pretty things. She looked like the career type, young, married, plenty of money. She was only an adman’s fantasy. Miranda was the real customer. A girl with bitten nails, unable to wait the extra days for hospital bureaucracy, the family doctor with his kind but disappointed concern, or worst of all her mother knowingbefore she did. This was a sordid way to find out if you were growing a human. Collecting early morning pee and shaving your legs in the bath, perfecting the skin care while you kept watch on a phial of liquid, daring it to change colour. But when Miranda got out of the bath, the liquid was pink. It must run in the family, Miranda thought, so this must have been how Clare felt when she realized I was on the way.
Clare was in the kitchen, envying Jack. He’d taken on the cooking of the barbecue that evening and therefore had earned himself an afternoon off in which to gather his strength. Clare, therefore was left with whatever domestic duties had to be done that day, and resented it.
‘I’m supposed to be having a holiday,’ she fumed to the washing machine. Other people on holiday get room service: I AM room service.
At home in Barnes at least she could fling the laundry in and out of its gadgets as and when she thought of it. Here, in time-bomb mood, she had to stand over an ancient twin-tub washing machine that must have been the last word of luxury in its day. Now it seemed to plead to go away and be left to retire in the recycling plant. Water slopped on to the kitchen floor, all over Clare’s espadrilles, the soles of which were soaking up the dampness like blotting paper. The machine could do nothing without intervention. It was helpless andunwilling, slow and stubborn. Like an old lady crossing a busy road, it could not be rushed but had to be encouraged gently along in case of disaster. Clare cursed and pushed her collapsing hair out of her face as she dragged hot and heavy sheets from one half of the machine to the other. The spinner made the whole thing dance madly across the floor, skittering sideways trying to pull the hoses from the taps at the same time. Clare kicked it back towards the sink. She might as well, she thought, take the sheets down to the creek, bash them with stones and gossip with the villagers. But the real villagers all had state-of-the-art automatics. One day, she thought, one day I’ll persuade Jack to sell this bloody inefficient house and we’ll take real holidays like everyone else, in real family hotels where real chambermaids take away the used bedlinen and I never have to see it again.
In the garden Jack, who was supposed to be shopping for chicken wings and lamb for the kebabs, was trying to remember what artistic inspiration felt like as he sharpened his pencil and opened a new pad of cartridge paper. He hardly wanted to defile the clean white pages, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to capture an impression of the hydrangea and make it acceptably recognizable. Flower paintings seemed to do well at the craft centre, along with local river views and boats at sunset. Jack had taught his pupils to look first at the overall shape of their subject, and at the shapes made between the parts of the subject.He tried doing the same. The hydrangea had so many petals, such delicately shaded colouring, through pinks and lilacs to blue. It was a plant for watercolour, oil was too heavy, a human hand with a pencil was too heavy. Jack made some sketching gestures over the paper, not quite touching it He looked out towards the hippy raft across the creek and closed the pad. Another time. He couldn’t concentrate. The noises of Clare in the kitchen fighting with the washing made him feel guilty that he wasn’t in there helping. But if he went in now he would be cursed for being too late. When they moved down here properly, Clare would have all her usual gadgets with her then, that should help. He went towards the kitchen, if he didn’t go there at all there’d be a
Clare was in the kitchen, envying Jack. He’d taken on the cooking of the barbecue that evening and therefore had earned himself an afternoon off in which to gather his strength. Clare, therefore was left with whatever domestic duties had to be done that day, and resented it.
‘I’m supposed to be having a holiday,’ she fumed to the washing machine. Other people on holiday get room service: I AM room service.
At home in Barnes at least she could fling the laundry in and out of its gadgets as and when she thought of it. Here, in time-bomb mood, she had to stand over an ancient twin-tub washing machine that must have been the last word of luxury in its day. Now it seemed to plead to go away and be left to retire in the recycling plant. Water slopped on to the kitchen floor, all over Clare’s espadrilles, the soles of which were soaking up the dampness like blotting paper. The machine could do nothing without intervention. It was helpless andunwilling, slow and stubborn. Like an old lady crossing a busy road, it could not be rushed but had to be encouraged gently along in case of disaster. Clare cursed and pushed her collapsing hair out of her face as she dragged hot and heavy sheets from one half of the machine to the other. The spinner made the whole thing dance madly across the floor, skittering sideways trying to pull the hoses from the taps at the same time. Clare kicked it back towards the sink. She might as well, she thought, take the sheets down to the creek, bash them with stones and gossip with the villagers. But the real villagers all had state-of-the-art automatics. One day, she thought, one day I’ll persuade Jack to sell this bloody inefficient house and we’ll take real holidays like everyone else, in real family hotels where real chambermaids take away the used bedlinen and I never have to see it again.
In the garden Jack, who was supposed to be shopping for chicken wings and lamb for the kebabs, was trying to remember what artistic inspiration felt like as he sharpened his pencil and opened a new pad of cartridge paper. He hardly wanted to defile the clean white pages, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to capture an impression of the hydrangea and make it acceptably recognizable. Flower paintings seemed to do well at the craft centre, along with local river views and boats at sunset. Jack had taught his pupils to look first at the overall shape of their subject, and at the shapes made between the parts of the subject.He tried doing the same. The hydrangea had so many petals, such delicately shaded colouring, through pinks and lilacs to blue. It was a plant for watercolour, oil was too heavy, a human hand with a pencil was too heavy. Jack made some sketching gestures over the paper, not quite touching it He looked out towards the hippy raft across the creek and closed the pad. Another time. He couldn’t concentrate. The noises of Clare in the kitchen fighting with the washing made him feel guilty that he wasn’t in there helping. But if he went in now he would be cursed for being too late. When they moved down here properly, Clare would have all her usual gadgets with her then, that should help. He went towards the kitchen, if he didn’t go there at all there’d be a
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