Read Online Shutterspeed by Erwin Mortier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erwin Mortier
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chanted softly.
Vanilla was bound to be a smell she would approve of. Besides, it was easy to locate, because this substance was treacly and dark instead of clear like the others.
Hardly had I unscrewed the top and turned round when a slap to my cheek sent me reeling against the showcase, more from shock than pain. The bottles rocked on the shelves, a few fell over. Something trickled down my neck. There was vanilla on my fingers. My ears burned.
The girl skirted the counter and ran into the passage, upsetting a couple of soup cans in passing.
‘Il m’a frappé,’ I heard her wail. ‘He hit me, he hit me …’
‘Dammit, Joris! What are you up to?’ called Aunt. I heard them push back their chairs and come into the passage. I took out my handkerchief and tried frantically to mop up the spill, without success.
‘He tried to kiss me, the clot,’ cried the girl as shereturned with the two women in tow, and before I knew it Aunt had given me a box on the ears.
‘Du calme!’ cried Hélène Vuylsteke. ‘Dratted child, it’s not the first time this has happened.’
She grabbed the girl by the hand and gave her arm a sharp tug. ‘I think you’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you? Off you go and get your coat.’
The girl trotted to the back.
‘Still, no excuse for him to go rummaging in my things,’ Aunt hissed in my direction. ‘He knows perfectly well to keep his hands off the merchandise.’
She moved to the front door and held it open. The girl squeezed past her and Hélène Vuylsteke, and paused on the threshold to put on her hat.
Hélène shook Aunt Laura’s hand: ‘Lundi prochain?’
‘Right, next Monday,’ said Aunt. ‘See you then. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir,’ said Hélène, with a slight curl of the lip, ‘and au revoir to the young gentleman, too.’
Aunt shut the door. ‘Some gentleman,’ was all she said as she made her way to the back of the house.
When I followed some time later, she was at the table. She had poured herself the remainder of the coffee and now sat with her hands clasping the cup as she stared out of the window, oblivious to the cement slabs of the boundary wall and the Virginia creeper to the side.
Upstairs, I scrubbed my hands to get rid of the vanilla smell. I could hear Aunt clearing the table, making much more noise than usual.
I hoped and prayed that Uncle would not come home just yet, and that he would not be too woozy from his drinks, but less than two minutes later I recognised his whistle and his swaggering tread on the garden path.
Next he would put his hands on her hips as she stood by the sink, and try to kiss her neck.
I dried my hands, went to my room and lay down on my bed while the echoes of their rambling exchange reverberated from the garden wall. I could only make out half of what they were saying, but I knew it was about the vault. My mother’s name was mentioned, and goodness knows what else Aunt had to carp about. When she was angry she would wrench open her store of aggravation and tip it out over my or my uncle’s head.
After a time the storm abated. Uncle tapped on the door of my room. He sat down on the edge of my bed and put his hand on my knee.
‘You mustn’t mind too much about your aunt,’ he said. ‘She’s going through the change.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about.
During supper the only sounds were our spoons scraping the bottom of our plates. Aunt had prepared warm buttermilk with apple slices to which she had added far too little sugar, a sure sign that she was in one of her moods.
I knew that Uncle’s slurping irritated her. I could tell by the way one of her eyebrows was raised slightly higher than the other.
‘He’s dead, Joris,’ she said abruptly. ‘He’s dead. It’s terribly sad of course, but so it goes. People die every day.’
She lifted her spoon to her mouth and sipped. ‘It’s us keeping you. You shouldn’t forget that.’
‘I won’t, Aunt Laura,’ I replied
Vanilla was bound to be a smell she would approve of. Besides, it was easy to locate, because this substance was treacly and dark instead of clear like the others.
Hardly had I unscrewed the top and turned round when a slap to my cheek sent me reeling against the showcase, more from shock than pain. The bottles rocked on the shelves, a few fell over. Something trickled down my neck. There was vanilla on my fingers. My ears burned.
The girl skirted the counter and ran into the passage, upsetting a couple of soup cans in passing.
‘Il m’a frappé,’ I heard her wail. ‘He hit me, he hit me …’
‘Dammit, Joris! What are you up to?’ called Aunt. I heard them push back their chairs and come into the passage. I took out my handkerchief and tried frantically to mop up the spill, without success.
‘He tried to kiss me, the clot,’ cried the girl as shereturned with the two women in tow, and before I knew it Aunt had given me a box on the ears.
‘Du calme!’ cried Hélène Vuylsteke. ‘Dratted child, it’s not the first time this has happened.’
She grabbed the girl by the hand and gave her arm a sharp tug. ‘I think you’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you? Off you go and get your coat.’
The girl trotted to the back.
‘Still, no excuse for him to go rummaging in my things,’ Aunt hissed in my direction. ‘He knows perfectly well to keep his hands off the merchandise.’
She moved to the front door and held it open. The girl squeezed past her and Hélène Vuylsteke, and paused on the threshold to put on her hat.
Hélène shook Aunt Laura’s hand: ‘Lundi prochain?’
‘Right, next Monday,’ said Aunt. ‘See you then. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir,’ said Hélène, with a slight curl of the lip, ‘and au revoir to the young gentleman, too.’
Aunt shut the door. ‘Some gentleman,’ was all she said as she made her way to the back of the house.
When I followed some time later, she was at the table. She had poured herself the remainder of the coffee and now sat with her hands clasping the cup as she stared out of the window, oblivious to the cement slabs of the boundary wall and the Virginia creeper to the side.
Upstairs, I scrubbed my hands to get rid of the vanilla smell. I could hear Aunt clearing the table, making much more noise than usual.
I hoped and prayed that Uncle would not come home just yet, and that he would not be too woozy from his drinks, but less than two minutes later I recognised his whistle and his swaggering tread on the garden path.
Next he would put his hands on her hips as she stood by the sink, and try to kiss her neck.
I dried my hands, went to my room and lay down on my bed while the echoes of their rambling exchange reverberated from the garden wall. I could only make out half of what they were saying, but I knew it was about the vault. My mother’s name was mentioned, and goodness knows what else Aunt had to carp about. When she was angry she would wrench open her store of aggravation and tip it out over my or my uncle’s head.
After a time the storm abated. Uncle tapped on the door of my room. He sat down on the edge of my bed and put his hand on my knee.
‘You mustn’t mind too much about your aunt,’ he said. ‘She’s going through the change.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about.
During supper the only sounds were our spoons scraping the bottom of our plates. Aunt had prepared warm buttermilk with apple slices to which she had added far too little sugar, a sure sign that she was in one of her moods.
I knew that Uncle’s slurping irritated her. I could tell by the way one of her eyebrows was raised slightly higher than the other.
‘He’s dead, Joris,’ she said abruptly. ‘He’s dead. It’s terribly sad of course, but so it goes. People die every day.’
She lifted her spoon to her mouth and sipped. ‘It’s us keeping you. You shouldn’t forget that.’
‘I won’t, Aunt Laura,’ I replied
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