That'll Be the Day (2007) (51 page)

‘Oh, nothing. I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.’

‘Well, unless you tell me what it is, we’ll never find out, will we?’

Unable to prevent herself, Judy’s eyes swivelled back to the window display and soon the sketch-pad had been brought out, dusted off and laid before her on the counter. It was even larger close to, and of good quality paper, strong enough for water colours and a surprising find in this tiny shop. But then it was that kind of place.

‘How much is it?’

‘How much have you got?’ Mrs Hackett asked right back. ‘Look, I’ll come clean with you, love. This isn’t generally the sort of stuff I’d stock but I got it for a gentleman customer specially like, only he never returned for it. So there I was, lumbered. Make me an offer, I’ll not say no.’

Minutes later Judy was outside the shop hugging the precious sketch-pad to her breast. Oh, she hadn’t felt this happy in months!

Judy began to draw. She would sit at her window high above the street and draw whatever she saw in the city beyond: the new blocks of flats, the old mill chimneys, parked cars, church towers, the washing strung from windows, a medley of angles and lines on the majestic giant cranes working on the many new building sites.

As the weather improved she would venture out on to the streets, brown paper carrier bag in hand to carry her pad and pencils and Judy would sit on a wall somewhere and sketch the people as they hurried home; a child crying or playing with a hoola-hoop; old men leaning on lamp-posts smoking their cigarettes; mothers nursing their babies as they sat on stools at their front doors, or enjoyed a bit of a crack with their neighbours.

They would watch with open curiosity as she got out her sketch-pad, swiftly capturing the outline of the scene with a few deft strokes. She treated herself to a softer pencil, made a tightly rolled bit of newspaper to use as a stub to blur the shadows she created. Judy had never done this sort of work before, always concentrating on flowers and animals bursting with colour. But there wasn’t much evidence of any of that in this industrial scene, so she drew what she saw.

If only she had some oils.

‘Who do you think you are, love, Lowry?’ they would ask.

‘Got an eyeful? Do you want a photo an’ all?’

At first Judy would blush and hurry away, embarrassed by their rude remarks, but then as she became more engrossed in the work, she decided to brazen it out. She couldn’t afford to waste the paper with half finished sketches.

After a while they got used to seeing her around and would wander over to see what it was exactly she was drawing. Friends and neighbours would follow and in this way Judy began to collect an audience, sometimes appreciative, at other times astutely critical.

‘You’ve not got his hat quite right, love. It cocks over his eyes a bit more.’

‘I like the way you’ve made the ship look as if it’s disappearing in the fog, but that tug in the front needs a bit of smoke coming from its funnel and bring the prow up a bit. Aye, that’s better. You’re getting it, lass.’

And then one day she brought out Ruth’s paint box and added a touch of colour. Her admirers were captivated. ‘By heck, you even make my old bicycle look grand, though I would never have thought to paint it pink. Where’d you learn to paint like that? Will you do our Doreen? She’s a right bonny lass. I can’t pay you anything, though I’d keep you going with bacon butties and cups of tea.’

Judy gratefully accepted the offer. Mostly she’d given her sketches away, to children, to old people, but slowly she began to realise that she might have something worth selling.
 

Judy preferred to stay well away from Champion Street in case she should chance upon Leo Catlow. Generally Sam would bring the children to her at some pre-arranged spot, and collect them again a few hours later. She always felt bereft after they were gone, every parting a painful one with Tom trying so hard to be brave and Ruth pretending not to care. Afterwards she would usually walk, sometimes for hours, determined to tire herself so that she would sleep.

One Sunday while on one of these lengthy perambulations around the streets of Salford, Judy chanced upon a small art shop which seemed to have only recently opened. She certainly didn’t recall having seen it before. It was just off Liverpool Street close to Langworthy Park and she stood before it, entranced.

Its window was full of paintings and sketches by local artists. Studying them, Judy considered that her own efforts compared reasonably favourably with many of the pictures on display. She’d have said better than most were she not so modest and insecure about her work.

