Dear Vincent (5 page)

‘You have no other family or friends?’ He stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another.

‘Child of immigrants, remember? As for friends … I haven’t had the time.’ It sounds so pitiful I fake another carefree laugh. ‘Oh woe is me!’

‘Tell me your woes,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing like a good story to drive the night demons away.’

‘You have them too?’ My eyes are adjusting to the dark and I see him nod.

‘You have no idea.’ He takes a long drag, then
exhales the smoke in a thin stream. ‘Old age reshuffles the memory files. What happened yesterday is forgotten in an instant, while my childhood comes back to haunt me with my living dead. It’s hard to fob them off.’

‘What part of Austria did you come from?’ Rather
his
story than mine.

‘Vienna. Wien. One of the most beautiful cities in the world.’

‘So I’ve heard. Do you miss it?’

‘Half of every second of every day — and in the other half I thank God that I’m here.’

‘Have you been back?’

‘Oh yes. But not until almost thirty years after I first left. It’s hard. You realise what you pined for was not the city after all. It was the people and the memories of childhood — and all you’re left with is survivor guilt.’

Survivor guilt.
The phrase stabs me in the heart.
Oh yes
. ‘Did you lose a lot of family in the war?’

‘Let’s just say my family tree was pruned right down to one forlorn stalk, transplanted here.’ The implication is so terrible I don’t know what to say. An awkward silence builds until he snorts and slaps his sole remaining thigh. ‘And now they prune a little more of that each year.’

‘How do you stand it?’ I burst out. ‘How do you stand the pain?’ I’m shaking as the cold bites through my layers.

‘Which one?’ He chuckles as he leans over to tug the blanket tight around my shoulders. ‘The physical phantom pain I can control by medication on a good day — and on a bad day it’s still easier to cope with than the metaphysical phantoms. I try to remember that their deaths were not of my making — and that my escape
gave them solace in their last hours. And hope. I was their beacon in the dark.’

His words shake me so much that when I raise my cup to drink, the china clinks against my teeth and I’m splashed by drips.

‘Good heavens, girl, you’re freezing. Let’s get you back inside.’ He tosses his cigarette away and offers me his hand to pull me to my feet. I take it gratefully, then lead the way indoors, my blanket spilling out behind me like a bridal train.

‘So do you have any ideas for this elusive Plan B?’ he asks when we’re back in his room.

I shake my head. ‘I’m still waiting for divine inspiration.’ I rest my eyes on Vincent’s star-filled sky, hoping to find a clue.

‘Perhaps I can help.’ He wheels his chair over to the bedside table and opens a drawer to take out a bunch of keys. He peels one off the ring. ‘My home is sitting empty and though Johannes feeds my cat, poor Spinoza’s not used to so much time alone. Go stay there — you’d be doing me a favour. Water the plants. Read the books. Set up my little sun porch so you can paint.’

‘I couldn’t. I—’

‘Please, Tara. My daughter Mitzie doesn’t return for another fifteen weeks — she has the flat upstairs. Johannes is there all on his own — not that he’ll bother you, but if you’re keeping an eye on my flat you’ll take a load off him.’

‘But you don’t even know me.’

‘Quite the opposite. You love Van Gogh. You listen to Wagner. You have a warm and tender heart. What else do I need to know?’

It’s so unexpected, so kind, I’m on the verge of tears. ‘Thank you. I promise I won’t let you down.’

He presses the key into my hand. ‘There is one small condition …’

I thought it was too good to be true. I hold the key back out to him. ‘Thank you anyway, but I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay.’

‘No, no! That’s not it at all. If you can contribute to the power bill that would be nice but not essential. No. What I was going to say is that I will still visit there as much as I am able — though I’m happy to coordinate the timing with your shift so I don’t bother you.’ He presses the key onto me again and quickly withdraws his hand.

‘Of course! You come whenever you want to. I’ll be at school in the morning anyhow, and at work till late.’ I stand up, suddenly so sleepy I can hardly speak. ‘Thank you. You have no idea …’ I stoop and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Do you want me to help you into bed?’

‘Want? Oh no. But need? Yes, I’m afraid you must.’

I help him take off his dressing gown, then hoist him into bed. It feels too intimate after our chat — not the usual disconnect I have with other residents. It’s more like helping Dad, except the sight of the Professor’s ravaged body actually affects me more. I guess I’ve grown immune to Dad. Hardened.

After a promise to check in first thing in the morning, I go back to my fold-down bed and fall asleep so quickly it’s like flicking a switch.

THE PROFESSOR’S STREET
IS
a twenty-five-minute slog away. It’s in an old, established neighbourhood, mainly ex-state houses and modern family homes. I’m sweating by the time I reach his letterbox. My arms ache from dragging the overloaded bags I need to dump before I head to school.

