Shoving herself determinedly up the deck chair, Callie’s resolve hardened. Whatever happened with her parents, she was determined to learn from their lifestyle; it was one she wholeheartedly rejected. Maybe she should take that leap and embrace an exciting opportunity to change?
‘Hello, Mum,’ Frida yawned from the French doors. ‘What are you thinking about? You looked miles away. Any chance of a brew?’
Thirty-Five
Helen Frankenthaler 1928–2011
American abstract expressionist painter and colourist. Activity: colour block work.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Having made another pot of tea Callie took it into the garden. The afternoon was easing away but it was still warm enough to sit outside. The low sun slid blocks of mellow orange and gold light over the walls and the blackbird returned, ever optimistic.
Frida lowered herself into the deck chair and straightened her leg, wincing. ‘It’s well cool here, isn’t it?’
‘Sea Haven House or Lullbury Bay?’ Callie passed her a mug of tea.
‘Both I suppose.’
‘We have a nice enough garden at home.’
‘Yeah, but we don’t ever sit in it.’
Well, we’re not on holiday at home.’ Callie adopted a sensible tone. ‘Let’s make a promise to use it more often. Buy a barbeque or something.’
Frida rolled her eyes. ‘Mum, neither of us are the barbequing sort.’
‘True. What about some new garden furniture then? Might pick up some bargains now the summer’s nearly over.’ The instant the words were out, Callie regretted them. It had been exactly the penny-pinching thing her mother would have said. ‘Scratch that,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘why the hell wait until the good weather’s over and they’ll sit getting musty in the shed all winter. We’ll hit the garden centre as soon as we get home.’
Frida saluted her with her mug. ‘Way to go, Mum. A trip to the garden centre. You know how to live.’
‘Less of the sarcasm, young lady. How are you feeling now?’
‘Bit stiff. Feel better for all the sleep.’ She yawned.
‘Are you still going for the journalism degree?’
‘Are we having that conversation now?’
‘Are you up to it?’
Frida shrugged. She put her mug down on the grass and lay back, closing her eyes and lifting her face to what was left of the day’s sun. ‘Suppose.’
‘Because, if that’s really what you want to do, then it’s fine by me. Not that you need my approval.’
‘I don’t.’ Frida opened her eyes and stared at her mother. ‘But it would mean a lot if I did.’ She reached out a hand. ‘I don’t want to fight.’
Callie took it. ‘Neither do I, lovey.’ She took a breath. ‘There’s something else. Sunil suggested he fund your degree and I agreed. But only if that’s all right with you?’
Frida slid back up the deck chair, eyes wide. ‘What? Ouch. Shouldn’t have moved that quickly.’
‘Are you all right?’ Callie asked in alarm. ‘The doctor said you need to take it easy until the wound heals.’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s all good, don’t fuss, Mum. I just jarred it. The painkillers are wearing off.’ Frida pulled a face. ‘Sunil’s going to fund my course? That’s amazing! Mind you, he can afford it, he’s never paid any child support so it’s the least he can do.’
‘Frida, that’s uncharitable!’
Frida put up her hands. ‘Joke!’
