Little flower

*

Little flower

*

 

Shadow on a blind; silence

*

 

Shadow on a blind

Silence

I sometimes don't know what to do. I sit and think, what should I do? 

During the day this place is very quiet, at night even more so. I think the silence makes not knowing what to do more stark. Silence like a blank sheet of paper, you the writer with writer's block. 

But actually that`s not right, because the silence is rarely total. 

Sometimes I fail to realise that the silence is not total. That's because I've failed to listen intently, but when I do listen closely I can make out a bird pecking or leaves moving or a distant radio or the buzzing of the fridge, or a woman, far off, beating a carpet.

And even if silence (or almost-silence) might be absence it`s also (almost always) just an interval:  temporary. When the quietness becomes too much and a certain woe grasps me, it's partly because I have forgotten that the silence will pass. It's not death. 

So silence requires discipline to be enjoyed. You have to know it can and will stop, and then you can move around within it without feeling hopeless. Perhaps it's like being in a place and lost but knowing the place is safely limited by walls, even if they can't be seen from where you are.

When I had just moved into my previous place, I sat on the sofa at 10 pm and heard the rumble of buses and a roar of motorbikes delivering pizza: a noise invasion. I thought, Oh God I've made a huge mistake. An especially horrible mistake  given the irony that I'd moved to the new place to get away from construction noise at the flat before.

There followed conversations about whether carpets or curtains could make a difference, might muffle the giant windows which had made the flat so bright and attractive when I had too cursorily inspected it before signing the lease. But it was concluded that the thin windows would require replacing if the noise were to be reduced by any discernible degree.

When the pandemic came, and with it lockdown, there was a magical time of quiet, of falling into a blissful dream. I sat on the sofa, blessed by the unexpected calm about me.  But slowly the traffic noise returned, albeit thankfully without the buses.

 Then I moved to this new place. It's in a funny enclave of cul-de-sacs and unambitious, dog-less houses with large gardens and long crumbling walls. A fringe place. Here and there tower giant, dishevelled pines. You might see one of the residents going for a stroll but it isn't common.

 At times I still find it eerie. I think that, because of this, I must construct, (and perhaps am unconsciously already constructing) another way of thinking, a way of dealing with the perceived absence, those intervals between sounds, and the possession of space.

It seems to me that if I can find an easeful space, requiring nothing, then I will have advanced.

*

Read to Edinburgh Creative Writers' Group, 30 March, 2021

*

Rowney Victoria pencil eraser

*

Rowney "Victoria" pencil eraser

  The colours of the side stripes are glorious harmonious The palette used by Rowney is reassuring. That green is lovely, calm like pine.

It's one of a huge pile of pencil erasers inherited over twenty years ago, and which have followed me through over eight apartments. Now it sits on a desk in northern Florianopolis.

I think of the qualities which I can detect most pleasurably are:

 1. the cool smoothness of the rubber (reassuring)

 2. the scent of the rubber (a little sharp)

 3. the parallelepiped shape (a wonderful word)

 4. the lovely lettering- extended Roman combines with some sort of sans serif

The Use of Rubbers

When I was at school my art teacher, Alexander Hamilton, said, with characteristic sternness, that the use of rubbers was not advisable in drawing.. He argued that a drawing is a record of a visual exploration and a thought process and that rubbers made it impossible to take advantage of these aspects of a drawing. 

Nowadays, when a high level of "finish" is so readily available using photo-shop this idea, of a record of a process, rather than a finished "product" strikes me as even more valuable.

*

 

Grass

*

Grass on a path

The grass has been trampled.

 I'm walking down the same path and it's not a perfect day. I sense that heaviness you get before rain. I feel something is not right and indeed might begin to find a cause within me. I might pick up a memory of a personal slight or the strange way a friendship might have soured. These are feelings that can rise, suffocating one so that to be any particular place has no significance.

*

 

A man with his head in an elephant's anus

*

A man with his head in an elephant's anus

This drawing is self explanatory.

*

The Drive Home

*

 The Drive Home

An emotional experience

I wished to write a story to do with my workplace, V.E.M. Engineering (components manufacturers for domestic appliances), but when I began to write the subject receded from me and I was left with nothing after even an hour of trying.

