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Sydney Morning Herald Arts Section, Saturday, October 21

  Larkin Rising

  By Wendy Bashir

  Nina Larkin seems surprisingly buoyant for a woman who was out until four this morning celebrating her surprise snatching of the coveted Flynn Prize for Landscape Painting.

  She unfolds her lanky frame from the sofa in the chic 29th floor café of Sydney’s International Hotel and pushes her dark curls away from sleepy green eyes. In person she is startlingly lovely, with her Cate Blanchett cheekbones and expressive mouth.

  ‘Sorry, I started without you,’ she smiles, indicating two drained espresso cups on the table. ‘Medicinal purposes.’

  So, how does it feel at just 27 to be the youngest recipient of the award? Nina shakes her head.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she says, bemused. One minute I’m cleaning out the chook run at The Springs and the next Heath comes screaming up in the ute to tell me I’ve been given this amazing honour.’

  She’s speaking of Heath Blackett, her partner of two years. His cattle run lies next to Larkin’s own property, The Springs, near Wandalla in the state’s far west. She explains that the young grazier had to leave Sydney at first light to oversee the calving on his property, Kurrabar.

  ‘We can’t ask for the cows to cross their legs and wait for us to finish celebrating,’ she laughs.

  The announcement that Nina Larkin had won the prize for her abstract ‘Mount Cubba 6am’ has been greeted with some controversy. There was plenty of buzz at last night’s reception. Martin Whit, a contemporary of Nina’s father, Jim Larkin, said: ‘I’m blown away. What skill! Such a unique focus on pattern and texture.’ Belinda Wong, curator of the NSW Modern Gallery, tweeted: ‘I applaud the judges’ decision. We could have another Larkin legend rising.’

  However, others have responded with scepticism. Nina hit the headlines last year with the tragic news that she had discovered the body of her father in a cave on The Springs. Until then her work had been virtually unknown. Pointed tweets from last night’s ceremony that the win was a ‘sympathy vote’ or ‘a de-facto award for Dad’ have heightened pressure on the young artist to produce a full show, and quickly.

  And what would celebrated ‘Sydney Stir’ artist, Jim Larkin, say if he was here to witness his daughter’s triumph? She wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. Larkin rarely talks about her father, who disappeared when she was nine after a brief but high-profile career. The discovery that he had died soon afterwards sparked a retrospective appreciation of the work of the volatile elder Larkin, whose paintings are now highly sought after.

  ‘I have to believe it all ties together in some way,’ she says at last, voice husky. ‘I’d pretty much given up on my painting before I inherited The Springs, but the whole experience, even the really awful parts, kind of showed me what was important – made me want to create again. I’d like to think Jim’s spirit might have been part of that – and Heath, of course.’

  Hearing she’s been busy converting her place into an artists’ retreat, I ask her how it’s going. She gives me a wry smile.

  ‘The prize money will really help me take the Painted Sky Retreat up a notch. I just want other people to experience the inspiration that the land out there gives me. Why don’t you come yourself?’

  And in that moment, under the influence of her considerable charm, I think I just might.

  Photo: From left, Surry Hills art identity Maggie Mainwaring, Heath Blackett, Nina Larkin, Wayne Mora and Jenny Chan at Larkin’s inaugural art retreat near Wandalla.

  See page 14: Jim Larkin: A reputation revived.

  ‘Everyone happy?’ Izzy called.

  A chorus of affirmatives followed.

  She sat down again next to Maggie, who let out a gentle, lowing fart and mumbled in her sleep. A whiskey bottle peeked from her handbag. She claimed it gave her inspiration. Izzy sighed. She pulled out the itinerary and went over it again. Keep busy, she told herself, running her pen down the spreadsheet of times and names and shaking away the last cobwebs of the unsettling dream.

  Closer to Wandalla, Rae called out: ‘It can’t be … snow out here!’

  ‘Cotton,’ laughed Izzy. ‘It falls off the trucks.’ Izzy took in the white clumps lining the highway.

  ‘Goodness, I thought I’d finally lost the plot.’

