Free Eden Falls by Jane Sanderson Page A

would that be so terrible? There’s plenty to be done up there.’
    She laughed, astonished. ‘But I have commissions until the end of summer, and new enquiries almost every day.’
    He was looking straight ahead, at the grey-brown Thames. It moved sluggishly, as if it were made of something thicker than water, as if it were weary of its journey. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘In that case I suppose it’s out of t’question.’
    Anna heard his words, but was certain his true meaning lay beneath their surface. For a while, she considered his profile; he was a handsome man, but there was a stubborn set to his expression that did him no favours. And she knew exactly what was on his mind.
    ‘You think I should run for Ardington Council, don’t you?’
    He turned to look at her again. ‘I think you’d be a cracking councillor. I think with you on t’Labour benches, they’d ’ave a much better chance of getting summat done.’
    ‘And Anna Sykes Interiors? We just close door and say, sorry, all finished?’
    He looked away again. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘that there are more worthwhile ways for you to spend your days than painting murals for pampered aristocrats.’
    It wasn’t, by any means, the first time Amos had said this, but it was the first time in a while. Anna’s spirits plummeted. It was such a familiar refrain; He can never mention aristocrats without calling them pampered, she thought now.
    ‘I love what I do,’ she said. She kept her voice quiet and steady, because they were just a stone’s throw from the House of Commons and who knew who might overhear if she truly gave vent to her feelings?
    ‘I don’t,’ he said, as if she didn’t already know this. ‘I don’t love what you do.’
    This was what happened, from time to time. The catalyst would arrive by stealth and suddenly everything would be spoiled. And now, Anna thought, I should point out how my income supports his unpaid position as Labour MP for Ardington. She didn’t, though.
    ‘I’m your wife and Maya’s mother, and those things will always be so,’ she said instead. ‘But also, I’m an artist.’
    ‘Artist to the privileged few. Artist to them as ’as a bare ballroom wall they want painting, or a billiard room that wants cheering up.’
    ‘You make me sound so trivial.’
    ‘You’re not. The people you work for are.’
    ‘But if it makes me happy?’
    His face was set: grim and unrelenting. On his lap, the waxed-paper parcel lay untouched. Too cross to eat a sandwich, she thought: how like Maya he could be. She knew from experience that, short of pledging right now to shun every illustrious name in her order book, there was nothing she could do to unravel this tangle of resentment. Time, and a little distance, would free them, as it had done before.
    ‘I’m going to Slade,’ she said, standing. ‘I need to see Clara and William; ask them to come with me on Friday to Marcia de Lisle’s place in Sussex.’
    He didn’t answer, and she hadn’t really expected him to. But she was damned if she would pander to his prejudices. Anna was all for equality: not least her own, with him.
    He was sorry, when she walked away, that he hadn’t said goodbye. He felt mean-minded and petulant and then, when he stood, the forgotten, wrapped sandwich fell to the ground and he felt even worse. By the time he reached the Socialist Club he was mired in a profound gloom, made all the deeper by the knowledge that it was of his own making. Enoch, early as usual, had already stood him a drink; he and the pint waited at a carefully selected corner table, from where the members’ bar was in full view and the red plush curtains at an adjacent window would help muffle their voices; he was nothing if not cautious.
    ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘You’ve a right face on.’
    Amos sat down.
    ‘Nowt new,’ he said. ‘Bit of a barney with Anna.’
    Enoch grimaced and pushed his round, wire-framed spectacles back up his nose. ‘Not this