by Judy Astley
Back in the past, she and Conrad used to think it was funny when he had been mistaken for her father. His usual reaction was to shock the wrongly assuming person by thoroughly kissing Sara in a highly unfatherly way, just to see the appalled look on a face. He said it was an expression he’d tried to catch when painting but had never quite managed. But suddenly, it just wasn’t remotely funny. At the door to the building she was hugely relieved to see Conrad safely there in front of her, looking relatively sane and content, leaning over the river wall smoking one of his horrible French cigarettes and not seeming the tiniest bit concerned that he was soaking wet. The way he was being today, it would have been no surprise to have found him way above her, up on the London Eye, sharing a flight capsule with a dozen Milwaukee tourists and waving down at her.
‘Blood ‘n’ guts, flouncy costumes or a silly, frilly chick flick?’ Will asked as he and Sara approached the cinema. ‘I didn’t want to presume so I didn’t book anything.’
‘Er . . . ooh I don’t know! I just need something I don’t have to think about too much, unless there’s a special one you’ve got in mind?’ It was a busy night – the day’s warmth had brought people out for the evening. Dusk was falling now, though, and those who’d thought a date at an outside table at the pub might appeal were looking for somewhere warmer to spend a few hours.
‘No, I’m easy,’ Will said. ‘It’s just great to be out of the house. Bruno’s spring-cleaning and he’s got all the curtains down. He’s hired a steam cleaner and boy, is he getting his money’s worth. Over the weekend we weren’t allowed on the stair carpet because he’d overdone the water, and we ended up sleeping on the sofas. Lucky we’ve got a downstairs loo, is all I can say. The windows got all steamed up, and no, I don’t mean like that! Bit of Jane Austen, then?’ he suggested, looking at the hoardings outside the building. ‘Looks like they’ve got a special revival week of them. Must be to do with school exam time coming up, or something. Don’t kids have it easy? Spoonfed. Still, at least you’ll know the story, then you can nod off once you’ve checked out the bonnets and not miss anything crucial. Had a busy day? You’re very quiet.’
‘Sorry Will – I’m feeling a bit absent,’ she told him as they joined the ticket queue. In her head all she could see was Conrad on the way home from Waterloo. It had been a fairly full train with passengers standing. All the same, there’d been plenty of space around the seats where they were. Nobody wanted to go near Conrad, who was unconcernedly reading the Standard while the puddle from his wet clothes trickled across the carriage floor as the train lurched along. ‘This is perfect! I’m like the nutter on the bus,’ Conrad had whispered to her, laughing. ‘It certainly buys you space, being mad, doesn’t it? Handy tip.’
‘Please don’t even think of doing anything like this ever again,’ she’d warned him. Did he have the choice, though? Had he really been completely aware of what he’d been doing?
‘Why? Do you think I’ll catch pneumonia?’ he’d asked.
‘Quite a good way to go, that. They used to call it the “old man’s friend” if you’d already got something badly wrong and happened to catch it. It would wipe you out quite painlessly, compared with the alternative. Probably still does, now we’re all getting resistant to antibiotics. When I was a kid there really weren’t any, and now they’re next to useless. I’ll have seen them in and seen them out. Like Concorde.’
The big wall poster over the booking desk of Keira Knightley looking wistful went blurry.
‘My darling, you’re crying before we even get in there! Whatever is it?’ Sara drifted back to reality and to Will. He put his arm round her and led her out of the cinema. She snuggled against him, inhaling the delicious scent of frangipani. Will always smelled wonderful. He and Bruno were very keen on potions and lotions – their bathroom was close to a replica of a department store’s Clarins outlet.
‘Look, whatever it is that’s making you cry, it’s not going to be improved by a weepy movie. Let’s go and get a drink, or something to eat instead. You can tell me all about it – or not. Pizza Express?’ She was quite hungry, so they opted for food, a better option than a bag of cinema pick ‘n’ mix. She thought of Conrad and how he hated the way people always stuffed themselves at the cinema. Having grown up with rationing and in an era when people only ate meals at mealtimes, at home and at a table, he detested the possibility of sitting beside a stranger who was noisily munching a stinking hot dog followed by what he called a ‘crater’ of popcorn.