A sweeping drive overhung by native trees gives way to an enclosed private lawn. And there’s the house. It’s lovely. Classic art deco: two storeys of white-plastered beauty, with walls that curve to form three tiers of waves. Wraparound leadlight windows hug its contours, offset by decorative slots of coloured glass. The entrance sweeps out to greet me, its slab of roof supported by real marble columns to match the porch steps and floor. It’s a classy birthday cake of a house.

I walk around the back, as the Professor instructed, and let myself in through the sun porch. There’s a separate staircase to the upstairs flat tacked on the side; clearly, the house used to be one big home. Inside is just as magical: the sun porch opens to a lounge that’s rich with beautiful antique furniture and Persian rugs, whole walls of books and paintings. It’s the kind of house my old private-school friends lived in. The kind of house Mum and Dad aspired to once they’d fixed our dump.

I wander from room to room, imagining what it would’ve meant to have been brought up here, surrounded by this wealth of knowledge and beautiful art. It has a cosy, lived-in feel, exudes a kind of love. I can’t believe he trusts me to be here.

Spinoza is asleep in a patch of sunlight on a window seat in the lounge. He’s ancient and fat, a riot of orange and brown splotches against a thick white mat. When I stroke him he looks up with lazy eyes, his purr a rusty old machine.

I lug my bags into a small spare bedroom to unpack. I should be rushing off to school, but I don’t want to leave. The silence and sense of peace is hypnotising.

I lie down on top of the soft blue-striped duvet and close my eyes. The ball of tension behind my ribs begins to ebb away. If Mum and Dad had managed to restore our house, created something more like this, would it have made them happy? Changed our lives? Or is that too shallow, imagining all our problems could be cured by the right address — or good soft furnishings and matching chairs? Yet even Vincent craved a space that felt like a real home. He worked himself into a frenzy fitting out his yellow house in Arles to lure Gauguin.

No, I decide, in the end what turns a house into a home is love. If Van had felt it, she’d never have left. My family’s disintegration never really centred round the state of our decaying house. That was just the outward manifestation of the rot within.

I’M CURLED UP BY
the cat on the window seat, trying to motivate myself to go to school. The sun pours in through the window, surprisingly warm.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

My heart leaps to my throat. The Professor’s grandson, Johannes, looms in the doorway, a baseball bat braced across his chest. I’m Goldilocks sprung by the bear. My arms fly up as if he’s pointing a gun.

‘Shit! Sorry! It’s okay. Your grandfather sent me round to stay. Didn’t he warn you?’

He looks me up and down, clearly confused. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tara McClusky. We met at Twilight House.’

He lowers the bat but not his guard, takes out his mobile phone and dials. As he waits for the call to go
through, I feel blood rush to my face.

‘Opa! It’s me. Did you give someone your key?’ His gaze holds mine as he listens, his eyes an unusual gentian blue. The line between them relaxes as the Professor explains. The place is so quiet I can hear the buzz of the old man’s voice. ‘You’re sure? Okay. I’ll see you later … yes, okay. Sure.’

He ends the call and pockets his phone, then lets out a long breath and nods. ‘Sorry. He forgot to warn me. When I saw the back door open I thought someone had broken in.’

‘No worries. I don’t blame you.’ He’s so tall he fills the whole doorway. ‘I promise I’ll be really careful. I’ll just be here to sleep and feed the cat.’ I should offer to leave but I don’t want to risk it.

Now he leans the bat against the wall and enters the lounge. Spinoza oozes himself onto the floor, then waddles over to rub himself against Johannes’ feet. He meows as if to say he’s not been fed for years. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Johannes croons. ‘I’ve heard those lies before.’

I’m not sure what to do. It’s hardly my place to offer hospitality. But if we’re going to be neighbours, I guess I need to make an effort. ‘Cup of tea? I was just going to make one, then I have to be off.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

He follows as I make my way through to the kitchen, then leans against the door frame and watches as I fill the jug. I don’t want to rummage in the Professor’s cupboards in front of him, so I shrug and make a gesture of defeat. ‘I don’t know where anything is.’

‘Here,’ he says. He reaches over top of me and opens a wall-hung cupboard. ‘Cups are here. Plates and dishes
under the bench. Cutlery’s over in that top drawer. Coffee, tea and sugar in those canisters by the jug.’ He opens the fridge. ‘A miracle! There’s even milk!’

Spinoza stretches his front legs up mine and peers imploringly into my face with a high-pitched pleading purr. ‘Oh, so you think I’m a softer touch, do you?’ I reach down and scratch between his ears, all the while aware of Johannes’ searching gaze.
I will not blush.
He’s handsome, no doubt of that, but not in a plastic boy-band way. His nose is just a little long, his mouth too wide. He exudes the same fierce intelligence as his grandfather. ‘Did you know cats have a special
high-pitched
purr they use when they want something? On the same frequency as a crying human baby, apparently — that’s why it’s so hard to resist,’ I say.

