Read Online Summer in February by Jonathan Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Smith
Tags: General Fiction
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to her neck, Laura strode down from Oakhill Cottages to the cove,
turning sharp right at the bottom. Today was another challenge for Laura. Today she would try to capture the grandeur of that
overhanging rock, the sort of rock she imagined frightened the young Wordsworth as he rowed across the dark lake. As she strode
down she sometimes smiled to herself, a bit shocked, reliving some of the fun of the night before. And how magnificent Alfred’s
recitation of ‘The Raven’ had been.
What a man Munnings was!
Meanwhile, having climbed the uncarpeted stairs to his studio, her husband Harold, clear-headed, austere and immaculate, was
drinking his first cup of tea. He sat in front of the easel. And sipped his tea. He eyed one corner of his painting. That
corner was not right. It required more careful work. He moved his heavy-lidded eyes closer to thesmall particles of paint. He would, once he had finished his tea, give it that work. As far as Harold was concerned it was
perfectly possible to paint a good picture without having to go out in all weathers and catch your death of cold in doing
so. He could not, somehow, see Vermeer or Pieter de Hooch clambering over wet rocks or keeping going in a gale.
Second out of the stalls, banging the door behind him, came Alfred Munnings. He was incompetently shaven and unable to face
any kind of food. He also had a stabbing pain, a volcano of blood vessels, in his left eye. If his left eye hurt that much,
Alfred worried. He did not look up at the sky or breathe in deeply or do anything to suggest how good and bracing it was to
be alive that morning. Instead, head down, he berated himself for his excesses, thrust his hands and sketch pad into his pocket
and set off down to the cove. Knowing his master’s moods in the early morning only too well, Taffy, his terrier, trotted along
just out of kicking distance.
At the bottom Alfred turned left, in the opposite direction from Laura, across a small patch of worm-riddled sand to climb
past the quarry and meet the footpath to Mousehole. Riding with the Western Hounds the other day had given him an idea for
a painting, a setting near the coastguard lookout, which would combine various aspects – part real, part imaginary, part Cornwall,
part Norfolk – into which he would later fit the many figures of dogs and horses and huntsmen. Well, that was the idea, anyway.
But having ideas was one thing: doing the bloody thing was quite another.
If his head cleared by lunchtime he might have a sleep on the rocks, or he might ride Grey Tick in the afternoon, depending
on how he got on this morning – he might even go over to see Evans at Boskenna, good bloke, Evans – thenagain he might not. The wind stabbed him in the eyes. He almost stumbled on a stone. This was not the moment to ask Munnings
what his plans for the later part of the day were. At the moment he had the energy of a slackened drum.
He crossed the small stream which, after the prolonged storm, was now a milky spate, and his feet hit the bottom of the wet
dirt path. As they did so there was a great explosive roar and rumble from the quarry. Alfred coughed up more of last night’s
smoky mucus from his lungs and spat into the bracken.
Over at Boskenna Gilbert worked hard all morning. From eight until ten he supervised the men hauling the stones, some large,
some small, which would improve the surface around the yard and so allow easier access for the flow of carts on their way
in and out. When the daffodil packing began in earnest it was like Piccadilly Circus. He took off his jacket and joined in
with the men, lifting, carrying, glistening with sweat, his veins bulged and the harder he worked the better he felt.
From ten until noon he attended to the Colonel’s correspondence. There was a heavy batch. While he was sorting through all
this with the shorthand clerk, Mrs Paynter popped in to ask him for lunch (cold lamb, followed by baked
turning sharp right at the bottom. Today was another challenge for Laura. Today she would try to capture the grandeur of that
overhanging rock, the sort of rock she imagined frightened the young Wordsworth as he rowed across the dark lake. As she strode
down she sometimes smiled to herself, a bit shocked, reliving some of the fun of the night before. And how magnificent Alfred’s
recitation of ‘The Raven’ had been.
What a man Munnings was!
Meanwhile, having climbed the uncarpeted stairs to his studio, her husband Harold, clear-headed, austere and immaculate, was
drinking his first cup of tea. He sat in front of the easel. And sipped his tea. He eyed one corner of his painting. That
corner was not right. It required more careful work. He moved his heavy-lidded eyes closer to thesmall particles of paint. He would, once he had finished his tea, give it that work. As far as Harold was concerned it was
perfectly possible to paint a good picture without having to go out in all weathers and catch your death of cold in doing
so. He could not, somehow, see Vermeer or Pieter de Hooch clambering over wet rocks or keeping going in a gale.
Second out of the stalls, banging the door behind him, came Alfred Munnings. He was incompetently shaven and unable to face
any kind of food. He also had a stabbing pain, a volcano of blood vessels, in his left eye. If his left eye hurt that much,
Alfred worried. He did not look up at the sky or breathe in deeply or do anything to suggest how good and bracing it was to
be alive that morning. Instead, head down, he berated himself for his excesses, thrust his hands and sketch pad into his pocket
and set off down to the cove. Knowing his master’s moods in the early morning only too well, Taffy, his terrier, trotted along
just out of kicking distance.
At the bottom Alfred turned left, in the opposite direction from Laura, across a small patch of worm-riddled sand to climb
past the quarry and meet the footpath to Mousehole. Riding with the Western Hounds the other day had given him an idea for
a painting, a setting near the coastguard lookout, which would combine various aspects – part real, part imaginary, part Cornwall,
part Norfolk – into which he would later fit the many figures of dogs and horses and huntsmen. Well, that was the idea, anyway.
But having ideas was one thing: doing the bloody thing was quite another.
If his head cleared by lunchtime he might have a sleep on the rocks, or he might ride Grey Tick in the afternoon, depending
on how he got on this morning – he might even go over to see Evans at Boskenna, good bloke, Evans – thenagain he might not. The wind stabbed him in the eyes. He almost stumbled on a stone. This was not the moment to ask Munnings
what his plans for the later part of the day were. At the moment he had the energy of a slackened drum.
He crossed the small stream which, after the prolonged storm, was now a milky spate, and his feet hit the bottom of the wet
dirt path. As they did so there was a great explosive roar and rumble from the quarry. Alfred coughed up more of last night’s
smoky mucus from his lungs and spat into the bracken.
Over at Boskenna Gilbert worked hard all morning. From eight until ten he supervised the men hauling the stones, some large,
some small, which would improve the surface around the yard and so allow easier access for the flow of carts on their way
in and out. When the daffodil packing began in earnest it was like Piccadilly Circus. He took off his jacket and joined in
with the men, lifting, carrying, glistening with sweat, his veins bulged and the harder he worked the better he felt.
From ten until noon he attended to the Colonel’s correspondence. There was a heavy batch. While he was sorting through all
this with the shorthand clerk, Mrs Paynter popped in to ask him for lunch (cold lamb, followed by baked
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