The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox Read Free Book Online Page B

the first time. She was much taller than she would have guessed. It wasn’t that she looked small when she was sitting down—it was that she seemed so shapeless. Uncle Crispin had drawn the shades and set the kettle to boil on the stove. Aunt Bea’s eyes were closed; her hands clutched the robe, but one finger tapped against her ribcage as though something about her always had to be moving.
    Recalling the voices in the middle of the night, Aunt Bea’s awful wail, Uncle Crispin’s angry protests, Emma looked for a sign of what had happened.
    She ate two bits of bread. Uncle Crispin poured hot water into the teapot and sat down to eat his bacon.
    â€œHow cheerfully you poison yourself!” Aunt Bea exclaimed, her huge eyes open now and staring at her husband. Uncle Crispin didn’t look up. He said nothing, but he certainly didn’t look cheerful. Perhaps his silence was the sign, Emma thought.
    â€œI’ll go upstairs and make my bed,” Emma said.
    â€œI should think so,” remarked Aunt Bea. “It’s the maid’s decade off. Who else would make it?”
    â€œBea!” protested Uncle Crispin.
    Aunt Bea’s fingers tightened on her robe.
    â€œI’m sure Emma doesn’t expect anyone to make her bed,” he said smoothly.
    Aunt Bea had been sitting rigidly, her head held high as though she were posing for a photograph. Now she sank down into her chair, looking at Emma through half-closed eyes. “Oh … I don’t care! What do I care about bed-making.…” She giggled suddenly. “Poor Crispin. You’re the only one who worries about such things in this house. We don’t—do we Emma?”
    Being near Aunt Bea was like being surrounded by a cloud of gnats. She was smiling and Emma could see the glint of her chalk-white, rather long teeth. Slowly, she pointed a finger at Emma, reaching out as though to poke her.
    â€œA watched phone never rings,” she said.
    â€œI think I’ll go read,” Emma said.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re one of those children who reads all the time!” shrieked her aunt.
    â€œBea! What on earth are you saying!” cried Uncle Crispin.
    â€œI say what I think—unlike other people,” Aunt Bea said sulkily, and grabbed up her cup of tea.
    Emma escaped into the living room. It was better yesterday when Uncle Crispin had been hearty and cheerful with her aunt—even though he had sounded a little fake.
    She walked to the long table and touched the violin case. She wanted to look inside it. It might be one like her father’s. He had taught her to name all the parts of a violin before she could read.
    â€œHere. Let me show you,” Uncle Crispin said, opening the cover. He had come so silently to her side, she hadn’t heard his footsteps. Maybe he, too, wanted to get away from the dining room.
    â€œIt looks just like Daddy’s,” she said. The instrument was as beautiful as a bird in flight. When her father played, the hair-thin strings of the bow often broke. He would replace them, completely absorbed in what he was doing, his fingers so quick and practiced as he tightened a peg screw.
    â€œPurfling,” she said as she touched the border.
    â€œThat’s right. Clever girl,” Uncle Crispin said, and picking up the violin and placing it under his chin, he played a cadenza.
    There was a loud groan from the dining room.
    Uncle Crispin’s face went blank. He replaced the violin in its worn blue velvet bed. “Come out on the porch,” he said. “The day will lift your spirit.”
    He pushed aside a tattered beige curtain revealing a narrow door she hadn’t known was there. It would be a way of getting out without having to go through the dining room, she thought, a way of avoiding Aunt Bea.
    A cool wind, scented with pine and roses, touched her skin. “If you read out here, you will be able to hear the telephone