out before I could stop them. Quick winced; I was horrified. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry—’
‘No – you’re right,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right. You must think I’m interfering.’
‘I didn’t mean – I’m only trying to help him.’
‘Mr Scott isn’t stuck,’ Quick said. ‘I’m sure he could do many things. His existence doesn’t hinge on that painting. He should just take it home and enjoy it for what it is. A very good painting – an excellent painting, designed for private pleasure.’
‘But isn’t it better that more than one person can see it?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that the ethos of a place like the Skelton – shouldn’t it be shared?’
‘That’s fair. But like Reede said, we don’t know enough about the painting yet. We need to go slowly. You don’t just happen upon a painting like that, Odelle. People always have something to hide. Listen to the words Mr Scott isn’t saying.’
‘Lawrie is an honest person,’ I said, my voice rising again.
‘Of course,’ Quick said, her own words tightening with emotion. ‘Of course he is. But you can still be honest at the same time as having something to hide. And if there is something to hide, then the Skelton could look very foolish indeed.’
She levered herself out of the chair and walked slowly into the cottage. I sat, stupefied, unable to think properly. What was going on here? The bees appeared to drone again, looping from flower to flower. Above, the sky was now cloudless. Suddenly everything seemed so very alive, vibrating, the green leaves turning slightly gold, moving in a psychedelic pattern as the sunshine rippled.
For a mad moment I imagined Quick might be fetching a revolver, that she was going to point it at me and demand answers that I couldn’t give. Something had switched rapidly over the brief course of our picnic, a change of energy like the light through the leaves, impossible to catch. But when Quick came back, she was holding a beautiful octavo leather notebook. ‘I bought this for you,’ she said, holding it out.
I could almost laugh, thinking about this scene now – no, it was not a firearm, but Quick knew full well it was still a weapon.
‘For me?’ I said.
‘Just a small present, to say thank you for doing such a wonderful job. I’m very glad we found you, Odelle. Or you found us, more to the point. Happy birthday.’
I took the notebook from her. It was hand-made, thick calfskin leather with a matte green finish. The pages were the colour of cream. It was a Stradivarius of notebooks, compared to the flimsy numbers I bought in Woolworth’s. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s so kind.’
From somewhere over the fences, a lawn mower ground itself up to a mechanical whine, and a child shrieked. ‘Well,’ said Quick peaceably. ‘Don’t they always say? You never know when inspiration is going to strike.’
9
On Sunday, I sat on my bed with my new notebook from Quick, and thought about what she’d said in the garden. Like most artists, everything I produced was connected to who I was – and so I suffered according to how my work was received. The idea that anyone might be able to detach their personal value from their public output was revolutionary. I didn’t know if it was possible, even desirable. Surely it would affect the quality of the work?
Still, I knew I’d gone too far in the opposite direction, and something had to change. Ever since I could pick up a pen, other people’s pleasure was how I’d garnered attention and defined success. When I began receiving public acknowledgement for a private act, something was essentially lost. My writing became the axis upon which all my identity and happiness hinged. It was now outward-looking, a self-conscious performance. I was asked to repeat the pleasure for people, again and again, until the facsimile of my act became the act itself.
Cynth’s wedding poem was to me a perfect example of how I felt my writing to be bound up with obligation. I’d been writing for so long for the particular purpose of being approved that I’d forgotten the genesis of my impulse; unbothered, pure creation, existing outside the parameters of success and failure. And somewhere along the line, this being ‘good’ had come to paralyse my belief that I could write at all.
So admitting to Quick that I wanted to be published was no small step. It communicated, to a certain degree, that I believed I should be