kitchen with some provisions and called to her husband. He gently lifted the child onto the floor and got up to go into the kitchen.
Maybe heâd also had enough of having her there, on his lap, the child, all stiff and silent. Maybe she was in his way.
She stayed there, a little dazed, caught up in the surprise of what had happened.
From the grey room with its fading daylight, she could see the light shining from the kitchen, where her mother and father were. But she stayed there, in the darkness, thinking.
Â
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One morning, waking in the grey room where they now eat their meals and where the child still has her bed, the child saw that her father was already awake, sitting in the window, apparently writing in the sunlight.
She went over rather fearfully, without making a sound, and he didnât shoo her away. So she stayed there, standing beside him, watching what he was doing in rapt silence.
He was actually drawing, in pencil. And what he was drawing, what the child saw evolving on the page, was a forest of very tall, dense trees planted close together, growing thickly around a clearing. At the far end of the clearing she could make out a long, low house made of logs.
The child didnât move, kept watching.
Then her father took a box of watercolours from his bag and put it on the table. He went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water â the child didnât move, stayed there, waiting â and put it down next to the box and the drawing, and, apparently unaware of the child, started painting. But she knew he knew she was there. Hissilence constituted acquiescence. Better: approval. The only sound was the gentle flop-flop of the brush dipped into the water from time to time, and the complicity of the childâs breathing, standing there with her hands in the small of her back, behind her father, occasionally catching her breath, attentive to the developing colours on the trees, the sky, the house and the grass on the ground.
When the watercolour was finished, the father sat back slightly so the child could see better.
âDo you like it?â he asked.
The child simply nodded: she did. Then he tore another sheet of white paper from the pad and sat the child down where heâd been sitting. Gave her a pencil.
âNow itâs your turn. Draw whatever you like.â
Terrified of her power (and to think sheâd always been so bold), she draws a shapeless outline on the paper. To her itâs a tree. She says so, very quietly.
And now her fatherâs the one standing behind her, but so tall he has to lean over the child to take her right hand in his and alter â only slightly â the contours of her tree. She lets him guide her, doesnât even think of protesting, because the warmth of that great hand around hers is so wonderful (but oh, how she shrieked if her mother ever took it upon herself to correct her drawings). Then, still holding the little hand, he makes her pick up the brush, makes her load it with water, takes her left hand and guides it with his to show her how to squeeze off the excess water with two fingers, then he swirls the brush round a small pot of green paint and,with both their hands, puts a touch of green on the leaves of their tree.
Swooning with tenderness, the child surrenders to the instructions given by his big hands.
âYou see, itâs not that difficult!â her father says eventually, flourishing their joint work: a feather duster of green, which the child finds magnificent.
She takes it to her room. Stows it with her precious things.
Whereâs her mother? Sheâs still asleep. Didnât see. Doesnât know.
Â
That afternoon the father goes out alone. Comes back with a small parcel in his hand. Calls the child.
âHere, this is for you,â he says simply.
The child tears clumsily at the wrapping, in a delicious state of anticipation.
Inside is a tiny box of watercolours: six round blocks of colour
Maybe heâd also had enough of having her there, on his lap, the child, all stiff and silent. Maybe she was in his way.
She stayed there, a little dazed, caught up in the surprise of what had happened.
From the grey room with its fading daylight, she could see the light shining from the kitchen, where her mother and father were. But she stayed there, in the darkness, thinking.
Â
Â
One morning, waking in the grey room where they now eat their meals and where the child still has her bed, the child saw that her father was already awake, sitting in the window, apparently writing in the sunlight.
She went over rather fearfully, without making a sound, and he didnât shoo her away. So she stayed there, standing beside him, watching what he was doing in rapt silence.
He was actually drawing, in pencil. And what he was drawing, what the child saw evolving on the page, was a forest of very tall, dense trees planted close together, growing thickly around a clearing. At the far end of the clearing she could make out a long, low house made of logs.
The child didnât move, kept watching.
Then her father took a box of watercolours from his bag and put it on the table. He went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water â the child didnât move, stayed there, waiting â and put it down next to the box and the drawing, and, apparently unaware of the child, started painting. But she knew he knew she was there. Hissilence constituted acquiescence. Better: approval. The only sound was the gentle flop-flop of the brush dipped into the water from time to time, and the complicity of the childâs breathing, standing there with her hands in the small of her back, behind her father, occasionally catching her breath, attentive to the developing colours on the trees, the sky, the house and the grass on the ground.
When the watercolour was finished, the father sat back slightly so the child could see better.
âDo you like it?â he asked.
The child simply nodded: she did. Then he tore another sheet of white paper from the pad and sat the child down where heâd been sitting. Gave her a pencil.
âNow itâs your turn. Draw whatever you like.â
Terrified of her power (and to think sheâd always been so bold), she draws a shapeless outline on the paper. To her itâs a tree. She says so, very quietly.
And now her fatherâs the one standing behind her, but so tall he has to lean over the child to take her right hand in his and alter â only slightly â the contours of her tree. She lets him guide her, doesnât even think of protesting, because the warmth of that great hand around hers is so wonderful (but oh, how she shrieked if her mother ever took it upon herself to correct her drawings). Then, still holding the little hand, he makes her pick up the brush, makes her load it with water, takes her left hand and guides it with his to show her how to squeeze off the excess water with two fingers, then he swirls the brush round a small pot of green paint and,with both their hands, puts a touch of green on the leaves of their tree.
Swooning with tenderness, the child surrenders to the instructions given by his big hands.
âYou see, itâs not that difficult!â her father says eventually, flourishing their joint work: a feather duster of green, which the child finds magnificent.
She takes it to her room. Stows it with her precious things.
Whereâs her mother? Sheâs still asleep. Didnât see. Doesnât know.
Â
That afternoon the father goes out alone. Comes back with a small parcel in his hand. Calls the child.
âHere, this is for you,â he says simply.
The child tears clumsily at the wrapping, in a delicious state of anticipation.
Inside is a tiny box of watercolours: six round blocks of colour
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