Night Street by Kristel Thornell Page B

on the grapevine that someone has rather taken to you.’
    She had jumped a little in her chair, unmasked. She laughed—a husky, staccato attempt at subterfuge. She saw that it had been unsuccessful. ‘Oh, really? He has a wife. Didn’t you know?’
    â€˜I hadn’t noticed.’ Herb slurped his tea. ‘The little problem of marriage. Would it be a problem, though?’
    She had a twitch of irritation. He imagined that the lives of others should be as easy and light as his own. They were all masters of their own fate; surely they all enjoyed the luxury of improvisation. And he did not consider how different it was for a woman. Conspicuously, she ignored him.
    To appease her, he said, ‘Thought I’d drive over to St Kilda in a bit. I don’t suppose you want to come along . . . we’ll have our own art camp?’
    The day had grown yellower and broader.
    â€˜Duty calls,’ she replied, somewhat tetchily. ‘They’ll be wanting their breakfast.’
    â€˜And what will you be wanting?’
    â€˜I won’t be studying with Meldrum much longer,’ Clarice found herself saying, after a moment. ‘Not much longer at all.’ It had been in her thoughts, had been coming on, but she had not announced the decision until now; her path sounded surer than it felt. This was not to do with Arthur. She must try working as an independent artist. Herb was watching her, curious. Perhaps he was impressed. She got up. ‘I’m off. Thanks for the tea.’
    Her teeth were chattering on the way back. Not even the forced pace of the walking warmed her, yet she was hot-cheeked and, unusually, found herself craving domestic work, that well of dullness; she wanted to drown in it. Could the others believe that Arthur liked her? Liked her, not platonically? Could this be a common view? When she stopped going to Meldrum’s classes, she would no longer have to see him, not in the flesh, anyway. Would it be easier?
    At home, she hurried to put her cart away in the shed and set the awful painting to dry, then headed for the kitchen for something to occupy herself with. She stood savagely rigid in the centre of the room. The first thing her eyes caught on was a cookbook lying on the counter. She seized and aggressively opened it at random.
    â€˜ Cakes ,’ she read aloud.
    â€˜Clarice, dear?’ Her mother’s light singsong from the front room.
    â€˜Yes, Mum. I’ll be in shortly. I’m getting breakfast on.’ In a lower voice, she continued, “ The success of a cake will depend entirely on the baking, and on constant attention. Be sure to test the heat of your oven .” She repeated these lines several times over, one hand gripping the book, the other on her hip to keep it quiet.
    Once the trembling arrived in her, it did not leave. It dwelled there. Sometimes it was slight, hardly noticeable, but not so she could forget it; other times, it was as if she were just then emerging dripping from the bay on untrustworthy legs. It was always there, thrumming along with other pulses that threaded invisibly through life and were its vital energy. Her shaking affected things around her in such a way that nothing was left slack and certain ideas were given a breathtaking impetus. Though it was an impetus that, for a very long while, would have nowhere to go.

10
    During the year since she had ceased to study with Meldrum, she had continued to drop into his studio from time to time to show him her work, and he invited her to exhibit several pieces in his first Group Exhibition. It was a serious, Spartan affair, the paintings listed in the catalogue without titles, black frames all around. The look of that long wall of the Athenaeum Hall, dense with art. Forbidding. Pure! Five of her paintings were there, an honour.
    The hanging had captivated her. What next to what? What above what? And beneath? The arrangement of a show was not straightforward; it was a