Read Online The Waiting Game by Sheila Bugler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sheila Bugler
Ads: Link
live in a town stuffed full of classic Victorian housing and pretty fishermen’s cottages. She’d hated it then and hated it now. The old resentment coming back each time she returned to this Godawful hole.
She drove past her house and parked near the beach, got out of the car and looked out across the still, grey sea, remembering. She’d spent so much time on this beach when she was growing up. Pretending she had a different life. Imagined herself living inone of the beautiful Victorian houses closer to town, with proper parents who loved each other and doted on their only child. The sort of life she’d have if only she wasn’t restricted by her father’s utter lack of imagination.
This view was one of the first things she’d painted seriously. Her art teacher, Miss Ingham, had encouraged Monica to display the painting in an exhibition in Canterbury. Thinking of Miss Ingham now, Monica smiled. The crazy old bitch had had the hots for Monica. She’d never tried anything on. Nothing like that. But Monica knew the effect she had on Miss Ingham and used it whenever it suited her.
The sea was nice enough if you liked that sort of thing. And lots of people did. The sort of people who bought her paintings and ooh-ed and ahh-ed about how fucking lovely the coast was. People like Ellen Kelly. The paintings turned out well and she could knock them out without too much bother. Didn’t matter whether she liked them or not. The important thing was that she made money out of it. And she did. More than most artists could say. But then, most artists weren’t as talented as she was. Or as clever at influencing the people who mattered.
She left the beach and walked back to her father’s place. The house was as horrible as she remembered. Each week, driving down here, she hoped it might have improved. Fat chance. The front garden was immaculate. Gardening being one of the many tedious ways her father liked to spend his time. She pictured the inside of the house, the sterile, characterless tidiness. Barepastel walls, tasteless, flowery curtains with matching cushions on the pale green suite. The same green as the tiles in the downstairs cloakroom. Everything spotless. Not a single speck of dirt allowed anywhere. She shuddered.
These days, the front door was black. When Monica was little, it was yellow. She had a vivid memory of her mother painting it one summer’s afternoon. Monica couldn’t have been more than six or seven. The red scarf was tied around her mother’s head, keeping her hair from falling into her face.
Like the yellow paint, her mother was long gone. Monica could remember every moment of the day she left, although she’d done her best to push it from her mind. The betrayal still hurt, even now, all these years later. No mother should ever abandon her child. It wasn’t right. Monica had never stopped hating her father for letting it happen. For not being the sort of man who could keep a woman that beautiful.
She’d been coming here every week for the last two months. Ever since Brighton. Today was different, though. Today, she was going to get out of the car and speak to him.
She knocked on the front door. No answer. She tried again, but still no one came. Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be home. He was always home at this time. She stepped out onto the street and scanned the area, looking for any sign of him. There was a pub down the road. Her mother’s local. She supposed she could go and look for him there. At the very least, if he wasn’t around, someone might be able to tellher where she could find him. Except the thought of it, being back there, chatting and flirting and making small-talk with men she despised, it turned her stomach. Skinny men with fat, beer-soaked bellies that hung over sagging trousers, all thinking they were God’s gift. No thanks.
She was nearly back at the car when she saw him. Limping like a cripple, his body hunched over like he was in pain. A
She drove past her house and parked near the beach, got out of the car and looked out across the still, grey sea, remembering. She’d spent so much time on this beach when she was growing up. Pretending she had a different life. Imagined herself living inone of the beautiful Victorian houses closer to town, with proper parents who loved each other and doted on their only child. The sort of life she’d have if only she wasn’t restricted by her father’s utter lack of imagination.
This view was one of the first things she’d painted seriously. Her art teacher, Miss Ingham, had encouraged Monica to display the painting in an exhibition in Canterbury. Thinking of Miss Ingham now, Monica smiled. The crazy old bitch had had the hots for Monica. She’d never tried anything on. Nothing like that. But Monica knew the effect she had on Miss Ingham and used it whenever it suited her.
The sea was nice enough if you liked that sort of thing. And lots of people did. The sort of people who bought her paintings and ooh-ed and ahh-ed about how fucking lovely the coast was. People like Ellen Kelly. The paintings turned out well and she could knock them out without too much bother. Didn’t matter whether she liked them or not. The important thing was that she made money out of it. And she did. More than most artists could say. But then, most artists weren’t as talented as she was. Or as clever at influencing the people who mattered.
She left the beach and walked back to her father’s place. The house was as horrible as she remembered. Each week, driving down here, she hoped it might have improved. Fat chance. The front garden was immaculate. Gardening being one of the many tedious ways her father liked to spend his time. She pictured the inside of the house, the sterile, characterless tidiness. Barepastel walls, tasteless, flowery curtains with matching cushions on the pale green suite. The same green as the tiles in the downstairs cloakroom. Everything spotless. Not a single speck of dirt allowed anywhere. She shuddered.
These days, the front door was black. When Monica was little, it was yellow. She had a vivid memory of her mother painting it one summer’s afternoon. Monica couldn’t have been more than six or seven. The red scarf was tied around her mother’s head, keeping her hair from falling into her face.
Like the yellow paint, her mother was long gone. Monica could remember every moment of the day she left, although she’d done her best to push it from her mind. The betrayal still hurt, even now, all these years later. No mother should ever abandon her child. It wasn’t right. Monica had never stopped hating her father for letting it happen. For not being the sort of man who could keep a woman that beautiful.
She’d been coming here every week for the last two months. Ever since Brighton. Today was different, though. Today, she was going to get out of the car and speak to him.
She knocked on the front door. No answer. She tried again, but still no one came. Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be home. He was always home at this time. She stepped out onto the street and scanned the area, looking for any sign of him. There was a pub down the road. Her mother’s local. She supposed she could go and look for him there. At the very least, if he wasn’t around, someone might be able to tellher where she could find him. Except the thought of it, being back there, chatting and flirting and making small-talk with men she despised, it turned her stomach. Skinny men with fat, beer-soaked bellies that hung over sagging trousers, all thinking they were God’s gift. No thanks.
She was nearly back at the car when she saw him. Limping like a cripple, his body hunched over like he was in pain. A
Similar Books
