quickstepping on high heels, Matt with Molly astride his hip. Lorna pointed out wildflowers, and recited names. “I never knew anything about all this,” she said. “Now I can’t stop hunting for things I haven’t yet found. I’ve got a book.”
Marian peered at toadflax, bush vetch, red campion. “So pretty…” She was a townsperson to the hilt; the country, to her, was a pleasing backdrop seen from a train or through car windows. Family holidays had been spent at Biarritz or Torquay or some southern French resort.
Gerald had been on shooting parties and could put up a passable show of rural interest. He wondered which hunt operated in these parts. Matt and Lorna did not know. Gerald talked knowledgeably about pheasant drives. “Do you shoot at all?” he asked Matt.
Matt laughed. It was the first spontaneous and assertive sound that had come from him that afternoon, and the Bradleys both looked startled. They were gathered in a gateway at that moment, contemplating the sweep of landscape before them—the fields tipping down to the distant gray sea, which reached away to the coastline of Wales, with the darker smears of Steepholm and Flatholm perched on the horizon.
“I’m afraid I can’t imagine myself with a gun in my hand,” said Matt.
Gerald appeared perplexed. “Really? Oh, well…”
“You know, it’s beginning to feel a tiny bit chilly,” said Marian. “Perhaps we should go back.” A thought struck her. “And we haven’t seen any of Matt’s drawings.”
They returned to the cottage. “You needn’t, you know,” Lorna said to Matt, quietly, as they went in. “We can make an excuse.”
He shrugged, and squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry—it’s all right.”
Marian clapped her hands. “Do let’s see, Matt.”
He brought out some recent work from the series of engravings inspired by local scenes, and spread the prints on the kitchen table.
“Awfully good,” said Gerald. He seemed genuinely surprised.
Marian inspected, with little exclamations. “ So clever…the way you’ve done the roof of that barn.”
“I can’t be doing with this abstract stuff you see around nowadays,” said Gerald. “You steer clear of that, Matt.”
Marian took his arm. She looked at him, eager. “Darling, I’ve had a thought. I want us to buy one!” She turned to Matt. “ May we?”
“Good idea,” said Gerald.
Matt smiled. “Which one would you like? But it’s a present. My pleasure.”
“Oh, but how sweet of you. Really, you shouldn’t…I can’t decide…” Marian’s hand hovered. “This one, I think. I can just see it in the small spare bedroom by the window.” She had chosen the study of the farmyard by the lane, with the geese.
I don’t want that in the spare room at Brunswick Gardens, thought Lorna. Like an extra bit of wallpaper. None of this has any place there—here, where I live now, and the way we live, and Matt’s work. None of it has anything to do with Brunswick Gardens or that world. Molly began to grumble; Lorna gave her a rusk and stood by, trying to look pleased while the engraving was packaged and her mother gave more little cries of satisfaction.
And then began the process of departure, oiled by the sense of relief all round. Much was made of Molly: “I’m going to send some little smocks from Woollands,” said Marian. Gerald busied himself with the car, checking oil and water. He pecked Lorna on both cheeks, shook Matt by the hand. Marian embraced Lorna: “You must bring Molly to see us in London.” They got into the car; Marian settled a rug over her knees. As the car turned into the lane her hand fluttered at the window. In spirit, she would now be back at Brunswick Gardens, Lorna knew, a task completed, an awkward day now shelved. She wondered if her mother still loved her, or if her dereliction had effectively stemmed what mothers are supposed to feel. “You have been an utter disappointment,” Marian had said, during that last disastrous
Marian peered at toadflax, bush vetch, red campion. “So pretty…” She was a townsperson to the hilt; the country, to her, was a pleasing backdrop seen from a train or through car windows. Family holidays had been spent at Biarritz or Torquay or some southern French resort.
Gerald had been on shooting parties and could put up a passable show of rural interest. He wondered which hunt operated in these parts. Matt and Lorna did not know. Gerald talked knowledgeably about pheasant drives. “Do you shoot at all?” he asked Matt.
Matt laughed. It was the first spontaneous and assertive sound that had come from him that afternoon, and the Bradleys both looked startled. They were gathered in a gateway at that moment, contemplating the sweep of landscape before them—the fields tipping down to the distant gray sea, which reached away to the coastline of Wales, with the darker smears of Steepholm and Flatholm perched on the horizon.
“I’m afraid I can’t imagine myself with a gun in my hand,” said Matt.
Gerald appeared perplexed. “Really? Oh, well…”
“You know, it’s beginning to feel a tiny bit chilly,” said Marian. “Perhaps we should go back.” A thought struck her. “And we haven’t seen any of Matt’s drawings.”
They returned to the cottage. “You needn’t, you know,” Lorna said to Matt, quietly, as they went in. “We can make an excuse.”
He shrugged, and squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry—it’s all right.”
Marian clapped her hands. “Do let’s see, Matt.”
He brought out some recent work from the series of engravings inspired by local scenes, and spread the prints on the kitchen table.
“Awfully good,” said Gerald. He seemed genuinely surprised.
Marian inspected, with little exclamations. “ So clever…the way you’ve done the roof of that barn.”
“I can’t be doing with this abstract stuff you see around nowadays,” said Gerald. “You steer clear of that, Matt.”
Marian took his arm. She looked at him, eager. “Darling, I’ve had a thought. I want us to buy one!” She turned to Matt. “ May we?”
“Good idea,” said Gerald.
Matt smiled. “Which one would you like? But it’s a present. My pleasure.”
“Oh, but how sweet of you. Really, you shouldn’t…I can’t decide…” Marian’s hand hovered. “This one, I think. I can just see it in the small spare bedroom by the window.” She had chosen the study of the farmyard by the lane, with the geese.
I don’t want that in the spare room at Brunswick Gardens, thought Lorna. Like an extra bit of wallpaper. None of this has any place there—here, where I live now, and the way we live, and Matt’s work. None of it has anything to do with Brunswick Gardens or that world. Molly began to grumble; Lorna gave her a rusk and stood by, trying to look pleased while the engraving was packaged and her mother gave more little cries of satisfaction.
And then began the process of departure, oiled by the sense of relief all round. Much was made of Molly: “I’m going to send some little smocks from Woollands,” said Marian. Gerald busied himself with the car, checking oil and water. He pecked Lorna on both cheeks, shook Matt by the hand. Marian embraced Lorna: “You must bring Molly to see us in London.” They got into the car; Marian settled a rug over her knees. As the car turned into the lane her hand fluttered at the window. In spirit, she would now be back at Brunswick Gardens, Lorna knew, a task completed, an awkward day now shelved. She wondered if her mother still loved her, or if her dereliction had effectively stemmed what mothers are supposed to feel. “You have been an utter disappointment,” Marian had said, during that last disastrous
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