An Enormous Yes

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Right, we ought to make a start,’ he said, raising his voice above the chatter, ‘so could you all settle down, please. Maria, I suggest you sit in this armchair, then if you need any instruction, I can perch on the arm and talk to you, without disturbing the others.’

  ‘If you need any instruction …’ She needed almost fifty years’ worth! Perhaps it was bumptious to have come at all, when she had done practically no life drawing since way back in the sixties. But she had acted on a whim; grabbed the phone, two days ago, and rung her old art school, to enlist their help in finding a class, driven simply by a sense of being aimless and expendable. She had no wish to fill her days attending further lunches or functions with Amy and Hugo’s stylish circle – she would only feel distinctly spare, not to mention ancient. Despite the restrictions of her previous role as carer, it had given her a definitive function and made her central to her mother’s life, whereas at Amy’s she was simply marking time. She couldn’t even do the housework, because they already had a cleaner – one she’d met this morning: an elderly Indonesian, spindle-thin and barely five feet tall. In fact, a Friday class was perfect, because it allowed her to escape Sumiah, who came on Fridays and whose fragile build and air of cowed submission were bound to be a source of guilt.

  ‘Janina, are you ready?’ Felix called.

  ‘Yes, ’course.’ The model removed her silky robe, to reveal a full, curvaceous figure.

  ‘I’d like you to begin with a few short three-minute poses, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Janina took up a position in the centre of the room, one small, blunt-fingered hand supporting her pendulous breasts, the other resting on her neck.

  Maria’s chair was so placed that she could see the woman full-on. Nervously, she picked up a pencil, wondering if she would remember how to draw at all. Yet, to her great surprise, the lines began to flow with such freedom and fluidity, it was as if a dam had burst and all her pent-up longing to express herself was now pouring onto the paper. Instead of the former buzz of conversation, there was now reverential silence in the room; the only sounds the whisper of pencils on paper, the purr of an occasional rubber, and a sudden rasping noise as the man beside her sharpened his pencil with a Stanley knife.

  Felix was also drawing, standing in front of the model and so absorbed in the task he seemed to have forgotten about her instruction, or that of anyone else. Not that she minded in the least. She was making up for those deeply regretted ‘lost’ decades, and all that mattered was to continue at her present white-hot pace.

  ‘One minute left,’ Felix announced, and her pencil moved still faster, eager to make the most of that one remaining minute.

  ‘Thirty seconds left.’

  Hardly had the last second elapsed when Janina took up a new pose. Maria was now presented with her back view: the shoulders squarish, solid; the back itself broad and well upholstered, with an interesting roll of flesh above the waist. Right from the start, she had felt an instant response to this woman’s ample body, its generous proportions and air of relaxed abandon. Her pencil swept down the page as she sketched the mane of near-black hair tumbling over the shoulders, the exaggerated arch of the back and voluminous curve of the buttocks, the chunky thighs and heavily muscled legs.

  ‘Thirty seconds left.’

  She almost voiced an objection when, once the thirty seconds was up, the model relaxed a moment before adopting the next pose. She had been trying to capture the exact way the left leg was crooked, and now Janina had straightened it.

  ‘Can we have a longer pose next?’ a tall, willowy woman asked – a plea Maria echoed silently.

  Felix nodded. ‘Certainly, if that’s OK with everyone. How about you, Janina? Are you happy with, say, twenty minutes?’

  ‘Fine.’ The model went to sit on the edge of a straight-backed chair, her legs splayed wide, her fingers caressing her squat, brown nipples, as if inviting all eyes to study them.

  Maria envied the way she flaunted her body with such a lack of inhibition. This brazen pose displayed her tangled mass of pubic hair and even the lips of her vagina. She had been taught, as a convent girl, never to sit with her legs apart, and also warned that bodies were perilous, so the less known about them the better. Even in her twenties, she had been unaware that she possessed such things as labia, until Silas discovered them for her.

  Well, if nothing else, her pencil-strokes were becoming increasingly daring, as she endeavoured to catch the nature of that unbiddable pubic hair, which grew even down the tops of Janina’s thighs, as if refusing to be confined. Her concentration was so absolute, she didn’t notice Felix glide across the room and, when he stopped beside her chair, she started in surprise.

