Director's Cut (10 page)

They'd already discussed the fee and it didn't seem to bother her.
She'd offered a deposit that wasn't necessary.

“I understand you take on commissioned work,” she had begun.
“Sometimes I do. Sometimes, when I am not busy.”

“Well, are you busy now? My friend Helen…”

“Mrs Harrison.”

“Mrs Helen Harrison,” she agreed. “Showed me the painting you
did for her. My husband liked it, rather. I thought, perhaps, it would
make a nice Christmas present.”

“Ah, Christmas, yes, it's coming. But my dear, the oil wouldn't dry
in time. We'd be pushed to get all the sittings in.”

She seemed downhearted.

He scratched his chin and said, “On the other hand, perhaps…”
“Oh, could you?”

“The portrait of Mrs Harrison turned out rather well. I was rather
pleased with it.”

“Well then, will you fit me in?”

“I will have to check my diaries.”

“You have more than one?”

“Dear girl, you might not know this but there is an increasing
demand for original work. People are fed up with vacant prints and
copies. Framed in expensive frames it is only the frame you pay for.”
Another couple in the shop looked across as he turned up the
volume. The thought of prints had always raised his voice.

They discussed sittings and arranged the first. He wrote it carefully
in one of his diaries.

“What shall I wear?”

“Wear? Clothes?” Now Mr Lawrence looked downhearted.

“Oh, you didn't think…? Not like Helen, for goodness sake?”
She blushed. He hadn’t seen an Indian blush before and it tickled
him.

He said sombrely, “I see. Or rather, I shall not see.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Low heels,” he said.

She walked from the shop. The pleats of her cream-coloured skirt
swayed gently with each certain step. The old-fashioned bell rang out
her exit and a block of chilled December air came in to fill the space.
On the cold road to The British a Jehovah’s Witness or some other
such nonsense stopped him in his tracks, a spotty teenager in a cheap
suit. His bright smile and wondrous eyes offered to share the secret of
life. “Can I show you the way to true happiness, Sir?” An American or
Canadian accent came at him from between flashing white teeth.
“Don’t be absurd.” Mr Lawrence made to push by.

But the boy
persisted. “Have you ever thought about our Lord Jesus, Sir?”
As Mr Lawrence groaned, lost for real words, the youngster saw
something in his eyes that unsettled him and he at once stood aside.
“Have a nice day, Sir,” he said then moved away, quickly.

On the road to The British Mr Lawrence thought of the girl again; she
kept coming back like a tickly cough.

“You said your husband liked it, rather. Is that rather than you?”
Her eyes had narrowed fractionally; each held the glossy

mahogany-coloured reflection of her prey. Her lips parted in a sudden
smile and revealed a line of straight white teeth. These people from the
subcontinent and Africa have such wonderful teeth, thought Mr
Lawrence, as he tightened his lips. People from the USA had
wonderful teeth too, but they paid for theirs.

She had said, “Yes, I liked it too. You caught her expression just
right.”

“Which expression was that?”

“The one on her face.”

“Of course.”

When she walked from the shop the cream pleats of her skirt
swayed gently with each step. The cloth, tight on her boyish behind,
clung to her every move. The old brass bell rang out her exit and the
cold air rushed in and he shivered even though in his chest there was
something beginning to beat again.

He made a decision. It would be Madras tonight, after the pub. The girl
had left him with the curious flavour of India.

Much later, when he ordered, he was still thinking about her.
“Chicken Madras with Sudan One, Para red, Orange Two, Rhodamine
B and red chalk dust.”

“Ahhh! You are speaking of illegal additives, isn’t it? That is a
very fine English joke, Sir.” The waiter leant forward and in a
conspiratorial tone added, “You will be noticing that I am serving the
salt in these very small dishes. That is because somebody has stolen all
my salt-cellars, isn’t it?”

Once a week he closed the shop at noon. His usual custom was to have
lunch at The British then go off to spend his hard-earned, Brown-taxed
pound, but the woman was due for her first session and that meant
everything was going to be hurried. Still, it meant a change to the
routine: shop first and then lunch.

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
know. 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.