TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME BACK, AUTHOR LUCINDA HART, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN

EXCERPT

The light is fading fast as afternoon smudges into evening. An inky bloom of rainclouds rolls in from the northern horizon. Ivor Martin glances through the studio window and rinses his brush at the sink. He’s stayed working longer than he intended to but, at his age, he figures he does not have time to waste. He has so few hours left and, suddenly, so much work to do, so much love and longing to pour and scrape and etch into his canvases. This will be his last series of paintings. Not through choice – no, never that – but, like the swollen clouds outside, Ivor senses darkness rolling in quickly to his own horizon.

He dries the brush and winces at the gout in his knuckles. Dark red shiny joints like cherries. The pain locked itself away as he worked but now it burns once more in his bones. He replaces the brushes in their tin, gives the tap a final firm twist which jars his hand further. 

The canvas glints with tacky acrylic paint. Thick clots and runny streaks. The colours and landscape of Ivor’s youth, so many miles from this windy outpost of west Cornwall. For his last work, he’s returning to his roots. Earth to earth.

He struggles into his jacket, his hand finds the familiar smooth curve of his walking stick, and he shuffles towards the door. Cold air hits him in the face as he steps carefully out of his studio and onto the flagstone path. He swaps his walking stick to the other hand so he can turn off the light and lock the door. Hot pain throbs in his knuckles. 

It’s only a short walk between his garden studio and the back door of his bungalow. The path is edged with daffodils, now ghostly white horns in the dark. Rain freckles Ivor’s head as he starts towards his house and the warm light of the living room window, stained red through the curtains.

He must get Stefan to clear this path. It’s slimy in the wet. He doesn’t know if his foot slides from under him, or whether the walking stick misses its purchase on the stone, but suddenly he is going down, down, and his knee, his bad left knee, explodes in a burst of pain, and his head hits the cold wet path. 

He cries out and swears. 

Smoke-dark clouds billow over his head, spewing rain onto him. At the edge of his vision he can still see the red light of the living room and the shapes of his furniture beyond: the bookcase, the standard lamp, his chair.

He tries to sit but his knee screams like Munch’s dark figure. His swollen legs are clumsy as logs. A daffodil brushes his cheek with a wet kiss. He walks his gouty fingers across the flagstone to find his walking stick but it’s skittered out of reach. 

*****

It only takes one drink. 

Tansy slides her hand up and down the cool bottle. It’s a Chilean Merlot. Her mother must have been given it as a present as she’d never have chosen it herself. Tansy would have though. And over ten years ago she chose such a wine often, and too often. During the last decade she’s handled many bottles, wrapped them for gifts, poured from them at parties, and never wavered. But now, this February evening, two weeks after her thirty-eighth birthday, and ten years and five months since that last gin, she finds her fingers reaching for the screw top.

There’s no reason for this to happen tonight. No reason at all. It’s not an anniversary, good or bad. She’s not had a shock or a fright. Maybe it’s simply because it’s a quiet evening. Her mother is away in Plymouth for the night, and the girls are actually silent. When she looked into the living room a few minutes ago Scarlet was still watching CBeebies on iPlayer, and Amber had fallen asleep on the sofa, her face flushed, her hands balled into little fists. If Tansy holds her breath she can just hear the murmur of her laptop, spurting out the Christmas play that Scarlet still wants to watch every evening but, other than that, there’s just the soft grumble of the boiler. A quiet evening. 

The bottle is cool in her hands. Forest green glass, darkened by the wine. Black and red label with a gold font. Decadent. A tiny twist on the lid is all she needs. A second or less. She places the bottle on the worktop and takes a tumbler from the cupboard.

There’s no reason to do this tonight.

There is every reason. 

The seal breaks with a crack. Tansy glances around as though someone might have heard. The cooker clock changes numbers. Another minute of her sobriety.

She lifts the bottle and pours. Ruby-black fluid falls into the glass. She screws on the lid again. Checks the cooker clock. Yet another minute has gone by.

At last she lifts the glass to her lips. The first taste is bitter as bile. Did I really crave this every day, she wonders. She takes another sip, and another. Each sip is less acid, more smooth. She takes a bigger mouthful and turns her back on the clock. She doesn’t want to know the exact moment she broke her vow.

She tops up the glass. The wine is thick and heavy with South American fragrance. Like perfume, ink, blood.

