The Greengage Summer by Rumer Godden Read Free Book Online

Joss was more truthful than I.
    “It was our fault,” she said wearily, “and we shall have to learn.”
    “Learn what?”
    “To manage.”
    “Manage what?”
    “Manage what happens to us better than this. I smell,” said Joss.
    “I smell too,” I said.
    “Not as badly as I do,” and once more she covered her eyes with her hand. It was only to shut out the light, but it looked tragic and I felt torn.
    When something is badly needed it is amazing how an answer will come. I was moved to tell Joss about Monsieur Joubert. She was quiet as she listened, then she took her hand down. “You mean
he said, ‘Put it on my bill’, just like that?” she asked.
    “Just like that.”
    “He wasn’t angry?”
    “Not with us.”
    “And I was drunk.”
    “Very.”
    “Like those men by the canal.”
    “Yes. He carried you up to bed.”
    “Not . . . Eliot?”
    “Eliot wanted to but Monsieur Joubert would not let him.”
    Joss thought for a moment, then got out of bed, went to the washstand, poured water into the basin and began to splash her face. She did not speak while she dried her face and hands, then
stripped off her crumpled dress; I knew she was thinking very deeply or she would have told me to go away. At last, as she was putting on a clean dress I asked, “What are you going to
do?”
    “Give Monsieur Joubert one of my paintings,” she said.
    “But, Joss! He is famous. He gets hundreds of pounds for a portrait. He has paintings in big galleries like the Salon and the Academy.”
    “Not the Academy. The Uffizi in Florence. They have just bought some of his,” said Joss calmly, putting on her shoes.
    “He is to have an exhibition in London this year,” I argued; “Madame Corbet said so. He . . . he won’t be bothered with a girl, Joss. He is Marc Joubert. Madame Corbert
says he is one of the best painters in the world.”
    “Then he will know when a painting is good,” said Joss.
    She was, of course, right. Monsieur Joubert did not send her away; he held the little painting at arm’s length, looked at it again, put it up on a chair and went away from it. Nor was he
play-acting—I do not think Monsieur Joubert ever acted. We all stood round in a chorus while a familiar catechism began. “You did this yourself?”
    “Yes,” said Joss, and we nodded.
    “No one helped you?”
    “No,” and we shook our heads.
    “Then what are you doing mixing yourself up with other things?” asked Monsieur Joubert.
    Joss said uncertainly, “There are other things.”
    The answer came back, “Not for you.”
    “I am going to an art school soon,” said Joss.
    “When?”
    “Perhaps when the holidays are over.”
    “Painters don’t have holidays,” said Monsieur Joubert. “They don’t know how. Why an art school?”
    “I need to learn to draw,” said Joss meekly.
    I thought he would say ‘Nonsense’ but he nodded. “That won’t spoil you. When Madame your mother is better I will speak with her,” and he said to me, “Does she
talk?”
    “Mother?” I asked, startled.
    “Mademoiselle.” He pointed at Joss.
    “Oh! She! Sometimes.”
    He pounced. “Not all times?”
    “Oh no! That’s Hester.”
    “Then,” said Monsieur Joubert, “Mademoiselle Joss can come and paint with me. Not near but near enough, but no other child must come,” and he said fiercely to the rest of
us, “Keep away!”
    We nodded again, our eyes wide with respect. This, we knew, was something different from Eliot.
    Eliot made one approach to Joss. Before dinner she stayed out on the terrace so that she need not meet him in the bar. Mademoiselle Zizi was talking to some American arrivals and he went
out.
    “Joss.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry. Joss, I had to do that.”
    Joss said nothing.
    “You won’t talk to me?” asked Eliot.
    “No,” said Joss.
    “Tomorrow I’m not going to Paris and . . .”
    “I will be busy tomorrow,” and it was true, not an excuse.
    From that day we were split as we had been . .