MACKINTOSH'S TRIUMPH

a novel by

Philip Gillett

Monday

The light is adjusted away from his eyes and focused on his mouth.
‘Now let's take a look.’
Mackintosh wants to say that only one of them will be having a look, but circumstances are not propitious: the dentist's thumb is in his mouth.
‘Bit of trouble here.’
‘Aagh,’ Mackintosh agrees as the probe sinks into his tooth.
‘I think we can save it.’
‘Aaagh,’ Mackintosh agrees as the probe twists sideways. 
‘If you had a regular checkup, these sort of problems would be nipped in the bud.’ 
Mackintosh wonders why he bothered to come. It is a rhetorical question, for he knows the answer. One reason is vanity: a certain lady has already passed comments about the state of his teeth. Another reason is the lure of free treatment during his temporary unemployment. And there is the toothache. 
‘Quite a bit of work to do here, I'm afraid,’ Mr Wagstaff reports enthusiastically. ‘We're going to see a lot of each other.’ 
Mackintosh is less sure about that. 
‘At least we can make a start today.’ 
No reply seems expected. Mackintosh listens to the tooth-by- tooth commentary on his dental health. Most of his teeth are in the terminal stages of decay judging by the busyness of Mr Wagstaff's probe. The only compensation is the sight of the assistant completing the dental chart. A comely body lurks beneath the severe uniform. Mackintosh marvels at the streak of sadism which prompts an attractive girl to spend her working life amongst the cries of the agonised and helpless. Mr Wagstaff's own motives for entering his chosen profession are too sinister to contemplate. 
‘A little bit wider.’ 
Mackintosh obliges. 
‘You won't feel anything.’ 
Mackintosh glimpses a syringe being inserted in his mouth. The needle goes in a long way, gliding through soft tissue to ejaculate its chill fluid into his body. He wonders whether women experience a similar sensation at the moment of orgasm, but such pleasurable speculation does not last long. 
‘If you pop in the waiting-room till it takes effect.’
Mackintosh leaves the chair gleefully. As he returns to the waiting room, the whine of a drill from the adjoining surgery presages his own fate. He is tempted to head for the exit-but then he thinks of the toothache and thinks better of it. 
The waiting room is depressing: people who look unhappy as he feels and posters about teeth. The urge to leave grows stronger. Mackintosh rifles through the magazines in the hope of finding something which is not two years old and devoted to knitting patterns. All he can find is a magazine on cars-and Mackintosh does not like cars. He sinks into a chair and contemplates his fate. The whine of the drill reaches a high pitch, stops, and then begins again. There is a smell of disinfectant. His mouth is going numb. The opportunity to escape is fast disappearing.
Five minutes passes. The shapely nurse calls Mackintosh's  name. With a growing sense of dread he follows her, finding consolation in watching her sinuous movements beneath the uniform. 
Mr Wagstaff smiles in an avuncular way. Mackintosh wonders inconsequentially why people become dentists. He cannot ask, for now his mouth has lost all feeling. He settles in the chair and commends his teeth to the further mercies of Mr Wagstaff.
 The comely assistant hooks into his mouth a gadget attached to a tube. It hisses and gurgles. Mackintosh cannot remember it from his last visit to a dentist, though that was fifteen years ago. Perhaps dentistry really is moving forward as the poster in the waiting room proclaims. 
Absolved from further conversation, he looks imploringly at the comely assistant who lays out fearsome-looking instruments with studied unconcern for his plight. Life should offer better experiences than being spread on a dentist's chair. He would rail against the sense of helplessness if he could. 
‘Just a bit wider,’ Mr Wagstaff invites. 
Mackintosh wants to retort that he cannot open any wider, but at that moment the drill is introduced into his mouth. Its urgent wail has changed from earlier days, when the drill resembled a giant cranefly, held firm in the mouth of its prey by an acolyte dentist till its appetite for pain was sated. This time he feels no pain. The poster is right: dentistry has moved forward. Then the pain begins and he knows that dentistry is still the same. The injection has not helped. He tries to signal with his eyes, but neither Mr Wagstaff nor the comely assistant takes any notice. He tries to call out, but the gadget hissing in his mouth drowns his gurgles. Truly there is a gang of sadists abroad in Holloway. 
As Mackintosh resigns himself to a lingering and painful death at the hands of two sadists, the drilling stops. The gadget is removed. He flashes a grateful glance at the comely assistant, but without response. 
‘Just have a rinse out,’ Mr Wagstaff invites and Mackintosh obeys meekly. ‘Now let's just finish off.’ 
Mackintosh wants to protest, but the gadget is placed in his mouth again and Mr Wagstaff's thumb settles over his tongue, to be closely followed by the drill. Why go to dentists, Mackintosh wonders as the drill sings its gleeful song. Why go meekly to that pain? And why pay for it? At that moment he curses love. If it had not been for Mrs Vine, he might have put up with toothache. 
‘You ought to look after your teeth,’ she told him. ‘I like a man who looks after his teeth,’ she added for good measure. When he got home, he leaned over the washbasin to inspect his teeth in the brown-mottled mirror. This was a measure of his concern, for the washbasin is supported only by its pipes and is best not leaned over. The inescapable conclusion was that his teeth fell well below Mrs Vine's high standards and even conscientious brushing would do little to improve them. They reminded him of those rows of chimney-pots-begrimed, battered and leaning-belonging to derelict inner city houses and glimpsed beside railway viaducts. He brooded on that image as he climbed into bed that night. It must have permeated his subconscious, for he dreamed about a railway journey from Waterloo in a compartment whose doors would not open. He awoke with toothache. Such was his desire to please Mrs Vine that with only a morning's hesitation he made an appointment with the nearest dentist. With more thought he might have chosen a dentist with greater care, he decides as the agony returns to obliterate all other thoughts. 
‘Just have a rinse out,’ Mr Wagstaff says, what seems like several hours later. Mackintosh's mouth is numb; he hardly notices that the gadget is removed. When he tries to rinse his mouth, his tongue will not work. Meekly he settles back in the chair, his mouth open, to await what fate has in store. 
The next stage is almost pleasant as the comely assistant stands over him. He speculates on what she thinks of the men who lie so helplessly before her. It must have some effect upon her psyche, either giving her a sense of power or making her hold men in contempt, or both. 
‘A little bit wider.’ 
Mackintosh obliges. He wonders what excitement such a girl needs after her daily exposure to pain and helplessness. There comes unbidden the fantasy of her clad in leather, standing astride a bound male figure who might even be Mackintosh himself. 
‘Have a final rinse out.’ 
Mackintosh relishes any mention of finality. With gusto he spits fragments of amalgam into the swirling water. 
‘That's all we can do for today, I'm afraid,’ the dentist announces, as the chair is brought up to a sitting position. Mackintosh wants to reply that whatever Mr Wagstaff's regrets, he does not share them, but the numbness has crept over his mouth so that all he manages is a grunt. 
‘If you could make another four appointments for Mr Mackintosh initially,’ Mr Wagstaff tells his assistant. ‘Make the next one a long one will you, please?’ 
The alarm on Mackintosh's face prompts Mr Wagstaff to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘We'll get the root canal filling out of the way next time.’ 
Mackintosh grunts again and trots after the comely assistant with the attractive wiggle. There is little opportunity to appreciate it, for she leaves him with the thin and spotty receptionist and goes back to the surgery. Mackintosh nods absently as the receptionist suggests dates. His only regret at not keeping the appointments is that he will not see the comely assistant again, but that is a small price to pay. 
* 
The outside world is good. Mackintosh smiles benignly on whining children and little old ladies who push prams containing smelly Pekinese. His one regret is being unable to go into a pub and ask for a drink: words are too difficult to articulate after the anaesthetic and even if he managed to make himself understood, the wonderful liquid would have no taste. Instead he scuttles back to his room. Sometimes he hates it, but its familiarity is reassuring, its shabbiness comforting. He has made few contributions to the decor except for the brown stain down the chimney breast (an accident with a tin of spaghetti), the hole in the plastic tablecloth (after two months, the saucepan still gives off a smell of burnt plastic when he uses it) and the brown adhesive tape holding together the sagging glass shelf over the washbasin (another accident with a hot saucepan). Mackintosh tries to avoid cooking, but even complete abstinence cannot halt the slide into decrepitude which afflicts the room. Holes in the lino reveal yellowing copies of the Daily Mirror reporting the heatwave of 1976. The abstract pattern in the rug turns out on closer inspection to come from stains. Emulsion paint flakes from the ceiling, festooning the cobwebs and revealing even dirtier whitewash underneath. A broken sash cord hangs down one side of the window pane as it did when he first came to the room. There is no cord on the other side, so wedges of newspaper hold the sashes in place. Mackintosh has never trusted them enough to attempt to clean the outside of the glass, so the view of house-backs is gradually disappearing behind a screen of rain splashes and bird droppings. An electric boiling ring stands on the chest of drawers, surrounded by scorch rings and the charred remains of long-forgotten curries. On the drawers below, none of the original handles remains. The variety of replacements reflects changing styles over thirty years and the tastes of the room's previous occupants: curved tortoiseshell plastic from the fifties vies with chromium and red plastic from the sixties, tapered wood capped with brass (Festival of Britain influence), scratched Louis Quatorze gilt (timeless) and Habitat tubular aluminium (aggressively seventies). Mackintosh has made no contribution to this collection except to leave a hole where one handle fell out and rolled into that dark space under the chest of drawers which is the kingdom of dust and spiders. Every spare space in the room is stacked with canvases facing the wall. He used to suspect that his landlady looked at them when he was out, but the dust accumulating on their edges betrays her present lack of interest. He is not surprised: a woman who adorns her room with a view of the Swiss Alps lacks even a pretence of sensibility. At first he hung one of his larger canvases over the print, but he had only to go out and the canvas was leaning against the wardrobe on his return. Nothing was said. Eventually he dropped the view of the Swiss Alps behind the wardrobe. 
‘Had a little accident while I was dusting,’ he announced on the principle that confession was the best form of defence. ‘The frame came to pieces and the glass broke when it fell out. Afraid I had to throw it away.’ 
His landlady sniffed. ‘Didn't know as you ever bothered to dust anything. It's terrible in there-like a pigsty.’ 
‘I try to keep the place tidy,’ he assured her, forbearing to mention that pigs might feel more at home in her sitting room. 
‘I don't think it's been cleaned since the day you came.’ 
‘And I'll put something else on the wall, don't you worry.’ 
‘One of them daubs of yours, you mean. You can have it up as long as you're here, but make sure you take it with you. I don't want my next tenant having to look at it. Enough to give him nightmares.’ 
Mackintosh was magnanimous enough not to argue, for it was a victory, albeit a minor one. Several times he peered into the chasm behind the wardrobe to reassure himself that the view of the Swiss Alps was still there, but as months turned to years he gave up bothering. 
Being home is like being in the womb, though it lacks the warmth of some of his well-appointed wombs since he gave up feeding coins in the meter. The smell of paint and turpentine usually spurs him to start work again, but on this day he slumps on the bed, his body shaping itself to the familiar hollow of the mattress. He fingers his jaw cautiously, not sure what he will find. His fingers touch something, but it could be someone else's jaw for all the sensation he feels. Pinching the skin produces no effect. He squeezes harder without result. He tries moving his tongue, but its heaviness defeats him. Will his mouth ever be the same again? Deep suspicions about the skills of Mr Wagstaff well in his soul. 
At least in the creative sense, unemployment is good for Mackintosh. The stacks of finished and partly-finished canvases have grown considerably in the months since full-time work came to an end. Alas the prerequisites of the artist have made such inroads into his unemployment benefit that sacrifices have become necessary. His eating habits have suffered. Mackintosh likes to eat out: sausage, egg and chips in the cafe around the corner is preferable to his own culinary efforts on the single boiling ring. Over the weeks, the need for economy has caused him to abandon first the sausage and then his daily visits to the cafe. Instead he makes irregular forays to the supermarket to scoop up special offers. His food stock on a shelf over the chest of drawers is a barometer of his financial status: at present it comprises half a tin of baked beans and a free sample of dehydrated vegetable soup taken from the doormat before his landlady saw it. Now he looks upon these items with the detachment of one no longer interested in food. Mr Wagstaff has seen to that. 
The boards on the landing creak. Mackintosh groans at the knock at the door. 
‘Mr Mackintosh.’ 
He lies very still, wondering whether he will be able to live as a tramp, carrying all his possessions in carrier bags and sleeping on a bench in the ornamental gardens. His possessions have grown hugely in number since he first came to the room with two suitcases all those months ago. The problem is his paintings. He tries to work out how many black plastic sacks he would need to transport all his canvases-
‘You're getting behind with your rent again,’ his landlady calls. ‘I thought we had this out once.’ 
They have had it out. Mackintosh remembers several confrontations, all of which ended in promises that things would be different in future. 
‘You might be unemployed though I'm not sure that isn't your fault, but I'm not having you staying here unless you pay your rent. You can get social security, so there's no excuse. I'm not running a charity.’ 
Mackintosh smiles at the notion of anybody crediting Mrs Morrow with charitable intentions. 
‘And I know you're in there because I heard you come in, so don’t play the innocent.’ 
He imagines her sitting by her door, listening to the comings and goings of her lodgers: the scuttling of Mr Johnson, the clerk who always looks as if he is about to be caught fiddling the books; the heavy tread of O'Reilly, slightly erratic after pay day at the building site; and the early morning shuffle of Gorman the street sweeper. They are Mrs Morrow's family. Does a maternal heart beat under her forbidding exterior? Mackintosh doubts it. He studies the damp patch on the ceiling, seeing an abstract pattern which he has never noticed before. Another slate must have slipped off the roof. 
‘I've got a key, you know-I could open this door.’ 
He wants to say, ‘I know you can,’ but that would not be politic even if he could speak. It is a cheap room and cheap rooms are not easy to find. The straightened bedclothes and the chair pushed under the table are the way Mrs Morrow signals her visits even though she no longer looks at his paintings. He would not be surprised if she steams open his post. He can imagine her as a matron at some Victorian public school-
‘I want the rent by tomorrow, please. I'm not waiting any longer.’ 
Mackintosh listens to the steps receding on the uncarpeted stairs. Rent is always an issue. He will have to stay out of Mrs Morrow's way until his giro cheque arrives. He racks his brain for some novel way of postponing payment, but he has lived with the problem long enough to have tried all ways both novel and obvious. One of his better notions was the death of his father: it kept his landlady in a state of respectful sympathy for a week. It is an idea which can be overworked, so with reluctance he sets it aside. There have been two sudden deaths in the family in the last year and he wants to keep one close relative in reserve for a really desperate occasion. A less successful stratagem was the offer of a painting in lieu of rent. Mrs Morrow made her feelings clear on that: she said she wanted cash and not the sort of art they do in infant school. Nobly he took the hurt and forbore to argue. 
With his landlady gone, Mackintosh's attention is dominated by his jaw once more. The numbness shows no sign of disappearing; if anything it is worse. He feels under his bed and his fingers close on the comforting shape of a bottle of Baileys. Then he remembers his efforts to rinse his mouth out. The prospect of Baileys dribbling untasted down his chin and soaking into his bedclothes is too awful to contemplate. Regretfully he lets the bottle sink back to its resting place amongst the dust and the worn-out shoes. What he should be doing is painting: the thought always comes to prick his conscience when he is wasting time. The minutes of his life are being whittled away in self-pity. What drawings will not be drawn, what paintings never painted? Almost as disturbing is the thought that nobody will care. The possible exception is Mrs Vine and even her support is questionable when she learns that he will not be going back to Mr Wagstaff. Sometimes life seems easier without a patron. 
Mackintosh experiments with speaking aloud to test how his mouth is working. The attempt is not a success: the slurred words bear little resemblance to ‘I'm sorry Mrs Vine’. With the reluctance of someone with a deadline approaching, he hauls himself off the bed to investigate his financial status. In truth he knows how much money he has, but making sure is a way to put off painting. A search through the clothes he is wearing yields a grand total of £3.16. It is not a long search, for only his jacket pockets are free from holes. He keeps meaning to get his trouser pockets repaired, but there are always better things to spend money on. More in hope than in expectation he turns to the clothes in the wardrobe. They are few in number and well worn, for he has a sentimental attachment to clothes which have seen him through bad times and worse. Lurking behind the canvases is his suit-a relic from days when well-paid lectureships were easily available, the fashion was for narrow lapels and no turn-ups, and he had a tax rebate to spend. He was proud of that suit even though within months of buying it, lapels became wider and turn-ups came back into fashion. For three years he dared not wear it on occasions when he encountered students. Fortunately there were no interviews or funerals to attend during that time-no other occasions require him to wear a suit. It was bought new, unlike his other clothes which were culled from jumble sales. Jumble sales are cheaper than charity shops and there is always the chance of finding money left in a pocket. That never happens, but he lives in hope. Sometimes he feels nostalgia for the days when he had shirts without frayed collars, but nostalgia is a failing he can live with, unlike a lack of money. He searches the pockets. A return ticket to Sheffield revives memories of his job as a researcher when there was travel to enjoy, albeit to places like Sheffield, but there is no cache of money. All hope is extinguished. 
* 
Evening. Time of excitement. Pubs are opening. Workers scurry homeward. As Mackintosh watches, he feels the superiority of someone not tied to office hours, though he empathises with the emotions which drive his fellows. For Mackintosh is an artist, as he reminds himself each day. There can be no secrets from an artist. 
The life of the evening is beginning. Girls wearing aprons over figure-hugging jeans lay tables in bistros. Barmen polish glasses while the last cigarettes till closing time balance on the edges of bars. In the doorways of discotheques, bouncers straighten bow ties and hide cigarettes in their palms. Outside the cinema, girls on blind dates gaze anxiously at any men whose steps slow. 
Mackintosh walks with a jaunty step-for the first mile. Feeling has returned to his jaw, much to his surprise, and he is off to a social gathering where food and drink will be available in abundance and where he might even be given a bed for the night. The only problem is having to walk from Holloway to Belsize Park. By Tufnell Park he is flagging. With luck somebody will give him a lift home: walking back after an evening of free drinks is likely to be beyond him. By Gospel Oak, he knows that some shoes are made for walking and that his are not. They squeeze his toes and the left shoe cuts into his foot as though an iron bar is sewn into the lining. Alas they are his only respectable shoes, so he has to wear them for such auspicious occasions as visiting Mrs Vine. And he will have to do so for the foreseeable future: a man who cannot afford bus fares cannot afford shoes, even if they do come from a jumble sale. 
Water drips on Mackintosh's head from the railway viaduct, but he brushes it away and limps on valiantly. Usually he likes to linger at Gospel Oak, marvelling at those gouges in the red brickwork of the viaduct where lorries have scraped under the arch. It has happened so often that some bricks are almost worn away. The grass and brambles on the embankment lend the scene a semi-rural aspect. The cluster of cottages opposite the station helps to impart the atmosphere of the village which existed in the early days of the railway, when perhaps the oak which gave the district its name still existed. He dreams of owning one of those cottages and of displaying his work in the white-painted rooms. There would have to be a housekeeper to look after the mundane matters of life. And there would be an endless supply of Baileys. He looks longingly at the Royal Oak across the road, but the prospect of free alcohol at Mrs Vine's makes him go resolutely on his way. 
On one side of the road is a council estate in best seventies reformed style-a jungle of painted concrete, quarry tiles and iron railings. Window boxes and designer nooks and crannies are a reaction against the brutalism of the sixties. Across the road are tall Victorian houses largely converted into flats. Mackintosh feels comfortable with these unassuming, three-storey houses which are the backbone of north London. They betray the infinite variety of their builders' aspirations and the needs of present tenants. The houses which are family homes rather than being divided into flats have white paintwork, shrub-filled front gardens and no net curtains. As Mackintosh walks past at night, he likes to look in at the stripped pine, the greenery trailing down plant stands and the paper globe lamp shades. Framed by darkness, the interiors are like stage sets where the professional classes act out their domestic dramas. On one occasion he remained entranced for so long that one of the actors rapped on the glass and gestured him to go away. That seemed unfair from a character on a stage set. 
Fleet Road has a raffish air with its squats, CND posters and craft shops. Gentrification is always coming, though it never quite arrives. Skips come and go, but the dilapidation remains. Mackintosh likes that: it shows that the underdogs win somewhere. Usually he walks to South End Green, savouring how dilapidation dovetails itself into the trendy world of Hampstead restaurants and antique shops. Today he eschews these pleasures, along with  the pleasuring of watching nurses scurrying homewards from the Royal Free Hospital. He heads south towards Belsize Park, where the houses are larger and even young professionals can only afford flats. Basement windows are barred and burglar alarms cling like ladybirds to the well-maintained stucco. He speculates whether his former lecturing colleagues have progressed to flats such as these. Some of his more ambitious students might have got there. The faces flit across his mind and he grinds his teeth. Ambitious students never appealed to him. His sympathies lay with the plodders who always turned up for lectures and never contradicted him. Now they swell the lower ranks of planning departments, content to read advertisements for directors of planning without bothering to apply. They are the anonymous bureaucrats. He encounters their kind in those brushes with authority which beset the life of every free thinker. He shudders at what he has helped to create. How many students left his lectures on the history of town planning inspired to look at the familiar streets anew? Did they sense a medieval grid pattern hidden under supermarkets and pedestrian precincts? Did they thrill to the machinations of Victorian developers? Realism engendered by painful feet makes him concede that the answer is no. The students who bothered to attend till the end of an academic year would have concurred that his lectures were not the stuff of which inspiration was made. But he was happy. What he liked about teaching was that once the material for a lecture was culled from textbooks, it could be regurgitated for each annual intake. That made life easy. He was the only lecturer in the department with the distinction of having students falling asleep during his classes. The surprising thing was that anybody attended at all. 
Haverstock Hill, where luxury blocks of flats have entrance halls bedecked in marble and watched over by security guards, and where greengrocers' shops display more tropical fruits than cabbages or King Edwards. Mackintosh senses that his destiny lies in such an area. In this affluent world, the arts assume their rightful importance. The people are articulate and caring, and they read The Guardian. 
A spring returns to his step as he nears his destination. Then his steps falter as it occurs to him that he should have brought a canvas to show at the gathering. The iron bar cuts into his foot again. He mutters curses under his breath and one of the beautiful girls of Belsize Park moves to the kerb to avoid him. 
Mrs Vine's house has the air of a Victorian vicarage which has become separated from its church. The wooden gate is heavy. Dank shrubs touch Mackintosh along the shadowy path. Before him are the welcoming lights of the house. As befits a powerhouse of artistic enterprise and free thinking, the curtains are drawn back to display the activities within to a disinterested world. The soiree is under way. Knots of the artistic elite make conversation. Mackintosh glimpses the drinks table by the window, a green cloth protecting the bleached pine beloved by his hostess, and he knows that the evening will be worthwhile. 
The Gothic porch with its narrow, pointed glass panels in carved wooden frames might be an architect's trial run for the church. The front door is open. Mackintosh admires people who display such confidence: leave a door open in Holloway and within an hour either squatters be in residence or the furniture would have disappeared. But this is Belsize Park. They do things differently here, he reminds himself. 
In the hall, the ecclesiastical theme is echoed by a bleached pine hallstand of gigantic proportions, sprouting carved leaves at every opportunity and with a myriad of angels in the tiled panel at its heart. Mrs Vine has declared her intention of maintaining the original style of the house. Mackintosh applauds such purism, though he suspects that the hallstand is a church screen which has come down in the world. No Victorian parson would condone such sacrilege. 
The company gathers in what in suitably Victorian parlance Mrs Vine calls the drawing room. Mackintosh ignores the artistic elite around him and heads for Mrs Vine. Their acquaintanceship is three weeks old. It was a momentous first meeting, at least for Mackintosh. He was wandering through the community market in Hampstead. It was Saturday afternoon; the hall was redolent with up-market mucking-in and crowded with shoppers. Amongst the homemade cakes and the knitwear were stalls devoted to books and prints (the latter all guaranteed to be a hundred years old), so why should there not be an interest in his own paintings? It was an occasion for making an investment, so he bought a home made cake and a cup of tea, and asked for the organiser. That was his first meeting with Mrs Vine, who overheard his request. He had the impression of a stately rather than a beautiful woman in her fifties-a sort of minor royalty. When he confessed to being an artist, she clasped her hands to her generous bosom in rapture, for it transpired that Mrs Vine was a patron of the arts. For once he felt that things were going his way. 
‘Mackintosh!’ Mrs Vine's face dissolves into a smile as she sails towards him. 
‘And lovely to see you, my dear Mrs Vine,’ Mackintosh responds, kissing the proffered cheek. ‘I trust you're well?’ 
‘Seeing you has cheered me up. How are you?’ 
‘Jaw's a bit stiff after a session at the dentist.’ 
She grips his hands. Her face registers serious matters. ‘I'm glad you've been. It is so important to look after your teeth.’ 
‘I realise that now,’ he assures her. 
‘I know going there isn't pleasant.’ 
Mackintosh wants to say that going is all right, but being there is hell. Instead he follows his instinct and remains silent. He is not yet sure whether Mrs Vine appreciates sarcasm. 
‘You'll find it pays dividends later on,’ she assures him. He remembers his mother talking like that when she dragged him screaming to another dental sadist called Mr Morgan who had a surgery over the haberdasher's shop in the high street. Mackintosh never believed his mother, either. 
He surveys the array of bottles on the table and feels glad that he never told Mrs Vine about the little problem with his stomach. If he had, he would be on milk for the evening. 
‘We've only got wine or spirits, I'm afraid,’ she tells him. ‘I suppose somebody could pop out for some beer if you really wanted it.’ 
‘No need to worry,’ Mackintosh says magnanimously. 
‘You won't be offended if I leave you to help yourself, will you?’ 
He assures her that he will not. 
‘There are so many people I need to talk to. Join us when you're ready, won’t you?’ 
He assures her that he will. 
Mrs Vine beams. ‘I've got some very interesting people here tonight. I think you'll enjoy talking to them.’ 
Mackintosh begins with a glass of white wine. It has a pleasing effect on his stomach, which makes him resolve to drink wine more often. Armed with a second glass, he heads for Mrs Vine and her two companions. The tall youth with wire-framed glasses resembles an off duty undertaker fallen on hard times. He is the only person in the room wearing a coat. It was made for a large undertaker and envelopes its occupant, reaching to his ankles and forcing him to keep his elbows crooked so that his hands do not disappear into the sleeves. The other man is in his thirties, the fashionably crumpled suit giving him the appearance of having been caught in the rain. Mackintosh dislikes natty dressers on principle. To his way of thinking, people who worry about their clothes betray their lack of devotion to important matters. The ones whom he met as a researcher always worked in those peculiarly modern professions of advertising or public relations. 
The undertaker is introduced as Trevor. He has a clammy handshake. The natty dresser is Clive, who smiles a lot and clasps Mackintosh's hand with both hands. ‘So pleased to know you,’ he gushes, covering his listener in a fine spray. ‘Mrs Vine has so many friends, doesn't she? I'm always meeting someone new here. I think we're so privileged to know her.’ 
Mackintosh wonders how to insult him. 
‘Clive's in television,’ Mrs Vine reveals. 
‘Good for television,’ Mackintosh mutters. 
‘Mackintosh is a painter,’ Mrs Vine reveals to Clive. 
‘How very interesting.’ Clive’s smile reveals his delight. ‘What I love about coming here is the sheer breadth of artistic interests concentrated in one room. It's so unusual these days. We suffer so much from specialisation.’ 
Mackintosh smiles and wishes that he were somewhere else. 
‘Where did you study?’ Clive is asking. 
‘Mainly privately.’ 
‘How wonderful. That's getting to be the exception these days.’ 
‘Mm,’ Mackintosh agrees, wondering what to say when Clive asks about his teachers. Meanwhile Clive is studying his face with all the concentration of a portrait painter sizing up a rich and interesting sitter. 
‘Don't remember you. I thought I knew all the London artists.’ 
‘Been away,’ Mackintosh improvises. ‘Lot of work abroad.’ 
‘That explains it.’ 
‘When I came home, I went back to basics. Shut myself away for months without exhibiting anything.’ 
‘Mackintosh has such integrity,’ Mrs Vine interposes. 
‘I was in a monastery actually,’ Mackintosh adds, deciding to go the whole hog. 
‘You never told me.’ 
‘I don't talk about it much.’ 
