Free Blue Skies by Helen Hodgman Page B

shell-less crabs they were, edging their way cautiously through Eden to destruction—sideways, through one picture and into the next.
    I turned to leave, bracing myself to cover that vast yardage of polished wood-block floor. I felt exposed. Something might jump out of its frame and grab me, and I would join those poor soft white slugs in their alien country in the sunshine.
    There was a new painting. Large Aboriginal figures stood staring out from a background of native grave-posts and ritual totems. Somewhere, out beyond the tightly knit group and the grave-post barricade, the landscape burned and glowed. In its place, in proportion. There was a message in all this somewhere, but today was not the day to get it. I made it to the door.
    I collected my bag from the cloakroom and walked out into the cheerful, never-ending sunshine with a head full of foreboding. I walked into the square with the fountain, sat on one of the wooden seats and ate the cold sausages.
    It seemed simplest to go home. I caught the bus, intending to go straight round to collect Angelica, but changed my mind. I had to get rid of the heavy bag first. I got off the bus a stop earlier and walked down the road towards my house.
    The street was quiet, and it felt like three o’clock. All the women were down at the beach, except me and my neighbour. I could see her crouching on her lawn staring at one of the bald patches. She looked up as I approached and waved cheerfully.
    â€˜Gooday. Back early, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, I am. I didn’t feel well. So I came home.’
    â€˜Shame, that. Anything I can do?’
    â€˜No, thanks. I think I’ll just go inside and lie down for a bit.’ As I said it, I started to feel sick.
    â€˜Yes, you do that. It’s the heat getting you down, I expect. Been doing a bit of shopping by the looks of it.’ She looked at the bag. ‘Bit hot to be lugging heavy stuff about.’
    â€˜Yes, it is.’ Pains were shooting up my arm. I dropped the bag and ran into the house. I just made it to the bathroom to be sick; the shaking and sweating subsided. Maybe it was the sausages. I washed my face and cleaned my teeth and went back outside to pick up the bag. My neighbour was standing guard over it.
    â€˜You poor thing. You do look terrible. Now you just get along in out of this heat. I’ll give you a hand in with this bag.’
    Feeling too weak to protest, I led her through the squeaking door and into the sitting room. ‘This is really very kind of you. Just leave it in here. It’s full of books. I’ll put them on the shelves later.’
    â€˜Books, is it? Feels more like a ton of bricks, I must say.’
    â€˜Yes, they are rather heavy. Sorry about that. Well, I think I’d better go and lie down for a bit.’
    â€˜You do that, dear. I’ll see myself out. That’s if you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for you.’ She was looking intently round the room. ‘Do a lot of reading, I see. I haven’t got the time meself. Always on the go, I can tell you. Well, I’ll be seeing you, pet. Just sing out if there’s any little thing you need.’ She left.
    I went into the bedroom and closed the blinds. I lay on the bed in the gloomy heat of the endless afternoon, wondering what time had been used for before my loss of resources, congratulating myself on my withering friendships. The day after next was Thursday. By not looking past that, I started to feel better. I got up and unpacked the bag. The whip was a problem, and I chucked it under the bed. It could stay there for years, slowly buried in drifts of curly white dust; no questions asked. The boots and jumper I left in the bag ready for Thursday. I shoved them down behind a pile of old magazines in the bottom of the wardrobe, in case James saw it and wanted to keep the things for himself. Then I went round to collect Angelica.
    I must still have looked ill, for