Colouring In Read online

  That first attempt now stands on my desk under a Victorian glass dome. Most days, looking at it, I’m filled with wonder – not at the mask, which is technically pretty crude by my present standards – but at how long it took me to discover what I could do with considerable skill – even art of a minor kind. Chance was my saviour. How reliant we all are on chance. How despairing it is if it eludes us. How lucky I was.

  For besides the love I have for Dan and Sylvie, my life now has a point. Half my day is spent creating something wanted by people unknown to me, and those speeding hours, concentrating on the challenge, give pleasure hard to express. Apart from that, I am now a considerable earner. I love being able to contribute financially to our lives, not to have to ask Dan (never anything but generous, but that’s not the point) for money for things for myself: able to pay for presents and theatre tickets and surprises, and to give to charities of my choosing. I love all that. And most of all I love the solitude my work affords me. Every morning I bury myself in my small world of fragments that will go to make up a whole, and I’m free to reflect, to plan, to feel thankful in the refuge that my studio has become.

  On the morning after Gilbert and Carlotta came to supper I sat for a while doing nothing. The huge skylight was filled with cloudless blue. The parrot tulips on my desk were bent lower over the sides of the glass vase than they were yesterday. Their white petals scratched with fine pen lines of shadow, their edges ruched like the silk of a century ago. I like white flowers in the studio: colour comes from my feathers and beads and flaring scraps of material. It had gone off all right, really, supper. Very nice seeing Gilbert again, scarcely older looking, a little disoriented having only just got back from New York after so long, and uncertain what he would do next. Carlotta was her usual ebullient self, full of extravagant praise for my cooking though I noticed she left half her cheesecake. When she said, as she was leaving, she had a ticket for a Brahms recital at the Wigmore Hall next evening – her mother had let her down – and would anyone like to go, I would have liked to have accepted the invitation. But it would be Dan’s last night before a business trip to Rome, so I said nothing. Gilbert, with no apparent enthusiasm, offered himself. Carlotta was very curt: took his telephone number and said she’d ring him about arrangements. She left quickly. At the front door – Dan was outside trying to get a taxi – Gilbert said if I needed company for an evening while Dan was away, he’d love to take me to a film, or whatever. I said ‘Good idea. Lovely. Why not?’

  I picked up a handful of old lace trims, very fragile, and began to wonder how to attach them to a band of satin ribbon without damaging them. The melancholy which I’d felt on waking persisted all morning. I wished Dan did not have to go to Rome. Irrationally, unreasonably, I also wished Gilbert had not accepted Carlotta’s invitation.

  SYLVIE

  Mama was in a weird mood this morning. Nothing she said, just the way she moved, sort of vaguely agitated, and glancing at Papa who was buried in his paper and didn’t seem to notice. I don’t think it was anything serious – I don’t mean, like, impending divorce. Impending I found by chance in the dictionary and rather like. I’ve been using it quite a lot recently – but I have to keep an eye on them.

  She didn’t mention anything about last night, the dinner, how it had gone or anything. I expect they were up very late, or they drank too much for once. So, I don’t know. But something.

  I was still in the kitchen when horrible Carlotta arrived, all out of breath and going on about how frantic her day had been. I hate her. I hate her because she’s so two-faced. Once when I was alone with her she said I was a spoilt brat. But then Mama came in and Carlotta said wasn’t I clever winning the high jump – such a sportswoman we have here, she said, silly cow. Also, she speaks too loudly and stinks of some kind of revolting scent. She makes the whole room smell. You can still smell her when she’s gone out. Once I opened the window and she shut it again. When she’d gone I opened it again. Can’t think why Mama likes her. Last night she was wearing a skirt much too short for her age and her legs and she brought a box of incredibly expensive looking chocolates and only stopped going on about her new Prada bag when Bert Bailey arrived.

