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Authors: Winston Graham
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with unwashed women. It’s a big laugh. The true artist hasn’t got all that much time .’
‘You think of yourself as a true artist, then.’
‘Christ knows. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. But all this swank, all this cult wind they blow out. To me art is hard work and more hard work. It’s not a high-class gab
shop!’
‘And where do people like Ted Sandymount and Jack Foil fit into your artistic world?’
‘They don’t. But they’re part of the real world, and that counts, doesn’t it? Just as much part of the real world and the East End as the tugs and the derricks.
They’re people I knock along with. I understand them, see. They get on with the business of living and don’t wrap their notions up in fancy paper and coloured string.’
‘Unless,’ I said, ‘it happened to be black market string.’
He looked at me. ‘You’re a sharp little devil, aren’t you? And I love you for it. Tell me about your illness.’
‘What illness?’
‘Your – this polio thing. When was it?’
‘Years ago. I’ve forgotten all about it.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with your leg? Tell me exactly.’
‘You can see. It won’t work much from the knee down and it’s not absolutely right from the knee up.’
‘I thought that most of that was done with now – thanks to a gent called Salk.’
‘I was pre-Salk. I tell you, it’s prehistoric. I was ten at the time.’
‘Are you ever ill now?’
‘I had flu the winter before last.’
‘Don’t be silly. I mean this look on your face. It sends me. Like a – like a madonna who’s had a car accident.’
I laughed. ‘Can I quote you?’
‘Not to your other boy friends, you can’t. But it’s there, Deborah. Blessed Damozel stuff. Does it hurt to walk?’
‘No, not really. One doesn’t do it as instinctively, as forgetfully, as a normal person, that’s all.’
‘Why can’t I paint you?’
His hands were both on the table, palms downward, showing the freckle of dark hair from fingers to wrist. One as usual had a smear of paint.
‘Have you ever done portraits?’
‘Oh, yes. Not much good, but then . . . If I could paint you, it would be a real big help to me.’
‘. . . I’ll think about it.’
‘Think hard.’
A half-dozen coloured men came into the club. Their shirts were puce and vermilion and acid yellow and pea green.
He said: ‘Tell me about your job.’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘No, everything.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m interested in everything you do.’
‘You’d be bored.’
‘Try me.’
I tried him. Later we drove home, and I agreed to meet him on the following Tuesday. He said why didn’t we meet every Tuesday and Thursday. It seemed a good idea, he said, to have a
regular date. I said no, I sometimes worked late and could never be sure more than a day or two ahead. This was true, but not the whole truth. Really, I was still struggling not to get too
committed. The fish, you’ll notice, always does struggle, even when it’s firmly on the hook.
John Hallows was flying to Geneva next week to pick up an important piece of jewellery which a Viscount Vosper was going to put in our next sale. There was a rumour that Lord
Vosper also had a collection of valuable resist lustreware that he was considering selling, and some discussion took place as to whether I should go with John Hallows to see it. But in the end it
was felt that it might be better not to push the viscount into some sale he was not quite decided on.
This discussion took place on the Tuesday at 6 p.m., and as a result I was pretty late meeting Leigh. But he took my explanations patiently enough and drove me off along the Bayswater Road.
‘You hungry?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, we can eat when you like.’
We turned off and stopped outside what looked like a cinema. Somebody was just driving away, so Leigh put his car in the convenient place.
My mind still on the recent meeting at Whittington’s, I said absently: ‘The
with unwashed women. It’s a big laugh. The true artist hasn’t got all that much time .’
‘You think of yourself as a true artist, then.’
‘Christ knows. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. But all this swank, all this cult wind they blow out. To me art is hard work and more hard work. It’s not a high-class gab
shop!’
‘And where do people like Ted Sandymount and Jack Foil fit into your artistic world?’
‘They don’t. But they’re part of the real world, and that counts, doesn’t it? Just as much part of the real world and the East End as the tugs and the derricks.
They’re people I knock along with. I understand them, see. They get on with the business of living and don’t wrap their notions up in fancy paper and coloured string.’
‘Unless,’ I said, ‘it happened to be black market string.’
He looked at me. ‘You’re a sharp little devil, aren’t you? And I love you for it. Tell me about your illness.’
‘What illness?’
‘Your – this polio thing. When was it?’
‘Years ago. I’ve forgotten all about it.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with your leg? Tell me exactly.’
‘You can see. It won’t work much from the knee down and it’s not absolutely right from the knee up.’
‘I thought that most of that was done with now – thanks to a gent called Salk.’
‘I was pre-Salk. I tell you, it’s prehistoric. I was ten at the time.’
‘Are you ever ill now?’
‘I had flu the winter before last.’
‘Don’t be silly. I mean this look on your face. It sends me. Like a – like a madonna who’s had a car accident.’
I laughed. ‘Can I quote you?’
‘Not to your other boy friends, you can’t. But it’s there, Deborah. Blessed Damozel stuff. Does it hurt to walk?’
‘No, not really. One doesn’t do it as instinctively, as forgetfully, as a normal person, that’s all.’
‘Why can’t I paint you?’
His hands were both on the table, palms downward, showing the freckle of dark hair from fingers to wrist. One as usual had a smear of paint.
‘Have you ever done portraits?’
‘Oh, yes. Not much good, but then . . . If I could paint you, it would be a real big help to me.’
‘. . . I’ll think about it.’
‘Think hard.’
A half-dozen coloured men came into the club. Their shirts were puce and vermilion and acid yellow and pea green.
He said: ‘Tell me about your job.’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘No, everything.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m interested in everything you do.’
‘You’d be bored.’
‘Try me.’
I tried him. Later we drove home, and I agreed to meet him on the following Tuesday. He said why didn’t we meet every Tuesday and Thursday. It seemed a good idea, he said, to have a
regular date. I said no, I sometimes worked late and could never be sure more than a day or two ahead. This was true, but not the whole truth. Really, I was still struggling not to get too
committed. The fish, you’ll notice, always does struggle, even when it’s firmly on the hook.
John Hallows was flying to Geneva next week to pick up an important piece of jewellery which a Viscount Vosper was going to put in our next sale. There was a rumour that Lord
Vosper also had a collection of valuable resist lustreware that he was considering selling, and some discussion took place as to whether I should go with John Hallows to see it. But in the end it
was felt that it might be better not to push the viscount into some sale he was not quite decided on.
This discussion took place on the Tuesday at 6 p.m., and as a result I was pretty late meeting Leigh. But he took my explanations patiently enough and drove me off along the Bayswater Road.
‘You hungry?’ he asked.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, we can eat when you like.’
We turned off and stopped outside what looked like a cinema. Somebody was just driving away, so Leigh put his car in the convenient place.
My mind still on the recent meeting at Whittington’s, I said absently: ‘The
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