And so, I shall press on with other matters, or, should I say, let other matters press onto me, for I cannot say that I have chosen this that I am, nor the things that move me.

As I was driving home I remembered that I had to stop off at the supermarket, because I had arranged to go to Peggy's later on for supper, and I felt it incumbent upon me to bring something. Peggy cooked well, and her larder was well stocked and her fridge too: she liked cooking and had a developed interest in food. The food itself was not the problem.

The problem I was about to solve by going to the supermarket was this: that I felt guilty about our relationship. I felt guilty because I knew I could never love Peggy and I knew she deserved love. I also knew that she had not been loved in her life because her heart was too open, so that she gave to soon and too easily and was taken for granted.

I pitied her for that. And with my pity came a sense of shame, and to compensate for my shame I thought of bringing her some cheese to go with the meal. As if she would not notice that I did not love her as one who truly loved her would have done.

I smiled as I drove and thought of the cheese. I remembered my father then: his image faded into my mind's eye as I drove. He was there at the dining table, proselytising about Italian cheeses. The British had been duped, he pronounced. They had been deceived into believing that French cheese was superior to Italian cheese. But, he remonstrated loudly, they were wrong. What was French cheese, but an endless variation on Brie, with peppercorns or fruit foolishly thrown in for the sake of novelty? And what was Roquefort compared with Gorgonzola? And what could possibly rival that King of Cheeses, Parmesan?

He was from Piedmont, and I think that the issue was partly a matter of patriotism for him.

As I thought of that I felt the need to weep, so I pulled over to the hard shoulder and wept on that evening home, for my father had died the week before.

When I arrived at Peggy's she asked me if the traffic was bad, because I was seldom late.

I said that it was and did not mention the weeping.

* 

Read to the Decongested Forum, 2010, and to Writers` Workshop, Detroit, March 31, 2021.

*

The Early Christian Architecture of Syria

 *

The Early Christian Architecture of Syria

A story I heard at a party

*

I met a man at a party. He was drunk. He told me a story. It was about his mother-in-law. Perhaps he was pulling my leg?

 He was away on a prolonged research project in Syria, collecting material for a book on the Romanesque churches there. His mother-in-law was lonely so his wife had invited her to stay at their house in Highbury.

Did she mention this to her husband?

Yes, she told him on the phone.

He was staying at The Baron Hotel in Aleppo when she called. The Baron Hotel was a big lump of white stucco from the days when Syria was a French protectorate. There was still a chintz flavour to the drawing room, and you could get a sort of Gin and Tonic there, but besides that, the hotel had fallen into disrepair and, like everything else in Syria, the phones only worked sometimes, so her call took him by surprise.

He told his wife that it was not a bad idea for his mother-in-law to come to stay as his wife was also susceptible to loneliness, and the mother-in-law would go after a couple of weeks before he had even returned. He did not like his mother-in-law and in order to mask this acted with more consideration and kindness towards her than he would if she had appealed to him.

However, when he returned from Damascus, she was still there. The man felt that he had shown his mother-in-law enough consideration and kindness.

The man asked his wife to send her mother back home to Wiltshire, but his wife took pity on her mother and continually procrastinated. She would prepare the sentences she was to say to her mother, repeating them in her head, but the moment was never quite right: her mind became giddy with a confusion of guilt and pity and love.

This situation lasted for several weeks. The man felt uncomfortable in his own house. It was a large house and there was a library where he would hide, burying himself in his research on early Christian Architecture of Asia Minor.

One day he received a phone call. It was an old friend from his student days at Durham.

"Hello Thomas," said the caller.

"Well, Hello! Is that you, Howard?"

They met for drink at a pub off the Angel and later were joined by a couple of others from their Durham days and went off to have a curry together. They got a bit drunk on more beer and brandies at the curry house. They then caught last orders at a pub on Upper Street and, quite toasted, got a taxi down to a little club off Greek Street, where they had some shots of vodka and more beer and became extremely drunk, before bundling into cabs to reach their homes.

Thomas had problems finding his way up the path to his house. He had difficulty putting his key in the lock, and he very nearly tripped on the stoop. But finally he stumbled in all right.

