he said. “Where’s Mother?”
“In her studio, sir. The professor’s sleeping, so he is.” She inclined her head to the closed door that led to Father’s study. It had recently been converted to a ground-floor bedroom to save him the effort of climbing stairs, something he was no longer able to do.
“I’ll not disturb him,” Fingal said. Father slept a great deal now as his condition worsened. “It’s important he gets his rest.”
Bridgit’s voice quavered as she said, as if to herself, “Sleeping’s all very well, but me and Cook wish he’d eat more. The poor professor has no’ got the appetite of a stunted wren these days, so he hasn’t.”
Fingal’s stomach growled. It seemed unkind after what the maid had said, but he was famished. “I’ve missed lunch. I’m sorry, but do you think Cook could make a quick snack? Something that’s not too much trouble?”
Bridgit cocked her head and said, “There’s tomato soup, and would you like a sandwich, sir? There’s a brave wheen of cold ham left over.”
“Soup and a ham sandwich would be grand,” he said. “Thank you, and please thank Cook for me. Could you bring it along to the studio? And maybe a pot of tea, Bridgit?”
“I’ll see to it, sir.” Bridgit bobbed a curtsey and left.
Fingal let himself into what had been a guest bedroom before Ma converted it into a studio in 1928. He stood just inside the doorway. On bright days like today, the room was filled with light, and now the midafternoon sunshine streaming in accentuated how pale she had become. The tan she’d brought home in May from her and Father’s long visit to Greece and Egypt, their wintering over in Cap d’Antibes, had faded, and her eyes were sunken, bleary. He knew she was sleeping badly, but being Ma she refused to admit to any tiredness.
The room was heavy with the smell of oil paint, turpentine, and linseed oil, overpowering the perfume of a huge bunch of red roses Ma’d brought from the garden yesterday and set behind her on a broad windowsill. “Fingal, you’re back.” She turned from her easel close to the window, upon which was a canvas prepared with a russet wash of diluted oil paint. “Have you had lunch?”
He knew his mother well enough to know she would have been fretting about his lateness, but rather than asking for an explanation she worried he hadn’t eaten. “Not yet, but Bridgit’s getting Cook to make me some soup and a sandwich. I told her to bring it here. I thought we could chat while you were working.”
She indicated one of a pair of folding wooden chairs. “Have a seat then.”
Fingal did, and watched his artist mother. Her paint-stained smock was in scruffy contrast to the immaculately dressed woman she usually was. She held a palette with swirls of coloured oils that recently had been squeezed from their tubes. A metal dipper clipped to the palette’s edge held linseed oil, and she darted the brush into the dipper and began to soften a dark blue paint with drops of the oil. He knew better than to ask her what the subject would be. Ma never liked to discuss her paintings until they were finished, although she didn’t mind Fingal or Father watching as she worked. “I saw Doctor Corrigan, but we were called out to an accident,” he said. “That’s why I’m late. Some poor divil got hit by a tram. Broke his ankle.”
“Not nice,” she said.
“He’ll be all right,” Fingal said. “Pity about his job though.”
“Why?”
“The chap’s a cooper. He’d just landed a place at Guinness’s. He’ll be hors de combat for quite a while. They’ll find someone else now.” For a moment Fingal hoped Ma might say she knew one of the members of the famous brewery family and might be able to pull strings.
“So many out of work. It is a very hard world out there,” she said, put the brush aside, and lifted a palette knife, “and none too easy here.” She sighed. “You knew Doctor Micks was coming this morning. He said he
“In her studio, sir. The professor’s sleeping, so he is.” She inclined her head to the closed door that led to Father’s study. It had recently been converted to a ground-floor bedroom to save him the effort of climbing stairs, something he was no longer able to do.
“I’ll not disturb him,” Fingal said. Father slept a great deal now as his condition worsened. “It’s important he gets his rest.”
Bridgit’s voice quavered as she said, as if to herself, “Sleeping’s all very well, but me and Cook wish he’d eat more. The poor professor has no’ got the appetite of a stunted wren these days, so he hasn’t.”
Fingal’s stomach growled. It seemed unkind after what the maid had said, but he was famished. “I’ve missed lunch. I’m sorry, but do you think Cook could make a quick snack? Something that’s not too much trouble?”
Bridgit cocked her head and said, “There’s tomato soup, and would you like a sandwich, sir? There’s a brave wheen of cold ham left over.”
“Soup and a ham sandwich would be grand,” he said. “Thank you, and please thank Cook for me. Could you bring it along to the studio? And maybe a pot of tea, Bridgit?”
“I’ll see to it, sir.” Bridgit bobbed a curtsey and left.
Fingal let himself into what had been a guest bedroom before Ma converted it into a studio in 1928. He stood just inside the doorway. On bright days like today, the room was filled with light, and now the midafternoon sunshine streaming in accentuated how pale she had become. The tan she’d brought home in May from her and Father’s long visit to Greece and Egypt, their wintering over in Cap d’Antibes, had faded, and her eyes were sunken, bleary. He knew she was sleeping badly, but being Ma she refused to admit to any tiredness.
The room was heavy with the smell of oil paint, turpentine, and linseed oil, overpowering the perfume of a huge bunch of red roses Ma’d brought from the garden yesterday and set behind her on a broad windowsill. “Fingal, you’re back.” She turned from her easel close to the window, upon which was a canvas prepared with a russet wash of diluted oil paint. “Have you had lunch?”
He knew his mother well enough to know she would have been fretting about his lateness, but rather than asking for an explanation she worried he hadn’t eaten. “Not yet, but Bridgit’s getting Cook to make me some soup and a sandwich. I told her to bring it here. I thought we could chat while you were working.”
She indicated one of a pair of folding wooden chairs. “Have a seat then.”
Fingal did, and watched his artist mother. Her paint-stained smock was in scruffy contrast to the immaculately dressed woman she usually was. She held a palette with swirls of coloured oils that recently had been squeezed from their tubes. A metal dipper clipped to the palette’s edge held linseed oil, and she darted the brush into the dipper and began to soften a dark blue paint with drops of the oil. He knew better than to ask her what the subject would be. Ma never liked to discuss her paintings until they were finished, although she didn’t mind Fingal or Father watching as she worked. “I saw Doctor Corrigan, but we were called out to an accident,” he said. “That’s why I’m late. Some poor divil got hit by a tram. Broke his ankle.”
“Not nice,” she said.
“He’ll be all right,” Fingal said. “Pity about his job though.”
“Why?”
“The chap’s a cooper. He’d just landed a place at Guinness’s. He’ll be hors de combat for quite a while. They’ll find someone else now.” For a moment Fingal hoped Ma might say she knew one of the members of the famous brewery family and might be able to pull strings.
“So many out of work. It is a very hard world out there,” she said, put the brush aside, and lifted a palette knife, “and none too easy here.” She sighed. “You knew Doctor Micks was coming this morning. He said he
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