VEGETABLE LOVE

The balm of early autumn stilled Warrawee North under a shroud of haze. The mellowing sunlight planted translucent panes of shadow on the greening lawns and sharpened near vision. It was that time of season when the tall, graceful cannas relinquished their petals, when the magenta claws of the heavy-scented daphne began to push. Then the buzz-saws of tree-fellers fretted the damson trees along the nature strips.

All breathless pleas and social gadding, Genna was running late that holiday morning. She’d coaxed a mortgage for a shop to lease out, though it was so run-down you couldn’t keep barren chooks in it; and she’d ribbed her financial adviser about those dead-cert shares he’d recommended that were already plummeting. Then on to lunch at one of her married friends, picking at the ravioli to watch her weight, whilst a still-plump Katrina drooled over her snugly swaddled baby, charting the feeding times in biorhythmic detail.

‘There I was, in the middle of changing his pooey nappy, when he just comes out with it. ‘Ma,’ he says, for the very first time. ‘Ma-a-a.’ It’s a miracle! Every day he’s doing something new. Oh, Genna, don’t leave it too long.’

Genna turned in at the driveway slope. Jeez, not again. He’d locked the gate! She did impatient hops to crane over the wall, then pressed the buzzer.

‘Who is it?’ burbled a voice trapped in a sinking submarine.

‘Bette Midler. Open up, for god’s sake!’

‘What’s the password?’

‘Fort Knox.’

The two gates groaned apart. Gunning the engine furiously, she charged her Mazda RX 7 up the slope, skidding to a halt on the grass median.

Before she had skipped up the steps with hibiscus peeping, ‘Hi, my favourite Earth Mother!’ greeted Rowan. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ ‘Wrapped around his shoulders was a black stole. Which became a smugly purring cat.

‘Nothing, you deadbeat! But you haven’t rung me.’

‘I did try. Three weeks back. You’re always up to your neck.’

‘Well, are you going to invite me in or do you need twenty-four hours’ notice?’

‘Just thought you were in a rush,’ he shrugged.

She slanted her cheek in an almost prudish manner, but as he leant forward to peck it the cat jibbed a paw at her. ‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘Of course, he does. It’s strangers he’s wary of. Only attacks people he likes. Except me. Down you come, Modo.’

She passed through a stale, at times sour odour hanging in the hallway. Dirty laundry? Cats’ piss? Paint tubes and dried-out palettes?

‘Do you realize how easy it is to get a loan right now?’

‘I don’t understand filthy lucre.’ For Rowan was an oddball that way. It was a wonder that he’d organized his finances to put this roof over his head. ‘If it grew on trees, mine would develop root-rot and die.’

Genna laughed. Such an impractical man! Typical Capricorn. Even his lounge was Spartan, dull, with nondescript colours, so weird for a painter covered in streaks of rainbow. Though as he slowly doffed his overall with a stripper’s pert shimmy, he too was monochrome, from that same old tatty sweater to faded wranglers puffy at the knees. Except for odd footy socks that matched the Tigers against the Magpies. But it was his animated gestures that her eyes would linger after when his conversation stuttered into parabolas of quirky flight, his pallid blue eyes dancing about her hair before settling into a cornice to concentrate the detail.

‘How about some home-brewed borage soup?

When it came to food, though, he could be a surprise packet. ‘What’s that?

‘Borage? It’s a prickly herb with edible sapphire flowers. Tons of calcium.’

’Yuk, no thanks. I’m not pregnant.’

‘With a dash of sherry?’

‘Nah, still not pregnant.’

‘How about some nasturtium leaves on pumpernickel?

‘No, really, I’ve eaten already.’

‘Fancy a nice strong Earl Grey?’

‘Ooh, honey,’ she said, in her best Mae West smoulder. ‘Would he have me, do you think?’ It seldom took long before she chimed in with his daffy riffs.

‘Coming right up. Can I tempt you with a chocolate carob?’

‘You’re wicked. Only if you’ll suffer with me.’

‘Let’s not be martyrs. Ron Clarke has stamped his approval.’

