Asylum ��� 7th instalment of my serialised novel

A Tribute to Alex Legg Asylum – 8th instalment of my seriali...

Asylum �� 7th instalment of my serialised novel

To catch��the beginning of this story go to Asylum �� a novel in weekly parts

In which Yvette goes on a date with Varg…

2.15

The cockroaches were retiring from their nocturnal activities in the soft light of dawn. Yvette stepped outside to clear her head, inhaling the cool morning air. Sunlight glistened on the roofs of cars, the long shadows cast by houses and trees shortening even as she watched. A sweet afterglow infused her; still wrapped in Varg��s presence, transfixed by his smile. He��d been as attentive in her bed as at the party. Before he��d left – it must have been about two, something about having to be up early – he invited her to a concert at the Fremantle Town Hall on Friday night. That was a week away.

The day stretched before her like the sky, empty to the horizon. She needed to keep busy, needed a distraction. Then, in the steely blue light, surrounded by the grim concrete of the balcony, images of Curtin flashed before her and she felt a familiar welling of creativity. She could spend the day working on the beginnings of a painting, one that would convey some of the stark oppressiveness that Loewenstein had described. For that, she needed photos.

She showered, dressed in an old T-shirt and shorts, plopped her thumb drive into the side pocket of her shoulder bag and went out. She had no idea if the local library would be open, but she��d find out soon enough.

Down on the pavement her strides were purposeful. She reached the library five minutes after opening and walked past the reception desk and the stacks of non-fiction books to the computer terminals. She glanced back at a librarian wheeling a trolley of books and pointed at a terminal with a look of inquiry on her face. The woman nodded so Yvette sat down.

Minutes later, she walked out of the library with her thumb drive loaded with images of Curtin. Heading home she called in at the photo processing shop on the corner of her street and then ducked into the Vinnies next door, where she found three canvasses of Australian landscapes, none painted with flair.

Back in the flat she laid out on the table a line of five photos, three depicting the detention centre from an aerial point of view, a concatenation of dismally grey shacks behind the strict lines of chain-link fencing and razor-wire coils. How would Sheeler have approached the subject? A bird��s eye perspective accentuating the overlapping planes of the iron roofs? A geometric simplification of the cluster of demountables positioned in pairs like pinned butterflies with their conjoined breezeway bodies covered in grey colourbond? She could use a three-point perspective of the site to accentuate the height of the overhead lighting poles. Or a ground level face-on O��Keeffe-style treatment of a single pair of demountables.

She went and sat out on the hard concrete of the balcony floor. Out here in the stark light, each of her artistic ideas seemed geometrically enticing yet she wondered how she��d incorporate a moral engagement with the subject. She sensed the problem she had lay in the sterility of the approach. Yet she was determined to proceed.

She began a sketch, then another, tracing lines and shading shapes, drawing closer to the subject in her mind until she was standing outside the high fence, staring in at the buildings in the intense heat.

After hours of trying, fending off a mounting dissatisfaction, she took her sketch book inside.

2.16

For the whole of the following week, Yvette was by turns swayed by artistic frustration, restlessness and the yearning promise of Varg. Now she was standing outside the Fremantle Town Hall, a neo-classical mock-stone building with Corinthian pilasters, pediment windows and heavily moulded architraves. This was her first visit to Fremantle and she was delighted to be surrounded by an abundance of fine old buildings, all of them at least two-storeys high. Even the train station, a stone building with an impressive redbrick and stone fa��ade, had an air of grandeur so lacking in the suburbs of Perth, and an authenticity absent in faux-Tudor London Court. In King��s Square, giant Morton Bag figs offered that welcome respite of shade. As daylight began to fade, street lights illumed St John��s Anglican Church presiding over the square. Built of limestone in a simple gothic style with a row of arched windows over the nave, a church not out of place in a Cotswold lane. Altogether it was a delightful scene, enhancing the anticipation stirring in her belly.

Minutes passed. She watched people passing by in all directions, some bustling along, others sauntering up the Town Hall steps. She felt a rush of relief when Varg appeared out of the melee. He was dressed in the same high-waisted pants and loose-fitting white shirt. He glanced in a parked-car window, flicking his hair, cascading in long and full locks, from his face. Then he saw her and smiled.

