Learning to Dance by Susan Sallis Page A

The tide is all wrong.’
    ‘Oh bugger, so it is.’
    She was at the door to the lobby. She looked back, suddenly grinning.
    ‘We’re all prisoners, Hausmann!’
    He looked up. She thought afterwards that she had never seen such raw terror in a man’s face before. She ran for the lift.
    When Judith came down again she realized they were all in the dining room, the conversation led by Sven Olsen but including Nathaniel, who was expounding on the ‘accessibility’ of ‘Bob’s stuff’.
    ‘A kid of seven could appreciate most of those landscapes. They have a feeling of Constable, every detail there, historical, factual …’
    She veered sideways so that she could look into the sitting room and see how Hausmann was taking this opinion. He was not there. Bart was picking up a tea tray. He looked at her and made a face.
    ‘This was for you. I take it he drove you away.’
    She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He answered a lot of questions. I’m glad he had the tea and cakes.’ She tried not to look defiant. ‘I like him.’
    Bart looked genuinely surprised. ‘Do you? That’s good. His manner – he can often seem offensive.’ He bent to pick up a saucer from the floor; it had been used as an ashtray. He put it on the tray. ‘We are brothers, you know.’
    ‘Yes. He did mention it. You must be proud. His work is very special.’
    Bart nodded. ‘Robert went back. To Germany. To see the camps. He tried to paint what he had seen, but because he knew … our great-uncle survived and spoke of it to him … it wasn’t what he saw, but what he knew … can you understand?’
    She nodded; the tears were waiting just behind her eyes again.
    ‘He paints everything in this country. As if he is trying to block out the rest of the world.’
    She nodded again, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut and opened them wide.
    ‘I am glad that you understand,’ she said.
    ‘There seems to be nothing anyone can do. We hoped – Irena and I – that he would take an interest in this place. Help us to get it together. But … well, he dashed off tonight – wanted to beat the tide to the causeway. It means he won’t be back till midnight.’ He shrugged.
    Judith went on into the dining room and was confronted by a barrage of questions all about her painting.
    ‘We did not know that we had another painter in our midst!’ Sven beamed at her.
    Nathaniel actually came forward, took her arm and led her to the table by the window where Sybil sat, smiling sympathetically. She said to Sven, ‘Actually, Judith did mention it when we were first introduced.’ She widened her smile as she turned to Judith. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
    ‘I think so.’ Judith settled herself. The questions from the other table had already died. ‘I think it was your example that gave me the idea. Actually I haven’t done anything for years and years.’ She thought of the spare bedroom that Jack had insisted on calling ‘Jude’s stude’ and added, ‘Not really.’
    ‘My example?’
    ‘I saw you down there. When I was exploring the castle this morning. I suppose that was what got me going.’ Judith remembered the agonizing poignancy of the Hausmann exhibition, the desperation to do something herself. A kind of therapy?
    Sybil gave a rueful smile. ‘When I saw the exhibition this afternoon, I realized how absolutely pitiful my work is.’ The trolley was approaching, and Nathaniel, who had been talking to Sven, came back to their table. Sybil finished hurriedly, ‘I think I’ll stick to greetings cards. Makes me a living.’
    Judith opened her eyes, surprised. Years ago Jack had asked her whether she intended to paint postcards. It had been a valid option in the commercial art world and he had done it himself on occasion. She wondered whether Sybil knew Jack. She shrank back as Irena offered her soup. She had almost imagined herself a respectable widow like Sybil. She had seen similarities that had somehow comforted her.
    Irena said, ‘Did you enjoy