He bent down to pick up Saba the cat that came up to him in the hall, burying his drunken face in its fur. Saba tolerated that for a minute then began gently struggling. He put her down.

He heard the hollow tick of the grandfather clock. He looked at the white porcelain face. : four am.

Then he encountered his mother-in-law in the hall, in her dressing gown, making her way from the living room upstairs. What was she up to?

She looked at him. She wasn`t tall. She shook a little as she walked.

"What are you doing?" he said. The words came out much louder than he expected.

The next part wasn't clear. He supposed that he might have pushed her, then she might have fallen and cracked her head on the baluster.

He went to sleep on the chaise longue in the library.

Jenny found her mother in the morning and was quite upset. Thomas woke on the chaise longue with a raging hangover and a horrible thirst. His tongue was furry and he tasted stale cigarettes in his mouth. He shook his head. He saw a packet of Marlboro on the floor and a single broken cigarette sticking out of it.

The police did not come and the coroner was not suspicious. Thomas was happier as he had not liked having to make small talk with his mother-on-law. The only part he disliked was having to feel sorrowful at the funeral. He drank quite heavily before going to the church but it seemed to him that the relatives believed this was because he was grieving. Jenny was sad for a while but Thomas was supportive and she got over it after six weeks though she was occasionally wistful for months after that.

How did the book on Syria`s Early Christian Architecture go?

Yes, it went well. It was well reviewed in both specialist journals. It was the first in a series of guides. He was now working on "The Early Christian Architecture in Armenia."

Then he spoke about Armenia and the tragic history of its people.

*

From 2007

Illustration: acrylic on hardboard, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

*

Read to the American Writer's Union, New York, 25 March, 2021

*

The lovely web designer

*

The Lovely Web Designer

High heel, acrylic on hardboard, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

She was giving the presentation from a slim laptop there were slides and a discussion about the colours and to-ing and fro-going about the lettering and why this and why that and if the logo should be here or there and how big and what is the first thing they see when they log in and oh that`s nice and how does it work on a cellphone and...well, you get the picture. Jerry made some comments and so did the MD and then it was marketing and tech. And I was transfixed.

Dark skinned with a wonderfully rounded head and large eyes. A soft red lips and a perfect not overlarge nose and almost black, straight hair.

A slender neck (delicious, so biteable!) in a black cashmere v neck and a pink neck scarf, and a knee length black skirt and low heels...

She laughed lightly occasionally while giving the presentation and sometimes a dark lock somehow became detached from her ponytail and fall across her face and a delicate finger rose to push it so neatly behind her exquisitely crafted ear which featured a tiny gold stud...

And the next day...there was Natalie, just Natalie.

Natalie when I woke: Oh God!

Natalie in the shower: oh my Lord!

Natalie at breakfast: Jesus!

Natalie in the car, her legs folded , just so, on the passenger seat - Gosh!

Natalie, Natalie Natalie, oh Christ, this is going to destroy me. Her shiny dark hair, her bronze arms and her full red lips and her slender legs. Natalie dressing and Natalie undressing... 

Oh God Oh God Oh god I can't carry on. Natalie's fine knees showing at the hem. Natalie's laconic way of speaking, her nonchalance. Natalie! The jaunty way she packed her laptop into her bag...

Jerry stopped me in the office corridor, "What's up?"

Nothing, "I said."

"Come on, man. Something's up."

He knew me. He knew that when I said there was nothing there was something. Something so massive and heavy and so amazing that it couldn't just be taken and told or sold like just any bla bla bla.

"Not now," I said. 

"Right."

"It's something so big and massive and heavy and amazing. I can't tell you right now."

"Ok."

"No really."

"I know," he said.

Silence.

He looked directly at me. "I know."

"What do you know?"

"The web designer."

"Oh God I said, you know."  He raised his eyebrows. "You do know. How did you know?"

 "You are so obvious."

"Am I?"

"Jesus, come on. You are more obvious than the trunk on an elephant."

"O Christ. I'd better get back to my desk, let's talk later."

"Sure."

"Tonight."

"Sure."

We met in a bar.

