When I returned from signing for the inheritance and transferring ownership of the Mercedes, Jon was out the front watering the lawn and shrubs. I’d scarcely taken off my jacket when the main gallery door slammed open to admit a short, deeply tanned, thickset, shaven headed, broad shouldered pugilist of about forty, in a silver-grey suit stretched so tightly over the muscle-stacked body I feared for the seams. Orange and purple trainers on small feet forced apart by massive thighs didn’t match the suit, but were probably comfortable. I felt slim and lithe and let him look around for a bit before offering my expertise.

‘Excellent drawings, don’t you think?’

‘Crap!’ was his terse assessment. ‘Where’s Mrs Fierney?’

‘She’s unavailable at present.’

‘She should be here! We sent a fax. Who the hell are you?’

My face flushed - with embarrassment. I’d meant to tell Frances about that fax but it had dropped out of my mind. What the hell was the name? Some bullshit. Impasto? Wash? Scumble. Yes, that was it, Scumble. Bloody silly name. From… ArtWorks. How so many thoughts could whip through my head in less time than it took to clear my throat I can’t imagine, but they did. I held out a hand, which he ignored.

‘Peter Corringe. I’m managing the gallery for Frances. You must be Mr Scumble from ArtWorks. We’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to inform Frances of your visit. I hadn’t realised…’

‘Shut the fuck up, I’m running late. Where do I dump the display?’

‘We obviously have our wires crossed. Maximillian’s has a full stable of artists and... ’

With unexpected speed and deftness Mr Scumble cupped a calloused hand round my neck and dragged my eyes down to his level. ‘I’ll cross more than your fucking wires’ He hissed into my nose. ‘You’ve got two minutes!’

I scurried into the office, found the fax and was docilely waiting when he re-entered wheeling a ‘V’ unit, the sort of thing found in discount stores for displaying posters of hot-rods, air-brush-enhanced scantily clad women holding kittens, and reproductions of popular Impressionists. He tapped tiny feet impatiently while I flicked through the contents. Snow-clad mountains with ten-point stags strutting disdainfully behind fir trees; weeping-willow-encircled lakes on which floated coy coveys of swans; herds of cattle wandering along dusty tracks past log cabins nestling among the gum-trees. He even had my all time favourite, two androgynous kids dressed in patches and rags, eyes the size of saucers in unblemished faces, sitting beside a dew-spangled flower on recently swept steps, gazing up with the spurious innocence of youth.

They had been hand-painted to the same extent that modern electrical appliances are hand made. Hundreds of prepared boards bearing outlines of a scene, move past on an assembly line. One person does all the green, the next the yellows, the next reds, blues and so on till complete and as near identical as possible. Similar kitsch crap used to be touted up and down the coast by impecunious students. They belonged in Conias Jackson’s Arte Bizarre - not in my gallery!

Scumble was twitching. I let him twitch for a bit before shaking my head and telling him it wasn’t our sort of product. He moved as if to thump me but I didn’t flinch. After ten long seconds he wordlessly wheeled out his display, leaving me with a recklessly beating heart and shaky knees. It was very disquieting, so I went out to pick Jon’s brains.

‘Probably a scam they try on new outlets. Scare insecure businessmen into displaying their junk. Could be a protection racket. You’ll get a really tough nut next who, for a substantial fee, will provide protection from the bastards who will bash you up unless you stock their paintings.’

I pushed the unpleasant incident to the back of my head until I could talk with Frances, went back inside and assisted two customers to select drawings. They were curious about Mad, but I feigned ignorance while applauding their taste. Previously unaware of the gallery’s existence, they’d driven past because of the detour and popped in on impulse, buying two drawings – just like that.

I’d barely had time to record the sale when a battered white van pulled up bearing a defeated looking woman of about fifty, who emerged to gaze helplessly at the front windows. I went out. She smiled her gratitude at not having to decide which glass panel was the door, and invited me to her studio to view her works, with a view to including them in our permanent collection. Maybe even having a solo exhibition later in the year. I made an appointment for later that evening and she rattled away, leaving a patch of rust on the new pavers.

