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The camp near Rhodes had to be Arthur’s favourite so far. It was close to the water, concealed by woodland and prime hunting. Sure, he didn’t much care for the people in the area. They were all self-absorbed fools. He certainly wouldn’t shed a tear for any of them if they just upped and killed each other. Greys and the damned Braithwaites.
Arthur scoffed and looked up from his journal to watch the mist descend on the water, spreading the dimming orange sun over the camp.
‘What’re you doing, Uncle Arthur?’ Jack got on tiptoes and tried to steal a peek at Arthur’s journal.
‘Just writing about what’s happened today,’ Arthur said, shutting the book up and pocketing it before the boy could read it.
‘What’s happened today?’ Jack said, looking up at him.
‘Well, I don’t know, rightly.’ Arthur sighed dramatically and sat back a little in his seat. ‘I think I looked after the horses and did my chores. What do you think?’ He flashed the boy a playful smile. ‘Did you?’
Jack’s little round face twisted in thought as he considered what he’d done that day. ‘Momma brushed my hair and we went flower picking for Mr. Charles.’
‘Oh did you, really?’
‘And Uncle Hosea read with me. Says I’ll be a writer one day.’
‘Yeah,’ Arthur said, muffling his chuckle with a cough. ‘Well, if Hosea says it, it must be true.’
‘Jack!’ Abigail yelled out from down by the river. ‘Where are you, you useless-’ She emerged onto the grassy mound and placed her hands on her hips when she spotted Jack. ‘You were supposed to be picking up shells.’
‘Supposed to-?’ Arthur couldn’t hide his amusement at that. ‘And what in God’s name is the boy gonna do with those?’
‘Keep out of it, Arthur.’ Abigail was in one of her moods, again. John probably denounced the boy for the umpteenth time, so Arthur couldn’t blame the woman.
‘I was just talking to Uncle Arthur about writing, momma.’
‘And what have you got to write about?’
‘Hosea says he’s got a talent,’ Arthur interrupted, trying to ease the pressure off the boy. It wasn’t his fault his parents weren’t madly in love.
‘Like Hosea said you did?’ Abigail stepped up to her boy and took him by his arm. ‘I don’t need to remind you that Jack is my responsibility and I ain’t gonna have you nor Hosea filling his head with nonsense.’
‘And picking up shells ain’t?’ Arthur said, sitting back. Abigail’s words did hurt but he pushed them down. Hosea was a sweet talker and a charmer, which made him a great teacher. He could make a boy feel capable of anything.
‘You’ll be hanging these in your very own gallery one day, ain’t that right, Dutch? Here, look at this.’ Hosea extended the journal out to Dutch, who took the book with a cigar still in his mouth. ‘The boy’s an artist.’
Dutch inspected the pictures, the corner of his mouth curling up around the cigar. ‘You just need to work on getting the eyes level,’ he said. ‘But Hosea’s right. And I want free entry to every exhibition.’ He smiled down at the young man as he handed the journal back.
Arthur smiled and fingered the edge of his pencil as he remembered those days. It had just been the three of them and things were so damned simple back then.