"How's it going?" said Jerry.

"O Christ."

"Like that?"

"I need to do something."

"Well, do something."

"I know, but what?"

Jerry laughed. He got some beer,

"Fuck."

"Play a long game. What's her name?"

"Natalie. Natalie Lloyd. Jerry, I need to do something, something soon; You don't know how it feels, it's eating me up."

"Relax man. Anyway, she might be married."

"Really? Oh God, no. No. I didn't see a ring. Did you see a ring?"

Jerry took a slow drink. "No."

"She isn't married, you arsehole. She hasn't even got a married vibe."

"Haha you reckon, you never know, there's no such thing as a married vibe. "

"Isn't there? "

"No. There isn't. Anyway, she might be in a serious thing. You have to relax."

"I know. But she is so fucking gorgeous."

"Not my type...I guess she's cute. She probably has some guy. They are probably doing it right now. his hands all over her body, touching her. Pleasing her..."

"Oh no Jerry, stop, please. That isn't funny. That's nasty. You're being nasty. Stop it."

Jerry laughed. "You got to relax. Let's get more beer."

A man in a red shirt, acyrlic on card, 65.5 x 9 cm, c.2000

He got the beer.

"Christ," I said.

Jerry continued, "Anyway, she hardly ever comes to the office, it was just for the project brief. They do everything by email."

"I know. It sucks. I fucking love her. I'm in love Jerry. Fuck Jesus I'm in love, I'm in love. Oh God, I'm in love, what a nightmare."

Haha come on man, chill. You hardly know her. Drink something. Let's have another beer.

"Oh fuck, what can I do?"

"You got to relax. You can't go crazy like this."

We got more beer, we drank more.

 "Actually," Jerry went on, "you know what, they're doing another presentation next month."

"You're kidding?"

"Seriously. It's another draft presentation."

"How do you know?"

"It's on the agenda. "

"Fuck, really?"

"Haha, you are so unprofessional, do you never check the agenda? You're meant to check the agenda every day."

"Fuck. I will from now on. When is it? "

"End of the month," said Jerry.

"Oh Christ. "

Jerry looked at me. I looked at Jerry.

"Let's drink more, said Jerry. "

 We drank more.

"What will you say to her if you see her?" asked Jerry.

"Oh Christ I don't know."

"You need to say something. You can't just stand there saying nothing, it looks so damn stupid. I saw you do that with that woman from marketing. You were awful, like a turd steaming on a carpet. I had to apologise on your behalf."

"Oh God, Jerry, I know, I couldn't help it, I kind of froze. I haven't a clue what to say."

A pause.

Maybe I'll just tell her how much I love her.

 Jerry laughed, "you got to hide your loony side, man. At least in the beginning."

"I'm sincere. Women appreciate sincerity."

"They like it. But they like sanity even more, man. Be cool. Be normal. At least, pretend to be normal."

"Oh."

"Ask her where she is from. Tell her you like her graphics. Crap like that. What would you say of you didn't fancy her?"

But the bar was closing and I was drunk too drunk to listen to reason. We went home. 

*

 Read to The Vicious Circle writers' group, 22 March, 2021

*

A Nice Party

 *

A Nice Party

Balloon, acrylic on hardboard, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

Setting: A big old house with a huge garden, comprising a vast lawn and a wooded area

I had finally completed my houseman year and was at a Vincent's party and this girl with big eyes said something I couldn't hear. She yelled and beckoned and I followed her into a corner , where she had a friend with a red mouth and the friend said "Hi."  I said, "I'm Caspasian." She said "What? I can't hear a thing here. Let's go outside."

So we went out down some steps and across the slope of lawn which gradually reached a copse where a log seemed to have fallen so artfully that it might really have been a landscape designers contrivance.

"I'm Caspasian." The girl with big eyes replied, "I'm Leslie", then the girl with the red lips said, "you don`t recognise me do you?" "Not really?" "I was at school with you." "You're kidding" "Yes, I'm Sarah." "O God that's unbelievable, it is you!" "Yes, it is me!" "You did that crazy thing with a ruler in maths." "Oh fuck. That..." And she laughed and Leslie asked, "what crazy thing with a ruler?" and Sarah and I laughed,  "no, no, you had better not know", and Leslie said, "oh you two are so annoying, I might go back to the house."