‘This is wonderful,’ Clive exclaims, clasping his hands together. ‘We could make a documentary of this.’ 
Mackintosh vows that he will keep his stories simple in future. There is a lot to be said for being the taciturn and enigmatic artist. 
‘Are you thinking of having an exhibition?’ Clive queries. 
‘Got to get something organised again,’ Mackintosh assures him with the air of one who has been wrestling with more important matters. 
‘I'm trying to remember your last one.’ Clive squints at the ceiling to inspire better recollection. ‘I'm not getting it. It must have been a good while ago.’ 
‘A good while,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘Totally dropped out of things.’ 
‘Clive produces arts programmes for television,’ Mrs Vine explains. 
‘I'm sure predigested art has its market.’ 
Clive does not lose his smile. He is one of those people conditioned to smile through all adversity, Mackintosh concludes. 
‘Our Mackintosh has a wicked sense of humour,’ Mrs Vine excuses him, which pleases Mackintosh because it gives him licence to insult Clive all the more. 
‘I think it's important that this is made clear,’ Clive begins, gesticulating with what looks like a mime of holding a jelly with no plate. ‘What we want is to make people aware of the excitement of art, to involve them in it. There’s so much really vibrant work being done that the public doesn't know about.’ 
‘Suppose so,’ Mackintosh agrees, wiping away the spray. 
‘Television is such a wonderful medium for getting the message across. Whatever you say about the great British public, you can be sure they're glued to their television sets every evening.’ 
‘Do you ever show new work?’ Mackintosh asks, hoping to avoid revealing that he never watches television. 
‘Do I show new work!’ Clive laughs, revealing expensive dental work. ‘That's what I'm saying-we must tell people about this burgeoning of new talent.’ 
‘Perhaps you could give Mackintosh some exposure,’ Mrs Vine suggests. 
‘We want input from absolutely every artist we can,’ Clive agrees, wiping saliva from his lips he turns to Mackintosh again. His eyes are gleaming. ‘So yes, let's see your work. Let's keep up the momentum to show the public that modern art is accessible, it's moving and it's fun.’ He has dropped the invisible jelly and it pushing against an invisible wall instead. Mrs Vine looks with triumph at Mackintosh who sips his wine thoughtfully, trying to work out whether being unemployed has made him lose touch with reality or whether Clive really is a pillock. Perhaps he should make a point of being nice to all men with crumpled suits in case they prove useful-even if they are pillocks. 
‘There you are.’ Mrs Vine smiles at Mackintosh. ‘You're going to take up Clive's offer, aren't you?’ 
‘Ah yes, Clive's offer,’ Mackintosh murmurs, trying to grasp the import of what is going on, but seduced by the sight of a loaded drinks table. 
‘How could you miss out on it?’ Trevor of the clammy handshake asks. 
‘You're part of this burgeoning talent, are you?’ 
‘Trevor's a poet,’ Mrs Vine explains. 
‘You earn a living from it, do you?’ Mackintosh asks innocently. 
‘Nobody earns a living from poetry!’ 
‘But he's had several works published,’ Mrs Vine adds. 
‘Where?’ Mackintosh asks. 
‘In various magazines,’ the poet says, looking suspicious. 
‘Ah.’ 
‘What's that mean?’ 
‘Lots of little magazines publishing poetry. Tried writing myself once. There was a bookshop in Charing Cross Road-had a basement crammed with little magazines. Suppose you're too young to remember it.’ 
Trevor nods. 
‘Little magazines. Hundreds of them, all churned out on duplicators. Never paid, of course. Never lasted very long, either. Just ego trips for the editors-and the contributors.’ 
‘That was in the seventies,’ Clive intervenes. ‘A lot of new cultural influences affecting the whole arts scene at the time-West Indian, student unrest, Vietnam. There was so much experimentation going on. Incredible scene.’ 
‘It was all going on in the sixties,’ Mackintosh recalls. ‘Bit before your time.’ 
‘I've been working on a documentary to recapture the feel of the times,’ Clive continues, showing no sign of having noticed the interruption. ‘What I want is for people to experience the excitement. That's the real challenge. It mustn't become wallowing in nostalgia for its own sake. People must gain a sense of living through what's happening.’ 
Mackintosh liked the early seventies, when lecturing jobs were plentiful. The sixties were even better. The alarming thing is that a middle-aged man like Clive is too young to remember the heady idealism of flower power. That was the golden age of arts laboratories, caftans and floral ties. The sunset glow of nostalgia impedes Mackintosh's search for a withering retort, so he turns back to Trevor. ‘How do you earn a living?’ 
‘Alas I'm compelled to work in an office.’ 
‘Publishing?’ 
‘Insurance.’ 
‘Another phoney,’ Mackintosh mutters, satisfied, and goes in search of a drink. 
‘You weren't very nice to them,’ Mrs Vine’s voice comes from behind him as he empties the last of a bottle of red wine into his glass.
With an appropriately woeful expression, Mackintosh faces her. ‘Sorry-not feeling myself after all that business with the dentist. Perhaps I should have stayed at home to get over it.’ 
‘I'm glad you did come.’ 
‘You are?’ 
‘Of course.’ She moves closer. 
‘What is Clive's programme?’ 
‘Haven't you ever seen it?’ 
‘I haven't got a television, have I? We went through that last time. Decided it was a bourgeois entertainment unsuitable for creative artists.’ 
‘I thought you might have heard of it.’ 
‘Heard of a few programmes.’ He summons up names overheard in buses, ‘Neighbours, Coronation Street...’ 
Mrs Vine shakes her head at this naivety. ‘Clive's quite well known.’ 
‘You ought to talk to him while you've got the chance.’ 
The free wine and the wooing of Mrs Vine are the only redeeming features of the evening as far as Mackintosh can see, and even the wooing is not going too well. There is a delicate balance between upsetting Mrs Vine and upsetting other people. 
‘I should be thinking about an exhibition,’ he explains to assure her of his artistic integrity. 
‘If you get television exposure, someone's sure to offer you an exhibition,’ Mrs Vine reasons. 
‘Or it's the other way around-you have an exhibition so you get mentioned on arts programmes. Trouble is an exhibition really does take a lot of setting up.’ 
‘Will you pour me some wine please, Mackintosh?’ 
Mackintosh obliges, wondering whether she has appreciated his hint. To make it clearer, he explains, ‘Lots of galleries opening these days. Trouble is they're all commercial outfits. It comes down to money-that's the big problem.’ 
‘I hate the way society's becoming obsessed with money,’ Mrs Vine confides. 
‘Terrible,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘Clive has a lot of contacts,’ she points out. 
‘Clive.’ He draws out the word. ‘Don't like the name. Something slimy about it.’ 
‘That's being silly.’ 
‘And why not?’ Mackintosh wants to know, feeling the drink working its spell. ‘We only get one life, so let's be silly. Let's ride on the big dipper and say bugger off to those who deserve it.’ He puts his arm around his hostess. 
‘Behave yourself, Mackintosh.’ 
‘Later, eh?’ He squeezes her. 
‘Mackintosh! This is supposed to be a social gathering.’ 
‘I'm not social, am I? I'm this horrible thing called an artist. Think of...’ He tries to think of the epitome of the asocial artist. ‘...Think of people like Byron.’ 
Mrs Vine grins knowingly. ‘I wish you were like Byron.’ 
‘He was a bit of a rebel,’ Mackintosh reminds her, suspecting that Mrs Vine knows more about Byron than he does. 
‘He used his charm and he was popular at social gatherings.’ 
‘I don't think it was the social side he went for.’ 
‘Well you should try to be sociable this evening. Go and be nice to Clive and I'll see you later. There's something I want to talk to you about.’ 
‘Why not tell me now?’ 
‘Later,’ she says mysteriously, moving away so that Mackintosh is left alone with the drinks. He glances around at the dozen other guests, all of whom seem engrossed in conversation and none of whom he knows or particularly wants to know. More interesting are the bottles of wine. His heart warms at the sight of them. He tries to calculate how much he would need to finance an exhibition, should Mrs Vine ask, but the lure of the bottles makes it difficult to concentrate. 
‘Which one are you going to have?’ a voice comes from behind him. Mackintosh turns. The speaker is in his late twenties and is smiling as though his words are part of a shared joke. A smoothie, Mackintosh decides, eyeing the soft faded shirt, designer cardigan and cord trousers which have resisted bagginess. The speaker's most striking feature is his eyes. They are blue, penetrating and vaguely disturbing. 
‘Wasn't even thinking about a drink,’ Mackintosh lies. 
‘You were deep in thought.’ 
‘Just playing about with ideas.’ 
‘What do you do with them?’ 
‘Eh?’ 
‘You're a poet, are you?’ 
‘Painter.’ 
‘That's interesting.’ The stranger smiles again-the wondrous smile of one who has been granted insight to a mystery. ‘So we have a painter in our midst.’ 
‘I'm sure it's full of unexpected talents, this place. I was talking to a poet over there.’ 
‘A lot of artistic people here,’ the stranger assures him. ‘I like to be surrounded by them. They're very sensitive.’ 
‘I'm sure they are,’ Mackintosh agrees warily. 
‘Have you known Mrs Vine long?’ 
Mackintosh makes affirmative noises. 
‘She’s always helping struggling artists. I'm so glad I met her. I feel privileged.’ 
Mackintosh does not like the tenor of the conversation. He looks around for an escape, but Mrs Vine is bearing down on him, her expression fixed in a smile. 
‘You've introduced each other. That breaks the social ice, doesn't it?’ 
‘No,’ Mackintosh confesses. 
‘Bit of a maverick, our Mackintosh.’ Mrs Vine manages to retain her smile. 
‘Rough diamond,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘What I love about coming here is the mix of people,’ the smoothie agrees. ‘It's your metier, Mrs Vine-bringing people together.’ 
‘Mackintosh has given up his teaching and research work to concentrate on art,’ Mrs Vine explains. She touches the smoothie's arm. ‘Simon here is quite an innovator in his own way. He's just set up his own computer software consultancy.’ 
Simon smiles modestly. 
‘Quite innovative,’ Mackintosh agrees, reminding himself that he must never upset potentially useful people, especially Mrs Vine. 
‘What are you trying to say in your painting?’ Simon asks, fixing his blue eyes on Mackintosh again. 
‘A difficult question,’ Mackintosh prevaricates, thinking it a stupid question. 
‘I want to know what compels you.’ 
‘Do you want a painting for your office?’ 
‘I'd certainly like to see some of your work-see what feeling it gives me.’ 
‘We're thinking about an exhibition.’ 
‘Of course.’ Simon smiles his confiding smile, as though he does not need to be told.
‘No details as yet. Got to work it out with Clive.’ 
‘And you'll tell me when everything is arranged?’ 
‘I'll make a point of it,’ Mackintosh assures him. 
‘Simon has visions,’ Mrs Vine reveals.
‘Ah,’ Mackintosh breathes, casting around more desperately for an escape. 
‘A vision,’ Simon echoes, a faraway look coming to his eyes. ‘What I see is an unutterably beautiful world. A woman like an angel guides me there.’ His face is transformed by the sort of expression Mackintosh sees on the faces of Mormons before he shuts the door on them. ‘I want to show this world to other people. I think that's my vocation, just as Mrs Vine's is to bring people together.’ 
Mackintosh remembers rapture: there was an office party and somebody else was buying the drinks. He had visions on that day, but fortunately he got over them. 
‘I've got to have a word with Clive,’ he excuses himself, turning back to the drinks table. The ideal would be to stay there all the evening, if he has to stay at all. As he weighs the chances of taking a bottle and making his exit without anybody noticing, he feels the presence of somebody behind him. He turns, expecting to find Simon about to expound on his visions, but Simon and Mrs Vine have drifted away. Instead, Mackintosh's eyes meet those of an Asian. 
‘Excuse me, but you are a friend of Mrs Vine?’ 
‘That's why we're all here,’ Mackintosh agrees. ‘Want some of this?’ He holds out the wine bottle. 
‘No thank you, no-I do not drink alcohol, but I will have some orange juice if you will pass me the jug.’ 
‘Very health-giving,’ Mackintosh declares, obliging. 
‘Indeed, it is very good for you. Most refreshing. You will have some orange?’ 
‘I think I'll make do with the wine this time. Don't like mixing drinks.’ 
‘But it is not so good for you as this.’ The Indian taps the jug. 
‘I don't know about that.’ 
‘Wine is very bad for your liver.’ 
‘It's the soul I want it for.’ 
‘You are interested in your soul? You are religious?’ 
‘I was thinking creatively,’ Mackintosh explains, suppressing a groan. Seeing his companion’s puzzlement, he explains, ‘You have a glass of two of wine and things seem possible that you couldn't do before,’ 
The Indian still looks puzzled. 
‘Creative things like painting, writing.’ 
‘You are a creative person, please?’ 
Mackintosh concedes the fact. 
‘Mrs Vine, she is very fond of people who create.’ 
Mackintosh tries to decide what is the least of several evils. Most tempting is to seek oblivion in the remainder of the wine. What he should have done was to stay at home and paint, heedless of both Mrs Morrow and Mrs Vine. Artists need to be ruthless. 
‘And your name is, please?’ the Indian is asking. 
‘Eh?’ 
‘Mine is Raj. I shall be delighted if you will tell me your name.’ 
‘Mackintosh.’ 
‘I am pleased to know you, Mackintosh.’ 
Solemnly they shake hands. 
‘Tell me, Mackintosh, what do you create?’ 
‘I paint.’ 
‘Paintings.’ Raj looks impressed. ‘I very much admire you.’ 
‘I should have brought some work here tonight,’ Mackintosh continues, warming to his theme. 
‘I would indeed like to see your paintings. You will bring some next time, please?’ 
Will there be a next time? Mackintosh decides to keep away from such metaphysical questions. He asks without much hope, ‘Are you interested in buying paintings?’ 
Raj shakes his head. ‘Alas I do not have the money for such things, though I should like to own them.’ 
Which reminds Mackintosh that he has not yet sold a painting to Mrs Vine. It does not seem a propitious moment to broach the matter, though with her enthusiasm she should be willing to buy something. He drinks deeply and wonders whether he should leave before the drink runs out. Perhaps his destiny does not lie in Belsize Park. 
‘I have never known an artist before,’ Raj announces. ‘It is so good to come here and meet all these interesting people.’ 
‘You don't work in insurance, by any chance?’ 
‘I am studying to be an accountant.’ 
‘Ah, an accountant.’ Mackintosh, tries to invest the words with interest, though he cannot think of anything more boring than training to be an accountant-except for working in insurance. 
‘I much admire your painter Paul Nash.’ 
‘Don't know him, I'm afraid.’ 
‘He is still alive?’ 
‘Er, think so. Getting old, though.’ 
‘He is most profound.’ 
‘Most profound,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘You have paintings in the Tate Gallery?’ 
‘Not yet, but I'm planning an exhibition.’ 
‘You will please tell me when it is?’ 
‘I think Simon's looking for you.’ 
‘Simon? Who is this Simon?’ 
‘With the blue eyes. I think he wants to tell you about his vision.’ 
Raj looks impressed. ‘I do not know anybody who has visions.’ 
‘Then you want to have a chat with Simon. Amazing character.’ 
‘Thank you very much for telling me. It is most kind of you.’ 
As Raj heads for Simon, Mackintosh celebrates with a refill. He keeps his back resolutely to the assembled company, glimpsing their reflections in the window. He should not be having so much wine, he tells himself. His stomach will suffer. The nagging pain once drove him to a doctor who wanted him to have tests. No alcohol and lots of milk were the doctor's instructions. So Mackintosh threw away the letter to the hospital. He went instead to the pub and had a Guinness which made him feel a little better. Now he mainly drinks Baileys which soothes his mucous membranes. He nibbles one of the sandwiches thoughtfully provided by his hostess to help the drinks go down. The real trouble, he concludes, is that he does not like people. They intrude on his inner world, leaving his creative processes in turmoil. And he is surrounded by the sort of people he normally tries to avoid at any cost. 
‘You must talk to people more,’ Mrs Vine urges over his shoulder. Her presence startles him so much that he drops the sandwich, though he manages not to spill the wine. He turns.
‘There's no one I want to talk to.’ 
‘You should get to know them better.’ 
‘So many things we should do. And then you ask yourself why. Why bother wasting your life talking to pillocks?’ 
‘I don't understand you sometimes, Mackintosh.’ 
He assumes his enigmatic look. 
‘Don't you want help?’ Mrs Vine persists. 
‘I'm not very good at this sort of occasion.’ 
‘We've got to get you an exhibition.’ 
‘The other unfortunate thing is I can't stay too long tonight.’ 
‘I arranged all this for you!’ 
‘Feel a bit rough, I'm afraid. Must be the anaesthetic.’ 
Mrs Vine’s face clouds. ‘Do you want to stay here?’ 
New vistas open for Mackintosh. It is worth putting up with Clive and Simon for the evening if he gains a patron. ‘I wouldn't mind going up fairly soon,’ he warns. 
‘At least have another word with Clive first.’ 
It seems a good deal. Dutifully Mackintosh refills his glass and makes his way to Clive who is still with Trevor of the clammy handshake. 
‘You've really got us talking about the arts scene in the seventies,’ Clive says eagerly. 
‘I thought I was talking about the sixties.’ Mackintosh puts authority into his tone, though he is no longer sure what he said. With enough wine, conversation becomes aural wallpaper. 
‘Tell me, were you influenced by Warhol?’ Clive asks. 
‘No.’ 
Clive's hand writhes over his chest as though his drink has scalded him. Mackintosh watches this display of feeling with interest. 
‘You must be the only artist not to be in his debt,’ Clive says, when the emotion has subsided enough for him to speak. 
‘I'm sure there are some of us out there, hiding in odd corners.’ 
Clive chortles. Mackintosh is reminded of the noise his washbasin makes. 
‘You've certainly been keeping well hidden,’ Clive says when he recovers his breath. 
‘There was a renaissance of poetry in the seventies,’ Trevor interposes.
‘Was there really?’ Mackintosh exclaims. ‘Did your mummy tell you that when she was changing your nappies?’ He sniggers. Then he is laughing and unable to stop. The others stare at him. ‘We've got to sort out our programme,’ he says to Clive when he recovers. He pats Clive on the shoulder. 
‘What programme?’ 
‘You are the Clive who likes to make programmes about new artists? That was the Clive I was talking to earlier. Looked just like you.’ 
‘We didn't get down to anything as concrete as a programme.’ 
‘Perhaps we should then-leave this fart to drone on about his poetry.’ 
Clive smiles uneasily. ‘I didn't really think this is quite the time to get down to details.’ 
‘Why? Why not?’ 
‘We've had a little too much to drink today, I think.’ 
‘Not yet, not yet, but I'm getting there. I don't know about you.’ Mackintosh totters back to the drinks table, intent on living up to his promise. It is a novel experience to have an endless supply of wine. The problems with pubs are closing time and the bar staff's insistence on payment. 
The sound of clapping intrudes on Mackintosh's musings. He tries to focus on its source, but without much success. 
‘Can I have your attention?’ Mrs Vine calls to the company in general. 
Mackintosh fills his glass and gives what attention he can to Mrs Vine. 
‘Trevor is going to recite his latest poems.’ 
‘Oh God,’ Mackintosh cries, loud enough to make the others look at him. 
‘Can we gather at this end, please?’ Mrs Vine calls. 
Like cattle going to milking, the guests make their way to the end of the room. Mackintosh leaves the drinks table reluctantly, not sure when he will be able to get back to it. He positions himself as far from Simon, Clive and Raj as possible and stares into his wineglass in the hope that nobody will talk to him. Trevor has taken his place beside Mrs Vine. He smooths down his hair. From inside his coat he produces a sheaf of manuscripts. It is a thick sheaf. Mackintosh groans audibly and massages his stomach in the hope of releasing the wind. 
Trevor adopts a suitable declamatory stance with one hand on hip and his chin thrust upwards. He clears his throat. ‘I should like to read a poem entitled Entities.’ 
There is a murmur which might indicate anticipation or resignation. Trevor fixes his audience with a steely gaze and thrusts his chin even higher. 
As they walked, wrapped in the enormity of emotion, 
Time was a toy to be manipulated, 
To be cast aside as a spent plaything,
No longer to be feared. 
They knew such boundless happiness 
That the past and future were as one, 
Conjoined in the eternal present 	
Of a new life beginning, 
Bound to them inextricably in their love, 
With them as the light was going down, 
If there was ever darkness. 
The audience waits in silence as Trevor holds his pose. Mackintosh succeeds in releasing the wind. He belches. Silence settles on the company again until Trevor lets his chin fall and the buzz of conversation returns. A few people clap. Without acknowledging the response, Trevor presses his hair more firmly against his scalp. Mackintosh wonders if he can get to the drinks table without Mrs Vine noticing. 
‘The next poem is called Nocturne,’ Trevor announces, holding the paper some distance before him as though he is long-sighted. 
Mackintosh has heard poems called Nocturne before. As a distraction, he tries to focus on his fellow audience. The striking fact is that apart from Mrs Vine, they are all men. Has she only helped men, he wonders. It is disturbing to think that he might be the latest in a succession of prodigies-and that the others are in the room. More alarming is the thought that he might be rubbing shoulders with his successor. 
‘Let faces become lost in twilight,’ Trevor declaims. 
‘In a world where sight is of no accord 
  	And animals know that sound and smell 
	Are their guides and their own fatal weakness...’ 
Mackintosh muses that Mrs Vine's liking for bleached pine is misguided. Victorian vicarages should have acres of dark polished furniture adorned with clutter. He has to admit that the room is tasteful with its sparse furnishings. He could live with it, given the chance, but it is not authentic. 
‘...Then rustling, a sudden cry-
Nature working its inexorable cycle, 
Life and death brought together, 
Their bloody union unseeable...’ 
‘Don't mind me,’ says Mackintosh in a stage whisper, creeping behind Trevor. ‘You carry on, mate. Just want a refill.’ 
‘This is ridiculous,’ the poet exclaims, abandoning his pose. His papers fall over the floor. He is picking them up as Mackintosh refills his glass and creeps out to the hall with his prize. 
When Trevor begins again, his declamation is muffled by the door. Mackintosh relaxes, feeling like a little boy listening at the door of an adult's party. The door opens. Mrs Vine lets herself out with elaborate quietness and Mackintosh feels that churning in his stomach which he knew in his schooldays whenever he was caught red-handed. 
‘That was terrible of you!’ she hisses. 
‘I know,’ he whispers. ‘It's the drink-I'm sorry.’ 
He takes her hand, drawing her close, and kisses her. He feels her relaxing. It is worth spilling some wine. 
‘Did you sort things out with Clive?’ she asks, mollified. 
‘Sort of.’ 
‘Don't you want to listen to Trevor?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘It wasn't very polite, interrupting him like that.’ 
‘I'm tired. It was pretty traumatic at the dentist's.’ 
‘I know.’ Her voice has softened. She takes his hand. ‘I do understand.’ 
Mackintosh smiles bravely. 
‘Do you want to stay?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble...’
‘I'd better show you your room,’ Mrs Vine tells him, leading the way upstairs. ‘That's the bathroom.’ She indicates one of the stripped pine doors. ‘And that's my room.’ 
‘Ah.’ Mackintosh wishes that there had been an opportunity to refill his glass again, or even better to appropriate a bottle. It is a long time since he has lulled himself to sleep with alcohol. 
‘And this is your room.’ 
‘Very kind of you. Very kind.’ 
‘I'll have to go back to the guests-I'll see you later.’ Mrs Vine brushes her lips against his in farewell and Mackintosh is left to contemplate his surroundings. The room is larger than his own bed-sit. There are the inevitable bleached pine furnishings and Laura Ashley drapes. The bed is large enough for two. In deference to Mrs Vine he takes off his shoes before putting his feet on it. The wine imparts a pleasant fuzziness to his thoughts. He wonders whether to undress or whether he should go downstairs when the others have gone. In the event sleep takes the decision from him.

Tuesday

Light filters through curtains which have no holes. Birds squawk under the eaves. There is a smell of potpourri instead of customary turpentine and fried eggs. It takes Mackintosh a few moments to remember where he is. When he does, he groans and closes his eyes again. Discrete gurgles come from the central heating-one of Mrs Vine's capitulations to the twentieth century. Mentally he picks his way over the debris of the evening. One regret is that he was the one to walk out rather than being the cause of somebody else walking out. Another regret is not making a better job of insulting Trevor.
A knock at the door makes Mackintosh open his eyes. Mrs Vine's face appears around the edge of the stripped pine.
‘You're awake.’
‘I cannot tell a lie.’
The door opens wider and Mrs Vine advances bearing a cup of tea. ‘Not that you deserve it,’ she chides, perching on the edge of the bed as though they already share some intimacy.
‘Haven't got any whisky to go in it, have you?’ 
‘Mackintosh you're terrible! You don't really want it.’ She frowns. ‘Do I have to keep calling you Mackintosh?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘You have got a first name. Everybody has.’ 
‘Haven't used it for years. Forgotten it myself now.’ 
‘You can't forget your own name.’ 
‘I can.’ 
‘Anyway, you don't really want whisky.’ 
‘I think I do, you know.’ 
‘After last night?’ 
‘What about last night?’ 
‘You had too much to drink, but I don't suppose you remember.’ 
Mackintosh adopts his indignant look. ‘I had one or two glasses of wine-’ 
’You were very drunk and you upset a lot of people,’ Mrs Vine scolds. ‘Trevor was terribly upset when you interrupted his readings.’ 
‘It was all a joke. They can't take a joke, these intellectuals.’ 
‘They didn't think you were joking.’ 
‘That's their problem: too po-faced.’ 
‘It didn't seem like a joke when you were rude to Simon.’ 
‘I'm sorry.’ Mackintosh tries to look repentant. 
‘So you should be-especially with what happened afterwards.’ 
‘That was unfortunate,’ he agrees, trying to remember what did happen afterwards.
‘When I came to see you after the soiree,’ Mrs Vine prompts. 
‘Ah yes.’ 
‘And you were asleep.’ 
‘It was a pretty rough day, one way and another. Must have been the anaesthetic. The dentist did say he had to give me more than usual.’ 
‘I hoped you might have stayed awake a little while.’ 
‘I was going to. Certainly wouldn't have gone to sleep if I'd known...’ Mackintosh's voice trails away as he waits for more clues about Mrs Vine's nocturnal visit. 
‘Still, I'm glad you're here.’ 
He smiles in what he hopes is a winning way. 
‘What are you going to do today?’ she asks. 
‘Haven't really sorted myself out yet. Takes me a while...’ 
‘I wondered if you'd like to come for a walk.’ 
‘Really ought to get on with some work,’ he demurs. 
Mrs Vine forces a smile. ‘One day you'll do something I want to do.’ 
‘I thought I did.’ 
‘When?’ 
‘I came to yesterday's do.’ 
‘That wasn't just to see me, was it?’ 
‘Wasn't it?’ 
‘You thought it was going to help your career.’ 
Mackintosh is not sure that his career has been helped much, but he does not argue. 
‘When I came in here to see you after the party, I had an idea I wanted to tell you about.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘Don't you remember?’ 
‘I thought we'd decided I was asleep.’ 
‘I mentioned it to you earlier-when we were downstairs. You'd know if you hadn't drunk so much.’ 
‘I remember all right, but we never went into details,’ he improvises. 
‘It was when you mentioned you were having problems about money. This idea came to me.’ 
He waits with cup poised. 
‘Have you thought about gardening?’ 
Tea slops on the bedclothes. As Mrs Vine fetches a flannel and a towel from the bathroom, Mackintosh takes the opportunity to think more deeply about gardening. ‘It's not really my line,’ he confesses as she damps the sheet. ‘Did my back in once and I can't do the digging now-much as I'd like to.’ 
Mrs Vine laughs. ‘I wasn't thinking of that sort of gardening. You are funny.’ As Mackintosh smiles at his silliness, his hostess leans closer, confidingly. ‘I expect you know-I'm so busy I hardly have any time to myself.’ 
He does not know, but he nods agreeably. 
‘Some things get neglected,’ she continues. ‘I want to do them, but I can't.’ 
‘I get the same problem.’ 
‘I have a man in to tidy the garden, but it needs more than that.’ 
‘Always the trouble with gardens,’ Mackintosh agrees, trying to sound knowledgeable.
‘What I want is somebody to restore it to what it used to be.’ 
