The Gallery had been filled with police officers, some of them in white overalls and calling themselves SOCOs. They carried the tools of their trade – ground-penetrating radar handsets, Hoovers and copies of the town planner's drawings. There were also a couple of springer spaniels straining on leashes. Paul heard some of their handler’s conversation but it didn’t make much sense to him. They were talking about how these dogs were different to your average police sniffer dog, how they could detect the scent of human remains through concrete. They were going on about something called NPIA and scientific training techniques and then, later, that the dogs couldn’t work in the stink in the cellar and that they had got over-excited by the dead rodents, the decomposing cats and rats. One of them suggested that they bring in the local authorities, that there must be a law against dead cats in a cellar. That was just before they sent out for some breathing apparatus. To Paul the coppers looked more like dentists than policemen and perhaps that was why he was so unsettled.
The search was completed long before Mr Lawrence arrived home. Paul was waiting for him by the stairs. Still spook-eyed and trembling it was clear he needed the gentle touch. He blurted, “What was it, Mr Lawrence?”
“A mistake, dear boy. They were on about missing women and stolen property.”
Paul's eyes grew even wider, ready to pop. Mr Lawrence’s explanation had not done the trick and he pointed an idiot’s finger up the empty stairs. “They went in to my room.”
“Is your gear stolen?”
“Well…”
“My goodness. Well, obviously they weren't interested in it. I think it was more likely artwork that they were after.”
“Like the ballerinas?”
“Did they take them?” Mr Lawrence turned to check but there they were, still dancing. “Did they take anything at all? Did you make sure they signed for whatever they took?”
“Just your books. That’s all they took, apart from little plastic bags of things they picked up with tweezers and things. And they used Hoovers too, small Hoovers. They used them in every corner and on every surface and on some clothes. There were kozzers everywhere, upstairs, my room as well. They even unscrewed our bathroom cabinet. Why would they do that? And they took the cistern to pieces. They spent ages in the cellar, with their tape measures. And in the studio. They looked at everything, even the floorboards. They looked behind all the pictures. I thought they'd never go. It was humiliating, Mr Lawrence.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was. They think we've got a hidden stash of artwork. Someone's put them up to it, no doubt. Probably someone from The British. Probably Albert. There is something odd about Albert. I know he’s Jewish, but 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 threatening the company I might keep, either, even if you did lay it on.”
“I know that. Grief! Do you think I don't know that? It's been worrying me silly all day. That's beside the kozzers. And seeing them gave me quite a fright. What to do about it? That's the problem. Perhaps I ought to make myself scarce.”
“For a day or two. That's not a bad idea. I'm glad it was your idea. Either that, or we tell the police about him.”
Paul froze. “No, no, no. I couldn't handle the police again so soon. I'd go to pieces. The man is dangerous, you're right. The kozzers will give him a name and then he'll be back. The kozzers are like that. And when he comes back…” He puzzled then nodded. “You're right. I'll make myself invisible for a couple of days, sleep at the chess club, or the squat. He might get fed up by then. Innit? Know what I mean?” “While you're away you can make yourself useful.”
“What's that?”
“There's a woman. I'll give you her address. I want to know more about her, for artistic – aesthetic – reasons, you understand? Nothing more than that.”
“Nod, nod, know exactly what you mean.” Paul smiled a knowing smile, his previous thoughts quite forgotten. “The woman you're painting?”
“Yes, that's the one. I'd like to know what she does, where she goes, who she sees.”
His eyes lit up. “No bother. Right up my street. I'll make notes, just like for real. It’ll be like, knowing your subject, adding depth to the expression, right? Innit?”
Mr Lawrence raised an eyebrow. Such an observation coming from Paul was quite astonishing. For a moment he felt giddy. He said, “Come and look at the painting.”
“In the studio?”
“I'll make another exception.”
Under the studio light Mr Lawrence drew back the cover.
“That's pretty good. You've got her just right. You could actually reach out and run your hand under the dress.”
“Don't! It's still wet.”
“Only kidding, Mr Lawrence. She looks as if she might be wet.” He crept closer to examine it, hands behind his back, leaning forward just like an expert. “I'd like to stay and look at it some more, but I better be off. Wouldn't want to get caught by that bastard with my trousers down.”
