He watched her sadly.
Even in the bath her posture was bad, shoulders slumped and sort of curled forward.
On her feet, which were resting on the end of the bath, he could see corns and bunions and other lumpy bits.
And the veins in her legs looked like a road map of somewhere that had purple roads.
Tragic.
And Mum only thirty-six.
Never mind, thought Keith, she’s got a wonderful personality.
Think positive.
All I’ve got to do is make sure this painting captures her good points.
Her sense of humour.
Her loving nature.
Her talent for Monopoly.
Keith chose a brush and started on her feet.
‘Hmmmm,’ said Mr Browning, staring at the painting, ‘interesting.’
Mr Browning didn’t look very interested to Keith, he looked like he’d just eaten some varnish.
Keith reminded himself that Mr Browning always looked like that while he was thinking about a picture. Must be something art teachers learn as part of their training.
Keith glanced around the school hall and felt a tingle of excitement. The art show was filling up. Groups of people were arriving and staring with interest at the pictures on the walls, and they couldn’t all be married.
Soon they’d be staring with interest at Mum and Dad.
‘Title?’ asked Mr Browning.
‘It’s got two titles,’ said Keith. ‘The left-hand side’s called Nude Dad With Frying Pan.’
‘Hmmmm,’ said Mr Browning again.
‘I made him nude,’ said Keith hurriedly, ‘cause the great painters of history had some of their biggest successes with nudes. The frying pan is to show he’s a chef in a cafe. And to hide his rude bits.’
Keith felt his cheeks go hot.
He had an urgent word with his blood.
Go back down to my legs. Now.
‘Hmmmm,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Very good use of colour, specially your dad’s blue hair.’
Keith nodded.
He decided not to mention that it was actually a plastic shower cap he’d added to cover Dad’s bald patch.
‘What’s the right-hand side called,’ asked Mr Browning, shifting his gaze to Mum in the bath.
‘Venus Soaking Her Corns,’ said Keith. ‘Mum’s name is actually Marge, but the great painters of history usually called their lady nudes Venus. Or Mona.’
‘Hmmmm,’ said Mr Browning. ‘I like the way you’ve got the light falling across her shoulders like a cloak to remind us she’s an historical figure.’
Keith nodded again and decided not to mention that it was actually a shower curtain he’d put in to hide Mum’s bad posture.
‘And having her playing Monopoly in the bath,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Very imaginative. She’s a real estate agent, is she?’
Keith shook his head. ‘Parking inspector,’ he said.
Mr Browning continued to look closely at Mum.
‘Is that a phone number’ he asked, ‘in soap suds, floating on the top of the water?’
Keith nodded and felt his heart speed up.
It was working.
Mr Browning was becoming fascinated by Mum’s finer qualities.
‘She’s good at Scrabble, too,’ said Keith. ‘And cards.’
Then he remembered Mr Browning was married.
With triplets.
‘But she hasn’t got very good feet,’ Keith said hurriedly.
Mr Browning smiled and glanced around the hall.
‘You’d better lower your voice,’ he said, ‘in case she hears you.’
‘She’s not here,’ said Keith. ‘She’s doing a late shift.’
‘Well, your dad then,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Don’t want him hearing you bad-mouthing, your mum feet.
‘Mum and Dad are separated,’ said Keith. ‘And Dad’s doing dinners at the cafe till nine.’
Mr Browning looked at the painting again, and then at Keith.
He seemed lost for words, which Keith hadn’t ever seen before with Mr Browning.
He didn’t even say ‘Hmmmm.’
‘Well done, Keith,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a good effort. Keep it up. I hope you won’t stop painting just because term’s finished.’
Then he turned and went to look at another picture.
Keith pretended to go and look at another picture too.
Best not hang around mine, he thought. People get nervous copying down phone numbers from paintings when the artist’s standing there watching them.
He glanced around the hall.
They couldn’t all be mums and dads.
There must be some single people.
Keith tried to work out which ones were unattached, separated, divorced, widowed, abandoned, or had partners in jail for life.
It wasn’t easy.
Then, with a jolt, he realised some people were looking at his painting.
Two women by themselves and a man by himself.
Keith liked the look of all of them, and he knew Mum and Dad would too.
He strained to hear what they were saying.
‘Dodgy legs; said one of the women, pointing to Dad.
They both sniggered.
‘Hers aren’t much better; said the man, pointing to Mum.
The three of them walked away laughing.
Tragic, thought Keith. Fancy thinking the most important thing about a person is whether the veins in their legs stick out a bit.
He looked around again.
The hall was even more crowded now.
People were arriving all the time.
Keith relaxed.
He could tell that lots of them were sensitive mature single people who knew that leg veins weren’t really very important at all.
Keith lay in bed and stared into the darkness and tried to stop seeing leg veins.
He couldn’t.
‘Dodgy legs,’ said the school hall voices in his head.
And ‘Yuk, look at that tummy.’
And ‘I’ve seen better looking skin on a potato.’
And ‘Who’s that in the bath, the Hunchback Of Notre Dame?’
And ‘Fire! Fire!’
Keith smiled grimly in the darkness.
That would have shut them up.
