The Honours by Tim Clare Page A

chocolate, russet and dirty gamboge. The colours bled down his forearm, onto the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. Painttubes lay around him like spent shells. Three brushes stood in a jar of murky turpentine. His other hand, still wrapped in gauze, yawned hungrily.
    â€˜Don’t tread on that,’ he said, without looking round. He gestured vaguely with his painting hand, fingers opening, snapping shut.
    She looked down. The floor was a brittle topography of old paint-stiffened newspaper – crags and gullies and lakes of spilt colour. At the tip of her sandal, an empty tube of Prussian blue lay stamped out like a slug.
    Daddy’s painting hand plucked the cigarette from his mouth, then felt about on the crate beside his stool till it found the chipped rim of a mug. He lifted the mug to his lips; he swigged, then looked off to one side and said: ‘Ah.’
    â€˜Daddy, I need to – ’
    â€˜Shh.’ His torso canted left as he put down the mug. He straightened, swept a twist of damp, steely hair back behind his ear. The light of the naked bulb brought out the leanness in his arms and jowls. Delphine’s eyes were beginning to water on account of the turpentine. She was sure Daddy ought not to allow flames in such a poorly ventilated space.
    He put a fist to his mouth, cocked his head. The canvas, as far as she could see, was a mass of undifferentiated brown behind a few slashes of white. Daddy stared at it as if the act of concentrating alone would drag an image to the surface. Plaits of smoke rose from between his knuckles and folded against the bare beams of the ceiling.
    He tipped his head back and groaned. Then: ‘Come here, darling. Mind my mess.’
    Delphine held her breath. She began picking her way towards him, sticking to patches of bare floor, taking care not to tread on anything that might crack or crunch or squelch. She drew up beside him. He smiled.
    â€˜There’s my little Delphy.’ His painting hand reared up and pinched her cheek. The gauze was rough against her ear.
    â€˜Ow.’ She rubbed the tender skin.
    â€˜Come on. Let’s not have whingeing.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette then stubbed it out in a terracotta dish.
    â€˜Daddy.’
    He put his palette down and took a tobacco tin from the crate. He began rolling a cigarette.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I need to tell you something.’
    Daddy worked the cigarette paper back and forth between the thumb and fingers of his left hand. Dry paint flaked from his fingernails.
    â€˜Tell.’
    â€˜The first day Mother and I got here. Before you arrived.’ Perhaps it was the fumes, but she felt the start of a headache. ‘I was walking around the house. I overheard a conversation.’
    Daddy stuck the cigarette between his incisors like a toothpick. He retrieved a matchbook from his pocket.
    â€˜You’ve been listening at keyholes again, haven’t you?’
    â€˜No, I . . . ’ She was about to fib, but something in his eyes made her reconsider. ‘There was a hole in the wall. The west wing is full of holes. I never meant to spy – they were talking so loudly.’
    Daddy flipped open the matchbook and tore out a match. ‘Who?’
    â€˜I think . . . one of them was Mr Propp.’
    He dragged the match down the rough strip. It did not light.
    â€˜You shouldn’t eavesdrop. We’re guests here.’
    â€˜Daddy, he said there’s going to be a war.’
    â€˜Then there probably is.’
    He struck the match and it lit with a noise like someone ripping open a present. His face rippled purple and orange. He made a cave with his hand and brought the flame to the tip of his cigarette.
    â€˜He said they’ve been taking trips over the channel for secret talks.’
    â€˜Who was he saying this to?’
    â€˜I . . . I don’t know. An old man.’
    â€˜An old man.’ Daddy blew smoke over his shoulder.