‘Used to be when?’ 
‘When the house was built. I think I've got the house to more or less its original state, but I just haven't had time to do anything about the garden.’ 
Mackintosh sips what is left of his tea and wishes that he had insisted on the whisky. The gardens of newly-built houses which he has seen consist of heaps of rubble adorned with empty paint tins. He suspects that gardens of houses built in Victorian times suffered similar problems, but Mrs Vine has something different in mind. The pedant in him wants to argue that Mrs Vine's vision of the Victorian house is at odds with reality, but this is not the moment for voicing dissent. 
‘What do you think?’ she asks, interrupting his reverie. 
‘It wasn't quite what I was expecting,’ he has to admit. Painting Mrs Vine's portrait, or even painting one of her rooms were more likely possibilities. He reflects that she must have money to waste if planning the garden is a preoccupation. 
‘It needs somebody with flair. The gardener's very competent, but he hasn't got that creative spark like you.’ 
Mackintosh looks modest. 
‘And it’s going to take a lot of your time, I realise that.’ 
He nods as one whose time is already precious. 
‘I know I'm taking you away from your real work.’ Mrs Vine looks sorrowful. ‘All I can say it that I'll make sure you're well paid.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘And you could stay here while you were doing it-if you wanted.’ 
Visions of cooked meals three times a day pass before Mackintosh's incredulous eyes. How long since he had a cooked dinner every day? And it would not be bacon, egg and chips, if he knows anything about Mrs Vine. Suddenly fate seems benign. 
‘I haven't had too much to do with gardens,’ he cautions, remembering those hours of travail in the school gardens. Other children filled the school with flowers and had vegetables to take home. All the local cats seemed to make for his patch. 
‘I'm sure you can do it.’ 
He smiles bravely. 
‘So will you?’ 
‘I don't want it to totally take over from my painting.’ 
‘Of course not.’ Mrs Vine looks shocked. ‘You must paint. That's your really important work. And I want you to feel like one of the family-if you do stay, that is.’ 
‘It is a challenge,’ Mackintosh admits, wondering whether Mrs Vine has a proper family. No Mr Vine has been mentioned. 
‘Will you do it then?’ 
‘It could be interesting.’ 
‘That means yes, doesn't it?’
‘I suppose so.’ 
‘I'm so glad.’ She kisses him, causing more tea to slop over the sheets. ‘This could change your whole career, especially if we can get Clive to take an interest in your paintings.’ 
‘He didn't seem very interested last night.’ 
‘The trouble is that in his position Clive has so many people wanting his help, but it's going to be different for you. I know it is.’ 
‘Is it?’ 
‘We'll make sure he sees your work.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘I can help you, Mackintosh. I want you to realise that.’ She touches his hand. ‘I want your talent to be recognised. I only wish I had talent like yours.’ 
‘I'm sure you've got other things,’ he consoles her, thinking of how much it must cost her to run such a house. With all that money he could devote himself to painting without ever having to worry about the price of beer. 
‘But not your creative talent,’ Mrs Vine laments. 
‘It doesn't bring you happiness.’ 
She grips his hand more tightly. ‘Are you unhappy?’ 
He reflects on that one. Being broke and jobless is not a recipe for happiness. He cannot remember being riotously happy for some time. Conversely, he does not feel more depressed than usual, but artists do have a duty to emanate despair at appropriate moments.
‘You don't have to tell me,’ Mrs Vine continues. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’ 
He does not deny it. 
‘You've got to take those little moments of happiness when you can. You can give yourself that, can't you?’ 
‘I'll try,’ he assures her. 
‘Because I need happiness as well.’ 
He spills the remainder of his tea. 
‘We could look at the garden this morning, if you wanted,’ Mrs Vine suggests. She  seems unaware of his discomfiture as she mops the bedclothes.
‘You don't think we should wait till the spring before we start?’ 
‘Then we'd have to wait another year before I can grow any flowers.’ 
‘It might be difficult if it's a hard winter-all that frost and snow.’ 
‘We've had the mildest winter on record so far.’ 
‘So far, but you never know.’ 
She looks at him suspiciously. ‘You do want this job, don't you?’ 
‘Of course I do. I was thinking through the problems. I didn't want you to be disappointed.’ 
Mrs Vine brightens. ‘It is rather exciting, isn't it?’ 
‘It certainly is,’ he agrees. 
* 
Mackintosh has never been in Mrs Vine's kitchen before. Its gadgetry is hidden behind bleached oak panels, but this does not help to evoke the past as Mrs Vine intended. The  ceramic hob and inset sink betray something different. 
A well-scrubbed boy wearing school uniform and with hair combed neatly sideways sits at the bleached oak table. He stops swinging his feet and stares at Mackintosh. 
‘Hello,’ Mackintosh says jovially, trying to overcome his distaste for little boys. 
‘I'm Jeremy,’ the boy vouchsafes.
‘And how old are you, Jeremy?’ 
‘I'm eight. How old are you?’ 
‘That's not the sort of question you ask grown-ups,’ Mackintosh responds, abandoning joviality. 
‘Mummy said there was a man come to do the garden. Are you the man she was talking about?’ 
Mackintosh admits that he is. 
‘She didn't say you were a tramp.’ 
‘That's mums for you.’ 
‘You can have breakfast if you want some.’ 
‘Where's your mummy?’ 
‘She's having a bath if you want to see her.’ 
‘I'd better have my breakfast first, hadn't I?’ Mackintosh stares helplessly at the array of cupboards, determined not to ask Jeremy for help. 
‘You'll want a bowl if you're having cereal,’ Jeremy prompts. 
‘Just what I was thinking.’ 
‘It's in that cupboard there.’ The boy points. ‘Not that one,’ he adds scornfully as Mackintosh opens the first cupboard. ‘The one next to it.’ 
Mackintosh finds a bowl and looks at it speculatively. 
‘Now you want cereal to put in it,’ Jeremy says in a tone suitable for instructing a younger and rather backward brother. 
‘Ah yes,’ Mackintosh says grimly. 
‘Aren't you going to ask me where it is?’ 
‘No.’ 
Jeremy does not reply. Relieved of the need for conversation, Mackintosh peers into the other cupboards. He is aware that Jeremy watches him, but he studiously ignores the boy. When the wall cupboards yield nothing, he starts on the lower cupboards. 
‘You won't find it there,’ Jeremy informs him. ‘It's already on the table, silly.’ Mackintosh peers at the glass container on the table. Its contents resemble mouse droppings doused with sawdust. 
‘I didn't want muesli,’ he points out. 
‘It's organic.’ 
‘I don't care what it is. I don't want it.’ 
‘It's all we've got.’ 
‘It would be.’ 
‘What do you eat for breakfast?’ 
‘Sugar Puffs.’ 
Jeremy pulls a face. ‘They're not good for you. Mummy says you shouldn't eat cereals with sugar on them.’ 
‘I like them,’ Mackintosh justifies himself, looking around helplessly for the sugar bowl. 
‘Mummy says you should have muesli because it's full of fibre and you need fibre.’ 
‘I'm sure she wasn't talking about me.’ 
‘I think everybody needs it, but I'm not sure.’ 
‘Well I'm one of those people who don't. I suppose there's no chance of bacon and eggs?’ 
‘No chance.’ Jeremy does not bother to look up. 
‘I'll make do with some bread. I suppose it's wholemeal?’ he adds, remembering the sandwiches of the previous evening. 
‘Of course. Mummy always buys organic wholemeal bread.’ 
‘She would.’ 
‘It's in there.’ Jeremy points to a cupboard. ‘And the knife's in the drawer below it.’ 
Mackintosh cannot remember the last time he cut bread. It is convenient to nibble at a slice whilst he is painting, but his bread is always white, sliced and wrapped in plastic. 
‘You're not very good at it, are you?’ Jeremy says conversationally, watching Mackintosh's efforts to spread sunflower margarine on the wedge-shaped slice. ‘It's all crumbling.’ 
‘You wouldn't like to make me some tea, would you?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Little boys were supposed to be helpful in my day.’ 
‘It's different now.’ 
‘You can say that again.’ 
‘Anyway you've had some tea. Mummy brought you some in bed.’ Jeremy frowns, sensing a further implication. ‘She doesn't bring me anything.’ 
‘I'm a guest.’ 
‘She said you were like one of the family, so you shouldn't get tea in bed if I don't.’ 
‘Where's the marmalade?’ 
‘There isn't any. Mummy says-’ 
‘I know.’ He chews the bread which tastes more inedible than it did the previous evening, when thin slices were helped down by wine. He is tempted to go looking for a bottle with something left in it, but he does not want Jeremy recounting his breakfast habits to Mrs Vine. 
‘How long are you going to be here?’ Jeremy asks. 
‘Several weeks, perhaps. Why?’ 
‘We've already got a gardener.’ 
‘This is different.’ 
‘I don't understand.’ 
‘You will when you're older,’ Mackintosh announces, abandoning both his breakfast and the kitchen before Jeremy can answer back. 
* 
Mrs Vine clings to Mackintosh's arm as with hands thrust deep in his pockets he surveys the garden. There seems a lot of it for a London garden. He has seen parks which are smaller. Trees screen it from the road; bushes and shrugs growing in anarchic profusion comprise the inner defences. 
‘What do you think?’ Mrs Vine asks, watching him anxiously. 
‘An interesting job,’ Mackintosh pronounces, unable to think of anything else to say. The garden already looks to him much as he would expect a Victorian vicarage garden to look. 
‘It's terrible, isn't it? I don't know where you're going to start.’ 
‘What sort of ideas did you have?’ he asks, hoping for some clue to Mrs Vine's vision. 
‘I want it to have the right feel for the period.’ 
‘You don't think it is right-more or less? I mean obviously it needs a few little touches...’ 
Mrs Vine takes her hand from his arm. 
‘Quite a few touches, in fact,’ he amends sensing her displeasure. ‘It could be quite a job.’ 
‘That’s what I told you. All these things would have been small when they were planted. Now look at them.’ There is frustration in her voice. Her gesture takes in the whole garden. Mackintosh looks, remembering the estates with their tiny, unformed gardens which were built in the days when he was a planner. Dogs and little boys roamed over front gardens freed of the old restrictions of walls and hedges. It is an act of imagination to think of Mrs Vine's garden in the same way. 
‘I think you've got vision,’ she is saying. ‘In fact I know you have and I want you to use it to create a work of art.’ 
Mackintosh smiles modestly. 
‘You will be able to do that, won't you?’ she presses.
‘I'll do my best.’ 
‘Something Gertrude Jekyll would be proud of.’ 
‘Gertrude Jekyll,’ he muses, trying to think of something meaningful to say about Gertrude Jekyll's gardens. ‘That's quite a challenge.’ 
‘I don't know what you've got in mind. I suppose it's too soon to ask yet.’ 
‘I've got a few ideas.’ 
‘I'm sure you have.’ She takes his arm again. ‘Did you think about my suggestion?’ 
‘Which one?’ 
‘Living here while you get the garden done.’ 
‘I'll want to do some painting.’ 
‘You could bring your easel here. Perhaps you could paint the garden as you change it, so we'd have a series of watercolours.’ Excitement has come to her voice. Mackintosh nods dumbly. ‘That would be something unique, wouldn't it-the creation of a garden and a set of watercolours of its development. Clive could use it for a documentary.’ 
Mackintosh grunts noncommittally. 
‘I was thinking about a gazebo,’ Mrs Vine continues. ‘Or don't you think the garden's big enough?’ 
‘Might be a problem,’ Mackintosh cautions. 
‘You don’t think it’s too pretentious?’ 
‘Perhaps a little.’ She squeezes his arm. ‘I'll leave it all to you. You're the expert.’ 
Mackintosh smiles reassuringly. ‘I'll sort something out.’ 
‘You are clever.’ 
He basks in glory. 
‘How long do you think it's all going to take?’ 
‘Quite a few days.’ 
‘Days?’ 
‘Weeks, really.’ 
‘Anything you want, you will let me know, won't you?’ 
‘It's a matter of jotting down ideas first.’ 
‘Of course.’ 
‘You can't hurry the planning stage.’ 
‘I understand that.’ 
‘What I'd better do today is move a few things in here.’ 
‘You’ve got enough money for a taxi, haven't you?’ 
‘A good point.’ He pats the pockets of his trousers in a search for the nonexistent coins before confessing that he has not. 
‘I knew you hadn't,’ Mrs Vine says triumphantly. She puts her face close to his, so that he thinks she is about to kiss him. He can see the fine hairs above her lip. ‘I don't want you to worry about money at all while you're here. Do you understand?’ 
He thinks that he might enjoy designing gardens. 
* 
With the taxi waiting, Mackintosh lets himself into his room in Holloway. It is unchanged except for the rent book on the table, together with a note proclaiming 'YOUR RENT IS DUE.' He gathers those things which are important to him-paints, drawing pads, pencils, spare canvases, some of his best finished works-and as an afterthought his spare jacket, trousers and sandals. It is an impressive load worthy of at least two trips to the taxi. The first proves uneventful, but when he returns to the house, Mrs Morrow is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He eyes her grim features warily. The scenario is one they have enacted many times. 
‘You wouldn't be putting your things in that taxi waiting outside, would you, Mr Mackintosh?’ 
‘One or two things,’ he agrees. 
‘And then you thought you'd leave without paying the rent.’ 
He smiles winningly. ‘You should know me better than that.’ 
‘I know you all right-that's why I think you were trying to slip out without me seeing.’ 
‘I've been perfectly open about this.’ His tone betrays indignation. 
‘I said I wanted your rent by today, didn't I?’ 
‘You did indeed.’ 
‘So you've got it have you?’ 
‘I shall be getting it very soon.’ 
‘That's not good enough.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘I want it now, Mr Mackintosh. I'm tired of being fobbed off with excuses.’ 
‘I haven't actually got it on me.’ 
‘Not on you,’ she repeats cynically. 
‘'Fraid not.’ 
‘Well I don't know how you've got the cheek...’ Words fail her, unusually. 
‘In fact I'm taking some paintings to sell.’ 
Mrs Morrow sniffs. ‘I've seen some of your work. I don't know who's going to buy that stuff.’ 
‘You'd be surprised.’ 
‘So what happens about my rent?’ 
‘What I'll do is bring it straight back to you as soon as I’ve got them money.’ 
‘How do I know you're going to come back? I've had your games before.’ 
He knows that she is weakening. ‘I've still got half my things up there in my room,’ he reasons. ‘Canvases, clothes...’ 
‘You've hardly got any clothes apart from what you wear-and you don't change them too often from what I can see.’ 
‘It's the paints, that's the problem. They get all over you.’ 
‘It's not just paints,’ Mrs Morrow mutters darkly. ‘I've had a lot of trouble with you.’ 
‘I'm sure that's all in the past.’ 
‘I wish it was.’ 
‘In fact I think we can really say that this is turning over a new leaf.’ 
Mrs Morrow looks unconvinced. 
‘Mustn't keep the taxi waiting,’ he reminds her. 
‘I'm coming up to see what you're taking.’ 
‘There's no need for that.’ He tries to infuse indignation into his voice. ‘I should have thought you could trust me.’ 
But Mrs Morrow is already on the stairs. ‘I don't want anything of mine going in that taxi,’ her voice drifts down to him. ‘I've had things go missing before like that.’ 
Only desperation could make somebody take anything provided by Mrs Morrow, but Mackintosh forbears to mention that. More pragmatically he considers creeping out before his landlady notices that she is alone, but the thought of abandoning so many canvases makes him follow her up the linoleum-covered stairs, albeit with reluctance. In his room she gazes around helplessly at the stacks of canvases. 
‘You don't know which of them pictures you're taking then?’ 
‘Not really,’ he confesses. 
‘Perhaps you shouldn't have kept the taxi waiting outside.’ 
She has a point, though he would never admit it. 
‘Can't see anybody wanting to buy those, but you know your own business, I suppose.’ She investigates the wardrobe. ‘You're supposed to keep clothes in there, not paintings. That's what I supply my tenants with wardrobes for. It's all smelling of paint now, but of course you don't worry about things like that.’ 
‘I shall be away for a few days,’ Mackintosh announces once he has edged past her. 
‘What about my rent? I thought you were coming straight back with the money.’ 
‘When I've sold these,’ he assures her, hastening downstairs as fast as he can with twelve canvases in his arms. 
‘What's your address?’ Her voice echoes down the stairwell. 
‘A few days and I'll be back.’ 
‘I want to know your address now, Mr Mackintosh.’ 
‘I'll let you know when I get back.’ 
‘It's not much good then, is it?’ 
But he is outside and banging the front door closed. As the taxi draws away, he peers out the rear window. There is no sign of Mrs Morrow running after him. He settles back with his canvases in his arms and experiences a mixture of feelings-relief at having evaded paying the rent and regret that some of his work is left behind. With luck he will not go back to live there, though perhaps he might creep back when Mrs Morrow is not on watch to collect the rest of his belongings. It will have to be soon, or she will throw them out. 
A taxi journey is a novel experience for somebody who usually cannot afford a bus fare, so Mackintosh savours it. He tries to see Camden Road as a stranger might. All big cities have an artery like it: built in the heyday of the empire and fallen on hard times, the grandiose terraces converted into flats and bed-sits. Camden Road is not an impressive example: aside from the continuous stream of traffic, the postwar intrusion of nondescript blocks of flats, gaudy filling stations and school buildings intrude on its decaying splendour. Such is the saddening march of progress. When such thoughts overcome him, Mackintosh wishes that he could step back to the age of horse traffic and yellow gaslight, when servants and masters took their God-given places and privileged children looked forward to a life which could not change. In his lecturing days, such nostalgia had to be kept from his academic colleagues, who would have scorned the sentimental ramblings of a historian. Sometimes he thinks he should have been born a hundred years ago, even if Victorian England provided no jobs for lecturers of town planning. At least artists commanded respect. 
Near Camden Town, the past seems closer. The houses near the railway bridge are meaner and less touched by progress. Camden still has its early nineteenth-century, three-storeyed houses-unpretentious and neater than those of Holloway. It is a place dear to Mackintosh's heart. He would like to linger, but the taxi carries him past the pubs which Dylan Thomas knew, over the canal bridge and past the gaunt wall of the railway goods yard. He remembers with pleasure the Sundays spent browsing in the market which spread into the goods yard stables. The stable fittings were intact, making the sense of the past overwhelming. On the granite setts outside was spread the junk-the chipped green and cream enamel saucepans, the rusting kitchen tools and the unwashed clothing. Sickert would have appreciated it. 
In those days, Mackintosh rarely ventured beyond Chalk Farm station. Beyond was a place where trees grew and where there was an illusion of London almost being left behind. What he likes about London is the feeling of coming to its edge-and then finding another London beyond. Travelling by taxi blunts that moment of excitement, along with removing the freedom to wander into pubs never visited before. As the taxi climbs Haverstock Hill, he peers out at the world which will be his. The Victorian houses are converted into flats, but they retain a grandeur which is lost in Camden Road. Fronting the hill are some shops and houses from before the building of the estates. He marvels at their survival when faced with the Victorian march of progress. They mirror his own fortunes. By evading the stultifying effects of mortgages, families and safe jobs, he has become an anachronism for his age. A kinder way of putting it is that he has remained true to the values of his youth. He hopes that will not change, though he suspects that Mrs Vine might have other ideas. 
* 
The one thing which makes a new home complete is a local, so at lunchtime Mackintosh sets out to remedy that omission. Belsize Park has a shortage of pubs, he concludes as desperation forces him towards Hampstead. He knows Hampstead better. It has a multitude of pubs, most of which he visited in his more affluent working days. Hampstead exudes affluence. No drunks haunt the high street, unlike Camden down the hill. Its shops are dedicated to the luxuries of life-clothes, hair styles, antiques and perfumes-rather than to mundane commodities like bread and cat litter. Yet rather than bringing out the socialist in Mackintosh, such conspicuous consumption arouses feelings of awe. It symbolises a world with which he grapples to come to terms. The wide street fringed with trees, the alleys leading from it and the old buildings create the feel of a village, albeit one taken over as a film set with more than its fair share of attractive extras. He is part of a drama and Hampstead invites him to play his part to the full. Heaven must be looking through shop windows at pretty girls before finding a comfortable pub. 
Mackintosh samples several pubs before making his decision. Choosing a local is not something to be undertaken lightly. The ambience has to be right, which means selling real ale and having stools at the bar to obviate the problem of standing up as the glorious moment of intoxication nears. A local also requires an attractive barmaid and preferably some attractive female drinkers to lust after should the barmaid leave her post. The Cornucopia satisfies most of these conditions. It is close enough to the Royal Free Hospital to attract nurses, even if none are in evidence, there is a special offer on real ale, bar stools are plentiful and the barmaid has a short skirt and a trim figure. Heedless of what beer might do to his stomach, Mackintosh catches the attention of the girl behind the counter and orders a pint. As she draws the beer, he watches appreciatively. She is in her late twenties-mature enough to avoid the emotional complications in which his students entangled themselves whenever they pursued lecturers. Passions run high at eighteen, he remembers ruefully. In his lecturing days he went for girls with soulful eyes, till bitter experience taught him the value of expediency. That meant being content with good tits, which was no great hardship. The barmaid has pert breasts. Her fluffy black hair glistens as the light catches it. He loves that. It flops across her face whenever she bends forward, so that she has to push it back, her hand sliding down her face as though she is peeping over her fingers. Her complexion is pale. High, fragile cheekbones and big, dark eyes give her a waif-like appearance; then she notices his interest and the shrewdness with which she returns his gaze suggests someone more world-weary. 
‘There you go.’ She gives Mackintosh a quick smile as she sets the mug before him. He sees sadness there; or at least he imagines he does. The lifting of her cheekbones brings a radiance to her face which stirs old emotions. 
‘Have one yourself,’ he offers when his can find his voice. That makes her face light with a brief, secret smile-the knowing smile of a girl who is aware of the play they are enacting. 
‘I'll have a slimline tonic. Thanks.’ 
He pays with a note, which is a novel experience in itself. Flourishing notes gives a heady feeling of freedom. It was not something he did in his Holloway local: he rarely had notes and there were always Irishmen ready to cadge drinks at the sight of one. His old drinking companions would not be tolerated in the Cornucopia. 
‘Not too noisy in here,’ he remarks as he takes his change. The voice of experience tells him to keep the dialogue going at all costs. 
‘It gets busy by one o'clock.’ She smiles that secret smile and he loves her. 
‘That's how it should be in a good pub.’ 
‘This must be good then.’ 
‘I think I'm going to make it my local.’ 
The remark elicits polite interest rather than ecstasy. Mackintosh feels unreasonably disappointed. It is time to move from pleasantries if he is to keep her interest. 
‘You remind me of a student of mine,’ he tells her. 
She pushes her hair back to peep at his face. ‘You're telling me you're a teacher?’ 
‘I was a lecturer.’ 
‘It wasn't on my course,’ she says, shaking her head determinedly. Suddenly she is as  young as his students-an innocent to be treasured. He savours the excitement. It is a long time since he encountered innocence. The thought of how long makes him uneasily aware of the passage of time. 
‘What subject were you studying?’ he asks. 
‘Sociology.’ 
‘Ah.’ He remembers the days when the polytechnic seemed to spawn sociology lecturers. The men sported beards like Marx, the women were strident feminists and both had posters of Lenin on their study walls. They supported demonstrations more enthusiastically than many students. During sit-ins, the picket line outside the library was comprised almost entirely of sociology lecturers, perhaps because the library was the building nearest the pub. 
‘What does that mean?’ the barmaid asks. 
‘What?’ 
‘You said ah.’ 
‘Not my subject, sociology.’ 
‘What was your subject?’ 
‘Town planning-the history of town planning, to be precise.’ 
‘Now I say ah.’ 
‘You don't go much for town planning,’ he says, picking his way amongst the nuances. 
‘I didn't mean that. I haven't met a lecturer in the history of town planning before.’ She studies him with more interest and he basks in her attention. ‘We talked about town planning sometimes in tutorials,’ she recalls. 
‘Hope you were complimentary about it.’ 
‘When we were studying professions.’ 
He knows what is coming. 
‘We had to decide whether town planning was a real profession. Same with advertising and estate agents.’ 
Mackintosh remembers sociologists talking like that. The role of the planner in society was a popular seminar topic. He liked seminars: students did the talking and he got paid. Seminars immediately after lunch were best. They provided an opportunity to recover from a lunchtime drink. 
‘We town planners are used to being knocked,’ he assures her. 
She watches him attentively, as students sometimes did. Unfortunately that was rarely during his lectures or seminars. More often it was in the bar. Those evenings in the student bar come back to him, when he held forth to what he hoped was an entranced audience. At least they appeared to be entranced, though now he is not so sure. It might have been the beer which gave that illusion. He smiles at the girl before him to reassure himself that things are different now. She smiles back. 
‘I wasn't trying to knock you,’ she assures him. 
He holds up his hands. ‘It's quite all right-I'm used to it. Every self-respecting sociologist has a go at planners. You have to do that before you get your badge.’ 
‘I didn't get mine-I walked out.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘Didn't think the course was worth carrying on with.’ 
Mackintosh sometimes wished that town planning students would take the same attitude. The trouble was that planners were career minded. He looks back with nostalgia to his own student days when there were causes. Everything became a cause, from banning the bomb to fighting cuts in higher education. Everybody wanted to be an eternal student or a dropped-out student. The difference between the two was minimal. Dropouts stayed near their student haunts, drinking in the same bars and keeping warm in the university library like pets afraid of straying far from home. 
‘So now you content yourself with doing this vital job,’ he sums up. 
‘Don't know about vital, but it pays the bills.’ 
‘Absolutely vital,’ he assures her, nodding vigorously. 
‘What about you? You said you weren't a lecturer any more.’ 
‘Went into painting-not house-painting, you understand.’ 
‘Perish the thought.’ She gives a little shudder. 
‘And designing. I'm designing a garden at the moment.’ A hint of modesty comes into his voice. He is pleased to see that the girl looks impressed. ‘Quite a new project for me. Very exciting though.’ 
‘What does designing a garden involve?’ 
‘Finding a concept,’ he says with conviction. In truth he has wondered the same thing himself, but this is no time to show fallibility. The girl looks no more enlightened. ‘Different sorts of flowers,’ he explains. ‘That sort of thing. Juggling spaces.’ 
‘I don't know much about gardening.’ 
‘Still plenty of scope even with window boxes,’ he announces with authority. ‘You have a concept and then you build around it.’ 
She shakes her head. ‘I haven't got green fingers, I'm afraid. There's a garden where I am, but I haven't touched it. I don't know where to start.’ 
‘It's a knack,’ he assures her, remembering when a girl student with a crush on him presented him with a plant for his study. Nobody had given him a plant before. Nobody had had a crush on him. The plant died three days later. To avoid hurting the donor's feelings he bought a replacement, though that died in four days. Afterwards he abandoned the mysteries of cultivation. The girl stopped coming to his lectures, but he never discovered whether there was any connection. 
‘I haven't got the patience for gardening,’ the barmaid is saying. 
‘You have to take a long-term view.’ 
‘I can't.’ She grins enticingly. ‘I've given up looking ahead now.’ 
Her innocence makes him love her. He admires her teeth, until memories of Mr Wagstaff are revived. 
‘Instant gratification,’ he sums up. 
‘That's me. It's terrible, isn't it? Sociologists are supposed to look down on that sort of thing.’ 
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of instant gratification,’ he assures her with complete conviction. ‘I haven't looked ahead for years.’ 
‘That's strange for somebody of your age.’ 
He settles his ageing bones more comfortably on the stool and tries to remember whether he said things like that about people in early middle age when he was in his twenties. ‘When the world keeps knocking you, you stop wanting to look around the next corner,’ he assures her. It is a heartfelt plea which surprises even him in its eloquence. Pretty good for a lunch time, he congratulates himself. The barmaid certainly looks impressed. 
‘What's your name?’ he asks. 
‘Sarah.’ 
‘Sarah,’ he repeats, rolling the syllables on his tongue as though it is a name never encountered before. ‘And I'm Mackintosh.’ 
Her brow furrows. ‘That's not your first name.’ 
‘No, but everybody calls me Mackintosh.’ 
‘Then I'll have to do the same-if you're going to be secretive.’ 
‘I don't think I'd answer to anything else now.’ 
‘I think I'd better get on with washing the glasses, much as I like talking to you, Mackintosh.’ 
