finely gradated colour could be built up in bands, like a stack of Pyrex saucers that had once held her fascinated in a hospital canteen. She abandoned the sketch then filled page after page with studies, leaning on her drawn-up knees.
She was faintly aware of time passing as she worked. Some people came to the beach with a dog and explored the caves, talking loudly about a bird they thought was roosting there, and passed on. Petroc padded around her and helped himself to sandwiches and a pork pie and tomatoes and some apple juice. At one point, when she had fallen back to staring at the arch in the cliff – seeing it yet not seeing it as the pictures formed and rearrangedthemselves on the canvas in her mind – a man walked into her vision and distracted her. He was impossibly tall, thin and old, perhaps seventy, like a Mervyn Peake illustration. She watched as he half-stripped until he had nothing on but his khaki trousers then darted like a wading bird in and out of the shallow surf, stamping his feet and stooping to catch the foam in his hands before anointing his face and neck and, strangest of all, the small of his back. She saw that Petroc, far up the beach among the high tide of pebbles, was watching too and she grinned at him. Then they watched the man stamp his feet dry on his jersey, dress and leave again, clambering back up the boulders and clay with surprising agility. His little visit had taken all of six or seven minutes, like a speeded-up re-enactment of childhood joy amid the mature pleasures of a long clifftop walk.
She began to draw a quick cartoony drawing of the man stamping in the surf but was distracted afresh by the light on the water and the entirely unwatery shapes she could see in it if she stared long enough, a kind of network of dish shapes and bending discs. Then she remembered that several of the crayons she was using were water soluble so she experimented with a corner of a handkerchief dipped in apple juice and rubbed selectively across what she had drawn. She was playing and she was working and she was entirely absorbed and happy.
Finally she broke off, when her inability to take the ideas further without paint and brushes was becoming a kind of pain, and remembered with a spasm of guilt that it was Petroc’s birthday and that was why they were there together with no one else.
But he was fine, gathering and sorting stones into a collection a few feet from where she sat. He looked up, aware she was watching him.
‘You’re back,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do you want a pork pie?’
‘Yes please!’ She was ravenous, she realized, and thirsty. She drank the apple juice in her beaker, which had acquired the unmistakable sweet-wood taint of pencil and thanked him for the pork pie and tomato he brought her.
‘You’ve done lots,’ he said, looking at her pad while, unable to control herself, she briefly stroked his amazing-coloured hair.
‘Yes,’ she said. The sketches looked hopelessly scrappy but, with the cooler eye that followed inspiration, she could see there were enough details in them for her to recapture her ideas when she was back in the studio.
‘Did you draw me a card?’ he asked.
She paused. ‘No,’ she admitted because she couldn’t lie to him. ‘But you can have …’
‘Can I have this one?’ he asked eagerly. With unerring instinct he had singled out the most interesting of the ones she had blurred with apple juice.
‘Of course,’ she said, pleased. ‘You have an eye, Petroc Middleton.’
‘I have two,’ he pointed out. ‘You can write me something on it later.’
‘Oh. All right. What are you doing there?’
‘Sorting stones. I need six.’
‘Show me.’
He gravely brought several pebbles to her side thencrouched to demonstrate. ‘That’s you,’ he said, ‘and that’s Antony. And then Garfy, Hed and Wenn.’
‘Why’s she bigger than the boys?’
‘Her head’s so full.’
Hedley’s stone was almost
She was faintly aware of time passing as she worked. Some people came to the beach with a dog and explored the caves, talking loudly about a bird they thought was roosting there, and passed on. Petroc padded around her and helped himself to sandwiches and a pork pie and tomatoes and some apple juice. At one point, when she had fallen back to staring at the arch in the cliff – seeing it yet not seeing it as the pictures formed and rearrangedthemselves on the canvas in her mind – a man walked into her vision and distracted her. He was impossibly tall, thin and old, perhaps seventy, like a Mervyn Peake illustration. She watched as he half-stripped until he had nothing on but his khaki trousers then darted like a wading bird in and out of the shallow surf, stamping his feet and stooping to catch the foam in his hands before anointing his face and neck and, strangest of all, the small of his back. She saw that Petroc, far up the beach among the high tide of pebbles, was watching too and she grinned at him. Then they watched the man stamp his feet dry on his jersey, dress and leave again, clambering back up the boulders and clay with surprising agility. His little visit had taken all of six or seven minutes, like a speeded-up re-enactment of childhood joy amid the mature pleasures of a long clifftop walk.
She began to draw a quick cartoony drawing of the man stamping in the surf but was distracted afresh by the light on the water and the entirely unwatery shapes she could see in it if she stared long enough, a kind of network of dish shapes and bending discs. Then she remembered that several of the crayons she was using were water soluble so she experimented with a corner of a handkerchief dipped in apple juice and rubbed selectively across what she had drawn. She was playing and she was working and she was entirely absorbed and happy.
Finally she broke off, when her inability to take the ideas further without paint and brushes was becoming a kind of pain, and remembered with a spasm of guilt that it was Petroc’s birthday and that was why they were there together with no one else.
But he was fine, gathering and sorting stones into a collection a few feet from where she sat. He looked up, aware she was watching him.
‘You’re back,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do you want a pork pie?’
‘Yes please!’ She was ravenous, she realized, and thirsty. She drank the apple juice in her beaker, which had acquired the unmistakable sweet-wood taint of pencil and thanked him for the pork pie and tomato he brought her.
‘You’ve done lots,’ he said, looking at her pad while, unable to control herself, she briefly stroked his amazing-coloured hair.
‘Yes,’ she said. The sketches looked hopelessly scrappy but, with the cooler eye that followed inspiration, she could see there were enough details in them for her to recapture her ideas when she was back in the studio.
‘Did you draw me a card?’ he asked.
She paused. ‘No,’ she admitted because she couldn’t lie to him. ‘But you can have …’
‘Can I have this one?’ he asked eagerly. With unerring instinct he had singled out the most interesting of the ones she had blurred with apple juice.
‘Of course,’ she said, pleased. ‘You have an eye, Petroc Middleton.’
‘I have two,’ he pointed out. ‘You can write me something on it later.’
‘Oh. All right. What are you doing there?’
‘Sorting stones. I need six.’
‘Show me.’
He gravely brought several pebbles to her side thencrouched to demonstrate. ‘That’s you,’ he said, ‘and that’s Antony. And then Garfy, Hed and Wenn.’
‘Why’s she bigger than the boys?’
‘Her head’s so full.’
Hedley’s stone was almost
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