  ‘That’s really expressive drawing,’ he whispered, seating himself on the chair-arm and peering over her shoulder at her work. ‘Honestly, I’m impressed. All it lacks is a certain degree of technical skill. You need to work out how the legs relate to the thighs, the thighs to the stomach and the stomach to the chest.’

  His soft, intimate tone reminded her of the confessional. Despite the proximity of the others, the two of them seemed to be in their own private space; his hip nudging against her upper arm; his voice murmuring in her ear; his eyes meeting hers a moment.

  ‘A grasp of anatomy is essential for an artist,’ he added, in the same hushed tone. ‘Stubbs had whole dead horses hung up in his studio, so he could study their basic structure, and Leonardo da Vinci was always dissecting cadavers.’ He broke off with a smile. ‘I don’t expect you to go as far as that! And, anyway, don’t worry too much at this stage. You’ll find, with more practice, it will just come naturally.’

  She was distracted by his hand, gesturing to her work: the strong but stubby fingers, the tiny scar on the wrist, the hairs on the back of the thumb.

  ‘What you also need to consider,’ he continued, seemingly oblivious of her scrutiny, ‘is the model’s relationship to the chair. The chair has an angle, and she has an angle, so try to get a sense of exactly how she’s sitting. But, technicalities apart, what I really like is the freedom of your drawing. It has this huge exuberance, almost an anarchic quality. But I reckon your sketchbook’s too small to do justice to the boldness of your style. Wait a sec – I’ll fetch you a board and larger paper.’

  He returned in less than a minute; several sheets of paper clipped firmly to a board. ‘No, keep it upright,’ he advised, ‘not balanced on your lap. And I suggest you draw standing up. You may find that still more freeing.’

  Although embarrassed to be singled out in this fashion, she was so elated by his praises, she wouldn’t have minded if he had asked her to stand on her head. Besides, the others were so lost in the process of drawing they were blind to everything except the model and their sketchbooks, their gaze continually flicking from one to the other and back again.

  She, too, must resume her former focus – not difficult, in fact, since her long years of prayer had taught her a basic discipline, as well as the ability to fix her mind on one all-important figure. Indeed, the fervour and the sense of rapt attention, so apparent in the room, did have certain similarities to intense religious devotion. She made a silent vow: to be as observant in this new artistic practice as in her old religious one.

  ‘So where were you at art school?’ Elizabeth enquired.

  Maria took her time in answering. Elizabeth herself had been to the Royal College, so she’d been informed, and Helen to the Slade – both highly distinguished establishments. The Cass was hardly in the same league, despite its full, aristocratic name: the Sir John Cass School of Art. And, during her time there, it had been in a state of some upheaval, evolving from a charitable foundation to becoming part of the City of London Polytechnic – not that she would mention the word polytechnic in this exalted company.

  ‘Well, I was a bit clueless, to be honest,’ she mumbled, finally. ‘You see, I’d lived my whole life in the depths of the country and never met any artists, so I didn’t really know where to go, or even what
courses to study.’

  She was glad when Elizabeth changed the subject, being reluctant to dwell on that period of her life, when she had felt daunted by her tutors (who were sometimes brusque and frightening), and by those students with exotic names – Aida, Scarlet, Roderigues, Ché – and confidence to match. And, apart from the other frustrations, she seemed always to be broke, despite having worked for four years in Northumberland, straight after leaving school, and saved all she could for the course. But, when she’d eventually made it to the capital, everything cost far more than she’d imagined, including the rent on a small, squalid bedsit in Whitechapel. As for Silas, he hadn’t appeared on the scene until she’d almost completed her foundation year and was about to move to another – even less prestigious – school, since the Cass offered no further courses in Fine Art. But at least he had solved one problem by inviting her to share his flat, despite the fact it wasn’t strictly ‘his’. The rest was history – or perhaps the end of her history would be nearer to the mark.

  ‘More wine?’ Felix asked, doing the rounds with the bottle.

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No, I’d better not. One glass is enough at lunchtime.’

