Mai Griffin
the hill cattle grazed on the uncultivated fields and, in
the distance, a few horses stood in a paddock. Just
below was a smallholding …the farmhouse was beyond
a vegetable garden and chicken runs. The outbuildings
looked old, not in good repair and consequently made
an interesting group for a painting. The road leading
into the village would appear on the right of her canvas
and she was surprised that she had not noticed the
lane leading to the farm when she drove in the day
before; where it met the main road, the junction looked
quite wide from above. Before tackling the background,
Clarrie was intent on placing the roads, barns and
house but every time she made a stroke, one or other
of the boys interrupted.
“What is that square thing?”
“Why are you painting that roof?”
“What is that yellow blob going to be?
“Aren’t you going to paint any big buildings?”
At last, she could stand it no longer and asked them
if they would be kind enough to leave and allow her to
paint quietly. “Why don’t you go away now and come
back in a couple of days? You’ll be able to see what the
finished painting will be like then.” Although aggrieved
at being dismissed, they went with a fairly good grace,
but as the day wore on, it was obvious that they must
have told everyone they met, ‘There’s a woman up
there, painting a picture’. At first a few and then a
constant stream of people appeared, trying to look
casual as they strolled past. By the time Clarrie realised
what was happening, the painting was too far
advanced to abandon so she worked on regardless.
Fortunately, very few tried to engage her in
conversation. Clarrie was surprised, but thankful that
her audience was content to view and mutter amongst
themselves. When the sun lost its strength and began
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