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?”
“Wear? Clothes?” Now Mr Lawrence looked downhearted.
“Oh, you didn't think…? Not like Helen, for goodness sake?” She blushed. He hadn’t seen an Indian blush before and it tickled him.
He said sombrely, “I see. Or rather, I shall not see.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Low heels,” he said.
She walked from the shop. The pleats of her cream-coloured skirt swayed gently with each certain step. The old-fashioned bell rang out her exit and a block of chilled December air came in to fill the space. On the cold road to The British a Jehovah’s Witness or some other such nonsense stopped him in his tracks, a spotty teenager in a cheap suit. His bright smile and wondrous eyes offered to share the secret of life. “Can I show you the way to true happiness, Sir?” An American or Canadian accent came at him from between flashing white teeth. “Don’t be absurd.” Mr Lawrence made to push by.
But the boy persisted. “Have you ever thought about our Lord Jesus, Sir?” As Mr Lawrence groaned, lost for real words, the youngster saw something in his eyes that unsettled him and he at once stood aside. “Have a nice day, Sir,” he said then moved away, quickly.
On the road to The British Mr Lawrence thought of the girl again; she kept coming back like a tickly cough.
“You said your husband liked it, rather. Is that rather than you?” Her eyes had narrowed fractionally; each held the glossy mahogany-coloured reflection of her prey. Her lips parted in a sudden smile and revealed a line of straight white teeth. These people from the subcontinent and Africa have such wonderful teeth, thought Mr Lawrence, as he tightened his lips. People from the USA had wonderful teeth too, but they paid for theirs.
She had said, “Yes, I liked it too. You caught her expression just right.”
“Which expression was that?”
“The one on her face.”
“Of course.”
When she walked from the shop the cream pleats of her skirt swayed gently with each step. The cloth, tight on her boyish behind, clung to her every move. The old brass bell rang out her exit and the cold air rushed in and he shivered even though in his chest there was something beginning to beat again.
He made a decision. It would be Madras tonight, after the pub. The girl had left him with the curious flavour of India.
Much later, when he ordered, he was still thinking about her. “Chicken Madras with Sudan One, Para red, Orange Two, Rhodamine B and red chalk dust.”
“Ahhh! You are speaking of illegal additives, isn’t it? That is a very fine English joke, Sir.” The waiter leant forward and in a conspiratorial tone added, “You will be noticing that I am serving the salt in these very small dishes. That is because somebody has stolen all my salt-cellars, isn’t it?”
Once a week he closed the shop at noon. His usual custom was to have lunch at The British then go off to spend his hard-earned, Brown-taxed pound, but the woman was due for her first session and that meant everything was going to be hurried. Still, it meant a change to the routine: shop first and then lunch.
The way women change your life. A little flash of the eyes, a beguiling smile, a hint of coyness… The colonel was right. They should come with a health warning.
Beyond The British, perhaps a hundred yards or so, was Robot City, a supermarket owned by one of the country's richest families but it didn't sell much kosher food. Maybe they didn't shop in their own shops. Maybe they knew something. In Robot City, with its forty tills and plastic merit cards that kept a note of what you ate and how many times you defecated – assuming that you used the average seven point four squares of Andrex a time – the robots shopped. They shopped for buy-one-and-get-one-free and nutritionally balanced diets containing all the additives and chemicals that were absolutely safe for human consumption.
As he paused by the fish counter he wondered whether the fish farmed around Sellafield tasted any different, perhaps hotter, and whether one day they might leap from the Irish Sea as a ready-cooked meal.
Most of the chippies had been taken over by the Chinese and maybe that was the reason the fish and chips never tasted as good as they did in the old days. Even so, it was beginning to make sense. There was, after all, a lot of salt used on the chips.
In the vast superstore he checked out the new Colline collection of cropped trousers which were ideal for the beginning of pregnancy but could also be worn right through to the ninth month. They were made of poplin, which would gently expand to fit the shape of the eighthmonth figure. They even had one-piece swimsuits for expectant mums that came with lined gussets. They had maternity nighties and bras with efficient support and briefs made of supple elastic. They even had creams and lotions to eliminate stretch-marks. It was marvellous what was on offer nowadays.
But it was a pity about the fish and chips.
Sid the Nerve, Nervous Sid, was in The British. He watched Mr Lawrence walk in and then said miserably, “It’s funny how life turns out.”
Mr Lawrence regarded him for a moment and said, “Yes, you’re right.” He deposited his heavy goods in an alcove and sighed relief and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to regain some circulation, although, it might also have been in anticipation for it was lunch-time. A pub lunch-time. Real gravy and cholesterol you could taste and pellets of sweet corn and molested tomatoes with everything. Pub cooking cooked by fat housewives with aprons tied around their bristly armpits was the cornerstone of Darwinian theory. They'd been growing families on it since life began without a bottle of Filippo Berio in sight
– tit first and then lard the old-fashioned way.
He asked the girl behind the bar, “Tell me, my dear, do you peel the carrots?”
She rested her chin on her hands that were spread on the bar and looked up out of doleful eyes. Behind her the reflection of her tanned thighs and trim behind slid around the curve of a thousand bottles. A magnificent sight and a stirring thought to go with the pub food. Life would have to go some to get better than this. Her lips toyed with a dead smile and she said, “Not personally, Sir. I serve the drinks as you can see, but we always wash and peel all our fruit and veg. Why do you ask?”
“There are more chemicals in the skin of a supermarket carrot than they’ve got on the shelves in Boots.”
She nodded her fascination and said, “How interesting.”
In the background Roger crossed his arms, braced his legs and beamed her a smile that she must have felt on the back of her head. Mr Lawrence said, “I’ll have the beef curry please, with rice. No chips.”
“That’s an excellent choice, Sir. Would you like a drink with your order?”
“Yes, I think so. Would the water that comes with my scotch be mineral water or…?”
Her eyes grew. He had never seen such honesty in a pair of fluttering eyes. “Our mineral water comes all the way from Scotland, Sir, from a place called Dounreay…”
Albert and the colonel nodded to acknowledge him. They didn't smile. Rasher flicked him a sideways flick of the eyes. He didn't smile or nod. He tilted. His two minders rushed to stand him upright again. Nervous Sid oozed up to him. Short and thin he melted on to a bar stool while Mr Lawrence waited for his drink. He was West Indian and wracked by shakes. Perhaps Parkinson's shakes. He shook a ring under Mr Lawrence's nose. A valuable ring, he told him, which he could have for twenty pounds. Five pounds was his last offer. Five pounds and the knowledge that Albert wouldn't get it.
The last bit was tempting.
Albert's eyes sparkled mischievously. “How are you getting on with young Paul?”
Mr Lawrence said, “It's cold enough to snow out there.”
Albert put his nose in the air and returned his attention to the colonel.
Mr Lawrence could have told him that he hadn't seen much of Paul, that the lad had gone out at six last night and hadn't returned until the early hours. But his room had been transformed. He'd been shopping. God knows how he got his money or, come to that, the shops to open at that time of night. His wardrobe was filled with a selection of jackets and jeans and slip-on shoes, all with designer labels. He’d got himself a TV, DVD recorder and converter box. He'd spent the whole of the morning rigging a dish and running cable. He was stocking an awful lot of gear for such a short stay. Seeing that he was something of a handyman Mr Lawrence asked him to run a cable to the shop window.
“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.”
“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.