Keeping the World Away Read Online Free Page B

frightened each other with the shadows they cast. Gus said he would take her one day, but not Winifred, who would be sure to scream. Gwen did not think she wished to go with him though she was curious to see what the caves were like. She wondered if she could live in a cave, if she had to, if some peculiar set of circumstances made it imperative. She imagined herself running away and having nowhere to go and no money to obtain shelter. She imagined what she would need to take with her to make a cave into a home. A blanket to sit on, a paraffin lamp to see by, a wooden crate to put her clothes in. She would cower there and no one would know where to find her. It would be quiet, so quiet, and she would hear drips of water falling from the rock above and her own breath going in and out. She would be alone, huddled into a ball, almost invisible in the gloom.
    She tried to draw the cave as she imagined it. She put nothing in it except some stones, some shells. She used pastels, dark brown and grey melded together and a lighter brown for the ground. It was hard to draw the entrance. Could the sea be glimpsed? Would the sun strike through it? She needed help but Miss Wilson did not teach drawing beyond tracing outlines of flowers. Gwen would get no help from her. Gus, who could help, was now away at school, and her mother was dead. She imagined that the grave her mother lay in was a kind of earth-cave, but it would be alive with insects and worms weaving their way through the heaving soil. Her head was spinning, thinking of it, and she had to stop. Drawing Winifred settled her dizziness. Winifred wearing a hat, or Winifred with a ribbon in her hair, or herself, looking straight into the mirror.
    It was disturbing, staring at herself, but she grew used to it. After a while, she saw a person who was not familiar but a stranger and then she could begin to draw. This person in front of her had such a cold, haughty look, as though proud of herself but unlikely to say why. She was not pretty. Her face was too flat, none of its features had any charm. The lips were thin, the chin receded, the eyebrows were too marked. The expression in the eyes bothered her and would not translate to paper. Only the clothes were easy. She liked clothes. She and Winifred had very few and none that were fashionable but with no mother and no aunts in the house they were allowed to choose material and instruct the dressmaker themselves. They spent hours hunting for fabrics beautiful to the touch but serviceable, knowing that the dresses must last a long time. They liked subtle colours, dark reds, deep greens, nothing too light or bright. Their mother’s clothes had mysteriously disappeared but they had her jewellery and wore her brooches and some of her necklaces and bracelets and cameos. When they were older, they would try the earrings, especially the pearls.
    They had special skirts made for cycling, in black worsted material, but the waists had white ribbons sewn into them which streamed behind as they pedalled. They had jackets made with tight sleeves, and cut into the waist so that the wind would not ride up them. Clothes were a comfort. Clothes were something they had control over and they could make their own even if they could not dress like the Gypsies. Their dressmaker said they had good figures. Even though they had yet to fill out, she commented, rather impertinently, that for their age (Gwen fifteen, Winifred twelve) they were developing nicely. Gwen was pleased, though she did not show it. Her body was easier to look at in the mirror than her face. Having no eyes, her body did not challenge her. She could look at it and try to draw it and not feel irritated. Breasts were interesting to draw. Hers were not large, or not yet, but she liked their shape, round and high with brown nipples, pert and almost sharp. Pubic hair was difficult. She had seen Gwenda’s bush, when they had changed together on the beach at Broad Haven, and it had made her draw