Well, nothing is as boring as the reminiscences of others, so we stopped that and sat down on the fallen tree.

We looked at the big dark blue sky and we looked at the trees reaching up and we looked at the moon in its holiness.

"It's great here," said Sarah.

A light breeze and the sound, faint, of music from the house.

"What are we waiting for?" said Leslie.

"Are we waiting for something?" I asked.

"Oh you are so naive," said Sarah, and she took a little shiny box from a bag she had and inside were three blue pills. "Got them from Vince." 

"Should be good," said Leslie.

"Fab," said Sarah.

"What is it?" I asked.

"They're blue Smarties," said Sarah.

"If they're from Vince they should be good," said Leslie.

 We took the pills.

At first there was nothing but presently I rose in the gondola of  a great silent balloon, free and floating.

"Fuck," said Sarah.

"Gosh," said Leslie.

"Oh my,"  said I. 

We soared, the gondola evaporated and then I was  performing summersaults in slow motion, and the  summersaults went so high I could touch passing birds. Then we were sky diving, we linked hands and span though moonlit clouds (what a cliche you say, but some delights are no less joyful for their unoriginality).

 Leslie said, "ooh this is good isnt it?"  "O crikey," said Sarah," amazing."

 After about an hour it eased off and our sense of the fallen tree and the grave woods around became more apparent.

Leslie stood up. "Wow. I`m going inside."

*

A young lady with a kiss curl

oil on card, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

Just me and Sarah.

She sat closer. "So...?" she said.

"Mmm," I said.

"You're not as I remember you."

"Have I improved, like a fine wine?"

"Not sure," said Sarah, "I never judge the book by the cover."

"Mixed metaphors!" I said.

"Oh shut up, pompous, and give us a snog," She pulled me  towards her and pressed her warm red mouth against mine. We snogged for ages, a rather fabulous sensation, and one I hope, Dear Reader, you are familiar with, as it's hard to convey in prose.

After a considerable time spent doing that we paused, "you`re not a bad snogger you know," said Sarah.

"Oh thank you! You're not too bad yourself. "

"I've been doing it for ages."

"Well, it's good to get positive feedback," I said, "It's so hard to be objective, when it comes to snogging."

Sarah laughed, "I bet you learnt from Youtube vidoes." 

"I did. But you're not my first. I practice on old ladies in the geriatric wards."

"Nothing like learning from someone with experience...but you are quite sick." She gently touched my foot with hers. "Sick...in a good way, I mean"

"Thanks. My great grandmother was an Edinburgh wigmaker."

Sarah laughed, "You're really fucking crazy, you know that?"

And we snogged some more.

*

  I didn't meet Sarah again for several years: she was leaving a jewellery shop with some guy, and it was all politeness.

*

A young lady with a kiss curl, detail

*

Read to  The Detroit Writers' Group, 17 March 2021

*

A Mystery

 *

Woman with a lollipop

 acrylic on hardboard, 10.3 x 13 cm, c. 2000

A Mystery

There was a time when we led very different lives, simpler lives, lives in which men were attuned to the earth and their own feelings. A time when men toiled on boats in the Aegean Sea, hauling fish onto their crafts then rowing painfully, triumphantly home, thus connected ever more closely with the elements and the very essence of their being.

*

I was with Tom at the party of someone called Yvette and was drinking wine. In my coat I found a piece of paper with a number. Where did I last wear this jacket? I tried to recall, I just couldn't remember. I knew I'd worn it to a stag party once, but that was some time ago. I must have worn it since then.

"What's that you have there," asked Tom.

"Phone number."

"One of your admirers?"

"Must be. Wish I knew which it was."  The number was written in an elegant, cursive script.

"Ring it."

"Not sure," I said.

"Don't be so pathetic," said Tom

"I just can't ring it and say, "hello, who are you?"

"Why not? I would," said Tom. "Here, give it to me. I`ll ring it."

"Oh no! No way!"

"You are absurd. Ring it. Go on. Here is a phone," said Tom.