She caught her breath.

He dodged a gaggle of youngsters climbing the steps, bent forward and kissed her lightly on her cheek. ��You look stunning,�� he said and she was pleased she��d chosen to wear the slinky black dress she��d found in one of her numerous trips to Vinnies.

He guided her through the entrance hall and on into a small, high-ceilinged room where a gathering of fresh-faced and tanned men and women were chatting enthusiastically round a large wooden table. Music, a high-pitched female voice accompanied by piano, spilled from the main stage located in an adjoining room.

��Hey, Varg!�� said a man with short black hair and a full beard.

��Francois.�� Varg shook the man��s hand and smiled warmly at the others.

��Pull up a chair.�� Francois shunted his own chair to one side.

Feeling awkward, Yvette sat beside Varg. She had no idea their first date would be so public. When Varg introduced her to the gathering, one by one she smiled and shook hands, forgetting each person��s name the moment she greeted the next.

Varg settled into conversation with Francois. Yvette listened, avoiding the gaze of the fair-haired woman opposite, who kept trying to catch her eye. Varg was discussing his role in a Nativity play to be performed at a Nursing Home. Varg was to play Joseph. ��Anton��s insisting I wear a wig.�� He groaned

��A wig?�� Francois laughed.

��He says no Joseph he��d ever directed had red hair.��

��He has a point.��

��Can you see me in a wig?��

Francois laughed again.

��He��s too picky.�� Varg turned to Yvette. ��Don��t you agree?�� She hadn��t a clue what to say. Before she came up with an answer, Varg had turned back to his friend. ��And, he keeps changing the script.��

��You��re joking. It��s a nativity play.��

��I know. He��ll have re-written the whole thing before opening night.��

��What a fuss pot.��

��Worse. He keeps cutting my lines. He��s reducing my character to a monosyllabic simpleton.��

��Poor Joseph,�� Francois said.

��Poor me. Anton reckons the new version is more subtle.�� There was a sarcastic tone in his voice. He tilted his head from side to side in a girlish parody of Anton. ��It leaves space for the audience to��ponder.��

��Maybe he��s right,�� Yvette said, seizing a chance to include herself in the conversation.

Varg shot her a blank stare. ��What do you know about acting?��

��Only that acting goes far beyond words. A character is portrayed in tone, intonation, mannerisms and nuances of body language.��

��I��ll rise to the challenge I��m sure.�� He turned back to Francois. ��But I preferred the script the way it was.��

An enthusiastic applause in the other room was followed by a twangy guitar accompanying a droning male voice. She was glad she was seated away from the brunt of it.

Varg continued talking to his friend. The man on her right was engaged in a private exchange with the woman beside him. Yvette was largely ignored, save for the fair-haired woman opposite, who seemed as keen as ever to gain her attention. Yvette steadfastly avoided looking in the woman��s direction.

Towards the end of the evening, after much bonhomie and Yvette��s half-hearted attempts to include herself somewhere, anywhere in the merry flow, Varg left the room and the fair-haired woman, now drunk, eased her way round the table and sat on Varg��s chair, gripping the side of the table to steady her descent. She reached for Yvette��s hand. ��Yvette,�� she said, intently, ��You��re beautiful.��

��Thank you,�� she said, politely.

��Varg is special you know.�� The woman put her arm around Yvette��s shoulder. Then, placing a hand over her heart, she thrust her chest forward and said, ceremoniously, ��On behalf of all the women of Perth, I wish you every happiness.��

��Thank you,�� Yvette said again. She was mystified. Was this woman nuts? Maybe she was an old girlfriend.

Outside, Varg suggested they take a walk. He folded her arm into his and led her down a narrow side street lined with the Georgian and Victorian gothic buildings she so adored, and on past trendy-looking caf��s. Patrons filled all the outdoor seating, the air rich with garlicky cooking smells. A cosmopolitan atmosphere reminiscent of European cities pervaded the streets. Yvette was enchanted. She knew from Mrs Thoroughgood��s weekly history instruction that Fremantle was famous for its maritime history. She hadn��t realised the town had such style. Fremantle glowed civic pride from every fa��ade. Perth took on a fresh significance. She was no longer alienated by the dead plains of suburbia.