‘I never cry,’ Sara sniffed as Will poured her a big glass of wine.
‘Of course you do, babe. We all do. And if you don’t, you should try it, as often as possible. There’s a good reason for tears,’ he told her. ‘It’s to do with endorphins or some such. Like exercise . . .’ He shuddered. ‘Not that I’d know. Bruno’s the body freak.’ He patted his rotund stomach, which wobbled beneath his lilac cashmere sweater. Will always favoured pastels, claiming his mother had told him they suited his pale colouring. His hair was even whiter blond than Boris Johnson’s, so, depending on the colour combinations, he often resembled a bag of sugared almonds.
‘Anyway, you’re supposed to let it all flow and then you’ll feel better. Plus your eyes get a sparkly wash and look pretty. So . . .’ He sipped his wine and pulled a face. ‘Euw . . . this Merlot has seen better days. Probably not many of them though, it’s obviously still a mere infant. So are you going to tell me what’s up? Is it that gorgeous man you live with?’
‘Is he gorgeous?’ Sara asked him. ‘I assume he still is because he always was, if you see what I mean. I don’t think he thinks so any more. He says he feels old. He’s going old.’
‘My God, he feels old?’ Will gasped. ‘If I look half that good at his age I’ll be going round telling everyone I’m twenty-seven. How old is he, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean I know he’s no teenager, everyone knows that, but he could be anything up to about sixty-five. And that’s hardly anything, is it, not these days. Look at the Rolling Stones. Or perhaps not . . .’
‘Sixty-five? No! He’ll be seventy in a few weeks,’ Sara told him. ‘Except he’s decided not to be. Don’t even ask how that works. He’s gone funny. He keeps saying he’s not going to get any older. I’m scared about what he means. He says he’s not ill, but . . .’ Strangely, this didn’t seem dis-loyal, talking to Will about him. Why was that, she wondered? If she talked to Marie like this she’d feel all wrong. But then Marie would make her talk about her sex life. What there was of it. Will didn’t do that. He was more likely to ask about how she stocked her fridge – condiments on the top shelf or in the door racks? Or about cushions – was purple a good accent colour with a turquoise sofa?
Will laughed. ‘Well, is that all? Sara, you’re a woman! You should know exactly what he’s saying here! I’d say he’s intending to go backwards, that’s all he means. My old mother went up and down from fifty-five to fifty-nine for a good twenty years. Why, what did you think he meant? That he’s going to jump off Richmond Bridge?’
Sara watched a young couple at the table opposite. They sat in silence, stolidly munching their way through a heap of garlic bread. Something about their utter stillness told her that even when they’d finished eating, they still wouldn’t embark on a conversation. She’d always assumed those long silences were something you didn’t get till old age. Maybe age had nothing to do with anything, ever, after all.
‘Will, don’t say that! Suppose that’s exactly what he does mean? I’ve never had anything with Conrad before that I don’t dare to talk about . . . but this one, well it’s the big One to Avoid. And today . . .’
She took a deep breath and told him about Conrad paddling at the Aquarium. Will, by the time she’d finished, was almost choking with laughter.
‘Is it that funny?’ She was puzzled.
‘Funny? Of course it’s bloody funny! What did Cassandra say when you told her he’d waded out into the deep like John the Baptist and dunked her poor infant among the f
ish? Hysterical!’
‘Ah . . . well we didn’t tell Cass. I made Conrad promise not to.’
‘What?’
‘I was scared, Will! I know it just comes over as an amusing little story but at the time, the way he was, it was like he’d completely lost the plot. He just wasn’t connected. I don’t want Cass to think we can’t take care of Charlie. Oh God, perhaps we can’t! Or at least, perhaps Conrad can’t. How can I think of him as safe to be in charge of a baby after this?’
Will looked more serious now, thinking. ‘Hmmm. Well if you really feel like that, then just . . . don’t let him.’
‘He’d be mortified . . . so upset. But you’re right. Charlie’s safety comes first, obviously.’
