bicycle rode along the towpath. A girl sat in the shade of a tree, fondling a dog. She stopped to give Alison her lunch and ate a sandwich herself, and then went straight back to it, propping Alison up in the corner of the sofa so that she could talk to her about it, just as if her daughter could understand. And then George came home and spoilt it all.
Dinner wasn’t ready, something he could have forgiven if she had been busy unpacking the tea chests of small possessions which they had accumulated while living in Victoria Street, but the chests hadn’t been touched and she had wasted the whole day, daubing that monstrosity on the wall. ‘When I said pictures, I meant real pictures,’ he said. ‘In frames.’
‘Then I’ll give it a frame,’ she said angrily and, picking up a brush, dipped it in brown paint and drew a thick line round it. ‘There! Now it’s got a frame.’
‘It’s too big. It dominates the room. Whatever made you do it, Barbara?’
‘I felt like it.’
‘Felt like it! I wish I could neglect my work to do something useless simply because I felt like doing it.’
‘Perhaps you should. Perhaps if you gave yourself a little time off now and again, you wouldn’t be so grouchy.’
‘I’m not grouchy. I’m simply pointing out that it’s not—’
‘What you employ me for?’ She couldn’t help saying it; it simply burst out of her. She felt guilty about his dinner, but not about the picture. And she was disappointed he didn’t see any merit in it at all. Was he right? Didn’t she have any talent after all? She looked at it critically and saw all its faults: its perspective wasn’t quite right and the man was too big compared with his bicycle, and she wanted to weep. Instead she became angry. ‘I am not one of your employees, George. I am your wife.’
‘Quite,’ he said.
And then she burst into tears.
He looked perplexed, raised his hands and then dropped them to his sides, at a loss to know what to do in the face of this torrent of grief. ‘Oh, do stop it, Barbara, it’s nothing to cry about,’ he said. ‘I hate weepy women.’ He took the handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it to her. ‘I suppose you have taken quite a lot of trouble over it. You never said you might do it or I might have been prepared…’ He stopped and looked more closely at the painting, showing a belated interest in it. ‘I see now. It’s the Cam and that’s supposed to be me on the bicycle, the day we met. But you should be in a rowing boat, not under the tree.’
‘It’s not you and it’s not me,’ she retorted, gulping back her tears. ‘It’s just a picture, that’s all, a bloody stupid picture. I’ll go and get you something to eat.’ And she disappeared into the kitchen and fetched cold meat and salad out of the larder. She knew he didn’t consider salad a proper meal, but it was the middle of summer after all. And she didn’t feel like cooking.
When she returned to the sitting room with the tray, he was sitting in the armchair, jogging Alison up and down on his knee. ‘Who’s got a new tooth, then?’ he was asking her. ‘You’ll soon be eating proper dinners and then going to school and, before you know it, you’ll be all grown up and the image of your beautiful mother.’
Barbara stood and watched them and her heart contracted. He really was a doting father and she had wasted a whole day because the picture wasn’t all that good. And George was right: it was far too big. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, setting down the tray. ‘I got carried way. I’ll get rid of it. You’re right, it’s awful.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He paused. ‘Look, I don’t want to stop you painting if you enjoy it. But not on walls. Do pictures, something small and delicate, flowers or animals. Submit something for the art competition at the summer fete. You never know, you might win.’
She hated his condescending attitude but it wasn’t worth another argument, so she smiled and took Alison from him. ‘I’ll think about it. Now, come and have your dinner.’
The next day she went out and bought several rolls of wallpaper, and by the time George came home in the evening, the mural was hidden beneath full-blown cabbage roses. She didn’t like them, but