“A warm Christmassy light on the display of bronze ballerinas might look nice.”
“No problem, Mr Lawrence. Leave it to me. I'm the man, see?” He'd gone out again just before Mr Lawrence left for the supermarket and Mr Lawrence took a peep into his room. It wasn't nosiness or anything like that for the door had been left open. There was a cardboard box full of baby things, Pampers and Huggies with their price tags still attached, Milton, rattles, counting blocks, teddy bears and baby-growers. And a whole bunch of baby-wipes. But the lad was proving quite useful. Mr Lawrence could have told Albert all that.
“Noticed the police were out in force last night, raiding the flats,” Albert commented.
The colonel asked, “What were they looking for?”
“Missing women.”
“Oh,” Mr Lawrence said, absently. “Did they find any?”
“Plenty of women,' Albert sniffed. “But none of them missing.” “All this business,” Nervous Sid said. “Missing women, and the two that were attacked, just around the corner, man, it's turning brother against brother. We should all learn to kiss and cuddle like they do on the football pitches. All this trouble is no good, bad for the digestion. You can feel the tension out there. It's not good.”
“I know,' Albert said. 'I can feel it too, out there. Or it might even be in here.”
The colonel said, “As long as it's only the women, it could be worse.”
Roger said, “Well, I hope you keep all your kissing and cuddling outside. I won’t have it in here.”
Sid the Nerve shook his head despondently and moved off shaking his ring.
Once he’d gone Roger said, “I’m thinking of banning the blacks…” Albert shook his head. “Not possible with the race relations. You’d end up in court.”
Roger continued, “…along with the Jews.”
Albert turned to Mr Lawrence. “So, snow? I feel the chill, too.” At the shop Paul was helpful. He helped him unpack the shopping. “Walnuts, Mr Lawrence, and shoe polish. You’ve already got shoe polish under the sink.”
“You can never have too much shoe polish.”
“You’ve bought lots of walnuts.”
“Walnuts are the thing, Paul. They lower the cholesterol.” “Well, I didn’t know that.”
“And you’ve always got to put one in the sock you hang up on Christmas night.”
“Oh, Mr Lawrence, does that mean I’m staying for Christmas?” “Now, now, Paul, I didn’t say that, did I?”
Downstairs Paul proved even more helpful.
“I'll keep the shop open,” he said.
“There's no need, really.”
“No problem, really. It's getting close to Christmas. You never know. In any case, now we’ve put the walnuts away, I'm doing nothing else.”
“As you like,” Mr Lawrence said, secretly pleased.
“One thing, Mr Lawrence?”
“What’s that, Paul?”
“Last night, late, I heard babies crying. It was coming through the walls.”
“That will be the cats. I’ve heard them myself. When they cry they sound just like babies.”
“Oh, that’s all right then.”
The woman from India or Pakistan or Luton, arrived at three-thirtyfive, five minutes late.
Mr Lawrence believed that punctuality marked the man – and the woman.
“What about the specs? I think I'll take them off.”
“As you like,” he said, still smarting.
“I'm long-sighted. They're bifocals. People wouldn't recognize me without them. What do you think?”
“I think I'd recognize you without them. But perhaps I don't know you well enough not to recognize you.”
Her glance was quick and questioning.
“Off for now,” he added, softening a little. It was difficult to maintain severity before such an engaging face. “We can always change our minds later.”
Carefully she removed her spectacles, folded them and slipped them away. In the rich brown of her eyes was a challenge. Taking off the spectacles had removed the innocence. The bridge of her nose was slightly marked, as though she wasn’t used to wearing them. The thick green drapes behind her were going to lend their value to her skin tone. Her brown dress was loose; the pleats and folds presented a pleasing contrast.
She spoke from the side of her mouth. There was no need to keep still. When discomfort had set in maybe he would tell her. “Have you painted for long?”
“Since before you were born.”
“You used to teach?”
“Ah! Mrs Harrison told you that.”
“Yes.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“You taught art?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Biology.”
“I didn't know that.”
“Why should you?”
“Why did you stop?”
“To concentrate on art. I still take small classes here. I find it more satisfying. And of course, working for myself, and shutting up whenever I feel like it, the holidays compare, although the teachers do edge it.”
“You take classes in here?”
“There's room for five or six, eight at a push.”
“Is there a particular age group?”
“Yes, indeed. We don’t cater for children. They find it difficult to concentrate.”
“It sounds interesting.”
“Yes, it does.”
“How much do your lessons cost?”
“There is no charge. It's more of a club. The members buy their materials from me but there's no obligation. They get them at cost in any case. The club charges a small annual subscription but you'd have to ask the treasurer about that. I am not a member. The subscription goes toward outings and transport. This summer, for instance, they spent a day in Essex discovering Constable, that sort of thing. Some of their work hangs in the gallery. It's not very good, really, but I show willing.”
“When we are through you'll have to show me.”
“Yes, I'll have to.”
“You used to teach in school?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you give up teaching?”
“I told you, to spend more time painting. And I discovered that I didn't like children. Do you have children?”
“No. I have a Labrador.”
“Do you work?”
“In personnel or, rather, HR. BOC.”
“I know it. In Wembley. How long have you been there?” “Since school. Over ten years now.”
“And have you been married long?”
“Three years.”
“Is your husband in the same line of business?”
“No. He's in marketing. In the city.”
“Do you have hobbies?”
“I play badminton.”
