The Breaking Point Read Online Free Page B

wine. Finally he tore himself away from temptation, and climbed into a taxi with his wares. No. 8, Boulting Street, the unaccustomed address instead of his own familiar square added spice to the adventure.
    It was strange, but as the taxi drew up at its destination the row of villas no longer appeared so drab. It was true that yesterday’s wind had dropped, the sun was shining fitfully, and there was a hint in the air of April and longer days to come; but that was not the point. The point was that No. 8 had something of expectancy about it. As he paid his driver and carried the packages from the taxi, he saw that the dark blinds in the basement had been removed and makeshift curtains, tangerine-coloured and a shock to the eye, hung in their place. Even as he noted this the curtains were pulled back and the woman, the child in her arms, its face smeared with jam, waved up at him. The cat leapt from the sill and came towards him purring, rubbing an arched back against his trouser leg. The taxi drove away, and the woman came down the steps to greet him.
    ‘Johnnie and I have been watching for you the whole afternoon,’ she said. ‘Is that all you’ve brought?’
    ‘All? Isn’t it enough?’ he laughed.
    She helped him carry the things down the basement stair, and as he glanced into the kitchen he saw that an attempt had been made to tidy it, besides the hanging of the curtains. The row of shoes had been banished underneath the dresser, along with the child’s toys, and a cloth, laid for tea, had been spread on the table.
    ‘You’ll never believe the dust there was in your room,’ she said. ‘I was working there till nearly midnight.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he told her. ‘It’s not worth it, for the time.’
    She stopped before the door and looked at him, the blank look returning to her face. ‘It’s not for long, then?’ she faltered. ‘I somehow thought, from what you said yesterday, it would be for some weeks?’
    ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that,’ he said swiftly. ‘I meant that I shall make such a devil of a mess anyway, with these paints, there was no need to dust.’
    Relief was plain. She summoned a smile and opened the door. ‘Welcome, Mr Sims,’ she said.
    He had to give her her due. She had worked. The room did look different. Smelt different, too. No more leaking gas, but carbolic instead - or was it Jeyes? Disinfectant, anyway. The blackout strip had vanished from the window. She had even got someone in to repair the broken glass. The cat’s bed - the packing-case - had gone.There was a table now against the wall, and two little rickety chairs, and an armchair also, covered with the same fearful tangerine material he had observed in the kitchen windows. Above the mantelpiece, bare yesterday, she had hung a large, brightly-coloured reproduction of a Madonna and Child, with an almanac beneath. The eyes of the Madonna, ingratiating, demure, smiled at Fenton.
    ‘Well . . .’ he began, ‘well, bless me . . .’ and to conceal his emotion, because it was really very touching that the wretched woman had taken so much trouble on what was probably one of her last days on this earth, he turned away and began untying his packages.
    ‘Let me help you, Mr Sims,’ she said, and before he could protest she was down on her knees struggling with the knots, unwrapping the paper and fixing the easel for him.Then together they emptied the boxes of all the tubes of colour, laid them out in rows on the table, and stacked the canvases against the wall. It was amusing, like playing some absurd game, and curiously she entered into the spirit of it although remaining perfectly serious at the same time.
    ‘What are you going to paint first?’ she asked, when all was fixed and even a canvas set up upon the easel. ‘You have some subject in mind, I suppose?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve a subject in mind.’ He began to smile, her faith in him was so supreme, and suddenly she smiled too and