They strolled down to a small sandstone building of chunky unevenly-cut stone, squat and proud on its clipped lawns, and on through the tunnel beneath to a short strand between low harbour walls. The water was dark. Waves slapped lazily on the shore. Harbour lights flickered and the ocean-infused air blew in on a soft breeze. Imagined embraces of passion and love glided through Yvette��s mind like.

Varg turned and cupped her face in his hands. ��Yvette,�� he murmured. He searched her eyes. He seemed about to say more then hesitated. A man and his dog walked towards them. His hands fell and he stood back.

��Shall we go?��

Yvette did her best to hide her disappointment.

2.17

She was pushing a trolley down the canned-foods aisle of her local supermarket, her heart swelling to Maria McKee��s breathless ohs and pleading heavens spilling from a hidden sound system in as mellifluous a voice she��d ever heard. The desperate longing of the song perfectly matched her mood. She could scarcely believe she were capable of such slushy emotion. She was an embarrassment to herself. The only redeeming feature of the song was that it wasn��t sung by Bonnie Tyler.

Yvette hadn��t heard from Varg since he dropped her back at her flat after the concert in Fremantle last week. A swift drive through the suburbs and she��d spent the whole journey swooning, reading into his silence a passion commensurate with her own. When he pulled up outside her flat he leaned across the console, kissed her cheek and told her he��d call her soon. She was ecstatic. She floated up the stairs to her flat thinking she��d at last found a truly respectful man.

Now she went to the checkout with two tins of diced tomatoes, an onion and a small block of generic cheese. All she could think of was that she had to get back outside as fast as possible in case Varg phoned.

Her love-struck state dissipated the moment she opened the front door of the flat and her phone rang. Convinced it was Varg, it had to be Varg, she dropped her bag of groceries at the door and scrambled through her shoulder bag for her phone before he rang off.

She pressed the receiver to her ear and heard her mother��s voice.

��Still not heard anything?�� Leah said. The same question, every time. And each time she asked after Yvette��s residence application, Yvette felt a twinge of anxiety, this time coupled with an avalanche of disappointment.

��Not a word.��

There was a pause.

��Debbie��s had a bit of drama,�� she said. ��Peter was taken to hospital yesterday.��

��Is he okay?�� Yvette was concerned in the detached sort of way she felt for anyone come to harm. Her nephews were strangers to her.

��Oh, it was only a broken finger. He collided with a cricket ball.��

��Oh dear.��

��Last week of school too. Rotten luck. What are you doing for Christmas?��

��Spending it with Thomas I think. I haven��t really thought about it,�� Yvette said quickly. ��And you?��

��Going to Debbie��s as always. She��s threatening to roast a turkey.��

��I thought you liked turkey.��

��I do. Only last time, she left the cooked bird uncovered on a bench and by the time we came to eat, it was flyblown.��

Yvette didn��t know whether to defend Debbie or share in her mother��s revulsion. ��She won��t make that mistake twice.��

��I know. I��m bringing my meat cover.��

��Oh Mum.��

She wondered then if Leah talked to Debbie about her in the same way.

2.18

Later, after snacking on cheese and some sticks of celery that had been languishing in the crisper all week, Yvette sat down on the sofa. Her earlier anticipation stabbed by her mother��s call and now replaced with doubt, she read differently his hesitation on the beach, his silence in the car. He wasn��t going to call.

She flicked through her sketches. Then she toyed with her tin pencil box. Stamped on the lid, between a capitalised ��Mars�� and a lower case ��Staedtler�� was a cameo of a Roman soldier in profile. Apparently the manufacturers wanted to impart the message that their pencils were all it took to conquer a drawing. The hinges squeaked as she opened the lid. Perhaps this once that Roman figure would be right.

The evening wore on. A line here, some shading there, crosshatching part of a side wall, adjusting the angle of the fence, staring sunrise into one of her photos wondering if she ought to shine a desk lamp on the side of a cereal box until she had the effect she was after and not mustering the will to do it.