  ‘Who says?’ he laughed. ‘One glass is never enough! How about you, Maria?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She intended to get her fill of this blissful Friday lunchtime. However inexperienced she might be, compared with all the rest, she did, in fact, feel surprisingly at home, surrounded as she was by laid-back, congenial people, rather than high-powered business types. There wasn’t a suit to be seen. Helen was wearing mustard-coloured leggings and a blue embroidered waistcoat; Barry sported purple corduroy trousers, while Robert’s tawny hair clashed deliciously with his crimson shirt. No one was ultra-stylish, ultra-gorgeous, or even particularly young, so she could hold her own, she felt. Even Felix must be sixtyish, although the lively way he moved and spoke made him seem much younger.

  Robert passed her a plate of oatcakes; some spread with hummus, others with cream cheese. ‘So will you be coming back next week?’ he asked.

  She reflected for a moment. This class would give her a much-needed sense of purpose until the baby was born and, if she practised regularly, would fill the long and lonely days. ‘Yes,’ she said, with a sudden surge of contentment, ‘most definitely I will.’

  On the way back to the tube, she began thinking about her grandchild, whom she intended to teach to draw, as soon as it was old enough to hold a crayon, and also take to the London galleries, in its pushchair. In fact, she could start going to them herself, to study the great masters’ nudes and try to pick up some basic techniques.

  All at once, she recalled Hanna’s utter horror when she’d first mentioned her weekly life class, back in 1965. Her mother shared the Church’s view of nakedness, as shameful, if not sinful. In fact, she sometimes wondered if even her father had ever seen his wife in the nude. After all, many women in those days wore their nightgowns during sex, and often regarded their marital duty as indeed a duty, if not an actual burden. As for oral sex, Hanna had no idea such a thing existed until, very late in life, she had read a magazine article and expostulated in obvious shock, ‘But that’s like putting a cesspit into your mouth!’

  Maria gave a rueful grin as she descended to the underground. Despite the crowds, she was still amazed by how quick and easy London journeys were. Maida Vale to Sutherland Street might seem a longish trek, yet a mere thirty minutes later, she was back in Pimlico and striding down the road to Amy’s house. As she turned the corner, she jumped aside to avoid a small girl on a scooter, hurtling towards her on the pavement – but jumped a fraction too late. The front wheel caught her shin, resulting in a sharp pain in her leg. The child was unhurt, thank God, but its mother came rushing up to investigate the damage, followed by a second, older girl.

  ‘Oh, Lord, you’re bleeding!’ the woman cried. ‘And there’s a big hole in your tights. I’m so terribly sorry. Polly’s such a clumsy child. Look, I’d feel a lot less bad if you came home with me and let me patch you up. I only live in the next street.’

  ‘And I live in this one,’ Maria replied, with a smile. ‘So please don’t worry – it’s nothing.’

  The woman returned her smile. ‘That means we’re almost neighbours, which seems a pretty good reason to get to know each other. This area’s not exactly friendly.’

  ‘Mummy, I’m cold,’ the small child wailed.

  ‘You should be saying sorry to the lady, not complaining.’ The mother shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’m afraid she never looks where she’s going.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the recreant muttered, clinging on to her scooter as if she feared it might be confiscated.

  ‘I’m cold, too,’ the older girl interjected, giving a histrionic shiver.

  ‘OK, hot chocolate for all of us, once we’ve dealt with this poor lady’s cut. I’m Kate, by the way. And this is Clara.’ She indicated the coltish older child. ‘Polly you’ve already met – although hardly in ideal circumstances! I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. These things happen, don’t they? I’m Maria and, thanks, I will pop in.’ Having enjoyed the class so much, she had no desire to return to an empty, silent house and wait an age till Amy got back – if she got back at all, rather than going straight from work to some networking engagement. She could hardly believe what punishing hours her daughter and her son-in-law both worked. Hugo’s present role as project manager of a major Olympic structure meant he was required to be on-site by 7.30 each morning, and the drive to Stratford East was invariably long and stressful. As for Amy, she rarely finished work before seven in the evening and, if she was negotiating an offer, or involved in a client presentation, it could easily be nine or ten when she finally left the office.