Will smiled and stroked her hand. ‘But look, sweetie, he’s an artist. They do mad things. They do it because they can, or for attention – you shouldn’t need me to tell you that. If Tracey Emin climbed into the penguin pool at London Zoo, even if it was just to pick up a glove she’d dropped over the wall, she’d turn the whole episode into a conversation piece and have it written up in the Sunday Times ponce pages complete with photos and the usual guff about her abortion. Think of Conrad like that, apart from those bits, obviously. He’s turned into . . . a . . . what do you call it, a human installation. An event. See? He’s just being him. Nothing spooky, nothing dangerously mad. Trust me, darling, and wish him a happy sixty-eighth birthday when the time comes. OK, counselling session over for now. My turn later cos I’ve been agonizing over whether Bruno would think a surprise trip to San Francisco would be a yay or a nay and I want your input. But for now . . . are you going for your usual Margherita? Or are you going to be completely crazy too, maybe as off the wall as choosing lasagne?’
Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.
(Edgar Degas)
‘No, it’s fine – it doesn’t matter at all about the colours being true to life. Whatever you feel. If you want to paint him completely in purple then of course you can. You see, that’s the point, Melissa – art is about expressing what’s inside you. There are no rules. Any medium, any shade, any size. Each decision is what makes up your inner artist. Do you see?’ Sara tried to look encouraging. Most of her students relished the idea of absolute free choice when it came to artistic impression, but with this one it was hard work. Sometimes half the lesson had gone before she’d decided whether to use a pencil or a brush.
Melissa didn’t look as if she did see. Or as if she ever would. It sounded a bit cruelly intense, addressed to this most anxious-to-please of Sara’s Wednesday afternoon Beginners Art class, who were sitting in a circle in the Adult College studio (actually a former science classroom, all Bunsen burners capped off by Health and Safety) with their easels set out like wagons round a pioneers’ campfire. There were twelve class members, the majority of them post-pension age, making the most of cut-rate access to the classes and determined to get out and about while they could. Some spent almost every waking hour on college premises, flitting from Conversational French to Yoga to Batik by way of Cake Decoration and the Poker Club.
Just now, the class were concentrating intently on the naked life model. Poor Melissa – one of only three younger-generation class members – was a tragically indecisive soul, and would prefer to be doing something that had a comfortable set of regulations to obey. Why her hyper-keen probation officer hadn’t suggested a useful skill like Basic Cookery instead of pointing her firmly in the direction of Art, Sara had no idea. Possibly it was to do with the theory that Melissa would feel the glow of creativity in an area unconnected with relieving high-street clothes shops of their goods without paying for them. It was a pity, because Melissa, who had led a chaotic life, would feel secure in the comfort of an exact recipe to follow, something she couldn’t really get wrong, and surely you couldn’t get much more of a creative glow than by eating what you’d made? Sara watched as Melissa opened a tube of Prussian Blue gouache and another one of Crimson Lake and squidged dollops on to her palette, then hesitated again, dithering over the choice of brush.
‘Big brush . . . or a little skinny one . . . big, little, fat or thin?’ Sara heard the girl murmur to herself. She backed away, wondering how Melissa ever made decisions in shops over what to steal. Perhaps taking skirts in every available colour had been what led to her many arrests. She turned instead to look at Mrs Mottram’s heavily scuffed charcoal drawing. Alan the model – one of the college’s caretaking staff, enjoying a lazy but paid break – shifted slightly on his chair and scratched his pale bum, the only bit of him that wasn’t deeply tanned. Pamela Mottram, a tall, rod-straight sixty-something with a Hermès horse-head scarf tied bandanna-style, scowled at him for daring to move, and he winked at her.
‘Cheeky sod,’ Pamela whispered to Sara. ‘I wouldn’t mind but he’s not got a lot to wink about, has he?’
‘Oy – I heard that!’ Alan twisted round and grinned at them. ‘You should try handling the goods before you pass judgement, darlin’. You might find I’ll grow on you, in a manner of speaking!’ A ripple of sniggers went round the group.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Pamela told him. ‘But you haven’t got anything I haven’t handled before and in a grown-up size, so would you kindly resume the position please?’ She added some vicious strokes of thick dusty charcoal to her flamboyant sketch as the model settled back on his chair and turned the pages of the Daily Star to the sports section. The room settled into a comfortable silence as the students concentrated on their efforts.
