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Authors: Joan Taylor
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lawnmower is in perfectly good order. It’s only a year old.” A curious thing, I thought, sympathising with the gardener. Mr. Prain would not credit him with knowing when a new lawnmower was required. “He does it out of spite,” he added, strangely.
I was about to ask for further explanations, when he strode back toward the tea table saying, “Sorry to be so long. Has the tea gone cold?”
The last thing I wanted to do was once more sit down on that chair to be force-fed another cream pastry and to indulge in further conversation about writing that would tie me up in knots. I felt like a bird provided with swings, seeds and a bath, with permission to twitter but not to fly. I had not been there for more than an hour. It struck me that I could babble some excuse and speed quickly back to London if I wanted. But did I?
“You’ve eaten your cake. You must have another one,” he said.
“Why don’t you give me a tour of the house?” I suggested, shuffling unwillingly to the misericord and the tea set.
“Oh yes. I want to. But not yet,” he said, sitting down on his chair.
“Not yet?” I yelled inside my head.
“Not yet?”
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said.
I attempted to suppress a surge of panic with an expression of cheerful expectation. I disliked this feeling of Mr. Prain being in control. I wanted to sit on the floor, lean against a wall, anything so that I did not have to face him over the table. Now I had to wait for the item to emerge, to be docile, to be the audience as he pulled the rabbit out of his hat. Gingerly, I sat down upon the armchair, perched at the edge as if ready to spring up and away at the slightest provocation.
Fortunately, he did not keep me waiting long. He leaned down to the side of his chair and picked up a framed picture that had been lying there with its back to the room. I could not remember if I had noticed it before. If I had, I had given it no thought. It was glass plated, and as he passed it over the table to me the light from the window cast a reflection over its surface, so that it was only when I held it right before me that I saw who it was.
I stared at it. He stared at me.
“Is it a striking resemblance, or—”
Christ, I thought. “No, Mr. Prain. It’s me from about five years ago. I’ve always liked this print. Denis Johns.” My voice was cream. And what did he want me to say? Did he expect me to redden, cringe, protest that I only did it for the money, or for a friend? Was he expecting me to be struck speechless that my body, naked and nubile, should be flashed across the tea table, the shadows playing against my round breasts, the curve of my stomach and thighs, arms, pubic hair? I felt chilly inside, and knew suddenly that I was impervious to whatever he said to me on this matter. Indignation made me stone. What was he up to? Blackmail? His gaze was just as clinical as before, but now I met it, confident that my manner was truly unruffled. I was not at all embarrassed or ashamed of the picture of my nude body. I had given him my stories, poems; to bear my naked imaginings to such a man now seemed a far more horrible thing. “I used to model for life classes at Slade,” I said. “I have always known a lot of artists and photographers who I’ll sit for.”
He looked as if he was listening, but it was to the machinations of his own mind that his attention was drawn. He was thinking. Presently, he said, somewhat brusquely, “Interesting.” Was this a fitting response to the news that I posed naked for artists?
“Why interesting?”
“Nothing,” he said, flapping away the query like a fly. A sharp, quick smile. “I bought this print at Denis Johns’ exhibition at the Waterside Studios.”
“A year ago?”
“Indeed.”
I handed the print back to him, and as I did so I noticed a slight trembling in his fingers. Trembling? Was he afraid of me, or of his own intentions? So he had invited me here for other reasons. There
I was about to ask for further explanations, when he strode back toward the tea table saying, “Sorry to be so long. Has the tea gone cold?”
The last thing I wanted to do was once more sit down on that chair to be force-fed another cream pastry and to indulge in further conversation about writing that would tie me up in knots. I felt like a bird provided with swings, seeds and a bath, with permission to twitter but not to fly. I had not been there for more than an hour. It struck me that I could babble some excuse and speed quickly back to London if I wanted. But did I?
“You’ve eaten your cake. You must have another one,” he said.
“Why don’t you give me a tour of the house?” I suggested, shuffling unwillingly to the misericord and the tea set.
“Oh yes. I want to. But not yet,” he said, sitting down on his chair.
“Not yet?” I yelled inside my head.
“Not yet?”
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said.
I attempted to suppress a surge of panic with an expression of cheerful expectation. I disliked this feeling of Mr. Prain being in control. I wanted to sit on the floor, lean against a wall, anything so that I did not have to face him over the table. Now I had to wait for the item to emerge, to be docile, to be the audience as he pulled the rabbit out of his hat. Gingerly, I sat down upon the armchair, perched at the edge as if ready to spring up and away at the slightest provocation.
Fortunately, he did not keep me waiting long. He leaned down to the side of his chair and picked up a framed picture that had been lying there with its back to the room. I could not remember if I had noticed it before. If I had, I had given it no thought. It was glass plated, and as he passed it over the table to me the light from the window cast a reflection over its surface, so that it was only when I held it right before me that I saw who it was.
I stared at it. He stared at me.
“Is it a striking resemblance, or—”
Christ, I thought. “No, Mr. Prain. It’s me from about five years ago. I’ve always liked this print. Denis Johns.” My voice was cream. And what did he want me to say? Did he expect me to redden, cringe, protest that I only did it for the money, or for a friend? Was he expecting me to be struck speechless that my body, naked and nubile, should be flashed across the tea table, the shadows playing against my round breasts, the curve of my stomach and thighs, arms, pubic hair? I felt chilly inside, and knew suddenly that I was impervious to whatever he said to me on this matter. Indignation made me stone. What was he up to? Blackmail? His gaze was just as clinical as before, but now I met it, confident that my manner was truly unruffled. I was not at all embarrassed or ashamed of the picture of my nude body. I had given him my stories, poems; to bear my naked imaginings to such a man now seemed a far more horrible thing. “I used to model for life classes at Slade,” I said. “I have always known a lot of artists and photographers who I’ll sit for.”
He looked as if he was listening, but it was to the machinations of his own mind that his attention was drawn. He was thinking. Presently, he said, somewhat brusquely, “Interesting.” Was this a fitting response to the news that I posed naked for artists?
“Why interesting?”
“Nothing,” he said, flapping away the query like a fly. A sharp, quick smile. “I bought this print at Denis Johns’ exhibition at the Waterside Studios.”
“A year ago?”
“Indeed.”
I handed the print back to him, and as I did so I noticed a slight trembling in his fingers. Trembling? Was he afraid of me, or of his own intentions? So he had invited me here for other reasons. There
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