Read Online The Way Back Home by Freya North - Free Book Online Page B

– a crane or some more mythical form. She went back to the landscapes and sensed the paintings draw her in, the same sensation the dales themselves had whenever she went there – they were to Oriana as the moors were to Cathy.
    I wonder how much these paintings are?
    They didn’t have a price. She turned to the opposite wall, wondering if anything here had a price. And, like a smack in the mouth and a blow to the heart, two of her father’s works glowered at her. She crept towards them. Robin Taylor,
Depth I
. Robin Taylor,
Depth IV
. Ink and mixed media on plasterboard. Her father once told her the women he painted were imagined, that his pictures weren’t portraits, they were impressions. But these women were staring at her as if they knew her, as if it was down to her to acknowledge their pain, take it on and free them. Just then, to Oriana, the White Peak Art Space became very dark indeed and she turned to leave.
    Damn – I might have missed a sale.
    Malachy had just come through from the back with a steaming mug of tea and a biscuit when Oriana reached the door.
    ‘Hullo – can I be of any help?’
    Usually, people automatically say no thanks, just looking, to which Malachy always says it’s a
gallery
– feel free, which then leads on to varied and mostly interesting discussion about what they see when they look at art.
    Just now, though, his offer garnered no response. Could be a foreign tourist though it was still early in the season. He put the mug down, took a quick bite of biscuit, wiped the crumbs on the back of his trousers and looked over towards the door where the woman had turned to stone. The tilt of her head, the whole of her. In an instant he knew who it was. Suddenly, he could no more speak than Oriana could move. The postman came in and stared at her as if she was some kooky installation. He stared at Malachy too, who was unable to take the bundle of post he was being handed.
    ‘Well, see you next week then, Malachy.’
    ‘Malachy as in
key
,’ Oriana said quietly, turning.
    The postman had pronounced his name Malachy as in
sky
.
    For the first time in eighteen years, Oriana and Malachy faced each other head on.
    It’s OK, she said to herself. It’s OK. Don’t stare.
    You need to look, she told herself, to see. Otherwise it’s rude – and ignoring it makes it more of an issue.
    But don’t stare.
    She noted how his hair was now delicately silvered here and there but still licked into the haphazard curls she’d never forgotten. As he approached, she caught his violet-grey eye colour striated like local Blue John. Sharp cheekbones and slim nose which always suggested an aloofness far from true.
    And she had to acknowledge, for the first time, the eyepatch – a softened triangle of black protecting, concealing, his left eye; corded neatly around his head.
    ‘You have a beard, Malachy.’
    He felt his face thoughtfully. ‘I couldn’t be arsed to shave last week,’ he said. ‘But you, Oriana – you haven’t changed a bit.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    ‘You were sniffing Natalie Fox.’
    ‘There isn’t a sign saying “No Sniffing”.’
    ‘Oils should be sniffed, sculptures touched.’
    ‘Is this
your
gallery?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You
own
it? It’s your career?’
    ‘Yes. You look – disappointed?’
    ‘It’s – it’s impressive. Congrats. But – what about being an author?’
    ‘A teenage daydream. But I still write. Still writing that novel.’
    Silence. You don’t have to stare – but it’s a bit obvious you’re looking everywhere but at Malachy.
    ‘Is it?’ Oriana touched her own eye, as gently as if she was touching Malachy.
    He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said softly.
    ‘But –’ Oriana wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. She didn’t know whether Malachy would rather not talk about it. She was unsure whether it was impertinent for her, of all people, to ask. She hadn’t seen him for such a long time. And here he was, here was Malachy, changed and