I’ve not skipped since I was a child. Yet here I am, skipping through Christchurch with a beautiful blonde elf, holding hands, laughing, shouting and singing. We dance along Hagley Park’s boundary down to Welland’s museum, then off towards the city centre.
Birdie disentangles her hand from mine, runs across to the stone walls of the old university, and presses herself flat against them, palms down.
‘Come here,’ she calls. ‘Feel this.’
I stand next to her and copy her. The warmth floods from the stones through my body.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she says.
I nod and push harder against the wall. It feels almost malleable, solid but changeable. I can’t help smiling. It’s what I’ve become. And I never thought I’d change. I take off my glasses, close my eyes, and let the sun warm my whole face. I feel Birdie’s hand on mine.
‘Have you ever felt like this before?’ she says. ‘So excited and carefree?’
‘No. Never. And you?’
‘I don’t think so. And I don’t know why.’
‘We forget the shortness of life too easily, I say.’
‘Oh, don’t spoil it.’
‘Sorry. That came out wrong.’
‘What was it supposed to come out as?’
‘Life’s too short, so we must enjoy it now. Take the present we have, not the past or the future.’
‘That sounds almost revolutionary for you.’
‘You’re obviously teaching me well.’
‘I don’t think I could teach you anything.’
The wall lets us go, and we stroll a few paces further. Then we see the gallery. It towers above the town houses around it, an array of glass and metal curves, like the shapes of the wind.
‘Nice,’ she says.
‘You mean that?’
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because I can never make you out. Because you’re such a contrary modernist.’
‘You make me too complicated. You make everything too complicated.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘No bluff or double bluff with me, Adam. I mean what I say. Especially what I say to you. And especially now. Let’s go and have a laugh.’
Huge red banners sway from the flag poles outside. Ice for a Warming Age – A Storm Moon Exhibition, in plain black type.
Once we’re past security and ticket office, we both grab a glass of champagne. The tall foyer lifts the buzz of voices and languages into a pealing echo.
‘Cheers,’ she says, clinking my glass.
‘Cheers. Here’s to your paintings.’
‘Thank you. I hope they raise lots of money.’
‘Bound to. Infamous painter and all that.’
‘We’ll see.’
Almost the entire ground floor of this place is given over to her exhibition. That’s three adjoining halls. I count almost a hundred canvases when we do a quick walk-through. She’s built a relentless cascade of Antarctic images, from epic to miniature. I’m breathless.
‘And that’s not all of it,’ she says as we get back to our starting point, which has become even more crowded since we first arrived.
‘Meaning?
‘There’s one more thing. I’ll let it be a surprise for you. We’ve got time to go for a slow mingle now.’
There’s no point arguing or asking. I find it intriguing that none of the crowd here turn and look at us. But then only Nev and Welland and I know it’s this tiny, hyperactive, silk-clad woman who’s created all the visions on these walls.
We push our way through the crowds in the galleries. The rest of Christchurch must be deserted.
I decide to stand by one of the paintings, to eavesdrop near the route back out to the foyer. She stands on the other side of the doorway.
‘D’you think she’ll turn up?’ a middle-aged American asks a woman who must be his wife.
‘No. She never does,’ she says.
‘I thought she was supposed to come to all her exhibitions. Just that no one knows what she looks like.’
‘Someone must do. And she’s probably as ugly as sin. That’s why she never shows herself.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And old.’
Birdie grins at me through the crowd. Sticks her tongue out at me. Told you, she mouths. OK, OK, I mouth back. Shrug. Told you looks so much like love you when you’re lip-reading, and you’re not very good at it. Love and reading lips, that is.
Welland, taller than anyone here, steers his stately course towards us. He’s carrying two glasses of champagne. As the sea of people parts, I catch a glimpse of Nev carrying another two glasses.
‘I thought you might need some more refreshment,’ Welland says to Birdie. He hands her the glass with a slight bow.
‘Thank you,’ she smiles and curtsies.
‘Here you go, mate,’ Nev says to me. ‘Reckoned you’d need a top-up by now.’
‘Cheers,’ I say.
‘Happy with the turnout?’ Birdie says.
‘Sure thing,’ he says. ‘They’ve all paid five hundred bucks to get in. We got the gallery and the booze for nothing, because the folks here want to support us. And there’s at least two hundred payers here, so we’ve made a hundred grand already.’
‘Cool,’ I say.
‘And the gallery gets twenty-five percent of the sales, you-know-who gets five, and we’re getting seventy percent.’
‘And a hundred percent of tonight’s auction,’ Welland adds.
‘Oh yeah?’ I say. ‘Is that what you were talking about before?’ I ask Birdie.
‘Yes, but it’s staying a secret,’ she grins. ‘No point otherwise.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘And when’s this happening?’
‘In about half an hour,’ Welland says. ‘And I’m the auctioneer.’
‘That should be exciting,’ I say.
‘Not for me. I’m perspiring too profusely already,’ he says. ‘It’s ruining my shirt.’
‘You’ll be fine, Welland,’ Birdie says. ‘You can always use one of your perfect hankies to mop your brow, can’t you?’
‘It’s not his brow he’s worried about,’ Nev laughs.
‘See you later,’ Welland says. ‘I think I’ll go to prepare for my public humiliation.’
‘You’re such a bullshit merchant,’ Nev says. ‘You’ve done this hundreds of times.’
‘That, my dear boy, is entirely beside the point,’ Welland says and stomps off.
‘I’d better go with the big man,’ says Nev. ‘No knowing what he’ll do if I don’t look after him. Now make sure you get yourself a good spot. Although there’s telephone bidding, there’s a bloody fleet of private jets at the airport, so God knows which glitterati are here.’
‘Who cares?’ she says. ‘As long as you get lots of cash. That’s what matters.’