In the middle of the kitchen she acted as bollard, affecting the traffic of his too eager movements about the stove, trying not to notice the spatters of fat that had shot up the wall, a cockroach dart under the kettle, the half-chewed feathers on the lino, no doubt remains of peace offerings from those smugly satisfied cats.

‘You’re certainly looking healthy, Rowan.’ Even if the condition of his living area didn’t. She possessed a talent for raising spirits, if not her own. ‘As fleshy pink as a camellia.’

‘I’m a vegie person, not a flowery person.’ He gestured with inverted commas as elongated as rabbits’ ears. ‘On nodding acquaintance with my silver beet and sensitive to the shriek of lettuce.’

‘They do grow on you.’ For she had detected the brown-spotted tomatoes clogging the window-ledge. ‘Proper old greenfingers, aren’t you.’

‘But look at my hands. Ruined! El Greco would have a fit.’

‘Serves you right, treating your vegies better than your friends. Why do you never ring me?’

‘I have . . . responsibilities.’

‘Who to?’ said Genna, her face looking beakish.

‘To myself and my art. Even to my companion spirits. Treat living plants with respect and you eat more than their flesh, enjoy more than their beauty.’

‘Frankly, all this outdated flower power sounds more like a cop-out.’

‘Listen. Out the backyard, I’ve got this magnificent passionfruit. Burgeoning all over next door’s garage. Uncontrollably. Why? Because I talk sweet nothings to it, yodel to it, dance around it in bare feet. Even slip it a piece of choice liver now and again. It responds to my vibes.’

‘Don’t you need two vines to bear fruit? Two sets of vibes?’

‘Absolutely not. It’s grafted.’ He switched off the wheezing kettle and poured hot water into the mugs instead of the teapot before realizing. In the social graces, he was lacking finesse. But unperturbed: ‘What really gives me a buzz is delving down into the compost heap for that rich loam that’s crawling with worms and centipedes and maggots.’ He rolled his tongue into a drawn-out slurp. ‘It’s so deliciously warm in there.’

‘You dirty old muckraker. According to this book I’m into on the mid-life crisis, you qualify as the nurseryman fantasist. Prematurely, I might add.’

‘That figures. My earthy phase. I give my personal benison to the lemon tree, Aussie-style. Admittedly, some of its leaves have curled up with jaundice.’

Clenching their mugs, they wirewalked into a sunroom acting as studio, where he lotussed at her kid-leather feet.

‘So what’s the pissy Archibald-winner working on currently?’

‘Still lifes. Or is it still lives? Zucchini II, Cat with catnip, that sort of thing.’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Rowan. I hate it when you do that. Your Cappy aloofness pontificating from the mountain-top.’

‘Oops, sorry. Go on over and look for yourself.’

‘About two metres square, the canvas on its high easel dominated the room. Genna disappeared behind it. For several seconds. So that Rowan was pressing his fingers hard against the warm mug.

‘But it’s . . . . it’s just blue all over.’

‘Oh come on, Genna,’ he mock-pleaded. ‘Take a closer look.’

Nose to the canvas, she squinted. ‘It’s still all blue.’

‘Notice the different fields of blue. The intensity towards the centre, the vibrancy round the edges. Can’t you feel the energy emanating?’

‘Yeah, well, what do you call it?’

‘Peace: A Tribute to Mark Rothko.’ Almost as an aside, he said ruefully, ‘I’m still trying to find my own voice.’

‘Mm. How long did it take you?’

‘What’s the matter?’ Don’t you like it?’

‘Of course, I do! I’m just trying to relate to it.’

‘Just let it happen to you. Then you’ll be powerless to resist my advances.’

At least, Rowan was the kind of guy who didn’t take himself too seriously, knew how to break the tension; when he wasn’t being utterly silly, that is. In which case, he only added to it.

‘So how’s life in the vegie patch?’ he asked.

‘Still surviving. I’ve got a half-dozen littlies from Asia in my Special English class. Beaut kids. Their eyes light up when they toddle into my room. That makes it worthwhile. Mind you, they don’t understand half of what I’m saying.’

