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Authors: Penelope Lively
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confrontation. Lorna thought that nothing that Molly did could ever change what she felt about her, nothing.
She said to Matt, “You didn’t have to give them the engraving. You should have let them pay for it.”
“Even penniless artists are entitled to the occasional lavish gesture. I enjoyed it. Momentary sense of power.”
“I love you.”
“God knows why.”
The sun had come out; light chased across the hills. A buzzard floated straight ahead, high above. They stood at the garden gate and watched. “Look,” Lorna said to Molly. “Look up there.” The baby stared at her, and broke into a seraphic smile. There was a smell of crushed grass, and wood smoke.
From somewhere, there came a rumble. It rose to a low roar, died away; like distant thunder, like gunfire. Lorna found herself shuddering. “What on earth was that?”
“They must be blasting, in the quarry.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Could there be a cup of tea, do you think?”
They went inside, restored to privacy, to intimacy.
Matt was acquiring a reputation—some capricious process whereby his name traveled, and left ripples in the arcane world of those concerned with wood engraving: the galleries, the presses, the collectors. Lucas had placed the rest of the prints left with him in exhibitions, and all were sold. He began to talk of a one-man show, up in London. Finish your Somerset series, he urged, this could be a big thing, this could put you in the front rank. Evangelical fervor smoked up from his letters—that eager commitment to Matt’s talent. Matt wrote back, teasing Lucas for being an entrepreneur, but was secretly touched, and worked harder than ever, putting in long hours, day after day.
And thus, in due course, Lorna found herself on the train to London, heading for Lucas’s house, and the opening view of the exhibition. Matt had gone ahead with the engravings, to supervize framing and hanging. When she arrived at Paddington, with Molly in the pushchair, he was there to meet her—exuberant, excited by the effect of the exhibition: “The room is perfect—white walls, bare floor. It sets them off. I still can’t quite believe it. When we’d finished the hang, I just looked, and thought: crikey, did I really do all that?”
Lorna hugged him.
She was bemused by the opening view: all those strangers, chatting in groups, cruising the room, scrutinizing the engravings. People came up and told her how proud of Matt she must be. She overheard snatches of comment: “…really a remarkable style, quite individual, extraordinary sense of volume,” “…look at that use of white,” “…his silvery grays are most effective.” Red stickers appeared all over the place. Matt was wanted everywhere; she watched him across the room, and glowed with pleasure. She was wearing a dress from Brunswick Gardens days, blue chiffon, that had lain in the chest at the cottage for three years. She disliked resurrecting it, but had nothing else suitable for the occasion. Each time she caught sight of herself, reflected in a mirrored door, she was startled, as though at a glimpse of the past itself: but that’s not me, that person is gone.
They stayed several days at Lucas’s house. Lorna took Molly to see her parents, determinedly. Her brother and his wife now had a baby, a boy. “We’re all so thrilled,” said Marian Bradley. “Daddy is pleased as punch. What he wanted, of course.”
They went to art exhibitions, Matt met up with old friends. Lorna said, “Shouldn’t you have more of this? Maybe we should leave the cottage.”
“Is that what you want?”
She shook her head.
“Well, then. Me neither.”
Molly ceased to be a baby and became a child. She ran about; she spoke. Matt looked at her and saw this amazing fusion of Lorna and himself, who was also someone entirely unique and unpredictable. Lorna thought that she could no longer conceive of a time when Molly had not been there; oh, she could remember a
She said to Matt, “You didn’t have to give them the engraving. You should have let them pay for it.”
“Even penniless artists are entitled to the occasional lavish gesture. I enjoyed it. Momentary sense of power.”
“I love you.”
“God knows why.”
The sun had come out; light chased across the hills. A buzzard floated straight ahead, high above. They stood at the garden gate and watched. “Look,” Lorna said to Molly. “Look up there.” The baby stared at her, and broke into a seraphic smile. There was a smell of crushed grass, and wood smoke.
From somewhere, there came a rumble. It rose to a low roar, died away; like distant thunder, like gunfire. Lorna found herself shuddering. “What on earth was that?”
“They must be blasting, in the quarry.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Could there be a cup of tea, do you think?”
They went inside, restored to privacy, to intimacy.
Matt was acquiring a reputation—some capricious process whereby his name traveled, and left ripples in the arcane world of those concerned with wood engraving: the galleries, the presses, the collectors. Lucas had placed the rest of the prints left with him in exhibitions, and all were sold. He began to talk of a one-man show, up in London. Finish your Somerset series, he urged, this could be a big thing, this could put you in the front rank. Evangelical fervor smoked up from his letters—that eager commitment to Matt’s talent. Matt wrote back, teasing Lucas for being an entrepreneur, but was secretly touched, and worked harder than ever, putting in long hours, day after day.
And thus, in due course, Lorna found herself on the train to London, heading for Lucas’s house, and the opening view of the exhibition. Matt had gone ahead with the engravings, to supervize framing and hanging. When she arrived at Paddington, with Molly in the pushchair, he was there to meet her—exuberant, excited by the effect of the exhibition: “The room is perfect—white walls, bare floor. It sets them off. I still can’t quite believe it. When we’d finished the hang, I just looked, and thought: crikey, did I really do all that?”
Lorna hugged him.
She was bemused by the opening view: all those strangers, chatting in groups, cruising the room, scrutinizing the engravings. People came up and told her how proud of Matt she must be. She overheard snatches of comment: “…really a remarkable style, quite individual, extraordinary sense of volume,” “…look at that use of white,” “…his silvery grays are most effective.” Red stickers appeared all over the place. Matt was wanted everywhere; she watched him across the room, and glowed with pleasure. She was wearing a dress from Brunswick Gardens days, blue chiffon, that had lain in the chest at the cottage for three years. She disliked resurrecting it, but had nothing else suitable for the occasion. Each time she caught sight of herself, reflected in a mirrored door, she was startled, as though at a glimpse of the past itself: but that’s not me, that person is gone.
They stayed several days at Lucas’s house. Lorna took Molly to see her parents, determinedly. Her brother and his wife now had a baby, a boy. “We’re all so thrilled,” said Marian Bradley. “Daddy is pleased as punch. What he wanted, of course.”
They went to art exhibitions, Matt met up with old friends. Lorna said, “Shouldn’t you have more of this? Maybe we should leave the cottage.”
“Is that what you want?”
She shook her head.
“Well, then. Me neither.”
Molly ceased to be a baby and became a child. She ran about; she spoke. Matt looked at her and saw this amazing fusion of Lorna and himself, who was also someone entirely unique and unpredictable. Lorna thought that she could no longer conceive of a time when Molly had not been there; oh, she could remember a
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