He grins. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I think if there’s such a thing as reincarnation I’d come back as a cat. They have a pretty laid-back life.’

‘Only if they’re loved.’ I’m surprised by the bitterness in my voice. Now I
do
blush, heat searing up my cheeks and pulsing through my scalp.
Get a grip.
‘I hear your mother is overseas.’ The kettle has boiled and I get busy making tea.

‘Yeah. She’s gone across to Europe to work on a book.’

‘Wow! So she’s a writer?’
Stupid, stupid question.
My blush intensifies, something I didn’t think possible. I’m crap with boys.

‘Kind of. She’s a psychologist. She’s doing some research into Jung and Freud.’

‘Does she practise what they preach?’

He laughs. ‘God, yes! You’ve no idea how annoying
it is having every word you say analysed for hidden meaning. Every single thing I do she labels as some kind of new phase!’

I have to smile. ‘Bummer.’

‘Yeah. Though I guess she only does it because she cares.’ He hands me the carton of milk. ‘Here. None for me.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’ He takes his tea and leads the way back to the lounge.

We sit down at the dining table — mahogany, I think — and use coasters under the cups. ‘This place is beautiful,’ I say. ‘Your grandfather is very generous to let me stay.’

‘So what’s the story? Why are you here?’ He takes a sip of his tea. His hand is shaking as he lifts the cup.
Is he as nervous as me?

I’m not sure what the Professor told him on the phone but I can feel Johannes waiting. I may as well just spit it out. ‘I had a run-in with my mum and it seemed best to leave.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, well yours may care too much but mine quite frankly doesn’t give a stuff.’ There’s the hardness back in my voice. It’s deeply unattractive.

‘O-kay.’ He spins the coaster around and takes another sip. ‘So … have you worked at the rest home long?’

‘A year.’ I wish he’d hurry up. I don’t do small talk well. ‘And you? I think your grandfather said you were at university?’

He nods, and now it’s his turn to colour up. ‘First year. I’m studying philosophy and law.’

‘You want to be a lawyer?’

‘Not really!’ A smile tweaks the corners of his mouth again. ‘It’s a compromise. Philosophy for Opa, and law ’cause Mum thinks it’s more likely to pay the bills.’

‘Is it interesting? Law?’

He shakes his head. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m not that keen on any of it right now. First-year courses seem to be three-quarters filled with lectures on how to write essays and do research. It’s not exactly gripping.’ His gaze meets mine. ‘And you?’

‘I’m still at school.’ I glance at my watch. ‘And, actually, I’m really late. I’d better go.’ I get up and he stands so quickly he overturns his chair. ‘I go straight from there to work. I probably won’t get back here until around nine.’

‘Long day,’ he says. He picks up both the cups and carries them through to the kitchen. ‘Sorry, you know. For giving you a fright.’

‘Ditto.’ I watch him leave. More to the point, I watch his skinny backside swim inside his jeans. Underneath his clothing he can’t be more than skin and bone.

BY THE TIME I
make it to school I’ve missed English and most of Art History, but the good news is that Painting’s next. I make my way towards the art room, arriving just as Izzy’s niece, Roshane, heads out the door. She’s always unfailingly friendly, even though she probably thinks I’m a freak.

‘Hey! I’ve been looking for you.’ She passes me a
note and rolls her eyes. ‘Mrs Friedman wants to see you asap.’

‘You sure?’ I look down at the message summoning me to the school counsellor. Oh crap. This must mean Mum’s phoned the school.

‘Afraid so.’ She grins. ‘Don’t tell me
you’ve
been naughty?’ She almost sounds approving.

‘Never trust the quiet ones!’

Now she laughs. ‘I hear you, sister.’ Pats me on the arm. ‘Good luck.’

‘I’m gonna need it.’

Mrs Friedman ushers me into her office with the kind of smile that’s meant to reassure me. I’m sure she knows the stigma if I’m spotted coming in or out.

‘Thanks, Tara. We’ve not met before, have we?’ I shake my head. ‘Please call me Sandy. I’m not much into formality.’ It’s stating the obvious, especially as she always dresses like a teenager herself. Today she’s wearing black leggings and a floaty pink baby-doll dress. Mum has a saying for women like her:
You can’t make spring chicken soup outta old chicken shit.
I think she looks okay, just a bit try-hard. Her sleeves are rolled up to show off Angelina Jolie-inspired tattoos. Such a waste of effort — if you’re going to mark your skin for life, at least make the design something worthwhile. I’d have a sunflower. Or a butterfly for Van.

