The Artist's Secret Page 2

  ‘Thank you, I’m very grateful,’ Wren said, still endeavouring to maintain her restraint.

  She was turning to go when she heard the director say, ‘Oh, and Wren? About that little Roberts.’

  She looked back. ‘Yes?’

  Stephenson smiled. ‘It’s always been one of my favourites.’

  At last, Wren thought, as she took in the beauty of the paintings and sculptures she passed on her way out of the museum. She didn’t care about the lurking guard’s expression, or the fact that she was about to return to her lonely room in a rundown Bondi boarding house. She didn’t even mind that all she could afford for dinner was toast and Vegemite. None of that mattered now.

  She had finally won a role for herself in this temple of wonders. It was the only place in the world where, ever since the age of fourteen, she’d been quite certain she belonged.

  CHAPTER THREE

  November 1980

  Wren peered forward as the lurching bus came to a stop outside a building of golden stone. With its classical columns and pediment, it looked to her like the photos of ancient sites of worship her Latin teacher had shown the class. She immediately checked that her navy blue plush hat was straight, her fawn socks pulled up and her gloves in her blazer pocket, ready to be donned. After nearly three years at Daneford, the process was automatic.

  Once Wren and the other twenty-four identically dressed girls had filed out of the vehicle, they were directed by Miss Barnes – an art teacher who favoured asymmetrical black clothes of Japanese origin – to form a line in an orderly fashion.

  Wren bubbled with curiosity. She’d never been to an art museum before.

  ‘Did you listen when Mrs Chambers quoted the Herald in assembly?’ she whispered to Mary-Jane Clarke, a tall, gawky girl with crinkly red hair who was commonly known as MJ. ‘The paper reckons the Modern Masters show is the most important exhibition ever to come to Australia.’

  Giggling, MJ tugged at one of her plaits. ‘I’d stare at a blank wall if it meant missing geometry.’

  Wren had been close to MJ ever since her first week at school when their bully of a boarding mistress, ‘Captain’ Hooke, had punished the pair for talking after lights out. Wren winced as she remembered the hours they’d spent kneeling on ice-cold tiles while they cleaned the communal bathroom. Hooke had forced them to use their toothbrushes.

  Nobody at Woolahderra, the haphazard south coast commune where Wren had grown up, cared a fig about rules and regulations. They weren’t cruel or mean, either. Maybe, she’d reflected, it was the Miss Hookes of this world that had driven them to seek a safe haven.

  Wren had been so incensed she’d fired off a letter to Daneford’s headmistress, setting out exactly what had happened. Then she’d made sure it was signed by as many other girls as she could muster. She’d fully expected to be thrown out. Instead, an announcement had been made in the following Friday’s assembly that Miss Hooke had taken a sudden decision to embrace early retirement.

  Wren had been MJ’s personal hero ever since. The girl was chatty and full of fun, though as she struggled with schoolwork – especially Latin and maths – most afternoons Wren helped her out with her assignments. What Wren did not do was share the truth about her unruly home, or that her mum was a dope-smoking artist. The story she told everyone was that she’d grown up near the Queensland border on a remote cattle property efficiently run by her widowed mother – which was about as far from the truth as was possible.

  Just thinking about her lie made Wren feel queasy, but she knew she couldn’t trust the guileless MJ to stay silent. It was hard enough to fit in at Daneford without word getting out that Wren Summers was a dirt-poor hippie chick’s kid – with no idea who her dad was.

  ‘I know what you mean. Geometry sucks,’ she said companionably, even though she quite enjoyed the precision imposed by set squares and compasses.

  Miss Barnes escorted the girls inside the museum, then whisked them down a set of stairs with a flap of her arm.

  ‘You are free to explore the show in your own time,’ she said. ‘But please refer to your worksheets. The questions have all been numbered, and you can see there is space for you to write the answers as you progress through the exhibition. We will meet by the poster display in the museum shop in exactly one hour.’ She pursed her mouth. ‘And remember, you are Daneford girls. Be on your best behaviour at all times.’