  In the distance, the skeleton of an old timber farmhouse seemed to be sinking into the grey earth around it – still beautiful, even in decay, thought Izzy.

  The rain had subsided to a sprinkle and the sun peeked pitifully from behind thinning clouds as Hamish swept the bus through Wandalla. Izzy liked to detour through the heart of the town so the visitors could get a good view of the place. She pointed out the usual highlights. ‘Last time I checked, Wandalla’s population stood at around three and a half thousand. I don’t think it changes much.’ The artists peered from the bus windows at the surprisingly grand main street, lined with two-storey Victorian terraces. ‘Built on the promise of greater times. Back at the height of the wool trade,’ she explained.

  ‘Lovely. I wasn’t expecting all this elegant ironwork,’ commented one of the artists. A couple of brown-skinned girls rocking prams chatted outside the Wandalla School of Arts as the bus slowly passed.

  At the end of Thomas Street, Hamish turned right to follow the once-mighty Darling River – past fibro houses of faded blue and pink on the opposite bank. Izzy pointed out the one remaining graceful paddle steamer that took tourists up and down a small section of the wide, murky waterway. Though magnificent gum trees lined the river, some clutched the banks desperately, their roots like claws in a battle against the erosion. Sadly, she explained, drought and human mistreatment meant the river system was now pretty fragile.

  By the time they got to North Road, the drizzle had stopped and the late-morning sun had broken through, washing the scene in colour. The browns, greys and greens that had blurred into one hue suddenly came to life and a kingfisher flashed turquoise past the windscreen.

  Hamish took a left turn, crossed the bridge and headed towards The Springs.

  ‘Only about an hour to go,’ called Izzy.

  ‘I do understand what we’re trying to do here, it’s just it’s taken a bit of money and so much time.’ Peg Myers was wavering, Heath could see that, even through the driving rain. The pair were hunched by the river bank on Peg’s property, Flodden Field.

  ‘I know but it’s early days, Peg. Look how these trees and grasses are just starting to take hold along the sides over there,’ said Heath, pointing at the newly-planted clumps of grass and seedlings. ‘They’ll help stabilise the banks so you won’t have good soil washing away. It’ll just need a bit more time and some patience.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ said Peg. ‘I hear what you’re saying. Let’s get out of this.’

  The pair hurried back to her four-wheel drive through the downpour. They scrambled out of their drenched Driza-Bones and hats before sliding into the front seats.

  ‘Peg, the signs are actually looking good. Really good,’ said Heath.

  ‘I know,’ she replied as she turned the vehicle back towards her house. ‘I just get nervous sometimes. Don’t worry, I’m not reconsidering. It’s just good to have you out here to reassure me things are going to plan, even in this weather. I’ve always trusted you, Heath. You might only be young, what, 30?’

  ‘Thirty-one.’

  ‘But you’ve shown real leadership over this,’ she continued.

  Heath patted Peg’s well-worn hand on the gearstick and smiled. She had been the first and so far the only ‘local’ to listen to his ideas on restoring degraded farming property through careful planting of native vegetation, and he was grateful – but not surprised.

  A widow in her late 60s, she was a smart woman who knew the writing was on the wall for farmers who did not take action to repair generations of misuse. She was well respected in the area, much like the Blacketts. They both needed this to work. And it would. Heath was certain. />
  ‘Cripes, we’ve got a visitor by the looks of things,’ said Peg as she nosed the car up her front drive.

  ‘Hilary Flint?’ said Heath as his eyes registered the cherry-red Range Rover splattered with mud. ‘Didn’t know she was a mate of yours, Peg.’ Then, under his breath: ‘Or anybody’s.’

  Peg chuckled as she pulled up. ‘All I can say is she must need something. Make amends after that nasty business at The Springs. This should be good.’

  It was just after he and Nina had got together that they discovered Hilary was Nina’s birth-mother. It was still taking some getting used to. Thank god Nina was nothing like her. Hilary was the opposite of everything he stood for. She owned Paramour, the water-churning monstrosity of a property on the other side of Kurrabar. Since the death last year of her husband, Phillip, she was like a one-eyed rogue cow; you never knew which way she would charge next.

