Night Street by Kristel Thornell Page A

was firming in its pan on the side of the stove—the brightening garden had held her eye at the window—and suddenly the water around the gelatinous yellowish stuff was boiling.
    Her hands panicked, and she dipped one into the water. It was scalded. She felt a little sick but also vindicated by the knowledge that when the custard was turned out, there would be holes in it. Father would pout at them. She would have preferred the burning sensation on the back of her hand to be more violent; it helped to steady her mind. She prepared the pater a baked apple, as penance. He liked his sweets but could not stomach anything heavy.
    Mum was reading in bed, avidly.
    â€˜Still having fun with your Somerset Maugham?’
    She smiled a lovely, secretive smile. ‘It’s very entertaining. Did the painting go well?’
    â€˜Not too badly.’ It was almost impossible to talk about her work, but she was rather touched Mum had asked. ‘What do you fancy for pudding?’
    Resting her book on her knee and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, Mum thought. She looked slightly anaemic. ‘Maybe scones? The bran ones agreed with me last time.’ Dr Broadbent had lately recommended Mum’s conversion to wheatmeal and she was bravely embracing it. ‘With jam? You don’t want to sit here for a bit and chat?’
    Clarice was restless; she did not think she would be able to abide sitting by her mother. Better misanthropy, solitude.
    â€˜I’ll see about those scones.’
    â€˜Don’t go to any bother, dear.’
    This familiar phrase grated less than usual. She laid her hand briefly on the old head. ‘I’ll leave you be.’
    She was stirring ginger cordial. Louise, swanning in on an impromptu visit, demanded a glass. Clarice realised she had been listening in a trance to the sound of the spoon against the jug, possibly for a while. She stopped stirring and surrendered the jug.
    â€˜Not enough sugar, Sis,’ Louise concluded. ‘You’re lucky to be in here in the warm. The rest of the house is freezing!’
    Louise disappeared and her barely audible chattering with their mother was pierced every so often by a shriek of laughter. Mum’s cheeks would be pink after Louise went.
    Drying her hands on her apron, Clarice went to put Chopin on the gramophone. She had purchased the record after hearing this music at Mrs Hamlin’s party. Back in the kitchen, a fragment of music would suddenly present itself as a gift. Finished for better or worse with her chores, she would pass the time till the light started to fade, sewing old fur cuffs into the lining of Mum’s slippers. She had read in a magazine that this gave a cosy effect. And then she would be away from here—painting.
    Louise popped her head in again, saying she would give her kingdom for a hot cup. Clarice had no conversation in her; she only wanted to look at the garden and listen to her music, contemplating the gorgeous unease of last night.
    Her sister was wearing some new provocative scent, animal-musky. Not even the second baby had taken away her style. She leaned coquettishly in the doorway, her life seeming a playful thing. The vermilion scarf slung over her shoulder threatened to fall. She was always preparing for a glamorous performance, her hips toying with the air they occupied.
    â€˜Gosh, I’d kill for a cup of tea.’ Louise waited another minute before she reached for the kettle and filled it herself.
    â€˜Ouch!’ She had plucked a hair off Clarice’s head.
    â€˜Grey one. Well you are the older sister. Ha! Thirty-two. You should look after yourself a bit more. It starts to become important at our age.’ Louise had been colouring her own hair for years. It was very dark, timeless. ‘I could help you, if you want . . .’ she trailed off meditatively.
    â€˜No, thank you.’ The tiny prick of pain gave way to a discomforting raw feeling. ‘Silver,’