‘Shame-I mean having to wash glasses.’ 
‘I do have to earn my living here.’ 
He watches her at work and fantasises about her elfin form. His doctor's warnings about drinking alcohol come to mind as he savours the beer, but three months on Baileys almost counts as abstinence. And it has paid off. An evening of drinking wine elicited no twinge from his stomach. He plans the afternoon: a leisurely visit to the unemployment benefit office to announce his change of address should leave time for an early evening drink before dinner. The thought of having a cooked dinner ready for him makes him smile contentedly. Nothing like that has happened for years. Life is changing. 
* 
‘Can't eat another thing,’ Mackintosh says, pushing the plate away. 
‘You haven't got a very big appetite, have you?’ Mrs Vine looks concerned.
‘Never have. I like my food-don't get me wrong. Just not all that hungry at the moment.’ 
‘I'd like to see you eating more than that.’ 
‘I had something when I was out.’ He can still feel the beer swilling about inside him.
‘You knew I was going to cook you a dinner.’ 
He senses that it is time to look remorseful. ‘I forgot. I haven't got used to this new routine yet.’ He looks pleadingly at her. 
‘You will try to remember in future, won't you? Just let me know if you're going to eat out.’ 
‘I will. It was unforgivable of me.’ 
Mrs Vine softens. ‘I'll forgive you, Mackintosh.’ 
‘Couldn't forget with meals like this to look forward to.’ 
She looks flattered. ‘Have to make an effort for my special guest, don't I?’ 
It takes Mackintosh a moment to realise that she is talking about him. He smiles back. 
‘I hear you met Jeremy this morning,’ she reveals. 
‘We had muesli together.’ 
‘He's a very sensitive boy. He does miss his father.’ 
‘I’m sure he does,’ Mackintosh agrees, hoping for revelations about the Vine family history. A wistful expression has come over his hostess's face. 
‘How long is it now?’ he asks casually. 
‘Over a year.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘You did like him, didn't you?’ 
‘Who?’ 
‘Jeremy.’ 
‘Yes, a... charming little boy.’ 
Mrs Vine smiles. ‘I'm so glad.’ 
‘He's not here tonight then?’ 
‘It's his violin lesson.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘You could come with me when I collect him, if you like.’ 
‘I’d love to, but I ought to get on with some work.’ 
‘Of course.’ 
‘Settle down to some painting. You have to keep at it.’ 
‘I hope you're going to show me what you're doing.’ 
‘As soon as I've got something finished. I don't really like showing half-finished works.’ 
‘I do understand.’ 
‘I've always been like that.’ 
‘I don't mind. Really.’ 
‘You're very understanding.’ 
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Vine looks pleased. ‘I had an idea.’ 
Mackintosh is getting used to Mrs Vine having ideas. 
‘I don't know whether you'll like it.’ 
He tries to look expectant, but her words are ominous.
‘Would you like to give drawing lessons to Jeremy?’ 
Mackintosh stares unseeing, overcome by the terrible vision. 
‘What do you think?’ Mrs Vine ventures. 
‘It's an idea,’ he concedes. 
‘So you'll do it.’ She leans across the table. ‘I'm so pleased. He does need his visual imagination stimulated. That's so important as his age, isn't it?’ 
‘I don't know if he's really old enough.’ 
‘I'm sure he is.’ 
‘I'm not a good teacher.’ 
‘You mustn't underrate yourself.  I remember you telling me you were a lecturer.’
‘That was older students.’ He thinks of the older students-those girls whose bodies he desired. ‘And there's the time problem.’ 
‘An hour a week-that's all I'm asking.’ 
‘It's going to be difficult.’ 
‘Mackintosh-be positive.’ 
‘Ah.’ She moves around the table to him, to cradle his head against her ample body. ‘I don't know what we're going to do with you.’ 
‘I'm getting on all right,’ Mackintosh assures her. ‘Nothing wrong with me.’ 
‘Life's going to change for you.’ Mrs Vine assures him, stroking his head. ‘Things could be so different.’ 
He is afraid of that.

Wednesday

What Mackintosh means to do is to have his breakfast either before Jeremy comes down, or preferably after Jeremy has gone to school. A miscalculation means that for the second morning running he confronts Mrs Vine's offspring, who is attacking a pile of soggy muesli.
 ‘And how's Jeremy today?’
There is no immediate answer as Jeremy solemnly chews his organic, high fibre flakes. Mackintosh looks around for the coffee.
 ‘All right, thank you,’ says Jeremy at length, putting down his spoon in preparation for conversation.
 ‘Good, good.’
 Jeremy looks puzzled. ‘Why do you say it twice?’
 ‘That's what people do.’
 ‘Why?’
 ‘Because they do.’
 ‘I don't understand.’
 ‘You will when you're older.’
 ‘That's what you said yesterday. I'm a day older since then.’
 ‘Bully for you.’
 ‘That doesn't sound very nice.’
 ‘It's just the sort of thing your mummy would say.’
 ‘I'm not sure about that.’
 ‘Definitely.’
 Jeremy thinks about that one and evidently decides to give Mackintosh the benefit of the doubt.  ‘If I'm a day older, I should understand more’, he points out.
 ‘It takes a lot of days to understand more.’
 ‘How many?’
 ‘Shut up.’
 ‘I'll tell mummy you said that.’
 Mackintosh throws open the cupboard doors with greater frenzy.
 ‘What are you looking for?’
 ‘Coffee.’
 ‘Why don't you ask?’
 ‘Where's the coffee?’
 ‘Mummy says you should always say please when you ask things.’
 ‘Where's the coffee, please?’
 ‘There isn't any.’
 Mackintosh bangs the door closed and slumps on a seat opposite Jeremy.
 ‘Sometimes mummy buys decaffeinated coffee beans, but not very often,’ the boy explains.
 Mackintosh stares at the carton of fruit juice, not replying. He did try fruit juice once, a long while ago: it was palatable with brandy.
 ‘Mummy says you're going to teach me painting.’
 Mackintosh continues to stare as his spirits drop further. Life in a bed-sit had something to be said for it.
 ‘I don't think I want you to teach me,’ Jeremy deduces.
 ‘Now why do you think that?’ 
 ‘I don't like you very much.’
 ‘It's mutual.’
 ‘What's that mean?’
 ‘It means I don't like you very much either.’
 Jeremy looks thoughtful as he goes back to his muesli.
*
You stumble into things, or at least Mackintosh stumbles into things. Talking to a pretty barmaid is almost a reflex action, to be repeated whenever he goes into a pub. Nothing ever comes of it, until now. He is walking home with a pretty barmaid and trying not to look bemused. They cross the road by the Royal Free Hospital. Instinctively Mackintosh scans the entrance for attractive nurses and then feels guilty for doing so. He steals a glance at his companion, but her hair conceals her expression.
‘If you can give me a few ideas,’ she prompts. 
‘I thought you said you only had window boxes?’
‘You said that.’
‘Did I?’
‘I've got my little patch of garden-or it would be a garden if it wasn't full of weeds. I'm not much of a gardener.’
‘I'm sure we can do something,’ the designer of gardens assures her with more confidence than he feels.
‘It really gives you a lift if you can go in the garden and pick a rose or something, you know?’
‘That shouldn't be too much of a problem.’
‘I'm sick of looking at weeds.’
‘The cursed weeds.’
‘Why do we have to put up with them? All I want is a nice little garden to look at-you know? Masses of colour whenever I look out the kitchen window.’
‘A little rustic idyll in Hampstead.’
‘Then when I got it like that, I suppose I'd have to spend all my spare time looking after it.’
‘The maggot in the apple.’
‘You're quite poetic for a town planner.’
‘They get me that way, gardens.’
‘I wish they got me. They're such hard work, that's the trouble. It's really boring, weeding.’
Mackintosh has not considered gardens long enough for the subject to become boring. Certainly he has no intention of getting involved in the hard work.
‘What I need are plastic flowers,’ Sarah continues. ‘I could concrete the whole garden and cover it with plastic grass and plastic flowers. How would that be?’
‘Truly terrible.’
‘Mackintosh's aesthetic sense is offended.’ She is smiling as she glances at him. That makes him love her all the more. He likes that heady feeling, even if the rational Mackintosh tells him that he should have learned from experience.
‘All those plastic daffodils swaying in the breeze,’ he says. ‘Awful thought.’
‘Wordsworth wouldn't have liked it.’
‘You'll have him turning in his grave.’
‘Was that why you got out of town planning-because you wanted to do something more artistic?’
‘Sort of,’ he agrees, thinking of those halcyon days of lecturing when there was little work and lots of girls. If rationalisation had never taken place, he would not have left.
They pass the cinema at South End Green. It is a pleasing corner, even if the green has dwindled to a traffic island. At least the trees remain and there is not too much traffic. He tried sketching the green once, till bad weather forced him into the pub. At closing time he went in the cinema and slept until an usherette woke him. He keeps meaning to sketch the green again, but there is always something else to do.
The red-bricked shops date from the early years of the century. If George Orwell returned to his old haunts, he would still recognise them. Only the concrete bulk of the hospital intrudes, unscreened by the bare November trees. 
‘I got too bogged down, so I just gave up the course,’ Sarah is saying. ‘I didn't have any burning ambition like you. That's the trouble-I'm not good at anything.’
‘I'm sure you are,’ Mackintosh says, while his spirit cries that beauty is everything.
‘I wish I could find what it is then.’
‘You will,’ he tells her, sounding old and wise-and alarming like a father figure than a potential lover.
‘I haven't got any talent.’
He groans quietly for the girl with no talent. Does she do nothing with her spare time except watch television? Does her intellect stultify under a daily dose of quiz shows? He takes a surreptitious look at her body to reassure himself that whatever the state of her mind, her body makes up for it.
 ‘All I want to do when I've got some spare time is watch television,’ she is saying as if to confirm his suspicions. ‘I'm getting to be a right slob.’
‘I'm sure we all do the same,’ he lies.
‘But I feel guilty about it, you know?’
‘I shouldn't do that.’
‘I keep telling myself to stop wasting time, get off my arse and do something.’
‘It's relaxation. We all need relaxation,’ he assures her, thinking of Sarah’s arse.
‘I ought to do something positive.’
Mackintosh reflects on how often he has told himself that as he goes through his pockets for enough money to buy another drink. The trouble is that positive things always take money, effort and time.
‘How about going back to your course?’ he suggests.
‘I can’t afford to. Anyway, nobody wants sociologists these days.’
Did they ever, Mackintosh asks himself. He remembers working with a planner who had crossed the fence from sociology and kept writing papers on planning and the concept of community. Nobody else was any the wiser after reading them, though nobody admitted to being ignorant. Planners were supposed to be responsive to the needs of the community, though nobody was quite sure what the community was. As the director of planning said, people don't know what's good for them until you tell 'em.
‘What about all your talents?’ Mackintosh ventures, taking the opportunity to admire the more obvious physical ones.
‘Like I said, I'm not good at anything.’
‘I'm sure you've got plenty of things you could do if you thought about it.’
‘I haven't. I only wish I had.’
They stop at one of the houses in Constantine Road which has not yet succumbed to the attentions of the gentrifiers. The paintwork is blistering. Ill-assorted curtains strung on wires sag across the windows-a sure sign of multiple occupation. A poster proclaiming animal rights adorns the front window.
‘This is your garden is it?’ Mackintosh surveys the profusion of weeds and refuse sacks.
‘Mine's the bit at the back. It's worse than this.’
They skirt the privet bush growing across the path. Mackintosh takes in the array of bells by the door and remembers his student days. The hall lives down to his expectations: a bicycle leans against the wall beside the payphone, floorboards show through the thin covering, there is a time-switch for the unshaded light and a faded, handwritten notice exhorts residents not to leave rubbish sacks in the hall, though nobody has taken any notice. Mrs Morrow would feel at home, though she might feel less happy about Sarah's room. The walls are white; posters and rugs provide splashes of brightness; plants soften the hard surfaces. It is the sort of room which Mackintosh wants to create for himself, if he could bother. He gazes around, humbled.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Sarah asks.
‘I wouldn't say no.’ He feels the happy anticipation which comes with the thought of drinking the afternoon away.
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Wouldn't mind a coffee,’ he replies, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Plenty of milk and sugar.’
Sarah bustles into the kitchen. The bead curtain swings and clicks behind her. ‘You can see the garden,’ she calls.
Mackintosh can indeed see the garden, or the battle between weeds taking place in what was once the garden.
‘I look out at that every day and I get really depressed.’
Gardens have never interested Mackintosh enough to depress him. There have always been more important things to interest him than battling with nature and losing, but for Sarah's sake he tries to take the mental leap to being a gardening expert.
‘So what do you think?’ her voice comes from the kitchen.
‘Might be easier to move.’
‘It shouldn't take much work once it's cleared.’
‘I shan't be able to clear it, I'm afraid. Problems with the old back.’ He leans forward, almost feeling the twinges. The pity is that Sarah cannot see his performance.
 ‘I wasn't expecting you to do the work, just to give me some ideas,’ she calls. ‘Don't you think it's got potential?’
He stares out the window, seeking potential. ‘It might have,’ he concedes. ‘It might well have.’ 
With his duty as a landscape designer discharged, he looks around the room again, catching glimpses of Sarah in the kitchen beyond the curtain. The recess beside the fireplace is crowded with books: sociology textbooks interspersed with the novels of Hardy, Lawrence and Hesse. Plants cascade over the shelves and over the table below. A curtain, coarsely woven and brightly coloured, hangs across the other recess to inadequately conceal Sarah's clothes on hangers. Ranged on a small table beside it is her make-up. He inspects the profusion of jars and bottles, marvelling that girls can spend so much time and money on their appearance. In his days with Mrs Morrow he made do with bars of soap taken from public lavatories. It is so long since he has been in a girl's room that it touches him to be reminded of how much work goes into facing the outside world. He likes this glimpse of the intimate side of Sarah.
‘Can you put the fire on?’ she calls.
Groaning a little, Mackintosh breaks off his reverie to do battle with the fire. Experience has taught him that every gas fire has a life of its own. He turns the knob. There comes a hiss of gas. 
‘You have to light it with a match. Something's happened to the ignition.’
He finds a box of matches on the mantelpiece. The gas ignites with a pop which makes him drop the match in the burner. He recoils, his distrust of gas fires reinforced. Electricity is better: you can fiddle the meter.
‘There you go.’ Sarah puts two mugs on the table. The aroma of coffee pervades the room. It still fills him with anticipation: a reflex action from the days before Mrs Vine took him under her wing, when coffee was a luxury beyond the struggling artist. On those occasions when unemployment benefit would not stretch to Baileys, he made do with tea bags, using them at least twice. It was all of two days ago, yet it seems an age away.
‘It's not really my responsibility to look after the garden,’ Sarah is saying, ‘but I have to see it all the time and I'm the one with the back door. Do you want to go outside and have a proper look?’
Mackintosh assures her that he can see the garden adequately. 
‘So what do you think?’
He purses his lips in the manner of an expert weighing the possibilities. ‘It depends how much effort you want to put into it.’
‘I want it to look nice, but I don't want to spend a lot of time on it. That gets boring. So what do you think?’
He scratches his chin and regards the garden again. ‘It's all a matter of cost and how much time you want to give it. I mean obviously I can design something quite spectacular, but we've got to keep things in proportion.’
‘So what would you suggest?’
‘How about a lawn?’
Sarah looks disappointed. ‘I thought you'd come up with something more interesting.’
‘Lawns can be quite interesting.’
‘How?’
‘You can have flowerbeds around the edge-or trees. And there's a chamomile lawn,’ he adds hopefully, remembering a magazine article he read in Mr Wagstaff's waiting room.
‘I was thinking of something that would make it look bigger.’
‘You can't do better than a lawn. Or a patio-how about a patio?’
‘With plants on it, you mean?’
‘I suppose you could. I was thinking about a barbecue.’
She stares at him.
‘If that sort of thing interests you,’ he adds, hoping for a clue as to why his suggestions are not going down well.
‘You don't have barbecues when you've only got one room with a kitchen and a shared bathroom.’ Her tone is scornful.
‘Silly idea,’ he agrees, wondering whether it is worth bothering to salvage his reputation as a garden designer.
‘Why don't you sit down?’
He sits. ‘You're obviously keen on plants,’ he says, pushing the nearest pot away.
‘They brighten the place up. It’s so dismal in here unless you do something with it, you know?’
He assures her that he does.
‘All they need is watering once a week. That's the sort of gardening I like.’
‘You've made it look good in here.’
She smiles. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did you paint it yourself?’
‘All my own work-isn't it good?’
‘Not bad at all.’
‘It was the first thing I did when I came here. It was so gloomy.’
‘Rented rooms always are,’ Mackintosh agrees, recalling the chocolate-coloured paintwork of his own room at Mrs Morrow's. Somehow the very dinginess was a stimulus  to withdraw into his work. 
‘I think you can always make a place look better if you want to,’ Sarah is saying. ‘But you know that anyway.’
Mackintosh acknowledges his role as designer with a nod.
‘You get depressed when you're somewhere really grotty,’ she tells him, ‘and there's no need to put up with it, you know? It doesn't cost much to buy some paint.’
‘Very true.’
‘It really cheers you up.’
‘Do you need cheering up?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What's the matter?’
She shrugs. ‘Sort of problems we all get.’
‘What are they?’
‘You get down sometimes. Let's have some music on.’ She rummages below the shelves of books. Mackintosh leans back in his chair, watching her stretch across the divan to insert a cassette in the player. The voice of Carly Simon fills the silence.
‘I thought this would be more your style than some of the modern ones.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So tell me all about your painting.’ Sarah curls on the divan, her eyes fixed on Mackintosh like those of a child waiting to be told a story.
‘I paint. Nobody likes what I paint, but I soldier on. That's about all there is to say, really.’
Sarah looks puzzled. ‘You don't set out to paint something nobody likes, do you?’
‘I never set out like that,’ he agrees. ‘It's where I end up.’
‘I'd like to see your work.’
‘It might not be your style.’
‘How do you know what my style is?’
‘From all this.’ He gestures around the room, narrowly missing a yucca.
‘So what are your paintings like?’ There is almost a smile on her lips, as though she is taunting him.
‘Individual.’
‘That tells me nothing.’
‘I don't know what else to say about them. What can you say about paintings?’
‘That sounds very heartfelt.’
‘It is.’ His emotion is genuine. Talking about his work always seems like a betrayal. The visual images should be perfect, making words superfluous. If only perfection did not keep eluding him.
‘How do you sell them?’ Sarah is asking. ‘I don't know anything about these things.’
‘However I can-exhibitions, hawking them around shops...’
‘It sounds difficult.’
‘It is,’ he says with feeling, having only sold one canvas in his artistic career-and that to a short-sighted lady who wanted it as a Christmas present.
‘I envy you.’ Sarah looks as him wistfully, her eyes luminous. The black hair falling around her face reminds him of girls from his youth. Long hair was fashionable then. It is disconcerting to experience the feelings of twenty years ago.
He clears his throat. ‘There's nothing much to envy.’
‘It takes a lot of courage to do what you really want to do.’
‘Don't know about courage,’ he says gruffly, glimpsing the sort of philosophical debate he has not had since his days as a researcher. It is surprising how much he misses it.
Sarah pulls a face. ‘I get carried along by things. I drift.’
‘Ah,’ Mackintosh says meaningfully.
‘Sometimes I wish somebody would say this is where you're going and this is how you get there.’
Mackintosh remembers doing that once: the girl told him to get lost.
‘Depends what you want to do deep down,’ he responds diplomatically.
‘I told you-I'm not good at anything.’
‘What would you like to do if you had the chance?’
‘Travel.’
He can see from her eyes that she is drifting into some private fantasy from Thomas Cook brochures.
‘I'd like to travel and then write about it,’ she reveals. ‘Not very original, is it?’
‘Where would you go?’
‘China and South America. They're about the most different cultures from ours.’
Foreign travel is overrated in Mackintosh's experience. He has less than fond memories of spending seven hours at Gatwick, waiting for a charter flight to Greece. No better was the field trip to Italy. As a mixed party it augured well, but never lived up to its promise. He was sick on the cross-channel ferry, the coach broke down in France and his first three days in Rome were spent confined to bed with food poisoning. The incidental pleasures of a mixed party mainly consisted of listening to the nocturnal comings and goings of the students as he lay alone in bed, waiting to throw up again. The prospect of travelling across South America holds no pleasure at all.
‘Don't you ever feel like ditching everything and bumming around?’ Sarah asks.
‘No.’
‘Wouldn't it spark off ideas?’
‘No.’
‘Where's your spirit of adventure, Mackintosh?’
‘Dead.’
‘You're old before your time!’
‘Probably. I happen to prefer a comfortable bed to dysentery and fighting off insects.’
‘All the other things make up for that-the people, the food, the sights...’
‘Mm,’ Mackintosh agrees, unconvinced.
‘It doesn't take all that much money these days.’
All travel is expensive by Mackintosh's standards, but to avoid seeming irredeemably old, he does not labour the point. ‘If I had any money to spare, I'd buy you a ticket for the first lap,’ he assures her, ‘or better still the last lap, to make sure you came back.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘I thought it was.’
‘It's a bit sentimental.’
Mackintosh looks hurt.
‘Only joking.’
‘Ah,’ says Mackintosh, not convinced. He stares at her, trying to divine her mood.
‘I really was joking,’ she assures him.
‘You're so beautiful.’
She raises her eyebrows. She is watching him, her eyes large. ‘What comes now?’
‘Depends, doesn't it?’ he responds, liking the way things are developing.
‘Why are you sitting over there?’
He knocks over the coffee, which runs across the table and drips on his trousers. 
‘Bugger.’
Sarah grins.
*
The street lights are on as Mackintosh hastens back to Belsize Park. He wishes that his coat was thicker. The cold dampness makes his ears tingle and seeps through his clothes. At least his trousers have dried with hardly a stain.
Rush hour traffic is building up. In his environmentally conscious days, Mackintosh used to hate motorists who took their cars into central London. He is more sanguine now that he does not have to battle his way to an office and now there is no grant to be had for researching the insidious effects of commuting by car. He casts a hopeful glance towards the Cornucopia. The lights are on, but the outer doors are resolutely closed. Sorrowfully he makes his way across Rosslyn Hill to Mrs Vine's house.
Not having a front door key is a drawback. He almost hopes that Mrs Vine will be out, so that he can go back to the Cornucopia for opening time; but the door opens. He scans Mrs Vine's face. She does not look welcoming. 
‘Mackintosh! I've been worrying about you. Where have you been?’
‘You know how it is,’ he mutters, sidling past her. He hopes Sarah's scent does not cling to him. ‘Been for a walk over the heath. Never done that before.’
‘Why didn't you let me know?’
‘All happened on the spur of the moment. I was walking through Hampstead and I thought: why am I walking along streets when there's this unexplored heath on my doorstep? So I went on the heath. Lost all track of time till it started getting dark. Then I thought I must be back in time for dinner.’
‘I like walking on the heath,’ Mrs Vine reveals, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘I could have come with you if you'd said something.’
‘If only I'd known. Still, another day.’
‘I'll look forward to it.’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision today.’
‘I do understand.’
‘It's a good place to go if you want to think. Windswept.’ He breaks off, trying to work out why being windswept should be conducive to thought. He hopes that Mrs Vine will not ask.
‘I know you need to be by yourself, but I worry about you. I suppose it's silly.’
 ‘The trouble is I'm used to coming and going as I like,’ Mackintosh explains apologetically.
‘We've got to get used to each other's little ways, haven't we?’
‘Er, yes.’
She kisses him gently. ‘It's always difficult at first-when two people are getting to know each other.’
‘I suppose it is,’ he agrees, enjoying her closeness.
‘Did you think of me when you were on the heath?’ She is still holding him.
‘Quite a lot, as a matter of fact.’
‘I've been thinking about you.’ She hugs him.
‘When you're standing on the heath, you look all around and try to work out what things mean,’ he explains, extricating himself. ‘Life and everything.’
‘You've got such a probing mind, Mackintosh. I do envy you.’
He tries to look modest, but it is difficult when Mrs Vine nuzzles against him.
‘It's a gift, isn't it?’ she says. ‘You've got a visual imagination.’
‘I suppose some people are born with it.’ 
‘Shall I tell you something?’ She lets go of him. ‘It's such a relief to know that there's somebody with flair looking after the garden-somebody I can trust. I was so dreading having to get a stranger in.’
‘I won't make anything too showy,’ he promises.
‘I know you won't.’
‘It's got to be right for the house and right for the area. That's the secret of the really successful garden.’
‘I'm leaving everything to you. I'm relying on you.’ She hugs him again. ‘Did you get inspiration on the heath?’
‘I think I did, yes.’ He assumes the look of someone who has recently had inspiration, as far as he can with Mrs Vine's arms around his neck. ‘I had one or two useful ideas. Definitely useful.’
‘I'm so interested in what you do.’
‘It's not very interesting really,’ he demurs, trying to extricate himself.
‘I'm sure it is.’ She releases him. ‘You shouldn't underestimate yourself, Mackintosh. You take your talent for granted, but you've been given a very precious gift.’
He looks modest.
‘I'd love to know all about the creative process.’
‘Ah,’ says Mackintosh.
‘How do you get your ideas?’
‘They sort of come.’
‘Do they ever come in a dream? That's what Simon finds. You remember Simon, don't you?’
He remembers Simon.
‘I suppose everybody's different.’
‘I suppose so,’ Mackintosh agrees, ‘but I'm getting a bit hungry now.’
‘Why didn't you say something instead of letting me go on talking?’
‘I didn't want you to think I was only worried about my stomach.’
‘What would you like?’
‘What is there?’
‘Anything you want.’
Mackintosh thinks of the shelf where he keeps his half a tin of baked beans. He marvels.
‘How about fish?’ Mrs Vine suggests.
‘Haven't got a steak and kidney pudding, have you?’
‘There's some game pie.’
‘Ah.’
‘It's very nice.’
‘I'll try that then.’
‘Game pie with plenty of vegetables. You're sure that's all right?’
‘I'll leave it to you. Whatever you're having.’
‘I'm not eating.’ Mrs Vine looks coy. ‘Got to watch my weight.’
‘I don't think you've got to worry on that score.’
‘There-you can be flattering when you want to.’
‘It's not flattery-it’s quite true.’
‘I'll have everything ready in twenty minutes.’ She begins bustling about in the way which always makes him marvel at women in kitchens. They look at home there. He always prefers to be doing something other than cooking.
‘And afterwards we'll have some fresh fruit. How would that be?’
‘Lovely,’ he agrees, sensing that his preference for tinned peaches would not be appreciated.
‘And then we can have an evening together. I want to know all about your work.’
‘Actually we can't.’
Mrs Vine stops bustling.
‘I've got to go out for a while,’ he explains.
‘It's up to you, of course.’ Her tone has changed. He thinks that he detects regret-or it might be pique.
‘It's the painting,’ he explains.
Mrs Vine smiles without understanding.
‘I've got to sort things out in my mind before I can work. I have to be alone for that.’
Mrs Vine hangs her head. ‘I'm sorry, Mackintosh. I'm afraid I keep wanting to have you to myself.’
‘When I've finished the garden, I'll have more free time.’
‘Of course. Perhaps we could have a holiday then. How do you feel about that?’
Visions of Mediterranean holidays with unlimited quantities of cheap-possibly free-  wine resurrect themselves unbidden. Mackintosh thinks that he might enjoy travel after all.
‘Mackintosh-you're smiling! I do believe you like the idea.’
‘I'll have to get the garden planned first,’ he says dutifully. 
‘Of course.’
‘Then perhaps we can go away before the contractors start work,’ he adds, thinking it might be wise to get away before the problems show.
‘Where shall we go?’
‘You choose,’ he offers magnanimously.
‘We'll have a chance to really relax and get to know each other.’ Mrs Vine is looking excited.
‘We don't have to rush things, do we? I mean I don't want to cut corners on the garden.’
‘What I like is looking at all the holiday brochures-especially when there's somebody to look at them with.’ Mrs Vine looks younger now that excitement is taking told of her. ‘It's going to be fun having you here. I'm so glad you decided to stay.’
‘What I'll try to do is get back by nine tonight,’ he promises, trying to quell his guilt.
‘I'm sorry.’ Mrs Vine suddenly looks deflated.
‘What for?’