The shop was closed, it being a Sunday but the next day Judy found herself sneaking off early from the snack bar and hurrying back to the little shop, anxious to get there before it closed. She took with her a brown paper carrier bag which held a selection of her sketches and water colours.

A young woman sat behind the tiny counter, not much older than Judy herself. She seemed to be working on her accounts. There were tubs of brushes, flat, bright, and round, in squirrel, hog and sable, racks of canvasses, palettes and knives, easels, and an all-pervading smell of oil paint. Judy’s mouth was almost watering with her longing to buy.

‘You have a wonderful little shop here. Have you been open long?’

‘Only a month or two.’

‘It’s lovely. Very exciting.’ Judy browsed for a while, critically examining the pictures, wondering how best to proceed. She could feel her heart beating so loudly the woman must surely hear it. Maybe she should go now before she made a complete fool of herself. She’d reached the door when the woman spoke again.

‘Do you know much about art?’

Judy shook her head. ‘Not really. I just know what I like.’

The woman gave a vague smile, having heard this one before.

‘I wonder if I may see the proprietor?’ The words seemed to pop out of Judy’s mouth without any thought, and her cheeks fired crimson at her own temerity.

The woman smiled. ‘That’s me.’ Then she glanced at the brown paper carrier bag with an air of resignation, and Judy sensed the woman had already grown weary of would-be artists showing their masterpieces to her in the hope of making a fortune.

Judy set her bag on the counter and drew out a couple of the better water colours and several sketches of people and places she’d drawn. ‘They’re just sketches, I’m afraid, and a few water colours. Some of them aren’t even finished. I much prefer working in oil on canvas but I’m not in a position to buy the materials at present. However . . . ‘ Judy cleared her throat and tried a weak smile. ‘I thought . . . I mean, I hoped . . . well, anyway, I’d be interested in your opinion.’
 

As she hesitantly put forward her request, she was spreading her work out on the top of the counter, covering up the woman’s account book and her scribbled notes. The owner of the shop said nothing, just stared at the pictures for a long while.

‘If they’re no good you can say so. I won’t be offended.’ Judy gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Well, not too much.’

She waited for the woman to respond. Instead, she picked up one of the paintings and took it to the window where she could see it in a better light. At length she said, ‘How many of these have you done?’

Judy shrugged. ‘Oh, lots, but I give most of them away. It’s just that I could do with a bit more cash and I wondered . . .’ Embarrassment washed over her again and this time she could bear the woman’s silence no longer. Judy began to quickly gather the sheets up, slipping them back into the carrier bag.

‘What are you doing? I haven’t finished looking at them yet. I like your use of colour, it’s imaginative and you’ve managed to bring both light and vigour into what would otherwise be a grey industrial scene. You even catch the droll Lancashire humour in some of these faces. There’s so much character there. But you’re right, you don’t seem entirely comfortable with water colour. It’s perhaps a rather insipid medium for pictures that possess such energy and vibrant tones. And of course, far more difficult to control, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.’

Judy had stopped packing the bag to listen to all of this, beginning to think that maybe the woman might like her work after all.

She smiled at Judy and held out a hand. ‘I’m Angie, and you are?’

‘Judy.’

‘Well, Judy, I’m not making any promises but I think you and I might be able to do business. How about if I lend you a few canvasses and some oils, whatever you need to get going, and you pay me back when I sell your first finished picture.

‘Oh!’ Judy gasped, seemingly stuck for words.

And then Angie gave her a lecture on what was wrong with her pictures instead of what was right. Images which appeared rather flat, or the perspective or angles that weren’t quite right. ‘I do hope that hasn’t depressed you.’

‘Oh, no, not at all. I appreciate your advice.’

‘But can you keep that lovely loose style in oils?’

‘I think so. But I tend to use colours that I like, not necessarily what I see, or what seems appropriate.’