Mr Lawrence nodded and caught the twinkle in Paul's eye.
Between the restaurants and The British was an old-fashioned barbershop with a real barber who knew nothing about hairdressing. He was an ex-navy man and if you wanted to hang around long enough he would tell you about the ports he sailed into and the girls he had away. Not long ago the barber had lost all respect when he tried to turn his establishment into a unisex affair. He reckoned without the colonel, The British man of action. Having to wait while the women were pampered, being on edge because they were there at all, was just too much, and he organized a boycott. The barber saw the error of his ways, particularly when he was ostracized in the pub and eventually he banned women from his shop and for good measure, making good sense and making amends for his shortcomings, he refused to serve men with earrings. His profits went up and he was happier. He was allowed back into The British, not totally forgiven, that would take time, but the regulars would at least pass the time of day.
“Fuck the women,” he told the colonel.
“Exactly,” the man of action, the action man, agreed. “Exactly. Dangerous as hell, they are, and there's a lot of them about. Dangerous as a cornered kraut.”
So then, once a month, on the way to lunch, it was short back and sides. While the finishing touches were applied with a razor the barber said, “Someone's been looking for Paul.”
Mr Lawrence tried not to show interest.
“A big chappy,” he went on. “A gorilla, hirsute, but not on his head. That was bald. Didn't want a haircut, thank God. I didn’t know what to say, whether to point it out, that he was bald. I mean, just think, if he hadn’t realized. As it happened he just wanted Paul but I wasn’t to know that. If I’d had a dodgy ticker I could have been in trouble, just seeing him in my shop. There should be a law against big bald bastards walking around in public. Maybe the National Health Service should provide a service, a warning like they do about cholesterol or smoking when you’re pregnant, or maybe they should pay for someone to run five yards in front carrying a sign saying: Big Bald Bastard On The Way.”
He shot hair lotion into Mr Lawrence's eyes and ears and brushed loose hair down his neck. Then he showed him the back of his head. “That it?”
“That's it.”
They trod hair to the till.
“Paul came in here, when was it? Earlier, I don't know. You lose track of time cutting hair. He wanted some hair. First time anyone has come in wanting hair. Wanted black hair, no grey, no brown, no speckled, just black. I didn't bother asking him what he wanted it for. You give up sometimes, don’t you? The world's full of victims.” The barber sighed. “Hair restorer? Comb? Rubbers?”
“At my age?”
“You can fantasize.”
He pointed to the stack of magazines where finger smudges blurred the glossy images. “If you want to hang around for an hour May is good and August quite passable.”
Mr Lawrence hesitated and raised a critical eyebrow.
The barber remembered the recent past and said, “Women! You’re right. And so is the colonel.” At the door he switched open to closed and took his coat from the hook. “Lunch? I'll walk with you.”
“There should be a law against drunken barbers.”
“You’re right. Mind you, having said that, blood-letting was an important role at one stage. Think of Sweeney Todd. That’s what the red and white pole signifies. Not much call for it nowadays, though. There’s enough blood-letting on the street. It’s put barbers out of business.” He turned off the fourteen-inch colour portable. “Paul got that for me on the cheap. Bloody good lad, he is. Wouldn't want him to come to any harm.”
On the cold platform the colonel was in good voice. He had an answer to the yob culture. “What you should do,” he told everyone in all seriousness. “Is bring back the birch. It’s laughable, really, all these so-called experts talking about absent fathers. What total bollocks. What about the soldiers fighting wars for years on end? Our kids didn’t turn out to be hooligans. If they had, by God, they’d have got a bayonet up the arse.”
He had a small audience of half-pint drinkers who were only half-convinced of his seriousness so they only half-humoured him. Some of these half-pint drinkers were strays, they had strayed in from the High Road looking for a little respite. They had not met the colonel before and were beginning to hope they would never meet him again. “One other thing, before you go, and let this be a word of warning from an old soldier. Be careful of apples. The Eighth Army didn’t fight its way through North Africa to let these damned immigrants from Europe pick our apples. Monty would turn in his grave.”
