Widows & Orphans (22 page)

The question of intent was even more pertinent when Duncan turned to the two humans. He knew, of course, that Eve was based on Mary – albeit a Mary he would never have suspected lay beneath her overalls – but not that Adam was a self-portrait: a slight, fresh-faced adolescent whose penis, either as a challenge to centuries of Church teaching or in literal self-aggrandisement, was disproportionately large. The older, fleshier Eve sat beside him, a hefty arm wrapped protectively round his shoulder. While Henry rhapsodised about the way in which, consciously or not, Jordan had portrayed Eve as an archaic mother goddess and Adam as the embodiment of the younger Judaeo-Christian tradition, Duncan struggled to tear his eyes away from Mary's – or, rather, Eve's – heavy breasts.

‘Is there any reason she's holding such a large apple?'

‘Probably because it's a mango! When I told him that the Bible never named the fruit, he decided to choose his favourite.'

‘I didn't know what to expect; I certainly didn't expect anything as extraordinary as this.'

‘Such talent,' Henry said wistfully. ‘I hope now that he's paid his debt to society – disgusting phrase! What about society's debt to him? – he can use this as a calling card for art schools. He affects not to be interested: “Why would I want to sit around all day smoking dope with a load of wankers?” But he's just trying to protect himself against rejection.'

‘I doubt there's anyone who wouldn't be impressed by this, whether or not they know his story. Look, even Brandy's engrossed!' Duncan pointed to the dog who was sitting three
feet away from a pair of rabbits, his ears pricked as if ready to pounce.

‘It's the same whenever I bring him. But then, as one untainted by Original Sin, he has a unique affinity with the prelapsarian world. Of course if St Augustine's right and Original Sin is rooted in our genitals, that affinity's just increased.'

Henry's flippancy, which seemed to spring from somewhere deep in his conflicted nature, alerted Duncan to the fact that the painting's eroticism, which spoke so eloquently to him, might dismay several of the hall's regular users. He could not help wishing that Jordan had chosen an equally colourful but less contentious myth such as Noah's Ark.

‘You are prepared for the inevitable backlash? I'm afraid that some of your parishioners will be of the fig-leaf persuasion.'

‘Some of my parishioners would be of the niqab persuasion if they weren't such racists! It's high time they had their eyes opened. There's an innocence to Jordan's style that's the perfect reflection of its subject. The Church says no far too often. For once it's saying yes.'

As he drove away from St Edward's, Duncan mulled over Jordan's story. In his column Henry had described his churchwarden's presence in court as a stroke of providence, but even if things had been otherwise and Jordan forced to serve his Community Order whitewashing the walls along with his fellow offenders, he would have done so with the soul of an artist painting
White on White
. As the spraying of the shelters had shown, he would always find some means of self-expression. For years Duncan had consoled himself with the thought that, but for his father's untimely death, he would have become a writer. Seeing the mural had taught him that it was not propitious circumstances that he lacked (and perhaps not even talent) but will: the will that against the odds had driven Jordan to make his mark on the world.

Had he needed confirmation, it was waiting for him on his
return to the office in the Post-it note that Sheila had stuck on his desk. No matter how often he explained to his mother that the demands of his job precluded his being at her beck and call, she paid no attention, citing the example of his father who, despite ‘editing a far bigger paper', had always found the time to deal with problems at home. Stifling any reference to a guilty conscience, he invariably gave way and so, ignoring the pile of proofs waiting for his approval, he rang the courier company to ascertain the whereabouts of a fridge that he had urged her not to buy in the first place. After the obligatory burst of Vivaldi, a robotic voice informed him that he had called at a busy time and might prefer to try again later. Resolved to prove that what he lacked in willpower he made up for in perseverance, he continued to hold for an adviser who, when she finally answered, committed the dual solecism of addressing him by his mother's Christian name.