We were debating whether to be extravagant and buy a takeaway for lunch, when a car skidded to a halt and ejected Frances, who dashed upstairs. A couple of minutes later she burst into the gallery. ‘Guess what!’ she sparkled. ‘Gregor wants to marry me!’

‘Is he the one who entertained you royally in plastic-and-canvas-covered magnificence in the hills?’

‘The same.’

‘Who wears reefer jackets with silver buttons and designer boat shoes?’

‘You’ve got your eye on him?’

‘Not unless he’s filthy rich.’

‘He is!’ she shrieked ecstatically.

‘Well done. We sold two drawings today, and a chap from…’

‘Not now, Peter! Gregor’s waiting.’

‘But…’

‘No. No. No.’ She giggled, almost hysterical at her good fortune. ‘Such mundane matters will have to wait until I’ve returned to earth!’ She looked at Jon, ran a finger from black eye to bruised chin, turned back to me and, obviously aroused at the idea, drooled, ‘Mmm! You two do have fun in bed. Let’s make it a foursome one night.’ She skipped through the doorway, stopped, poked her head back in and whispered theatrically, ‘Gregor’s huge!’

The sporty little car revved expensively and whisked her away.

Jon released a shudder of loathing. ‘Does she think we’re on together?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Stupid bitch. I remember that lecherous leer from when she raped me. Christ, I despise her.’

‘She gets the rich ones with expensive cars.’

‘A Porsche,’ he sighed from the door. ‘He’s old, though. She’s only excited because he’s rich. Hasn’t she enough money already?’

‘Apparently one can never have enough. It’s an unwritten law.’

‘Guess I’ll never know.’

‘Then you have a chance of happiness.’

‘I want to be independent though.’

‘Me too. Free from bureaucracy’s tentacles.’

‘A hermit.’

‘A guru on a mountain-top.’

‘But,’ Jon’s eyes lost their laughter, ‘you have to have money to live.’

‘Less than you think, if you eliminate false desires.’

‘Yeah, well we’d better stop there. I know yours, but mine are still a mystery to me.’

‘OK, what’s it to be? A takeaway, or some of Pete’s pottage?’

‘Pottage, seeing I’m impecunious. Bye the way, who owns the old Holden out the back? I want to dig that spot over and plant some banksias.’

‘It’s yours - if you want it?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No. Max left me his Mercedes, so I don’t need it.’

‘And you’re giving it away?’

‘Yep.’

‘Must be totally clapped out.’

‘It goes.’

He trailed me outside, inspected the exterior, then sat behind the wheel. After a cursory check of the interior he wound down the window and said gruffly, ‘Either I pay you for it, or I don’t want it.’

I started to speak but he interrupted.

‘No! I already owe you enough.’

‘Fair enough, fifty bucks?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘That’s all the dealer offered.’ I'm an excellent liar.

With a sudden grin, he shot out his hand. ‘A deal! I’ll go for a burn round the block.’

Of course it wouldn’t start.

‘How’d you get this to a dealer?’

‘It’s just a flat battery, I’ll give you a shove.’

He returned, ecstatic. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this thing that a bit of TLC from an expert won’t cure. That dealer was ripping you off.’

‘And you’re the expert?’

‘The machinery on the farm depended on me.’

‘Then how are they getting on without you?’

‘My youngest brother’s a dab hand – I taught him.’

‘Do you miss them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Want to go back?’

‘You’re joking!’

‘How long since you wrote?’

‘More than a year.’

‘Have they written to you?’

‘I’ve never been game to give them an address. Dad’s a vindictive old bastard. He’d probably find me and do an Abraham. Sacrifice me to his god for disobeying my parents.’

‘Give them a ring.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But….’

‘Frances left her mobile on the desk. She’s got all sorts of security stuff installed so the call can’t be traced.’

‘You’re on! It’s lunchtime, they’ll be eating.’

