Read Online Cicada Summer by Kate Constable - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Constable
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turned her big hopeful eyes to Eloise.
‘Yes!’ breathed Eloise. ‘That’s it . . .’ She nudged Anna’s hand into the right position, and sketched a few surer strokes on the wall.
The girl wasn’t holding a mirror; it was a window. And through the window you could see – Eloise saw it clearly, all the edges sunlit and precise, not like the dreamy underwater shadows the girl swam through – you could see a garden. Eloise roughed in the outlines of the trees, the border of the flowerbeds, and the house behind, just enough to hint at the shapes, for later. Then she threw the pencil down and rushed for the paint tins.
Green and blue, a touch of red, to turn it murky purple. The colours swirled and blended. More green, dark green. Eloise dabbed it on the wall.
‘Let me, let me!’ Anna pleaded, jumping up and down behind her. ‘I can do that. You do the girl.’
It was hard to paint someone swimming, suspended in water. How to show that her dress floated around her? Her hair waved delicately, like weeds in water. She was swimming away from the viewer; you could see the soles of her bare feet but not her face. One hand pointed backward, pale fingers like – like little fish. Yes, she was too pink, too pink! Feverishly Eloise mixed colours. She should be silvery, like a fish. That grey was too dark. A splodge of white, mix it in. Yes, that was almost right. A touch of yellow. And white, tinged with blue, for her dress. And her hair greeny-dark, seaweed-dark.
‘You have to keep swimming through.’ Anna’s dark head was bent with concentration as her brush swished and dotted. ‘That’s what my mumma always says. Never give up.’
Swimming through. Swimming through life, toward the light and the garden. Eloise liked the sound of that.
Colour exploded from her brush; with every touch, the picture flowered and swarmed into being. From Eloise’s imagination, it zinged through her hand and her brush and onto the wall, becoming something real. This morning it had been just an idea trapped inside Eloise’s head; now it was free, something new and fresh, and anyone could see it. Making something : it was the best feeling in the world.
Steadily Anna filled in the background. A pale green shape. Dark lines, shadowy forms. It wasn’t until Eloise stood back that she realised what Anna had done. It was the house – inside the house. The lines were a little wobbly, the colours uncertain, but Eloise could see the staircase, the double doors, the glass panels. Anna had painted the inside of her own house, sunk to the bottom of the sea.
She and Eloise looked at each other and laughed, as if it were a joke they’d made together.
Now Eloise helped her: a school of tiny fish darted through the doorway to the living room; a drowned table floated; an upturned vase spilled flowers that drifted in the water. The stairs curved up and away, the thin line of the railing just visible in the shadows.
A shiver ran over Eloise’s scalp as she saw that the girl she’d painted was the same girl she’d seen on her very first day, the girl who’d run down the steps and turned to stare. It was Anna, of course, a stranger then, but so familiar now . . . and then she saw what was wrong with the girl’s other hand: it should be curled around the frame, pulling her through.
Eloise sprang to fix it, and at once she was lost again inside the picture. It filled her whole mind; it was her whole mind. Nothing else existed but the paints and brushes, the shapes and colours, the balance of light and dark, her hand and her eyes. She dodged and danced, crouched and stretched, not even aware of her own movements until she paused to gulp from her water bottle and realised that her muscles ached and her eyes were sore. But there was still the garden to finish yet.
Eloise stood close to the wall and squinted, the finest brush in her hand as she worked on the bright square inside the frame. Yellow and white, the palest green; the whole house just
‘Yes!’ breathed Eloise. ‘That’s it . . .’ She nudged Anna’s hand into the right position, and sketched a few surer strokes on the wall.
The girl wasn’t holding a mirror; it was a window. And through the window you could see – Eloise saw it clearly, all the edges sunlit and precise, not like the dreamy underwater shadows the girl swam through – you could see a garden. Eloise roughed in the outlines of the trees, the border of the flowerbeds, and the house behind, just enough to hint at the shapes, for later. Then she threw the pencil down and rushed for the paint tins.
Green and blue, a touch of red, to turn it murky purple. The colours swirled and blended. More green, dark green. Eloise dabbed it on the wall.
‘Let me, let me!’ Anna pleaded, jumping up and down behind her. ‘I can do that. You do the girl.’
It was hard to paint someone swimming, suspended in water. How to show that her dress floated around her? Her hair waved delicately, like weeds in water. She was swimming away from the viewer; you could see the soles of her bare feet but not her face. One hand pointed backward, pale fingers like – like little fish. Yes, she was too pink, too pink! Feverishly Eloise mixed colours. She should be silvery, like a fish. That grey was too dark. A splodge of white, mix it in. Yes, that was almost right. A touch of yellow. And white, tinged with blue, for her dress. And her hair greeny-dark, seaweed-dark.
‘You have to keep swimming through.’ Anna’s dark head was bent with concentration as her brush swished and dotted. ‘That’s what my mumma always says. Never give up.’
Swimming through. Swimming through life, toward the light and the garden. Eloise liked the sound of that.
Colour exploded from her brush; with every touch, the picture flowered and swarmed into being. From Eloise’s imagination, it zinged through her hand and her brush and onto the wall, becoming something real. This morning it had been just an idea trapped inside Eloise’s head; now it was free, something new and fresh, and anyone could see it. Making something : it was the best feeling in the world.
Steadily Anna filled in the background. A pale green shape. Dark lines, shadowy forms. It wasn’t until Eloise stood back that she realised what Anna had done. It was the house – inside the house. The lines were a little wobbly, the colours uncertain, but Eloise could see the staircase, the double doors, the glass panels. Anna had painted the inside of her own house, sunk to the bottom of the sea.
She and Eloise looked at each other and laughed, as if it were a joke they’d made together.
Now Eloise helped her: a school of tiny fish darted through the doorway to the living room; a drowned table floated; an upturned vase spilled flowers that drifted in the water. The stairs curved up and away, the thin line of the railing just visible in the shadows.
A shiver ran over Eloise’s scalp as she saw that the girl she’d painted was the same girl she’d seen on her very first day, the girl who’d run down the steps and turned to stare. It was Anna, of course, a stranger then, but so familiar now . . . and then she saw what was wrong with the girl’s other hand: it should be curled around the frame, pulling her through.
Eloise sprang to fix it, and at once she was lost again inside the picture. It filled her whole mind; it was her whole mind. Nothing else existed but the paints and brushes, the shapes and colours, the balance of light and dark, her hand and her eyes. She dodged and danced, crouched and stretched, not even aware of her own movements until she paused to gulp from her water bottle and realised that her muscles ached and her eyes were sore. But there was still the garden to finish yet.
Eloise stood close to the wall and squinted, the finest brush in her hand as she worked on the bright square inside the frame. Yellow and white, the palest green; the whole house just
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