Director's cut

by I K Watson

  The way women change your life. A little flash of the eyes, a beguiling smile, a hint of coyness… The colonel was right. They should come with a health warning.

  Beyond The British, perhaps a hundred yards or so, was Robot City, a supermarket owned by one of the country's richest families but it didn't sell much kosher food. Maybe they didn't shop in their own shops. Maybe they knew something. In Robot City, with its forty tills and plastic merit cards that kept a note of what you ate and how many times you defecated – assuming that you used the average seven point four squares of Andrex a time – the robots shopped. They shopped for buy-one-and-get-one-free and nutritionally balanced diets containing all the additives and chemicals that were absolutely safe for human consumption.

  As he paused by the fish counter he wondered whether the fish farmed around Sellafield tasted any different, perhaps hotter, and whether one day they might leap from the Irish Sea as a ready-cooked meal.

  Most of the chippies had been taken over by the Chinese and maybe that was the reason the fish and chips never tasted as good as they did in the old days. Even so, it was beginning to make sense. There was, after all, a lot of salt used on the chips.

  In the vast superstore he checked out the new Colline collection of cropped trousers which were ideal for the beginning of pregnancy but could also be worn right through to the ninth month. They were made of poplin, which would gently expand to fit the shape of the eighthmonth figure. They even had one-piece swimsuits for expectant mums that came with lined gussets. They had maternity nighties and bras with efficient support and briefs made of supple elastic. They even had creams and lotions to eliminate stretch-marks. It was marvellous what was on offer nowadays.

  But it was a pity about the fish and chips.

  Sid the Nerve, Nervous Sid, was in The British. He watched Mr Lawrence walk in and then said miserably, “It’s funny how life turns out.”

  Mr Lawrence regarded him for a moment and said, “Yes, you’re right.” He deposited his heavy goods in an alcove and sighed relief and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to regain some circulation, although, it might also have been in anticipation for it was lunch-time. A pub lunch-time. Real gravy and cholesterol you could taste and pellets of sweet corn and molested tomatoes with everything. Pub cooking cooked by fat housewives with aprons tied around their bristly armpits was the cornerstone of Darwinian theory. They'd been growing families on it since life began without a bottle of Filippo Berio in sight

  – tit first and then lard the old-fashioned way.

  He asked the girl behind the bar, “Tell me, my dear, do you peel the carrots?”

  She rested her chin on her hands that were spread on the bar and looked up out of doleful eyes. Behind her the reflection of her tanned thighs and trim behind slid around the curve of a thousand bottles. A magnificent sight and a stirring thought to go with the pub food. Life would have to go some to get better than this. Her lips toyed with a dead smile and she said, “Not personally, Sir. I serve the drinks as you can see, but we always wash and peel all our fruit and veg. Why do you ask?”

  “There are more chemicals in the skin of a supermarket carrot than they’ve got on the shelves in Boots.”

  She nodded her fascination and said, “How interesting.”

  In the background Roger crossed his arms, braced his legs and beamed her a smile that she must have felt on the back of her head. Mr Lawrence said, “I’ll have the beef curry please, with rice. No chips.”

  “That’s an excellent choice, Sir. Would you like a drink with your order?”

  “Yes, I think so. Would the water that comes with my scotch be mineral water or…?”

  Her eyes grew. He had never seen such honesty in a pair of fluttering eyes. “Our mineral water comes all the way from Scotland, Sir, from a place called Dounreay…”

  Albert and the colonel nodded to acknowledge him. They didn't smile. Rasher flicked him a sideways flick of the eyes. He didn't smile or nod. He tilted. His two minders rushed to stand him upright again. Nervous Sid oozed up to him. Short and thin he melted on to a bar stool while Mr Lawrence waited for his drink. He was West Indian and wracked by shakes. Perhaps Parkinson's shakes. He shook a ring under Mr Lawrence's nose. A valuable ring, he told him, which he could have for twenty pounds. Five pounds was his last offer. Five pounds and the knowledge that Albert wouldn't get it.