The bargirls ignored him for they had heard it all before, and went about their business bending here and there. That's why Roger kept the bottles on the lower shelves when the top shelves were free. Roger wasn't stupid.
The British was musty, filled with the fumes of wood smoke and old wood and stale beer and the beef curry that was special for lunch. A tiny tributary had broken away from the pool on the bar surface and headed at snail's pace towards the edge. Sid the Nerve leant against the bar and the other customers watched the beer edge towards his back. Albert finished his beer and licked his moustache and concentrated on the stream.
Roger leant back, arms folded, eyes narrowed over his fixed smile. Eventually Nervous Sid said, “Shit!” and, with a shaking hand, tried to wipe his back.
The barber emptied his glass of bitter and said, “You know, Roger, you’re the only boozer in town that hasn’t bothered with Christmas decorations. Just an observation, that’s all.”
The owner remained silent for some time while his face ran through a series of pulls, then he said through gritted teeth, “Well, you can fuck off to one of the others then!”
“I don’t like Christmas decorations,” the barber said quickly as he waved his empty glass at a bargirl. “Reminds me of Christmas.” Roger said, “I’m thinking of renaming The British. Calling it The English instead.”
“Why do that?”
“To make a point that we’re not European, we’re not British, we’re English and proud of it. Saint George is the bollocks. Fuck Saint Patrick and Saint…the other fuckers. I don’t want my kid to grow up a European, not knowing what a pint was. In this boozer the English pound is sacrosanct. None of that Euro shit. We’ve got more in common with the Russians than we have with the French or the Germans.”
“The Boche! The Frogs! Here, here! Fought them for a thousand years so why should we be friends now?” The colonel fingered his medals with knackered fingers that had once caressed the cold trigger of a red-hot sten. My God, how he had enjoyed killing jerry and, after a few gin and tonics, the Nips. Not that he was ever in the Far Eastern theatre, apart from in his dreams. But age and booze had a habit of mixing dreams with reality.
It was the colonel’s turn and Roger turned on him. “You’re an old soldier, we all know that, for Queen and Country, a Desert Rat. Bet you’ve still got your Jerboa shoulder flashes hidden away some place.” “Maybe I have. What of it? I was proud to belong to the Seventh. But the Queen?” She had always presented the serviceman with a dilemma. Think of the kraut connection. Not an easy thing to think about.
Roger said, “Although they are banned from this bar we’ve got enough queens around here. We don’t need another.”
They all looked at the faces in the room to make sure there had been no infiltration and noticed that one or two of the more dodgy customers were slipping quietly to the back.
Roger went on, “I don’t give a monkey’s fuck about the Queen or her fucked-up family but I suppose we should feel sorry for them. It must be a bind to be born knowing that you’d never have to do a day’s graft in your life.”
The colonel seemed embarrassed and looked from left to right and made a conscious effort to force his rigid shoulders – without the flashes – to stand at ease.
Roger was on a roll and continued, “And I want the Muslims to know they’re unwelcome.”
“They already do,” Albert said.
Nervous Sid’s face cracked into a dark question mark. He said, “Don’t get it.”
Roger explained, “Think about it. The Muslims in this country call themselves British, right? Well, if they’re British then I’m a fucking Chinaman. Also, in one hit, I can lose the Scottish, the Irish and the Welsh. Now that isn’t bad.”
Albert looked relieved and said, “I’m English.”
“No you’re not,” Roger said. “You’re a shonk. And when I change the name you’re banned along with everyone else. Never trust a shonk, mate. Turn your back on the fuckers and you’re likely to end up crucified.”
The colonel said, “Jew boys caused us a lot of trouble in Palestine. Fifty years later they’re still causing it.”
“They’re causing it in Westminster too.”
Albert looked saddened and his head began to shake, “An unfortunate appearance I have, a larger nose than most, but a Jew that does not make me.”
Roger said, “Maybe not, but I’ll guarantee what you haven’t got in your trousers does. Listen son, the English hate being lied to. That’s why we don’t like the Americans. We’ve seen your eyes when Sid brings in one of his rings. They light up like a couple of Roman candles. We can see them in the dark. Don’t come it with us. You might just as well try and hide a Scouse accent. You’re more Jewish than George Bush.”
