'You passed out in the alley, you'd been sick,' I told her. 'Were you fighting with What's-his-name again?'
' 'uck,' she mumbled, shivering as she pushed the blanket away.
'Didn't see much point in taking you back to What's-his-name, so-'
'Tuck. His name's Tucker.'
Pretending to consider the canvas, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she came to her feet, using the wall for support.
'At any rate, I brought you up here.' I nodded to the window so that she would recognise the view which would have been almost the same as the view from their back window. 'You can leave whenever you like.'
Walking with the care of someone who was used to being disoriented, she went to the sink and peered out the window. The palms and minarets of Luna Park were starkly silhouetted against a pale oyster shell sky. I watched the neons of Acland Street flicker into life. Far above these garish lights, a fine tracery of cirrus clouds glowed pink, picking up the sun's rays below the horizon. Gaudy, but home. The sight made my chest grow tight. God, I loved painting.
I cleared my throat. 'Like a hot chocolate?'
When I crossed to the stove, she was careful to maintain her distance.
She examined the offer for hidden meanings and, finding none, shrugged. 'Sure.' She sniffed. 'I smell gas.'
'Yeah.' I prepared two mugs. 'I've had the gas people here but they can't find the leak.'
Her eyes slid past mine.
'You can have a shower if you like.' I put the milk on to heat. 'Just don't bother me while I work.'
Resuming my seat at the easel I took up where I left off, filling in background while I waited for her to come closer. She was a wild creature from St Kilda's feral underbelly, whose trust I had to win. I could sense her at my left elbow, still beyond arm's length.
'Think I'll skip the shower,' she muttered.
'Wise move,' I agreed. 'The hot water's off again, but I would have lit the pilot light for you. The gas people couldn't figure it out. They'd never seen such a draft, not even in a 20-storey building. Somehow the pilot light's always blowing out and-'
'These your paintings?' She gestured to the canvases that littered the room.
'Uh-huh.' I nodded, used to comments from people who knew nothing about painting.
She studied the one I was working on. 'That's Fitzroy Street. You gonna paint the Street?'
'In a way.' I was finding it hard to concentrate. Maybe I should sound her out. 'It's going to be a sunny afternoon with tourists half-in, half-out of frame as they stroll along. Then in the foreground there'll be this tramp sitting in the gutter, glaring out of the picture at us.'
When she said nothing I turned to her. She was staring at the canvas intently. 'Say,' I began.
'Say, what?'
I figured I might as well ask. 'How about modelling for me?'
Her face closed up, suspicion thinning her mouth.
'You'd have to wear something summery,' I added quickly, knowing I'd given her the wrong idea. 'You'd be someone out for a Sunday stroll.'
'Fishnet stockings?'
'Huh?' I looked at her earnest face and felt old. 'I guess that'd be in keeping. You could be one the locals,' I said. 'The milk!'
We ran to the stove. She made a grab for the cracked handle, cursing as it burnt her. I was ready with the tea towel to insulate it. The milk subsided and I poked at the bubbly scum with a spoon. 'It'll be all right.'
'Yeah, just scrape the frothy stuff off the top.'
Juggling the saucepan so that the towel's tips didn't fall into the mugs, I poured the hot chocolates, then took mine to the easel. 'If you're hungry, look in the fridge.'
While she rummaged around, I studied the canvas, seeing what I intended to paint, not what was there. I could stylise the background, had to, with such a large area to cover, but with the figures I wanted realism so I needed models.
Genevieve joined me, silently waiting for my attention. I turned and she lifted a soft carton that held some stale crackers.
'I'm not that hungry,' I told her.
'What were they doing in the fridge?'
'It's the mice. Pickings are so poor, they eat the labels off cans. Anything that's remotely edible goes in the fridge. They haven't worked out how to get in there.' I smiled at her expression. 'Isn't there any bread?'
'Stale.'
'Toast it.'
'There's nothing to put on it.'
'Try Milo.'
'Milo?' She rolled her eyes.
I shrugged and began to clean my palette. I needed the exact shade of intense blue that you found in a hot summer's sky. To give a feeling of bright light, I was going to under-light the trims on the white-painted shop front. I just knew it would work, I could almost taste the excitement. Letting the colours mix themselves I blocked in the sky trying to match what I saw in my mind's eye.
'Gee, that got done quickly,' she marvelled, returning to my elbow.
I finished the last patch between the buildings and put the brush down, surprised to find my hand had cramped. As I massaged it, I stepped back to study the effect. 'This building's white, glowing with reflected light. The one next to it is red for contrast - '
'Want some?' She offered a plate of buttered toasted bread, topped with Milo.
I looked at it. 'Are you kidding? Milo on toast? What do you think I am, weird or something?'
Her eyes widened, then amused outrage made her thin face almost beautiful.
Taking the toast I crunched into it. Milo and melted butter mixed on my tongue. 'It's nice.'
She tried her piece. 'Nice.'
'It's good you think it's nice.'
Self-conscious, she wrinkled her nose and wandered over to the heater. Holding the toast in one hand, I ate and painted, needing to block in the buildings while I had the vision clear in my mind. It was best to get as much done as possible, before I hunted up models. A rush of pleasure warmed me, swelling to include Genevieve. Joe could be the tramp wearing some of my old clothes. He was enough of a ham to enjoy that. Once I had the tramp's pose worked out, I'd start on the background figures.
'It's a weird kinda painting,' the sparrow informed me, then heard what she'd said. 'I mean, it's not the sort of thing you'd hang over the mantelpiece.'
'Exactly. I want to challenge the viewer.' I turned to her. If she knew why I was doing this she might feel better about posing. 'You see, I'm going to enter it in the St Kilda Art Show. I want to-' Suddenly, what I wanted seemed pretentious. I battled on, telling her about the youth we'd found in Fitzroy Street.
'It'll be hard to imagine without seeing the finished painting, but I want to contrast the lives of the comfortably-off in the form of Sunday tourists, with the lives of the street people, as represented by the street rat, the tramp. I want to confront the same well-off people who ignored the kid. They'll be the ones who go to the art show.'
'Boy, will that cause a stink,' she muttered gleefully, then frowned. 'But will they hang it?'
'We'll just have to see. Maybe I can stir up some publicity.'
'Why do you want me to model for you? I'm not comfortably-off.'
'No,' I paused. 'But I want to paint people who really do walk the streets of St Kilda. You'll represent the arty people, punk rockers, painters and poets. You'll wear all black and your-'
'I was sick,'