  The last bit was tempting.

  Albert's eyes sparkled mischievously. “How are you getting on with young Paul?”

  Mr Lawrence said, “It's cold enough to snow out there.”

  Albert put his nose in the air and returned his attention to the colonel.

  Mr Lawrence could have told him that he hadn't seen much of Paul, that the lad had gone out at six last night and hadn't returned until the early hours. But his room had been transformed. He'd been shopping. God knows how he got his money or, come to that, the shops to open at that time of night. His wardrobe was filled with a selection of jackets and jeans and slip-on shoes, all with designer labels. He’d got himself a TV, DVD recorder and converter box. He'd spent the whole of the morning rigging a dish and running cable. He was stocking an awful lot of gear for such a short stay. Seeing that he was something of a handyman Mr Lawrence asked him to run a cable to the shop window.

  “A warm Christmassy light on the display of bronze ballerinas might look nice.”

  “No problem, Mr Lawrence. Leave it to me. I'm the man, see?” He'd gone out again just before Mr Lawrence left for the supermarket and Mr Lawrence took a peep into his room. It wasn't nosiness or anything like that for the door had been left open. There was a cardboard box full of baby things, Pampers and Huggies with their price tags still attached, Milton, rattles, counting blocks, teddy bears and baby-growers. And a whole bunch of baby-wipes. But the lad was proving quite useful. Mr Lawrence could have told Albert all that.

  “Noticed the police were out in force last night, raiding the flats,” Albert commented.

  The colonel asked, “What were they looking for?”

  “Missing women.”

  “Oh,” Mr Lawrence said, absently. “Did they find any?”

  “Plenty of women," Albert sniffed. “But none of them missing.” “All this business,” Nervous Sid said. “Missing women, and the two that were attacked, just around the corner, man, it's turning brother against brother. We should all learn to kiss and cuddle like they do on the football pitches. All this trouble is no good, bad for the digestion. You can feel the tension out there. It's not good.”

  “I know," Albert said. "I can feel it too, out there. Or it might even be in here.”

  The colonel said, “As long as it's only the women, it could be worse.”

  Roger said, “Well, I hope you keep all your kissing and cuddling outside. I won’t have it in here.”

  Sid the Nerve shook his head despondently and moved off shaking his ring.

  Once he’d gone Roger said, “I’m thinking of banning the blacks…” Albert shook his head. “Not possible with the race relations. You’d end up in court.”

  Roger continued, “…along with the Jews.”

  Albert turned to Mr Lawrence. “So, snow? I feel the chill, too.” At the shop Paul was helpful. He helped him unpack the shopping. “Walnuts, Mr Lawrence, and shoe polish. You’ve already got shoe polish under the sink.”

  “You can never have too much shoe polish.”

  “You’ve bought lots of walnuts.”

  “Walnuts are the thing, Paul. They lower the cholesterol.” “Well, I didn’t know that.”

  “And you’ve always got to put one in the sock you hang up on Christmas night.”

  “Oh, Mr Lawrence, does that mean I’m staying for Christmas?” “Now, now, Paul, I didn’t say that, did I?”

  Downstairs Paul proved even more helpful.

  “I'll keep the shop open,” he said.

  “There's no need, really.”

  “No problem, really. It's getting close to Christmas. You never k
now. In any case, now we’ve put the walnuts away, I'm doing nothing else.”

  “As you like,” Mr Lawrence said, secretly pleased.

  “One thing, Mr Lawrence?”

  “What’s that, Paul?”

  “Last night, late, I heard babies crying. It was coming through the walls.”

  “That will be the cats. I’ve heard them myself. When they cry they sound just like babies.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then.”

  The woman from India or Pakistan or Luton, arrived at three-thirtyfive, five minutes late.

  Mr Lawrence believed that punctuality marked the man – and the woman.

  “What about the specs? I think I'll take them off.”