  ‘Well, hello, Hilary,’ called Peg as she and Heath hurried onto the verandah where the visitor sat looking immaculate in expensive jeans and a white raincoat, a leather briefcase by her side. The only thing that didn’t look perfect were the mud-splattered boots that were sitting beside her.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied waving. ‘Heath! This is a surprise.’ She stood in her socks and pecked him lightly on the cheek. ‘So you haven’t managed to shut Paramour down yet?’ she said dryly.

  ‘Any day now,’ answered Heath, as he and Peg piled their wet gear in a corner of the verandah.

  ‘I’ve heard the Office of Water is sniffing around like the ferrets they are. Reviewing water extraction allocations,’ continued Hilary.

  ‘It’s hardly a secret. Look, it’s your business. But I told you over a year ago the water you’re taking from the river and the aquifer was going to come back to bite you on the bum. And that I’d be keeping a personal eye on your usage.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time you kept your eye on something around here. I notice you haven’t been invited to be a cattle judge at this year’s Show. That should tell you you’re alienating people who can make or break you. You’ve got to bring them with you, not shove it down their throats.’

  ‘Thanks for the life-coaching. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.’

  ‘So, what brings you out after all this time, Hilary?’ Peg asked diplomatically, as she opened the door and beckoned them in.

  ‘I have a favour to ask,’ said Hilary. ‘Actually, it’s more something you’ll be begging to do once you hear about it.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Peg quickly, causing Heath to chuckle. He tried to turn it into a cough as the three headed into Peg’s large, airy front room and took seats.

  ‘First, forgive me for appearing sans footwear,’ began Hilary. ‘But, Peg, you must do something about the front of your place. A teensy bit of water and it’s a mud bath. My boots are new too. Paramour has lawn right up to the verandah. No mud. It’s just the way I’ve learnt to do things, I suppose. Properly.’

  Heath took a deep breath. ‘Well, this is the first rain in a while,’ he said through closed teeth, as he caught Peg rolling her eyes.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hilary. ‘Anyway, Peg, I’m here to ask you to join our organising committee for the Settlers’ Ball I’m holding in Wandalla. It’ll involve lots of ticking off lists, helping with the ordering and working on the history display – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard about this,’ said Peg. ‘I guess I can spare some time. Keith loved researching the history from around here. He’s got all kinds of stuff squirrelled away. It’s something I’d like to do for him at least.’

  Heath smiled at her. Peg’s husband had died just six months ago.

  ‘So, I can count you in?’ said Hilary rummaging in her briefcase. ‘Here, take these. They’re the running sheets and the catering notes. I will, of course, deal with the press and the VIPs.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Peg, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Excellent. Another job done.’ Hilary stood. ‘I’m just all go, go, go at the moment. I’ll call tomorrow to fully organise you after you’ve had a look. But now I’d best be off. I’m sure I can count on you to help out too, Heath. Of course, your aunt and uncle will be guests of honour. I was going to get Kathryn to call you so it’s lucky we ran into each other. Why are you here exactly?’

  It was the question he had been dreading. ‘I was just helping Peg with a few plantings down by the river. Wanted to see how they were going.’

  Hilary snorted. ‘Honestly, Peg, haven’t you got better things to spend your money on? I thought you’d have more sense than to listen to that guff. We’ve been doing fine out here all these years.’

  ‘I think it makes perfect sense,’ said Peg walking to the door. ‘I’ll see you out, Hilary.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got to make tracks too,’ said Heath standing.

  A phone jangled from the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll need to get that,’ said Peg.

  ‘No worries,’ said Heath. ‘We’ll make our own way out.’

  ‘So how’s Nina?’ Hilary asked as the front door closed behind them.

  ‘She’s okay but why don’t you ask her yourself?’ said Heath. The pair had hardly spoken in weeks.

  ‘It takes two to build a relationship,’ said Hilary.

  ‘She’s called you, left messages.’