There was nothing wrong with her execution but with every stroke of her pencil she sensed it wasn��t enough. Somehow, she needed to find a way inside, portray the breadth of emotion of the inmates. Yet her entry was barred, her training and her predilection for precisionist art preventing her from accessing the reality inside the fence. All she could produce, felt herself capable of producing, was the front cover of a detention-centre procedures manual or a glossy advertising brochure.

So she went to bed.

She was in Carlos�� house. Only he wasn��t there. Dust sheets covered the antique furniture. Cobwebs hung in corners. She was in the courtyard. The pearlescent light of the moon illumed the bedraggled pot plants in its centre. Somewhere in the house she heard a door creak. She climbed the stone staircase to the bedroom. With every tread she entered a thick choking fear. She pushed open the door and shivered in a sudden rush of cold air. Sitting in a rocking chair was a voluptuous young woman wearing a scarlet ball gown. Her feet were bare. Her hair long and thick and black. Yvette seemed to know her. The woman stared with wild, trance-like intensity at the four-poster bed with its crumpled sheets. Sensing her presence, the woman turned to Yvette and screamed, ��No!�� It was a murderous scream. Yvette absorbed the scream with horror. It was then Yvette saw that the woman��s wrists were chained to the arms of the chair.

She woke with her legs tangled in the bed sheet. She yanked the sheet from under her left thigh and sat up, hugging her knees.

The room was a dim grey. She slipped out of bed, went to the kitchen to make tea then stepped outside, inhaling the fresh air. Dawn glowed mellow. A car beeped its horn somewhere below. Before long the rooftops glinted in the early morning light, the curtain raised on another bright and sunny day.

Deep in her was a space black as pitch, a dark dreamscape no sunshine could disperse.

And out of that space burst the woman in her dream, the face, the screaming face, lips opened wide, the whole of that fleshy cavity contorted. The torso rigid, hands rearing, wrists and forearms straining at the chains that bound her to the chair. It was a confronting image, one that repelled as much as compelled her.

She went inside.

In an hour she��d sketched out the form. For now it didn��t matter how the chains would track around the wrists. No, she told herself censoriously as her precisionism came to the fore with issues.

She leaned against a wall one of the canvasses she��d found at Vinnies. Opening Dan��s art box she automatically grabbed the oils. She hesitated. Acrylics would be better.

She hadn��t attempted a painting like this since her last year of high school. Then she��d approached her coursework with all the resentment of a headstrong teenager coerced into producing an expressionist work in acrylic. Plastic, quick dry, one level up from poster paints. She��d always been a medium snob. For her, oils were supreme, requiring skill and patience. To be a master painter is to be an oil painter. She��d carried the attitude stoically right through her years at Goldsmiths, culminating in her Masters – The Shelton with Sunspots: Gender, Modernism and the Urban Landscape. It was a topic that matched her skills and creative ideals.

How many isolated hours had she spent on that Goldsmith��s campus, determined and aloof as though she had to prove herself to herself at any expense? Her only friend at that time was Josie, a bright and enthusiastic red head with boundless energy and a passion for Matisse. Josie had the studio space next to hers. She would stride in to comment, purposefully interrupt, steer Yvette away for a coffee. Looking back it was Josie who��d kept her from the brink of burnout.

They��d shared a house in Hackney with two other artists, cooked together and went for long walks through Hampstead Heath. It was Josie��s parent��s house in Kew that provided Yvette with cosy Christmases and Easters. And when Yvette completed her Masters it was Josie who enticed her to Malta.

Now she had no idea how to manage the wayward stirrings of her creativity. The canvas stared blankly at her. She��d obliterated the Australian landscape beneath a layer of gesso. Holding the sketch in one hand she succumbed to quiet desperation. How would she transpose that intense form?

All her confidence fell away. She��d spent too many years being precise and now she couldn��t let go. All of her artistry fell away. She dare not even stroke the canvas with the tip of her brush.

Her inhibition took her by surprise. And she was four again, with an unsteady hand and an uncertain eye. She stared into her hiatus. Perhaps she needed direction, a life-drawing class, a mentor to guide her. Someone like Josie. Yes, someone exactly like Josie.

Deflated, she put away the canvas and the sketch book and went out on the balcony.