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a very good year for us in spite of the recession. I’ll have the brickies
in next week, if you don’t mind. —What for? —I’ve already got the
building license.—But, what do you plan to build? Why didn’t you tell
me? —It’s a surprise. I want to have it ready for your birthday. You
know the bad land patch right at the back, where we stock gravel and
old railway sleepers we never sell, we don’t want it for anything, it’s just
good to attract white ants... —Yes, we could clean it, but what do you
mean to build for me, there, so far away? Am I punished? —Sort of...
For not painting all these years. Now you’re going to have to use your
right hand again, seven days a week, I’ll check on you. What would
you say about a nice big studio? —Oh, Fred!” She blushed, averted
her gaze and cried. She did not want a studio, she was bad, bad, why
would anyone spend this kind of money on her, who had not produced
anything worthwhile at forty, when there were so many young talented
artists who were striving? Fred said he knew that she was talented too,
that she had struggled longer and harder than most, that she deserved
it, and it was his wish. He wanted her to accept this studio for his own
satisfaction, she would not deny him this joy, would she? “Oh, dear me,
I am sorry, you are such a kind man and I am such a fool.” She dried
her tears. They hugged, they walked to the bad land patch, pushing
the pram before them. They unfurled the architect-designed plans. The
project was thirty feet deep by twenty wide, a two-story high structure,
with its own bathroom, its fireplace, a small mezzanine floor and a large
sundeck at the rear, all natural old-style brick and redwood. The front
would be fenced and a hibiscus hedge would be planted. She could paint
any time without being disturbed by visitors and customers. It was
beautiful. Nothing was missing but ocean views, they lived almost five
miles inland. She thought she would have to reinvent the ocean. It was
perhaps what painting was all about: could she do it at all, could she
do it without reinventing the Matilda she had buried in a dark crevice
between giant overhanging boulders, on the day she had fled Avalon
without a forwarding address? This was the really painful part, that she
could not discuss Matilda with Fred, even now. Matilda, who was all but
forgotten, still led a kind of ghostly existence, like an unwanted shade
of blue in a painted sky, which forbade Carol to either laugh at her or
mourn for her. She would not drown in an acre of pure cobalt.
Nevertheless the midday meal, under the grapevine, began lightheartedly
and full of attention for Carol on the part of all the guests.
The two garden hands had been invited to share potluck. Blue-haired
Mrs Bell, the town councillor Fred had eventually called before knowing
that the water main had been repaired, had come to see personally what
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