The Last Summer by Judith Kinghorn Page B

little
too
blurred?’
    I took the book from him. ‘It’s meant to be. It’s impressionistic, Papa.’
    I looked back at the painted paper. I’d planned on sending it out to Tom, but now I wondered what he’d see. Would he recognise what I’d tried so hard to capture? Or would he, too, hold it upside down and see only a blurred mess of pale colours?
    ‘Perhaps you should work on it some more. Add a little more detail . . .’ Papa suggested, smiling at me. And he was right. It needed more work.
    ‘Yes, I think you’re right . . . it’s much too pale. I need to add darkness . . . give it more depth,’ I said, but he was distracted and had turned back to his map of Europe.
    He’d recently pinned the map on the wall above his desk and had it marked with pins and little bits of red and blue ribbon. I suppose he thought he was doing his bit: keeping track, following events. Around the house all anyone spoke of was the war, and now I too was keen to hear about it, to join in. When I left Papa in the library that day I went to the kitchen, where Mabel and Edna sat peeling vegetables at the long pine table. It seemed to me that between them they knew everything, every figure and statistic. And their conversation, so different to the other side of the green baize door, was an endless stream of fascinating detail.
    Edna had been with us for years, since before I was born, and Mabel, for at least five years. They were both unmarried and, along with the other female servants, had rooms on the east side of the house, above the kitchen and servants’ hall, looking out over the stable yard. They were both younger than they appeared, and I only knew this because Mama had told me. She’d mentioned that Mabel was, surprisingly,
considerably younger
than Edna. So, I’d estimated, Edna was probably nearer to thirty than forty, despite her matronly appearance, and Mabel – a good few years younger.
    I showed them both my painting, asked them what they thought.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Edna said, squinting at it under the light. ‘It’s pretty . . . very pretty, miss. Is it the lake?’
    And I think I yelled, ‘Yes! It is, it’s the lake, and look, that’s the island . . . it’s not finished, of course, still needs more work.’
    ‘Very atmosphereful. Oh yes, you’re artistic, Miss Clarissa. Always have been. Hasn’t she, Mabel?’
    Mabel wiped her hands, took hold of the book and studied it for a moment. She was always more reticent than Edna, and compliments were not easy for her.
    ‘Yes . . .’ she said, looking up at me with a tight smile. ‘Very good.’
    ‘Shall I . . . would you like me to paint something for you, Edna?’ I asked, glancing over at her and smiling.
    Her face lit up. ‘Ooh, yes, I should say. Yes, I’d like that. I don’t have any paintings, you know? Not one.’
    ‘I’ll do it then,’ I said. ‘I’ll paint something for you next. But it might be . . . it might be more abstract.’
    ‘Abstract? That sounds lovely, dear,’ she said, as I took the book from Mabel and sat down at the table.
    And as I pondered on my next ‘commission’, they resumed their conversation: the one I’d interrupted when I’d walked into the kitchen.
    ‘And over twenty more gone last Friday – an’ most of ’em from Monkswood too,’ Edna said, shaking her head. ‘How they’ll cope there now I don’t know . . .’
    Monkswood Hall, the estate bordering ours, had twice or even three times as much land, a folly, its own chapel, and at least two farms. It also had three times as many servants. The Hamiltons, who owned it, had made their fortune building ships, and were rumoured to be descendants of Emma Hamilton. This rumour seemed to be confirmed by their choice of name fortheir eldest son, Horatio (known to everyone as Harry). And they were obviously fond of alliteration, for the four younger children’s names also began with H: Howard, Helena, Harriett and Hugo. We’d seen quite a bit of the Hamilton children