The Taxidermist's Daughter Read Free Page A

own, before heading to the Rifleman for a late, quick nightcap.
    He had ruined the painting. Or rather, it had never worked at all.
    Harry put down his palette. Usually, the smells of linseed oil and paint filled him with expectation. Today, they taunted him. He was tempted to think it was his subject’s fault – that he should have found someone with more promise, with a more distinctive face and unique expression – but, though he tried to blame his sitter, he knew that he was at fault. He had failed to find the essence of the woman, failed to capture the shadows and lines and curves to preserve for posterity. Rather, he’d produced a list of painted characteristics: a nose just so, hair of such-and-such a colour, eyes of this tint rather than that.
    All true. Yet all completely false.
    Harry put his brushes into the turpentine jar to soak and wiped his hands. He took off his blue working smock, flung it over the back of the armchair and put his waistcoat back on. Glancing at the carriage clock, he realised he was running late. He drained the last of his cold coffee, stubbed out his cigarette, then noticed with irritation that there was a smudge of paint on his right shoe. He reached for a cloth.
    ‘Damn,’ he said, as he succeeded only in smearing the vermilion over the laces. He’d have to leave it for now.
    ‘Lewis?’ he called, walking out into the hall.
    The butler appeared from the back of the house.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Has my father come in?’
    ‘He has not.’ Lewis paused. ‘Were you expecting him, sir?’
    ‘I’d thought he might return for lunch.’
    When he’d bumped into his father at breakfast, Harry had asked if they might talk. The old man hadn’t committed himself either way.
    ‘Did he say what time he’d be home this evening, Lewis?’
    ‘Dr Woolston gave no reason to assume that it would not be at the usual time, sir.’
    ‘That’s it?’
    ‘His only instruction was that, should you find yourself detained, dinner should be served at seven thirty.’
    Harry knew – and Lewis knew – it was intended as a reproach for the fact that Harry had failed to come home for dinner on several occasions recently, each time without sending his apologies. The Castle Inn was so much more appealing than another formal, silent meal alone with his father, struggling to find a topic of conversation that suited them both.
    Harry took his hat from the stand. ‘Thank you, Lewis.’
    ‘So will you be in for dinner this evening, sir?’
    Harry met his gaze. ‘I should think so,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
     
    *
     
    Harry walked slowly past the Georgian facades of the private houses at the top of North Street, heading towards the shops closer to the stone Market Cross that stood at the junction of Chichester’s four main streets.
    He had taken the morning off, pleading illness, in order to work on the painting – pointlessly, as it turned out. Now he resented having to go to the office at all, especially since it was a pleasant day for once. Ceramic plates and serving dishes and milk jugs, Spode and Wedgwood imitations, lists of container carriers and shipping lines, moving goods from one end of the country to another to grace middle-class dining tables. This was not what Harry wanted to do with his life, working his way up in a business that bored him rigid, and for a man he loathed.
    He still didn’t understand why his father had insisted he find employment with Frederick Brook. Staffordshire born and bred, Brook was a self-made man and successful at what he did, but there was no common ground between him and Harry’s father at all. Dr Woolston was a great believer in everyone knowing their place. He mixed only with other professionals and looked down upon those who made their money in trade.
    Harry couldn’t stick it any longer. He didn’t care how much of a favour Brook was doing his father, nor how many times he told him so. He was going to chuck it in.
    Harry drew level with the Assembly Rooms,