The Other Side of the World by Stephanie Bishop

Author:Stephanie Bishop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

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Next morning she wakes early, carries the canvas out to the garage, and covers it with an old blanket. It is still dark outside and the air smells of smoke. Inside, the fire has died down to black. She clutches her dressing gown against her chest and crouches, poking and prodding the embers. Burnt wood breaks up into splinters and ash floats out into the living room. She pokes some more, finds the small red center of the log, and blows.

Henry lies in bed. He is awake but keeps his eyes closed, listening to Charlotte tend the fire. He knows he ought to get up but it is too cold; the walls are icy to the touch and freezing air seeps in between the floorboards. He thinks of his book, the hypothetical book, not yet in existence, the book that will be, eventually, new essays on Hardy.

Charlotte puts a cup of tea down at his bedside, the soft gray glow of daylight slipping in behind her. She switches on the bedside lamp and goes to the wardrobe for her clothes.

“What are you doing?” Henry asks.

“Going into town.”

“So early?”

The children hear their mother’s voice and come into the bedroom. Charlotte opens the curtains. A film of condensation covers the lower half of the window and Lucie clambers onto a chair to run her finger across the silvery wet glass—through the mist, she says. Her finger squeaks as she draws. She draws eyes, a bird, a long banana with caterpillar legs. There is the phlegmy sound of her breathing, in and out through her mouth, chest rattling. When she speaks her voice sounds wet and bubbly: Look, look whad I dwawed. Little strips of bright world appear through the sketch, small finger-widths of world, the frangipani with its leaves almost gone, the calico cat on the tin roof of the shed. She presses her nose to the cold glass. Fine white light comes sidelong into the room, illuminating her ­silhouette: the bright haze of her hair, all knot and curl, the fluff and pill along the sleeves of her blue jumper where her little arms rub back and forth, back and forth all day long. On the ground below her, May chews on a lemony biscuit—yes, it is good; she nods. Sweet crumbs dot the crown of her head and float in the wisps of her fringe. She holds the small biscuit in both hands as if it were a sandwich. Then she lifts one hand to brush her hair away from her face and leaves a dusting of crumbs, yellow against her creamy forehead.

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