If he’d ripped his painting off the wall and grabbed Mr Browning’s matches and set fire to it.
That would have stopped them saying unkind things about other people’s bodies.
They’d have all stood round speechless and watched the flames gobble up Mum and Dad.
Then they’d have turned to Keith, stunned. ‘Why?’ they’d have asked him. ‘Why have you destroyed your work of art?’
‘I’ve gone off it,’ he’d have replied casually. ‘There was a mistake in the bathmat.’
Keith sighed in the dark.
The real mistake, he thought sadly, was the whole idea.
Thinking anyone could feel romantic about two people with dodgy legs, wobbly bottoms, saggy tummies, bad posture, blotchy skin and tired hair.
Keith switched his bedside light on and stared up at the tropical rainforest painted on his bedroom ceiling and tried not to think about Mum and Dad and how they were going to be lonely and unhappy for the rest of their lives because they’d let themselves go physically.
He concentrated on the swirls of colour above his head, the happy orchids and the cheerful parrots and the carefree waterfalls, and soon he was thinking about Tracy.
She’ll be here in a week, he told himself, and we’ll have heaps of fun and I won’t have to think about Mum and Dad’s problems once.
3
Hope I’ve remembered everything she likes, thought Keith as he hurried down the street. He read through his shopping list again.
Beetroot (tinned).
Vegemite (large).
Pineapple (fresh).
Coconut (whole).
Peanuts (boiled).
Sugar cane (unprocessed).<
br />
Bubblegum (mango).
Right, he thought. Start with the hardest. Where am I going to find mango bubblegum in South London?
‘Hello Keith,’ said a voice behind him.
Before he could turn round a hand had snatched the list.
Keith sighed.
Mitch Wilson.
‘Why would anyone boil peanuts?’ said Mitch, looking up from the piece of paper.
Keith snatched it back and glared at him.
‘Is it to kill the germs?’ said Mitch.
Keith took a deep breath.
Sometimes the only way to shake off pesky ten-year-olds was to answer them, specially when they were taller than you.
‘In Queensland,’ said Keith, ‘boiled peanuts are regarded as a delicacy.’
‘This isn’t Queensland,’ said Mitch, ‘it’s England.’
Tragic, thought Keith. The body of a thirteen-year-old and the mind of a whelk.
‘My best friend’s arriving from Australia on Thursday,’ said Keith. ‘I’m getting some Australian food in for her so she’ll feel at home.’
‘My dad says when foreigners come here they should eat English food,’ said Mitch.
‘She will eat English food,’ said Keith.
‘So why are you getting her all this Australian stuff?’ said Mitch.
‘She’ll eat it as well,’ said Keith. ‘She’s a big eater.’
As they turned the corner he wondered if there was a better way to shake off pesky ten-year-olds.
Like whacking them round the head with a shopping bag.
Then he stopped.
Parked in the street in front of him was an ambulance with its back doors open.
A small crowd of people were watching two ambulance officers carry a stretcher out of a house.
‘Look,’ said Mitch excitedly, ‘someone’s hurt themselves.’
Keith looked at the house to see if it was anyone he knew.
It wasn’t.
He decided to let Mitch do the gawking for both of them.
Before he could get past, the crowd stepped back to let the stretcher through, blocking the pavement.
Under the blanket covering the stretcher Keith could see the outline of a person’s body.
‘He was only fifty-eight,’ said a woman in the crowd. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Bet it was his heart,’ said another woman.
‘No,’ said the first woman. ‘Lost the will to live, more like. Mrs Mellish was killed by a bread van eight years ago. Poor Mr Mellish has been on his own ever since.’
‘Kill you stone dead, loneliness can,’ said a man.
Keith stared at the stretcher.
A dreadful feeling was growing in his guts.
What if they were right?
What if loneliness could kill people stone dead?
Even people who were only thirty-six and thirty-seven and who were perfectly healthy apart from a bit of sagging and wobbling?
The people in the crowd chewed their lips while the ambulance officers heaved the body on the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.
Keith realised his chest had gone tight.
His eyes were hot and prickly.
Mitch Wilson was staring at him.
‘Did you know him?’ asked Mitch.
Keith turned away, blinking back tears.
There were some things you couldn’t expect a ten-year-old to understand, even one who was abnormally tall for his age.
Keith squeezed his way through the crowded market.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
Here’s Mum and Dad doomed to an early grave and I’m off buying tropical fruit. He tried not to think about it.
Mum and Dad’s bodies being carried out on their lonely settees while the neighbours muttered about how tragically young they were.
A sad-faced minister at the funeral saying how their lonely deaths could have been avoided if only they’d done something about their leg veins.
Keith sent a stern message to his brain.
Stop it.
Concentrate on the shopping.
He peered through the jostling crowd at the various stalls.
There must be pineapples or coconuts here somewhere, he thought.
Then he saw it.
A bundle of long greeny-gold sticks leaning against a van behind a stall.
Sugar cane.
As Keith pushed his way over to the stall he remembered the first time he’d chewed into a sweet, juicy length of sugar cane.
At Tracy’s place in Orchid Cove.
