JONATHAN THE PAINTER

Jonathan Abber was seven years old and his small square of painting was good.

The autumn sunlight stretched its warm fingers along his drawing block, splashing round chunks of paint with new colour. Jonathan laid his head on his arms and watched his glass of bloodred water leap into fire. He sighed contentedly, full of happiness. He had rushed in from the garden an hour ago in frantic haste to paint those beautiful colours, no two leaves the same; the yellow and red made him feel so excited and happy. He felt that if he did not spill some of his happiness through his fingers it would overwhelm him. So he had worked, remembering the joy through his eyes; he saw the sharp greens soaring up beside the beech in the corner, and he had put it all down. He sat up and looked lovingly at his work, which he had speared with a drawing pin and fixed on the wall opposite the window.

"What are you doing, sitting in the dark, Jonathan?" The dreaded voice cut through his pleasure and suddenly in its place was just a dry ordinariness. His aunt clicked the switch down sharply and a bright light flared through the room.

"Good gracious, child, look at your hands! Be sure you have a good wash before your tea, and what is this?" She looked at Jonathan with an icy stare and said, "Take that horrible mess off the wall at once, and when you are sufficiently clean, I wish to speak to you in the drawing room".

When she had gone, Jonathan rushed to the switch and sobbed quietly in the dark. He looked out for a moment at the gathering dusk, then got a chair, climbed on to it and carefully took down the water colour from the wall.

INEZ CLAKE (M).