‘I mustn't tie you down.’
‘It was my fault-I should have let you know where I was going. I'm the selfish one.’
‘I wouldn't want you any different.’
Mackintosh likes that.
*
As he makes his way home to Belsize Park for the second time that day, Mackintosh reflects that life is changing rapidly for the better. A lunchtime drink, an afternoon with Sarah, an ample dinner and a further visit to the pub make up an almost perfect day. The only qualm is that he has done no paid work, but he is used to fighting down such qualms. In the crowded bar of the Cornucopia it could be forgotten altogether. There was no chance to talk to Sarah, though he did smile conspiratorially at her. He marvels at the strange power which he has suddenly developed over women. 
The return to Mrs Vine's house at not long after nine o'clock provides the only downbeat note of the day.
‘We've got a visitor,’ Mrs Vine tells him as she opens the door. ‘I'm so glad you're back-you'll be able to tell us all about what inspires an artist.’
‘I'm feeling a bit tired now.’
‘You must come in for a little while. People expect it.’
He wants to say that artists do not do what people expect, but that might be pushing his luck. Instead he follows Mrs Vine meekly into the drawing room.
‘Simon was seeing a client near here,’ she explains, ‘so he thought he'd call. That's a nice surprise, isn't it?’
Mackintosh scowls. Simon smiles.
‘I've been telling him all about the garden,’ Mrs Vine adds, heading towards the drinks table. Mackintosh brightens.
‘It does sound most exciting,’ Simon says, fixing Mackintosh with that penetrating gaze. Mackintosh marvels anew at the blueness of those eyes.
‘Does anybody want a drink?’ Mrs Vine asks.
‘Perhaps a little one,’ Mackintosh agrees. ‘Just a small whisky.’
Simon switches on his smile. ‘I never really had a chance to talk to you the other day.’
‘I'm feeling a bit tired now,’ Mackintosh demurs, watching Mrs Vine pouring a generous measure of whisky.
‘Do you have visions?’ Simon wants to know.
‘Not really.’
‘Not in your art?’
‘Only ideas,’ Mackintosh responds, his eyes still on the whisky.
‘Isn't an idea a form of a vision?’
‘Bit more prosaic. It's all about what goes on in your mind-not something out there.’ Mackintosh gestures vaguely towards the window.
‘Have you ever considered the two may be linked?’
‘No.’
‘If you look at the wisdom of the world rather than just individual ideas, you'll find there is a oneness.’ Simon smiles beatifically, his argument proven. Mackintosh gropes for a suitable retort without finding one. He is feeling comfortably sleepy.
‘A whisky for Mackintosh.’ Mrs Vine presents him with the glass. ‘I don't know what we're all standing for.’
‘Perhaps I'll go upstairs,’ Mackintosh murmurs. ‘Have an early night. Feeling a bit tired.’ 
‘You can stay a little while, surely? It's only nine.’
‘Just a little while,’ he agrees grudgingly. He selects an armchair as far as possible from Simon and stares into his drink. 
‘I have a vision,’ Simon begins.
‘You told us,’ Mackintosh points out.
‘Of a woman.’
‘An angel,’ Mackintosh prompts.
‘An angel.’ A faraway look comes into Simon's eyes.
‘What's she doing?’
‘Doing?’
‘Even angels have to do something from time to time.’
‘She's guiding me.’
‘Into this unutterably beautiful world. You've told us that bit.’
‘You seem to be decrying beauty.’
‘No.’
‘Don't you look for beauty in your paintings?’
‘It's all crapping dogs in my paintings.’
Simon smiles. ‘We have to cling to our ideals.’
‘Your angel sounds more like a sex fantasy. I mean we all have them. No need to be ashamed.’
A dreamy look comes into Simon's eyes. ‘Ideals or mediocrity-you have to decide what's important.’
‘Mediocrity every time.’
‘I'm sure you don't really mean that,’ Mrs Vine exclaims.
‘I do.’
‘It's lifestyle, isn't it?’ Simon continues as if he has not noticed the interruptions. ‘I want to change people's perceptions. I want people to be more caring.’ He looks appealingly at the two listeners. Mackintosh remembers a spaniel with a similar expression.
‘You'd support that, wouldn't you?’ Mrs Vine asks, looking at Mackintosh.
‘Not very original, is it?’
Simon regards him sadly, like a schoolmaster faced with a bright but errant pupil.
‘People have been after that for years,’ Mackintosh explains.
‘But it hasn't been achieved.’
‘Because it can't.’
‘You're a pragmatist,’ Mrs Vine temporises.
Mackintosh remembers those academic discussions which provided such a constant backdrop to his lecturing days. At first he entered them with gusto; later he lost interest and left them to lecturers in politics and sociology who liked nothing better than to argue. He preferred the conversations which sprang up in the student bar about the meaning of life.
‘Don't you think there's room for love?’ Simon asks.
Mackintosh cannot disagree.
‘We need to see things in a different way,’ the visionary one continues. ‘We need to expand our concept of love till it embraces everything.’
Mackintosh looks suspiciously at Simon who keeps his ingenuous expression. 
‘What does religion mean to you?’ Simon persists. 
‘Women with halitosis who try to sell you Watchtower.’ Though he did like some of the younger ones. Images return of the girls he tried to entice beyond the doorstep. With their help, he might have gained something from religion.
‘With respect I think that's a bit superficial.’
‘Interesting phrase, with respect. Means I think you're talking shit, but I'm too polite to say so.’
Simon smiles uncertainly, spurring Mackintosh to press home his advantage.
‘As to my superficial view of religion. I should have thought visions of angels and virginal girls were pretty superficial.’
‘Mackintosh is a bit of a rough diamond,’ Mrs Vine intervenes. 
Simon’s smile has vanished. ‘I'd say he was bloody rude.’ 
Mackintosh looks down to hide his satisfaction, surprised at his tactical success after so much beer.
‘I'm sure he didn't mean it the way it came out,’ Mrs Vine assures Simon, whose face has turned an interested shade of red.  
‘Then what did he mean?’ 
They look at Mackintosh who sips his whisky insouciantly. It warms him, not burning his stomach at all. He muses whether to drink it more often if financial circumstances permit. When the delay has suitably heightened the drama, he enquires, ‘Why bother to change everybody?’
‘For something better.’
‘Hitting your head against a brick wall there, mate.’
‘You've become cynical.’
‘You've noticed?’
‘If you really experienced religion, you'd know that's a facile remark.’
‘Load of balls, this is.’ Mackintosh is beginning to feel deflated. Arguments at the polytechnic were generally on a higher intellectual plane. This one has gone on for long enough and shows no signs of improving. He yawns. ‘Been a long day. Think I need my bed now.’
‘It's only just gone nine,’ Mrs Vine sounds aggrieved. 
‘Is it? Do you know it feels about eleven?’
‘I hoped we could have a long chat.’
‘Long day tomorrow, so I ought to get to bed.’
 ‘If you're sure.’
 ‘Leave you to chat about religion. Not really my sort of thing.’
 ‘We gathered that.’
 ‘So I'll say good night to you both.’
 Mrs Vine says good night in return. Simon nods. Mackintosh closes the door on them and sighs. Why do there always have to be people like Simon to spoil life's happy moments?

Thursday

Next morning, Mackintosh regrets the whisky. A rawness radiates from his stomach as though the previous evening was devoted to imbibing bleach. He lies staring at the ceiling and vows never to touch spirits again.
He would like to stay in bed, but a sense of duty and a full bladder prompt him to get up. After that, sleep is far away. He creeps downstairs to the kitchen in his dressing-gown. This time it is Mrs Vine who looks up from eating muesli. She does not smile.
‘Haven't got any coffee, have you?’ he pleads. 
‘I don't usually keep it here. I thought you knew that.’ There is a frostiness in her tone. Go carefully, Mackintosh tells himself. 
‘How about milk?’ he ventures. 
‘It's in front of you-on the table.’ 
He slumps opposite her. Under her gaze he pours the milk with infinite care. The silence is not congenial. 
‘You weren't very nice to Simon last night.’ 
‘Ah.’ The evening comes back to Mackintosh in its awfulness. He shudders. ‘Sorry about that.’ 
‘It's the second time you've done that. How could you?’ 
Several replies occur to him, but it is safer to hang his head in mute apology. 
‘I asked those people along on Monday for your benefit.’ 
‘It was the drink talking. I shouldn't have had anything to drink after the anaesthetic.’ 
‘What about last night? You can't blame that was the anaesthetic.’ 
Mackintosh is inclined to agree, but instinct tells him to remain silent until his brain is working better. 
‘Simon is very sensitive. You don't seem to realise how hurt he was.’ 
‘Unforgivable,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘Sometimes I wonder why I try to help you.’ 
‘I know I can be difficult.’ 
‘You won't do it again, will you?’ Her tone has softened. 
‘The trouble is if you catch me on the wrong day.’ He shakes his head regretfully, reliving a host of wrong days. ‘Terrible. Let my tongue run away with me.’ 
‘I don't think I understand you.’ Mrs Vine is looking at him suspiciously.
‘Saw a psychiatrist about it once, but he couldn't do anything. Rare form of manic depression. Not uncommon, they think. Mozart had it. Goes with creativity.’ 
She stares at him, her spoon poised over her muesli. 
‘Shouldn't get any worse, they say, but it does make me difficult to live with.’ 
She nods dumbly. 
‘So there we are. Doesn't cause me too much of a problem unless I'm in company. I have tablets for it when things get really bad.’ 
‘Perhaps if we went to another specialist. Don't worry about the money-I'll pay.’ 
‘I've had second opinions. Been to Harley Street, but everybody says the same. Nothing to be done. Thanks for the offer, though.’ 
‘Should you drink alcohol in your condition?’ 
‘Doesn't make much difference, so the psychiatrist said.’ Mackintosh drains his glass and wishes that the milk had not been so cold. It makes his stomach feel rawer than ever. So much for his doctor's advice to drink milk every day. From now on it will be beer and wine all the way. 
‘I worry about you.’ 
Nobody has ever said that before, so Mackintosh is not sure how to respond. He compromises by nodding wisely. 
‘I worry about your health. I don't think you look after yourself.’ 
He wonders whether to demur, but decides against it. Such concern on Mrs Vine's part seems harmless enough if it means that she cooks him meals every day. 
‘And I worry about your attitude. I think you need pushing to make the best of yourself.’ 
‘Ah,’ he murmurs, feeling that there are implications which he has not yet grasped. 
‘I've arranged something for today.’ 
‘Ah.’ A glazed look comes to his features. His plans for the day crumble to dust. No lunchtime drink at the Cornucopia. No afternoon with Sarah. No evening watching the off-duty nurses. He has only one card to play. ‘What about the garden?’ he asks.
‘You can do that any time. What's important is that you should be recognised.’ 
He pours more milk before remembering that it makes his stomach worse. 
‘So I've arranged for you to see Clive.’ 
Mackintosh closes his eyes, but thoughts of Clive are not so easily banished. 
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Vine is asking. 
‘Fine.’ He opens his eyes. ‘Not really awake yet.’ 
‘I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but he's still keen to see your work. Clive isn't one to hold grudges.’ 
Mackintosh wishes that he were. ‘I haven't got anything to show him,’ he objects. 
‘You brought some paintings with you, didn't you?’ 
‘They're only canvases I want to reuse,’ he lies. 
‘Can't you get something from your studio?’ 
‘Might be difficult,’ he warns, imagining how Mrs Morrow would greet his reappearance. 
‘I think I know what's the matter.’ 
He raises his eyebrows. 
‘You don't like thinking of any piece of your work as finished.’ 
‘How did you realise?’ 
Mrs Vine smiles triumphantly. ‘I have met artists before, you know.’ 
He nods with the air of one who is relieved that his secret is revealed. 
‘You can't miss a chance like this. You must have something to show Clive.’ 
‘I'll have to think about it.’ Mackintosh says untruthfully. He decides that he rather likes missing chances, having spent most of his life doing so. In his local authority days he considered applying for the post of deputy director of planning-till he thought of having to attend all those management meetings. The more he thought about it, the more he put off applying. Then it was too late. Three years later, his academic career well under way, the post of senior lecturer fell vacant. He applied, though his heart was not in it. Certainly his impersonation of the head of department giving a lecture was a mistake in the circumstances. He conceded as much when the matter was raised at the interview, though he did feel that it was vindictive to mention his indiscretion. The trouble was that the head of department inspired impersonation. He had mannerisms. He rubbed his finger around the inside of his collar when anybody asked a difficult question. His insistence on standing to deliver his lectures meant that most of the time he stood stalk-like on one leg, switching from one leg to the other as his varicose veins throbbed. And he scratched his left ear, exploring its darker recesses as a lecture progressed. If the impersonation had not been in such a public place as the student bar, it might not have generated so much interest. But by and large he has been content with his humble lot, making few attempts to climb out of the rut into which life has dropped him. Enough money has come his way to pay for the necessities of life like drink and paints, so he gets by. 
‘You haven't got all that long,’ Mrs Vine urges. 
‘All that long for what?’ 
‘I did say you'd be at Clive's office by half past ten.’ 
Mackintosh stares at the milk, trying to draw together thoughts of a day already falling apart by half past nine. 
‘The trouble is Clive's going to be in the studio all afternoon,’ Mrs Vine continues. ‘I had to say you'd come this morning.’ She leans closer, brushing muesli from her lips. ‘This is a big opportunity for you. If you can interest Clive, you might have your paintings on breakfast television.’ 
Mackintosh envisages his work being seen by the masses as they eat Weetabix. It is an exciting thought, he has to admit, yet it fills him with dread. He will be judged. 
‘I know Clive's encouraged several young artists.’ 
Mackintosh likes being called a young artist, though relying on Clive's favours appeals to him less. 
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Mrs Vine probes. 
‘I think I can manage.’ 
She grins girlishly. ‘You can be quite masterful in your own way.’ 
He has never considered himself to be masterful. It is an intriguing thought. He resolves to explore this hitherto hidden aspect of his personality more often. 
‘It doesn't always show, but it's there,’ Mrs Vine assures him. 
This seems less of a compliment. Heedless of the effect on his stomach, Mackintosh sips the freezing milk to give himself time to consider what he should do. Unfortunately the glass is empty before he has come to any decision. 
‘You will be nice to Clive, won't you?’ 
‘Of course.’ 
‘Have you got some money for a taxi?’ 
‘That's a point.’ He pats the pockets with the hole. Not surprisingly there comes no answering jingle of coins. 
‘You must tell me when you need money. Don't be shy.’ 
‘I know-it's silly of me,’ he says shyly. 
‘And Mackintosh-’ 
‘Yes?’ 
‘Good luck.’ 
* 
‘Ta mate,’ says the taxi driver, looking at the tip. ‘Sure you can spare it?’ 
‘Not really,’ says Mackintosh, ‘but I'm generous like that.’ He watches the taxi pull away in a haze of diesel fumes and puts down his portmanteau to get his bearings. Fitzrovia is a place of legend. Even clogged with traffic, it retains a feel of the fifties with its delicatessens and cosily shabby restaurants. He likes it. The few office blocks from the sixties and seventies are too small in scale to disturb that sense of a past not quite consigned to memory. Dylan Thomas would feel happy there. 
Clive does not occupy the palatial offices which befit a film and television director, but a suite in a Georgian town house fallen on hard times. By a doorway beside a Greek restaurant, his nameplate is sandwiched between that of a Cypriot travel agent and a fancy goods importer. Mackintosh struggles up a narrow staircase reeking of cigar smoke. The source of the smoke becomes evident on the first floor. Beyond an open door is an office hazy with smoke, where the fancy goods importer, the shape and colour of a Malteser, is leaning back in a chair and engaged in an animated conversation on the telephone. It is as if Mackintosh is invisible. Glimpsing the cluttered office brings back nostalgia for the office of the pressure group where he so lately worked. It offered warmth and an endless supply of coffee. He could read office copies of the broadsheets without the inconvenience of prising them from slumbering tramps in the library. And there were companions to engage in arguments when work was dull. 
A girl coming downstairs disturbs his reverie. Involuntarily he glances up in the ever-present hope of glimpsing forbidden thigh under the skirt. She is neat in appearance. Her tight black skirt bulges deliciously. A secretary-the sort of girl who proves boring on closer acquaintance, but is attractive enough to merit admiring glances. Her steps clatter on the vinyl floor covering. He presses against the banisters as she passes, and he savours her newly-washed smell and the swish of her tights brushing together. Thus invigorated, he continues on his way to the next floor. 
Clive's office is even more chaotic than that of the fancy goods importer on the floor below. Magazines, papers and cans of film crowd every shelf. The few spare areas of wall space are adorned with posters. Mounds of material for which there is no shelf space litter the floor. It is Mackintosh's sort of office. The waves of nostalgia overtake him again like a drug. Then he remembers how he hated travelling in the rush hour and how he fretted about having no time for his painting. 
‘Hi. Looking for somebody?’ A girl in her twenties. She lopes from the adjoining room. It is the sort of upper-class voice Mackintosh which knows from conferences and seminars in expensive hotels: the voice of somebody who is sure of herself. Her long legs are encased in black woollen tights. The black and mauve horizontal stripes of her woollen dress make Mackintosh think of a psychedelic wasp. It is an extremely short dress. She smiles, showing teeth which Mr Wagstaff could not fault. She wears no obvious make-up. He likes her dreamy appearance and tousled blonde hair. She has the look of somebody who has just woken up and is expecting a good day. 
‘Looking for Clive,’ he responds, basking in her gaze. On cue, Clive appears in the doorway, his smile as expansive as ever. 
‘Hello there, Mackintosh.’ 
Mackintosh wonders whether it would be possible to emulate that casually crumpled look by combing the jumble sales for clothes which are slightly too large-and then sitting on them. 
‘Good to see you again.’ Clive pumps Mackintosh's hand as though their differences have never been. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ 
Agreeing to coffee might delay the exit of the long-legged girl who is loping back to the other room. Then Mackintosh notices the electric kettle and the tin of supermarket coffee on the fridge and decides not to bother. 
‘Mrs Vine thinks highly of you.’ 
‘Mm.’ Mackintosh nods sagely. He casts a lingering look towards the doorway through which the girl has disappeared before assuming the serious expression of one who is highly thought of.
‘In this business we're always on the lookout for new talent, as you know.’ 
‘Got to show the public what's going on, haven’t we?’  
‘Certainly have.’ Clive nods vigorously. ‘It's all about communication, isn't it? Sit yourself down.’ As Mackintosh sits, Clive settles in the larger chair opposite him, pulling it close. ‘Perhaps I'd better tell you something about our programmes. We're an independent production company selling programmes on the arts to the major channels. We’ve quite a reputation to live up to.’ 
Mackintosh looks over Clive's shoulder in the hope of glimpsing the long-legged girl through the open door. 
‘Quite a reputation.’ Clive is nodding again to reinforce his point. ‘We choose our artists carefully. Not that we have a house style, of course. We're very clear there's no place for didacticism.’ 
‘Of course,’ Mackintosh agrees, trying to think of some excuse for luring the girl back. 
‘What we like to do is to examine the work of one artist in depth. We try to find artists who aren't in the public eye, so we're a little bit ahead of fashion.’ 
Mackintosh feels that he qualifies as being out of the public eye. 
‘Artists who have something to say.’ Clive continues, a missionary zeal coming to his eyes. ‘Something to say and a totally fresh way of saying it.’ 
The artist smiles encouragingly. 
‘You’ve watched some of our programmes, have you?’ 
‘One or two,’ Mackintosh lies. 
‘So you know the approach we take.’ 
‘Roughly.’ 
‘I always advise artists to look at what we're doing. It's surprising how many ideas for presentation come from the artists themselves.’ 
Mackintosh looks suitably surprised. 
‘This is some of your work, is it?’ 
‘Ah yes-my calling card.’ Mackintosh pats the portmanteau held together with string. A hardness comes to his stomach. 
‘Do you want to show me then?’ 
‘Have you got any scissors?’ 
The hope that the long-legged girl will be summoned with the scissors proves short-lived. Clive produces a knife and cuts the string. As  Mackintosh watches it snaking to the floor, his dreams are no longer his own. The portmanteau falls open. He pushes it towards Clive and looks resolutely towards the doorway while his works are examined. The long-legged girl cannot be seen. He hears her closing a filing cabinet. 
‘Is there anything you'd like to say about your work?’ Clive asks. 
‘No.’ 
‘Some artists like to.’ 
‘No.’ Mackintosh shakes his head to emphasise the fact. 
‘Letting the canvases speak for themselves, eh?’ 
The silence stretches. Mackintosh holds his breath and tries not to let it show. He ventures a glance at Clive who is staring at one canvas. The smile has gone. Mackintosh broods on what this signifies. 
‘Where did you say you were trained?’ Clive asks at last. 
‘Central,’ Mackintosh answers promptly, hoping that he gave the same answer at the party. 
‘Do you want to say anything about this canvas, for instance?’ 
Mackintosh looks at the work as though for the first time. In his estimation there is something of Van Gogh about the swirling colours. It is from his dense period, when he was earning enough as a researcher to afford to apply oils thickly. He remembers with affection those days of hurrying home in the rush hour, eager to devote his evenings to painting. Lighting was a problem. His attempt to rig a spotlight for the easel plunged the house into darkness. Fortunately Mrs Morrow never discovered the reason. His meagre salary made heating the room a precarious business even in those relatively affluent days. That was when he alighted on the idea of wearing fingerless mittens. They kept some feeling in his hands. The navy blue fluff embedded in the paint is still distinguishable. 
‘House-backs,’ he explains. 
‘And those brown lines?’ 
‘Drainpipes.’ 
‘Drainpipes,’ Clive repeats as though trying to memorise a new word. 
‘I wanted to get the sordid atmosphere of inner London-beginning to get dark, lights coming on, colours blurring...’ 
Clive stares at the painting. Mackintosh stares at Clive who looks bewildered. Gently Mackintosh slides a smaller canvas from the stack and rests it on the house-backs. 
‘Canal,’ he explains. ‘The strip beyond Camden Lock, by Camden Road. Do you know it?’ He tries to interpret the distant look in Clive's eyes. ‘Towpath runs behind a row of early nineteenth century houses. Hardly like London at all. Feels like a northern industrial town with the builder's yard on the other side of the canal and house-backs against the skyline. Do a lot of work in north London. Live there, you see. Lots of striking images there-little enclaves of the past hidden everywhere.’ 
Clive makes no response. 
‘Still keep finding odd corners like that, even though I've lived there for years,’ Mackintosh blunders on, alarmed by Clive's silence. ‘Little streets like Reed's Place in Kentish Town. Ever come across it?’ 
Clive shakes his head. 
‘School wall on one side and this amazing row of early nineteenth century cottages on the other. You really should see it. And markets like Queen's Crescent. Nobody but the locals know about it. You go there and it's like being in a secret society. No tourists like Brick Lane or Portobello Road. Hardly ever go to Portobello Road these days.’ 
‘I don't think these are going to be suitable,’ Clive says slowly. 
‘Ah.’ 
‘For the sort of approach we have.’ 
‘Ah.’ From the corner of his eye Mackintosh glimpses the long-legged girl. She has her back to him. She leans over a desk to reach a shelf above it. He watches with awed fascination as her dress rides up. 
‘Interesting,’ Clive is saying. 
‘You're right there.’ 
‘Interesting colours, but too dark to show up well on television. Very demanding medium.’ 
Mackintosh pulls his attention back to the subject at hand. ‘What about the composition?’ 
‘Do you think there's a lack of focus?’ 
‘Not really.’ 
‘Who did you say your teacher was?’ 
‘Had several. Don't like to single anybody out.’ 
‘I was looking for some predominant influence.’ 
‘Of course.’ 
‘The elements aren't integrated-at least not for me.’ 
‘Not integrated.’ Mackintosh takes another look at his vision of the canal in the hope of seeing what Clive is talking about. He does not have much success. 
‘Not much more I can do for you, I'm afraid.’ Clive puts down the two canvases. 
‘Don't you want to look at the others?’ 
‘Same problem really, isn't it?’ Clive makes a cursory inspection of the remaining paintings. ‘It's the medium. You have to go with what the medium will take.’ 
‘What medium?’ Mackintosh asks, debating with himself whether he should say 'which' rather than 'what'.’ 
‘Television, of course.’ 
‘Ah.’ Mackintosh pulls the canvases closer. They are his children and they have been defiled. 
‘Sure you don't want some coffee?’ 
‘Wouldn't mind some tape to put around these.’ 
‘Isobel, can you bring some brown tape for our friend here?’ Clive calls, his smile restored. 
‘Isn't there some out there?’ the long-legged girl calls. 
‘Can't see any.’ 
‘Okay.’ 
Mackintosh waits with heart pounding for Isobel to lope through the doorway. When she does, he feels inordinately pleased, like a little boy who has glimpsed something naughty. He smiles inanely. 
‘You must give my regards to Mrs Vine,’ Clive is saying. ‘Lovely woman, isn't she? So tireless.’ 
‘Tireless,’ Mackintosh agrees, entranced by Isobel's sinuous movement as she goes back to her sanctum. 
‘So sensitive.’ 
‘Absolutely.’ 
‘And so courageous.’ 
‘Indeed,’ Mackintosh concurs, hoping to discover what Mrs Vine is so courageous about. Is it something to do with Mr Vine? But Clive is standing. The meeting is at an end. 
‘It's been good to see you again, Mackintosh. I mean that.’ Clive puts out his hand for shaking and Mackintosh obliges. ‘Sorry I can't be more helpful about the work, but I have to decide what's going to work on the small screen. I know it's a pain in the arse, but there we are.’ 
‘Got to go along with the demands of the medium,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘Socialised market, television. That's the trouble.’ 
‘Of course,’ Mackintosh agrees, wondering whether all television producers talk rubbish. 
‘Gives you so many opportunities, yet it restricts you. Still, carry on watching our programmes.’ 
‘I'll do that.’
‘Good of you to come along. Sorry I couldn't give you better news.’
Mackintosh considers suggesting that they meet another time, but decides not to bother. Then an idea burgeons. He smiles at Clive. ‘Don't mind if I leave my paintings here, do you? Got one or two things to do.’ 
‘Absolutely no problem, but I've really got to dash. It's one of those weeks when all I seem to do is go from meeting to meeting.’ 
‘And if I picked them up at lunchtime.’ 
‘Isobel's going to be here.’ Clive turns to the doorway. ‘When are you going to lunch, Isobel?’ 
‘About half twelve,’ the hidden Isobel calls. 
Fantasies about the coming afternoon blossom in Mackintosh’s soul. 
* 
It is easy to whittle away time in the West End, exploring bookshops, hi-fi shops and video shops. Mackintosh particularly likes demonstrations of hi-fi equipment. Not that he has any interest in hi-fi, but he enjoys watching the changing attitudes of salesmen as they move closer to a sale-and then see it receding. Only the best equipment will do for this exercise. Some salesmen become emotive, which is surely carrying a job too far. Others become tight-lipped and sulky. On this occasion Mackintosh emerges from a particularly acrimonious debate with a salesman and has to go into a pub to restore his equanimity. With a couple of drinks to fortify him, he makes his way back to Clive's office. The sight of girls from advertising agencies and public relations consultancies hurrying to sandwich bars is one of the delights of being in the West End. Like exotic butterflies they flutter around familiar haunts, lifting cynical hearts with their youthful effervescence. The pleasures of working in the area are not strong enough to make Mackintosh look for another job, but they do make him regret that his previous one did not last longer. 
This time he meets nobody on the stairs to Clive’s office. The Malteser is still on the telephone. His cigar smoke imparts a comforting familiarity to the scene as Mackintosh climbs to the next floor.
‘Hi.’ Isobel beams. 
‘Hi,’ Mackintosh responds self-consciously.
‘I taped up your portmanteau.’
‘Thanks. You heard what happened?’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘About the paintings.’ 
‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’ 
He likes the distant quality about her, as though she is drifting through everyday life on a journey to somewhere infinitely more exciting. He ventures, ‘Did you look at them?’ 
‘Not really.’ 
‘Have a look.’ 
‘I've just taped them together.’ 
‘We can easily tape them up again.’ 
‘I'd rather not.’ 
‘I thought you might like to see them.’ 
‘I see paintings every day of the week.’ She sounds bored.
‘You're off to lunch now, are you?’ 
She nods indifferently. 
