there is something else beside.” “I'm worried, Mr Lawrence. Kozzers worry me even when I ain't done nothing. And I’ve always done something.”
“No need to be. They have nothing to go on. Nothing at all. From now on, we have to be a bit careful, that's all.”
“I've tidied up a bit, especially in the studio. And I’ve put up some more tape around the cellar door. The smell was coming through something awful.”
“But the studio is out of bounds, Paul.”
“I know you said that but…”
“Yes, the circumstances. Given the circumstances, just this once.” “They left a mess. All your boxes were on the floor.”
“The Clingfilm?”
“Yes, your boxes of Clingfilm.”
“I use it to wrap the paintings. It keeps the damp away.”
“I guessed that. I guessed that's what you used it for.”
The subject was good enough: an island of trees giving the illusion of a suspended mass, an object and its reflection bathed in light. During the last week or so Mrs Unsworth had made experimental dabs, changing this key and that value and yet was still puzzled by its lack of depth. Mrs Unsworth was seventy, fragile, her tiny frame warped by arthritis. A widow, she had been coming to class for four years, making use of her enforced independence.
“I've told you before that you can't have the paint too thin where the light is weak. You've been skimping again. I know that paint's expensive but better to use a smaller canvas and get it right.” “Oh, I know, I know. I blame my husband, God bless his soul, but I've become so used to frugality. He used to boil the carrot tops, you know, you know? To put it another way, Mr Lawrence, he was a tight bastard. Right up to the day he died. It caused his death, you know, you know? We were in Sainsbury's, the meat section, when he saw the cost of lamb chops and died on the spot. Caused quite a commotion, I'll say. He went just like that. He saw the price per kilo and hadn’t got a clue what that was, then slowly he converted it to English money, pounds, and then slowly shook his head in wonder and then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he was praying but then, he slipped sideways and went all the way. I remember it so well, you know, you know? So very well. I just stood there watching. I couldn't move. His leg shot out and hung in the air for a moment, kicking, waving. Waving goodbye, maybe. And that was it, you know, you know? His final wave to me. Gone. After thirtyfive years. Gone. And you know, you know what the funny thing is? He was a liver and bacon man. Liver, bacon, mash and fried onions with thick lumpy gravy. He never even liked lamb!” She shook her white-haired head. “It's always amazed me, though, when I see the news, the farmers on the news, when they say they have to kill off their lambs because they're not worth the money. You tell me if you can, if the farmers are getting pennies, you know, you know? Then who is getting rich, eh? Eh?” And with that, with a slender arthritic finger, she poked him forcefully in the arm.
Rubbing his arm, he said, “I wish I had an answer. Someone is, and that's for sure. Maybe the wholesalers, perhaps the owners of the abattoirs, or the hauliers or perhaps, more likely, those villains who own the supermarkets. Whoever they are, I'm sure their religion is not Church of England. I'm sure that pork scratchings are not on their menu. But, nevertheless, you have used that excuse before.” “Oh I know, I know. But time flies when you get to our age. Not that you’re as old as me. But doesn’t it just? How many days in your life can you actually remember? How many weeks? How many months? Such a waste, I think. And you know, you know, you never think about the waste of time until you’re running out of it.” “You’re so right, Mrs Unsworth.”
“You can call me Dolly, Mr Lawrence. I think we’ve known each other long enough to end the formality. I was beautiful once and once you would have wanted to paint me.”
“I have told you this before Mrs Unsworth – Dolly – my preference is for landscapes.”
“I know. I know you have, I remember, but you know, you know, on a young woman’s body, Mr Lawrence, are the most wonderful landscapes that you will ever find. And I’ll tell you something else, for if you look closely so that you see beneath the weather-beaten surface, you’ll find those same landscapes on an old girl too.”
In the class there were six others beside Mrs Unsworth.
Mr Lawrence coughed for their attention. It was not an easy thing to hold. With the older members it tended to wander. And with the youngsters it was never there in the first place. But for the moment the group turned as one. “Now, because it's our last meeting before the festive break I've arranged a little something special. This evening we'll be concentrating on the figure. I suppose we could call it still life. At least, that is what I am hoping. We have a model.”
This caused some excitement and they hurriedly unpacked their trappings.
The class was made up of five women and two men. Mrs Unsworth and the men were retired. Two of the others were forty-something spinsters and although they had something to smile about – not being married – they obviously didn’t know it. The other two were in their mid-twenties. They were twins, both married, both with two children. Their husbands were builders, their children in nursery school and, they had decided to branch out with a hobby. They had chosen the wrong hobby. They had neither the aptitude nor any real interest. Not that it mattered to Mr Lawrence for the club was just a pastime, an irrelevance, nothing more than a little diversion.
Hiding under the stairs and peering into the studio through a tiny crack in the wall he'd discovered and made bigger when running in the electric cable, Paul saw the legs first. Long tapered white legs bare of tights or nylons, and covered in tiny blond hairs, unusual to find nowadays, but tricky. Two sets of them. Legs first and then the naked navels and then the faces of the twins. Paul had his priorities in order. Unless the legs were interesting he rarely bothered with the rest. But these were interesting. And the rest was interesting too. It wasn't long before he heard their names. Sandra and Susan.
Nice old-fashioned names.
Four long legs covered in tiny fair hairs that went all the way up to two very short black skirts.
It was funny how black was the predominant colour of women’s clothes nowadays. It hadn’t been like that when he went in. It was funny what you noticed when you came out. He noticed other things as well. That more women were wearing trousers, and these thongy things that they showed you whenever they bent down. But come back to the trousers. You rarely saw a skirt or a dress nowadays, not unless it was on a slapper, and that was a shame. But Sandra and Susan weren’t slappers and they were wearing skirts, black skirts, short black skirts. And that was bloody excellent.
Both faces were tanned but Susan's was tanned and freckled. Their green eyes were bright reference books of information. Their lips, quite full and painted red, told him even more. They told him, for instance, that they were married.
He listened in on their quiet and yet quite intense conversation. Sandra, more so than Susan, was restless, rather bored with motherhood and her narrow existence. And she was upset at being pregnant again. She didn't know what was best, but she would probably have the baby. Mainly because she couldn't afford the cost in Oxford Circus and she didn't fancy going to the NHS.
Paul shook his head. Funny old world, when you thought about it, that a life could be decided that way.
Sandra smoothed her skirt over her belly and held in her smooth, almost flat abdomen. “It doesn't show yet, does it?”
And Susan said, “I wouldn't have guessed.”
But someone else had. And he smiled a wicked smile and spread his hands until the blood raced to his fingertips.
“Paul!” he heard Mr Lawrence call him. “Are you ready?” Paul had been around so the thought of taking off his clothes for the class was of no consequence. Even with the bruises that taking on electricity had left he was proud of his body. In fact the idea excited him. It was another life experience. And his thoughts of the twins excited him even more. It was this excitement that caused concern, at first, and had the women in the class, particularly the twins, in fits of giggles. Even Mrs Unsworth was curious and she exaggerated his excitement on her sketch. The men, Mr Morgan in particular, who was retired and treasurer of the club, were hugely embarrassed and, with their large hairy ears and hairy noses blazing, they left early. Paul had the devil’s face on him; his grin was utterly irresistible and he was in his element. Mrs Unsworth was covered in charcoal and Mr Lawrence thought he had made a mistake but was enjoying himself immensely.
Afterwards Paul had only half-dressed when Mr Lawrence found him.
“It's time for us to talk. I can't have lunatics breaking in here and threatening me with light-sabres. Or
