Read Online Night Street by Kristel Thornell - Free Book Online Page B

turn with the paper; she was perusing the front page, peeling and cutting into small pieces an apple, which she slowly chewed and ate. She had an upset stomach and had wanted nothing more, not even tea. Clarice was anxious that Mum would see it.
    â€˜It’ll only make me more nervous if you come,’ she had said, when Mum offered to go to the opening. This was true. ‘It might be better if you don’t. And it would tire you.’ Her mother had agreed. Had she really wanted to go or only felt obliged?
    After the apple, Mum lingered over a glass of water, the paper forgotten. A curious object, densely black on its whiteness, soft and thin, while so authoritative. If Clarice had taken it to her room, it would only have drawn attention. But she had to look now. ‘Are you finished with that?’
    â€˜What’s that? Oh, do you want this?’
    Opening the paper nonchalantly, Clarice stalked it. There, there was her name. In print. In a real newspaper. With a deathly calm face and frozen lips that wanted to mouth the words, she read what a Mr Chesterfield had written.
    Oh. And charged through to the climax: ‘And the lady has no right to obfuscate her subjects so tenaciously with mawkish veils of fog. The result is altogether dreary, and, I regret to say it, entirely without the lyricism in which we seek solace in art.’ He had noted, subtly venomous, that her paintings were ‘sub-manner’ and unfinished, as if this were something to be feared, abhorred. She had hoped but not expected that they would like her work; however, she had not quite foreseen this. She was not the only one from the exhibition to be condemned. In fact, condemnation was the general response, really—not even Meldrum was spared. But still, this felt appallingly personal.
    Having read her first review, she folded the paper neatly, stood and left the room, abruptly reminded of Mr Dagdale, the day she had rejected him, his folding of a newspaper and stunned, grave retreat.
    Like being cleaved through the middle, she thought, gutted—because maybe quickly describing the sensation would numb it. In the hallway, she paused and placed a hand on each wall. So the critics did not have much time for the ‘Meldrumites’; they were ‘mud-slingers,’ with their dull, mucky palette. But why could art not show nature, as it was, without embellishment or forced emphasis? Trust nature to be beautiful, on its own terms? Reaching her bedroom and finally closing the door, she found herself on her knees. She might have to be sick.
    Some time later, Mum knocked on the door and opened it.
    â€˜Clarice? The telephone for you. What? What are you doing down there?’
    â€˜Thinking.’ The worst was passed, the nausea gone. She had not heard the phone.
    Mum was waiting.
    â€˜I was feeling off,’ Clarice tried to explain.
    â€˜Could it have been the porridge?’ Mum asked carefully. Did she know about the review? If she did, neither of them was going to mention it.
    â€˜Porridge does make me a bit queasy, sometimes.’
    â€˜Porridge is like that.’ Her mother was probably relieved not to be faced with any more substantial vulnerability. They were cautious together, when it came to anything private.
    â€˜You might have this same upset that I have. Do you think you should see Dr Broadbent?’
    â€˜I’m a lot better now.’ She was. Almost strong. Standing, she was only slightly unsteady. ‘I’ll get the phone.’
    â€˜The porridge? Do you think?’ Mum seemed concerned. ‘Something we had that your father didn’t, because Daddy is fine.’
    Mum was the only one who called him Daddy; he presented Clarice with the phone, looking indeed as if his health were beyond question, indomitable. He disapproved of the telephone for anything other than emergencies: it was for communication, not conversation. When he himself was forced to make a call, he took notes