Anchor butter on freshly baked crusty bread – none of your supermarket shit. And on the side, a manly slab of Lincolnshire pork pie. Forget the job, the super was in heaven. His wife knew how to keep a man happy.
So in the happy hour, when doubles were the price of one and pints were pegged at a pound, the coppers hit the High Road and the streets behind where single lights blinked red and where boys and girls from eight to eighty were trading. It was a growth industry; from about four to eight, if you were counting in inches, more if you were black and slightly less in cold weather. Or so they said.
Chas Walker had pulled the short straw and he drove and Rodney Grant checked out the faces and in the back Donna Fitzgerald wondered what the DI would feel like inside her. The thought was exciting, disorientating and heightened by lack of sleep. She wondered whether he was still working. He’d still been in the office when they left and she’d caught a fleeting – speculative – glance. In what was it? Three days? The kozzer in his dark suit had turned her world on its head. She was a teenager again, straight out of fourth form, full of uncertainty, looking forward to bed so she could think slow thoughts of him and nothing else.
This Sheerham is a crazy old place, where people lie in bed alone listening to the person beside them, where heaven wears suspenders and a come-on smile and is suspended twelve feet off the ground. Anthea Palmer, ex- weather girl, lit up in soft neon, looked out across the town. Her stockings glistened and the gap between her thighs sent shivers down the backs of the passers-by. These admen knew a trick or two.
And a queue formed at the box office.
That night, Jason, for want of his real name, took the night off, and they didn't find him.
Chapter 10
The song from the show went: “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I really missed you…”
And incredibly, given the old-fashioned lyrics, it was climbing the Christmas charts.
But Mr Lawrence wasn't aware of it. Mr Lawrence agreed with the colonel: pop music was for drug-takers and men with rings in their ears.
Mr Lawrence was not fashion conscious. He considered the vagaries of fashion were such that if you wore something long enough then, sooner or later, it would become the height of fashion again. He agreed with the colonel that the fashion houses were in league with the Germans to bring back, sooner or later, the Nazi uniform. He was, however, rather taken with the latest fashion, the miniskirt that was shorter than ever and, in particular, the naked navel – the young firm flat navel, the slightly swollen navel, even the coloured navel and the navel that glinted with gold.
It was mid-afternoon on a depressing December day and the shadows were sucking at the light and leaving the rest dirty. The trees, those that grew from the pavements, were bare, and the colour, both on the ground and above it, was grey. Three couples were in his shop, taking their time to stand before the paintings, whispering. Art galleries were like that: people whispered. There was the spell of the library about them. People forgot that they were shops.
He was discussing frames with a middle-aged couple when the brass bell on the heavy door announced the arrival of a young woman and he saw her for the first time. She breezed in with a blow of winter and Mr Lawrence filled his chest and smiled a secret smile. She was tall and slim, her face partly masked by large spectacles which fractionally enlarged her eyes, dark eyes that fixed on him like the eyes of a big cat eyeing potential prey. While he finished with the couple she flitted from piece to polished piece and from canvas to glinting canvas like a shop-lifter, pretending to examine, more intent on who was watching her. For a few moments she stood gazing up at an old chestnut cooking pot that hung from the painted brick wall and then a large painting of a brick wall itself caught her eye and she moved to that.
The middle-aged couple finally chose a frame for their painting of ducks flying from a green pond and once they had gone the woman moved to the counter.
A thick woollen ruff on her sweater held her jaw high and tramlines of green wool ran over her slight breasts and hugged her waist. Pleats fanned out from her cream-coloured skirt and reached below her knees. It was clingy and tantalizing and yet oddly demure and oldfashioned. Beneath it her calves were on the slim side and she wore white sneakers. Her mouth was wide and thin, the top lip slightly askew, slightly down-turned. Her face was firm, her nose prettily upturned, her cheekbones prominent and her jaw-line solid. Black hair trailed down to the small of her back.
She moved easily, gracefully, accustomed to the flat heels, her long thighs moving against the cream. She was five ten or eleven but looked even taller in her slender frame. There was something youthful about her, her features, her movement, her fitness, which made her seem even younger than she was, which Mr Lawrence put at around the late twenties, and there was a sign of perplexity in her bright eyes, as though this moment was perfect but the next uncertain.
On her long finger were two rings, an engagement and a wedding, and as she placed her slim, almost bony hand, on the polished counter, he noticed that they were slightly worn, fifteen or twenty years old. Mr Lawrence gave them a long look and shrugged before looking up to meet her.
Her fixed gaze softened to a perfunctory yet nervous smile and in a voice that was full of London she said, “Mr Lawrence? Can you help me?”
Of course he could.
“Photographs lie,” he told her.
As he made his way to The British, hugging the pavement beneath the slate-grey sky and the grey slate roofs and the stacks of clay chimney pots lined up like advancing soldiers, he reflected on the encounter. Photographs lie; the shadows give a false impression. They find form where there is none and nothing of subtle form. And what is more, they will never probe beneath the surface for hidden expression, they will never explore a sensation or the temper of either the artist or his subject. There is no art in a reflection. If there were then a mirror with its reflection would be a work of art. The art lies entirely in the passion behind the image, the discovery of the truth, or the lie.
She frowned, puzzled, and threw him a look that indicated his sentiments were wasted.
But he continued.
A camera will give you the moment, something that might bring back the memory, if you like, but nothing more. And what is more, it will not give you the truth of the moment, or the lie, and it won’t live and breathe and excite you. And what is even more, ultimately it will leave you cold, wanting more.
They'd already discussed the fee and it didn't seem to bother her. She'd offered a deposit that wasn't necessary.
“I understand you take on commissioned work,” she had begun. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes, when I am not busy.”
“Well, are you busy now? My friend Helen…”
“Mrs Harrison.”
“Mrs Helen Harrison,” she agreed. “Showed me the painting you did for her. My husband liked it, rather. I thought, perhaps, it would make a nice Christmas present.”
“Ah, Christmas, yes, it's coming. But my dear, the oil wouldn't dry in time. We'd be pushed to get all the sittings in.”
She seemed downhearted.
He scratched his chin and said, “On the other hand, perhaps…” “Oh, could you?”
“The portrait of Mrs Harrison turned out rather well. I was rather pleased with it.”
“Well then, will you fit me in?”
“I will have to check my diaries.”
“You have more than one?”
“Dear girl, you might not know this but there is an increasing demand for original work. People are fed up with vacant prints and copies. Framed in expensive frames it is only the frame you pay for.” Another couple in the shop looked across as he turned up the volume. The thought of prints had always raised his voice.
They discussed sittings and arranged the first. He wrote it carefully in one of his diaries.
“What shall I wear?”