He pushed a phone at me. We were in the kitchen sitting at the table. There was also someone looking for something.

Tom watched him. "There's more wine here." 

"Not wine," said the man. He had long curly hair, a beard and was wearing sandals. "Beer?"

Tom looked at me. I was worried that he would make a comment about the man. He could be quite rude sometimes.

"I thought Jesus drank wine," he said to the man.

"Very funny," said the man. "Where's the beer?"

"Fridge," said Tom.

"Oh, yeah, right," said the man. He got some beer. Then he left.

"Okay, he's gone now," said Tom. "Here: phone."

I dialled the number.

"Hello," said a woman's voice amid an electronic din.

"Hi," I said. "It's really hard to hear you."

"That's `cos I'm in a fucking club," shouted the woman.

"O," I said.

"Is that you, Phillip?" the voice said.

"No, it's Caspasian." 

"God Almighty, I don't believe you." 

"Listen," I said, "I can hardly hear you."

"Call me later," the voice said.

"When?"

But the phone went dead.

"Who was it?" said Tom.

"Not sure," I replied. "I have to call her later. She was at some club."

"Fine, we can wait," said Tom. "Then we're going to meet her and you're going to have some fun for a change."

"Let's go through to the other room."

The man from earlier was in the hallway looking through some cigarette boxes for a cigarette.

"Jesus!" said Tom.

"Hey, have you a cigarette?" said Jesus.

"Scrounger," said Tom

"Chill out, man," said Jesus.

We entered a sitting room. "I am going to talk to them," I told Tom, going over to two women. They looked at us queerly. Tom took a glance at them and returned to the kitchen.

"I'm Caspasian."

"Nice name," said the girl. "I'm Ann." Her companion wandered off.

Ann had brown hair. She was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. I soon became bored with her. She said something about her nose and disappeared.

When you meet some people you feel free to tell them about who you are, and they seem to find it curious. With others you feel at a loss to understand why anyone might find you interesting at all.

With those sorry thoughts I began contemplating re-joining Tom when I heard Ann scream and I rushed upstairs to a bedroom where some people were crowding round a bed, on which a body lay.

"O fuck," said someone.

"She's dead."

It certainly seemed that way. The body was quite pale, in a black dress. 

"Get Yvette", said someone.

Jesus came into the room, a beer can in his hand. "O Jesus," said Jesus, "what the fuck`s going on?"

"She's dead," said someone. "Go and get Yvette."

Jesus ran out of the room. "Yvette! Yvette," he shouted.

"Jesus", said Yvette, wandering into the hall downstairs. "What he fuck`s the matter?" She was carrying a huge joint. She drew from it.

"There's a dead woman in this room."

Yvette was quite stoned. "Call the fucking police for Christ's sake."

She disappeared back into the living room.

I stood there. Jesus came back into the bedroom. He took a look at the dead girl. "O Christ," he said, "We'd better do something. Have you a phone?"

I decided to go, the corpse was stressing me out and I didn't want to have to deal with the police.

I  went down to the kitchen. There was Tom, staring into space. "Tom, we have to go."  "O," said Tom. "Where to?"

"Anywhere." 

"Did you phone that girl back?" asked Tom.

"No," I replied. "I forgot."

"For God's sake call her." 

"Okay," I said. "Let's get out of here first."

*

We were walking through a street in Belsize Park. It was a delicious summer night: the streetlamps reflected yellow and crisp off the Mercedes Benzes  and Daimlers lining the avenues. Tom walked down the middle of the road smoking. Every now and again the wind hushed through the trees.

I dialled the number.

"Phillip," said the voice.

"No, it's Caspasian," I replied.

"Hey! I thought you were Phillip."

"No. No. It's Caspasian," I said.

"Find out who it is," said Tom.

"I don't remember you," said the voice.

"Listen," I said.

"What?" she said.

"Who are you?"

The woman laughed. "Oh for fuck`s sake."

"Sorry," I said.

She ended the call.

"What did she say?" asked Tom.

She said, "For fuck`s sake."

"You fair screwed that up," said Tom.

"Piss off," I said. I really was sick of his aggression.

"What happens next?" asked Tom.

"I go home," I said. "You can do what you please."