Sipping tea made her eyes filmy. Slowly, she slid from the couch to the flumpy cushion next to his.

‘Oh, Rowan, I do miss you. Much more than I expected. Whenever I walk into the staff-room, I’m looking around for you, thinking, “Where’s Rowan?” It’s just not the same any more.’

‘I miss you too. It’s played havoc with my study-leave.’

‘Then you should ring me sometimes.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s just that . . . ‘

‘What?’

‘This is my last big chance. To make a name for myself.’

‘But you can’t cut yourself off completely. You’ll become a vegetable.’

‘No, it’s not that bad,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve got my family.’

‘Your what?’

‘My family. Modigliano and Pissarro.’

‘But they’re just cats, Rowan. I can understand those batty old ladies feeding the hundreds of half-blind, starving feral strays amongst the ruins in Greece, but you –‘

‘All moggies need nurturing. This morning, about three o’clock, Modo jumped on my throat and started licking my face. Pleading to be let out for the hunt. And Pissarro’s got a malfunction of the kidneys. You can smell it on the cushions.’

She looked perplexed, gathering the folds of her dress into her thighs lest she be contaminated. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘So’s Pissarro. I have to change his tray every day.’

‘You’d make a good father.

‘Who me? Never. If I had kids, they’d kick down my easel, trample over my palette and go gah-gah over Andy Warhol.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

‘Not really, Gen. You have to be quite sure to make that sort of commitment.’

Genna’s eyes hardened. ‘For Christ sake, I’ll be thirty-seven next week!’

‘Steady, old girl. You still look a ravishing twenty-nine.’

‘Will you stop patronising me!’ She could look hawk-like when roused. ‘I should have had my tubes tied years ago!’

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ he reflected, staring out at the pumpkins running rampant, trailing their fading yellow flowers and wilting kidney-shaped leaves over the compost heap. ‘Chaplin and Picasso were in their eighties when they brought a child into the world.’

‘No, it’s not ironic! It’s unjust! I can’t afford to wait that long! Don’t you realise how dangerous it is for me? It’s almost too late. So I’ve decided to get pregnant by a complete stranger. Out of wedlock, if necessary.’

Suddenly, his eyes lost their sparkle. ‘You must be out of your mind! Don’t throw yourself away on some lech, some scumbag whose provenance you know nothing about.’

‘Tell me, Aunt Agony, where do I find an intelligent, sensitive male with no ties, no case history? Who is capable of talking feelings and letting me grow.’

‘In the local papers. Hundreds of them each week.’ His ratchety laugh quickly died.

‘Why must you treat everything as a joke?’ Her exasperation spluttered into tears.

‘Dear Genna,’ he said, with quiet solemnity, ‘you’re already tied. You’ve been living with Rob for seven years. You’ve made your choice, love. You have to face reality. Besides, I’d only smother you in lime or turpentine.’

She gazed at him for several seconds. ‘Huh, that robot I live with. Rob doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘change’. Oh, he understands the meaning of "import business” all right, but why does he suspect I’m one of his competitors? Even when I go property-hunting, he resents me not asking his advice. Years ago when I ran a milk bar single-handed, he would wait for me to collapse at the end of a fifteen-hour day just so he could tell me how stupid it was lifting all those heavy crates.’

‘But look on the plus side. A swimming pool decked out in white tiles, white flowers, white statues, the envy of Sissinghurst. And he chooses all your clothes, takes you to Mietta’s at the drop of a hankie . . . ‘

‘And flies off to Rajasthan every other month, negotiating deals.  Yeah, well, he's part of that chain exploiting child labour.  You know, young girls, some as six, can you believe, tied to their wooden looms from sunrise to sundown, treddling away their eyesight for a handful of rupees.  Give him his due, Rob does try to slip them some chocolate or a fluffy kangaroo, but their older brother or father stands over them, watching like a hawk, lest they receive any money direct.  The only hope for these poor girls is an arranged marriage.  Unlike us in the west, they have no choice in the matter.  But let’s not talk about him.  Besides, he’s overseas again. Now that’s a real plus.’  Though the sudden plosion of annoyance teetered once more on the brink of tears.