Albert shook a flustered head. “George Bush isn’t Jewish.” “Isn’t he? Isn’t he? Well, the way he hates the Arabs he fucking well should be. But there’s something else about you, I’ve noticed, that marks you out as a child of Israel – apart from your bowing down to the golden calf, that is – you never smile. One day you’ll try it and your fucking face will fall off.”
Someone muttered – it might have been the man who looked like a double-glazing salesman but more likely it was Mr Lawrence, “It sounds like a load of old Cretan Bull to me,” but the others didn’t get it. They might have done had they been Greek.
Roger picked up a sign and began pinning it to the wall. It read: No bad language or drug taking will be tolerated. No children under 25. No trainers. No football shirts with the exception of Everton. White South Africans welcome.
The last bit excited the colonel and it showed in his eyes but surprisingly it didn’t bring any colour to his cheeks. He was tired and he knew it. It wasn’t just age that had crept up on him, but life itself. Or rather, it was this new age that had crept up, where values – oldfashioned values – had been worn away. He wondered whether winning the war had been worth it, particularly since Blair had come to power. The gradual intrusion of faceless bureaucrats into his and everyone’s life had been as imperceptible as it had been inexorable. It had been a ‘ death of a thousand cuts’. He was a slave in his own country. It would have been easier had the Nazi storm troopers kicked in his door for then he would have known the enemy. What Tony Blair and his cronies had done was nothing less than treason. How he wished to have those men in the sights of his old Lee-Enfield. The Somme, wasn’t it? He had been there, hadn’t he? It was all so damned hazy now, like Iwo Jima and My Lai. But how satisfying it would be to put a 303 into Blair’s grinning gob.
It was yet another dawn of disillusionment and dishonour, yet another cockcrow of contempt and another turning, in cold forgotten graves, for glorious forefathers.
He grimaced.
Christ! One of those storm troopers had shot him.
His mouth opened wide and left his false teeth hovering. Poligrip had not done the trick.
The stab of pain was deep.
He finished his drink, carefully placed his glass in the pool on the bar and sagged gently to his knees. His bony misshapen fingers felt for his medals and then clutched at his chest. He said, “Would someone be kind enough to send for an ambulance?” and then he keeled over on to his grey face.
Roger said, “If you're going to use the phone make sure you leave the money.”
Nervous Sid said, “999 is fucking free.”
“Is it? Is it? Make sure Gordon Brown doesn't hear about that!” Albert grunted, “The beer it must be.”
A bargirl dropped her filthy tea towel and burst into tears. Mr Lawrence doubted her sincerity for, as the late colonel had often said, women are good actors and can turn on emotion at the drop of a hat. Even so, it was a fair turn, and he watched her wailing and sniffing back her false tears. Eventually she gained enough composure to sob, “It wasn’t the beer. He was drinking gin and tonic. Maybe he didn’t exercise enough!”
And that had a few people, including the half-pint drinkers, raising their various eyebrows. A heart attack was one thing, but the thought of exercise was quite another.
Out of all that is bad comes an occasional good: lunch was extended. By the time the ambulance arrived, and the stretcher with its bearers, the colonel's medals had disappeared but Albert looked smugly satisfied, his chin beneath the fall of limp grey hair jutted higher and his eyes, black beads, concentrated on something on the ceiling. In each was the spark of a Roman candle.
It had been Albert who had leant over the colonel in what appeared to be an attempt at the kiss of life. He had pulled back at the last moment feeling faint at being so close to the ground, a sensation that tall men often experience.
He arrived back at the shop in a frivolous mood. He took off his hat and aimed at the hat stand and missed and his chortle could be heard on the pavement outside. He had all but skipped to the counter before he stopped abruptly and turned back to the window. There, with their backs to him, stood two splendid dummies, life-size and life-like: Father Christmas and a female assistant. Santa Claus carried a white sack overflowing with brightly wrapped presents and his assistant wore a red cape, some kind of red bodice, black suspender belt and nylon stockings.
