scared at all , I had to say, feeling flushed. I will get as many tiles as you like.
Now I wanted to stop talking about Miss Gash and her pipe and trousers, her tiles, the way she had eaten her husband. I wanted to be somewhere else, and in some other mood where I would not have to think about Miss Gash and feel Ursula watching me.
An Exhibition
I was beginning to dislike the way Miss Gashâs lumpy lawn snatched at my feet, and the way the house seemed to withdraw as I ran over endless grass towards it. The steps up to the verandah were yawning away from each other, about to fall apart, and the shadow I saw under a leaf looked like a funnel-web. The house knew everything and was brittle in the mauve twilight. A pink cloud hung above a chimney in the shape of a puff of smoke. A pattern of postage stamps in the shadow of the verandah swayed towards me in the moment before it resolved itself into leaves and shadows, and the lace curtain in the window stirred as it always did, and fell back.
Brave at last behind lattice, I looked out and listened, and did not shrink when I saw Miss Gash walk out over the lawn with a sheet of damp painted paper held in front of her. She had to put it down to clear the weeds from the tap that stood on its pipe beside a hydrangea. At last it gushed out a ropy strand of water and she held the painting under it. For a moment I could see the vague circle of a face filling the page before the water washed the colours into the grass. It had grown thick around the tap, fed by so many paintings. On hands and knees she scrubbed at the painting and smoothed the paper like a sick-bed sheet. When she scrubbed too hard, conscientiously going into a corner, the paper tore with a wet rotten sound and she laughed in surprise. She stood for a long time when she had turned off the tap, holding the dripping paper as patiently as a clothes-line.
Later, when she had gone back into the house at last, and I had heard her footsteps and singing go to some far room, I began to creep out from behind my lattice and emboldened myself with thoughts of Rick for the climb up the verandah steps and along the boards. Miss Gash had pinned paintings to the railing to make a kind of exhibition for me alone. I did not resist, confident that she was deep in the house, and took my time looking. There were faces, crooked trees, staggering lines of bush against water. There were the washed ones whose colours had bled to death under the tap. At the end of the row of paintings, Miss Gash sat behind a post, watching me in her postage stamps. An iron bucket threw itself at my feet and clashed out in a terrifying way, and the tabby that had been watching me squealed and fled. My pinafore could hardly contain my bursting chest. Although Miss Gash smiled and was about to speak, I ran away heavily into the bushes.
It was only when I was safe under my plumbago again that I remembered I had not stolen a tile for Ursula. Safe behind my blue flowers, I was glad. I was not in a mood for stealing from Miss Gash, but wanted to watch her painting, or see her smoke her pipe again, and enjoy that rich smell.
The True Story
Alma brought in the blancmange so hastily that it palpitated in its dish. Parerâs horse , she said, red-faced and important, itâs gone and got itself in up at the Gash place. Mother quietened the blancmange with a stare. Thank you, Alma , she said, and Alma put the blancmange on the table and struck at its heart with a spoon. Parer can manage , Mother said, watching a bead of rainbow from her water glass. And will deal with the old lady.
Mother could not have dreamed that I had seen Miss Gash at close quarters on her verandah, or that I planned to keep going back there until I understood. Father would also never have believed, and would have laughed his short laugh at the mere idea, but did not have to believe anything, lying quietly upstairs and eating strengthening gruel. Nor would I have tried to make them
Now I wanted to stop talking about Miss Gash and her pipe and trousers, her tiles, the way she had eaten her husband. I wanted to be somewhere else, and in some other mood where I would not have to think about Miss Gash and feel Ursula watching me.
An Exhibition
I was beginning to dislike the way Miss Gashâs lumpy lawn snatched at my feet, and the way the house seemed to withdraw as I ran over endless grass towards it. The steps up to the verandah were yawning away from each other, about to fall apart, and the shadow I saw under a leaf looked like a funnel-web. The house knew everything and was brittle in the mauve twilight. A pink cloud hung above a chimney in the shape of a puff of smoke. A pattern of postage stamps in the shadow of the verandah swayed towards me in the moment before it resolved itself into leaves and shadows, and the lace curtain in the window stirred as it always did, and fell back.
Brave at last behind lattice, I looked out and listened, and did not shrink when I saw Miss Gash walk out over the lawn with a sheet of damp painted paper held in front of her. She had to put it down to clear the weeds from the tap that stood on its pipe beside a hydrangea. At last it gushed out a ropy strand of water and she held the painting under it. For a moment I could see the vague circle of a face filling the page before the water washed the colours into the grass. It had grown thick around the tap, fed by so many paintings. On hands and knees she scrubbed at the painting and smoothed the paper like a sick-bed sheet. When she scrubbed too hard, conscientiously going into a corner, the paper tore with a wet rotten sound and she laughed in surprise. She stood for a long time when she had turned off the tap, holding the dripping paper as patiently as a clothes-line.
Later, when she had gone back into the house at last, and I had heard her footsteps and singing go to some far room, I began to creep out from behind my lattice and emboldened myself with thoughts of Rick for the climb up the verandah steps and along the boards. Miss Gash had pinned paintings to the railing to make a kind of exhibition for me alone. I did not resist, confident that she was deep in the house, and took my time looking. There were faces, crooked trees, staggering lines of bush against water. There were the washed ones whose colours had bled to death under the tap. At the end of the row of paintings, Miss Gash sat behind a post, watching me in her postage stamps. An iron bucket threw itself at my feet and clashed out in a terrifying way, and the tabby that had been watching me squealed and fled. My pinafore could hardly contain my bursting chest. Although Miss Gash smiled and was about to speak, I ran away heavily into the bushes.
It was only when I was safe under my plumbago again that I remembered I had not stolen a tile for Ursula. Safe behind my blue flowers, I was glad. I was not in a mood for stealing from Miss Gash, but wanted to watch her painting, or see her smoke her pipe again, and enjoy that rich smell.
The True Story
Alma brought in the blancmange so hastily that it palpitated in its dish. Parerâs horse , she said, red-faced and important, itâs gone and got itself in up at the Gash place. Mother quietened the blancmange with a stare. Thank you, Alma , she said, and Alma put the blancmange on the table and struck at its heart with a spoon. Parer can manage , Mother said, watching a bead of rainbow from her water glass. And will deal with the old lady.
Mother could not have dreamed that I had seen Miss Gash at close quarters on her verandah, or that I planned to keep going back there until I understood. Father would also never have believed, and would have laughed his short laugh at the mere idea, but did not have to believe anything, lying quietly upstairs and eating strengthening gruel. Nor would I have tried to make them
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