The Walking Stick (8 page)

He thrust his bottom lip out and wrinkled his forehead. ‘Maybe, maybe. I’m not subtle. Even my best friend wouldn’t accuse me of being subtle. I just go on simple primitive
instincts, and one of my instincts is to try to give you pleasure. But pleasures aren’t always pleasures right off. Sometimes they hurt at first. Have patience, lovey. Don’t shoot the
pianist just yet.’

We sat for a time. Then he said would I like something to eat and I said yes, so we went to the restaurant upstairs which looked out on to the skating. The warmth was very welcome after the
chill of the rink. We had ham omelette and salad and beer and Cheddar cheese and biscuits. While we were there the floor was cleared of beginners and the experts had a session for dancing. This was
much pleasanter for me to watch. In the same way I could enjoy Wimbledon but not the local tennis club.

About eleven he drove me home. Outside our house he leaned over and kissed me. I didn’t turn away. He said: ‘Debby, Debby, Debby, what a gorgeous kiss. I love you. You weren’t
meant to be a nun. Remember that, can you, till Thursday?’

I remembered it till Thursday.

We went to Rotherhithe again but not to his house. We went to Ted Sandymount’s flat. Ted, having just been turned out of a condemned building, had been rehoused on the
sixteenth and top floor of a new block of flats. From his picture window you got a dream view of London’s dockland, stretching from Tower Bridge to Greenwich. The river curled like a
dangerous snake slipping half-hidden through the undergrowth of the city.

I couldn’t bring myself to take to Ted. He might be big-hearted, as Leigh said, but he represented most of the superficial things I sheered away from in a man: a sort of vulgarity of
outlook which cheapened what it touched. He had to perfection what Sarah had once called ‘lavatory-seat humour.’ I couldn’t see how he appealed to Leigh who, for all his faults,
wasn’t really at all like that.

But that evening Ted seemed to be laying it on for me. He pushed forward the easiest chair so that I could sit and look out of the window, and rushed down in the lift to get a tomato juice when
I said I didn’t want to drink any more. He asked my opinion about things and instantly gave way if we both happened to speak at the same time. I thought Leigh must have given out that he was
more than ordinarily keen on me, and Ted was doing his best as a friend to help the thing along.

As the evening waned lights began to wink in the streets below, and quickly the contagion spread until the whole city was like a hoard of jewels that had been raided and scattered. Ted said:
‘You’d pay £20 a day for a view like this at the Hilton,’ and sniffed and twitched his way into the chair beside me.

‘Some day,’ Leigh said, ‘I’ll come up here and paint it. Sort of aerial view.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t paint Deb,’ Ted Sandymount said. ‘She’s looking as pretty as a picture right now. All radiant, like. What’s she done –
won a prize in something?’

‘I’d paint her like a shot if she’d let me,’ said Leigh. ‘I’ve asked her over and over. It’s just what I need.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Because,’ he said.

‘No, why?’

‘I’ve told you often. You don’t want me to say it all over again in front of Ted, do you?’

‘Here, what’s all this?’ said Ted, his face as full of eagerness as a TV commercial. It should have jarred but for the moment didn’t. ‘Why can’t he paint you,
Deb?’

‘Maybe some time.’

‘Saturday?’ said Leigh.

‘Not Saturday.’

‘Why not Saturday?’

‘I don’t know. It’s – too soon. I’ve got to think about it.’

‘Saturday,’ said Leigh.

‘I have things to do at home.’

‘I’ll call for you Saturday,’ he said, ‘if the light’s good. It’s the thing I need. For my painting. It’s easy to be snide about inspiration, I know;
but what else can you call it? It’s the spark that sets the engine going. The split atom in the reactor, the – the . . .’

‘The thing that makes the world go round, eh?’ said Ted, patting my good knee. He always had to be patting. ‘You see Leigh needs you. He can’t ask better than that. What
d’you say? Give him a break, eh? Be a pal.’

He said: ‘Here. This way. I want you three-quarter face, see. That’s about it. Head up a fraction. Now . . .’

He stepped back and stared at me. I was sitting on a high chair looking more or less out of the larger of the two windows. It was a bright morning with sun and shadow falling in turns over the
river. Leigh said it was perfect for work but he was fussing a lot about getting the sitter right.