‘Do you fancy joining me?’ he offers, enjoying her look of surprise.
‘Okay.’ 
He watches appreciatively as she struggles into a padded jacket. How he envies Clive. 
‘Where do you usually go?’ he asks. 
Isobel shrugs enticingly. ‘I don't have a special place.’ 
‘When I worked in central London, we always went to the local. Wouldn't dream of going anywhere else.’ 
‘I don't go to pubs much.’ She smiles at some secret joke. ‘Most lunch-times I don't go out. Sometimes I look around the shops.’ 
They clatter downstairs, Isobel leading the way. 
‘Do you want to go to a pub?’ she asks when they are outside the doorway. She shivers, pressing her arms against her body. She wears black woollen gloves. 
‘Could there be anywhere else?’ 
‘Lots of places-restaurants, sandwich bars, wine bars...’ She shrugs. ‘But we can go to a pub if you like.’ She makes the prospect sound even more exciting than usual. 
‘So your name is Isobel,’ Mackintosh says as he trots behind her. The unaccustomed exercise makes him pant. His eyes are on her buttocks which twist intriguingly with each step. 
‘What's your first name?’ she asks, glancing over her shoulder. 
‘Just call me Mackintosh.’ 
She hangs back until he catches up, wrinkling her brow in a delightful show of puzzlement. ‘Sounds mysterious. You're not a spy, are you?’ 
‘It's what everybody calls me-sort of tradition.’ 
‘Hello Mackintosh,’ she says, toying with the novelty of the name. 
‘Hello Isobel.’ 
She smiles a secret smile as though humouring a child. 
‘Tell me all about Isobel.’ 
‘What sort of things does Mackintosh want to know?’ 
‘Like how long you’ve been working for Clive.’ 
‘Two months.’ 
‘Well, well. Two whole months.’ He duly marvels at this feat of endurance. ‘You like it, do you?’ 
‘It's okay.’ 
‘Must be exciting, working in television.’ 
‘Here we are.’ 
There is a thrill in entering a pub never visited before-rather like the excitement of the first meeting with a girl such as Isobel. What pleasures wait to be encountered? Will there be ecstasy, or will the promise fade? This may not be his ideal of a pub, but visiting it provides an adventure. And he has enough money to buy a drink for the lovely Isobel. He watches her proprietorially as she leans over the food counter. Her skirt rides up again. Does she do it on purpose, he wonders. Such is his lust that the barman has to ask him twice for her order. 
With the food and drinks bought, they find a table.
‘Don't you want anything to eat?’ Isobel asks as she settles into the chair beside him. The smell of her food wafts across him. 
‘Spoils the beer,’ he excuses himself, lifting the mug to his lips. Only when the beer reaches his stomach does he remember that he should not be drinking. What love does to a man. 
‘Not very warm in here.’ Isobel shivers deliciously. 
‘Could be warmer,’ he agrees. ‘Carry on telling me about yourself.’ 
Her eyes grow large. ‘What do you want to know?’ 
‘Anything.’ 
She lifts her head and drops a chip in her mouth. ‘Needed a job,’ she explains after she swallows. ‘I wanted something in the media and this job with Clive came along.’ 
‘The media-every girl's dream ticket.’ 
‘Not every girl.’ 
‘All the glamour, the potential for fame...’ 
‘Not really.’ 
‘Disillusioned already?’ 
‘Not me,’ she says jauntily. 
He takes another swig of beer. 
‘These chips are hot.’ She pants, which entrances Mackintosh. 
‘You were going to tell me about yourself,’ he reminds her.        
‘What do you want to know?’ She turns those eyes on him. 
‘Anything. Just talk to me.’ 
‘You're strange,’ she says, shaking her head in disbelief. 
‘I want to know what makes you tick.’ 
‘The same as everybody else.’ She is enjoying some private joke. ‘The same old feelings.’ 
‘What about when Clive's not slave-driving you?’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘What do you do in your spare time?’ 
‘Go to art galleries or films.’ She shrugs. ‘Depends how much money we've got. We eat out a lot.’ 
‘Who's we?’ he asks, knowing what is coming. 
‘Wayne.’ 
‘And he's your boyfriend.’ 
‘Of course.’ She pops another chip in her mouth. ‘Are you sure you don't want some of these?’ 
Mackintosh is sure. 
‘Spoils the beer,’ she says, grinning. 
‘Something like that,’ he agrees, his thoughts still on Wayne. In Mackintosh's younger days, boys were called John or Michael. Names like Wayne were reserved for cowboys in Saturday morning films. Images of Isobel with her boyfriend come unbidden to his mind, to be quickly discarded. 
‘You go out together every night do you?’ he probes. 
‘Not always.’ Isobel seems to enjoy the curiosity which she has aroused. 
‘You live together?’ 
‘Sure.’ She looks at Mackintosh blandly, challenging him to respond. He tries not to give anything away. The experience of living with a girl like Isobel has eluded him. In his student days he sampled the companionship of several girls, but the experience was chastening. Girls nagged-about his drinking, the state of his socks and the sticks of charcoal which he left among the bedclothes. Since then he has kept to the solitary life of an artist. That seems enough-until he is with a girl like Isobel... 
‘Wayne's an art student,’ she volunteers. Her brow furrows as she sees Mackintosh's response. ‘What's funny?’ 
Mackintosh's mouth is full of beer, so he tries to stop himself from laughing. When the beer goes the wrong way, his laughter turns to coughing. 
‘Are you all right?’ Isobel asks when he is able to speak. She looks alarmed. He loves it as she touches his arm..
‘Nothing to worry about.’ He grins as he gets his breath-the born survivor displaying his staying power. ‘Bit nasty at the time.’ 
Disappointingly, Isobel takes her hand away. She nibbles at a sausage on a fork. Like a Pavlovian dog Mackintosh salivates, though whether through hunger or some more Freudian linking of images he is not sure. He looks at Isobel's legs encased in black wool, her knees held primly together, and he marvels anew at the fascination of women-particularly of their legs. He sighs for the pleasures vouchsafed only to Wayne. Sometimes he feels like a middle-aged failure trying without success to recapture youthful excitement. When than happens, he has to obliterate the thought with copious quantities of beer.
‘This is really tasty-lots of herbs,’ Isobel informs him. 
‘Good. Jolly good.’ 
‘It's better than having beer.’ She licks her lips deliciously. ‘I like eating.’ 
Mackintosh has visions of Isobel ministering to her body. He takes more beer to calm himself. 
‘You're looking thoughtful,’ she observes. 
‘Mm.’ 
‘Clive makes snap judgements.’ 
‘Eh?’ 
‘About paintings-he makes snap judgements.’ 
‘I noticed.’ 
‘He susses things out very quickly, but he’s not always right. You could always try somewhere else.’ 
‘Do you think?’ 
‘Sure.’ 
‘I might do that.’ 
‘Good.’ She chews her sausage again. 
‘Have you ever painted?’ 
‘I leave that to Wayne.’ 
‘Haven't you got a burning ambition?’ 
She grins. Pieces of sausage lodge enticingly between her teeth. She is a goddess tempting him. 
‘We've all got one ambition,’ he goads her. 
‘I wouldn't mind travelling.’ 
‘Not to China by any chance?’ 
Her eyes open wide. ‘Why China?’ 
‘China or India-that's where everyone seems to go.’ 
‘I fancy going to the States. Wayne quite likes the idea. We might make it next year.’ 
‘What's he going to do there?’ 
‘Sell some paintings-that's what he wants to do.’ 
Mackintosh remembers his own youthful enthusiasm. Once he thought of going to the States, when lecturers in almost any subject were welcomed and salaries were high; but inertia got the better of him. 
‘What are you smiling at?’ Isobel asks. 
‘Nothing.’ 
‘Must be something.’ 
He shakes his head. ‘Doesn't matter.’ 
‘Can I ask you something?’ 
‘Anything you like,’ he offers, hiding his misgivings. 
‘How old are you?’ 
He stares in his beer. 
‘You don't have to tell me,’ she adds. 
‘I'm a bit older than you.’ 
‘I guessed that.’ 
‘We put so much emphasis on age,’ he muses, his gaze shifting to her legs. 
‘You should have made it as an artist by now. Most of the people who come to Clive are straight out of art school.’ 
Her legs mesmerise him. He grips his glass more tightly and rides the dreams. 
‘That's how it looks to me,’ she adds, popping the last of the sausage in her mouth. ‘That was really yummy-yum.’ 
‘Good.’ 
‘I came here once with Wayne.’ 
‘I hope he enjoyed it.’ 
‘He thought it was okay. It's not his sort of place.’ 
‘What is Wayne's sort of place?’ 
‘We go to this club with some of his friends.’ She becomes more animated. ‘It's really good, you know? Everybody puts on these really outrageous clothes.’ 
Mackintosh is suspicious of clubs: the drinks are expensive. He is also suspicious of people in clubs who wear outrageous clothes, after a visit to a club where a barmaid with hairy arms made certain suggestions. 
‘Do you want another one?’ Isobel asks. ‘My round.’ 
Which is an offer Mackintosh never refuses. 
* 
‘I began to wonder if you were coming,’ Sarah says. 
‘Sorry. I had to see this television producer,’ Mackintosh explains, propping his portmanteau behind the door. ‘I kept thinking about being late for seeing you, but I couldn’t do anything about it.’ 
‘You're sure you were thinking about me?’ 
‘Certain,’ Mackintosh insists, wondering why all girls have to be so suspicious. 
‘I'll have to believe you, won't I?’ 
‘You can never tell with television producers. I don't know if you've ever met any.’ 
‘I don't stumble across them very often.’ 
‘Like to do their work over long lunches.’ 
‘That must have suited you.’ 
‘You have to put up with these things.’ 
‘I'm sure you forced down a liquid lunch. I've never seen you eat yet.’ 
‘Bad for you, too much food. What shall we do for the afternoon?’ 
‘There's not much of it left.’ 
‘I’m sorry.’ Sarah's shoulders slump. ‘I'm niggly because I was kept waiting. Don't take any notice.’ 
‘How about a walk on the heath?’ 
‘It'll be dark soon.’ 
‘That makes it romantic.’ 
‘Don't think I'd fancy it. You tread on things.’ 
‘A walk around Hampstead then.’ 
‘I've got to go to work soon. Perhaps tomorrow when I'm not working. Anyway, you're supposed to be planning my garden.’ 
‘I can't plan it in the dark, can I?’ 
‘I won't have any garden for the spring unless you make a start soon.’ 
‘I need a rest from gardens today.’ 
‘You poor old thing-with the emphasis on the old.’ 
Does he really look so old that every girl must remark upon it? Sarah is lacing her boots as he ponders on this question. Gradually his attention is held. 
‘Stop!’ he orders when he can contain himself no longer. ‘Stay like that.’ 
She looks up, puzzled. ‘Why?’ 
‘I want to draw you.’ 
‘This isn't very comfortable, you know.’ 
‘Have you got any paper?’ 
‘I thought artists always carried a sketch pad around.’ 
‘I do normally, but it's been a funny sort of day.’ 
‘That explains everything. There's some paper at the back of the table. I can't show you because I'm not allowed to move, remember?’ 
He unearths a writing pad. ‘You haven't got one without lines, by any chance?’ 
‘Sorry.’ 
‘Any pencils?’ 
‘There's a ball-point.’ 
‘Just hold it.’ He sits at the table and begins work whilst Sarah remains bent as though lumbago has overtaken her. 
‘Is this going on much longer?’ she asks five minutes later. 
‘Don't look up,’ he enjoins. He feels a heady freedom as he explores her. In those lines he knows her better than he could in any relationship. Her image of herself is there: the impatience and the vulnerability. It is a scene which Degas would have appreciated. 
Mackintosh draws back to survey his handiwork dispassionately. He is not used to working at speed. The agitation shows. It is a crude sketch on lined paper-something which other people would throw away. Whatever feelings were stirred by Sarah's posture are not communicated. 
‘Have you finished?’ 
He starts again. ‘Nearly.’ 
‘I'm getting stiff.’ 
‘You should be flattered.’ 
‘At you spending half an hour gazing at my foot? You realise I should be at work soon?’ 
‘Okay. okay. Keep calm.’ 
‘I'm going to be late, the rate you're going.’ 
‘Have you ever thought of becoming an artist's model?’ 
‘No. And I'm not sitting here without any clothes on. For one thing you haven't given me a chance to light the fire.’ 
‘You know I'd light your fire.’ 
‘Don't be disgusting, Mackintosh.’ 
‘Don't move your head.’ 
‘I've never been drawn before. I don't think I want to be again if it's always like this.’ 
‘Great new experience,’ Mackintosh murmurs, not looking up. 
‘Do you draw nude models?’ 
‘Sometimes,’ he responds cautiously, wishing that the opportunity came his way. 
‘Does it... you know?’ 
‘Does it what?’ 
‘Is it sexually arousing?’ 
‘Not really,’ the seasoned artist confesses. 
‘You can look at a girl without any clothes on and not get excited?’ 
‘All part of the job,’ Mackintosh assures her, his excitement belying his words. 
‘I don't believe you.’ 
‘Such trust.’ 
‘I might believe you when I know you better, but I don't at the moment.’ 
‘I bare my soul to you and you don't believe me. Terrible.’ 
‘I don't know all that much about you.’ 
‘You know more than most people.’ 
‘You like your man of mystery image, I know that.’ 
He shades in the shadows. To sketch a model is a long-held ambition, even if she is not naked, yet there is a sense of anticlimax which he finds hard to understand. He cannot concentrate. 
‘What's so special about this position?’ Sarah wants to know. 
He thinks about that one. All he can say is that he likes the curve of her body. He is fascinated by the idea of capturing a fleeting moment for all time. 
‘How long do I have to stay like this?’ 
‘Not long now.’ 
‘Wouldn't it be easier to take a Polaroid and do the sketch from that?’ 
‘No,’ he tells her, wishing that he had thought of it. 
‘I feel stupid.’ 
‘You look lovely.’ 
‘As though I've been turned to stone. How often do you do this?’ 
‘When I find an interesting pose.’ 
‘You must lose a lot of girlfriends.’ 
He does not answer. 
‘The garden obviously doesn't stimulate you as much the sight of me bending over.’ 
He concentrates, not replying. 
‘This boot is getting boring.’ 
‘Some painters take hours.’ 
‘They must pay their models well.’ 
‘Some don't get paid at all.’ 
‘How about a percentage?’ 
‘I don't know how it's going to turn out.’ 
‘I'm getting pins and needles, so I'm going to have to get up.’ She stretches. ‘This is heaven.’ 
‘You have a marvellous facial structure. Has anybody told you that?’ 
‘Not in so many words.’ 
He stares at her. ‘You've got a really good bone structure.’ 
‘Thank you.’ She watches him expectantly. ‘Show me then.’ 
‘What?’ 
‘The sketch.’ 
‘I haven't really finished it. This is the preliminary stage.’ 
‘I can see as far as you've gone.’ She cranes forward. ‘You haven't made me like Dracula's daughter, have you?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Then let's have a look.’ 
He passes the pad to her and stares determinedly at the wall while she studies it. 
‘It doesn't look much like me,’ she decides. 
‘I've been involved more with photography lately,’ he lies. ‘I'm getting a bit rusty on the sketching.’ 
‘I said you should have photographed me. It would have been quicker.’ 
‘That's only the first draft. Lots of work to do on it yet.’ 
‘How long before it's finished?’ 
‘Depends how much time I've got.’ 
‘And can I have it then, or are the potential buyers lining up already?’ 
‘I lose interest in it after it's done,’ he says truthfully. 
‘The creative personality.’ 
‘It's not important to me then. I want to get on to the next one.’ 
Sarah grins. ‘Does that mean I'm not important any more?’ 
‘No-of course not.’ 
‘You know you're talking bullshit, don't you?’ 
Mackintosh gazes in desperation around the room. 
‘So if it's not important, you wouldn't mind if I tore this up?’ She holds up the drawing. 
‘I haven't finished it yet, have I?’ 
‘So you would mind?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘Okay.’ 
She hands it to him. 
‘Let's have a look at the others.’ 
‘What others?’ 
‘All the finished ones you were showing to the television producer.’ Without bothering to lace her boots she shuffles across to the stack of canvases by the door. 
‘You don't want to look at those,’ Mackintosh protests. 
‘I do.’ She pushes her fingernail into the tape. 
‘I shan't be able to do them up again.’ 
‘Of course you will.’ 
The tape splits and she attacks the tape on the sides. 
‘There's nothing much to see.’ 
‘You're too modest to be an artist.’ 
‘They're more difficult to carry if they're not taped together. I don't want to drop them.’ 
‘Don't fuss.’ 
The tape on both sides is broken. She drags the canvases to the centre of the room. 
‘I did them a while ago now,’ he explains as she turns them over. He feels the unease in his stomach which came when Clive looked at them. 
‘What's this one?’ 
‘House-backs.’ 
She peers closer. ‘It's got fluff in it.’ 
‘To give a more varied texture.’ 
She turns to the next canvas. ‘And what about this?’ 
‘The canal by Camden Road. I don't know if you've been there.’ 
‘I haven't,’ she murmurs without much interest. He waits for her verdict. After a long interval, she confesses, ‘I don't know much about art.’ 
‘You don’t have to. What do you think of them?’ 
‘I told you-I don't know much about art.’ 
‘What's your first impression?’ 
‘They don't grab me, to be honest.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
The silence stretches. Sarah leans the canvases against the table with elaborate care. 
‘Getting cold in here,’ Mackintosh remarks, rolling up the drawing. 
‘I've got to get to work now, so there’s no point putting the fire on.’ 
‘Can't you stay a bit longer?’ 
‘I've got to work!’ 
‘Comforts for the troops and all that.’ 
‘Something like that.’ 
* 
‘So how did you get on?’ Mrs Vine asks as Mackintosh stretches in a chair. 
‘You don't think I could have a drink, do you? Just a whisky, if you've got one. Warm me up a bit.’ 
As he watches her pouring the drink, he tries to think of what to tell her. At least it is a generous whisky. 
‘Do you want anything in it?’ 
‘Just as it is. Shouldn't spoil the taste of good whisky.’ Gratefully he takes the glass and sniffs the aroma. A few sips and the whisky's energy radiates through him. He has always held the view that religious conversions are the result of generous quantities of whisky. Paul must have had some to while away the hours on the road to Damascus. Mackintosh speculates how much whisky a conversion like that would take. 
‘So how did you get on?’ Mrs Vine repeats. 
He looks into the glass. ‘Not too well,’ he confesses. 
‘You didn't upset Clive again?’ 
‘Nothing like that, no.’ 
‘So what happened?’ 
‘Basically he didn't like them.’ 
Mrs Vine looks downcast. Her brow is furrowed. 
‘So that's one idea down the tubes,’ Mackintosh sums up. 
‘Perhaps I ought to have another word with him.’ 
‘Shouldn't bother.’ 
‘We can't just leave it.’ 
‘Why not?’ 
‘You need to push yourself more. I know it's difficult when you keep being rejected, but it's the only way you'll get anywhere.’ 
He stares into the distance, lost in thought. 
‘You've got a lot to offer...’ She hesitates, searching for the right words. ‘I think you've got more talent than a lot of people who come here, but it's not only talent that counts these days. You've got to know the right people.’ 
Mackintosh can agree on that one. 
‘Next time Clive's here, perhaps we could talk to him together-make him take another look.’ 
‘Is he coming again?’ Mackintosh asks with a heavy heart. 
‘He always tries to attend my little soirees.’ 
‘Will it be like last time-with the poems?’ 
‘You did like it, didn't you?’ 
‘It was great.’ He swallows more whisky, which imparts a pleasant burning sensation to his throat. What he has missed because of poverty and the months on Baileys. 
‘I feel I’ve a mission to bring people together,’ Mrs Vine explains. ‘I haven't got any talent myself, so that's all I can do.’ 
‘Do you bring them together very often?’ Mackintosh asks, his unease unassuaged. 
‘As often as I can. I thought perhaps we could hang some of your paintings in the room next time-get some interest that way.’ 
He tries to think of an excuse make for missing the next soiree. A headache is safe and infinitely repeatable, though Mrs Vine might insist on calling a doctor. A dying relative is more certain-so long as Mrs Vine does not want to drive him to the funeral. Or perhaps he should live up to his reputation as a maverick and stay away without explanation. He becomes aware that Mrs Vine is smiling sadly at him as she might look upon an invalid for whom there is no hope. 
‘I thought we could have a quiet meal,’ she reveals. ‘All the time you've been here and we haven't had much chance to talk to each other.’ 
The idea of a meal appeals to him after a day without food. He is less keen on the talking. ‘I've got to go out later,’ he warns her. 
‘When are we going to have an evening together?’ 
‘We will before very long. Don't worry.’ 
‘I thought I'd be seeing more of you than this,’ she says plaintively. 
‘I thought we'd have a lot of time together,’ he agrees. ‘It's just unfortunate that things keep cropping up.’ 
‘You're not regretting coming here?’ 
‘Of course not.’ 
‘I don't want you to feel you have to stay here.’ 
‘I like it!’ 
‘So long as you're sure.’ 
He nods vigorously. 
‘I wish you would try to understand people like Simon. He is very sincere.’ 
‘He's a pillock.’ 
‘Don’t call him that.’ 
‘I need to concentrate on my work and I can't with people like that around.’ 
‘I know it's difficult for you.’ She hesitates. ‘Have you had any ideas about the garden?’ 
‘A few,’ he reveals. ‘I was thinking of having a day out tomorrow to do some research.’ 
‘Somewhere nice?’ 
‘Nowhere too exciting,’ he demurs, lest Mrs Vine should wish to come. 
‘It'll probably be working in libraries. Research sounds exciting, but it's tedious really.’ 
‘I'll have to give you some more money.’ 
‘It would be useful... I didn't want to mention it.’ 
‘You've got to if you need it, haven't you?’ 
He has to agree. 
‘That's what I mean about pushing yourself forward.’ 
She hesitates. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but you seem more assertive when you've had something to drink.’ 
‘Do you think so?’ he says unassertively. 
‘Not that I'd encourage you to drink.’ 
‘I don't have all that much-not really.’ 
‘Some men go to the pub every night.’ 
‘I wouldn't agree with that.’ 
‘It wrecks family life.’ 
‘You know somebody it's happened to?’ Mackintosh queries, hoping that the Vine family secrets are about to be revealed. 
‘Somebody I never thought would suffer like that.’ 
‘Ah.’ He holds his breath. 
‘But we don't want to talk about that. Show me the paintings you took to Clive.’ 
‘It wasn't the ideal selection. I pretty well took them at random from what I had upstairs.’ 
‘I would like to see them. You don't show me any of your work.’ 
‘If you'd like to get me another whisky, I'll untie them.’ 
‘Do you think you should have another one?’ 
‘I don't usually, but I think I could manage it today.’ 
‘If you're sure.’ Mrs Vine pours another generous measure of whisky as Mackintosh picks at the string so recently tied around the portmanteau by Sarah. ‘It would be much better if you came over here where there's more light.’ 
Mackintosh obliges. With Mrs Vine standing over him he pulls at the last of the knots. The string falls to the carpet. 
‘This is exciting,’ Mrs Vine exclaims. 
‘If you'd like to hold these, I'll take the glass.’ 
‘Aren’t you going to hold them up for me?’ 
‘It's easier if we keep them all together like this. Stops them getting damaged.’ 
The exchange takes place. Gratefully Mackintosh savours the whisky. He avoids looking at Mrs Vine, whose head is bent over the paintings. 
‘I don't understand them, but I don't know much about art,’ she says. Her tone does not quite betray the enthusiasm for which he hoped, but with a glass of whisky in his hand, he does not mind too much. ‘They're very forthright,’ she adds uncertainly. 
He likes that description. It is worth remembering. Forthright. The word resonates with integrity and a paring away of the inessential. 
‘This is interesting.’ Mrs Vine peers closer. ‘It looks like fluff in the paint.’ 
‘I was experimenting with texture.’ 
‘How fascinating. What made you think of it?’ 
‘House-backs,’ Mackintosh declares, ignoring her question. 
‘What do you mean?’ 
‘This one's house-backs.’ 
‘It's so bleak.’ 
‘House-backs are-especially in Holloway.’ 
‘We must hang your paintings for when people come next time.’ She is already looking around the walls, to Mackintosh's alarm. 
‘There's plenty of time.’ 
‘I want you to be recognised.’ 
‘Do you think we could have something to eat first?’ 
* 
Mackintosh walks from Mrs Vine's house a contented man filled with goodwill and pasta. At the Cornucopia, Sarah is busy. She smiles at him from the other end of the bar. 
‘A pint of your best please,’ he calls, flourishing a note. 
‘You wait your turn,’ the man beside him growls. Mackintosh assesses the complainant. He is in his early twenties and fitter than an ageing ex-lecturer. Guile is needed. 
‘You're waiting to be served, are you?’ Mackintosh asks. 
‘What do you think I'm fucking standing here waving a five pound note for?’ 
‘Then let me buy you a drink, my dear fellow, and we can talk the night away.’ Mackintosh gestures to Sarah. ‘Sarah, my lovely-a pint of best for me, and whatever my friend here is having.’ 
‘I'll have the same,’ his new-found friend says, mollified. 
‘Great friend of mine,’ Mackintosh explains, seeing Sarah's surprise. He pats his companion’s shoulder. ‘Old buddy going way back. How long is it now?’ 
His great friend looks uncomfortable. 
‘Friendship is a wonderful thing,’ Mackintosh declares, beaming at the other drinkers who do their best not to catch his eye. He watches Sarah pulling two pints and he nudges his companion. ‘Good little body there,’ he confides. ‘What do you think?’ 
His companion grunts noncommittally as Sarah sets the pints before them. 
‘And a slimline tonic for you, my dear,’ Mackintosh says. 
Sarah smiles. ‘Thanks.’ 
‘You did say tomorrow was your day off, didn't you?’ 
‘Yes...’ 
‘So we'll go out for the day.’ 
She looks surprised. ‘All right.’ 
‘I'll knock on your door at ten.’ 
‘Where are we going?’ 
‘Surprise.’ 
‘What have you got up your sleeve?’ 
‘Absolutely nothing. I'm totally ingenuous.’ 
‘I don't believe it. I'm beginning to know you.’ 
Nobody has ever claimed to know him before. Mackintosh finds it alarming thought. How he might be manipulated. How his weaknesses might be seen for what they are. 
‘Ta,’ his new friend says grudgingly. Mackintosh turns his attention back to the matter in hand. It is conversation time again. ‘You fancy her, do you?’ his new friend is asking. 
‘She's very fanciable.’ 
They watch in appreciative silence as Sarah busies herself further along the bar. 
‘Good legs,’ Mackintosh pronounces. 
‘Not bad at all.’ 
‘Good shape. That's what it's all about, isn't it?’ 
‘Too right.’ 
‘What's your name?’ 
‘Neil.’ 
‘Rex,’ Mackintosh says. 
They shake hands solemnly. 
‘Sorry about barging in,’ Mackintosh says. 
‘Don't worry about it.’ 
They watch Sarah again. 
‘Uncommonly good legs,’ Mackintosh muses. ‘Not that birds like you saying so. You're supposed to think it, but as soon as you start displaying a healthy interest, they don't like it.’ 
‘Too right.’ 
‘You sound like a man who's been through it.’ 
‘You could say that.’ 
‘She's not here today then, your bird?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘What's her name?’ 
‘Sharon.’ 
‘Got problems have you?’ 
Neil shrugs. ‘I suppose we get on all right.’ 
‘That's all we can hope for. A few seconds of ecstasy and then it's social foreplay again until the next time.’ 
Neil looks bemused. 
‘Did I ever tell you about Melissa?’ Mackintosh continues, his creativity taking wing. 
‘We've only just met.’ 
‘Doesn't feel like that. Anyway, let me tell you about Melissa. Everything you want from a bird-rich daddy, talented, good-looking. And do you know what? She was a raving nympho. I thought they only existed in books till I met her. You couldn't take her anywhere. She'd be fluttering her eyelashes at waiters, doormen, other people's boyfriends-anything in trousers. You'd only got to go for a meal and if you weren't careful, she'd be off for a quick bunk up between courses.’ 
Neil's eyes grow large. 