  ‘Right,’ Kate was saying, ‘we just cross this road, turn left and our house is a few yards along.’

  It proved to be very similar to Amy’s – the same four floors, elegant sash windows, white exterior and black iron railings. Inside, however, the place looked both more cluttered and more comfortable, with evidence of children on all sides. Kate took her coat, ushered her through to the kitchen and sat her on a chair.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Polly, the prettier of the sisters, with blonde curls and peachy skin. The darker, more sallow Clara had disappeared upstairs. ‘I always cry when I’m hurt. Mummy says I’m a cry-baby.’

  ‘We’re all cry-babies sometimes,’ Maria told her, remembering how she had cried for Hanna, yet again, last night. She still missed not just her mother but the cottage and her friends, although now, it seemed, there was a good chance of making new ones.

  ‘I’m six and a half,’ Polly declared, abruptly changing the subject. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Well, I had a birthday on 26 January, so I’m sixty-six-and-three-weeks.’

  ‘That’s old.’

  ‘Polly, I hope you’re not being a pain?’ Kate said, returning with the first-aid box.

  ‘No. I’m looking after Maria.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but I’d prefer it if you changed out of your school uniform and left us grown-ups in peace. Right, Maria, I’ll just boil up some water and, if you wouldn’t mind slipping off your tights, I can give the wound a proper wash.’

  ‘What’s a wound?’

  ‘Polly, what did I just say?’

  ‘Change out of my uniform. Can we have cream on our hot chocolate and those little sprinkly things?’

  ‘Yes, but only if you do as you’re told.’

  Once Polly had gone stomping off, Maria removed her tights and let Kate bathe her leg. Although embarrassed by this fuss over a mere superficial cut, she also felt a curious pleasure at being looked after for a change. She sat back in her chair, gradually thawing in the cosy heat of the kitchen: a cheery room, with yellow walls, pine cupboards and an old-fashioned rustic dresser.

  ‘Good – that looks better.’ Having applied ointment, gauze and plaster to the
cut, Kate went to fetch some replacement tights.

  ‘Take your pick – thick or thin, dark or pale. They’re all new, by the way. The damn things ladder so easily, I always keep some spares.’

  Maria chose thick, dark ones – suitable for the frosty weather – and eased them up and on, while Kate washed her hands at the sink.

  ‘Do you have children?’ she enquired, pulling up a chair and joining Maria at the table.

  ‘Yes, one daughter. But she’s hardly a child. She’s thirty-eight and expecting her first baby.’

  ‘Oh, she left it late, like me,’ Kate laughed. ‘I had Clara at forty-one and Polly at forty-five – which is really truly ancient! No doubt you were more sensible and got down to things at an earlier stage.’

  ‘Well, actually, I was twenty-seven, which was considered very old in those days.’ As a Catholic – and pious Hanna’s daughter – the concept of keeping her virginity until her wedding night had seemed crucially important. Sex and children were both impossible in the absence of a husband, and she had remained steadfast to that view even through her years at art school. Only Silas had finally worn her down, replacing her once-firm Catholic faith with a faith in him, as demi-god.

  ‘But, reverting to this age thing, I don’t think it matters a toss, do you? I mean, I’m getting on for fifty-two, and if sixty is the new forty, as everybody says, then I’m looking forward to it! Frankly, I don’t intend to get old. If it takes a few nips and tucks, that’s fine by me, and I hope that when the girls are in their twenties, I’ll be wearing the same type of clothes as them.’

  Maria glanced at Kate’s present attire: skin-tight denim jeans, leopard-print top and skittishly high-heeled boots, which made her own outfit look distinctly matronly. Yet the idea of refusing to age struck her as a futile form of denial. Surely it was better to embrace one’s increasing maturity and feel comfortable in one’s (admittedly) slackening skin. Of course, for Clara and Polly time stretched ahead – endlessly and infinitely – whereas in thirty years or less, she herself would no longer be here at all. As for Amy and Hugo, they were so busy juggling work and social life, and multi-tasking generally, they rarely spared a thought for time in the abstract.