  Wren entered the first hall fully expecting the paintings to resemble the reproductions pinned up in the art room at school. Then her eyes widened. These pictures were nothing like those muted images. They shone with colour and life.

  She could hardly tear herself away from an exquisite rendition of lilac waterlilies by Monet, then felt a thrill when she spotted a sumptuous picture whose subject turned out to be Monet himself, captured by his friend Renoir while the artist worked at an easel in his riotous flower-filled garden.

  Her heart beat faster when she arrived at a deep blue and green Matisse called The Young Sailor, the subject’s shoulders and arms captured in one expressive curve. It beat faster still when she saw a jewel-toned composition by Bonnard in the next room. Her hand automatically moved to the narrow strip of skin between her collar and ponytail, for she was sure she’d felt a weird sort of prickle. Then she realised that when people said the hair on the back of their necks had stood up, this sensation was exactly what they meant.

  Flushed and light-headed, she shook off her blazer, quickly undid her two top buttons and loosened her tie. She’d never felt more alive. The pictures captured so many vivid people and scenes: ballerinas and washerwomen and enchanting children; lush country landscapes, Paris theatres and bohemian cafés; all with such intense colour and verve it felt as if she could leap into any one of their burnished frames and become a part of their captivating world. If only she could live with art like this every day.

  With a jolt, Wren stood still. She had spent her life surrounded by luminous canvases, filled with the bush and the river and the sky. Lily’s paintings were just as stirring as these works. Why hadn’t she realised it before?

  It was not until Wren was in the last court, lost in a moving portrait by Modigliani, that she became aware she couldn’t see anyone from her school. She’d been so engrossed in the paintings that time had stood still. With a final, lingering look over her shoulder, she reluctantly hurried out and found her classmates clustered in the museum shop.

  ‘About time,’ Miss Barnes said, tapping her foot. ‘The bus will be leaving at any minute. Quick, hand me your worksheet.’

  Wren did as she asked.

  ‘But you haven’t written a word!’ Miss Barnes crumpled the piece of paper. ‘That’s not like you, Wren, you’re usually such a diligent girl.’ The teacher glared at her. ‘And you look a mess. What on earth happened to you in there?’

  Wren’s face shone with a transcendent smile.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  December 1987

  A polite knock on a door bearing the inscription Prints and Drawings Department brought no response. After a moment or two spent buttoning and then unbuttoning her jacket, Wren seized the knob and stepped inside.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a faint voice called.

  She scanned a room so dim she found it impossible to pick anyone out.

  ‘Y-your new assistant.’ Her confidence was starting to ebb.

  She stood, momentarily uncertain, until her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then her jaw dropped.

  Wren found herself in a chaotic room, crowded with teetering piles of books, papers, journals and files. She had to inch her way between these unstable stacks until finally she located a tiny wisp of a man, presumably Hawkins, tucked in a corner. If it had not been for his carrot-coloured hair, she doubted she would have been able to pick him out from behind his laden desk, for the debris did not merely cover the floor. It was littered over every available surface.

  Her new boss looked at her blankly before waving towards another paper-strewn desk in the opposite corner. ‘You work over there’ was all he said. Bewildered, she asked him what he wanted her to do.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. Then as an afterthought, ‘I suppose the place could do with a tidy-up.’

  Wren raised her eyebrows. ‘Where do you suggest I start, Dr Hawkins?’

  ‘Search me.’ This was accompanied by a timid smile. ‘But why don’t you call me Bobby?’

  Wren immediately relaxed. Hawkins was no ogre. His offhand manner simply hid a shy man in need of a great deal of assistance. Taking charge was nothing new – she had been doing that, first in her mum’s disordered shack and then in the library, for years.

  It seemed that a proper filing system had not been applied to a single item for a very long time. Catalogues lay on top of receipts; bits of research had become mixed up with typed lists of potential acquisitions; and advertisements for upcoming shows were curled on top of obscure journals. Ageing messages from people who must have long since given up hope of having their telephone calls returned jostled with taxi receipts and photographs that nestled beneath government warnings regarding – she broke into a wry smile – occupational health and safety.

