The Late Hector Kipling Read Online Free PDF Page B

with what she painted.’ Oh, so she has got a point after all. ‘She believed in honesty ...’ here it comes, ‘but the difference with her and that lass last night, that Tracey... what’s she called, Hector?’
    ‘Tracey Emin.’
    ‘Aye, Tracey Emin. The difference between her and this Mexican lass is that with her – Frida Kahlo – you might want to hang some of this on your walls. I mean, I wouldn’t, but some folk do. Madonna does,’ and then, ’for example,’ and she looks up and lowers her specs and she’s finished. Eleni’s on the spot.
    ‘Well, Connie,’ says Eleni, mopping up her bean juice with her last triangle of toast, ‘all art does not have to be hanging on walls.’
    ‘Well, I know that,’ says Mum, ‘I know that you can have statues and . . . and er . . .’ She’s stuck on statues and she’s taken off her specs and she’s searching her brain for something else that you don’t have to hang on walls, finally relaxing and digging up ‘. . .sculptures.’ I take another sip of my tea. ‘Sculptures and all that. I know that.’ Eleni’s nodding, Mum’s kicked off her slippers at the heel and she’s waggling them on her toes. ‘But when it comes to the likes of that lass last night, that Tracey Emin, well, you can’t put what she does on a wall, can you?’
    ‘Well, some of it you can,’ says Eleni, ‘her drawings, whatever. But if you don’t want to, then that’s fine. Art is whatever you want it to be.’

    ‘Well, I don’t want it to be that.’
    ‘And that’s OK,’ says Eleni, and bites down on her toast. She sniffs the air. ‘It smells so beautiful in here, Connie.’
    ‘Thank you,’ says Mum, and looks back down at the paper. She’s not finished with us yet. Dad’s in the lounge watching the build-up to the Belgian Grand Prix, which is doing nothing to abate Sparky’s wretched convulsions. Mum clears her throat. I suspect she’s just getting started.
    ‘There’s a painting of hers here called – ’ and she straightens her specs and leans in ‘ The Suicide of Dorothy Hale, painted by Frida Kahlo in 1938.’ Mum’s sounding a bit academic now, which is weird. She carries on: ‘Shows a young lass who’s flung herself from a building.’ She holds the paper up to her face. ‘The Hampshire House building. Shows her falling and shows her fallen. There’s blood on the frame, it says here. Ex-Ziegfeld showgirl ... Dorothy Hale.’ Mum looks up and pulls off a pantomime shiver. She lowers her specs, frowns, looks at us both. ‘Ooh, imagine that: throwing yourself off a building. Can you imagine throwing yourself off a building, Eleni?’
    ‘No,’ says Eleni.
    ‘Can you, Hector?’ says Mum.
    ‘No, Mum,’ I say.
    ‘Ooh, neither can I. I can imagine taking a lot of pills, or sticking your head in an oven, but I can’t see throwing myself off some big building.’
    All this is a bit of a revelation. I’m a bit shocked. I don’t know why she just came out with such a thing. I steal a glance at Eleni. She’s just looking at the floor. We sit in silence for a while. I mean it’s not really silence cos Dad’s got the telly up loud and there’s a lot of cars screaming around Spa-Francorchamps, but it feels like silence, and given what’s just been announced, it is.
    And next thing you know ... ‘I mean it’d be like me throwing myself off Blackpool Tower. Imagine that. I mean I’ve never been up the Tower.Lived here forty-five years and never been up the Tower. I mean I can imagine taking pills and all that, but throwing myself off the Tower? Give over.’ She smoothes out the paper on her lap and cranes her neck to read more. Eleni bites into her toast and suddenly I’m irritated by the sound of her chewing. What’s going on? Why’s Mum talking about throwing herself off the Tower? And why am I irritated by the sound of Eleni chewing her toast?
    I look at Mum. She’s scanning the article like it’s a big fancy puzzle but she’s not giving up.