I take the seat Sandy offers me and wait for her to speak. When Van died I was still at my old school. They brought a counsellor in then, freaking, I suppose, because I wouldn’t talk. And I mean not at all. My words had turned to stone. I didn’t have the energy to heave them up — and if I had, I doubt I could’ve got them
past the barbed-wire block inside my throat. Eventually this woman made me write a goodbye letter to Van. It helped — until she showed the bloody thing to Mum. I’d opened up my heart; written to Van as if she was still here. I can’t recall it all now, except for one short phrase that sticks:
Please don’t leave me in this prison all alone.

You’d have thought I’d called the Pope a paedophile the way Mum exploded when she read that. Actually, I wish I had. At least I would have understood what she did next. She tore up my letter, right there in front of me.
Are you trying to wind me up to ninety, you ungrateful little chiseller?

‘So, Tara, is there anything you’d like to share? Any problems? Stresses? Are things all right at home?’

‘Why did you want to see me?’ Rule One in my survival guide: never, under any circumstances, give anything away unless you have no choice.

‘Bella — Ms Romano — was concerned.’

Ms R?
‘Then you haven’t heard from Mum?’
Stupid
. Too late now to suck it back.

‘No … why? Should I have?’

I shake my head, then stop, worried it’ll look too emphatic. ‘No. I just wondered.’ My arms are crossed defensively across my chest. I drop them to my sides, trying to look natural. The tragic part is that I’m hurt Mum
hasn’t
called to check if I’m okay. How pathetic is that, hoping that she’d care?

‘Ms Romano said you painted quite a disturbing picture yesterday. She’s worried that you’re not yourself.’

This is about the painting?
‘Yeah, it kind of disturbed me too. But here’s the thing with art: you start to paint and something takes you over, guides your hand. You
don’t know what the outcome will be until the end.’

She stares me straight in the eye. ‘Tell me, Tara, are you thinking of taking your own life?’

‘What?’ I laugh, though it has a sharp, false ring. ‘Of course not.’ There’s a little whisper in my head.
Really? Who would care?

Sandy’s close scrutiny brings me out in a sweat. I wipe the beads off my top lip, can’t meet her eye. She reaches behind her, to her desk, and passes me a small glossy comic book.

‘I want you to read this and if you find that you’re having dark thoughts I want you to promise me that you’ll seek help.’ She flips the pages over as it lies in my hands and taps the final page. ‘There’s a number here you can call. Youthline. Or, of course, you can come back and talk it through with me.’

I start to rise. ‘Thanks, Sandy. I’m sure I’ll—’

‘No, sorry, Tara. I mean it. I want you to promise me now, before you go.’

A promise seems so binding. That little voice whispers
no, no, no.
‘Okay, sure. I promise.’ I stand up. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Of course!’ She walks me to the door, her hand cupping my back. ‘You’re a very smart girl, Tara. Extraordinarily talented. Hold on to that — and know that there are people who care about you very much.’

I nod, feeling tears well up, then practically sprint away before her kindness further salts my wounds.

But as I make my way back to the art room, anger takes root. It’s easy for her to say that stuff; it’s her job. I doubt she’d make that statement with such certainty if she really knew what I’ve been dealing with at home.
And what I’ve done to Dad. But how the hell could I explain? Adults never listen when you try. She’d think I was exaggerating, telling petulant teenage lies.

Ms Romano is cleaning brushes at the back of the art room. I raise my eyebrows to acknowledge her but walk past. What am I supposed to say? It’s nice she cares — I truly believe she does — but if she finds out I’m not staying at home she’ll interfere. And given Mum doesn’t give a toss, what good would it do? She’d be furious I’d showed her up — she’d make me pay … and pay. I’m sick of shelling out apologies and doing extra chores. I’m tired, and though I know she’s tired too, for once I want to put my own needs first.
How radical
, I hear Van drawl inside my ear.
Beware the little worm who turned!

Inside the storeroom my painting has been faced towards the wall. I prop it back onto the easel, wincing as I see it with fresh eyes. Okay, it
is
a bit extreme. Vincent said the dreamer sometimes falls into a pit and
this
pit is about as deep as I have ever been. It’s spooky looking at this tiny piece of hell and knowing that there’s more lurking inside. It’s festering there, a thick, toxic soup of throwaway lines, slaps and insults, years and years of tightly controlled conditional love.

The irony of Ms Romano’s worry and Sandy’s care is that you’d think they’d
want
me to express it; get it out. Maybe that’s it! Maybe I have to climb down to the very bottom of the pit and meet the Devil face to face. Wasn’t that what the Professor said? The truth has such explosive power that one day it will blow? Maybe it’s the only way to really set me free. Screw everyone tiptoeing around me here. I’ll sort it on my own.