The call didn’t last long. Within two minutes he was standing thoughtfully in the office doorway. ‘Mum answered. She said, “Jon! Darling, how wonderful! Father! It’s Jon…” She sounded really pleased. You know? All excited and dithery? Then Dad took the receiver and said, “This is no longer your home,” and hung up on me.’ Jon looked more puzzled than sad as he stared at his reflection in the office window. ‘Peter, was what I did that bad?’

‘For him, probably. By rejecting his wishes, you were rejecting him. Thus, he rejected you. It’s simple and biblical.’

‘But why didn’t Mum?’ Tears were closing in and I wasn’t going to stop them. I’m in favour of a good cry now and again. Clears the emotional ducts.

‘Your mother probably understands some of the feeling of entrapment that forced you to leave. I imagine she sympathises with you and, not being the boss, hasn’t the same feeling of rejection. Also, she loves you.’

‘A father should love his son.’

‘He has to love all his family and protect them. In his heart he may have doubts, but in front of your brothers and mother he has to be strong and unwavering in his beliefs. He imagines the family would fall apart otherwise. He’s in a bind. If he relaxes the dogma that made your life intolerable, he risks the defection of your brothers too. It’s like the Army; shoot deserters.’

‘But, it’s not a war!’

‘Don’t you believe it! Onward Christian soldiers? Fight the good fight? For most Christians it’s a war all right, against the devil and all who question their doctrine. A medieval view producing stability at the cost of happiness. Christians have spent two thousand years denouncing happiness.’

‘But have I been bad?’

Tears were streaming and I wanted to clasp him in my arms, stroke the bruises on his manly cheeks and press his head against my chest and absorb - absolve - the cancer of four years of loneliness, misery and doubt. I wanted to lift his burden of guilt so he could be whatever he should be – but I didn’t dare. What a cunning religion is Organised Christianity. Not only is everyone born sinful, but followers can never liberate themselves from that dreadful state. Even death doesn’t secure release. Unless one has abided by the church’s rules, after death there will be torture, pain, and misery for eternity. Truly, it is one of the most sadistic creeds ever invented for the psychological enslavement of mankind.

‘No! You have not been bad!’ I said, surprising us both by shouting. ‘Human sacrifice is bad. Slavery is bad. We can’t expect to live without responsibilities, but we must take on duties because we want to. Parents have the right to make young children do chores they dislike - that’s part of the learning process. But you’re an adult. Your father hasn’t the right to force you to live a life in which you’ll be miserable. That’s evil. You’re intelligent and did the brave thing by accepting responsibility for yourself.

Jon sagged to the floor. ‘I hope so. I hope so.’

The buzzer announced a customer. Closing the door on the snuffling heap of manhood, I pretended to adjust pictures, re-arrange catalogues and do all the things one does while keeping an eye open for thieves, vandals and a sale.

‘I’ll have that one,’ the elderly man announced firmly, pointing to one of Bill Smith’s more colourful works - Crotch Itch. ‘Discount for cash?’ he proffered a fist-full of notes.

We agreed on ten percent. In return, he would leave the painting hanging until the end of the following week. I was becoming anxious about the rapidly emptying walls. Fortunately, during the afternoon four more painters from Max’s list brought in samples of their works. All were acceptable, although none were a patch on Mad and Bill. We re-arranged the exhibition so the advertised show occupied the most prestigious areas, and an elegantly labelled Permanent Collection was scattered over the remaining walls. Things were looking up.

‘When’s pay-day?’

‘Good question. I’ve been here two weeks and haven’t received a bean. Mind you, our glorious leader’s been conspicuous by her absence. The lazy cow should’ve arranged things by now. Tell you what, the gallery’s share of the painting I just sold is three hundred dollars. That’s one-fifty each. Frances can’t expect us to live on love alone,’ I joked thoughtlessly, removing six fifty-dollar notes from the safe. I flicked a glance at Jon’s face, but there was no reaction. He immediately returned one fifty-dollar bill, a disbelieving smile on his face. ‘This is for the Holden. Now we’re quits. I’ll change the ownership papers as soon as I get the money.’

