She spread out the scrolled canvases, stood others against the wall, handling them all as if they’d break and bleed from too-rough treatment.
Colours burst out, crowding the sombre room, turning the space into an attic gallery with all its goods on view. There were vivid squares and oblongs, and bold abstract swirls. Subtle landscapes, brown and green and blue. Deep-hued tints and rich shadings.
And the portrait of a young girl in a yellow silk dress, dreaming in front of a mirror.
“Who’s that? It looks like you.”
“It is me.”
“Was that when Daddy first met you? Do let me see.”
Helen propped the portrait up on a chair, stared at it intently. “You look so serious. As if you wanted something, and didn’t know what it was.”
“I thought I knew.”
“Oh, the colours, the colours,” whispered Helen, gazing around. “Look at this, Mummy. I don’t know what it means, but I like it.”
“Yes,” murmured her mother, intently scanning each painting. “I’d forgotten.” She smiled at her daughter. “Do you want one, Helen? Pick out a favourite and I’ll get it framed for you. Take your time.”
Maggie watched contentedly as her daughter moved among the paintings. Finally Helen returned to the window seat.
“Well?” said Maggie. The word was a challenge.
“Oh, it’s hard. They’re all so wonderful. Give me another drink, please, and I’ll try and make up my mind.”
Maggie took both glasses and refilled them from the frosted cans on the tray. Over her shoulder she warned Helen, “You can’t have my portrait.”
“Mmm. Let me see that abstract again, then. The one that looks like a rainbow waterfall.”
“The name is ‘Spectrum’. Here it is.”
Helen narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I think that’s it. If I’m only allowed one?”
“Only one.”
“Then ‘Spectrum’ it is.”
“Let’s finish for today, and I’ll take it down. We’ll have a good scrub before Ian catches us.” Maggie stooped for paper to fold round the picture, tucked it under her arm, and ushered Helen downstairs.
In the sitting room, waiting for Ian, her daughter suddenly asked, “Why did Dad give it all up, Mum? If I was as good as that...”
“You were good at your music. You’re good at your job.”
“Don’t start that again, Mum. It’s not easy to fit it all in. Ian likes a proper dinner, and with the baby coming...” Helen paused under her mother’s ironical gaze. “But it’s different for men. They’ve got ...” She fell silent, frowning.
“Wives?” Maggie interposed, wryly. “Time? Oh, yes. And other duties, and responsibilities. And a belief that things they like doing stay important even when they’re married. Like golf. What is Ian’s golf handicap these days?”
Helen was saved from answering by the blare of a car horn. “That’s him now,” she said with relief. “Don’t tell him about the painting; I want it to be a surprise.” She picked up her shawl, and draped it round her shoulders; hesitated, awkwardly asked, “Mum, will Dad sign my picture if I ask him to?”
Maggie grinned as she went across to the painting, lying flat on the piano.
“You want it signed by the artist, do you, my girl? That’s best done before it’s framed.”
She folded back the brown paper and lifted the picture out from its tissue nest. A flourish of her black Italic pen, then boldly she added her signature. She used the name she’d been born with. Margaret Thorne.
When Ian came in from the driveway, he found them clinging together, half-laughing, half-crying. Gloomily he refrained from comment. He’d been expecting a breakdown and didn’t particularly want to get involved. Though Helen would probably drag him into it anyway. He shook his car keys in a warning rattle. “Finished, girls?” He hoped so. He’d had a hard morning and wanted to go home and settle back with the Herald and the Sunday Star Times.
“Yes. All done.” Helen was calm now, though her eyes were misty. She gave her mother another hug. “Sure you won’t change your mind and join us?”
“No. I won’t put you out.”
“You could never do that.” Helen spoke very positively, ignoring Ian’s little frown.
But Maggie was firm. “I really do want to be alone.”
Ian gave his mother-in-law a quick peck on the cheek, and followed Helen out the door. Had something happened that he needed to find out about?
Maggie rocked gently in the chair after they’d gone, sipping her lukewarm beer. In a moment she’d get up and check the balance in her bank account. When the baby was born, she could offer to pay for Helen’s piano to be tuned, rather than buy unnecessary clothes and toys. If she had enough money left, that is, after she’d been to the art shop and stocked up for herself.
Pulling a notepad towards her, Maggie started her list.
Black 3B and 4B pencils, soft enough for the bold beginning strokes. Brushes of hog bristles. Sugar paper, cartridge paper, sketchpads. Chalks and pastels. Canvases, a new easel, stretchers.
And colours whose names were dreams as she set them down. Viridian green, burnt umber and cadmium white; crimson lake, cobalt blue, ultramarine ...
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