Now after a minute or two’s silence he said: ‘Mind if I use my comb?’

‘What on?’

‘Your hair . . . See . . . D’you mind?’ He put his hand on my head and began to fiddle with the comb.

I hadn’t realized how intimate the painting of a portrait can become. He used any excuse, putting his fingers on my neck to turn my head, grasping my shoulders with warm hands, smoothing
the dress round my hips. It was a sort of mock love-making in a Laurence Sterne way, and I cursed myself for being such a fool. But I didn’t all that much want it to stop. That was really the
awful thing.

When he’d fiddled about with my hair he drew back and at last gave a grunt of approval. ‘That’s better. That’s about right. Hang on, I’ll take a snap . . .
I’ll just get a bulb. Now hold it.’

I waited until the flash had gone before I said: ‘Isn’t this supposed to be a
painting
?’

‘Yes, but I reckon to have a snap too. It helps me to get perspective.’

I thought how shocked Erica’s friends would be.

‘Do you take photographs of all your subjects?’

‘Not river scenes. The few portraits I’ve done, sure.’

‘Who else’s have you done?’

He was at last making a few preliminary lines on the canvas. ‘Oh, nobody’s in particular – a few friends.’

‘Girl friends?’

‘Not specially.’

‘What about the one you mentioned?’

He looked at me for a long time. ‘Which one?’

‘The other one. You said there was one other one since you came here.’

‘Oh, her . . .’ There was a long pause. ‘That’s ancient history.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Look, I can’t concentrate if you talk all the time.’

‘I thought artists talked to put their sitters at ease.’

‘Well, this one doesn’t.’

Silence fell for about half an hour. Then I said: ‘I’m getting cramp.’

‘All right, relax. I’ll shove some coffee on.’

‘Can I see what you’ve done?’

‘No. Stay where you are.’ He went into the kitchen.

‘How many sittings will this take?’ I called after him.

‘What? Oh, about three. Three or four.’

I walked to the window, massaging my neck. It was low water. Two tugs were passing, their bright funnels puffing like Roman candles just alight before the first stars were sent up.

‘What a marvellous place for fifth of November fireworks,’ I said.

‘What, here?’ He came back. ‘Where?’

‘On this beach. You could even have a bonfire.’

He laughed. ‘Go on with you. You’d have the Dock Board down on you.’ He put his arm round me and kissed my neck.

‘Tell me about her,’ I said.

‘What – this other girl? Why? It’s a drag. It’s done with.’

‘Was she just a casual caller like me?’

‘You’re a lot more than that.’

‘And the answer?’

‘The answer’s no.’

‘Was she your mistress?’

He put his face against my hair and sniffed. ‘The answer’s no.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘I don’t want to. She was just someone I was keen on, but it didn’t figure.’ He turned away from me and back into the kitchen.

The tugs had disappeared round the bend towards Surrey Docks. Rowers from the various clubs were out in force this morning. Those going with the tide moved with effortless speed; those against
had to strain for every yard.

He came back with the coffee, and we sipped it together in companionable silence.

‘Was she from round here? Was she an artist?’

He gave an irritable hunch of his shoulders. ‘She came from Ireland, if you must know. Her name was Lorne. She was twenty. She’s now living in Stratford-on-Avon working as a
receptionist at a hotel. She was five feet four and dark, with blue eyes, and I painted her six times.’ He added roughly: ‘Now tell me about
your
love life.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, no.’ He swallowed, and took out the comb and ran it through his hair. ‘I should be flattered that you’re curious. Crikey, I should be pleased.’

In silence I got back on my chair and he lifted my chin an inch and then went back to his easel.

‘D’you believe me?’ he said.

‘About what?’

‘About other women being unimportant.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What don’t you know?’

‘I don’t know enough about you, Leigh.’

‘D’you think I don’t mean what I say?’

‘Oh, no . . . I think you do. But it’s hard to judge – we’ve known each other so short a time – it’s hard to judge.’

‘What?’

‘Well, how far you forget what you felt for other people, how soon you’ll forget what you think you feel for me.’

He was painting now. ‘I’ve told you – you’ve got it all wrong about me. I’m not the type. You’ve got this kinky view of artists—’

‘Perhaps it’s just a general view of men.’

