The China Bird by Bryony Doran

Author:Bryony Doran [Doran, Bryony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-9555630-5-8
Publisher: Bookline & Thinker
Published: 2010-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rachel is seated on a bench in the centre of the main gallery. She is studying a painting of a woman with glossy black hair. The woman is looking out of an open window, leaning her elbows on the stone sill. The pale yellow paint of the house is peeling away to reveal the grey rendering beneath. The woman is smiling invitingly down to the street below.

Her teeth fascinate Rachel; they are slightly crooked but of a perfect size for her face and the artist has caught exactly the glint and translucency. There are no secrets in the woman’s eyes; everything is on display. The picture irritates her, especially since it has temporarily replaced her favourite picture, a bowl of glistening white roses. Rachel closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She feels so restless that even the picture of the white roses would not have calmed her today. She delves into her shopping bag and retrieves a sandwich box and a red thermos flask with a white screw-on cup.

It was today that she had wanted to meet Edward for lunch at Henry’s, but for some reason he had put her off until next week. And she had the girl’s ballet ticket, not that she deserved it. Fancy manipulating Edward like that. What was she playing at? If she’d seen her at Henry’s she could have taken her to task. Is that why Edward had put her off? Had he seen through her little plan? She supposed there was nothing to stop her going to Henry’s on her own. She could save her sandwiches for tea.

She thinks back to their last lunch together at the Blue Moon Café. Strange, Edward saying that about his father taking him to the art gallery, and about the Grimshaw paintings. It was as if he knew why she had been to Leeds. She had gone to see if they were still there. The ones her mother used to take her to see as a young child.

She knew instinctively the days when her mother would be taking her to the art gallery. A few days before, a restlessness would come upon her mother, a noticeable anger with her work. The bursts of the sewing machine would be faster, louder, not caring if she annoyed the neighbours on all three sides. Then one morning Rachel would wake very early, sometimes, in winter, before first light, to silence. Rachel knew that day they would be going to the art gallery.

Her mother would pack salt beef sandwiches and a thermos of strong, sweet black coffee into a canvas bag. The coffee was the family’s only luxury; coffee beans her father brought home from the market.

They would walk into the city, away from the ugliness of the back-to-back, red brick streets and always they would go to the gallery. It was free and warm and there were their pictures. Her mother would wander round and round. Rachel would try to keep to her mother’s pace but often she was too slow and Rachel would dance ahead.

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