‘It's true,’ Mackintosh assures him. You could take her out for a meal, but you couldn't always guarantee going home with her if somebody else took her fancy. I remember once we went to a restaurant and there was a man sitting by himself a few tables away. For all we knew, he might have been waiting for somebody, but Melissa thought he looked lonely so she had to speak to him. Then you knew what was going to happen. It had all been played out before. She got a glow in her eyes when she was after somebody, you see. And sure enough, after a bottle of wine they went off together. He couldn't believe his luck, poor sod. As soon as they were outside, she'd be looking for the nearest alley. Then it was skirt up and knickers down ready for action. She'd come back ten minutes later and disappear into the loo to tidy herself up. You could always tell the stand-up sessions because she had stains from the bricks down the back of her dress.’ 
‘Christ Almighty!’ 
‘That's what the bloke probably said. She'd carry on afterwards as though nothing had happened. Nothing had in her terms. Her ideal evening was two fucks for starters and another man for the night. If she could find two men for the night, so much the better. I mean two together, of course. Trouble is that men don't like it. Suppose you can't blame them. You wouldn't be interested?’ 
‘Count me out, mate.’ Neil is shaking his head. Whether in sorrow or amazement, Mackintosh is not sure. 
‘Pity. So how about Sharon?’ 
‘She wouldn't get involved in nothing like that.’ 
‘I meant what turns her on?’ 
Neil looks embarrassed. 
‘No kinky habits?’ Mackintosh presses. 
Neil shakes his head. 
‘Melissa likes it kinky, you know. Strange that-you always think it's the man who likes it that way, but she gets some sort of a thrill out of it. She'd go through these old Chinese manuals to get new positions, and then add her own embellishments. I remember once she wanted to do things with pulleys, but that didn't work out. Not sure what she tried, but the chap was in hospital for a week. She has fun, our Melissa-you've got to say that for her. And she doesn't mind people seeing her at it, which is unusual. Her view is that if other people enjoy it, why not give them a treat? She's got this ambition to have a fuck in Selfridges’ window.’ 
Neil is intent on finishing his beer. 
‘Not that she could, of course. Can't see Selfridges allowing it. Can't see any bloke wanting to oblige, if it comes to that. You're sure you're not interested, I suppose...’ 
Neil puts down his glass. ‘I've got to go now. Thanks for the drink, mate.’ 
‘Don't you want another one?’ 
‘I'm in a bit of a hurry.’ 
‘Pity,’ Mackintosh murmurs, but Neil is already scuttling out. 
‘Who's he?’ Sarah wants to know. 
‘His name's Neil and he's a pillock. That's about all I know.’ 
‘You're not very nice to your friends.’ 
‘I don't know him.’ 
‘I thought you were great buddies?’ 
‘Never seen him before in my life.’ 
‘You were deep in conversation.’ 
‘That doesn't mean anything. Just humouring him.’ 
‘I'll remember that next time we have a meaningful conversation.’ 
‘Like tonight?’ 
‘If you like.’ 
‘Shan’t be able to stay too long, unfortunately.’ 
‘You haven't got a wife to get back to, by any chance?’ 
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing like that.’ 
‘I suppose I've got to believe you. It's just that you always seem keen to get away.’ 
‘Tomorrow we'll have the whole day together.’ 
‘You don’t have to get back for anything?’ 
‘I ought to be back for the evening-get some work done.’ 
‘I've never seen you do any.’ 
‘Painting isn't the sort of thing you do in company. A very secret vice.’ 
‘Sounds nasty.’ 
‘I'll even buy you lunch.’ 
‘Well, well. Have you come into money?’ 
‘I like eating out.’ 
‘A new side of Mackintosh showing itself.’ 
‘I'm a many-faceted man.’

Friday

‘I like your idea of a day out.’ Sarah leans over the sea wall, watching high tide lapping the stones.
‘Thought you would,’ Mackintosh says, admiring her legs.
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘Ah.’
‘You really know how to give a girl a good time. A day at the seaside in November-it beats wining and dining and promises of holidays in the sun.’
‘Somebody been promising you holidays?’
‘Just a little fantasy on my part.’
Mackintosh leans on the sea wall alongside her. ‘There's something hypnotic about the sea-you've got to admit that.’
‘Like watching clouds go by-lovely if you're lying in the sun, not so much fun in November.’
They stare over the placid water. A brightly-painted and bulbous pleasure craft waits for another season. Gulls bob beside the still fishing boats. In the distance, a container ship moves imperceptibly.
‘Listen,’ Mackintosh urges.
‘What?’
‘You can hear the water.’
‘Great.’
‘And smell the ozone.’
‘Rotting seaweed, you mean.’
‘All that energy stilled. What does it make you feel?’ 
‘Freezing.’ 
‘It is November, as you keep reminding me.’ 
‘To think I could have been serving in a nice warm bar.’ She shivers. ‘What did you want to come here for?’ 
‘A change.’ 
‘It's certainly that.’ 
‘Don't you think the place has got something?’ 
‘Yes-it's called decay.’ 
‘You're so cynical.’ 
‘It's true. Even the railings are rusting away.’ 
‘That's sea air for you.’ 
‘I know it's sea air. The trouble is the whole place is like it.’ She turns away from the sea to survey the promenade. ‘Look at it-everything's derelict.’ 
Mackintosh looks. The shelters are empty. Most of the amusement arcades are shuttered. The few people wrapped in overcoats who walk there stare at the ground as though absorbed in some inner world. Gulls circle overhead, puling like a Greek chorus. 
‘It is winter,’ he reasons. ‘Seaside resorts always look like this in winter.’ 
‘I don't think it's much better in summer. All you need is pouring rain to make it really depressing-only I suppose you'd like that.’ 
‘You're in a mood, aren't you?’ 
‘You've noticed.’ 
He draws her closer. ‘I'm sorry.’ 
‘Are you trying to get round me?’ 
‘Perish the thought.’ 
‘What did you want to come here for, anyway?’ she asks, mystified. 
‘I wanted a day out, I wanted the chance to spend some time with you-and I happen to like seaside resorts out of season.’ 
‘You've got eccentric tastes-do you know that?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘What's the attraction of this place?’ 
‘It suits depressives like me.’ 
She looks interested. ‘Are you a depressive?’ 
‘Definitely.’ 
‘Are you manic with it?’ 
‘No-lots of lows, but not much in the way of highs.’ 
‘I knew a manic depressive once-he killed himself.’ 
‘Sorry to hear that.’ 
‘I think you’re too thick-skinned for uncertainties.’ 
‘Shows you can't tell by appearances, doesn't it?’ 
‘I should think you'd be more depressed after coming here.’ 
‘It puts everything in perspective-what's transient, what's permanent and how little you can change things.’ 
‘You're right-you are a depressive.’ 
‘I told you.’ 
‘Why do you keep staring wistfully across the road?’ 
‘Do I?’ 
‘You're not going to start painting it, are you? I'm not standing here all day while you sort out your perspectives, or whatever it is you do.’ 
‘Nothing like that.’ 
‘Is that why you came here-to do some painting?’ 
‘No-I told you.’ 
‘So what's over there that's so interesting?’ 
‘I was looking at the buildings.’ 
‘Why did I ask?’ She turns away.
‘I like looking at buildings. I used to take students on walkabouts and then get them to write their subjective impressions.’ 
Sarah stares across the road. ‘So what do you see when you look at those buildings?’ 
‘What do you see?’ 
‘Tatty amusement arcades.’ 
‘I see two rather attractive Regency curved bays with verandahs. And if you look behind that rainbow neon sign next door, there's quite a well-proportioned Georgian house.’ 
‘How do you know it's Georgian?’ she asks, sounding more impressed than he expected. 
‘The symmetry of it. You can see where the windows were-very evenly spaced. And there's a typical Georgian roof shape. Pity about the concrete tiles.’ 
‘I think you're the only person who's going to worry.’ 
‘It's desecration.’ 
‘You get quite carried away, don't you?’ 
‘Old habits dying hard.’ 
‘You get a gleam in your eye when you go on like that about old buildings.’ 
‘Do I?’ 
‘Do you know what makes you go like that? Sex, drink and old buildings. I can understand the sex and the drink, but I didn't know about the buildings before. Did you want to be an architect when you were a little boy?’ 
‘I did as a matter of fact.’ 
‘That explains a lot.’ She turns away, half smiling. 
‘Does it?’ 
‘You must really look at the world in an odd way if you like all this. In fact I know you do-I've seen your paintings.’ 
‘Thank you.’ 
‘I'm getting frozen standing here. Can we do something?’ 
‘I thought we could stroll along the service road at the back of the buildings.’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘You can if you want. I'm going in that cafe on the corner.’ 
‘You wouldn't fancy the pub?’ Mackintosh looks hopefully towards the other corner. 
‘No.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘I work in a pub, remember? I want a change on my day off. You get sick of stinking of tobacco smoke.’ 
Mackintosh wants to argue, but Sarah is already heading for the cafe. All he can do is to trot after her. 
‘Haven't you got anything to say about the cafe?’ she asks as they pause to cross the road. ‘Is it an architectural gem?’ 
‘Early nineteen-thirties, faience. Originally Italian-the name was probably changed when the war started.’ 
‘How do you know that?’ 
‘Italian name right at the top. They probably anglicised it during the war.’ 
‘Clever old Mackintosh.’ 
He lets himself be led inside. With its parquet floor, varnished woodwork, dark bentwood chairs and marble shelf around the base of the windows, the cafe is reminiscent of those visited in his childhood. A gleaming urn sprouts chrome pipes and taps with red plastic handles, as urns should. The changes of the decades have been assimilated in the cafe without changing its character. Panels on the walls display yellowing scenic views from the sixties. The tables have plastic cloths, their printed patterns almost worn away. Mackintosh wishes that there were sauce bottles with labels to read, rather than plastic dispensers whose shape denotes their contents. The tinny sounds of a radio emanate from the kitchen. The bottled gas heater hisses, its fumes catching his throat. While Sarah stands over the heater, he chooses a seat by the window-the favoured position in his childhood. The only other customer is an old woman, her coat held around her with string. She is bent over a cup which she holds with both hands. At her feet is an array of bulging carrier bags. 
An elderly waitress would be fitting; instead the man who brings the menu comes would look more at home in the heyday of Frank Zappa. Mackintosh wishes that he could cultivate the same look, but he never manages the moustache. 
‘I'm starving,’ Sarah announces, wriggling on her chair in a way which Mackintosh loves, though the chair creaks in protest. ‘I'm going to stuff myself as you're paying.’ 
Force of habit makes Mackintosh feel in his pocket. He fingers the notes provided by Mrs Vine. 
‘It's got to be pie and mash with peas,’ Sarah announces. ‘And some bread. And a cup of tea.’ 
‘I'll have the same, but we'll share the bread,’ Mackintosh adds. 
Frank Zappa saunters back to the kitchen, mouthing the song from the radio. 
‘Agree with me it's much better in here,’ Sarah urges. 
‘It's got something,’ Mackintosh agrees, fighting back a cough. 
‘It's great-it's warm!’ 
‘There's that to it.’ 
‘And we can sit here and watch the poor sods struggling along out there. What do they want to come here in the winter for?’ 
‘They might be locals.’ 
‘People don't live here-they hibernate.’ 
Mackintosh often wishes that he could hibernate. What work might he produce if, like Proust, he kept to his room for a few years? 
Sarah leans forward, her elbows on the table. ‘So tell me about these walkabouts. Did you come here?’ 
‘We never did, alas.’ 
‘Great pity, isn't it? How could you have missed a place like this?’ 
‘You've got to tease out the past here, which is good. Makes students think.’ 
‘It's all over now.’ 
‘Eh?’ 
‘That part of your life. You haven't got any students now, remember?’ 
‘I know.’ 
‘You were talking as though you're organising a project for them.’ 
‘I was just saying it would be a good place for a walkabout.’ 
‘You know your trouble? You can't sort out the past from the present.’ 
‘That's a bit hard.’ 
‘You can't. You've got all these hang-ups from the sixties.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘Subjective impressions-wasn't that what you said?’ 
‘What's wrong with that?’ 
‘You're stuck in a time warp. The good things always happened yesterday.’ 
‘I don't know what you're talking about.’ 
‘You're a sort of ageing hippy. Even your clothes are out of the sixties.’ 
‘Nonsense,’ Mackintosh declares, reflecting that it is not his fault if people put sixties’ clothes into jumble sales. Not that his clothes seem irredeemably dated to him. ‘Anyway, you don't know what went on then,’ he adds as an afterthought. 
‘I do. I was around. I was only a baby, but I was around.’ 
‘You couldn't know what it was like-you were too busy having your nappies changed.’ 
‘It's on television enough.’ 
Mackintosh snorts. 
‘You've only got to look at the films,’ Sarah defends herself. ‘All that zany swinging London stuff and psychedelia. What happened to everybody's colour sense?’ 
According to Mackintosh's memory, most of the sixties were spent trying to find swinging parties and ending up in pubs drinking Red Barrel. He has unhappy memories of Red Barrel. 
‘And reality being what you make it. That was the sort of garbage they talked.’ 
And reality was, Mackintosh remembers. There was newness everywhere-in music, motorways, minis, boutiques and tower blocks. Even the hopes and visions were new. The whole world was going to be different when peace was given its chance. 
‘Everybody got on the bandwagon, didn't they? I tried reading R. D. Laing once.’ 
Mackintosh remembers R. D. Laing. Everybody talked about him even if nobody read him. 
‘It was just trash, you know? It made me laugh.’ 
Were his formative years just trash, Mackintosh wonders. 
‘So what about these walkabouts?’ Sarah persists. 
‘I used to enjoy them.’ 
‘The walkabouts or the girl students?’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘You got these poor kids to trail around boring places writing up what they felt.’ 
‘That's one way of putting it.’ 
‘Glad I wasn't on your course. I think I'd have chucked it in.’ 
‘You chucked in your course anyway.’ 
‘So good of you to remind me. So gallant.’ 
‘The idea of getting their off-the-cuff views on buildings was to break down their preconceptions.’ 
‘Pity you never got rid of yours.’ 
‘All they had to do was write down what they felt. I couldn't see why that was so difficult, but they thought it was.’ 
‘Obviously they missed out on doing their own thing like your generation.’ 
‘They could count things and measure things-they were great at that-but they couldn't feel.’ 
‘They must have thought you were a bit of a nutter.’ 
‘They didn't look at their surroundings. People never do.’ 
‘If you brought them to a place like this, you can't blame them.’ 
‘You're closing your eyes to what's around you.’ 
‘You're preaching.’ 
‘I’d ask them to look at a familiar place as though they were coming to it for the first time.’ 
‘I've come here for the first time and I still don't think it's worth looking at.’ 
‘The next stage was trying to work out why they felt as they did.’ 
‘Because it's a dump.’ 
‘Why was it built as it was?’ he presses on.
‘What's it matter?’ 
‘After a while looking at buildings in that way becomes second nature.’ 
‘It might for you. Nobody else cares.’ 
‘You notice the politicking, the foibles and the fashions that everybody else has forgotten.’ 
‘This is mad.’ 
‘And your attitudes become part of the history. Even if you pull buildings down, you're making a statement by revealing what you think about them.’ 
‘You know you're talking total garbage?’ 
‘You build a world around you and then that's providing walls-that's limiting what you can do. However much you pull down and rebuild, you're always giving yourself walls.’ 
‘You're obsessed.’ 
‘And buildings don't answer back.’ 
‘That should suit you.’ 
‘Mute testimony to man and his vanity. Beautiful or hideous, you can keep going back and teasing out a little bit more of their story. What sort of surroundings did they look out on? What did people think about them when they were built? What concessions were made to surrounding buildings? The more humble the building, the more those sort of details get forgotten even within our lifetime. What chance of recapturing them in a hundred years?’ 
‘You liked your teaching, didn't you?’ 
Mackintosh smiles wistfully. ‘Liked the long holidays.’ 
‘What about your research?’ 
‘What research?’ 
‘I thought the idea was that all you academics did research during the vacations?’ 
‘Used to have projects on the go,’ Mackintosh recalls nostalgically. ‘You never finished them, of course. If anybody asked, it was always work in progress. That was the catchphrase-work in progress.’ 
‘Wonder you gave it up.’ 
‘It gave me up.’ 
‘Too bad.’ 
‘The cuts. Department had to close.’ 
The food arrives. Sarah eats enthusiastically. Mackintosh watches, marvelling. All the girls he has known before were addicted to dieting. 
‘This is good,’ she announces between mouthfuls. 
‘Mm.’ 
‘Aren't you hungry?’ 
‘Not very. It's a bit early yet.’ He begins eating without much enthusiasm. Through the window he can see the first drinkers trooping into the pub. 
Sarah’s brow furrows. ‘If you didn't have one of your walkabouts here, how come you know about the buildings?’ 
‘You infer things.’ 
‘You mean you make them up.’ 
‘Anyway I did come here once-a long time ago.’ 
That makes her grin. ‘Is it nostalgic for you? Did you bring a girlfriend here?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘You can tell me. I won't mind. You've obviously got a thing about bringing your women here.’ 
‘There's nothing to tell.’ 
‘Did you used to come here when you were a tiny Mackintosh? Why do I have to keep calling you by your surname? It makes you sound like a raincoat.’ 
‘I'm used to it.’ 
‘So did you come here as a kid?’ 
‘I did as a matter of fact. No continental holidays in those days.’ 
‘Were you ever so poor? Did your mum send you out to work when you were seven?’
‘Nobody went for holidays abroad then, you know. You had day trips to the seaside if you were lucky.’ 
‘I can just see you with your bucket and spade. Why do men always want to be kids again?’ 
‘They don't.’ 
‘I thought we were here to relive your childhood.’ She hesitates. ‘Can I ask you something?’ 
‘You don't usually ask permission.’ 
‘How old are you?’ 
‘You shouldn't ask a man a question like that.’ 
‘You'll have to tell me now.’ 
‘I don't have to.’ 
‘You do. No treats for Mackintosh unless you tell me.’ 
‘That sounds like blackmail.’ 
‘It is.’ 
‘What are you doing this evening?’ 
‘Nothing much. Why?’ 
‘You wouldn't like to help me?’ 
‘Doing what?’ 
‘Carrying a few paintings.’ 
‘Carrying them where?’ 
‘It's only getting them out of my old place into a taxi. It won't take long.’ 
‘I'll think about it. I wouldn't mind seeing where you lived.’ 
‘So you'll do it?’ 
‘You can pick me up at my place.’ 
‘When we get back to London, we could go straight from the station.’ 
‘You don't think I'm going to spend all day wondering about looking at buildings, do you? I'm going home when I've finished this.’ 
‘Don't you want to have a look around now you're here?’ 
‘No.’ She pushes her empty plate away and wipes her lips. ‘That was good. You're not eating much. Don't you want it?’ 
After Mrs Vine's cooking, processed peas and lumpy mashed potatoes have lost their appeal. But not being one to waste food, Mackintosh eats dutifully. Sarah watches as she munches her way through both slices of bread. 
‘I'd say you were about forty,’ she judges. 
‘Something like that.’ 
‘Or a bit more, perhaps. On second thoughts definitely a bit more.’ 
Mackintosh makes no comment. He tries to give nothing away in his expression. 
‘Not more than fifty. Think of it-you were alive when The Mousetrap began.’ She grins. ‘Have you got all your own teeth?’ 
‘I'm trying to eat!’ 
‘Just curious.’ She studies her surroundings. ‘Did you come in here when you were a little Mackintosh? Did you eat pie and chips and drop bits on the floor-and swing your legs like little boys always do when they're sitting on grown-ups' chairs?’ 
He mutters that he cannot remember. 
‘Shame on you. I remember everything about my childhood.’ 
He visualises Sarah as a girl, running into school with her fellows. Even more incongruous is the thought of himself as a child. Searching for that image is like looking into a very deep well. He can dredge scattered memories of that time, but they could be memories of another little boy, so remote do they seem. 
‘It's the drinking-rots your brain,’ Sarah tells him. 
‘Something like that.’ 
‘Why do you do it?’ 
‘I like it.’ He puts down his knife and fork. 
‘Not eating all your dinner? Mummy will be cross.’ 
‘Are we having any sweet?’ 
‘Of course. This is good isn't it? Just like school dinners.’ She studies the crudely-typed menu. ‘It looks like a choice between apple pie and custard, and fruit salad. Shall we make it apple pie?’ 
He agrees without enthusiasm. As Sarah goes to the counter, he sips his tea and stares across the esplanade. The day out was not one of his better ideas. It would have been better to come alone. 
‘Our delicious, home-baked apple pies are coming,’ Sarah tells him, resuming her seat. ‘Straight from freezer to microwave.’ She frowns. ‘What are you looking at?’ 
‘You.’ 
‘That's flattering. Or have I got a dirty mark on my nose?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Why this sudden interest then?’ 
‘I don't know much about you.’ 
‘You haven't known me long.’ 
He has to acknowledge that. 
‘Anyway, I don't know much about you if it comes to that,’ she reminds him. ‘You turned up at the pub one day and started chatting me up.’ 
‘I'm an open book.’ 
‘Balls.’ 
‘All right then.’ 
‘You're a loner.’ 
‘Do you think?’ 
‘You'd be quite happy locked up in a room by yourself with a canvas and a bottle of whisky. You don't particularly need me around.’ 
He tries to look hurt. 
‘I'm not criticising,’ she assures him. ‘I'm just saying.’ 
‘What about you? Are you a loner?’ 
‘Not really.’ 
‘You live alone.’ 
‘I haven't always.’ 
He wants to be able to observe her without having to talk and without her knowing. He wants to draw her through a window: to look down on a girl going about her life, while he remains uninvolved and unseen. The Frank Zappa look-alike brings the food. Mackintosh studies the waiter’s moustache, speculating whether to make another attempt at growing one himself. 
‘Great stuff,’ Sarah declares, digging her spoon into the pastry. 
Mackintosh reflects that before going to live with Mrs Vine, he would never have both a meal and a sweet. Apple pie was amongst his favourites. He heated it by resting the foil tray on the electric ring until there was a smell of burning. Apple pie is a meal in itself. 
‘Why do you want to look at the service road?’ Sarah asks suddenly. 
‘You can see the backs of the buildings from there.’ 
‘I should have thought of that, shouldn't I?’ 
‘What I always used to tell my students was look above the shopfronts and look round the back, where people don't bother to alter things.’ 
‘I bet your students thought you were a right berk.’ 
‘Probably.’ 
‘Sounds a good way to get arrested, poking around in alleyways.’ 
‘The fat underbelly of the seaside.’ 
‘That's a good phrase.’ 
Mackintosh is quite impressed himself. ‘Have you ever thought that buildings outlast people?’ he asks. 
‘No.’ 
‘The idea doesn't stir you or intrigue you?’ 
‘No.’ 
He stares at the congealing custard. The skin on custard is one memory from his childhood which remains vivid enough to make him shudder. 
‘I've disappointed you now,’ Sarah says. 
‘No you haven’t,’ he lies. 
‘I'd have another helping of this if it didn't make me fat.’ 
‘You're sure you don't want to look around?’ he asks, hoping that she might indulge him now that food has improved her mood. 
‘I'm staying in here till I get defrosted and then I'm going home. You can go off and look at your precious buildings if you like.’
‘What about this evening?’ 
‘You know where I live.’ 
* 
Being alone makes the past easier to reach. There are no explanations to make, no having to move on when he prefers to be still, letting the past touch him. 
Walls hide the yards behind the promenade shops. On the landward side of the service road is a car park, almost empty out of season. Beyond the expanse of tarmac, tiers of Victorian and Edwardian terraces mark the heyday of the resort. By standing in the car park, Mackintosh glimpses the backs of the shops. As he looks out over the jumble of gently-sloping slate gables, unpretentious Regency sash windows and clustered chimney pots of weathered clay, the excitement of his teaching days is rekindled. There is magic in the jumble of unexceptionable buildings. He has no memory of them from his previous visit. The car park is familiar, but that is all. Once the town was fashionable with its assembly rooms, baths and circulating library. The baths and library have long gone; the assembly rooms are now the upstairs rooms of a public house. The town is a home for commuters and the retired. Only the buildings give mute testimony to its past. 
Further along the service road, modern discotheques intrude on the older buildings. Flimsy metal canopies overhang the pavement on the service road, indicative of a clientele which has turned its back on the seafront. Plate glass doors yield glimpses of glittering interiors. At night the road must be crowded with young people; now it is empty except for a dog chewing the contents of a fast food container in the kerb. Mackintosh does not like discos. He went once. To pay exorbitant prices for fizzy beer on top of an entrance fee grieved him. He eyed the girls, most of whom were no more than fourteen, and decided without too much regret that he could not afford to entertain them without giving up beer for the rest of the month. Bouncers eyed him suspiciously, or so it seemed in his imagination. 
The service road degenerates into a cul-de-sac. The surface is broken. The doors of an abandoned van hang open, the seats and dashboard torn out. Sometimes Mackintosh considers living in a van. It is compact, so he might manage to keep warm. It might even form a touring exhibition centre for his paintings. He eyes the abandoned van speculatively, wondering if his ideas have to remain dreams. 
The road ends at the back of an Edwardian hotel far larger in scale than anything around it. Towers sprout from its corners in Scottish baronial style. Cast iron verandahs line the seaward side. Mackintosh admires such confidence. Many times he proclaimed to his students that the Edwardian age was the last great age of architecture. Nobody believed him. Sometimes he doubted it himself as he flirted with nineteen-thirties architecture, but his reputation as a hopeless romantic would have been compromised if he had ever voiced such qualms. The thirties provided incidental pleasures like art deco front doors. He was sketching one when the householder complained to the police. Bus stations proved safer. Thirties bus stations are a neglected architectural form in Mackintosh's opinion, worthy of detailed coverage by a sympathetic author such as himself. Leeds was his favourite example with its sweep of leaking, decaying concrete-until the council pulled it down. 
The popularity of the seaside in the thirties has turned resorts into places of pilgrimage for Mackintosh, who mourns grandeur in decline. He stops to gaze up at the rear of the hotel. This is its dour private face. Pipes wind like creepers across the rendering, the brown discolouration charting a sad tale of neglected leaks. Pigeons huddle on ledges. Windows are uncurtained. The cracked concrete in the yard is invaded by moss and weeds. This is a place where the homeless are housed. Mackintosh shivers. 
The road narrows to a pathway with the yard on one side and a churchyard on the other. A lager can spins noisily from Mackintosh's foot to be caught in the railings where the  profusion of weeds is already strewn with cans, bottles and paper. The church is a modest edifice from the days when the coming of the railway made the town popular. As a child, Mackintosh disliked churches. That is another memory which has stayed vivid. Churches were associated with Sunday school and he hated being made to go to Sunday school. He evolved a tactic of mingling with other children going there and mingling with them again on the way home. The time in between was a stolen hour for playing in nearby fields. His especial pleasure was fishing for newts in the pond behind the church hall. The deception was only discovered one wet Sunday when his mother brought his raincoat to Sunday school. Since those days, Mackintosh has gained an affection for Victorian churches. With their stern red brickwork and weathered stone, they have come nearer to immortality than their builders. He pauses to look at the churchyard-a mournful place of rusting railings, skeletal bushes and broken, wind-worn gravestones. Did some stones belong to holiday-makers who came looking for enjoyment and who never returned? He shivers. Time to look for a pub. 
As some people judge towns by their shops or gardens, so Mackintosh judges them by their bus stations and their pubs. Each pub is unique. Some are restful, lulling the drinker into an undisturbed reverie. Some are raucous, forcing him to abandon himself to the occasion. Some are appropriated by locals, so that the presence of a stranger provokes a brake in conversation. Other places are places for visitors to know one another, however fleetingly. Mackintosh has problems classifying the pub which he chooses. On balance it has the air of a locals pub before the locals claim their accustomed seats. Somebody has tried to make the bar live up to its Regency exterior, but the attempt has not been a success. Tobacco smoke has rendered the curtains and ceiling a uniform brown. The flock wallpaper is peeling. Cigarette burns adorn the carpet. The plastic on the chipboard tables is chipped and stained. Mackintosh orders beer. That is another excitement of visiting a pub for the first time-sampling the beer. Here he has forebodings. 
‘Not very busy yet,’ is his opening gambit. 
‘It's early yet,’ the burly licensee informs him. 
‘Get busy here, do you?’ 
‘Not this time of year.’ 
Mackintosh studies his surroundings as though noticing them for the first time. ‘Old building this.’ 
‘Pretty old.’ 