Conceding that the ill-suppressed agitation in his voice and Adele's details on her screen excused the error, he gruffly corrected her and arranged a ‘delivery window' for Wednesday morning. He was about to ring off when she asked if he would be willing to take part in a customer satisfaction survey. Despite his belief that such surveys proliferated in direct proportion to the decline in service, he agreed and a recorded message invited him to rate the likelihood on a scale of 1 to 10 of his recommending Parcel4U to a friend. Stung that even an automaton should suppose him to be the kind of man who discussed courier companies with his friends, he was about to press 1 when a pang of sympathy for the adviser prompted him to press 8.

He put down the phone and picked up the proofs of the sports pages, which he had barely begun reading when Mary knocked on the door, bringing thoughts of Jordan and the church hall flooding back.

‘I've just returned from St Edward's,' he said at once. ‘I saw the mural.'

‘Did you like it?'

While ignorant of the appropriate tone to adopt with an employer who had recently seen one stark naked, Duncan doubted that it was girlish pride. ‘A remarkable achievement by any standards, let alone for someone untaught.'

‘He got an A* in his GCSE,' she said defensively.

‘I meant with no formal training.'

‘He has all these pictures in his head. You just need to mention something – even something he's never seen – and he knows straight off how it ought to look.'

‘He's captured you remarkably,' he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

‘It's the best thing that's ever happened to me, bar none,' she said. He wanted to ask whether that included her husband and children but was afraid of the answer. ‘I'm bringing the whole family for when the bishop comes on Thursday.'

‘Are you sure that's wise?'

‘Father Henry says he's going to introduce us.'

‘The picture is very intimate.'

‘You mean because I'm naked?'

‘In part, yes.'

‘But I'm not.'

‘Really?'

‘I'm nude. Jordan explained the difference.'

‘Do you think Bob will appreciate it?'

‘Him! His idea of nude is a Page 3 girl licking an ice cream. He's not got an artistic bone in his body.'

‘I'm worried for you,' Duncan said, flinching at the note of contempt that had crept into her voice. ‘I know he has a temper. What if he gets the wrong end of the stick?'

‘Now what end might that be?' she asked teasingly.

‘I think Jordan may have a crush on you,' he replied, finally voicing the suspicion that had nagged at him ever since he saw the picture.

‘Oh Mr Neville, you're priceless! I'm sorry; I don't mean
to laugh. Jordan's in love with me, and I am with him.' Her radiant smile rendered any makeover show redundant.

‘Why that's wonderful,' Duncan said, trying to match his expression to his words.

‘You don't mean that, but thank you anyway. Have I shocked you?'

‘A little.'

‘I'm sorry, but I'm glad – a little.'

‘Perhaps you should sit down,' Duncan said, finding the conversation strained enough without her standing clutching a bottle of bleach.

‘Are you going to sack me?' she asked, her voice cracking.

‘No, of course not! Why ever…? Not for a single moment!' Duncan reached an arm towards her, only to draw it back at the memory of Eve's encircling Adam. He turned to the window, where the shimmer of silvery-blue on the horizon looked more than usually enticing.

‘I've never shocked anyone in my entire life. Not even as a kid.'

‘There's still time.'

‘You're thinking he's younger than me. He is. He's younger than my kids. But that makes it all the more easier.'

‘It does?'

‘If he'd been my own age or older, like Ken –'

‘Ken Newbold?'

‘He's always trying it on. Didn't you know?'

‘I had no idea.'

‘Water off a duck's whatsit! But with Jordan it's like I'm living in a fairy tale. He doesn't make me feel young; he makes me feel like age doesn't count. With any other lad I'd be shy – worse … I've had four kids. But he's an artist; he sees things different.'

‘I know it's none of my business – feel free to slap me down – but have you … do you mind my asking if…?'

‘If we've made love? Oh yes! Isn't it obvious?'

‘Probably to everyone who looks at the painting.'

‘You see! Other men would have made it a smutty joke; he makes it art.'

‘But where?' With neither having the money to rent a room, he pictured them trekking up to the Nature Reserve or, in a further irony, sneaking into one of the seafront shelters that Jordan himself had sprayed. ‘Surely you don't stay in the church hall? It's so cold and uncomfortable – and public.'

