Free As Far as You Can Go by Lesley Glaister Page A

a thing about napkins, linen. You had to roll them up after the meal, rolls of white. He eyes his fag again and looks away.
    On the sheet under Mara’s thick brown arms scoops of sweat are spreading. The smell of her – impossible not to notice it. Repulsive or intoxicating, can’t make up his mind, but maybe the last is just the wine? Not like male sweat or sharp and salty like Cassie’s, which he’s getting used to lately. This is musky and cloying, even sweet – but that’s probably perfume.
    ‘You paint, Mara?’ he says.
    ‘I
can
paint,’ she says.
    ‘Mara is a splendid painter.’ Larry smiles at them all, his smile lingering on Cassie the longest.
    ‘Went to the Slade,’ Mara says.
    ‘Really?’ Graham says.
    ‘You sound surprised.’
    ‘Not at all,’ he says. Although he is. Hard to imagine Mara at the Slade – where he once spent a term. He’d started an MA but that’s when the rot set in. Hard to imagine Mara anywhere for that matter.
    ‘What are these?’ Cassie runs her thumbnail along one of the shallow, wavy indentations on the table’s surface.
    ‘Termite trails,’ Larry says. ‘You’ll see them everywhere. See –’ He indicates the door frame.
    ‘Termites.’ Cassie shudders. ‘Why does that sound so much worse than ants?’
    ‘A queen termite can be the size of a cucumber,’ Mara says. Graham blurts out a laugh but she looks quite serious. ‘Have you seen the termite mounds?’ she says. ‘They are amazing, aren’t they, Larry? That would give you something to paint.’
    ‘Where are they?’ Graham asks.
    ‘The nearest colony worth seeing is – oh – quite a distance.’ Larry drains the last of the wine into Mara’s glass and opens another. The cork rolls down the steps.
    ‘When’s Fred coming back?’ Mara asks, her voice colliding with Graham asking to see her work.
    ‘I don’t paint.’ Mara looks down and delicately forks together a sliver of tomato, a slice of bean, a flake of fish and puts it in her mouth.
    ‘I’ll explain later,’ Larry says.
    ‘No, you will not explain.’ A piece of bean pops out of her mouth. ‘Excuse me.
I
will explain. There is no need to explain. I paint and burn because I can’t paint – paint and burn, paint and burn.’
    ‘Calm down Mara,’ Larry puts a hand on her arm. ‘I had to stop her,’ he explains. ‘Fire risk.’
    Graham swallows. ‘That’s weird,’ he says, putting down his fork. ‘This morning
I
was thinking that.’
    Cassie looks up. ‘Thinking what?’
    ‘After lunch, a nice rest –’ Larry almost looks nervous.
    ‘Aborigines eat termites you know,’ Mara says, shaking his hand off. ‘But never the queen.’
    ‘You
weren’t,’
Cassie says.
    ‘The queen is sacred.’
    ‘I
was.’
Graham frowns. ‘Well, not exactly,’ he says, softening his voice. ‘Hard to explain.’
    ‘No need to explain here. There never is, is there, Larry? Let it be a rule.’
    ‘Mara,’ Larry leans towards her, ‘you’re getting overexcited.’ He turns to Cassie. ‘Shouldn’t have let her have the wine really. But special occasion –’
    Mara laughs, her lips, despite the constant dabbing with the sheet, glistening with tuna oil.
    ‘Doesn’t mix with her medication.
Do
calm down, Mara.’
    ‘That is now a rule. I
am
calm.’ She holds up her glass: ‘I hereby declare it a rule. Rule number – I don’t know – that we never need to explain.’
    ‘Explain what?’ says Cassie.
    ‘Anything. No need to explain. It is illegal to explain. Or to ask someone to explain.’
    Cassie stares at her for a moment. ‘Brilliant!’ she says, smiling at Graham. ‘Eh, Gray? What a brilliant idea!’
    ‘Yeah,’ he says. What a pity she doesn’t mean it. He catches Larry staring sharkishly at Cassie. Can’t blame him. Beside Mara – not that Mara’s ugly or even plain – Mara meets his eyes and he realises he’s been staring at the sweaty sheet and the squashed slopes of her breasts above it. Small dark