‘Well, stop being in a groove. It’s not like you.’

Silence fell for a bit.

‘There’s another thing I want you to try,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Skating with me on Tuesday.’

I went skating with him on Tuesday. I wore a pair of stretch pants I had bought in France, and these hid quite a lot.

We hired skating boots and went down to the rink. He insisted on putting mine on for me. Something about the intimacy of the Saturday portraiture continued on. He took off my built-up shoe and
fitted the boot on to my thin foot, with an extra sock inside to prevent it rubbing, and presently, when he had put on his own, helped me to get up and limp to the edge of the rink.

My face was hot before I even started. I felt everybody in the place was staring and sniggering as I put a scared wobbly skate on the ice. In spite of the disguise of the slacks I had a pretty
fair idea what I looked like, and I hated him for the awful humiliation of it.

He said: ‘Don’t think about slipping, see. Just try to stand up and hold on to me.’

He got on the left side of me so that my weak leg was in the middle of us and pushed off with his left leg. My good leg at once wanted to shoot from under me. I put the bad one down and somehow
we glissaded into the side and all but fell.

I swore deeply in my heart but said nothing. After all it was no good being angry again with him – only with myself for being such an unutterable fool.

So we tried again and again nearly fell. ‘Good,’ he said – the idiot – ‘another try; we damn near made it that time.’

At the seventh attempt I said breathlessly: ‘Let me go – it’s no
good
! For Heaven’s sake, let me go, Leigh! You go on your own.’

‘Another one – just for luck. Just once. I thought we were getting it. Nobody’s looking.’

I bit my lip and we started again. This time we began to go. His strong sturdy body was like a rock against mine. We began to go round the ring. We almost made a complete circle, before somebody
sweeping across made him swerve and we had to fetch up hurriedly at the side.

‘You see!’ he said laughing. ‘You really
did
it! If that nit hadn’t got in our way we’d have gone on for ever!’

Breath back and begin again. And this time it really did work. Round twice, shakily but no fall. My left leg had just enough power to push at the ice and he showed me how to turn it to gain a
grip. This I could do not from the calf and ankle where it should have been, but by turning the thigh.

Hot all over; hands in his clammy with sweat. But his triumph was so real that he might have been celebrating some feat he’d pulled off himself; I found myself laughing with him. We sat
and rested and then tried again. Again no mishap. We went round six times before giving up and taking coffee and sandwiches in the cafeteria.

‘There,’ he said, ‘you see! It’s quite possible. And next time it’ll be easier still.’

‘There’ll never be a next time!’ I said, knowing that there would and that he knew that there would.

He held my hand, fingering it as if he would feel each individual bone. ‘There’s other things yet, in time. Swimming – that ought to be easy; golf – I’ve never
played golf, we might start it together; dancing . . .’

‘I
can
swim.’

‘But do you?’

‘In the physiotherapy baths.’

‘That’s no good. South of France is the place. We could go on a trip . . .’

I didn’t try any more to discourage him. I knew it was no good. Anyway just then I didn’t feel in a discouraging mood. Tomorrow both legs would be stiff, but I was feeling as
ridiculously pleased as he looked. And so well, so very, very well. I felt like someone who has been out riding on a cold, wintry morning. Tired but relaxed, skin tingling, appetite keen, lungs
full of air, and alive, alive, alive.

He looked at me and smiled his all-embracing, rather contorted, rather beautiful smile.

‘You’ve had enough for one night, Deborah. I’ll take you home.’

Friday at Whittington’s. A day like any other day. Cataloguing completed until some new stuff came in on Monday, I was doing a few letters in reply to inquiries. Letters
were always coming in: ‘Dear Sirs, I have for long had on my mantelpiece two beautiful vases of what I believe is called Cloisonné ware . . .’

Upstairs Smith-Williams was conducting a sale of English water-colours and early drawings. Only small sales were held on a Friday, such as would be completed by noon. A furniture van was outside
our back door in Bruton Lane unloading some furniture which had been sent down from Scotland.

A telephone rang in the office of Peter Greeley, the head of the firm. It was from Switzerland, from a hospital in Geneva to say that John Hallows had met with a car accident ten miles outside
the city and was in hospital with concussion.