Director's Cut (11 page)

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.

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.”

“Difficult age," Albert said reflectively. "When I was that age it
was difficult. Wanking took up most of my time.”

The colonel agreed. “In the army we used to stop the wanking with
jungle juice and a standing order. And there was a chemical that they
added to your tea, but I forget the name.” He nodded in agreement with
himself.

“A sex destroyer,” Roger suggested.

“Exactly,” the colonel said.

“They should have tried married life, mate. Better than any
chemical known to man.”

The colonel’s nod was despondent. “The thing is,” he said. “Age is
the enemy. It’s not like the krauts. You can’t beat it. You can’t run at it
with a bayonet and shout ‘Have that you child-molesting jerry
bastard!’ It creeps up on you, more like a Nip or the taxes in a Brown
budget, and you don’t see it coming.”

A stranger standing between the colonel and Rasher cut in: “With
regard to Paul, it sounds a bit like schizophrenia or something similar.”
Albert asked, “What about the something similar?”

“Yes, you're right. I didn't mean similar. I mean he sounds like a
raving schizo.”

They were all ears. Even Rasher managed a series of blinks. The
stranger, well turned out in a suit and dark coat, had a bedside manner
about him and an acceptable accent from the home counties. He was
probably a doctor or a double-glazing salesman.

The colonel cut in, “Don’t know about your schizophrenia but it
seems to me that half the country is off with stress, the twenty-first
century cop out. What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned backache or
even ME?”

“Ah, indeed,” the stranger said. “Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also
known as CFS, chronic fatigue syndrome. Caused quite a stir a few
years back with half the establishment denying its existence, much like
schizophrenia some years before. Mind you, even now, much of the
establishment along with many old soldiers still believe it’s a
malingerer’s charter.”

They looked at the colonel who nodded his agreement. “Just like
stress, then,” he said. “Just like the vaccines and the Gulf War
syndrome. We never complained about DDT in the porridge. So long
as they kept it away from the old undercarriage we were happy.”
“Mosquitoes?” Albert asked.

“In the desert? No. It kept away the flies. The real soldiers, the
professionals, didn’t mind the flies. You could always find an Arab by
following the flies. And if you could find the Arab you could find the
kraut. The krauts liked to fuck the Arabs. Little bits of information
like that won us the war.”

The stranger shook a bewildered head and went on, “The popular
press and Hollywood, Hitchcock in particular, created the misnomer of
the multiple personality but that has more to do with dissociative
identity disorder than schizophrenia. The split personality is very
unlikely, largely unfounded. Schizophrenia was originally called
dementia praecox – mental deterioration in the early life – praecox.
Usually a sensitive, retiring child who starts to develop peculiar
behaviour in his early twenties, hallucinations, delusions, general
withdrawal from society. When it occurs in later life it generally takes
the form of a persecution complex – paranoia.” The stranger swept
back his greying hair. It was the narrow sideburns that worried the
regulars. Beware of men with narrow sideburns and those who wore
brown shoes. The regulars were, however, all ears.

“A steady mental deterioration,” Albert said gravely. “Cured can it
be…cured?”

“Doubtful. In some cases drugs can help. Then there's electric
shocks and cold water treatment. Then there's leucotomy. Crucifixion,
as a last resort, cures it once and for all. But that has nasty side effects

– religious wars and stuff like that.”

“But the voice…?”

“Yes, there is generally a voice.”

“And violence?”

“Sudden violent outbursts, certainly. Can't have a half-decent
mental disorder without violence.”

Roger, the manager, something of a movie buff, said, “When Alfred
Hitchcock released his
Psycho
back in fifty-nine, the critics thought it
was a joke on them. That at the end of the first reel he killed off his
leading lady. That wasn't the done thing. Their cosy world was
shattered.”

“Shattered I was too, when that scene I saw,” Albert said.
“It's a good thing to shatter the critics,” the colonel said. “They’re
as useless as an Eyetie soldier. Having said that, Hitchcock was one of
my favourite directors. I also liked David Lean and Robert Young.”
“Robert Young?”

“He did that telly thing,
GBH
.”

“Television doesn't count,” Roger said. “It never did. Not when
you’re talking movies. Not even if their movies are better. My
favourite film is
Paths of Glory
, a Kubrick movie. Every time I see that
last scene where the German bird sings, I cry.”

“You cry?”

“At the movies, I do. In real life, that’s different, I don’t.”
While he had listened to Roger the colonel nodded and his eyes
dulled as he recalled another day. He said, “When my wife was alive I
had about two thousand films to watch – videos in those days. But by
the time she had watched her soaps and all the other crap that was on I
was too tired to start a film. I thought about installing a television in
the other room but then I’d never have seen her. An odd consideration,
but once she died, I couldn’t be bothered watching the films. Came
here instead.”