“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.”
“That's good. It's good to have a sport.”
“Do you have a sport?”
“No.”
“My husband's a runner. Weekends. Sometimes, I go to watch him run. Cheer him on.”
“I bet he likes that. I don't know any runners. I've been out, painting, and they've run past. But they never stopped. Do you live far from here?”
“The Ridgeway.”
“Of course, near Mrs Harrison.”
“Well, Mrs Harrison isn't there at the moment. She's gone off somewhere. Mr Harrison is quite worried.”
“My goodness, I bet he is. I hope she's not another missing woman. We've got enough of those. Hope we don't see her picture up in the bus shelters.”
“How long have you lived here? Do you live here?”
“I moved here in the mid-eighties. There's a small flat upstairs, enough room for one.”
“You're on your own, then?”
“I suppose I am. Apart from the lodger.”
“You have a lodger?”
“Yes.”
“It's good to have company.”
“You think so?”
“Don't you?”
“I've been on my own so long it takes some getting used to.” “You never married?”
“No. No one would have me.”
“I don't believe that.”
“Every time I got close to a woman she disappeared.”
“It’s not a joke, Mr Lawrence.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“It's frightening.”
“It's never frightened me. I suppose it should. But it doesn't.” A wide belt pinched her dress at the waist. She had an awkward hip that gave him trouble. There was a sharpness that needed smoothing. Part of the problem lay in her deportment. Her weight was on her heels, her shoulders dragged slightly forward to compensate. The main cause was a flat masculine behind. It wasn't in the picture but it took away the natural curve to the hip.
There were a couple of other areas where he could help out too. It depended how charitable he felt when it came to the detail. It depended on the mood and how ugly it was on the day.
Off the studio was a small kitchen with a sink and tea-making equipment. But he didn't make tea. He opened a bottle of red wine. While he fought with the cork the voice of his new assistant carried in from the shop. Moments earlier the doorbell had struck.
“Hang on! Hang on! Here it is: Reclining Nude on Red Settee with One Arm. Done by a geezer named Reynolds. What I can tell you about him, mate, is that he spent his life doing copies of Goya's… You know? Innit? This tart wasn't just any old tart. They were close. I mean very close. He must have changed his mind about her arm.” Red wine splashed into glasses. Mr Lawrence shook a wondrous head.
He carried two glasses into the studio and found her leafing through a pile of unframed canvasses on the worktop, part of the last batch from the Far East. She was thoughtful, tight-lipped, critical. She had resisted the temptation to examine the new canvas on the easel and that amused him. The idea that unfinished work should not be seen is only valid when the technique is wanting. Second-raters in life needed secret time to botch.
He handed her a glass. “It's Merlot-Malbec, one of my favourites.” “Did Helen drink wine?”
“Mrs Harrison? Always, before a session got too involved. It unfastened her inhibitions – not that she had many – and it added a delightful tinge to her cheeks. And for me it freed up my knife… My brush strokes. Red wine, my dear, is a necessary part of the procedure.” He glanced at the paintings she'd been studying. “What do you think?”
She pulled a face.
“One or two are all right… They seem so similar. I'm not very keen on landscapes.”
“They are factory paintings.”
“You didn't paint them?”
“Good grief, woman!”
“I've hit a nerve.”
“More than one.” ers were posters of runaway children and missing women and donkeys being hanged and a jazz group that was gigging that night at The British.
Chapter 11
There was a flagstone floor around the bar in The British where, if you were lucky, you would stub a toe. The stone gave way to red Kidderminster carpet, or that cheap alternative popular in two-star hotels and, with nothing better to do, time could be spent in joining the dots left by careless cigarettes.
There was a brass-coloured handrail around the bar. It was held firm by brass-coloured lion heads. A good idea, while waiting there, was to try and spot the subtle differences in the brass-coloured casts. There was also a brass-coloured footrest where the serious drinkers could rest a foot while checking out the various collection boxes for Age Concern, the Home of Rest for Old Horses and the Spastic Association. This was an old boozer. When its first fine ales were poured the country was a finer place. The British lion still roared. And if the charity boxes were of no interest there were always the fliers drawing-pinned to any available space: Karaoke, Quiz Night and Live Entertainment – a band called Jodie Foster’s Boyfriends. n the Eighth Army on DDT.”