For a moment Mr Lawrence was open-mouthed.
They stood either side of the ballerinas. Artificial snow frosted the window and covered the floor where they stood. The cold ivorycoloured skin of the mannequins glowed red as did the snow, caught in the soft glow of red window lights that blinked on and off. He wondered whether Santa's assistant went out in her underwear, and whether she'd feel the cold, or whether M amp;S or Robot City were searching for a missing mannequin complete with matching set.
Paul had crept back, like he had crept to the barber-shop, chancing that his suitor was elsewhere.
During the afternoon Mr Lawrence had an accident with the guillotine, although it wasn't entirely his fault. Had it been his left hand it would have been worse. He was left-handed, as most first-rate artists were. It took him an hour to stem the bleeding and, even then, a little blood seeped through the bandages.
The remainder of the shortened afternoon was spent in unpacking a crate of oriental oils. It wasn't easy one-handed. Curiously, in the chest of fifty there were half a dozen that caught his eye. By a different artist, signed Dyson, they were good. Landscapes in a darker, subtle key; wild clouds and gentle hills, wind blown and heathery, with just a post in the foreground, or a single spindly tree. But the composition was excellent and the detail finely observed.
He put the six aside, leaving the mystery for another time, for time had flown and it was opening time. But there was something more than that tonight and Mr Lawrence was quite excited. He'd invited Laura to the theatre. They were meeting in The British.
Laura said, “What on earth have you done?”
“A little accident in the shop. Nothing much.”
“Such a big bandage for nothing much.”
“Does it really show?”
“The red does, Mr Lawrence. If you keep your hand bent down, then it won't show so much.”
“Yes, I'll do that.”
“How awful about the colonel,” Laura said but she didn't seem too upset. She was dressed in a very short navy-blue pleated skirt that drew the eyes of the men in the room away from the bargirls, a white T-shirt with Michael Winner's face on the front and a denim jacket. Unusually for Laura there was plenty of navel on show, surprisingly flat navel at that, for Luscious Laura was a shapely girl. Her hair was tied back skullcap tight and a hint of make-up lightened her skin.
She pointed to Michael Winner's red face whose ears flapped Charles-like on her breasts. “It's the only thing I've got with a theatre connection,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I think he's a film director, or was. Now he writes about the restaurants he's visited and he stars in silly advertisements. I've not seen his films.”
Roger overheard, couldn't help himself, and cut in, “Best thing about him was the bird he used to live with. But she left him. Can't think of her name. But tasty. Although, having said that, one could argue that I’ll Never Forget What’s’Isname was his best film. In fact it was just short of a great film.”
The barber said, “I suppose you could, if you wanted to argue. Frankly, whether you like that or Death Wish, he is now a has-been. He hasn’t done a thing for years.”
Sid the Nerve showed up and put in, “At least he’s a has-been. We – we’re a bunch of hasn’t-beens.”
“Mr Lawrence isn’t a hasn’t-been,” Laura said. “He’s a painter.” Roger glanced at Mr Lawrence. “So is Bill Richards up the road who paints the double-yellow lines on the road outside. But we’re getting away from the point. Death Wish was a good film. I'm a great believer in old-fashioned retribution. There's nothing finer than revenge served on an empty stomach. It should be a basic human right. Leave forgiveness to the sacrament of Penance – for you heathens, that’s the confession. In that respect the Arabs have got it right.” Mr Lawrence looked a treat in his best clothes. Apart from the bandage. It tended to draw the eye.
Roger asked, “What happened to you?”
“A little accident with the guillotine. Nothing to worry about.” “I'm not worried, mate. Just curious.”
In the corner Rasher's minders looked glum with nothing to do, their half-empty pints looked flat, their cigarettes in the ashtray had burned away leaving lengths of wasted ash.
Mr Lawrence glanced at his watch and said to Laura, “It's time to go.”
And Luscious Laura put her arm through his and sashayed to the door letting all and sundry know that she was going up in the world. The art world. The theatre. She was on her way. So there. They joined a chattering crowd passing beneath the life-size cut-out greeting from Anthea Palmer into the theatre's optimistic foyer where the smell of fresh paint still lingered.
