Page 11 of The Story of Us
* * *
Two days later,Eloise was at work doing what she loved most: using art to start conversations and forge connections with the community. So far, Eloise had ‘helped’ Soleil Andrews with some fingerpainting while she chatted with the toddler’s mother, Billie. Billie and her husband Wyatt owned the Wattle Junction Hotel so she always had plenty of interesting stories to share.
Then, while rolling playdough—a brilliant tool for all ages, not just children—into different-sized balls and other shapes, two of Eloise’s favourite regulars had asked about the plans for KPs annual fruit harvest, admitting all the community home’s activities were the highlight of their weeks. A pang of worry had flared in her chest. If Eloise got the AATI scholarship, she wouldn’t be here for the harvest. And if she didn’t organise it, who would? And what about the Christmas carols or the New Year’s fireworks?
Pushing aside the unpleasant feeling in her belly, Eloise swished her brush across a blank page and crimson streaks dripped from its bristles, staining the paper in a hue she normally avoided. She dipped it into the water and swirled it around while she let her gaze wander around the art room.
Cube bookshelves lined one side, filled with storage boxes in every colour of the rainbow. In the opposite corner, tall drying racks were positioned next to each other, masterpieces from the week lying across their arms waiting to be collected or recycled. Easels were scattered around the enormous pine table in the middle of the room with paint-splattered stools tucked underneath it. The table was covered with tubs of crayons and pencils and little pots of paint. Next to the double doors were two big reams of paper. One at waist height and the other at knee height to ensure even the smallest artists were catered for. A few errant pipe cleaners had fallen to the floor, little neon worms against the polished concrete.
Until Eloise had finished her master’s, she couldn’t technically offer art therapy, but these classes were already making a difference. Not just for the attendees either. They gave her a chance to engage with more people than she could during her counselling sessions and reset amidst the never-ending prep for Charlie’s wedding. After making a third of the bonbonnieres the other night with Mary, Eloise had woken to a text message from Sybella saying she’d changed her mind about them. Again.
“That’s a lot of red,” Callum, a fourteen-year-old with shaggy blond hair who’d started coming to her art classes, said.
“It sure is.” Eloise swirled her brush in the water again. “What have you been working on?”
She expected the typical teenage shrug, which she got, but Eloise held her breath. Patience was one of the skills she was most proud of possessing.
“I was just mucking around.”
Eloise rolled her lips together. “Can I see?”
Wordlessly, Callum handed over the sketchbook he’d been using, and she flipped it open, holding it up to see better under the fluorescent lights. They hadn’t been her first choice, but their functional, common-sense design had won over something funky and arty. A beautiful blue-winged kookaburra was sketched on the centre of the page, its feathers fully extended, beak open. The bird’s laughter filled her mind so quickly she’d swear it was in the room with them. “This is really good.”
Callum shrugged again, avoiding her eyes. “It’s just a drawing.”
“Well, if you want to do another one or keep working on this, you can take the sketchpad with you. You guys just moved here, right?”
Callum’s hair bounced as he nodded.
“I’m guessing you like footy?” she asked, taking the hint from the Brisbane Lions shirt he was wearing.
“My dad’s obsessed with football. He played professionally when I was a baby.”
She didn’t miss that Callum had answered with what his dad liked instead of what he liked. “That’s pretty cool, but I was asking if you liked it?”
Callum shrugged. “I’ve always played.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come to one of our training sessions, then? They run right after this class—over at the oval. You’re always welcome.”
A blush stained Callum’s cheeks. “That’s what Dad thinks I’m doing now. If he knew I was at an art class, he’d say it was a waste of time.”
How many times had Eloise heard creative endeavours being dismissed as something frivolous or lesser than? It’s why the art classes at KPs were so important to her. If she was to leave at short notice and they had to stop …
The alarm signalling the last ten minutes of the session buzzed. Eloise had learnt the hard way about not warning people they were almost out of time. She silenced her phone.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” A hint of panic wrapped around Callum’s words, and he clutched the sketchbook to his chest.
“I won’t tell him, but we do have to finish up now.”
As everyone tidied up and new projects were slid onto the drying racks, the pang of worry returned. What was she thinking? She couldn’t leave with such little notice. Her work here was too important. There was no way she’d be able to hire and train someone fast enough. And what if they didn’t care about KPs like she did? Besides, she couldn’t afford to go. The timing was all wrong. The AATI simply wasn’t meant to be.
Her big adventure would have to wait.
* * *
The football hitthe post with a thump.
Another miss.