Sara glanced across to the corner of the room where she’d left Charlie sleeping in his buggy. You couldn’t just put babies out of your mind and concentrate on what you were doing, even when they were sleeping. No wonder Cassandra found it hard to get her college work done. All the time, one ear and half a brain were tuned to the slightest movement, the first stirrings. Stuart from Car Maintenance had put his head round the studio door earlier, making going-for-a-drink gestures at Sara, but when she’d pointed at Charlie he had almost fled from the room. ‘Another time . . .’ she’d heard him call as he dashed off down the corridor. What she’d actually meant was that they’d have to take Charlie too . . . not that she couldn’t go. She’d been about to say yes, if he’d stayed long enough to listen. It would have been good to have had a quick wind-down after work before going home to sort out supper and second-guess whatever mind game Conrad had got planned for the evening. If Cass and Paul really had separated, would Stuart’s reaction be that of just about every new potential boyfriend the poor girl attracted? She really hoped not.
‘He’s a good sleeper.’ Melissa now pointed her paint-brush in the direction of Charlie. Purple paint dropped in blobs on to the parquet floor.
‘That’s because he was up twice in the night,’ Sara told her. ‘Poor Cassie had a ten o’clock lecture this morning and spent half the night trying to settle him.’
‘You can get stuff for them,’ Melissa said, giving Sara a sharp look, as if about to offer class-A drugs in baby-dosage. ‘Stuff to make them sleep. My sister always does for hers. She says she’s got to have a life too, and that it’s not all about the baby.’
‘But they’re not little for long,’ Sara said carefully, not wishing to condemn an unknown woman’s child-rearing methods of choice, however tempting it was, for surely the point should be that it was all about the baby? ‘Cass knows it’s just a stage. It’s funny, it only seems about a week since that was me, trying to get her to sleep through the night.’ Conrad had suggested dipping a finger in brandy and letting Charlie suck it, as his generation’s parenting had decreed – whether secretly or otherwise. Not very much changes over the years, she thought, wondering if, resentfully camped outside the gates of the Garden of Eden, Eve had despaired over the sleeping habits of her own babies. Did she blame God when they woke her all through the night and resent this extra aspect of his mean-spirited eternal condemnation of her, simply for fancying a bit of fruit and the answers to some questions?
The
blanket over Charlie was shifting. He was waking and would need some milk. This was going to involve a trip to the staffroom to use the microwave, so it was a good time to send the students to the canteen for tea and a biscuit. She was pretty sure they liked this bit of the lesson the best, especially the older women, who treated the breaks as a social event and a chance to chat up the most eligible widowers, luring them with two-for-one theatre-ticket bargains or offering to cook them supper, saying it wasn’t worth doing a full-scale roast for one. The men were easily wooed by offers of home cooking, and the most greedy of them played off the women against each other. Marie reckoned the canteen was elderly dating heaven.
‘How long have we got?’ Alan the model asked Sara. ‘I mean is it worth my while getting dressed, or would Mrs Mottram be persuadable in the fetching-me-a-cuppa department?’
‘Certainly I’ll get you some tea,’ Pamela told him. ‘And I’ll remember to bring you something to stir it with,’ she added, grinning, as she picked up her bag and went to the door.
‘Now that’s what I call a classy goer,’ Alan said, admiringly. Sara laughed. A more unlikely pairing she could hardly begin to imagine.
‘Ah there you are, Sara darling – are you coming up for a cup of tea?’ Marie breezed into the studio, passing the last of the outgoing students. She looked at Alan, who was now wandering naked among the easels, commenting on the success or otherwise of those who’d tried to capture his likeness.
‘Oh, no wonder you’re staying in here, Sara!’ Marie chortled. ‘And this is an aspect of you we never get to see, Alan! I’ll picture you like this next time I see you in the corridor bleeding the radiators.’
‘Marie please – don’t tease him! Do you know how hard it is to get nude models? Especially ones as pleased with their own bodies as Alan. The difficult bit is getting him to put his clothes back on.’