attractive woman turned up in front of a Pre-Raphaelite, and the same Pre-Raphaelite that Manse was enjoying, this could be regarded as possibly a pleasant bit of luck. Possibly, yes. The piece of luck could be ruined, though, if he said or did anything that made her think he was just a schemer on the lech trail. Such glorious use of colour, wouldnât you say? Or, to put it another way, Feel like a fuck?
Second ⦠but Manse found the second problem much more complicated. While they was both admiring the Edward Prentis a family came into the room, parents and two boys, the boys aged about ten and twelve, one crew-cut, the other blond curls. Manse could tell at once these was the kind of offspring who didnât give a monkeyâs about galleries or the Pre-Raphaelites. He didnât understand why the parents had brought them. They should of left them home with their warder. The two kids started chasing each other and shouting and pretending to fight and did most of it in front of the Edward Prentis. There ought to of been an attendant in the room to tell them to quieten down, but there wasnât and Manse said: âNow, lads, this isnât the place for games. Youâre spoiling our view of the picture.â
One boy, the younger one, gave him the finger and the other â crew-cut â said, âPiss off, ugly mug.â
Manse said: âThatâs enough. Get lost.â
The father said in a big, icy voice: âHey, you, did I hear you speak to my boys?â He and his wife were on the other side of the room looking at a picture by Sir Edward Burne-Jones, a definite true star of Pre-Raphaelites.
âAre they your boys?â Manse said.
âWhat does that mean?â he said.
âWhat do you think it means? It means are they your boys?â Manse said.
âHeâs being rude, Geoff,â his wife said. He was about forty, hefty, wearing a brown leather waistcoat over a red T-shirt. Maybe this was his gallery outfit. Manse could imagine him this morning in Ruislip, or Guildford â that kind of place â thinking to himself, âWhat will I put on today for the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition? Ah, of course â the brown leather waistcoat.â
âIf theyâre your boys, and I can believe it, why donât you tell them to act decent?â Manse said.
âWho are you to tell me what I should tell them?â he said.
âIâm me to tell you what you should tell them,â Mansel said.
âThe method of his rudeness is to repeat what youâve just said, Geoff, and explain your own words to you, as if youâre too dim to understand them,â the wife said. âItâs a convoluted insult.â She had a burliness to her not like the women in most of the Pre-Raphaelite paintings.
âTake no notice of him, lads,â he said. âCarry on as if he never spoke.â
âBut I did speak,â Manse replied. This was what he meant by âcomplicatedâ, when he considered the situation. Clearly, he needed to go over and scare the shit out of this loudmouth and inform him that if he didnât quell his damn kids thereâd be results, and not of the art type. But, along with this urgent idea, Manse did not want the woman heâd been watching the Edward Prentis sort of with to think he was the kind of presence that could scare the shit out of loudmouths by nothing much more than sudden nearness and a handful of sotto words. He would prefer this woman to have him marked in her mind as a lover of high-quality, famous pictures and especially the Pre-Raphaelites. He was a lover of high-quality, famous pictures and especially the Pre-Raphaelites, though also the kind of presence that could scare the shit out of loudmouths by nothing much more than sudden nearness and a handful of sotto words. This extra aspect of himself, a sort of bonus aspect, or like the part of an iceberg under water, he would rather stayed unknown to
Second ⦠but Manse found the second problem much more complicated. While they was both admiring the Edward Prentis a family came into the room, parents and two boys, the boys aged about ten and twelve, one crew-cut, the other blond curls. Manse could tell at once these was the kind of offspring who didnât give a monkeyâs about galleries or the Pre-Raphaelites. He didnât understand why the parents had brought them. They should of left them home with their warder. The two kids started chasing each other and shouting and pretending to fight and did most of it in front of the Edward Prentis. There ought to of been an attendant in the room to tell them to quieten down, but there wasnât and Manse said: âNow, lads, this isnât the place for games. Youâre spoiling our view of the picture.â
One boy, the younger one, gave him the finger and the other â crew-cut â said, âPiss off, ugly mug.â
Manse said: âThatâs enough. Get lost.â
The father said in a big, icy voice: âHey, you, did I hear you speak to my boys?â He and his wife were on the other side of the room looking at a picture by Sir Edward Burne-Jones, a definite true star of Pre-Raphaelites.
âAre they your boys?â Manse said.
âWhat does that mean?â he said.
âWhat do you think it means? It means are they your boys?â Manse said.
âHeâs being rude, Geoff,â his wife said. He was about forty, hefty, wearing a brown leather waistcoat over a red T-shirt. Maybe this was his gallery outfit. Manse could imagine him this morning in Ruislip, or Guildford â that kind of place â thinking to himself, âWhat will I put on today for the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition? Ah, of course â the brown leather waistcoat.â
âIf theyâre your boys, and I can believe it, why donât you tell them to act decent?â Manse said.
âWho are you to tell me what I should tell them?â he said.
âIâm me to tell you what you should tell them,â Mansel said.
âThe method of his rudeness is to repeat what youâve just said, Geoff, and explain your own words to you, as if youâre too dim to understand them,â the wife said. âItâs a convoluted insult.â She had a burliness to her not like the women in most of the Pre-Raphaelite paintings.
âTake no notice of him, lads,â he said. âCarry on as if he never spoke.â
âBut I did speak,â Manse replied. This was what he meant by âcomplicatedâ, when he considered the situation. Clearly, he needed to go over and scare the shit out of this loudmouth and inform him that if he didnât quell his damn kids thereâd be results, and not of the art type. But, along with this urgent idea, Manse did not want the woman heâd been watching the Edward Prentis sort of with to think he was the kind of presence that could scare the shit out of loudmouths by nothing much more than sudden nearness and a handful of sotto words. He would prefer this woman to have him marked in her mind as a lover of high-quality, famous pictures and especially the Pre-Raphaelites. He was a lover of high-quality, famous pictures and especially the Pre-Raphaelites, though also the kind of presence that could scare the shit out of loudmouths by nothing much more than sudden nearness and a handful of sotto words. This extra aspect of himself, a sort of bonus aspect, or like the part of an iceberg under water, he would rather stayed unknown to
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