Free Keeping the World Away by Margaret Forster Page A

their long skirts and showed off their strong, laced walking boots. They were prepared.
    On the steamer, they went barefoot, to the consternation of the only other passengers, a single elderly gentleman on his way to visit a relative, and a couple from Yorkshire who were prim and proper and changed for dinner. Gwen and Dorelia never changed. It was a nonsense in such circumstances, and ‘dinner’ the most basic of meals. They wore the same dresses all the time, Gwen’s a dark brown, Dorelia’s a vivid blue. They washed only hands and faces and, of course, their bare feet (twice a day). When they reached Bordeaux – even the Bay of Biscay was calm – they had to put on their boots before taking a single step on French soil, and it was a painful business. The delicious freedom had made their feet spread, or so it seemed. Their feet resisted being confined in thick woollen socks, purchased with such pride – they were so sensible – before the journey, and once the socks were forced on, the feet would not fit comfortably into the boots. ‘What are we to do?’ Gwen wailed. Dorelia sat on the edge of her bunk, quite still. She thought. Carefully, she undid the laces in her boots and spread the opening wide. Then she removed the woollen socks, rolled them into a ball and put them aside before finding and donning her thin stockings. She stood up and tried the boots, saying nothing. Gwen followed suit. She looked down at her flapping boots and took a step forward. They stayed on. Dorelia did the same. They looked at each other and laughed and laughed.
    The laughter faded on the quayside. They had so much to carry and their feet weighed them down. To get out of Bordeaux, which they were in a hurry to do, they were obliged to hire a cart and its driver, a surly fellow who did not seem to understand their French and whose face was one tight mask of complaint. But he took them to the outskirts of the town, as they had requested, and dumped them by the River Gironde near Podensac. It was late afternoon, the light beginning to fade from a dazzling blaze to a shimmering glow. They stood beside their heap of equipment and sighed, stretching their arms out wide and throwing their heads back to feel the sun on their faces. Then they took off their boots, and moved into the grass beside the road, taking up their bundles and walking slowly along the river-bank. Where to? They did not know. They had taken the precaution of buying bread before they left Bordeaux, and had filled their water bottles. When they were tired, they would lie down and sleep under a hedge, if need be.
    That first night, it was what they did.
    *
    One night was spent in a barn, empty except for straw, the perfect place to bed down, though the straw had a yeasty smell; another night under a cart, left in the corner of a field, the ground under it dry when all around it was wet; several nights in ferny hollows, the moon bathing them in white light and making the thought of sleep absurd. But every third or fourth night they paid to stay in a house, glad to be able to wash and attend to their hair. Gwen was more particular about her hair than Dorelia, though her hair was finer and not so prone to pick up bits of grass and twigs from the ground they lay on. They were both particular about their clothes, not wishing to appear vagabonds even if they were living like tramps. They regularly washed and pressed their dresses and cleaned their boots and made sure they were presentable. They needed to look respectable and attractive when they set up in village streets to offer themselves as portrait painters, or if, as sometimes happened, they had earned nothing from portraits and must sing for their supper.
    At La Réole, thirty miles from Bordeaux, they met another artist. He came to stare at them, with other men, as they slept in a stable. His name was Leonard Broucke. Gwen did not like him – she thought him arrogant, with his offer to give them a lesson – but Dorelia