Ivy-May this time?’

  ‘You know very well, Rick.’

  Ava slid the cool-room door wide enough to see Rick walk back to the driver’s door with the keys. ‘My goodness, I’d say you’ve filled out almost overnight, Katie-girl. To think you were only sweet sixteen a few months back.’

  ‘You know that party was for my eighteenth, Rick, and it was John’s twenty-first.’

  ‘How time flies when you have fun, eh? You sure are looking all woman. Johnno doing okay?’

  ‘I’m only here to pick up the boxes because Marjorie asked me.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Katie, always so eager to please. I’d like to do something nice for you and your betrothed. How about a celebratory cake? Ava went all out on that giant chocolate brownie for your birthday bash, even matching the icing with that very pretty blue dress of yours. Just because she’s no longer the cook at Ivy-May doesn’t mean she can’t bake you another.’

  Ava’s ears strained to hear the conversation over the hum of an engine starting up.

  ‘I’ll find her and have a chat about it.’ Rick was walking towards the pub’s back door. ‘
She’ll put both names on top. It’ll be like an engagement-cum-wedding gift to you and John.’

  Ava drew too much cold air in too quickly, her hand going to her mouth to mute the cough that wouldn’t be contained. In the process she dropped a giant tin of pineapple rings on her foot. Her cover blown, Rick opened the door, putting a smarting Ava in full view of the girl sitting in the driver’s seat of the Holden sedan, into which Alf was loading boxes.

  ‘What are you doing hiding in there, love?’ Rick tugged at Ava’s apron. ‘Look who’s here.’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing in the cool room?’ Her snappy response sounded more abrupt than she’d intended, but Ava blamed it on the pain in her big toe and the face staring back from the car – Katie O’Brien: the girl who got to spend every day at Ivy-May with John; the girl from the property next door who’d no doubt carved hearts and initials into tree trunks and scribbled John Tate’s name on her school pencil case. ‘I’m working, of course. Hello, Katie. It’s been a while.’

  All cockiness gone, Katie seemed just as dumbfounded, her gaze darting between Rick and Ava.

  ‘You’re good to go,’ Rick said, after Alf had slammed the boot and dusted his hands. ‘And tell Marjorie I can do her a good deal on food and drinks if she has the big event in the pub.’

  ‘What event, Rick?’ Katie now looked annoyed and eager to leave.

  ‘The wedding, love. You’ll want to get yourself a white dress. Something sweet, but a little sexy, just like you. The champagne’s loaded, off you go, and look after yourself, Katie-girl. Drive careful with that precious cargo,’ he called.

  *

  That night, midway through Ava’s after-service clean-down, Rick had walked into the kitchen and, without a word, smacked her across the face.

  ‘Don’t ever speak to me that way again in front of Alf.’