*****

Ivor shivers as he finally extracts his mobile from his trouser pocket. He doesn’t think about what he’d have done if that, like the walking stick, had slid away from his grasp. The screen lights up and rain speckles the photo of Scarlet and Amber. He clicks his contacts, but his fingers are swollen and wet and it takes him several goes to get through. Emmeline is away, he remembers, visiting friends in Plymouth. Tansy will be at home with the girls. She must be. He hits green and winces at the pain in his knee. His breathing sounds ragged to his own ears, crumpled as he is, in this half-sitting, half-lying heap.

*****

Tansy has drunk half the bottle. She should feel something, she thinks. Guilt, anger maybe, at her weakness, her stupidity, her downfall. Or elation at the embrace of her old poisonous friend. But she feels nothing. Nothing at all. She drinks and feels nothing.

The hall phone rings and she jumps. It must be her mother. Only her mother and her grandad use the landline. Her grandad. Scarlet calls something to her, but she ignores her daughter, runs into the hall. 

Why didn’t she call him? Her mother spoke to him before leaving and said he was fine. But no one was going to him today. She should have called him. She should have arranged someone to go. She should have gone.

“Tansy. I need help.”

Ivor’s voice is thin and cracked. He sounds breathless. 

“What’s happened?” 

“Fall. Fell down.”

“Where are you?”

“Studio. Outside the studio... on the path.”

“On the path?” She glances through the front door panes. It’s dark. Rain hits the glass like gravel. “I’ll call an ambulance,” she says.

“Can you come?” Ivor gasps.

“I’m on my own,” she starts. “With the girls. I’ll have to...” She’s wasting time. “Yes,” she says. “But I’ll call Mel too. After the ambulance.”

“What ambulance?” Scarlet grabs her by the leg. “Who’s got an ambulance? Are we getting an ambulance?”

Tansy gently knocks Scarlet aside as she dials 999.

*****

Melanie Atkins hardly hears the ring of her mobile over the TV and the shouts of her four children. She snatches it from her handbag which someone has kicked under the table and sees Tansy’s name. 

“Tansy, hi.” She puts her spare hand over her other ear. Jamie seems to be beating up Thomas in the living room. 

“Mel, it’s Grandad.”

The TV, the kids, it all swoops away into white noise. Mel’s heart rushes under her ribs.

“Is he OK?” Then, “I wasn’t supposed to be there tonight, was I?”

“No, no. He’s had an accident. I’ve called an ambulance. I’ve got to get the girls sorted and get them there. Could you please go to him? You’ll be so much quicker. Please?”

“I’m on my way.”

Mel is about to hang up when Tansy says, “He’s in the garden by the studio. He’ll need blankets.”

“I’m going.” Mel snaps off the phone. 

She grabs an armful of blankets from the airing cupboard, and cannons into her husband as he slouches into the kitchen. 

“What you doing?” Joe asks, nodding at the sliding pile in her arms.

“Have to go. Ivor’s had a fall.” She strides into the hall and unhooks her jacket. “Can you get the girls to bed soon please? Read them a story.”

She’s out of the door and into the rain before Joe answers.

*****

Tansy shakes three-year-old Amber more roughly than she usually would. 

“Amber, Amber, please wake up darling, we have to go out.”

“Where are we going?” Scarlet wails again. 

“To Grandad’s. I told you. Come on, Scarlet, can you get your coats for me while I change her nappy?”

Amber scowls as Tansy hauls her half upright on the sofa. Her leggings are wet – they would be, wouldn’t they? – and there is a dark puddle on the cushion she was lying on. Tansy throws the cushion to the floor and peels off the wet trousers.

“Mummy, Mummy, I’m tired.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I need you to be very grown up for me tonight.”

“What about me?” Scarlet is sullen. “Can’t I be grown up too?”

“You’re always grown up,” Tansy mutters automatically. “Scarlet, could you grab me some trousers for her from the washing? That pile there on the chair. Yes, those jeans are fine.”

Scarlet lobs the jeans towards Tansy.

“I’m grown up too,” Amber shouts.

“No you’re not. You’re only three. You’re a baby. I’m the grown up. I’m five.”

“I am not a baby.”

“Are.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Shut up, both of you.” 

