If James was a crier, Jess was an outright anarchist, even as a four-year-old. Was it a clash of personalities? Couldn’t she expect her darling daughter to respond decently, logically, sensibly? But the tiny child had screamed and kicked and rejected every approach. What were she and Simon failing to notice; what were they missing; what did the child want? She had toys, books, musical instruments; they took pains to explain complex issues, introduced her to the best art, food, restaurants, people – and still the child rebelled.
Even now as she sat sipping wine with her husband, Stef knew that they’d failed in some way. They’d both long recognised that being highly trained artists did not equip them for parenting. Yet couldn’t they expect a little encouragement? Like the children they were attempting to raise, they needed nurturing too, just a little confirmation, a sign that their actions were a tiny bit appreciated. But they received no such incentive and found it very easy to capitulate.
Stef recalled her daughter going through puberty and shuddered. It was then that the girl adopted a real penchant for deviation. Beyond logic or reason, she’d entered a behavioural realm that required two years of mental-health professionalism to finally dispel. Stef was reminded of the sleepless nights monitoring her daughter, and the day the kitchen knives came out of hiding and were again returned to the drawer. Was that period finally behind the girl?
‘Anyway, I’ve never liked that man.’ Simon appeared to be addressing the bookshelves.
‘What?’
‘He always acts so superior, when it’s the curators who do all the work. A figurehead, that’s all he is; someone to address the media.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I’m talking about the Director.’
Stef wondered where her wine had gone, and poured another, her eyes drifting again to the empty staircase.
SHAUN CRAWLED under the Fringe Myrtle. Sure enough there they were: a small cluster of Gnat Orchids, their flowers not much bigger than gnats. With his stomach embracing the warm earth, he counted them: about twenty, and each was turned in the one direction; towards the best light, the boy assumed. Why were they there? He’d not seen Gnat Orchids in the forest before. But he was used to nature’s peculiar way of throwing up something unexpected, as though all things were possible if one only waited. That was the interesting thing about life: watch patiently, remain observant and the nuances revealed themselves.
‘Shaun! Wood! Wood!’ It sounded like the cry of a native pigeon echoing through the forest – wood wood wood – but his mother’s high-pitched calling reminded him of a different mission. He sat up to see her in the distance, standing on the deck, leaning out like the figurehead on the front of a sailing ship. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. He took hold of the wheelbarrow and pushed it down the track. Further into the bush, his father had taken the chainsaw to a fallen wattle and the logs were still scattered in the grass. Twenty Gnat Orchids; who would have thought it?
STEF AND SIMON wanted their daughter to remain living with them, even if they were obliged to support her forever. At least that’s what they told others. But whispering across a yellowing pillow in the dead of night, they sometimes wished to Christ she’d snap out of her morbid self-pity and take some responsibility for her life. Maybe a stint on the dole in a rented flat would shake some maturity into the girl, make her part with the tongue stud, labret and clitoris ring – the last, an act she’d defiantly announced to her mother one Christmas Eve. What was going on in her head? If only she would put some meaning in her life.
Meaning; it was everything to Stef and Simon. Above all else, life and art – not necessarily in that order – had to be meaningful: One’s actions should always add new substance to the world. It was the least they could expect of their daughter, raised as she was in such a rich cultural environment. But Jess had a response to this which was difficult to deflect: What does meaning mean?
Jess went upstairs to her room and closed the door. She sat on the bed a full minute before turning her attention to the tattoo on her forearm. Was it fading? Was it turning green? She was sure it was darker and clearer a year ago – what’s the point if it’s going to fade? A fleur-de-lis, its crossbar had been artfully placed along the raw rib of a scar, still red and raised, giving the tattoo a slight 3D look. It was very special; that little ridge of raised tissue, the first experiment, followed later by the full production. And how alive that had made her feel! For a short and precious period, a unique kind of knowing, unavailable in the outer world, eclipsed everything and left the emptiness far behind. She lightly touched the image on her arm and lifted her gaze to the cracked mirror sitting on the dresser. She could barely see her own eyes, hidden as they were in the surrounding kohl and overshadowed by her shock of wildly disarranged hair.
She was not to know it, but Elton’s room next door was exactly opposite hers and at that moment, if the party wall could be magically removed, he’d be staring precisely at her.
She sat for a few more minutes before going into the passage and along to the old nursery at the back. That room had a wide window looking down onto her brother’s bungalow. She saw lights on in James’s kitchen. It was a good time to catch him, between his working day and his wandering night. She slipped quietly down the stairs, glancing at her parents, whose backs were now turned, their eyes fixed intently on the latest TV news atrocity. Sirens wailed, at least twelve dead, she heard the newsreader say.
She went out the back way across the small concrete yard and tapped on her brother’s door. James was in the bedroom and had seen her coming.
‘What?’
‘Can I come in?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Why do you always ask that?’
‘Got anything to eat?’
‘Have a squiz if you like. I don’t know.’ Jess didn’t bother. She sidled through and sat on his bed. James was kneeling on the floor with his back to her, his new bike upturned on sheets of newspaper. He was spraying it black.
‘Shouldn’t you do that outside?’
‘Too damp – you need dry conditions. Don’t you like the fumes? Thought you’d be into it.’
The idea did appeal and she felt her heart skip. ‘I need some stuff, Jimmy. Do you think you could get something for me?’
‘Jessica.’
‘Just a bit o’ speed or something, mate … Don’t freak out. If you can’t, you can’t. Just thought I’d ask that’s all, no biggy.’
‘I told you, Ryan doesn’t like bringing it to work. And I don’t like it either. Means one of us has to carry it around all day. Anyway, I can’t afford it anymore.’ He looked sharply at her. ‘You’re costing me a fortune, Jess. Wean yourself off it or get your own money.’
Jess picked up a pair of his underpants and held them to her nose. James snatched them away.
‘Fuck off, you freak! What do you think you’re doing?’
Jess laughed.
‘Can I come with you tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Where will you go?’