Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 by Josephine Pennicott Page B
Authors: Josephine Pennicott
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all out. Anyway, what if the occult group fasten themselves onto you?’
I grimaced, hating her bringing up Ben. ‘Don’t tell me you really believe that devil worship stuff, Effie!’
Effie had stared into the mirror, and although she continued doing her make-up I could tell she was stealing glances at my reflection, thinking about me. Her feelings flooded my mind: that I looked like a wisp of smoke, pale and wan, almost a ghost! There was also a wriggling unease beneath her calm. Johanna’s death, whether she let on or not, had spooked her, too.
‘Well, something sucked all her blood out, didn’t it?’ Effie said quietly.
We were total opposites, Effie and I. Her idea of a good night was to hit the nightclubs; mine was staying at home with a good thriller. She needed people, loved to be the centre of attention, while I was perfectly happy in my own company. There were times when it made me uneasy how much she resembled Jade, especially when she would deliver one of her lectures about looking after myself, that I would never catch a man if I didn’t dress the part, etc. But she had a kind heart, and was very loyal to the people that she cared about. I remembered one of the last times that I had experienced the generosity that she normally hid beneath her brittle sex kitten act.
It was meant to be the greatest night of my year. But the moon must have been in the wrong position, when I had experienced that disastrous exhibition in an obscure co-op art gallery. I was mortified to see my precious paintings placed right at the back of the gallery near the toilets. It gave me a strange sense of shame, as if an unseen power had judged my work and found it wanting.
When the pretentious inner-city art crowd eventually noticed my paintings — about the same time as the cheap chardonnay hit their bladders — my three small oils which I had slaved over for the past year were received with utter derision.
‘A poor man’s Chagall!’
‘My kid of five could do better than that!’
Finally, of course, came the inevitable comment I hated above all others.
‘She’s not a patch on her aunt, is she? Now there’s talent!’
Effie had hissed when I described the debacle to her later that evening. ‘Bloody stuck-up plebeians! Don’t you let them worry you, Emma, they’re the same kind of soulless morons that wanted Van Gogh run out of Arles!’
My flatmate was right, of course, but their remarks had already seeded in my mind and were hard at work producing an abundant crop of self-doubt and pity. Then, just as my feelings of inadequacy in the face of my aunt’s reputation as an artist were peaking, the self-same paragon, Aunt Johanna, died. Going out in the most melodramatic way possible — murder. It wasn’t even a regular slaying. The tabloids had a field day. They revelled in the extraordinary and gruesome details. Occult murder of famous Sydney artist! the headlines had screamed. Satanism in the Blue Mountains!
Johanna would have loved the notoriety. Well, perhaps only the Johanna of my imagination. I wish I had known my flamboyant aunt well, but over the years she had, just like her sister, my mother, become a stranger to me. I did grieve when I first received the news of her horrible death, but I realise now I was really grieving for my childhood and those precious early memories that were suddenly mere faint wisps, like the fading detail of an old and damaged photograph.
Effie, however, had been a real support to me. Initially, anyway. She even postponed a screen test that she was offered for a deodorant commercial. As a struggling actress/model, that was a very big deal to her.
I had needed all the support I could get, for although the details of Johanna’s murder had shocked me, it was more the shock of a death of a familar stranger. In a way, a bigger shock was the subsequent news that I was the sole benefactor of Johanna’s effects, which included her artwork and her Blue Mountains cottage.
My
I grimaced, hating her bringing up Ben. ‘Don’t tell me you really believe that devil worship stuff, Effie!’
Effie had stared into the mirror, and although she continued doing her make-up I could tell she was stealing glances at my reflection, thinking about me. Her feelings flooded my mind: that I looked like a wisp of smoke, pale and wan, almost a ghost! There was also a wriggling unease beneath her calm. Johanna’s death, whether she let on or not, had spooked her, too.
‘Well, something sucked all her blood out, didn’t it?’ Effie said quietly.
We were total opposites, Effie and I. Her idea of a good night was to hit the nightclubs; mine was staying at home with a good thriller. She needed people, loved to be the centre of attention, while I was perfectly happy in my own company. There were times when it made me uneasy how much she resembled Jade, especially when she would deliver one of her lectures about looking after myself, that I would never catch a man if I didn’t dress the part, etc. But she had a kind heart, and was very loyal to the people that she cared about. I remembered one of the last times that I had experienced the generosity that she normally hid beneath her brittle sex kitten act.
It was meant to be the greatest night of my year. But the moon must have been in the wrong position, when I had experienced that disastrous exhibition in an obscure co-op art gallery. I was mortified to see my precious paintings placed right at the back of the gallery near the toilets. It gave me a strange sense of shame, as if an unseen power had judged my work and found it wanting.
When the pretentious inner-city art crowd eventually noticed my paintings — about the same time as the cheap chardonnay hit their bladders — my three small oils which I had slaved over for the past year were received with utter derision.
‘A poor man’s Chagall!’
‘My kid of five could do better than that!’
Finally, of course, came the inevitable comment I hated above all others.
‘She’s not a patch on her aunt, is she? Now there’s talent!’
Effie had hissed when I described the debacle to her later that evening. ‘Bloody stuck-up plebeians! Don’t you let them worry you, Emma, they’re the same kind of soulless morons that wanted Van Gogh run out of Arles!’
My flatmate was right, of course, but their remarks had already seeded in my mind and were hard at work producing an abundant crop of self-doubt and pity. Then, just as my feelings of inadequacy in the face of my aunt’s reputation as an artist were peaking, the self-same paragon, Aunt Johanna, died. Going out in the most melodramatic way possible — murder. It wasn’t even a regular slaying. The tabloids had a field day. They revelled in the extraordinary and gruesome details. Occult murder of famous Sydney artist! the headlines had screamed. Satanism in the Blue Mountains!
Johanna would have loved the notoriety. Well, perhaps only the Johanna of my imagination. I wish I had known my flamboyant aunt well, but over the years she had, just like her sister, my mother, become a stranger to me. I did grieve when I first received the news of her horrible death, but I realise now I was really grieving for my childhood and those precious early memories that were suddenly mere faint wisps, like the fading detail of an old and damaged photograph.
Effie, however, had been a real support to me. Initially, anyway. She even postponed a screen test that she was offered for a deodorant commercial. As a struggling actress/model, that was a very big deal to her.
I had needed all the support I could get, for although the details of Johanna’s murder had shocked me, it was more the shock of a death of a familar stranger. In a way, a bigger shock was the subsequent news that I was the sole benefactor of Johanna’s effects, which included her artwork and her Blue Mountains cottage.
My
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