"What time is it?" asked Tom.

"Four am."

"Good night then."

"Good night Tom. "

It wasn't that far to where I lived. I might have liked to invite Tom back to do a sort of post mortem on the evening and drink more, but he was in such a combative mood that I preferred to walk alone, up the hill to West Hampstead where I had a tiny flat.

The flat was on one of the roads off West End Lane, one of those apartments that impose a certain culture on you almost immediately. This flat had a funny smell of plywood, I always thought. If you entered the flat on the left was a tiny kitchen, barely large enough for making toast. On the right, however, was a giant room, full of light and a view of Swiss Cottage below, and it seemed the natural thing to sit there on the window seats and smoke.

I had a little grass in my pocket so I made a tiny joint and sat there and drank a bit more. It was almost morning and I could see the sun begin to rise.

Opposite the window was an easel supporting a painting in progress. It really was all right: I felt I was getting somewhere. In front of the easel was the motif: a bottle, a skull and a glass. The light coming though made everything very clear and I felt good.

*

Read to the Edinburgh Writers' group, 16 March 2021

*

The Surface of Things

*

The Surface of Things

Seated nude

 acrylic on hardboard 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

Since my mother died, fracturing her skull after slipping on ice on the pavement at Claridges, I must admit that it has been a struggle to keep the flat clean and the things in order.

Well, perhaps struggle isn't quite the word. I don`t fight with the problem, really, I just ignore it. But I caught my image reflected in a shop window and was quite shocked: I saw myself and what I was wearing resembled nothing so much as a sheet of dirty, crumpled newspaper.

So, I decided to take my clothes to the dry cleaners. I even took a day off to do that, and other domestic chores, my shirts too needed attention, the collars were quite worn through, and the flat itself had dust everywhere.

It seemed to me, indeed, that my cleaner, a garrulous Bosnian, had been neglecting her duties. I rang her.

"What sort of cleaner are you, letting me go round like a tramp? I have a responsible position to hold."

"Oh no, David. You look so nice, very nice," she replied.

"No I don't," I said, "I look dreadful, why, there is a stain down the lapel of my check jacket, and what about the egg on the cuff of my blue suit? How is that nice?"

"Oh" Oh"" said Vesna.

"My clothes are crumpled as well. I suppose you think that is nice too?"

"Oh no David, I don't."

"It is a disgrace. "I thought you were supposed to keep my things in order?"

"Oh Mr David, I am sorry."

"So am I. I am sorry too. I am so sorry I don't want to see you again."

"No no. no, Mr David, give me another chance. Please."

"Oh buzz off, " I said, ending the call.

A young doctor

 oil on hardboard, 9 x 6.5 cm, c. 2000

So, there I was, going through my things, deciding which to take to the dry cleaners, checking the pockets. It was really quite shameful how Vesna had neglected me. The more I thought about it, the sorrier I felt for myself. I wouldn't be surprised if my career had suffered as a result of her lapses, I thought as I noticed a strange yellow matter congealed on the shoulder of my linen suit and a weird fuzzy skin on the elbow. I tried to recall when I wore it last: I put my hand in the inner pocket: a piece of stiff card: an invitation to a wedding, that of my cousin Helen, to a man called Steve.

What a dull sod he was! What on earth did Helen seen in him? He wasn't even good looking, there were acne scars on his face.

 Unsurprisingly, and with characteristic dullness, they had taken a thirties semi up in High Barnet. I went one evening after the wedding with Lucy (when we were still together) and we spent an unforgettably tedious evening admiring their consumer durables.

Actually, that was one to the last outings that Lucy and I had made  together before separating. Recalling the incident reminded me that one of Lucy's charming qualities was an intense impatience with material exhibitionism, which she found absurd. I remembered her face in a spate of giggles as she spoke, in the taxi home of the solemn way in which Steve and Helen had oh so nonchalantly shown off their new kitchen, And Lucy's ironical smile when praising the couple's new bottle opener, over-designed and doubtlessly ridiculously expensive: she held it and winked at me making me chortle silently.

I put the invitation in the bin. 