  He’s my godfather, though I hardly know him. Nice face, twinkly eyes. He’s obviously not used to people of my age and asked lots of boring questions about school and things. He rattled about in his trouser pocket and brought out £2 for me – for someone of almost eleven that won’t go far. I’d rather hoped it would be a fiver, but perhaps he doesn’t realise the value of money has changed since he was last here. Still, it was cool of him. I hope he doesn’t fancy Carlotta, or ever get to marry her or anything, because though it’s nice having him here it would mean seeing even more of Carlotta, and that would be awful. In fact I don’t think there’s much chance of that. I didn’t see him look at her much, once she’d given him a big sort of show-off hug when she arrived. When I went to say goodnight to Bert he was talking to Papa about fishing in Canada, and he got out of his chair to kiss me on the cheek. Imagine that! An old man standing up for me! Very good manners.

  I like Bert. I really hate Carlotta.

  DAN

  Carlotta’s never been blessed with a sense of her own unimportance: humility is not something she understands. She was at her most boringly interruptive last night. Do wish we hadn’t asked her. I daresay Bert probably felt the same. Still, she was lively – is she ever not? – and told some quite funny stories about corporate life. When she asked Bert what was it he did, exactly, in the oil company, and Bert with a self-deprecating shrug said just strategy, she became very over-excited. The strategy of marketing is apparently her own forte. Her reaction to finding someone else in roughly the same area was out of all proportion to the discovery, I thought. Bert responded politely to her vivacious interest. He was obviously still suffering from jet lag, energy lacking. But when Carlotta made a few pertinent remarks about the general failings of strategy – she emphasised these with an arrogant sweep of a rather pretty hand – he perked up, agreed, laughed. I could see that gradually, through dinner, she was beginning to win him over. Though I don’t think he has the slightest interest in her. Just being polite, and the annoyance was drifting away.

  God it was good to see Bert again: much the same, a slightly more civic look about him despite his assurance that he ran round a good part of Central Park every morning. His somewhat tubbier ribs were buttoned into a waistcoat with which, he said, he liked to mystify the Americans. And yet he also wore a Brooks Brothers button-down shirt which meant some American influence had brushed off onto him. He didn’t talk much about New York but wonderfully described a fishing weekend in Canada: we made a vague plan to go together one day. When I asked what he was going to do in London he said he had no idea: there were practicalities to be settled first, buying a car and getting his house repaired. Carlotta immediately jumped in here. In one of her many careers she had been an interior decorator: she’d be willing to help in any way she could, she offered. She found it all so easy to envisage how things could be – an ability not many people had, she added. Bert thanked her for the offer and gave her a look which she probably failed to read: don’t crowd me, it said.

  After supper – Isabel had done so well, given such short notice – Carlotta stayed sitting at the table, while the other two moved to the sofa. All at once Carlotta became completely different – calm, quiet. Perhaps she was suddenly tired. She asked me how the current play was going. I answered, as I always do, that I had no idea. I loathe talking about my plays. Isabel and Bert are the only ones to whom I’ve ever expressed the endless despair they cause. Carlotta was silent for at least a minute. She sat looking down into her glass of wine, very long eyelashes (don’t think I’ve ever noticed them before) elongated by their shadows on her cheek. Then she asked, in a voice so low I could hardly hear, when I was writing, did I envisage my characters on a stage, or in real life? ‘It’s something I’ve always wondered, when I go to the theatre’, she said.
How did the writer imagine them?

  ‘It’s a question I’ve never been asked before,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I can answer it. I’ll have to think about it. The place my characters inhabit is, well, rather cloudy’. ‘Please let me know when you find the answer’, Carlotta said, eyelashes hitting her eyebrows as she looked up and focused her eyes hard on me. ‘I’d be fascinated’, she said.

  Then she leapt up, claimed she had to be off, she had an early start. Funnily enough, on and off during the night I kept thinking of her question. I was rather surprised that one so apparently unthinking as Carlotta is in many ways, should have asked it.

  GWEN

  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday – those are the days of the week I look forward to. Those are the days I go to the Grants and become – though perhaps I shouldn’t say this – part of the family. I’ve never really had a proper family myself, what with Bill snucking off long before he died, and the children becoming what I call unruly, out of hand at an early age, never wanting to eat round the table. So the Grants represent peace and calm and security. They seem happy. I like their sunny house and feel pride in keeping it up together. I think they rely on me in a way, just as I rely on them.

