Part 15 (1/2)

Fifteen.

Kit was a man possessed, captivated by the s.h.i.+fting colours and moods of the land. He spent much of November tramping through the bush and along the coast. He visited farms and vineyards and saleyards then rushed to capture their blend of harshness and romance on canvas. Even when he went to watch the children riding he came home with pages of vibrant sketches. Once-and I'm not proud of this-I caught myself wondering whether I didn't prefer the drunk, glowering, depressed Kit to this sober workaholic. That other man needed me desperately. I wasn't sure the new one did.

'Why bother with all this reconnoitring?' I asked one evening, as we were was.h.i.+ng up. 'You can see, right? You can paint what you see. Right? Well. Voila!'

Kit tutted affably at my superficiality. He'd spent the day in a shearing shed and reeked of farmyard. 'It's the spirit of the thing you're after.'

'Really, though?' I wasn't impressed. 'Your little landscapes seem popular, and you can knock those up in a matter of days. Why not just get on with it?'

'Because that wouldn't be honest.'

'Don't you go all arty and pseudo-intellectual on me, Kit McNamara. Honest? What kind of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks is that? You made and lost a fortune in advertising-what the h.e.l.l do you care about honesty? Does a picture, or does it not, look nice hanging on the wall?'

'Shame on you!' He swiped his tea towel at my behind. 'I spent six hours in that shearing shed. It was crazy in there! Bleating, barking, a radio on at full blast, whirring machinery and bang go the doors as they drag the sheep through. One of these guys cut a sheep, blood everywhere, and a woman st.i.tched it up with baler twine.'

'Ouch!'

'The point is this: I will paint that scene completely differently now that I know what it smells and sounds and even tastes like.'

'Kit, seriously.' I put my arms round his waist, imprisoning him, looking up into his face. 'I start work on the fifth of December. That's only a fortnight away. I need you on board to take care of the boys.'

'I know that. I shall be a dedicated house-husband. Anyway, they'll have started at school.'

I pointed out that the school day is a short one, and was warming to my theme when the phone rang.

'Saved by the bell,' said Kit, swinging out a hand to answer it. 'Louisa! How the devil are you?' He chatted to my sister for a while then handed me the phone and disappeared upstairs.

'Kit's on good form.' Lou sounded cynical. She hadn't forgiven us for emigrating. Probably never would.

'He is. I've just had ten minutes of arty codswallop.'

'Well, that's what you wanted, isn't it? You should be happy.'

'Of course I'm happy!'

'Hm?' I heard Lou inhale and knew she was lighting up. 'Or a teensy bit jealous? He wasn't this fanatical about advertising. Seems you've got a rival for the first time.'

I denied it hotly, of course-I never admit weakness to Lou if I can help it-and changed the subject. The call lasted an hour, and as always we found plenty to gossip about. Lily had a new rabbit, Philip hated his job, Vincent Vale was engaged to a busty barmaid. Just froth, really, but I felt a lot better by the end.

I found Kit in the studio, showered and changed. 'Mind if I sit here?' I asked, settling into the armchair with my feet tucked under me.

'Funny thing,' he said without looking round. 'I like having you there.'

He was leaning on a tall stool, squinting thoughtfully at the canvas. Shearers were already beginning to take shape; four men in a row, stretching back from the eye. Occasionally he'd simply paint out an entire figure, then swiftly outline another.

It was late when I stood up, stretching my arms. 'That man Gerry Kerr was right,' I said. 'You are a f.u.c.king genius.'

'I wish.'

I brushed my lips against his ear. 'Yes, you are. But d'you know it's after eleven?'

He put down his brush. I felt his hand in the small of my back, steering me towards the door. 'Let's go,' he said happily.

We were halfway upstairs when the phone began to ring.

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' groaned Kit.

'It'll be your mother,' I said accusingly. 'She can't get her head around the time difference.'

We stood irresolute as the thing rang on, and on. We hadn't got around to putting in an answer machine.

'Let's leave it,' suggested Kit, trying to push me up the last few stairs.

'I'm sorry,' I said, laughing. 'It's a total pa.s.sion killer, knowing your mother's on the other end of that line. You'd better answer it.'

It wasn't Mary McNamara at all. It was Gerry Kerr. Kit talked to him for a long time. When he finally appeared in our room, he was looking stunned. I was reading in bed.

'Jesus,' he breathed, rumpling his hair distractedly. 'He wants me to get a collection together for his festival.'

'Does he know the sort of thing you've been doing?'

Kit looked faintly embarra.s.sed. 'He does, actually. I've been emailing photographs.'

'This is fantastic news!' I knelt up on the bed, throwing my arms around his neck. 'When's the festival?'

'Next August. What a stupendous opportunity. But b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, just over eight months to get a collection together . . . better get my skates on. No time to waste.'

So much, I thought uncharitably, for the dedicated house-husband.

The following morning, though, I woke happy. Air billowed through the open French doors, clear and fresh as spring water. You could drink it. We were lucky, after all. We lived in a sort of heaven; we had our children and one another-and now this news from Dublin. I stretched my toes before turning over to smile at Kit.

He was gone, of course. His side of the bed was cold.

'I'm an art widow,' I grumbled out loud, pus.h.i.+ng my feet into slippers. 'Addictive personality, that's his problem. If it's not booze, it's b.l.o.o.d.y creativity.'

It was a Sat.u.r.day, and the children were due to go riding. I was making coffee, yawning, when Finn and Charlie screamed into the kitchen, impersonating a couple of jets as they careered into me. Finn was in his underpants; Charlie had no clothes on at all.

'I'm going to canper soon,' bragged Finn. 'Tama said.'

'Not canper!' Charlie scoffed at his brother's ignorance. 'Canker.'

I poured them each a bowl of cereal. 'Sounds pretty clever.'

'Please will you come with us today, Mummy?' asked Charlie, blinking up at me. His cheeks were still crimson with sleep. 'I want to show you all the things.'

I ruffled the soft tangle of his hair. 'We'll see.'