  Only the department’s precious prints and drawings were carefully stowed away, although Wren noticed there was not a single work on display. Most of the wall space was taken up with thumbtacked notices about long-past staff Christmas parties, out-of-date calendars and fading memos.

  She frowned. Sorting anything out would be impossible as, other than the pool of light cast by the lamp on Bobby’s desk, the room had no illumination. Trying the main switch did nothing to improve the situation.

  ‘Had the overheads disconnected,’ Bobby muttered when he saw her looking at him reproachfully. ‘They ruin prints a
nd drawings.’

  ‘But how do you find anything?’ she asked.

  He gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Well, if I’m really desperate I use this.’ He produced a small silver flashlight.

  ‘I think we’ll have to make some changes,’ she said with a slight shake of her head. This man might be her boss, but if she didn’t find a speedy way of establishing some order it was going to be impossible to work here.

  ‘Must we?’ he asked nervously.

  Wren offered a comforting smile. ‘Don’t worry, Bobby. I’ll be gentle.’

  She was in the kitchen, washing up half a dozen stained coffee mugs she’d unearthed from the debris, when a girl with cropped white-blonde hair and wearing a pair of black velvet jodhpurs and a hot pink shirt with a pussycat bow bounced in.

  ‘Hi, I don’t think we’ve met,’ the girl said with a bright smile. She peered into the refrigerator and took out a plastic-wrapped sandwich. ‘Late lunch,’ she explained. ‘My name’s Jo Draper, by the way. I assist over in Contemporary Art.’

  ‘How do you like it?’ Wren asked. The girl’s unguarded cheerfulness was disarming.

  ‘I manage.’ Jo laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ll be off in a few months. As soon as my US visa comes through I’m leaving for the States. Officially, I’ll be advising the Russell Museum on contemporary Australian and Pacific works, though in reality I’m the assistant to the curatorial assistant.’ She grinned. ‘Which probably means general dogsbody. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s Wren. Wren Summers.’

  ‘You mean Wren, as in a bird? That’s a new one.’

  Wren was used to people’s surprise. Normally she’d simply shrug, but Jo was so friendly she found herself explaining. ‘It was my mother’s idea. Knowing her, it’s lucky I wasn’t called Nightingale or something.’

  ‘So, she’s a nature lover?’

  This conversation was getting a little too close to home. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Wren said quickly.

  ‘Look, I only have a minute now, but are you free for lunch tomorrow?’ Jo asked. ‘I’d love to catch up. I’m from Melbourne, you see, and I hardly know anyone up here. I could do with a friend.’

  Wren felt her chest tighten. She’d been lonely for a long time.

  Once school was done with, MJ had taken off back to her family’s sprawling western New South Wales property with promises to write, but after a few scrawled letters her correspondence had petered out. At university, Wren had been so busy studying and working at the library there hadn’t been time to befriend other girls. The inevitable stress that went with disguising who she really was and where she came from had been another good reason to keep to herself. But this exuberant new acquaintance was taking off soon, Wren thought. What would it matter if she made a slip?

  ‘Sure.’ She smiled. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I usually go to the park opposite at lunchtime,’ Jo said as she headed out the door. ‘Look for me on the bench under the big magnolia tree at, say, one o’clock.’

  Wren stacked the clean coffee mugs on top of each other. It felt good to know that, even if for only a brief time, she wouldn’t be quite so solitary.

  That afternoon, Wren made a point of passing through the main exhibition court. A new show highlighting Chinese works from the collection was being assembled, and she wanted to observe the process.

  She took up position in an unobtrusive corner, carrying a file so she didn’t look like she was simply loitering. John Tremaine, barking orders in his jeans and tight shirt, was in charge.

  ‘No, not there,’ he shouted at the hapless curator of Asian art. ‘Can’t you see that scroll should be positioned behind the Ming vases – it gives a much clearer understanding of the period.’

  He was officious and unpleasant, but Wren could see he knew what he was doing. Every decision Tremaine made helped illuminate the delicate works, so not only were they shown off to their best advantage, but they also told a more coherent story. It was a considerable skill.