'I'm sorry, Gen.  I must seem a bit of a deadbeat too.'

'Listen, why don’t you do a drawing of me?' she perked up all of a sudden.  'As a . . . as a keepsake.’

‘Magnifico!’ he exclaimed, to humour her. ‘Peeping coyly behind a couple of bush pumpkins, holding a stick of celery. An erotic Arcimboldo.’

‘Please be serious, even if you can’t be . . . sentimental.’

‘Sorry, love.’

Her voice softened and slowed. Mae West was lurking. ‘I was thinking of the Duchess of Alba.’ She was already peeling up her fawn sweater, the one with the periwinkle blue V band at the neck, slowly pulling out the sleeves.

‘Genna, what on earth . . . !’ Her petite breasts were tanned all over.

‘Sometimes in the staffroom I get this urge to rip all my clothes off and shock those dreary old farts witless.’

‘Are you crazy, Genna? I don’t draw people. I’m not a people person. I’m an abstract expressionist. Lines, angles, colours!’

‘Is that so? In that case, let’s get some concrete expression going. Take your shirt off!’

‘What?’

‘Take that frigging shirt off!’

‘What for?’

She pounced, snatched at his buttons and raked downwards.

‘Pack it in, Gen! This is my meditation corner!’

‘I’ll meditate you, all right!’ she seethed, seizing the brush from the palette and slapping Titian Red all over his chest, goading him back against the wall.

‘For God’s sake, what have you been taking?’

‘Too much, Rowan, too much! You get your mucky hooks in with all your romantic nonsense. ‘If only I could take you to Florence, Genna,’ you say. She dabbed one cheek. ‘Let me show you Paris, Genna.’ She daubed the other cheek. Penetrating his peek-a boo stance, she squelched the brush against his nose. ‘And here’s to Venice going down the gurgler.’

‘Ouch! Careful what you’re doing!’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to paint your dick.’

‘Genna, please don’t talk like that! We’re such good friends, remember.’

Suddenly, she dropped the brush and began whimpering into the flames of his chest.

‘What’s wrong with me, Rowan?’

‘I don’t know, love.’

‘Is it my eyes? Is it my hair? Is it my boobs?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you. Honest. You’re a lovely person. Most of the time.’

‘Okay, so talk to me, Rowan. Seriously.’

He was staring out at the soaring beets with their seedy crests. The ragged artichoke needed cutting back. That damned honeyeater was nipping at the raspberries again. ‘I’m glad we never became physical. It would’ve spoilt everything.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Suppose I can always say I stayed faithful to boring old moneybags.’

‘Did I ever tell you I wanted to make love to you listening to the lieberstod from Tristan and Isolde?

‘God, what time is it?’

‘Just listen to your biological clock.’

‘What’s the frigging time!’

‘Half-past three.’

‘Shit! My hairdresser expected me fifteen minutes ago. Where’s my top?’

‘Hey, I’ve got something to give you.’ He darted to and from the kitchen.

‘Oh, you sweetie, you shouldn’t have.’ Which came out muffley from inside her sweater. She burst into the plastic bag. What might have been dismay dissolved into a strain of watershot laughter. ‘What a whopper! Jumbo size!’

‘It’s the biggest zucchini I’ve ever grown. Twenty-one inches from stem to stern. Something to remember me by. I know how you swear by your steamed veggies.’

She moved to embrace him, then checked at the smears of paint on his chest and clown-like face. Gave a little giggle, then promptly grew earnest. ‘I must go.’ Though she wondered whether he wasn’t ushering her away. But not before she cast a glance round the front garden: some silver beets seeding among the steepling hollyhocks, the morning glory clambering up the cypress tree, the oleander pointing, thin, red pods; then finally behind the wheels of the Mazda her own two-foot rut of dry-caked mud.

                                                                                                                                             Michael Small
March, 1984

published:  Zest 2, Anthology of Eastern Writers’ Group, Melbourne, March, 1991