‘We will,’ he says. ‘Don’t you worry … See ya later.’
She leans against the door frame.
‘Come here,’ she says.
I walk right up to her. She hugs me. Looks up at me. Pulls me down and kisses me. Then she kisses me again. It must be the drink.
‘What’s got into you?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. I’m just happy.’
‘Good.’
‘Why don’t you know anything about today … or about our trip, really? I thought you Googled everything.’
‘I gave it up once I knew I was coming here with you. I don’t really care much about anything else right now.’
‘You’re weird.’
‘Not really. Knowing lots about lots of things sort of lost its attraction when I met you.’
‘That’s a bit like putting all your money on one horse.’
‘I don’t care … Anyway, I thought you said to stop thinking, and now you’re thinking too much.’
‘S’pose so.’
‘Let it go. Enjoy.’
‘That’s what I’m supposed to say to you.’
‘Whatever. Come on.’
We wander through to the foyer again. They’ve set up a stage there now, with a lectern and a microphone. She drags me in the opposite direction, up an escalator, onto the next floor. It’s almost deserted up here. The balcony looks down on the auction setup.
‘This is the best place, I should think,’ she says.
‘I hope so.’
‘Storm Moon – are you here?’ Welland’s voice booms through the mike. Laughter rises from the crowd. ‘Well, ladies, and gentlemen, is she here or isn’t she? I guess we’ll never know, will we? But, from wherever she is – or could she be a he hiding behind a girl’s name? – she has donated a marvellous piece to go with the paintings you’ve already seen.’
Welland pauses and pulls out one of his handkerchiefs. Mops his face. Exaggerates all his movements to attract everyone’s eyes.
‘Does anyone wish to put in a bid before we actually find out what this piece is? Come on, folks, all the money goes to the Antarctic Trust, and they really do need the money, because what they’re trying to save is a precious piece of history.’
‘A thousand bucks,’ someone shouts from the crowd.
‘That won’t even buy you a look at it,’ Welland shouts back. ‘Why don’t we start at fifty thousand? And I’m talking American.’
One of the official numbered bidding cards goes up, and we haven’t even seen whatever it is that’s up for auction.
‘There we go. I knew that wouldn’t take long. Now – let’s see how far we get before we reveal all in five minutes. Enough to get to a quarter of a million, do we think?’ He laughs. ‘Of course we do.’
The crowd smiles at the actor down there. There’s a sparkle in his eyes, and he moves with a grace not many men have. Another card goes up. Sixty. And another. Seventy. We’re at a hundred and fifty thousand before two minutes are gone. And the phones haven’t even rung yet.
‘Why are they doing this?’ I whisper.
‘Dad told me to always be a mystery, to hype it like that. And not just because of the money, but because it was better not to be known, because that way no one could ever take anything away from me. It’s a game for really rich people. That’s all. It’s got nothing to do with the art.’
‘One minute to go, ladies and gentlemen, and we’re just ten thousand short of two hundred and fifty thousand. Come on, be brave someone? Do I have 250k? The gentleman at the back there – thank you very much.’ He lifts his auctioneer’s gavel. ‘Going once … And that’s all there is, because there’s nothing. Going twice …’ The hall falls silent. ‘Only joking, because …’ He looks up. ‘Because here it is.’ We all hear whirring from just under the roof high above us. A huge canvas comes down, suspended on steel wires. I can’t make it out yet. It’s still moving. ‘Here is The Cairn by Storm Moon.’
The canvas stops just above him. There are gasps from the crowd. It’s about twelve feet high by twenty feet wide. It’s entirely in black and white. Just like the photo we saw in the museum earlier, the one Gran took when they’d built the cairn over the tent. Except I recognise her brush strokes. And those loose strokes have created something frightening, something dark and primeval, almost repulsive. Each piece of snow those men carved to make the cairn, each dark, recessed footprint in the snow around the tent, has been turned into a skull. The cairn is a mountain of skulls, an ossuary. The Antarctic plain has become a necropolis on a massive scale. The gasps die away. A brittle silence takes their place. And then the phones start ringing.
I look round. There’s no one too near us. I move close to her.
‘Where did you paint that?’ I whisper into her ear.
‘I got someone to hire an old hangar somewhere for me. The factory’s too small for this kind of stuff,’ she whispers back. Her hair tickles my face.
‘It’s amazing. But a bit big for a living room.’
‘Whoever buys it won’t be keeping it in a living room.’
The auction cards are going up and down like jack-in-the-boxes, from people in the crowd, and from the line of phone handlers. There’s amazed chatter from those not bidding, a constant buzz from the phones, and, above it all, Welland is keeping pace with the bids that fly around the room.
‘Five hundred and fifty,’ he calls. ‘Five sixty.’
The madness goes on for five more frantic minutes before the bidding slows down. We’re over one million now. And then it’s only the phone bidders who are still in. The price creeps towards one and a half million. Birdie can’t watch. Covers her face with her hands.
‘One million four hundred and fifty thousand,’ Welland says calmly. ‘Any of you phone bidders want to make it a nice round one and a half?’ He waits for what seems like an age. ‘No? Going once, going twice …’ One of the bidders raises his card and spreads all the fingers on one hand.
‘One million five hundred thousand. Going once …’ Welland looks down the line of phones. They all shake their heads. He picks up the gavel. ‘Going twice. Going three times.’ Smacks it down onto his lectern. ‘And gone for one and a half million to the mystery bidder on line five.’
The crowd goes mad. There’s whistling and stamping and clapping. It goes on and on. And all the while Birdie’s still got her face covered. I put my arm round her. Her warmth seeps into me. I don’t move until she does. Her eyes are red, but she’s smiling.
‘Job done,’ she says. ‘Time to go.’