‘Well, she was very energetically admiring of her, that’s for sure. But Oakey has a pedigree of a sort, a history …’

Edith leaned forward to Mother. ‘Rosa’s trying to get her friend an exhibit at Works on Paper.’

‘Oh!’ said Mother.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Knox. ‘It’s all somewhat political.’

‘A great big bust-up, I hope.’ Mr Knox rubbed his hands and then looked at Mother apologetically. ‘Not that I have any, you know, ill-will toward Jo.’

‘Interesting,’ said Mother, looking not in the slightest bit interested, which was her current fallback position. ‘What does my husband think about Rosa’s new friend?’

FLORENCE HOKEY

Papa was all for exhibiting the drawings of Florence Oakey in Works on Paper. Florence Oakey had great line, he said. Furthermore, she had exhibited in London: a painting of a girl playing a tambourine; another of a society matron with beaked nose and ostentatious rings. Her paintings had drawn attention. But her drawings, Papa thought, in his humble not-really-knowing way, were better than her paintings.

James Parish, however, saw no merit in the drawings of Florence Oakey. Her line was sloppy, curvaceous, too organic. ‘She’s decorative, ultimately. Everything has overtones of flora. Everything looks like it could be a bloody plant in human form.’

Rosa reiterated this, bashing down pepper-grinders, one by one, on table after table, as if hoping the tables would register, in the form of dents and knocks, her displeasure. It was the first time I’d seen her cross with Mr Parish.

It was Sunday. Papa was cooking for the Salvos. There was no need for pepper-grinders on tables. They could all stay packed away on the counter, with the napkin rings and skinny little vases with fake flowers. But Rosa seemed to need to smack them down on the tables anyway.

‘I understand,’ Rosa said, ‘that Parish needs to show work that sells. But every time he takes a chance on an artist, he takes a chance. Florence is proven talent. She shows overseas. But suddenly, poof! the chance is too big to take.’

Rosa crashed a clean ashtray onto the centre of a table. Her anger about her mural paled in comparison to her anger about Florence Oakey’s drawings.

By chance, I was at the restaurant maybe two weeks later when Florence Oakey visited to see Rosa. She was a small, sweet-faced woman in her mid-fifties. She wore a neat camel-coloured skirt and jacket and had pale ginger hair. Her nose was upturned like Kitten’s, but her skin was less fresh-looking. She kissed Rosa on the cheek, left her umbrella in the doorway (it was raining), and sat down at the table across from me.

‘Rosa,’ she called out, looking smilingly at me while she took off her gloves. ‘Rosa, sweet, can you make me a lovely cup of coffee?’ Her voice was crisp, but also melty like buttercups.

Rosa left to do her bidding and Florence watched me drawing a giraffe being gnawed to death by a dinosaur.