“A framed print of a white flower in a jar standing in front of a range of mountains in varying shades of blue brightened the wall opposite the window, which admitted enough sunlight to make the wooden surfaces of the sideboard gleam. Mrs. Johnson noticed Susan looking at it.
“It’s a Hockney print,” she said proudly. “We bought it at the photography museum when we went to see his exhibition. It lightens up the place a bit, doesn’t it? He’s a local lad, you know, Hockney.” Her accent sounded vaguely posh and wholly put on.
“Yes,” said Susan. She remembered Sandra Banks telling her about Hockney once. A local lad he might be, but he lived near the sea now in Southern California, a far cry from Bradford. “It’s very nice,” she added.
“I think so,” said Mrs. Johnson. “I’ve always had an eye for a good painting, you know. Sometimes I think if I’d stuck it and not…” she looked around. “Well,…it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? A cup of tea?”