Free Just For the Summer by Judy Astley Page B

went to quite a lot of exhibitions in London, mostly private views of friends of Jack’s who were still bravely trying to make it in the art world. One of them, she recalled, was an advertising executive whose spare time was spent painting turgid seascapes (from memory – his house overlooked nothing more watery than a fishpond) and another was a children’s book illustrator with a passion for constructing vast papier-mache nudes. Clare didn’t know any artists who sold anything – but their private view invitations made a pretty display among the mismatched arty pots on her kitchen dresser in Barnes, and added to the feeling that she had a culturally acceptable social life.
    The exhibition was what could only be described as ‘mixed’, both in standard and content. Jack tried to steer Clare towards the paintings, which he thought good, and which carried price tags high enough to help him win his ‘I-could-do-that’ argument. But Clare was not tobe steered. She wandered around, an incredulous look on her face, occasionally turning over a jug to look at its price, or fingering a tapestry wall-hanging.
    ‘How can people turn out such ugly things, when they’ve clearly got so much skill?’ she said to Jack in a loud whisper. ‘Look at this,’ she demanded, pulling him away from a row of landscapes. ‘Just look at all the work in this.’ Clare indicated a huge patchwork quilt, exquisitely sewn and delicately quilted, but made up of pieces of dull greens and yellow ochres. ‘All that work for such an ugly result! Who’d want that in their bedroom? Whose decor will that match?’ Jack sighed, unable to do anything but agree silently. She didn’t seem in a mood for water colours, so he tried another tack.
    ‘Come and look at the knitwear,’ he said, pulling gently on her arm. ‘Some of it is rather good.’ Clare looked at the range of heathery-coloured sweaters and admired a couple of colour combinations which she resolved to use herself in London. ‘You could sell your stuff here, Clare,’ Jack said, persuasively. ‘It’s better than this.’
    ‘Not for the prices I get back home,’ Clare said. She picked up a khaki knitted bikini and giggled. ‘I wonder how many of these they’ve sold,’ she said. ‘It looks like it was made by someone who hasn’t been on a beach since 1926.’
    Clare wandered out into the sunlight and Jack trailed behind, feeling the sad loss of an opportunity. He should have been more insistent, drawn Clare’s attention to allthe red ‘sold’ dots fixed to the paintings. They might not do a roaring trade in baggy bikinis or gloomy patchwork, but the craft centre seemed to be a good outlet for pictures. He wondered why, and who was buying them. Presumably holiday makers, wanting an up-market reminder of a good time. They might not want to risk travelling hundreds of miles home with a delicate, newspaper-wrapped piece of pottery or glass, but could find a safe, flat stowing space behind a Passat’s passenger seat for a local painting. He’d have to show Clare what could be done, he resolved. Next time they visited the gallery it would have to be to look at his own work hanging there, and if the paintings didn’t have a convincing enough number of red stickers, he’d just have to buy a pack of them and apply them himself. He thought about telling Clare he intended to start painting seriously again, but at that moment she caught sight of Amy, Harriet and Miranda leaning over the sailing club balcony across the creek. Jack looked closely at Clare’s face, finding in it a mixture of expressions: a concern that the younger ones might fall over the edge, a delight at seeing Miranda and an indefinable something else which might just be an anticipation of lunch.
    The second-home families separated themselves from the holiday makers for the day’s important rituals: lunch; pre-dinner drinks; their late-night corner of the pub. Liz liked to have lunch at the sailing club. If she had