apologised for disturbing him at the weekend, inferred that I was calling at the express instructions of the Minister for the Arts, and wondered if he might spare me a few moments of his unquestionably precious time to provide some background on Victor Szabo. ‘The minister is currently reliant on a limited number of sources of expertise. Ms Lambert, Szabo’s biographer, has been very helpful, naturally.’
For all the archness in his voice, Giles Aubrey deigned not to rise to the temptation of petty rivalry. ‘Exactly what is it you wish to know, Mr Whelan?’
‘It’s more the personal aspect. Family details, children, that sort of thing,’ I told him.
‘I’m not sure I follow you.’ His voice quavered with age, but he was following me all right.
‘Victor Szabo is still largely unknown to the general public.’ I was groping my way here. ‘So naturally there will be a great deal of interest in his background when it is announced that a government-funded gallery is spending six hundred thousand dollars on one of his paintings.’
‘That much? For one of Victor’s? Really?’ Behind the patrician disbelief was something else. Vindication, perhaps. ‘Which one, may one ask?’
I told him. There was a long silence and when finally he spoke it was as if recognising the arrival of something long anticipated. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dearie, dearie me.’
Coldstream was a good ninety minutes away. ‘I’ll be in your area a bit later this afternoon,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I could drop around?’
‘Very well.’ His acquiescence was immediate, total. ‘Some things are better discussed face to face.’ The last house, he told me, bottom of the hill.
But first things first. The fruit of my loins was making his descent. I hiked my purchases up to Parliament House, tossed them into the Charade and made the airport with seconds to spare.
Tullamarine was thick with Italian families, there to meet the Alitalia flight from Rome, cooling their heels while customs frisked their grandmothers for contraband salami. Red’s flight was running ten minutes behind schedule- which gave me a chance to read what the Saturday paper pundits had to say about the Cabinet reshuffle.
Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic was the recurrent phrase. Since these were the same luminaries who’d confidently predicted our defeat at the previous election, I tried not to take offence. We had, after all, won by two seats. The Herald ’s Moat Death Puzzle story ran to five paragraphs, covered only the bare bones and took the anticipated line. A side-bar profiled famous artistic suicides.
All up, I’d been waiting at the gate lounge for half an hour by the time the flight landed and the last of the exiting passengers streamed through the door. Red was not among them.
It was definitely his flight. Definitely. The airline woman at the service counter verified it, ratting her glossy nails across a keyboard, consulting her monitor. Unaccompanied child, Redmond Whelan. Ticketed, confirmed and boarded. Might I have simply missed him in the crowd, she asked? There were quite a lot of families on the flight, returning from holidays. Had he perhaps proceeded directly to claim his baggage?
‘He wouldn’t do that,’ I said, anxiety mounting, and turned with a sweep of my arm to prove my point.
‘Tricked ya!’
Red stood behind me, grinning from ear to ear.
We embraced, his cheek on my sternum, the bill of his baseball cap obscuring his face. It was a solid hug, but brisk. Even a ten-year-old has an image to think about.
‘So,’ I said, holding him at arm’s length the better to examine him. Every time I saw Red, he’d changed in some subtle, inexpressible way. His face still had the same cherubic quality as always, but the body below was whippier, carried less puppy fat. His eventual shape, I allowed myself the conceit, would owe more to me than to his mother. ‘How you been?’
‘Good.’
‘How was the flight?’
‘Good.’
‘How was your holiday?’ Three weeks on the beach at Noosa Heads with Wendy and her barrister boyfriend. I didn’t want the details.
‘Good.’
So far, so good. ‘Good,’ I said.
Quite the frequent flier, Red travelled light. A backpack and a Walkman were his total luggage. Everything else he needed-several hundred comics, a skateboard and a change of clothes-was waiting in his room at my place. Our place, I thought, brimming with the fact.
Back when Red was seven and his mother was in Canberra securing her future in the affirmative action major league, the boy and I had lived together for the best part of a year. Wendy had returned home at regular intervals and phoned frequently, but for weeks at a time it was just the two of us, living the life of Riley. Okay, so we ate out often enough to have our own table at Pizza Hut, slept in the same bed to cut down on housework and missed the odd day of school. But I always ordered pizzas with a high vegetable content, insisted Red brush his teeth at least once a week and kept him relatively free of parasite infestations. And it was only by unavoidable accident that Wendy discovered him home alone one morning when she arrived earlier than anticipated. The olive-skinned beauty in my bed and the Hell’s Angel on the roof with a crowbar had a perfectly innocent explanation, if only she’d stuck around to hear it.
‘What did the orthodontist say?’ I asked as we headed for the carpark.
Red indicated the problem, open-mouthed. ‘E ed I eed a ate.’
‘Why do you need a plate?’ Aside from further enriching some overpriced gum-digger, I was already sending Wendy five hundred dollars a month. Not that I begrudged a penny.
‘E ed I ot a oh a ite.’
‘You haven’t got an overbite,’ I said. ‘Your face is the same shape as mine. I look okay, don’t I?’
Red eyed me sceptically. His gaze lingered on my bandaged ear. He didn’t say anything, but I could already sense them gift-wrapping my birthday copy of First Aid for the Home Handyman at the Sydney branch of Mary Martin.
‘You think Tark’s home today?’ This was Red being sensitive, not wanting me to think it wasn’t me he was here to visit. Tarquin Curnow was his best mate in Melbourne, possibly the world, and doubtless the two of them had already been on the phone, cooking up plans for the weekend. Whenever Red came to stay, he headed directly to Tarquin’s place and the two of them hung out like Siamese twins.
I took no offence. Tarquin Curnow had been Red’s friend since kindergarten, and the clincher when I bought my house was that it backed onto the same lane as the Curnows’ big terrace. Tarquin’s parents, Faye and Leo, were old friends and better ones than I deserved, especially Faye who tended to worry about my unattached status. It affronted her sense of the natural order. I was beginning to share her sentiments. The temperature had long hit the forty-degree mark and my shopping was beginning to go whiffy by the time we tracked down the Charade and blew the carpark. We headed straight for Tarquin’s place. Not much point in going home just to put a piece of cheese in the fridge. Faye’s would be just as cold.
The Curnows’ front door was opened by a four-year-old girl in a pair of faded pink cottontails. Ignoring me, she took one look at Red, pirouetted on the hall-runner and bolted into the shadowy interior. ‘He’s here. He’s here. Red’s here.’ This was Faye and Leo’s youngest, Chloe. No wonder Red liked it here. If Chloe had a basket of rose petals, she’d have strewn them in his path.
At its far end, the hallway opened into a haphazardly furnished room, part kitchen, part lounge, scattered with the customary detritus of family life and heavily shuttered with matchstick blinds. The blinds made about three degrees worth of difference, so the room felt like it was in Cairo rather than Khartoum. Torpor blanketed the house. Tarquin unfurled himself like a praying mantis from a beanbag in front of the television and the boys scooted upstairs in conspiratorial glee. Chloe dogged them optimistically.
Leo was upstairs, napping. Faye was standing at the sink in a shortie kimono thrashing a handful of greenery under a running tap. I opened the fridge. ‘I’ll have one, too,’ said Faye.
The fridge was a cornucopia of everything from anchovies to zucchini. I deposited the ham and fetta, ripped the tops off a couple of stubbies of Cooper’s Pale Ale and sank into the nearest beanbag, beginning to unwind at last.
A ferociously modish cook, Faye was a journalist by profession. She wrote for the Business Daily -one of those papers that runs stories with titles like ‘GDP Gets OECD OK’ and ‘Funds Pan Mid-Term Rate Hike’-while Leo