Tansy tugs the jeans onto Amber’s furious little body. Oh fuck, socks, they’ll need socks. One glance at Scarlet. She’s not wearing socks either. 

Please let the ambulance come quickly, Tansy mutters to herself. She told the operator Ivor was ninety-five and had fallen in the cold and wet. She told him that Ivor had arthritis and cellulitis and would not be able to get himself up unaided. She also knows people wait hours for an ambulance.

Mel. Mel will be there soon. That’s something she can guarantee. Capable, quick-thinking, practical Mel, who manages her husband, four children, and two guinea pigs without ruffles or stress.

It’s only as Tansy is finally strapping Amber into her car seat that she remembers the half bottle of Merlot she’s drunk. She’s probably over the limit. She shouldn’t be driving.

She closes the back door and slides in behind the wheel. The interior light dies a few seconds after her own door closes. The car is very cold and very dark.

“I’m cold,” Scarlet starts.

“Tiger, I haven’t got Tiger. Mummy, I need Tiger.”

“We have to go now. Tiger will be waiting for you here, Amber.”

Tansy revs the engine and flicks on her headlamps. A swipe or two of the wipers and a wipe with her cloth. She puts the Golf into reverse and rolls down the drive.

She’s driving out into the night with two children. She’s probably over the limit. And Ivor is in great danger, alone and injured in his dark wet garden. 

*****

Like Tansy, Mel is only a few moments’ drive from Ivor’s. His bungalow is in a country lane winding out of the village of Gerent’s Cross. She roars down the narrow road, watching her rear mirror for an ambulance’s blue lights, but sees nothing. 

She parks in the muddy layby opposite the bungalow, leaving Ivor’s drive for the ambulance and Tansy. There are lights on in the kitchen and, beyond that, the usual warm glow from the living room. It looks just like it does when Ivor is at home, waiting for her to come and prepare his dinner, wash his legs, sort his laundry. 

“Ivor,” she calls out as soon as she goes in, but of course there is no reply. 

 In a couple of strides she’s out of the back door and onto the flagstone path and there he is: a dark shape just outside the studio.

“Ivor, it’s Mel. I’m here.” 

She crouches down beside him and wraps him in the blankets. He is freezing cold, and his eyes, behind his glasses, are dazed. 

“There’s an ambulance coming,” Mel says, “and Tansy and the girls.”

“Sorry,” Ivor mutters. “So sorry.”

“Ssh. Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. Can we shuffle you back into the studio?”

“So cold... my leg.”

“Where’s the key? In your pocket?” 

Mel fumbles in Ivor’s pocket – he’s wearing his jacket at least, she thinks – and finds the studio key. She opens the door and snaps on the light. For a second she just stares at the canvas. She’s only been in here a couple of times before. This is something new. It still looks wet. It looks full of memories and yearning. Times lost. People lost.

*****

“They say it’s coming.” Tansy snaps off her mobile.

She and Mel between them managed to haul Ivor into the studio. He cried out a lot, and Tansy was frightened of hurting him further, but he couldn’t stay out in the icy night another moment.

“You stay with him and I’ll go and look for them.” Mel squeezes her arm as she slides past.

Scarlet and Amber are sitting on the floor at the far end of the studio. Amber’s falling asleep again, despite the hard floor, and the cold, and the situation. Scarlet has found a stick of charcoal and is covering her palms in black dust, but Tansy can’t be bothered to say anything. 

She feels the weight of the painting behind her. She didn’t even know Ivor was working again. It looms with the weight of a life lived, of people lost.

Suddenly over the bungalow roof the sky pulses blue and a moment later Mel leads two paramedics through the back door and over to the studio. Tansy exhales and wonders why the painting makes her feel so unhappy.

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The Shadows Lengthen eBook : Hart, Lucinda: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

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Author Lucinda Hart

AUTHOR BIO

I’m a novelist from Cornwall. 'THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN' is from my group of family dramas set close to where I live. This one is partly inspired by my love of the St Ives artists, and partly by my late grandad Alfred.

I live in the house where I grew up, with my mother, my two daughters, and our guinea pigs. Apart from writing and reading, my interests are running, swimming and keeping fit, ju jitsu, art and history.

Please join me on my Facebook page Lucinda Hart - Author

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COMING SOON: On Monday, 13th April, our amazing team member, author David W. Thompson, is sharing an excerpt from his novel, 'Love Floats'.