  I only live in Shepherd’s Bush – a twenty minute walk every morning, come rain or shine. My heart always lifts when I turn into their road: the plane trees, the blossoms and lilacs in the small but well kept front gardens. When I first came it was a very different place. Shabby. Dirty net curtains in the windows, battered front doors. Now – well, it’s a smart road. Not quite Notting Hill, but the sort of place a lot of young well-heeled families like to move. Someone in the corner shop told me houses in the Grants’ street were selling for a million or more. You could have knocked me down with a feather. But that’s property for you these days: lucky for those who could afford to get on the ladder in the first place.

  I could tell soon as I put my bag down in the kitchen that there had been company the night before. There were two empty wine bottles on the dresser, and another with a little under a third of red wine left. No cork. I didn’t have to ask what to do with it: throw it out. They leave things like that to my judgment which is one of the things that gives my job a sense of fulfilment. To be trusted to make decisions, and often suggestions, can give you a boost. So I poured the wine – very dark coloured stuff, don’t know how they can drink it – down the sink and put the bottle with the other empties in the re-cycling bin. Then I screwed up the used serviettes still on the table and threw them in the machine. Mrs. Grant usually does that when they’ve been entertaining – she says she doesn’t like me to arrive and find a lot of mess. So perhaps they were especially late. It was nice and warm in the kitchen, always a cheery place, what with the yellow paint, even on a grey day. There was a smell of flowers that hadn’t been there yesterday: can’t have been the old African violet that’s been struggling half-dead for years, I thought. Then I saw a pot of gardenias on the table by the fire. Mrs. Grant must have bought them yesterday afternoon, or perhaps one of the guests brought them. Four beautiful flowers, no less, not far open and sending their perfume all round the room. I put my nose to one of them. My, was it heady. A bit too rich for me. I don’t think I’d want a gardenia at home. My little room wouldn’t be able to accommodate such perfume. I got out the hoover. Its noise is a sort of music to me, companionable. I began. I could hoover every room in the house with my eyes shut, I know every corner so well.

  When Mrs. Grant came down at ten-thirty, I could see at once she was in one of her most preoccupied moods. When her mind is still upstairs she puts on a certain little smile, and is as polite and interested as ever, but I know she’s not really with me as she is on other days. On the occasions she’s distracted I choose only a paragraph or two from the Daily Mail: something to make her laugh, and she’s drunk her coffee and is up and off in less than our usual ten minutes.

  This morning, I’m not sure why, I didn’t get the paper out of my bag at all. Mrs. Grant seemed so deep in thought. Far be it from me to interrupt the creative process, I think they call it. I can imagine, when you’ve a talent like Mrs. Grant, your mind doesn’t run at all like other people’s, and we more normal people should respect that.

  Anyhow, she did say there’d been company for dinner: Miss Cartwright, who I hardly know, and an old friend of Mr. Grant’s back from America. She said it had all been very enjoyable and she’d cooked a nice fish. But…I don’t know. I had a feeling it hadn’t been one of the very best evenings. I had a feeling Mrs. Grant hadn’t enjoyed it as much as some. But there again, I’m only guessing. Nine years of sharing morning coffee and you get to understanding your employer without many words necessary. But who knows if my guess was right? She wasn’t down long. She said sorry about the mess (there wasn’t any mess to speak of) and was back upstairs inside of six minutes.

  On the way home – I never enjoy that journey – I tried to think what might have gone amiss. Perhaps the fish. She doesn’t like cooking. But it was no use trying to imagine. There are bits of other people’s lives you can’t begin to picture, no matter how well you know them. That’s probably one of the good Lord’s wisest blessings. Everyone should be granted some private life and thought. I mean, although Mrs. G. is the most understanding woman I’ve ever met, I wouldn’t dream of telling her about all the hoo-ha with Barry, all those years ago, which still brings tears to my eyes. It’s my belief there are things that should be kept in our hearts, not confided. I know that’s a very unfashionable belief but I for one shall stick to it. I shall stick to it always. But I couldn’t quite get Mrs. G’s odd restlessness out of my mind. I felt concerned about her most of the afternoon, till Gary phoned, then of course I had to attend to matters of my own.