  ‘Wren!’ With a start, she realised he had spotted her. ‘Don’t hide away. I’d like your opinion.’

  Surprised, she stumbled into the centre of the court.

  ‘Higher or lower?’ he asked, pointing to a marvellous screen depicting cranes and long grasses, currently held by two attendants.

  ‘Oh, as low as possible, I’d say,’ she volunteered. ‘I imagine it was designed to be seen that way.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ Tremaine said approvingly. ‘You’re quite right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  That was nice, Wren thought, even if a touch patronising. Perhaps she’d been too quick to judge the man.

  Jo was unlike anyone Wren knew. Two years older than herself, she was a cheeky ball of energy who’d grown up in a suburban home in Melbourne.

  ‘There’s not a single aspect of me or my family that’s in the least bit exotic,’ she announced from her spot on the park bench as a group of office workers played football in the background.

  Wren raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, apart from the neon-yellow jumpsuit and those Space Age chrome earrings you’re wearing?’

  Jo laughed. ‘Give me a break – it’s no wonder I’m keen to make a statement. I’m the third child of four. We all went to the local state high, which meant that as poor Mum practically had us one after the other, the four of us Draper kids were all in senior school at the same time.’

  Jo made a face. ‘What else? Dad is an overworked GP and our dog, Scout, is a golden retriever with an uncontrollable appetite.’ She turned to face Wren. ‘On Mondays we eat spaghetti bolognaise and every Friday it’s chicken and chips. See what I mean?’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘Totally unremarkable. We put the “average” into average Australia. What I wouldn’t give for a fascinating past!’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Wren murmured darkly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It’s just an expression.’ Wren doubted she’d have much hope of getting on with someone who’d grown up in circumstances so far removed from weird Woolahderra.

  ‘Well, what I’m wishing for right now is that my visa would arrive.’ Jo plucked a glossy red apple from the paper bag on her knee, threw it in the air and caught it with a grin. ‘I can’t wait to get to New York and see the amazing museums and galleries. You’ll think I’m mad,’ she said in a confiding tone, ‘but when I see really fabulous art, it makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.’

  ‘Me too!’

  It was only later, on the bus back to Bondi, that a shadow passed across Wren’s face. She’d already had to reassess her impressions of two new colleagues – three, if she counted Jo. She told herself the cause must be sheer inexperience, which was at least a reversible condition. All the same, it was unsettling. She wondered how many more mistakes she would make.

  Wren peered at the screen with a bemused expression. The closed-circuit television was broadcasting every move made by a nude man and woman who were occupying the stark white enclosed room sitting on the new-wave gallery floor like a huge opaque ice cube. She knew she was hopelessly old-fashioned, but painting and drawing would always be her first loves. Conceptual art like this installation just didn’t speak to her soul.

  ‘So interesting,’ Jo said enthusiastically. She’d gelled her blonde hair so it stood up in punk-style spikes. ‘Although from the look of those two’s body language’ – she giggled – ‘I predict trouble.’

  Wren decided she’d had enough. ‘Feel like a pizza?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I can stomach any more of these openings’ stale chips and cask wine. There’s a place I spotted down the road we can try.’

  They were sharing a margherita with extra cheese and a bottle of chianti, laughing as they bet each other how many days the naked couple would last before one of them either strangled the other or simply walked out, when it struck Wren that she was sick of pretending to be someone she was not. She’d become close to Jo during the past weeks – closer than she could ever have imagined. That story about the farm and her widowed mother belonged back in her student days. If she was ever to establish proper adult friendships, she’d have to risk a little more honesty.

  By the time their chianti was finished, she had told Jo everything. She’d described Lily and her great talent, but also her usual, exasperating state of dreamy distraction. She’d spoken of what it was like to grow up in chaotic Woolahderra. She’d even touched on the aching emptiness she felt inside, blinking back tears when she said, ‘It’s been there ever since I can remember – as if I’m not whole.’ Wren strayed from the truth only when it came to her father.