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those
places that were ‘proper’ institutions, the universities and
teacher training colleges, named those people who have gone on to
such places, old school pals, friends I now disliked because they
had the respect of my family. I wanted to swear as Gran went
through the endless inventory of hopes they had for me, and my
mother added to the list, mentioning the dreams my father had
nourished, quoting the advantages, denied their generation, which
had come my way. I always thought that this was particularly unfair
of my mother, to bring my father’s memory into such discussions;
when he died this became her most potent form of blackmail, one
that I always found difficult to counter.
    To shut the
two of them up, to get away from their chatter for a moment, I went
through to the kitchen and set the kettle on the gas for a pot of
tea, even toasted a few slices of bread for their supper. My mother
appreciated the gesture and stopped pestering me, gazed quietly at
the fire and smiled softly, that smile which said that she was
dwelling on the past and was comfortable with her memories.
    Gran, though,
she was at that age where she was never satisfied.
    ‘ The
tea’s a bit on the weak side and the toast’s too crispy,’ she
complained.
    ‘ It’s
the gas playing up again, it really needs seeing to. And the pilot
light keeps going out on the boiler.’ After my excuses I
apologised, with as much patience as I could muster. ‘I’m
sorry.’
    ‘ You
know it hurts my gums when it’s too crispy. You should have let
your mother do it. She knows just how I like it.’
    ‘ Mum’s
tired,’ I pointed out.
    ‘ Through
worrying over you most likely, you and that art school, the way you
dress. And to think you had all the advantages of a good
education.’
    I couldn’t
take much more of this, and as soon as I’d finished my tea I went
back upstairs. My bedroom was small, even without Stephen there it
was cramped, pictures and prints pinned about the place made it
seem smaller still and the walls appeared to bow inwards beneath
the weight of the books on the shelves. There was always the smell
of turpentine and linseed which annoyed my mother, thickening the
atmosphere so that it was almost like going back to the womb to
feel the walls so close and the air so heavy. Quite comforting,
like a confessional.
    As I gathered
together the things I’d need for college in the morning I took
another look at Stephen’s portrait and found it as unsatisfactory
as ever; the slight smile I wanted from him seemed like a sneer,
or, even worse, a cruel gash across his face, with no sentiment in
it, no sensitivity. It occurred to me that having it there, in that
room, was a little like sharing the womb with another person’s
child; bringing Stephen there diminished the security the room
afforded, diluted the life which had previously pulsed with such a
strong creative force. It was almost as if whatever was missing in
Stephen, that something which left him no more than flesh and bone,
was being sought after by him each time he entered, being inhaled
along with the smell of the paint and the oils, slowly being
drained from the room and drawn into him. He was taking too much,
giving too little.
     
     

Chapter Four
     
    I had the
carcass of meat sketched out lightly in charcoal on the canvas; the
rail from which it hung was like the horizontal beam of a cross,
there was bone and gristle where a crucified person’s ribcage would
have been and lower down the torso tapered into two stumpy legs,
blunt and bloody. I began to fill in the tone using various shades
of sienna, giving the composition some weight and substance before
adding any true colour or detail, and the canvas gave gently under
the touch of the brush, a wonderful feeling which had me almost
purring with delight. I whistled softly as I worked, unladylike but
contented, quite oblivious to my surroundings.
    ‘ This
looks as if it might be a bit gory,’ said a voice, and I turned to
see