Tracy’s Aunty Bev had given it to him and while they’d chewed she’d told him all about her work as a beautician.
Keith smiled as he remembered Aunty Bev’s huge plastic parrot earrings and how they’d jiggled each time she’d given Tracy some beauty advice.
Tracy had rolled her eyes a lot, specially when Aunty Bev had explained that a kid with Tracy’s fair skin would look much better cane-toad hunting in a lighter shade of gumboot.
But she’d had to admit that Aunty Bev’s motto was a good one.
‘If you want people to take notice, dazzle the buggers.’
Even though the market was full of people yelling about how fresh their caulies were and how their spuds were lovely, Keith could hear Aunty Bev now in his head, as clearly as he had in Tracy’s back yard under the brilliant tropical blue sky and the black smoke from Tracy’s dad’s barbecue.
‘Dazzle the buggers.’
Keith stopped pushing his way towards the sugar cane.
An idea was sizzling in his head like one of Tracy’s dad’s sausages.
Of course.
The mistake he’d made at the art show was to paint Mum and Dad the way they actually were.
Wobbly bottoms and dodgy legs.
That wasn’t going to dazzle anyone.
What he should be doing was painting Mum and Dad the way they could be if they pulled their fingers out and got a grip on themselves and started to think positive.
Keith gave a huge grin.
‘Thanks, Aunty Bev,’ he said.
Then he turned and pushed and wriggled his way out of the market as fast as he could.
‘A mural?’ said Mr Dodd.
Come on, thought Keith desperately, you own the biggest hardware shop for about six streets, you must know what a mural is.
‘It’s a large painting on a wall or other vertical surface,’ said Keith.
‘I know what a mural is,’ said Mr Dodd, following Keith out into the street, ‘I’m just not sure if I want one.’
He put his hands into the pockets of his dustcoat and looked doubtfully up at the side wall of his shop.
‘It’ll brighten up that dirty brickwork no end,’ said Keith.
Mr Dodd frowned.
‘I was planning to rent that wall out,’ he said. ‘For advertising.’ Keith sent an urgent message to his brain. Think. ‘That’s exactly what my mural will be doing,’ said Keith. ‘Advertising.’
Mr Dodd thought about this.
Keith saw a glint of interest appear in his eyes.
‘You mean advertising my paint?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘Um . . . yes,’ said Keith hastily. ‘That’s it. Advertising your paint.’
Mr Dodd’s eyes gleamed and he started tracing words in the air with his hands. ‘Dodds Hardware For All Your Paint Needs. Expert Advice. Lowest Prices.’ He grinned excitedly at Keith. ‘Good, eh?’
Think faster, Keith begged his brain.
‘Actually, Mr Dodd,’ he said, ‘I was thinking of something a bit different.’
‘Rock Bottom Prices?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘A painting of this street,’ said Keith, ‘except instead of doing the houses like they are now-boring front doors and off-white window frames and dirty brick walls—I’ll do them in really good colours so people can see how great their places would look if they bought some paint from you and did them up.’
He stopped, out of breath.
Mr Dodd had
gone thoughtful again.
‘And you wouldn’t want any money?’ he said. ‘Just the paint?’
Keith nodded.
‘Are you any good?’ asked Mr Dodd.
Keith unrolled the paintings he’d brought.
He watched anxiously as Mr Dodd scrutinised the first one.
‘That’s my friend Tracy on her roof in Australia chasing cane toads,’ said Keith.
‘Why’s she got green hair?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘It’s a shower cap,’ said Keith. ‘You have to wear protective headgear when you’re chasing cane toads.’
Mr Dodd looked at the next painting.
‘That was the fish-and-chip shop we had In Queensland,’ said Keith.
Mr Dodd was frowning.
Keith held his breath.
‘Nice colour,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Make sure you use plenty of that Tropical Mango Gloss in the mural.’
Keith felt like hugging Mr Dodd, but he managed to control himself.
Mr Dodd tapped his finger on the painting, pointing to where Tracy was doing a handstand outside the fish-and-chip shop.
‘Don’t have too many people in the mural,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘they’ll obscure the paintwork on the houses.’
‘I won’t,’ said Keith. ‘Just two.’
‘And no scruffs,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Make them presentable.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Keith happily, ‘they’ll be very presentable.’
4
‘It’s Disneyland,’ said Mitch Wilson.
‘It’s a Nintendo game,’ said Dennis Baldwin.
‘It’s a row of dolls houses seen through the infrared night scope of an F-111 fighter plane,’ said Rami Smith.
‘Blimey,’ said Eric Cox. ‘It’s this street. Why would you paint a street on a wall?’
Keith sighed.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t have to put up with this, he thought. Bet when the great painters of history were risking their lives up a ladder painting a mural they had armed guards to stop the general public making distracting comments.
‘Hey, Shipley,’ Eric Cox yelled, ‘you’ve got the colours all wrong.’
Keith tried to glare down at them, but seeing the ground so far away made him feel giddy and sick. He gripped the ladder tighter and concentrated on the Vivid Purple he was using for number 21’s windowsills.
‘Number 19 hasn’t got a green and pink front door,’ yelled Mitch Wilson.
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