  Hilary sat on the bench again so she could pull on her boots. ‘In case you haven’t noticed I’m a busy woman. I know Nina thinks she’s bringing entrepreneurship to the far west with that pin-money venture of hers but as I just explained, I am in the middle of organising a massive project and I would appreciate some interest from my daughter.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got her number.’

  ‘I’ll call her. Don’t worry about that. I have just the right project in mind.’

  ‘Alright then, I’ll see you later,’ said Heath, not bothering to offer a farewell kiss.

  ‘Wait, before you go … that young Aboriginal boy, Moira’s nephew. The one that works on Kurrabar? The sullen one? What’s his name again?’

  Heath faced her blankly. He wasn’t going to credit that one with a reply.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Hilary annoyed. ‘You know, the sullen station hand you have to help Lobby. Can you tell him to call Peg about perhaps being involved in a little historical re-enactment I’m planning?’

  ‘If you’re talking about Alfie, he’s not sullen – well, at least not around me.’

  Hilary sighed. ‘Fine, stay in dream-world, Heath, but do me a favour: ask him for me ASAP. Some of us don’t have the time for romantic notions, whether they be about turning farming into some greenie crusade or protecting the sullen. If someone is sullen, it helps them to be told and to be encouraged to snap out of it.’

  A ball of anger burned in Heath’s gut. But he knew there was only one way to deal with Hilary. He smiled broadly then kissed her softly on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks. You crack me up and god knows I needed a laugh,’ he said as he grabbed his wet clothes and headed for the ute. He opened the door, turned back to her and called: ‘I won’t be telling Alfie anything, but I might ask him and see if he’s interested – or if he can spare the time.’

  In seconds he was hurtling down the drive, a vision of Hilary standing with one boot on – mouth agape, lingering.

  The hide of her. Dismissing his land management plans when she had practically killed the river with Paramour’s cotton crops and lawns. How was it that anyone in town was even talking to her after what had happened on The Springs two years ago?

  Nina had been so vulnerable then – funny and game but totally out of her depth on the property she had inherited. She’d had no idea how impossible it would be to run the place without bore water. In his heart, he had wanted her to give in to Hilary’s offers to buy the place before the hopeless situation crushed her spirit. But then came the revelation that Hilary had deliberately blocked the bore at The Springs to force Nina to sell. It was the lowest act he could imagine. Out here, water was everyth
ing.

  With a rush of tenderness, he remembered the moment when he, Nina and the others had finally broken through the choking concrete, setting the water free. The joy radiating from those warm green eyes set in her heart-shaped face; the way they’d danced like maniacs in the gushing stream – the feel of her slender, wet body beneath his hands.

  Many in Wandalla still believed Hilary should have been jailed. But then Nina had found out that the woman was her mother and she wouldn’t press charges.

  He couldn’t imagine trusting Hilary again. On the outside she may look like Lauren Bacall but on the inside she was all Joan Crawford. And out here, he thought, recalling Peg’s weathered face, trust was everything.

  He was halfway to Kurrabar before he remembered the small case he had thrown in the glove box last night.

  Nina’s locket. She had broken the clasp so many months ago he had lost count. It still pained him to recall the raw dismay on her face when it had clattered onto the floor. The locket, a family heirloom, had belonged to her father. It was not just the fact that he had owned it that made it special: odd engravings inside it, purported to be clues to buried gold, had helped lead them to Jim’s body almost two decades after he went missing.

  Nina had been meaning to get it repaired but things always got in the way. Heath had smuggled it into the car so he could take it to the jewellers on his next trip to Dubbo.

  He sighed. Things had been different at home lately. Both too busy. Too distant.

  He couldn’t wait to see those dimples appear and the love in her eyes when he presented her with the repaired locket. Nothing could be better than that. The newly-appeared sun dazzled through the droplets of water on his windscreen.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nina paced the kitchen. What was taking them so long? Her eyes had been glued to the clock since she’d arrived at The Springs. They should be here any time now.

  Syd wagged his tail and rolled on to his side.

  ‘Wish I could be as chilled as you.’