  “As you like,” he said, still smarting.

  “I'm long-sighted. They're bifocals. People wouldn't recognize me without them. What do you think?”

  “I think I'd recognize you without them. But perhaps I don't know you well enough not to recognize you.”

  Her glance was quick and questioning.

  “Off for now,” he added, softening a little. It was difficult to maintain severity before such an engaging face. “We can always change our minds later.”

  Carefully she removed her spectacles, folded them and slipped them away. In the rich brown of her eyes was a challenge. Taking off the spectacles had removed the innocence. The bridge of her nose was slightly marked, as though she wasn’t used to wearing them. The thick green drapes behind her were going to lend their value to her skin tone. Her brown dress was loose; the pleats and folds presented a pleasing contrast.

  She spoke from the side of her mouth. There was no need to keep still. When discomfort had set in maybe he would tell her. “Have you painted for long?”

  “Since before you were born.”

  “You used to teach?”

  “Ah! Mrs Harrison told you that.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “You taught art?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Biology.”

  “I didn't know that.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “To concentrate on art. I still take small classes here. I find it more satisfying. And of course, working for myself, and shutting up whenever I feel like it, the holidays compare, although the teachers do edge it.”

  “You take classes in here?”

  “There's room for five or six, eight at a push.”

  “Is there a particular age group?”

  “Yes, indeed. We don’t cater for children. They find it difficult to concentrate.”

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “How much do your lessons cost?”

  “There is no charge. It's more of a club. The members buy their materials from me but there's no obligation. They get them at cost in any case. The club charges a small annual subscription but you'd have to ask the treasurer about that. I am not a member. The subscription goes toward outings and transport. This summer, for instance, they spent a day in Essex discovering Constable, that sort of thing. Some of their work hangs in the gallery. It's not very good, really, but I show willing.”

  “When we are through you'll have to show me.”

  “Yes, I'll have to.”

  “You used to teach in school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you give up teaching?”

  “I told you, to spend more time painting. And I discovered that I didn't like children. Do you have children?”

  “No. I have a Labrador.”

  “Do you work?”

  “In personnel or, rather, HR. BOC.”

  “I know it. In Wembley. How long have you been there?” “Since school. Over ten years now.”

  “And have you been married long?”

  “Three years.”

  “Is your husband in the same line of business?”

  “No. He's in marketing. In the city.”

  “Do you have hobbies?”

  “I play badminton.”

  “That's good. It's good to have a sport.”

  “Do you have a sport?”

  “No.”

  “My husband's a runner. Weekends. Sometimes, I go to watch him run. Cheer him on.”

  “I bet he likes that. I don't know any runners. I've been out, painting, and they've run past. But they never stopped. Do you live far from here?”

  “The Ridgeway.”

  “Of course, near Mrs Harrison.”

  “Well, Mrs Harrison isn't there at the moment. She's gone off somewhere. Mr Harrison is quite worried.”

  “My goodness, I bet he is. I hope she's not another missing woman. We've got enough of those. Hope we don't see her picture up in the bus shelters.”

  “How long have you lived here? Do you live here?”

  “I moved here in the mid-eighties. There's a small flat upstairs, enough room for one.”

  “You're on your own, then?”

  “I suppose I am. Apart from the lodger.”

  “You have a lodger?”

  “Yes.”

  “It's good to have company.”

  “You think so?”

  “Don't you?”

  “I've been on my own so long it takes some getting used to.” “You never married?”

  “No. No one would have me.”

  “I don't believe that.”

  “Every time I got close to a woman she disappeared.”

  “It’s not a joke, Mr Lawrence.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  “It's frightening.”

  “It's never frightened me. I suppose it should. But it doesn't.” A wide belt pinched her dress at the waist. She had an awkward hip that gave him trouble. There was a sharpness that needed smoothing. Part of the problem lay in her deportment. Her weight was on her heels, her shoulders dragged slightly forward to compensate. The main cause was a flat masculine behind. It wasn't in the picture but it took away the natural curve to the hip.

