Authors: Frederic Lindsay
It
was
the
woman
who
had
been
sitting
at
the
table.
Beyond
her
a
man
was
taking
up
one
of
the
catalogue
leaflets,
an
elderly
couple
were
leaving.
'You've
been
studying
it
for
such
a
long
time.’
'I'm
all
right,'
Lucy
said.
'Yes.
I
didn't
mean –’
'Only
I'm
not,
of
course.
My
husband
died
in
an
accident.’
Tell them who I am,
he
had
said.
'Oh,
dear.’
'He
left
me
money.
Much
more
than
I
expected.
I'm
going
to
buy
a
painting.’
'I
think
that's
a
lovely
idea.’
'He
left
a
will
listing
it
all.
He
had
accounts
in
different
building
societies.
If
he
got
money,
some
unexpected
windfall,
he
would
open
an
account
–
he
didn't
take
money
out.
There
must
have
been
better
ways
he
could have
invested
it.
But
he
wasn't
good
with
money,
not
really.
Like
a
peasant,
do
you
know
what
I
mean?'
'I'm
like
that
myself.
Lots
of
us
are.’
'He
must
have
been
afraid
of
not
having
any.
I
never
knew
that
about
him.
Though
I
knew
he
had
been
poor
when
he
was
young.
He
even
bought
a
flat.
People
rented
rooms
in
it.
That
was
why
he
had
the
keys
for
it.’
The
man
who
had
been
working
his
way
round
had
come
to
a
halt
beside
them.
'Ah
…
’he
said,
'I
do
like
this
one.’
'Thank
you,'
the
woman
said.
'I
mean
it,
Beth.
I'd
like
to
buy
it.’
'Well,
you
can
see
it's
not
for
sale,'
the
woman
said.
'You
wouldn't
like
to
reconsider?
I
seriously
covet
this one.’
'Sorry,
Tony.’
'Pity.
Worth
a
try.
You're
depriving
the
gallery
of
its
forty
per
cent.’
'Fifty,'
the
woman
said.
'Usurers.’
While
they
talked
about
that,
Lucy
stared
at
the
woman
and
then
turning
to
the
painting
saw
what
had
been
in
front
of
her
all
this
time.
It
was
winter.
A
sky
of
grey
clouds,
the
paint
laid
on
in
thick
scoops.
By
some
trick
of
perspective
the
boy
was
clear
and
close
yet
you
knew
he
was
out
there
and
the
ice
under
him
was
creaking;
knew
it,
of
course,
from
the
look
on
his
face.
The
look
not
of
anything
as
simple
as
fear,
though
fear
was
there,
the
fear
of
dying,
but
of
excitement
too,
of
being
more
alive
than
you'd
ever
been.
A
dark-complexioned
boy
with
a
thick
tangle
of
black hair.
And,
of course, you knew about the ice and all the rest of it – the lighthouse out of sight over the hill and the way the current ran that would carry you under the ice to the far end where you'd be held until the spring came. And found yellow as the grass. You knew about it because you'd been told.
Maitland.
Maitland
as
a
boy,
or
rather
the
way
someone
who
knew
him
as
a
man
might
imagine
he
would
have
been
then.
The
woman
had
gone
with
the
man
to
look
at
another
painting.
When
they
were
finished
and
he
was
gone,
Lucy
went
over
to
the
table
where
she
had
taken
her
place
again.
'I
like
that
painting,
too,'
she
said,
'the
one
of
the
boy.’
The
woman
raised
her
head
reluctantly.
She's
decided I'm
a
nuisance,
Lucy
thought,
or
perhaps
unstable.
'Not
to
buy.’
Lucy
made
herself
smile.
'I
heard
you
say
it's
not
for
sale.
It's
just
that
it's
so
real,
I
felt
it
had
to
be
true.’
'Thank
you.’
Lucy
laid
the
catalogue
leaflet
she
had
been
carrying
down
beside
the
pile
of
them.
'Do
you
use
your
married
name?'
'I'm
not
married.’
'"Beth
Lauriston"
…
It's
a
name
you
remember.
I
suppose
that
must
be
an
advantage.’
'I
could
have
kept
my
name,
that's
not
why
I
didn't
marry,'
the
woman
said,
with
a
little
smile
that
came
and
went
at
once.
'Weren't
you
ever
in
love?'
The
woman
tilted
her
head,
peeping
up.
She's
here
on
her
own,
Lucy
thought,
and
wary
in
case
I'm
going
to
make
a
scene
of
some
sort.
'My
painting
has
been
everything
to
me.’
'That's
hard
for
me
to
imagine.
All
I
ever
wanted
was
to
be
married
and
have
a
family.’
'That
must
be
nice.’
And
as
Lucy
stared
not
understanding,
'Having
a
family.’
'Oh,
yes,'
Lucy
said.
'My
little
girls.’
For
a
moment,
tiny
hands
were
warm
in
hers
and
then
they
were
gone.
She
couldn't
see
their
faces.
'So
even
if
a
man
wanted
to
marry
you,
you
would
have
said
no.’