Read Online The Stranding by Karen Viggers - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Viggers
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all the money for herself.’
Cynthia sat back in her chair and sipped her tea.
‘Aren’t you angry?’ Callista asked.
‘What’s the point?’
‘The injustice infuriates me.’
‘Everyone will learn to live with it in time.’
Callista poured the dregs of her tea on the ground. ‘I wish you weren’t such a pacifist, Mum. It’s no wonder you and Dad never get ahead.’ She shook her mug violently to dislodge the last of the tea-leaves. ‘And I wish you’d get a tea strainer.’
Cynthia smiled serenely. ‘You’ve been saying that for years.’
In the morning, Callista got on with her work. Mrs Jensen’s palings were working out well. Joe Denton from the hardware had let her cut them up with the bandsaw at the store, and she had painted them up and banged them together into frames at home. It all helped to save her a few precious dollars here and there. And she was whizzing off paintings like crazy. There was nothing to it. In fact, it was a bit embarrassing. There was more work in making the frames.
Ridiculously, she was excited about crossing tracks with Lex again. As she worked on the verandah in the dewy damp of morning, she kept thinking about his big shoulders and light-footed walk. There was something about him she liked. There was humour in him, she was sure, yet he seemed so flagged by sadness.
She reckoned there was a good chance he’d come back to collect that painting he’d paid for, and she had to be ready for him next time. What she needed was a way to break through that careful blankness and get his attention. Humming, she propped a board on her easel and started squeezing bright colours onto her palette. Surely the best way for her to reach him was through a painting, something loud and different, something that would leap out at him when he stopped by her stand again.
She began with a slap of blue summer sky and the brilliant yellow-white of sand. Still humming, she stepped back, paintbrush waving like a long finger. She was thinking ahead. Couldn’t help herself. Once she got to know him a bit she’d take him to Long Beach. It was her favourite—wild, desolate, remote, windswept. Not a beach for the fainthearted. That’s why she liked it. The loneliness. The wind blasting the sand along and the waves raking angrily at the shore. No one there. The blissful emptiness.
She drifted across to the gully where two restless flycatchers were flitting and skittering high in the trees. It must have been their scissor-grinding call that had distracted her, and the cheeky way they swung their tails about. Callista sighed. Tangents. She was always being kidnapped by them. She looked back to the painting and the idea came to her.
Quickly, she mixed blue-black and whisked the outline of a sooty oystercatcher in flight—solid, chunky, very definite. She painted the bold orange-red eye and the long shanks of its legs tucked backwards beneath its body. The beak she painted agape, like the bird was in mid-call as it flew low over the waves. Time drifted away while she concentrated on bringing the painting to life. More effort than her usual market pieces.
Standing back, she examined the painting, and liked it. It was hardly a masterpiece, dashed off like that in an hour or so, but it was fitting. She liked those thick-kneed legs. The oystercatcher’s clunky shape cut through the stereotypic beach colours like a loud clap. If Lex didn’t notice it, he’d be half-asleep. Well, no match for an artist anyway.
She left it to dry on the easel and went inside to wash the breakfast dishes.
Six
In town, having a coffee at Sue’s, Lex opened the paper to catch up on the news. It had become a bit of a habit to drop in for a cuppa when he came in to collect the newspapers every few days. Today, whaling was all over the headlines again—it had become a regular issue lately. At home, he’d been reading some of Vic Wallace’s old books, and it was an interesting contrast—reading about historic
Cynthia sat back in her chair and sipped her tea.
‘Aren’t you angry?’ Callista asked.
‘What’s the point?’
‘The injustice infuriates me.’
‘Everyone will learn to live with it in time.’
Callista poured the dregs of her tea on the ground. ‘I wish you weren’t such a pacifist, Mum. It’s no wonder you and Dad never get ahead.’ She shook her mug violently to dislodge the last of the tea-leaves. ‘And I wish you’d get a tea strainer.’
Cynthia smiled serenely. ‘You’ve been saying that for years.’
In the morning, Callista got on with her work. Mrs Jensen’s palings were working out well. Joe Denton from the hardware had let her cut them up with the bandsaw at the store, and she had painted them up and banged them together into frames at home. It all helped to save her a few precious dollars here and there. And she was whizzing off paintings like crazy. There was nothing to it. In fact, it was a bit embarrassing. There was more work in making the frames.
Ridiculously, she was excited about crossing tracks with Lex again. As she worked on the verandah in the dewy damp of morning, she kept thinking about his big shoulders and light-footed walk. There was something about him she liked. There was humour in him, she was sure, yet he seemed so flagged by sadness.
She reckoned there was a good chance he’d come back to collect that painting he’d paid for, and she had to be ready for him next time. What she needed was a way to break through that careful blankness and get his attention. Humming, she propped a board on her easel and started squeezing bright colours onto her palette. Surely the best way for her to reach him was through a painting, something loud and different, something that would leap out at him when he stopped by her stand again.
She began with a slap of blue summer sky and the brilliant yellow-white of sand. Still humming, she stepped back, paintbrush waving like a long finger. She was thinking ahead. Couldn’t help herself. Once she got to know him a bit she’d take him to Long Beach. It was her favourite—wild, desolate, remote, windswept. Not a beach for the fainthearted. That’s why she liked it. The loneliness. The wind blasting the sand along and the waves raking angrily at the shore. No one there. The blissful emptiness.
She drifted across to the gully where two restless flycatchers were flitting and skittering high in the trees. It must have been their scissor-grinding call that had distracted her, and the cheeky way they swung their tails about. Callista sighed. Tangents. She was always being kidnapped by them. She looked back to the painting and the idea came to her.
Quickly, she mixed blue-black and whisked the outline of a sooty oystercatcher in flight—solid, chunky, very definite. She painted the bold orange-red eye and the long shanks of its legs tucked backwards beneath its body. The beak she painted agape, like the bird was in mid-call as it flew low over the waves. Time drifted away while she concentrated on bringing the painting to life. More effort than her usual market pieces.
Standing back, she examined the painting, and liked it. It was hardly a masterpiece, dashed off like that in an hour or so, but it was fitting. She liked those thick-kneed legs. The oystercatcher’s clunky shape cut through the stereotypic beach colours like a loud clap. If Lex didn’t notice it, he’d be half-asleep. Well, no match for an artist anyway.
She left it to dry on the easel and went inside to wash the breakfast dishes.
Six
In town, having a coffee at Sue’s, Lex opened the paper to catch up on the news. It had become a bit of a habit to drop in for a cuppa when he came in to collect the newspapers every few days. Today, whaling was all over the headlines again—it had become a regular issue lately. At home, he’d been reading some of Vic Wallace’s old books, and it was an interesting contrast—reading about historic
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