  There were a couple of other areas where he could help out too. It depended how charitable he felt when it came to the detail. It depended on the mood and how ugly it was on the day.

  Off the studio was a small kitchen with a sink and tea-making equipment. But he didn't make tea. He opened a bottle of red wine. While he fought with the cork the voice of his new assistant carried in from the shop. Moments earlier the doorbell had struck.

  “Hang on! Hang on! Here it is: Reclining Nude on Red Settee with One Arm. Done by a geezer named Reynolds. What I can tell you about him, mate, is that he spent his life doing copies of Goya's… You know? Innit? This tart wasn't just any old tart. They were close. I mean very close. He must have changed his mind about her arm.” Red wine splashed into glasses. Mr Lawrence shook a wondrous head.

  He carried two glasses into the studio and found her leafing through a pile of unframed canvasses on the worktop, part of the last batch from the Far East. She was thoughtful, tight-lipped, critical. She had resisted the temptation to examine the new canvas on the easel and that amused him. The idea that unfinished work should not be seen is only valid when the technique is wanting. Second-raters in life needed secret time to botch.

  He handed her a glass. “It's Merlot-Malbec, one of my favourites.” “Did Helen drink wine?”

  “Mrs Harrison? Always, before a session got too involved. It unfastened her inhibitions – not that she had many – and it added a delightful tinge to her cheeks. And for me it freed up my knife… My brush strokes. Red wine, my dear, is a necessary part of the procedure.” He glanced at the paintings she'd been studying. “What do you think?”

  She pulled a face.

  “One or two are all right… They seem so similar. I'm not very keen on landscapes.”

  “They are factory paintings.”

  “You didn't paint them?”

  “Good grief, woman!”

 
“I've hit a nerve.”

  “More than one.” ers were posters of runaway children and missing women and donkeys being hanged and a jazz group that was gigging that night at The British.

  Chapter 11

  There was a flagstone floor around the bar in The British where, if you were lucky, you would stub a toe. The stone gave way to red Kidderminster carpet, or that cheap alternative popular in two-star hotels and, with nothing better to do, time could be spent in joining the dots left by careless cigarettes.

  There was a brass-coloured handrail around the bar. It was held firm by brass-coloured lion heads. A good idea, while waiting there, was to try and spot the subtle differences in the brass-coloured casts. There was also a brass-coloured footrest where the serious drinkers could rest a foot while checking out the various collection boxes for Age Concern, the Home of Rest for Old Horses and the Spastic Association. This was an old boozer. When its first fine ales were poured the country was a finer place. The British lion still roared. And if the charity boxes were of no interest there were always the fliers drawing-pinned to any available space: Karaoke, Quiz Night and Live Entertainment – a band called Jodie Foster’s Boyfriends. n the Eighth Army on DDT.”

  “The orange squash cut out,” Albert confirmed. “The additives, youngsters can't take. E-numbers, they are. E for extinction and exit. The very least you can expect from E-numbers is hyper something. And good that’s not. The Eskimos think of. They are hyper something but with a capital H. They get their E-numbers from the fish. And the fish get them from the North Sea oil platforms. It’s from the bottles of orange squash that the oil workers throw over the side. Tonic water feed them instead.”

  “And that,” the colonel cut in excitedly. “Will keep the malaria away. It's difficult bringing up kids. In today’s world even more. We didn't have drugs in our day. Apart from Woodbines. In our day the nation produced first class soldiers. They didn't go around moaning about cocktails of drugs. They got on with it. Dug in. Took what the krauts threw at them. No Common Market in those days. Nothing at all common about the krauts. They were good soldiers, let down only by a predilection for fornicating with their own mothers and eating children. We brewed up. Lived on bully beef. How old did you say Paul was?” Mr Lawrence replied, “I didn't. He's about twenty-five but acts a lot younger, as a lot of people do.”