Read Online A Species of Revenge by Marjorie Eccles - Free Book Online
Authors: Marjorie Eccles
Tags: Suspense
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his eyes with the sight of the changing clouds, the pearlescent sky, willing himself into the right mood. Easel and paintbrushes stood ready. It was no use. He couldnât seem to get started.
Skyscapes were what he painted. Nothing but treetops and sky, the same trees, differently hued in their due seasons, and skies that changed with the dawn and the sunset, with storm and wind and rain, with moonlight and sun, through spring and summer, to autumn and into winter. The immensity of the sky, and the clouds with their infinite mutations, the possibilities were endless.
He was no expert, no Constable. Nor fooled into thinking himself any more than a talented amateur, but painting had always released something in him that might otherwise have soured and curdled irreparably. Until recently. It was doing nothing for him now.
Down below in the garden, on the bumpy, weed-infested patch of grass that was the back lawn, the children, Lucy and Allie, played mock tennis with a motheaten ball and a couple of old racquets theyâd discovered in the garden shed. They had, it seemed, cajoled the woman he now knew was their aunt, Sarah, to show them how to serve, which she was doing with more enthusiasm than skill, impatient with the bumps in the lawn that bounced the ball in the wrong direction, though she was evidently enjoying herself, from the way she laughed. Heâd seen them often since theyâd arrived here, spoken to them several times: the two small girls, Lucy and Allie, and this warm and vibrant woman, with her quick laugh and shining brown hair, like pulled toffee. Amends would have to be made for that first meeting, which had started them off wrong-footed. Heâd found himself thinking of her, a lot, in odd moments, since then. So far, sheâd treated him with polite reserve whenever they happened to meet, though she didnât, despite her coolness towards him, look the sort to hold on to a grudge. Sheâd caught him at a bad moment, the worst possible one, after a difficult out-of-hours meeting called for Saturday morning and an unexpected quarrel with his normally mild-tempered and long-suffering father. It had been his own fault, Fitzallan admitted it. His father didnât lose his temper without a great deal of provocation. It had ended with his own apologies, no bones broken, but not liking himself very much, realizing how damned difficult to live with heâd become over the last years.
He couldnât tear himself away from the window. He hadnât been able to bring himself so much as to look at a child since it had happened, but now he indulged himself, watching the three energetic bodies in the garden, the brown limbs flashing. From this distance Sarah could have been an older sister. She wasnât pretty until she smiled, then she was enchanting. Allie had the same quality.
Heâd never before painted a living figure, but the desire to do so was suddenly overwhelming â a kind of catharsis? He doubted whether heâd even ask for permission, heâd look such a bloody fool if it should turn out badly, as it might well do.
Sarah called a halt, declaring it was too hot for more, and all three of them flopped down in a laughing heap on to the grass. Fitzallan found the beginnings of a smile in himself, too. It felt to have been a very long time since heâd last smiled, and stranger still that he welcomed it. In the last few years heâd gone through his own private hell, but now he was suddenly sick of himself and what heâd become. He wanted to rejoin the human race.
Rodney Shepherd returned home with his wife from his holiday in the Canaries with a fine deep tan, several bottles of cheaply acquired wine in his baggage and a few extra pounds around his waistline which he could have done without. Despite this last, he was well pleased with life. He remarked to his wife, as they picked the Rover up from the long-stay car park at the airport in Birmingham and drove
Skyscapes were what he painted. Nothing but treetops and sky, the same trees, differently hued in their due seasons, and skies that changed with the dawn and the sunset, with storm and wind and rain, with moonlight and sun, through spring and summer, to autumn and into winter. The immensity of the sky, and the clouds with their infinite mutations, the possibilities were endless.
He was no expert, no Constable. Nor fooled into thinking himself any more than a talented amateur, but painting had always released something in him that might otherwise have soured and curdled irreparably. Until recently. It was doing nothing for him now.
Down below in the garden, on the bumpy, weed-infested patch of grass that was the back lawn, the children, Lucy and Allie, played mock tennis with a motheaten ball and a couple of old racquets theyâd discovered in the garden shed. They had, it seemed, cajoled the woman he now knew was their aunt, Sarah, to show them how to serve, which she was doing with more enthusiasm than skill, impatient with the bumps in the lawn that bounced the ball in the wrong direction, though she was evidently enjoying herself, from the way she laughed. Heâd seen them often since theyâd arrived here, spoken to them several times: the two small girls, Lucy and Allie, and this warm and vibrant woman, with her quick laugh and shining brown hair, like pulled toffee. Amends would have to be made for that first meeting, which had started them off wrong-footed. Heâd found himself thinking of her, a lot, in odd moments, since then. So far, sheâd treated him with polite reserve whenever they happened to meet, though she didnât, despite her coolness towards him, look the sort to hold on to a grudge. Sheâd caught him at a bad moment, the worst possible one, after a difficult out-of-hours meeting called for Saturday morning and an unexpected quarrel with his normally mild-tempered and long-suffering father. It had been his own fault, Fitzallan admitted it. His father didnât lose his temper without a great deal of provocation. It had ended with his own apologies, no bones broken, but not liking himself very much, realizing how damned difficult to live with heâd become over the last years.
He couldnât tear himself away from the window. He hadnât been able to bring himself so much as to look at a child since it had happened, but now he indulged himself, watching the three energetic bodies in the garden, the brown limbs flashing. From this distance Sarah could have been an older sister. She wasnât pretty until she smiled, then she was enchanting. Allie had the same quality.
Heâd never before painted a living figure, but the desire to do so was suddenly overwhelming â a kind of catharsis? He doubted whether heâd even ask for permission, heâd look such a bloody fool if it should turn out badly, as it might well do.
Sarah called a halt, declaring it was too hot for more, and all three of them flopped down in a laughing heap on to the grass. Fitzallan found the beginnings of a smile in himself, too. It felt to have been a very long time since heâd last smiled, and stranger still that he welcomed it. In the last few years heâd gone through his own private hell, but now he was suddenly sick of himself and what heâd become. He wanted to rejoin the human race.
Rodney Shepherd returned home with his wife from his holiday in the Canaries with a fine deep tan, several bottles of cheaply acquired wine in his baggage and a few extra pounds around his waistline which he could have done without. Despite this last, he was well pleased with life. He remarked to his wife, as they picked the Rover up from the long-stay car park at the airport in Birmingham and drove
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