Mr Lawrence hadn't been to the theatre since the 1971 revival of Showboat, and it was an altogether new experience for Laura. Once they ’ d settled in the darkened auditorium and the curtain went up she sat transfixed, as though not believing her own eyes.
The people next to them glanced at the bandage and eased slightly away.
After the show-stopping hits ‘We Need More Female Gynaecologists’ and ‘This isn't what Nye Bevan had in Mind’, about an hour into the show, the routine which led to the intermission took place.
Anthea Palmer looked radiant in her underwear and high heels, just as she'd done in a thousand newspaper photographs, snapped on the beach in tiny bikini briefs, topless if possible and, if not, then a shot of her behind. Behinds were definitely the thing, nowadays. She had a passable voice too. She sang the song, the song from the show that seemed to be heading for the Christmas number-one slot. It was played non-stop on the radio.
Laura had been singing it as they made their way up the
Carrington's majestic steps.
Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you
Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think you care…
Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you
Oh, Mr Lawrence, we’re almost there…
The act finished and people moved to the various bars but Mr Lawrence remained rooted to his seat. Laura shook him.
“What?”
“It's half-time, Mr Lawrence. It's time for a burger and a beverage.” “My goodness, my dear. I was totally carried away.”
“They were singing about you, Mr Lawrence. Wasn't it good? It's the best thing I've ever seen. All that cross-dressing. Just as well Paul didn't come. It might have put ideas in his head.”
“Indeed,” Mr Lawrence said. “And he's got enough of those already.”
What they didn't know as they sat enjoying the show, was that Paul was in the audience too. Up in the gods, two rows from the back, he sat utterly mesmerized, not knowing what time or day it was. He found the idea of men in women's clothing more than just a little exciting. There was an easiness about the paid for evening. A candle flickered from an old bottle, the neck of which was gobbed with wax. Over her crisp fried-prawn jhuri she told him that she was saving her money to go to America and that her mother had found out about her 'sideline' and had gone 'ape', threatening her with all kinds of harm, including kicking her out of the house. None of it seemed to bother her for her soft looks seldom hardened. That is not to say that her looks were anything other than luscious but they maintained a gentle, yielding – even compassionate – quality which all men, everywhere, found utterly captivating. She was quite perfect, an Eve among Adams, at home and at ease in this Indian Eden.
“You should be like me. Then you wouldn't worry so much. You wouldn't have all those worry lines on your face.”
He laughed at her suggestion. “As the bard would have told you, my dear, in words that are not as good as these: youth, like a poor man’s plonk, has an end-date and to try for an extension is one of the most ludicrous things that men and women, can do. It makes for a pretty pathetic show. And as for me, I was born with these grooves.” “What about the white hair?”
“You're getting personal.”
“That is part of my job. And I do know Shakespeare. He was the guy who said a good wine needs no bush. Maybe that if you drink too much you can’t get it on. See? I’m not just a pretty face.” Behind her the pastel colours of the wall mural flickered in the candlelight. One of the less gymnastic positions of the ancient Sanskrit treatise caught his eye and gave him an idea for later. She began on her shahi beagun and wiped a fleck of sweet coconut from her painted lips. “Do you believe in God, Mr Lawrence?”
“My goodness. That's an odd question.”
“I know, but even so…”
“It’s a difficult one, my dear, and it’s a question that’s crossed my mind once or twice, particularly during those times when the socialists have been in power.”
She frowned.
He went on, “I believe in the theory of chaos, my dear, and then the theory of simplicity, that nature will always find the simple way.” She pulled a face.
“Do you really think an almighty presence could produce so many defects and dysfunctions – not to mention the cruelty and wasted effort
– dead planets, wasted matter, suns with nothing to heat, nowhere to go, fathers with no sons, bits and pieces that are quite irrelevant and useless, the appendix, the Royal Family? Think of the swarf of the universe and even the rejections, the bits that have gone wrong – the deformities, the waste, the utter waste. Could a creator have left so much swarf? I think not. Still, so long as the Creationists keep taking the medication we’ll be all right.”
