At Summer's End

not creativity. I never knew my parents to engage in the arts, which was why I'd been under their scorn since adolescence for lacking focus on anything apart from painting.



Mother came through from the kitchen, where she was surely bullying our cook about the state of dinner. Neither of them had noticed my arrival, so I announced, "Peonies!" and held the bunch in Mother's direction. "Won't they be lovely?"



Her mouth was permanently downturned, but the creases deepened at the sight of the flowers. "Oh, Bertie, you know your father's hay fever is the devil in June. Do put them outdoors."



Father peered over wire spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. "No, no bother to me, surely."



"I'll not have you bedridden over a few measly blooms. Please, Bertie?"



On cue, Father sneezed. I sent my eyes skyward and trudged back to the foyer, swung the door open, and tossed the flower bunch-which I'd spent a hard-earned penny on-to the front path. How remarkable the glue odor should have no effect whatsoever on Father's lungs.



Back in the parlor, Mother leaned over his shoulder, watching him tinker. "How does Mrs. Lemm do, Bertie?"



"Well," I answered. "Charming as always. I had a lovely time." I shrank to the window seat and pinched a piece of my newly chopped bob. A smudge of paint clung to my thumb, the rusty shade of a terrier's whiskers.



"So good of her to have you, wasn't it? She knows how much you enjoy doing your paintings." Here, Mother implied I wasn't an artist at all, but a hobbyist like my father. "Mrs. Flynn called by earlier; she'd seen the Times and wanted to have a look at the prize painting. You remember her boy John was killed on the Somme?-poor lamb burst into tears."



My painting, entitled Something for the Pain, had begun as a sketch I'd done whilst serving in the Voluntary Aid Detachment, stationed near the Western Front. It captured a nursing sister in her grey uniform and veil, standing