‘How can you think that? I could never do that to Father Henry.' Now it was her turn to sound shocked. ‘We go over to his. His mother can't make it down the stairs, so we're quite safe. But I don't like it; it feels like we're taking advantage. I won't be happy till we're in a place of our own.'

‘What? Are you planning to leave Bob?'

‘Of course, it's only right. When Jordan goes to college, I'll go with him.'

‘You'll apply to art school?'

‘Bless you for that!' she said, with a peal of laughter. ‘Look at me!' She held out her raw hands. ‘Just about fit to ice a cake. Still, they do well enough for cleaning. I'll get a job. He'll need someone to support him while he's doing all his studying.'

Duncan tried to share Mary's excitement, but despite her claim to be living in a fairy tale she would still be scouring lavatories and scrubbing floors, even if it were now on behalf of her prince.

‘Have you thought what happens if you go off together, somewhere full of bright young people, and he – either of you – finds someone else?'

‘Then we've still had each other. That can't change. Do you know what it's like when you've never lived, Mr Neville? No, of course you don't. My mum, she's sixty-two and the only time she's ever sat in a decent car was at my dad's funeral. I'm not going to be like her. I'm not!' She clenched her fists as if to reinforce her resolve. ‘But I can't spend all day nattering.
There was something I came in to ask. Oh yes! Do you want me to change your sheets?'

‘They've only been on a few days.' He suddenly felt grubby. ‘On second thoughts, why not? And Mary,' he added as she opened the door. ‘I am on your side. I wish you all the luck … all the happiness in the world.'

‘I've got that already. I just need it to last.'

Mary left and Duncan turned back to the proofs. He was so confused that he would have found it hard to focus on an exclusive report of Geoffrey Weedon's bankruptcy, let alone Jake's interview with the president of the Salter and St Anselm Over-Sixties Ladies' Bowling Team. A muffled knock brought a welcome distraction. ‘It's only me,' Sheila said, inching open the door. ‘Am I disturbing you?'

‘Not at all.'

‘I've brought a young gentleman to see you,' she said, ushering in Neil with a distinctive blend of deference and unease that marked her out as childless.

Duncan's initial hope that he had come as Ellen's emissary vanished at the memory of their appointment. ‘Neil's in the same form as Jamie at Francis Preston,' he said, choosing the simplest reference point. ‘He's here as part of his local history project.'

‘He's certainly come to the right place.'

‘Anything you want to know about the
Mercury
, just ask Sheila,' Duncan told Neil, who hung back as if to distance himself from the discussion. ‘What's history to you is memory to her.'

‘I'm not sure I like the sound of that, Duncan,' Sheila said, smiling. ‘Do you want a piece of gingerbread, young man?' she asked Neil. ‘It's home-made.'

‘I'm not six!'

‘Maybe another time.' Hiding her hurt, she went out.

‘Is she drunk?'

‘No,' Duncan replied, choking back his annoyance. ‘What on earth makes you think that?'

‘Her breath stinks of mints. My dad says that drunks suck mints to cover up the smell.'

‘But some people just like the taste. I'm very glad you've come. I want you to make this place work for you. Feel free to roam around, but the obvious place to start is the archives. It's my favourite room in the building … one of my favourite rooms,' he added, recalling Geoffrey Weedon's jibe about his living in the past. ‘Do you read a newspaper yet?'

‘No and I'm not going to. Everything they print is lies.'

‘I know that's the fashionable viewpoint, but fortunately it's not true or else the libel lawyers would rake it in even faster than they do now.'

‘Did you see what they wrote about my dad?'

‘Some of it.'

‘Mum tried to hide all the papers, but Sue and I bought them with our own money. Even the photographs didn't look like him! But they were more like him than the words. “Cruel”, “wicked”, “heartless”, “unashamed”, “evil”. And those are the words that people will have to remember him with for ever, like they were carved on his grave. Our RE teacher said we should never call anyone evil, only the things they've done. What do you say to that?'