Free Night Street by Kristel Thornell Page A

penchant for climbing trees; she tried to visualise him in a tree. Hard to combine such a picture with the sharper edges of his thinking, but you never knew. The sky was blue glory.
    The throbbing of her brain became more commanding, something tightening in her or unravelling, and an impromptu party melody sprang up. It was a gentleman she did not know, playing jigs on a fiddle that worried the goat. Why did they keep a goat? Its milk must have gone into one of Mrs Hamlin’s beauty treatments. Later, Arthur was telling a story about a drunken novice’s complicated attempt to shear a sheep. Everyone was in stitches, and Clarice’s belly hurt as she watched his hands elaborating the absurd tale.
    When Bella came to stand beside him, his eyes fled up to the clear sky.
    A scent of perfume was inescapable, sugary and heavy with roses, as was the more calming smell of cut grass. The entire afternoon was like the children’s game where one spins around and around, as fast as possible, keeps spinning, although a collapse is coming and the degree of its severity steadily worsening. It was funny how eager one was to abandon orientation and balance for speed and its risks; the freedom of lost control was intoxicating, hence one’s fateful inclination for it.
    â€˜Clarice, are you feeling well?’ the hostess asked.
    Was she wincing from the headache or smiling strangely? The brooch that held Mrs Hamlin’s dress in place seemed an improbable insect, the gaudy fruit of an hallucination.
    â€˜I think I have a migraine. But what a delightful party!’
    â€˜Would you like to lie down inside for a while? The guest room is made up. A little rest?’
    Clarice would sooner not have separated herself from the rare entertainment, but she had begun to screw up her eyes in the imperious sunshine. Mrs Hamlin saw this mix of reluctance and discomfort, and took Clarice by the arm. She was led inside. The hostess’s ardour for artists might have contained some possessive impulse; nonetheless, she was warm and admirably colourful.
    â€˜Sorry for the trouble. I don’t usually drink. That’s probably it.’
    â€˜Oh, a little drink won’t hurt you. It’ll be the heat. But don’t worry, my dear. A lie down will do you a world of good.’
    The richly appointed house was a dim, soft blur.
    â€˜Thank you so much,’ Clarice said, more than once. ‘I’m really so sorry for the bother.’
    â€˜Don’t be silly.’ Mrs Hamlin helped to ease off her shoes and get her settled on a bed. ‘It’s a madhouse out there,’ she said happily, going for a damp washcloth and a glass of water.
    Clarice took the pins out of her hair. Shortly after, already in the dark of her eyelids, she felt the washcloth come down hesitantly on her forehead. ‘That beastly Chesterfield person,’ Mrs Hamlin said, nearly whispering. ‘Plain cruel. I hope you didn’t let it get to you. They just vent their grievances, while pretending to be civil. And quite enjoy themselves. Discrediting the lot of you like that. But Mr Meldrum and you bore the brunt, I’m afraid.’ She was now patting Clarice’s hair. ‘Especially you, because your paintings are hard to put your finger on. They’re atmospheric, your paintings,’ she offered shyly. ‘Haunting.’ She seemed to wait for a response and, when it did not come, added, ‘I myself was so maddened by the injustice, and depressed, after I read it, that I cancelled my appointments, went back to bed and stayed there all day.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Clarice told her. She was now also a touch drunk on sympathy and sensitivity, this understanding , which reached her gently through the layer of pain. ‘I’m over it.’ She smiled, then opened her eyes. ‘Almost. You’re so kind.’
    Mrs Hamlin smiled back and Clarice closed her eyes again and heard, in a murmur,