Free How You See Me by S.E. Craythorne Page B

borne onwards by my marching feet. The rain got into my eyes so I had to squint and cold leached past cuffs, waistband and neckline, penetrating my flesh in a deep shiver. My mouth formed a word and dropped it into the sharp wind that rattled our raincoats.
    ‘What did you say?’ Maggie pulled her hood to one side and stepped closer.
    ‘Cold. I’m cold.’
    ‘We’ll get you back.’
    I was glad to be able to send her home for a good night’s sleep with a few notes tucked down the front of her dress.
     
    (Later)
    Dad’s sleeping now, head flung back and mouth open. Giving his molars an airing. Even loading the fire doesn’t disturb him, though it’s an awkward business trying not to dislodge Tatty from her place on my feet. Everything’scosy tonight. Without the wretched TV blaring, we’re like a sentimental painting. The kind of thing Dad always hated.
    It was kind of you to offer me a break – I spared Dad that part of your letter – but to be honest I’m probably best placed here for the moment. And yes, you have that in writing! I need to get my strength back and see what I can do for the old man. Looking back over the past months, I am ashamed of the little I’ve actually managed to achieve. I was too busy wishing myself elsewhere. I’ve written to my girlfriend and she understands my position. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor for Monday, for me to talk to him about Dad. There has to be more we can do.
    There has been no word from Sarah and I don’t expect there to be. That’s an old dream and I have to let it go. You weren’t here when she first arrived, were you? That day when Dad came back from London with a strange girl tucked under his arm. His lifetime muse, plucked off the streets. Easy as picking a flower. I wonder what he took her from? Strange, but it never seemed to come up. It took Maggie to tell me what kind of a gift she really was; what he was really saying by bringing her here. Here, son, here is your dead mother to play with. ‘The spit of her,’ Maggie said that night, as she came in to check on me. ‘It’s not healthy.’
    It was the next day that he started digging that pond outside. I sat eating eggs and staring at the mother I couldn’t remember. Sarah drank her coffee and smiled. She asked me questions about school and put on another round of toast for me. We were so polite, sitting there at breakfast. Me in my school uniform, she in a borrowed robe and Dad outside hacking at the turf.
    Dad had cut himself out, a sharp silhouette on clean white paper; you and I were the figures that folded out of him. Hand in hand we stood. The last figure, the fourth, a little ragged, a little stained, had been snipped cleanly away. So we hung either side of Dad, the blunt-cut stumps of our fingers unable to grasp. And he tacked on another. She fitted the template. What could go wrong? How could we possibly complain? We were the model family.
    It’s strange to stumble past the portraits lined up in the studio. Me and Sarah and Dad, all gazing to the corners of the room.
    Why aren’t you part of the pantomime, Mab? Whatever can it mean? Does it even matter?
    Forgive this letter,
    Daniel x
     
    15th December
    The Studio
    Dear Aubrey –
    So I phoned you during a session. You usually relish interruptions. I am your employee after all; I should be phoning during work hours. You complained enough when I phoned you at home. And I’ll have you know I recovered from more than a simple cold. It was flu. The doctor confirmed it (and that’s a real doctor, not one of your pet pharmacists). And I’m feeling much better, not that you asked. The joy I’m finding is not some passing phase or brainstorm. It’s a new clarity and I’m enjoying it.
    I’m sorry that I put you to the trouble of renewing my prescription, but it can hardly be a surprise to you if I look for a chemical solution when I’m desperate. It was you who taught me that was the answer. I’m sure you can put your little