Angie smiled at her. ‘Like the pink bicycle, and the blue and orange dock scene. Good. That is what’s so attractive about your work, the blend of good drawing and an original use of colour. Come back when you’ve something more to show me. I look forward to seeing what you can produce.’

Half an hour later Judy left the little shop loaded with palette, easel, brushes and oil paints. How she would manage to get all this stuff back to her little flat on the bus and up six flights of stairs she neither knew nor greatly cared. Her heart was singing and she wore a big foolish grin on her face. She could see the future at last, and it was good.

Chapter Fifty-One

It was a couple of nights later and a much subdued Jake sat in silence as the three of them ate the lamb stew Lynda had prepared for supper, but once Ewan had gone off for his evening pint, Jake took her completely by surprise by staying behind to help with the washing up.

‘What’s this? Don’t tell me you’re turning into Goody Two-Shoes?’

‘I’ve found out what he’s planning. I know what it is, this big job he’s lining up. He’s given me all the details.’

Fear sparked in her hazel eyes. ‘What? Tell me, because if it’s bad, if it’s criminal, I can’t do it, I just can’t.’

Jake looked at his sister, aghast. ‘You’ll have to, for Mam’s sake. Listen, he’s told me everything but you haven’t to say a word. You have to promise me that, Lynda. He’s threatened to kill her, and me too, if a breath of this gets out. And I believe he’d do it too, I do really. He nearly did for me the other day when he suspected me of grassing on him. That’s how I lost the tooth.’

Jake grimaced as he revealed the gap to his sister, just as he’d used to do as a young boy, and Lynda felt that familiar chill creep down her spine.

‘And did you, grass on him, I mean?’

Jake shook his head. ‘Never got the chance, and I wouldn’t be daft enough to try again. Neither must you or it’ll be curtains for Mam and me both.’

Her stomach lurched so badly Lynda thought she might actually vomit, but managed to somehow hold on. ‘Oh, Jake, I’m so frightened I don’t think I can take much more of this.’

Then to Lynda’s great surprise, her young, self-obsessed, slang-talking, idiot of a brother put his arms about her and gently stroked her hair.

‘Don’t worry, sis, I’ll look after you. It’ll be all right, you’ll see, and we’ve really got no choice. He’s going to fill me in on the final details tomorrer, but his plan is to steal a large consignment of TVs and radios coming in from Japan on Friday. He’s no goof, so I expect he sees a lot of money in it. Televisions are selling like hot cakes these days and they’re not cheap. Ewan’s plan is to wait till they’re all unloaded and all the dockers have gone home, then move in and steal the lot.’

Lynda stared up at her brother, knowing her own face must look as white and strained as his. ‘And what’s our part in all of this?’

Jake chewed on his finger nail. The smoking had gone by the board and nail biting was his latest fetish. Lynda took his hand and patted it. ‘At least tell me what you know. You’ll be driving the van, I suppose?’

Jake nodded bleakly.

‘And what about me? What am I supposed to do in this precious scheme of his?’

Jake swallowed. He knew Lynda wasn’t going to like this, not one little bit, but that wasn’t his responsibility. He just had to make sure she did as she was told. ‘Catlow’s employ a night-watchman, big guy, ex-soldier, and your job is to keep him occupied so’s he has no inkling of what’s going on down on the wharf.’

‘What?’ Lynda half laughed. ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

‘How do you think?’

Lynda looked at him, too stunned to think of a response.

‘I tried suggesting they just knock the old guy out, but Ewan said this way would be much more entertaining. It’s his way of controlling us. If we’re both involved we’re not likely to shop him to the cops, are we? And don’t even consider not doing as he says, sis. Just think of poor mam locked up in some dark hole some place. Not a word of this to anyone, or God knows what little treat he’d have in store for us. I’m sure you’d like that even less.’

Lynda was shaking her head, panic roaring through her veins. ‘But I can’t do it, I can’t, Jake. We have to get out of this somehow. There must be another way.’