20 May 1985
This bleedin’ letter feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket.
I was up until gone two this morning filling in the application in a fit of… I don’t know,right bloody madnessDad would say. But the more I draw, the further away from this life I feel. I’ve taken to heading down to Dad’s shed at the bottom of the garden, like some kind of thief in the night. Working under the paraffin lamps, sitting between my old Chopper and a bag of compost. The small space smells of neglected half-finished jobs. Fitting. In a way.
I was running late for work. Carl had been holding the letter up above his head like the little shit he is, I’d snatched it away and haven’t had a minute of calm to read it. I’d had to borrow Mam’s car to get me here on time.
This is one of the new builds at the edge of the town. All double glazed and high-ceilinged, not a patch of woodchip or Artex to be seen. So here I am, up a ladder, the brush coated in paint. The owner is being given a tour of the progress so far and has just walked into the room. I can smell the hairspraykeeping her militantly permed hair in place from here. I sneeze as she beams through bright lips that match her purple leotard, straining above bright cerise Lycra tights.
‘Ijust knewthe midnight white would be perfect,’ she purrs with the kind of self-congratulatory air that belongs to her lot. I nod, even though I’m pretty sure that the only difference in adding ‘midnight’ is the bloody price.
Jim pulls out his packet of Benson’s.
‘Oh, no smoking in here, if you don’t mind,’ she says. Jim rolls his eyes as she turns back to me. I don’t have a great poker face, so I’m not sure how my nod to her yakking on about how the bloody midnight white adds a certainje ne sais quoimight have landed.
I head outside for my break, sit down on the newly unwrapped garden furniture, and take out the letter. I look down at the writing on the front, the weight of what might be inside, compacted in the modest dimensions of the thick white envelope.
Jim joins me. ‘Give me bloody strength.’ He passes me a brew so strong that it could strip the paint better than the turpentine I constantly smell of these days. ‘She wants a dado rail in the lounge.’
I exhale and raise my eyebrows. ‘What’s a dado rail?’
‘Buggered if I know.’
I laugh, fold the envelope away and take a swig of tea.
‘She wants bloody clouds on the walls in the back room. I’ve told her straight, I ain’t seen no cloud wallpaper in all my years of decorating.’
He blows out a long plume of smoke.
‘I can do it,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘Paint clouds.’
He laughs then takes in my expression. ‘You’re serious?’
I shrug, taking another swig.
‘Well, blow me. Not just a pretty face, eh?’
‘I want paying full whack, mind.’
‘Leave it with me. Well, I never, we’ve got bloody Picasso working for us.’
He crunches the butt under his boot. ‘Best get back to it. Got a right bee up her arse that one, wants the lot done by the end of next week. Still, she’s paying well, which is what matters.’
We work flat-out for the rest of the day. Mrs Thompson – orJust Jenny– agrees to look at a sample of my work before giving the go ahead. I decline a swift pint once we down tools and head towards Kate’s, my gear and drawings rolled up in my backpack. Danny is out of town and so she’d suggested coming over for tea and some peace and quiet to work on my portfolio. I’d best sketch out some clouds first. We’d agreed ninety quid for the whole wall – if she’s pleased with the standardof course,she’d said, hand lingering on my arm.
* * *
My head is dipped over the pages in front of me, the clouds already done and I’ve added a colour palette beside the sample soJust Jennycan choose over-priced tins of Dulux. I can hear Kate busying in the kitchen, singing off-key loudly to the radio. She pops her head around the door. ‘Tea’s almost ready.’ She wipes her hands on her jeans and stands behind me, reaching for the side profile of Alice.
‘This is stunning, Mike, really.’
‘I had an easy subject.’ She sits down next to me, hands lifting and examining the partial sketches of Alice’s eyes. I haven’t got them right yet; they look too sad, too lost. ‘I can’t quite get them right.’ I tip back in the pine chair and scratch the back of my head with a yawn.
‘How do you mean?’
I sigh and lean forward. ‘She was confident, but whenever I draw her, there’s this emptiness, like.’
‘You could always draw me instead. It’s got to be easier than trying to conjure her up from one night after a few pints, right?’
