There was ice on the footpath where I waited for my bus this morning. A good hard late September frost. At work the air conditioning was set for summer so we sat huddled in our jerseys, tying to thaw out from our cross town commutes. Yet the view across the city was razor edged blue. It was worth it.

Sometimes we need a blast to bring our vision into focus.

When I got home I noticed these brave little dendrobium orchids in flower. They reminded me Ostara - the spring equinox- is just a week or so away.

I thought you might like to see them.

How are you finding the story so far?

Chapter 4 begins:

The Gallery opening was packed. By the time Bill Egan arrived at 7.30 there was a crowd in the courtyard as well as inside the gallery. Philip Kerby was a generous and a reliable agent. His openings were always well supported. Bill was about to turn back from the crush when he saw his host wave from the floor with two beers in his hand, gesturing that he was coming out to him.

While Philip made his way through the crowd, Bill pulled up one of the wooden benches belonging to the café next door. They perched on it and Philip said “Hey. Here’s a story for you.” Bill sat sipping his drink while Philip talked, discreetly keeping his voice down. “The new artist, Paul Witherspoon, brought in a contact of his to do the set up for this one. I found the woman he hired this morning, on her hands and knees, covered in what looked like grass clippings. She was going through my stock!”

 Bill was grinning at the idea of suave Mr Kerby being presented with such a homely scene. He gestured with his drink for Philip to continue his tale.

 “She had this awful jacket on Bill…. Anyway we got over that and she showed me later what she’d done. They’re all raving over it in there. Suffice to say she’d over-ridden all my suggestions.”

Bill was starting to lose interest. Philip was a consummate professional who dealt with this sort of thing all the time, but now he was saying

“Roger came in before- from Anderson’s Gallery over the Shore. You know Roger.”

“Mmm.” Roger was a weasel Bill was thinking.

“He recognised this art director woman”.

Bill shifted uncomfortably on the bench. It was unlike Phil to pass on gossip. Philip dropped his voice even more. “Roger tells he hadn’t seen her in years- since some senior staff at Elam lost their jobs because of her and…”

Bill had jerked himself upright barely hearing the words “Pity, because she might have come by a few commissions tonight if it wasn’t for the background.” Philip paused, studying his friend. “Are you OK? You look a bit peaky. You museum people have the hatchet team on the job up there, though. Must be awful. Tell you what”, he stood and pushed the bench back where it belonged. “Come on down and give me your opinion on the show.” Philip pressed his way back into the gallery, exchanging light banter with the guests around him as he went.

Bill was struck by the transformation in the main display space. The light was eerie, like a garden in moonlight, but it was a bush scene. In the palms fronds and ti-tree branches in front of him he spied a skewed urn shape in turquoise glass. It was lit up from underneath-an ethereal iridescence  in the undergrowth.

There was something surreal about the crowded room and the staged effects. Together they produced an atmosphere more like a themed party than a gallery opening.  There was a huge mural photograph on one wall. It completely blocked the window that was usually an asset to the gallery in the day time.

 Once his eyes adjusted Bill saw that the smaller spaces leading off this main room were staged in increasingly brighter variations on the same theme. Even after years in the business he still enjoyed seeing creative work like this- simple but clever. Odd that Rhona had made no mention of work when he talked to her.

They were virtually beside her before Bill turned his attention back to his host. Rhona had her back to them but she turned to respond to Philip, excusing herself from the lady she had been talking to. Bill watched her holding a platter of savouries in one hand and looking up at Phil with an amused, patient expression.

She was wearing a simple black jersey dress and silver ballet shoes.  Bill knew any other woman would have pulled out killer heels for this event. Her only jewellery was a necklace of graded millefiore glass beads. Those vibrant colours echoed the art glass on display.

Bill started to step back but Philip was turning to him, gesturing.  Unaware of his companion until then, Rhona turned right around. Her eyes and mouth made full rounds. Philip caught the tray before it fell on the floor. She apologised profusely and took it back holding it in two hands in front of her. Philip was introducing them but neither noticed.

Rhona looked magnificent. The dress had long sleeves and a modest scalloped neckline but the bias cut of the skirt fell in a way that emphasised her tiny waist and trim hips. She had done something different with make-up. One side of her hair was swept up and held in a small pewter comb. In the dark light her skin was pale, reminding Bill of a mime actress. Philip was looking at him oddly and covering the silence with a bit of harmless patter.

 A well dressed man of about sixty materialised at Rhona’s side and relieved her of the tray by unpeeling her fingers from the edge. “Everything all right sweetheart?”

"Oh Charlie - thank you"

That was it, Bill could free himself.

Rhona slipped through and away to one of the other rooms. Philip looked a question at this Charlie person with the tray and followed her, which left Bill with the dapper chap. The guy just stood there, inspecting one manicured hand while he held the tray in the other. He was making no effort to move away so that Bill could get out.

“So”, Bill said, affecting supreme patience, “you seem well acquainted…”. He was gesturing in the direction Rhona had gone.

“Yes. We’ve been friends many years.” There was a pause in which the man transferred the tray to his left hand and held out his right.

“Charlie Rivers”

Bill took it in the spirit offered but found his hand held just that second too long.

“Are you a card player Mr Egan?”

“Cards?” Bill realised his tone was brittle. “Well socially.”

Bill watched him pause to remove imaginary lint from his immaculate cuff before continuing. “Sometimes it’s best to sit on a hand Mr Egan. Wait and watch, rather than discard too soon.”

“Really.” Bill had done his best, but now he had to get out. “Please excuse me.” He made to move past. Rivers failed to get out of his way. When they were nose to nose the old man said “Mr Egan?” quietly.

 Bill made no attempt to hide his animosity this time. “Mister Rivers” he replied deliberately, drawing himself to full height. Charlie looked faintly amused, bored even. He said “They will be here until eleven tomorrow, setting the gallery to rights. Just Rhona and Paul” and he stared at Bill with that steady, amused gaze. Bill realised he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly.