Read Online The Sunlight on the Garden by Francis King - Free Book Online
Authors: Francis King
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he was innocent but because they could not prove that he was guilty.
Again, fingertips pressed against his eyes, he tried to stop the flicker of horrific image on image. Think of something else . All at once he thought of Lydiaâs postcard. He had looked at it for only a few seconds before tearing it into fragments, but miraculously he could remember every detail. That was how death should be: serene, resigned, even welcoming, with the waters showing no violence to the body consigned to them but only a tender acceptance. Yes, that was how it should be. Easeful death should be easeful. He opened his eyes and stared up through the skylight at the clear, pale-blue sky. For the first time since his visit to the morgue, he felt miraculously assuaged. He thought of his convulsive vomiting outside the morgue. It was as though a similar bout of vomiting had now at last relieved his body of all the poisons that had caused him so much agony and malaise over the past five weeks.
He sought out Millais on the internet, and was amazed that there should be so much about someone of whom he â an educated man, he liked to think â knew absolutely nothing. He even summoned up the image of the picture on his screen. Repeatedly he ran forefinger and middle finger over it, caressing now the pale face, now the pale hands, and now the body encased, as though after an embalment, in all that rich fabric. The screen felt hard to the touch. It felt cold when, in a moment of crazy abandon, he put his lips to the face at its centre.
He went to the Tate, not visited since the days when he and Lydia, both students, would go there on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon if, for one reason or another, they could not play the tennis that at that time was their chief recreation. The long, high-ceilinged room was empty except for the black male attendant at the far end of it and an elderly American woman, with coarse grey hair and a pronounced stoop, talking to him in a loud voice not about the pictures but about her problems with London Transport. Motionless, he stared fixedly at the white oval of the face, with the eyes open in what might have been a trance, not death. Again, as on that day when Lydiaâs postcard had arrived, the image had an extraordinarily consoling and assuaging effect on him. He would like to have touched it, as he had touched and then kissed the face on the computer screen. â Yes,â he whispered. Then more loudly: âYes, yes!â
The attendant and the woman halted in their conversation and, heads turned, peered down the long gallery at him. Then the woman shrugged, pulled a little face at the attendant and resumed what she had been saying.
From a book purchased on the internet from a second-hand dealer in Boston, he learned that Millais had painted the background of the picture by the Hogsmill River, near a place called Ewell. What had then been a remote village had now become a grindingly busy suburb of London. In search of the right setting for what many believed to be his masterpiece, Millais had taken up residence in the village with another painter, Holman Hunt, who, like Millais himself, had never been more than a name to Luke. Many years later Hunt had recorded how Millais for a whole day had âwalked along beaten lanes and jumped over ditches and ruts without finding a place that would satisfy himâ. Then he had come on exactly what he wanted: overarching trees, scarcely stirring waters, a richness of grass, reeds and flowers. He had cried out to his companion: âLook! Could anything be more perfect?â Hunt remarked, as many were to do, on Millaisâs luck in coming on the place on his first day of searching. Throughout his life Millais was generally acknowledged to be a spoiled favourite of luck.
Having learned all this, Luke was overcome by an obsessive longing to find the place. He planned to go on the very next Saturday, but then was obliged, because of the illness of a
Again, fingertips pressed against his eyes, he tried to stop the flicker of horrific image on image. Think of something else . All at once he thought of Lydiaâs postcard. He had looked at it for only a few seconds before tearing it into fragments, but miraculously he could remember every detail. That was how death should be: serene, resigned, even welcoming, with the waters showing no violence to the body consigned to them but only a tender acceptance. Yes, that was how it should be. Easeful death should be easeful. He opened his eyes and stared up through the skylight at the clear, pale-blue sky. For the first time since his visit to the morgue, he felt miraculously assuaged. He thought of his convulsive vomiting outside the morgue. It was as though a similar bout of vomiting had now at last relieved his body of all the poisons that had caused him so much agony and malaise over the past five weeks.
He sought out Millais on the internet, and was amazed that there should be so much about someone of whom he â an educated man, he liked to think â knew absolutely nothing. He even summoned up the image of the picture on his screen. Repeatedly he ran forefinger and middle finger over it, caressing now the pale face, now the pale hands, and now the body encased, as though after an embalment, in all that rich fabric. The screen felt hard to the touch. It felt cold when, in a moment of crazy abandon, he put his lips to the face at its centre.
He went to the Tate, not visited since the days when he and Lydia, both students, would go there on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon if, for one reason or another, they could not play the tennis that at that time was their chief recreation. The long, high-ceilinged room was empty except for the black male attendant at the far end of it and an elderly American woman, with coarse grey hair and a pronounced stoop, talking to him in a loud voice not about the pictures but about her problems with London Transport. Motionless, he stared fixedly at the white oval of the face, with the eyes open in what might have been a trance, not death. Again, as on that day when Lydiaâs postcard had arrived, the image had an extraordinarily consoling and assuaging effect on him. He would like to have touched it, as he had touched and then kissed the face on the computer screen. â Yes,â he whispered. Then more loudly: âYes, yes!â
The attendant and the woman halted in their conversation and, heads turned, peered down the long gallery at him. Then the woman shrugged, pulled a little face at the attendant and resumed what she had been saying.
From a book purchased on the internet from a second-hand dealer in Boston, he learned that Millais had painted the background of the picture by the Hogsmill River, near a place called Ewell. What had then been a remote village had now become a grindingly busy suburb of London. In search of the right setting for what many believed to be his masterpiece, Millais had taken up residence in the village with another painter, Holman Hunt, who, like Millais himself, had never been more than a name to Luke. Many years later Hunt had recorded how Millais for a whole day had âwalked along beaten lanes and jumped over ditches and ruts without finding a place that would satisfy himâ. Then he had come on exactly what he wanted: overarching trees, scarcely stirring waters, a richness of grass, reeds and flowers. He had cried out to his companion: âLook! Could anything be more perfect?â Hunt remarked, as many were to do, on Millaisâs luck in coming on the place on his first day of searching. Throughout his life Millais was generally acknowledged to be a spoiled favourite of luck.
Having learned all this, Luke was overcome by an obsessive longing to find the place. He planned to go on the very next Saturday, but then was obliged, because of the illness of a
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