  BERT

  Daresay I can’t expect to be completely normal for a few more days. Jet lag’s taken its toll. So last night was seen through rather groggy eyes. I know I’ve got to get down to things this morning. Go and buy a car, for a start. Will I be able just to walk into a showroom and drive one away? Or will there be a lot of palaver about road tax and insurance? I don’t know. I don’t really feel up to anything much. Might just have a quiet morning. Cogitate. Make lists. Get my bearings.

  Wonderful seeing Dan again last night. Made me realise how much I’d missed him. Our weekly jokes. His pertinent comments on whatever was happening in the world. And he didn’t seem to have changed much in ten years. Bit craggier, I suppose – rather suits his always handsome face. That infectious laugh undiminished. His kindly eyes and sort of general concern for mankind still seemed to be intact. He exudes a maturing contentment, never lets on about the disappointment he’s constantly grappling with – his plays. Man in a million, Dan. Bloody lucky, I am, to be his friend.

  Number 18 hadn’t changed, far as I could see, either. The rather shambolic, bright kitchen: the bits of furniture, so quietly polished that it’s only when you study them closely you realise how good they are. No new pictures: all the familiar Pipers and Nicolsons and the lovely Gwen John Isabel picked up for a song years ago. All very comforting, the sameness. I came through the door wondering what to find. There was no shrill welcome, shouting and hugging: but a quiet sense of pleasure in my return that almost brought tears to the eyes. I felt looked after, loved.

  Briefly I was re-acquainted with my goddaughter. Wouldn’t have recognised her, of course. She’s turned into a tall skinny sub-teenager, rather terrifying, I thought. Daresay she’ll be very good looking when she’s through the imprisoned teeth stage: Isabel’s eyes and auburn hair. Miss far-too-pleased-with herself was my immediate impression. Gave her a couple of quid on an impulse, said go and buy yourself something. By the look on her face it should have been a tenner. Suppose I’m out of touch. But I wasn’t drawn to her.

  I do wish they hadn’t asked Carlotta – not last night, anyhow, our getting together after so long. She always takes over so. Doesn’t know when to pipe down, when to listen. She’s too full of her own opinions. She’s
quite sure she knows what everybody is feeling – though if she is so sure, why does she keep asking? She hadn’t been in the room for ten minutes when she came up to me, put her face intrusively close to mine, and said how are you feeling, Bert, back in England at last? What the hell did she expect me to say? Couldn’t she imagine? I mumbled some answer about jet lag which plainly she found inadequate.

  Perhaps I’m being unfair. Carlotta is definitely a life-giver, vivacious to a fault. There’s something quite endearing about her energy, her enthusiasm, her sudden moments of attention, so acute that they make you feel almost dizzy. Then she pulls away from you, which is very slightly provocative. I have to say I was entertained by her interest in marketing strategy, and her appalling over-use of all the jargon. I teased her a bit about that. I’m not sure she was amused. But she managed to laugh. I quickly changed to the subject of my wretched house, and she offered to help. A picture flashed before my eyes: Carlotta in and out the place being serious about paint and curtains. Not sure I wanted any of that, but I said you’re very kind.

  Have to say the years have improved her looks. When I last saw her, at that awful dance when we went in for a bit of clumsy fumbling in the bushes, she was plump and unmemorable. Now, what, almost twenty years later, she’s a smart London woman. Obviously fashion is of importance to her, and trends and future trends seem to interest her. We have almost nothing in common, so that hasn’t changed. And yet I have to admit that she’s bright, attractive, beguiling in a noisy way. But not my sort of woman. During the evening my feelings for her – wonder if she guessed? – could be charted as some highs, but mostly lows.