I felt in the side pockets of the coat. Something else: a little silver locket, in the shape of a heart, engraved with a floral design and the image to two hands clasped and the initial "T". I opened it: a tiny piece of paper: Teresa 0207 289 8763

Teresa! The image of a girl faded into my mind, more particularly of a birthmark on a smoothly carved neck: it took the form of a flying swallow, so exquisitely drawn that I remember that I had felt urged to discover if it wasn't indeed a tattoo:  I leant across the banquet table at the wedding dinner with my spectacles on.

I put the locket on the mantelpiece wondering what to make of it, but the next day, on return from work (I worked in a surgery off the King's Road, where I was a dermatologist) I called the number, though I was somewhat pessimistic, it seemed so long ago. How on earth could she be expected to remember me?

I paced the room while the phone rang.

Bubblegum girl

 oil on hardboard, 6.5 x 9 cm, c. 2000

"Hello, it`s Victor."

"Oh, hello!"

"How are you?"

"I am fine. How are you?"

"I am fine too"

"So you finally found my number? You can't clean your jackets very often," she laughed.

"Well, my cleaner was supposed to do it, but she is useless."

She laughed, "Well, how is everything? How is the medical world? You do spots, don't you?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed, pleased she had remembered something about me. "I do! And eczema and rashes and pimples too. Also boils and stings!"

"That's magnificent, " she said.

"It seems to keep me out of mischief," I said.

"Well, it would, " said Teresa, " there's an awful lot of skin about...I guess that's why it took so long for you to call? You were lancing a particularly recalcitrant pustule? Or is there an acne crisis among our youth?"

"The crisis is in skin cancer, now" I replied soberly. "Anyway, are you around this weekend?"

"Yes," she said, "But I think I may go and see Helen."

"Have you seen her recently?" I asked.

"Yes" said Teresa. They are going through a bad patch.

"Oh!" I said, I could hardly contain my glee.

"Well," Teresa continued, "Steve lost his job with the supermarket, and they had money problems."

"Oh."

"And," continued Teresa, suddenly whispering, although there was no-one who could have heard us, "they just kept arguing".

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"So when are you going there?" The thought flashed through my mind that I had a concomitant obligation to visit Steve, though I can't say the thought stayed long. The man was an arch-bore and my curiosity had largely been sated by Teresa.

"Not sure," said Teresa.

"Well, let's meet on Sunday. We can meet at the National Gallery, at the Flaying of Marsyrias."

"No, let's meet at Ingres' Mme Moitessier, " said Teresa.

So I met Teresa in the overheated French rooms.

To my delight, Teresa took my arm as we looked at Ingres' wonderful portrait. Madame Moitessier was a huge powdered octopus. There was something repulsive about the sexuality of Ingres' women, too soft, too complaint. But perhaps it was not the sexuality that repulsed me, it was she conveyed no other qualities: she was a primitive organism, made for nothing but reproduction,  a fleshy termite.

Teresa herself was all grace and tenderness, and I saw what fortunate sense it was that I had contacted her. I noticed the exceptionally graceful shape of her wrist, no bone too weighty and the skin  deliciously smooth. And she advanced a playful  romanticism towards me. The warm air of the gallery brought a faint moisture, like dew, to her cheeks.

We looked at a few other pictures. I pointed out the lead-whitened skin in Gainsborough, the dappled surfaces of Rembrandt's portraits, the creamy smoothness in Velazquez's Rokeby Venus.

This was merely the first of several meeting with Teresa over the winter. In each of our meetings I grew fonder of her. As I despised Steve and Helen I was always keen to hear news of their decline, and indications of contempt on her part for them. But while I treasured every sign of their demise, it became clear that Teresa did not, and did not enjoy taking  an ironical stance in relation to it, and was genuinely distressed by their separation.

The fourth time I met Teresa she was, unexpectedly with Helen, whose arms had, I observed, developed liver spots since out las encounter. I was somewhat taken aback, embarrassed even, as I had imagined what Teresa and I were to be going on a date. My discomfort was a symptom of guilt, a feeling that I ought to have gone to see them, but that my interest was largely motived by spite. 

Nonetheless I asked, "Are you all right?" 

"Oh fine," she said", and we left it at that.

*