“Well, I believe.”
“Good for you. Well done.”
“Everyone’s gotta have a dream.”
“That’s true.”
“I've seen you about for years, before my mum started cleaning your shop. I often saw you in The British. You looked lonely. You were with the others but you weren't. Does that make sense?” “You're very intuitive.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“But it wasn’t loneliness, my dear. It was sadness. When you get to my age you realize it’s too late to start again and then, looking at a girl like you, you feel a pang, perhaps of hunger but more likely of missed chances, of wasted time. I wasn’t to know then that you would come along and brighten the day and lighten the night.”
“But you've already made your mark, Mr Lawrence, your paintings for a start. In any case, you're not old, you’re not as old as you act.” “It's nice of you to say so but I’ve always thought of myself as a friendly old fellow. Shall we go or would you like a sweet?” “A sweet? Don’t be so tight, you old thing. Can’t I have a pudding?”
So, tucking into chilli ice cream and mango, she continued, “Oh, Mr Lawrence, friendly is not a word I’d give to you. In fact, I think you like people thinking you are unfriendly. Grumpy, that’s it. It’s your street cred. But you’re not really like that. I’ve sussed you out. You’re just a big softie, I know. Look at the way you’ve taken Paul in, and look at the way you help all the wannabe painters. See, I’m a psycho thingamabob. Let’s get back and you can lie on the sofa and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
“Well, if you insist, two might be nice, just so long as you don’t poke me in the eye – both eyes – like last time.”
“Sit there,” she told him. He still wore his hat. She dropped her jacket to the floor, poured some drinks and slopped one in his good hand. On his bad hand blood was seeping through the bandages again. She stepped out of her pants and moved to the stack. She put on the CD from the show that she had insisted he buy from a hastily arranged table in the foyer and sang along.
“Oh, Mr Lawrence I think I love you…”
Then, perhaps with the brass ballerinas in mind, she performed a delightful pirouette.
“Isn’t it marvellous, Mr Lawrence? I could be on the stage.” “I imagine you could. Yes, and from what I’ve seen of your dancing – in The British – you would make a perfect hoofer.” “Pardon?”
“Hoofer, my dear, with an F.”
“Oh, one of those.” Her voice was not convincing.
“If not a dancer then a player and I could help you. You could use me as a prop or, come to think of it, abuse me as a prop as well.” She punched his arm and he raised an eyebrow and, beneath it, his eye twinkled.
“You’re joking Mr Lawrence. You’re taking advantage of an innocent young girl.”
“Am I? Am I indeed? I’m not sure who is taking advantage around here and just who is so innocent. I suppose that’s always the problem, isn’t it? Who is guilty and who is innocent? And yet, the clues are all around.”
Straddling him, she tugged at his buttons. He flinched and smudged her with blood. She raised her hands to his shoulders and lowered herself.
Sinking upwards, he watched his twenty-five quid's worth find a slow rhythm and shook his head in wonder.
He said, “Don't stop.”
“I'm not going to, Mr Lawrence.”
“Singing, I mean.”
“Oh, is that all?” Her smile was infectious. “Oh, Mr Lawrence I think I love you…”
The shop and the flat above were filled with shadows and night noises. Headlights on the High Road slid past sending the shadow of the hook skidding across the walls. They brought the ballerinas to life and sent their shadows dancing across the wooden floors. They stretched the shadows of the mannequins and sent them chasing after the ballerinas. They caught an occasional passer-by and sent yet more shapes to join the ball. The wind sighed across the roof slates, the old water pipes clanked and the steel chain rattled and above it all, someone snored. In the stuffy bedroom Laura lay awake listening to the night music and considering her future. Her heart was beating faster than normal. She had been entertained and wined and dined and put into a bed with clean sheets and it hadn’t cost her a penny. Perhaps it was the grand theatre and the show and the mixing with theatre-goers who paid five pounds for their programmes that had led to her excitement but she felt a strange sense that things were on the move, something to change her life was on its way. She curled up closer to the soundly sleeping bubble-blowing Mr Lawrence and wondered whether he, the artist, the celebrity, would figure in her intoxicating dawn.