The South Read Online Free PDF Page B

from his mother. All the paintings for the monks at Montserrat were, he explained, on the theme of dinero , which was why the painter called himself Jordi Dinero.
    At first Jordi was amused, but as the speech went on he seemed less so and Katherine noted the bitterness in Miguel’s tone. Michael Graves did not say anything. Katherine had no idea how they were going to be rid of him.
    Jordi waved to them from his window as they went with their bags towards the bus. There was a crowd at the bus station and they had to wait for the second bus. Miguel wanted them to sit along the back seat so he could look out of the back window. Michael Graves asked her again where she was from.
    “I’m from Wexford.”
    “So am I,” he said, “what part are you from?”
    “Between Newtownbarry and Enniscorthy.”
    “Newtownbarry,” he said, “they don’t call it that any more. I’m from Enniscorthy.”
    “You haven’t been sent to look for me, have you? Tell me if you have.”
    “What do you mean?” he asked.

THE HOUSE
    A few weeks before she left Ireland, Katherine sat one afternoon watching the thundery blue light fall over the river and the fields between the house and river. She watched the oppressive sky, sensing the moisture in the air outside, knowing that no matter how intensely she watched this scene, and studied it, and thought about the colours, she would never get it right.
    She simplified it; she left out the stillness, the crushed light from the low sky. She banked the clouds in watercolour on the sheet of paper, emphasised their texture, the grey and black and steely white. She stopped and left it there, and turned again to the window.
    She noticed a figure walking up the driveway from the road. A woman walking with difficulty, someone she didn’t know; someone begging perhaps, or looking for firewood. She looked back at the watercolour to see if she could include the figure of the woman, but the scale was too small, the figure could only be a brushstroke, a fleck.
    She became absorbed in her work and forgot about the woman. Later, it was well over an hour later, she remembered when one of the girls from the kitchen came up to tell her that there was a woman at the back door who wanted to see her and wouldn’t go away.
    “Who is she? Do you know?”
    “She’s from out on the road.”
    “What does she want?”
    “She won’t say.”
    “Tell her I’m busy now.”
    The girl hesitated, as though she was going to say something, but then turned and left the room.
    The sky hung low over the river. Katherine moved back to the window and studied the scene once more; there was a bed in the corner, and a heavy double wardrobe stood against the wall, but the carpet had been rolled back carelessly, and the walls were covered with her paintings, the fruits of her labour she called them. The room was cluttered and untidy, unlike the rest of the house; the wash-basin was full of jam jars and brushes and half-finished work lay all over the floor.
    The rain started gently at first, it came like the sound of wind, and then the clouds burst open and the rain beat against the window, and the sky became dark and the room all shadows. She watched the window, focussed her attention on the drops of rain hitting the glass and dripping down; she stayed there until it was time for her to wash and dress and abandon her private world.
    Richard was at the table when she came into the kitchen, he had a friend with him, both boys had their copy-books out and were doing their lessons.
    “Can we have some orange squash?” he asked as soon as he saw her.
    “Not before dinner,” she said as she went to look at what was boiling on the stove.
    “Mary,” she called into the pantry, “could you roast those potatoes a little when they boil?”
    Mary came into the kitchen and looked at her nervously, almost suspiciously.
    “What a dreadful day,” Katherine said.
    “That woman is still out there, ma’am,” Mary said.
    “The