Lazy Sunday In Wentworth Falls

James Craib

Wenworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

 

It’s dangerous to eat at the Blue Mist Café! Time slips away unperceptively. The food‘s always good and the ambiance is delightful. And in between each tasty bite full, there’s books to peruse, even though they’re used; some a little battered, others merely bruised – though it’s hard to choose what to take to read.

There’s always a title, often intriguing, humorous, gross or insightful. But who is the rightful keeper of the ideas therein? Not Allan the proprietor – he is a violator of the peace. Later, we must grease his palm at the till; against my will. Enduring his brash charm; alarmed at the hubbub we must escape!

But wait … willingly, we leave a tip for Bonnie who is sweet; has strange eyes, always finds us a seat – booking or not. Back on the street bellies full, back in the flow with no particular place to go. The passers-by daunt me; they saunter pass me, eyes opaque – have they come hungry from the lake?

They look at me with mild disdain; condescending smiles, life is a trial for the idle rich! Browsing in the antique bazaar, admiring objects bizarre including the owner! My will is weak; a sleek woman gazes at me from a Norman Lindsay painting – a numbered print to be exact. Now, she had evil eyes.

Lindsay’s favourite model – Rose, often painted without clothes, who became his wife and lord knows what else. Deep-set almond eyes in actual fact – not evil but her gaze was lethal. Often portrayed as nymph though her body muscular, temptress, undressed in lascivious splendour.

She was the ‘Crucified Venus’ that Lindsay’s genius had displayed in Melbourne in 1913. A nubile queen with a look of rapture on her face displaying a pained expression or perhaps … a trace of ecstasy. Lindsay’s erstwhile concubine, who in time, managed his affairs, sold his wares and became a printmaker. Perhaps she produced the very print that confronts me now – not in mint condition.

There’s a glint of humour there, bare arms, arched spine and arrogant breasts. A demonic twist in the lips and a hint of madness in those eyes. With her rosebud lips and luscious dark hair, it’s clear she was the model par excellence. Scandalised the wowsers in the twenties, and now delights the browsers on the net and the crowds who flock to the gallery in their plenty.

We wander back to the car … or rather these days, I waddle. My head full of useless twaddle concerning the comings and goings of long departed artists and models. Back past the Blue Mist Café where laughter and latté spills out onto the street. Sweet Bonnie hurries away from an outside table, al fresco. Gives me an enigmatic smile, while, on her way to fetch a customer another cappuccino.

I gaze into the eyes of the Madonna of the Blue Mist, but they are unfathomable. Wistfully, we find the car; we are laden down with more books and other bric-a-brac. We give each other the evil eye. But we’ll be back, by and by, at another time for leisurely lunch and glasses of wine. When we’ll sally forth down to the village at Wentworth … meanwhile excuse me while I falls over … ZZZ

Bio: James believes the eyes are the windows to the soul – or at least that’s what someone once said. Keeping this in mind, this is a frothy piece about how some people stare on a lazy afternoon.