‘No worries. The Registration’s not due for about eight months. Wait till it runs out.’

‘You trust me that much?’

I smiled guilelessly.

We were busy for the rest of the day with disaster-freaks wanting to talk about erosion, future devastation and how the gallery would soon be dumped in the sea along with the rest of the seaboard. I agreed enthusiastically, suggesting they buy something of lasting value as a souvenir before it was lost to posterity. At closing time I rang Mad to tell her about the sales and the excellent newspaper review. She was pleased and hoped I would visit them soon. After locking up, we took the Holden’s battery to be charged at a nearby garage on our way to view the paintings of defeated-looking woman in the clapped out white van.

Her studio, a disused warehouse beside the motorway, was unlined, draughty, noisy and cold. Lank hair dragged back with a rubber band, accentuated somewhat protuberant eyes and narrow face. A long, mustard coloured, hand-knitted cardigan and scarf swathed her emaciated body. Communication was tricky, despite her use of fingers, hands, arms and head in what she apparently assumed were expressive gestures of clarification. Like most contemporary art practitioners who have spent too long in tertiary art institutions, her head was full of mesmerising psychobabble substitutes for rational thought.

We gazed around in horror. ‘She’s using art as an enema,’ whispered Jon, heading for the door. It was nauseatingly true. In what appeared to be a determined effort to purge herself of troublesome thoughts, she had daubed dozens of enormous canvases with angst-ridden outpourings of gloom. Technique, design, and content had all been sacrificed on the holy altar of self-expression, resulting in murky puddles of egocentric vomit.

I admired Jon’s discernment, but pity made me listen to the sad little details of an unfulfilled life. Compassion forced appreciative noises about scribbled lines, splashed paint and inexpertly cobbled together assemblages of household junk symbolising the predicament of women.

Jon was annoyed I’d wasted so much time, dismissing my pity as the product of clever manipulation. He was probably right. To cleanse our minds we went for a long, hard jog as soon as we got home, ending up at the sea. The river continued to run parallel to the shore and, helped by another very high tide, was busily washing away chunks of roadway. In the previous twenty-four hours another five metres had gone. All the buildings along nine kilometres of sea front south of the old river mouth had been evacuated because the way things were going they’d soon be joining the rubble on the ever-enlarging island.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ A spry, grey haired woman remarked with obvious pleasure. ‘That’ll teach them to dig those abominable canals and destroy some of the most beautiful wetlands this country has known.’

‘Was that the cause?’ Jon asked.

‘There is never jus one cause, young man, but always a last straw. Draining the swamps made the soils acid, deep-rooted trees died, canal banks collapsed with the unusually large volumes of water draining from the hinterland because of deforestation. Everything’s come apart at the seams.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘The new island will probably be very fertile and beautiful in a hundred years or so.’ She gazed at it with approval and I didn’t consider doubting her word. If you can’t believe the only elderly woman on the coast who doesn't dye her hair, then who on earth can you believe?

She drifted away and we stationed ourselves above Jon’s drain. More of it had been exposed and shifting sands were causing the segments to separate. Gaps several centimetres wide had appeared between the sections nearest the new shoreline. Water now ran out of these gaps, further eroding the drain’s foundations. Jon turned to me, a strained grin playing at his mouth.

‘I’m glad now… that… that I didn’t die.’

What could I say? Me too sounded a bit lightweight, and I didn’t want to spoil the mood with deep, meaningful phrases, so let loose with an unsentimental, masculine Aussie grunt.

We jogged home the long way, passing several ex-canals on the way. Most had sprung leaks as the edges disintegrated. Sterile little waterways were reverting to the swamps from which they came. Hundreds of families were homeless. I tried to feel sorry for them, but no convincing emotion arrived.

After a meal and TV News, in which councillors and experts tried to pretend it wasn’t like Humpty Dumpty, it was put-back-togetherable, we spent the evening listening to music and chatting.