‘You've got a presence.’ 
‘You what?’ 
Mackintosh nods sagely. ‘There's definitely a presence.’ 
‘I don't know what you mean.’ The licensee has taken on the expression of one who recognises a difficult customer. 
‘You haven't felt anything?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Surprising. You can tell by the temperature when there's something happening. Goes very cold.’ 
‘That's because you left the door open.’ 
‘This is different. It's something you can only sense if you're receptive.’ 
‘I'll take your word for it.’ 
‘You haven't noticed things moving?’ 
‘Moving?’ 
‘Glasses falling when nobody's near-that sort of thing.’ 
‘No.’ 
‘How about your good wife?’ 
‘How about her?’ 
‘She hasn't noticed anything?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Strange.’ 
‘What are you talking about?’ 
Mackintosh smiles. ‘I'm what is known as a psychic. I knew when I was outside that you had a presence.’ 
The licensee nods uncertainly. 
‘It's quite usual with old buildings. Mind you, they turn up in new buildings as well, so you can't always go by age.’ Mackintosh sips his beer. ‘Been here long?’ 
‘A few weeks, that's all.’ 
‘That accounts for it.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘You haven't had time to settle in yet.’ 
‘The bloke who was here before didn't say anything.’ 
‘Well he wouldn't, would he?’ 
‘I don't know about all this.’ The licensee stares at the windows, as though willing help from any direction, however unlikely. 
‘It's not unusual. Surprising you haven't come across it before in your profession. Pubs are well known for the paranormal.’ 
‘What sort of presence do you mean?’ 
‘Difficult to say. I think we'll have to do a bit of work on that one-historical records, that sort of thing. It might help if I could go in the cellars-if it’s okay with you.’ 
‘I don't know about that.’ 
‘To get this sorted out once and for all.’ 
The licensee wavers. 
‘Do you want to come?’ Mackintosh offers. 
‘I suppose I'd better.’ The licensee displays no enthusiasm. 
‘These spirits can be violent-I warn you.’ 
The words cause some hesitation. 
‘I think we both ought to have a whisky before we go down there,’ Mackintosh prompts. 
‘Good idea.’ 
‘Better make it large ones.’ 
The licensee puts a generous measure in both glasses. 
‘Think we're going to need this. Mackintosh holds up his glass in salutation. ‘In fact we might be better off having another one.’ But the licensee does not take up the suggestion. 
It is the first time Mackintosh has been in the cellars of a public house. In the harsh fluorescent light they lack the seductive aura which he anticipated. There is a smell of beer and dampness. The cold makes him shiver. 
‘You haven't heard any stories?’ he asks. 
‘No-I told you.’ 
‘You usually get some stories.’ Mackintosh prowls between the rows of crates and barrels and stops at a damp patch on the wall. ‘No secret passages down here, I suppose?’ 
‘Not that I know of.’ 
‘There might be a hidden passage. That's where you often get them.’ 
‘Get what?’ 
‘Presences.’ 
‘What are we supposed to see?’ 
‘It's more a question of feeling. You can't feel anything?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘You can't feel the coldness?’ 
‘It's always cold down here.’ 
‘There's something else.’ Mackintosh shivers. ‘There's certainly something going on.’ His breathing is rapid and shallow. Bursts of vapour escape his lips. ‘Something has happened here. Somebody died.’ His hands are shaking. ‘I think I'd better sit down.’ 
‘Let's get out of here.’ 
They make their way up the narrow stone staircase. Back in the bar, Mackintosh slumps in a corner seat. 
‘I think you'd better have that other whisky,’ the licensee decides. Mackintosh does not object. 
* 
The taxi noses through the side streets of Holloway. 
‘This is all rather exciting,’ Sarah says. 
Mackintosh takes a surreptitious look at her as the taxi passes a street light. Her face gives nothing away. Her hair glistens. ‘You will be quiet, won't you?’ he asks for the third time. 
‘I've told you I will. Just relax.’ 
‘I can't relax.’ 
‘All you're doing is collecting a few things from your room.’ 
‘It's not as simple as that.’ 
‘Isn't it?’ 
‘I haven't paid the rent, have I?’ He glances at her. ‘I don't know what you're grinning about.’ 
‘It is funny-you must admit that.’ 
‘No it isn't.’ 
The taxi comes to a halt. 
‘You're losing your sense of humour, Mackintosh.’ 
But Mackintosh is peering at Mrs Morrow's house and does not answer. 
‘You make this seem like grave-robbing.’ 
‘Sh.’ 
Sarah begins giggling. She puts her hand over her mouth to stop herself. ‘Sorry.’ 
‘You're not going to keep doing that, are you?’ 
‘Don't get touchy or I shan't help you.’ 
‘Come on then.’ 
‘How about some money?’ the taxi driver calls over his shoulder. 
‘We're coming back.’ 
‘I don't know that, do I?’ 
‘I've just told you.’ 
The driver snorts. ‘If I believed everything people told me, I'd be out of business.’ 
Mackintosh stuffs a note in the outstretched hand. ‘I'm a good mind to complain about you.’ 
‘You try it, mate. You just try it.’ 
‘And make sure you're here when I come back.’ 
Sarah subsides into giggles. 
‘You've got to be quiet!’ Mackintosh hisses. ‘What do you keep laughing for?’ 
‘It's you.’ 
‘It's not going to be any good if you keep doing this.’ 
‘All right, all right.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I'll be as quiet as anything.’ 
‘Right. Off we go then.’ He opens the taxi door. Sarah follows him out and waits shivering as he eases the door closed with elaborate quietness. ‘We've got to be very quiet going upstairs,’ he whispers hoarsely. 
‘I know-you've told me a hundred times.’ 
‘Well make sure you are.’ 
‘There's only your landlady in there-not a pack of Dobermans. Come on-I'm sick of standing here freezing.’ 
They make their way up the path to the front door. 
‘I thought you put your soft shoes on,’ Mackintosh complains. 
‘I did.’ 
‘You're making enough noise.’ 
‘It's the loose stones on the path. Anyway, you're making more noise arguing. Get a move on.’ 
There is no light in the hall. Mackintosh fumbles with the key in the lock for what seems ten minutes or so. ‘You'll have to hold on to me,’ he whispers when the door is open. ‘I don't want to put the light on.’ 
‘Sounds like fun.’ 
‘Just hold on,’ he hisses irritably. 
‘Sure boss.’ 
The hall has the familiar smell of stewing cabbage-Mrs Morrow's favourite dish. From Mrs Morrow’s quarters in the basement comes the sound of a television. Mackintosh hopes that it is loud enough to blot out sounds of their visit. He feels Sarah's hand on his back as he fumbles towards the stairs. It distracts him momentarily. His foot stubs the bottom riser. Sarah bumps into him. He can see her faintly in the light from outside. He puts a finger to her lips, enjoying their warm moistness. The door to the basement does not open. 
‘When we go upstairs, keep by the wall so the stairs don't creak,’ he whispers. 
‘Get moving then.’ 
With Sarah's hand on his back again, he feels his way upstairs. On the landing he presses the time switch. In the glare of a twenty-five watt bulb, Sarah looks about her. 
‘Who else lives here?’ she wants to know.
‘Three other men. Let's go up.’ 
A narrow staircase leads to his attic room. The landing light goes off when they are at the top, leaving the tiny upper lobby illuminated by moonlight filtering through the skylight. 
‘What are you doing?’ Sarah's voice comes from behind him. 
‘Trying to unlock the door. Don't make a noise.’ 
‘Why don't you turn the light on?’ 
‘Because there isn't a switch up here.’ 
‘Great.’ 
At first Mackintosh suspects that Mrs Morrow may have changed the lock, but the key turns. He enters his room, recognising its smell of oil paints and rancid sardines before he switches on the light. Sarah follows.
‘I thought my place was a dump, but this is something else,’ she marvels. 
Mackintosh looks around helplessly for some redeeming feature without finding one. 
‘It's dirty and it’s seedy,’ Sarah pronounces.
‘I suppose it is.’ 
‘I couldn't live a day in a place like this.’ 
‘I never bothered about it much,’ he excuses himself. 
‘Obviously.’ She prowls around, stopping by the shelf where he keeps his food. ‘There's cotton wool growing on your baked beans.’ 
‘We haven't come here to eat.’ Mackintosh is exploring the contents of the wardrobe. His voice is muffled. 
‘I wouldn't dare eat in this place. You'd get food poisoning.’ 
‘Can you take these?’ He pushes a stack of canvases towards her. 
‘How many have you got?’ 
‘Lots. I hope we can get them down in one go.’ 
‘Where do you keep your clothes if you fill up the wardrobe with paintings?’ 
‘I haven't got many clothes.’ 
‘Why didn't I think of it?’ 
‘So if you take this lot.’ 
‘I can't carry them all.’ 
‘There aren't many more.’ 
‘We're not going to get them downstairs in one go, you know.’ 
‘We will.’ 
‘No way.’ 
‘I can't face all this twice. Too much strain on the nerves.’ 
‘Why did I get involved in this? I must have been mad.’ 
‘You wanted to see where I was living, remember? Anyway, this is all there is.’ He emerges from the wardrobe, his bones cracking as he straightens. 
Sarah giggles. ‘You look so guilty. You're sure they're your paintings?’ 
‘Of course they are. Let's get out of here.’ 
‘Are the other rooms like this?’ Sarah asks, showing no indication of wanting to leave. 
‘More or less.’ 
‘Your landlady ought to pay people to live here.’ 
‘You go down to the landing and I'll turn the light off up here.’ 
‘Yes sir. Three bags full, sir.’ Craning her neck above the pile of canvases, Sarah descends the stairs with more noise than Mackintosh likes. He takes a last look around his former home. He was fairly happy there. It gave him peace from the world. A thought occurs to him. From under the bed he takes the bottle of Baileys and adds it to his load. 
Sarah is waiting for him on the landing. ‘Who are these other men who live here?’ 
‘We haven't got time to talk now.’ 
‘Your landlady must be making a bomb. How much rent did you pay?’ 
‘Let’s get out.’ 
They get halfway down the final flight of stairs before the light goes out. Sarah bangs into Mackintosh. The bottle of Baileys falls on the stairs and rolls noisily to the bottom. The conspirators hurry after it, stealth forgotten. The door to the basement opens. Light spilling across the hall reveals Baileys spreading across the floor from the broken bottle. 
‘It's you then.’ Mrs Morrow sniffs. ‘Thought I'd seen the last of you, Mr Mackintosh.’ 
‘Had a little accident,’ he explains, marvelling anew at how there could ever have been a Mr Morrow. 
‘I can see that.’ 
‘Just a little accident.’ He gazes sorrowfully at the pool. 
‘You were going to come back with my rent, Mr Mackintosh.’ 
‘And I still am.’ 
‘I don't believe you.’ 
‘Mrs Morrow!’ He puts on his best look of indignation. 
‘Look at you now-trying to sneak out with all your things. And bringing your girlfriend here when you know I don't allow visitors.’ 
‘We weren't staying.’ 
‘I can see that. If I hadn't opened this door, you'd be out of here and I'd never see you again.’ She presses the time switch, bathing the scene in relative brightness. 
‘I think you're jumping to conclusions, Mrs Morrow.’ 
‘Don't lie to me, Mr Mackintosh. I've had enough of your stories.’ She thrusts her face close to his. He thinks that he can smell the cabbage she is so fond of cooking. 
‘We're taking these paintings to sell,’ he tells her, exasperation throbbing in his voice. ‘Don't you understand that?’ 
Mrs Morrow looks sceptical. ‘What happened to all the other paintings you were going to sell? Never heard any more about them, did we?’ 
‘That's all under way. Don't worry.’ 
‘So what about my rent?’ 
‘You'll have it within days, I assure you.’ 
‘I've had your promises before, don't forget. I know what they're worth.’ 
‘I don't know what to say in that case,’ he replies truthfully, watching Baileys seeping through cracks in the lino. 
‘I want some rent-that's what I know.’ 
‘And as I said, in a few days you'll have it.’ He hesitates. ‘I'm getting coverage on television.’ 
‘Don't make me laugh,’ Mrs Morrow says, showing no signs of laughing. 
‘Aren't I?’ he appeals to Sarah. 
Sarah nods. 
‘Well how do I know you're going to pay me even if you are on tele?’ Mrs Morrow asks, returning to the attack. 
‘You have my word.’ 
‘Your word!’ There is scorn in her voice. Applause comes from the television. 
‘I feel you don't trust me.’ 
‘You're right there, Mr Mackintosh.’ 
He looks up-if not to the heavens, at least to the landing where Gorman and O'Reilly, his fellow lodgers, are peering down at the drama being enacted in the hall. It is an occasion for saying something momentous, but he cannot think of anything suitable. Then the front door is pushed open and the taxi driver stands in the threshold. 
‘You're nearly through your five pounds and I'm not waiting once that's gone.’ 
Mackintosh is jolted from his reverie. ‘We're just coming.’ 
‘What about my rent?’ Mrs Morrow demands. ‘And who's going to clear all this up?’ 
There is a break in the conversation as the light goes out. Mrs Morrow presses the time switch again. 
‘I'd clear it up now,’ Mackintosh assures her, ‘if I had anything to do it with.’ 
‘I've got plenty of cleaning things.’ 
‘Then get me something and I'll do it. You don't want this all over the hall.’ 
Mrs Morrow looks suspicious. 
‘All I need is a bucket of water and a mop,’ Mackintosh prompts. 
‘I don't trust you.’ 
‘That's hurtful,’ Mackintosh says after a dramatic pause. 
‘You'll bugger off as soon as my back's turned.’ 
‘I really don't think that's very likely.’ 
‘I do.’ 
Mackintosh looks to his audience with mute appeal. 
‘You'd better do something,’ the taxi driver warns, ‘cos not standing here all night.’ 
‘You take them pictures back,’ Mrs Morrow tells Mackintosh, ‘and I'll get you a bucket and mop.’ 
‘What am I supposed to do?’ the taxi driver wants to know. 
‘You wait here,’ Mackintosh tells him, turning to go back upstairs with his load. Sarah leads the way. 
‘What are we going to do?’ she hisses when the two of them join the two lodgers on the landing. Mackintosh winks. 
‘Take them right up,’ Mrs Morrow calls. 
‘That’s what we’re doing,’ Mackintosh calls back. 
‘I want to see you do it.’ 
Mackintosh ascends the second flight of stairs. His progress is interrupted when the light goes out. Sarah bumps into him at the top of the stairs. 
‘I'll be listening,’ Mrs Morrow calls as one of the lodgers on the landing puts the light on again. 
‘I'm sure you will,’ Mackintosh mutters too softly for his landlady to hear. Satisfied, she goes back to the basement. 
‘Down,’ Mackintosh hisses. 
‘Eh?’ Sarah stares at him in surprise. 
‘Down the stars before she comes back. And be quiet.’ 
They progress downstairs at a slower speed than Mackintosh would like. Sarah hesitates at the foot of the stairs, but Mackintosh urges her on. She steps across the pool of Baileys and deposits the canvases in the arms of the bemused taxi driver. Mackintosh follows. He has reached the path when Mrs Morrow reappears armed with mop and bucket. 
‘I told you, didn't I?’ she calls from the doorway. ‘I trusted you, Mr Mackintosh. It's going to be the police now. I'm getting the police to do something about you.’ 
Mackintosh struggles down the path with all the haste he can muster. Sarah is holding open the taxi door as he launches himself inside. He sinks panting on the seat. It is his firm resolve to exercise every day, so that if anything similar happens again, his lack of condition will prove such a handicap. He looks out the back window as the taxi speeds away. Mrs Morrow is on the pavement, shaking her mop at him. He decides that there is something to be said for travelling by taxi. 
‘You were rotten to her,’ Sarah says. 
‘She's an evil old bitch.’ 
‘Fancy throwing that mess over the floor and pretending you were going to clear it up.’ 
‘I didn't throw it-the bottle slipped. Do you think I'd throw away all that Baileys?’ 
‘Knowing you, you'd probably have spooned it up again if you'd had time.’ 
‘It’s a terrible waste. The things I had to go without to buy that.’ 
‘What are you going to do about Mrs Morrow?’ 
‘I shouldn't worry too much about her.’ 
‘You're hard.’ 
‘Me? Never.’ 
‘I don't know if I believe you.’ 
He kisses her. ‘You should know me by now.’ 
‘But I don't, do I?’ 
‘How could you say that?’ 
‘It's true, isn't it?’
‘Not at all.’ He settles back, content with having somebody like Sarah in his life. Then he thinks of the problems which might ensue when the taxi pulls up at Mrs Vine's house. His new-found contentment evaporates and he groans quietly. There has been enough excitement for one evening. And he has not had a drink. 
‘What are you thinking about?’ Sarah asks. 
‘A drink.’ 
‘You drink too much.’ 
‘Do you know I was only having one drink a day until this week?’
‘I don't believe you-I know you that well.’ 
‘It's perfectly true-one glass of Baileys a day.’ 
‘Why Baileys?’ 
‘I had stomach problems.’ 
‘Then you shouldn't be drinking at all.’ 
‘You've got to drink something. They don't let you into pubs unless you drink something.’ 
‘You don't have to go in pubs.’ 
‘I like them. I like the way everything gels-the drink and the social side. Microcosm of the world is a pub.’ 
‘You mean you like chatting up barmaids.’ 
‘That as well.’ 
‘I can't imagine you drinking Bailey's. It's a bit like a maiden aunt having a pint of bitter.’ 
‘I'm sure lots of maiden aunts would fancy a good sup if they had the chance.’ 
‘So if you've got stomach problems, why have you started drinking again?’ 
‘I'm all right now. Cured.’ 
Sarah looks unconvinced. 
‘Have you seen where we are?’ he asks, peering out the window.
‘You tell me.’ 
‘Tufnell Park.’ 
‘Amazing.’ 
‘I thought you might not have noticed.’ 
‘Am I supposed to get excited?’ 
‘Not really,’ he admits. ‘It's just that I came though here the other day.’ 
‘How absolutely amazing. You came through Tufnell Park.’ 
‘I suppose it doesn't mean much when you put it like that. It just seems significant when I think how my life's changed since I last came through here.’ 
‘What are you talking about?’ 
‘Don't take any notice.’ 
‘How do you get the money to drink all the time?’ 
‘Sell a picture here, a picture there.’ 
‘You're frittering your money away-you realise that? You should be buying time to do more painting.’ 
He stares at the darkened streets and knows that Sarah's words are true. 
She leans closer to murmur, ‘Where exactly are we going?’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘You haven't told the driver where we’re going, so we'll end up at my place because that's where we started from.’ 
‘I'd quite like to leave this lot with you.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘Only for a day or so.’ 
‘I was quite looking forward to seeing whether your new place is anything like the last one.’ 
‘I think they might be asleep.’ 
‘Who?’ 
‘This old girl I stay with and her son.’ 
‘It's only nine o’clock.’ 
‘They go to bed early.’ 
‘Obviously. Is she like Mrs Morrow, this old girl?’ 
‘A bit.’ 
‘In that case there's hardly much point in moving.’ 
‘The new place is much better-heating and everything. You said yourself the other one was a dump.’ 
‘I think you should have cleared up the mess in the hall.’ 
‘Mrs Morrow's going to enjoy doing it-give her something to moan about for days.’ 
‘You've got a low opinion of women-do you know that?’ 
Mackintosh has to agree. Women seduce, as Odysseus discovered long ago. If Mackintosh had never met Sarah or Mrs Vine, he would still be at Mrs Morrow's. Not only would he be moderately content, but he would be painting instead of driving around London with a stack of canvases and a girl. He stares out the window again. The taxi is approaching Constantine Road. At least he has kept Sarah and Mrs Vine apart so far. 
* 
Mrs Vine puts a finger to her lips as she opens the front door. Mackintosh enters into the spirit of things and follows her without speaking. 
‘Jeremy's gone to bed,’ she explains when they are in the kitchen. 
‘Didn't think I was going to be quite so late. Sorry about that.’ Mackintosh slumps on a chair, overcome by fatigue. He reflects that the problem never afflicts him when he drinks. 
‘You look tired.’ Mrs Vine smiles at him wistfully. 
‘Long day. I feel whacked.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I wouldn't mind something to eat.’ 
‘What would you like?’ 
‘How about Welsh rarebit?’ 
She brightens. ‘Aren't you going to tell me how you got on today?’ 
He opens his eyes and hopes that the panic does not show. ‘I want the garden to be a surprise.’ 
‘You could tell me where you've been, couldn't you?’ 
‘That would give the game away. All I'll say is that I've been looking at a lot of gardens.’ 
‘It wasn't Kew, was it?’ 
He smiles, shaking his head. 
‘I was thinking, wouldn't it be nice if we went out for the day,’ Mrs Vine continues. 
‘How do you mean?’ Mackintosh tries not to sound too wary. 
‘As a change for us both. I think you need a break.’ 
‘Perhaps I have been overdoing it a bit recently,’ he has to agree.
‘You don't have to work every day.’ 
‘I do want to get the garden finished.’ 
‘You could take one day off-that wouldn't hurt, would it? We could go to Kew.’  
‘I suppose we could,’ Mackintosh agrees without much enthusiasm. 
‘It might spark something.’ 
‘That's possible.’ 
‘I'm looking forward to seeing what ideas you've got.’ 
‘They're taking shape well.’ 
‘And we've got to keep thinking about ways of selling your work.’ 
Mackintosh is afraid of that.

Saturday

Mackintosh has fond memories of Saturdays. In his days of employment, Saturday was the day for relaxing and for dreaming of things which he would like to do. The best moment was on waking. In the warmth of the bed he contemplated the coming weekend with all its promise. The possibilities were endless. On really cold Saturdays he could go to the library and browse through the magazines, if the tramps did not smell too bad. There was time to linger in his favourite cafe, appreciating the comely waitress as she cleared tables. If he never quite got around to asking her out, the possibility was always there. It was on Saturday that he browsed in the artists' supplies shop, coveting the brushes which would make the achievement of that elusive masterpiece a little easier. And on Saturday evenings there were pubs to visit: pubs brimming with new and interesting faces.
When Mackintosh's job as a researcher came to an end, so did the enchantment of Saturdays. When he could lie in every morning, Saturday seemed no different from other days. It promised nothing, except that the pubs stayed open until late.
His first Saturday at Mrs Vine's does not bode well. For one thing, Mrs Vine does not let him lie in.
‘I'm not sure this is a good idea,’ Mackintosh has to say as he surveys the windswept heights of Hampstead. 
‘It's the only way to launch your career,’ Mrs Vine assures him. 
‘I don't know about that...’ 
‘Help me unload, will you, please?’ 
‘Ah yes. Get it unloaded.’ Reluctantly he drags three canvases from the back seat of the car. It is a long time since he has exhibited his work. The notion has lost its appeal during the months of introspection. Now it seems a betrayal of his muse rather than a challenge. 
‘We're lucky to get a place here at short notice,’ Mrs Vine is saying. ‘I went to a lot of trouble to arrange this.’ 
Mackintosh does not feel lucky. An open-air art exhibition in November is more akin to a penance-the price to be paid for Mrs Vine's favours. 
‘I know you're going to find buyers,’ she assures him, heaving more canvases from the boot. ‘I just know it.’ 
‘Mm,’ Mackintosh responds, unconvinced. 
‘It's lovely here, isn't it?’ Mrs Vine breaks off from her work to stare towards the pond. 
‘Lovely,’ Mackintosh agrees, looking longingly at the Spaniard’s Inn beyond the pond. 
‘We haven't had our walk on the heath yet.’ 
‘That's right.’ Mackintosh tries to inflect his voice with the right note of surprise at such a prospect slipping his mind. 
‘You always seem to be doing something.’ 
‘I know. I've been so busy lately. It's incredible, quite incredible.’ He shakes his head helplessly, as one weighed down by busyness. 
‘And there's Jeremy's drawing lesson.’ 
‘Jeremy's drawing lesson?’ The prospect makes him look up in alarm. 
‘You said you were going to give him a drawing lesson. Don't you remember?’ 
Mackintosh remembers. 
‘I think he can learn so much from you.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘If it goes well, perhaps you could give him regular lessons.’ 
Mackintosh contemplates the awful possibility and resolves that it must not go well. 
‘We'd better get on.’ Mrs Vine heaves the remaining stack of canvases from the car. ‘I wish I could stay here with you. It must be so interesting watching people's reactions when they look at your work.’ 
They usually looked embarrassed, Mackintosh recalls. 
‘The trouble is I get so busy coming up to Christmas and I do like to spend some time with Jeremy every day. I think it is so important to spend time with children, especially in the circumstances.’ 
‘The circumstances,’ Mackintosh repeats, trying to remember what the circumstances are. 
‘His father.’ 
Mackintosh digests this. ‘What about his father?’ 
‘Not being there to guide him. I think a boy does need a father.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘I'd like Jeremy to see you as a father figure.’ 
Mackintosh suddenly becomes interested in the dogs playing in the pond. 
‘There we are.’ Mrs Vine closes the boot. ‘Can you close the door, please.’  
Mackintosh obliges. His canvases lean against the car. They look frail enough to be torn by the slightest breeze. They do not belong in the outside world. 
‘Now how shall we do this?’ Mrs Vine prompts. ‘Do you want me to help you hang them?’ 
It occurs to Mackintosh that his canvases have no fixings. He looks helplessly as the other exhibitors who all seem so much better organised. There is the usual assortment of amateur artists-the retired civil servants indulging in late-flowering passions and the women of indeterminate age who dress in sensible clothes and paint floral arrangements. 
‘You will keep well wrapped up, won't you?’ comes Mrs Vine’s voice. 
‘It's going to keep people away-the cold.’ 
‘I think you'll find lots of people come here. It's very well known.’ 
Mackintosh is not convinced. 
‘People like to buy paintings as Christmas presents, ‘ Mrs Vine assures him.
Mackintosh suspects that his works are not quite the thing for Christmas presents, unless the visitors are short-sighted. 
‘Supposing it rains?’ he asks. 
‘You've got a tarpaulin over the top-you can pull that down.’ 
‘Then nobody's going to see the paintings.’ 
‘I wish you'd be a bit more positive, Mackintosh. I'm doing this for you.’ 
‘Ah yes. Sorry.’ He kneels, looking at his canvases, remembering the moment of excitement in which each was conceived. Now his children are presented to the world. 
‘Shall we put them up, then?’ 
‘How long am I supposed to be here?’ he queries, looking up. From his kneeling position, Mrs Vine assumes the proportions of a Wagnerian heroine. 
‘All day of course.’ 
‘What about food?’ 
‘It gets dark by four. You won't have to stay here very long.’ 
Mackintosh groans. 
‘Do you want me to help you putting them up or not?’ Mrs Vine persists. 
‘You haven't got any string, have you?’ 
* 
The wind rises. The paintings are restless on their strings. 
‘Parky,’ the man on the adjoining stand remarks. Age is bending him. His features have weathered to those of a bloodhound-long-jowled and bloodshot-but he is still recognisably a retired military man, like the major who taught craft at Mackintosh's school and who was sacked for being drunk in the stock room. 
‘Parky,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘Eh?’ 
‘Parky,’ Mackintosh repeats more loudly. 
‘Haven't seen you here before.’ 
‘Don't come much. Been working on a television show.’ 
‘What's that you say?’ 
‘Television show,’ Mackintosh shouts. Other faces turn in his direction. 
‘You get to know all the regulars,’ the major confides. ‘I've been coming here for ten years now.’ 
Mackintosh wonders why as he takes a surreptitious look at his companion's paintings. ‘Shouldn't think there'll be many buyers up here in November,’ he says conversationally. 
‘Get all my inspiration from the heath, you know.’ 
‘Wasn't sure whether it was worth coming. Don't know how you think about it.’ 
‘Take a walk on the heath every day, rain or shine.’ 
‘And if it rains, we might as well go home,’ Mackintosh continues, realising that he is condemned to stay until Mrs Vine collects him, however bad the weather. 
‘Every day for ten years, rain or shine-apart from the time when I was in hospital having my hernia done. Might do some sketching, or I might take the dog for a run, but I'm always here.’ 
Mackintosh is not sure whether to admire the persistence of the military mind or to despair at the adherence to routine. In Mackintosh's philosophy, routine is the antithesis of creativity. 
‘They say the countryside looks different in all its moods,’ his companion continues. ‘You want to go on the heath-see all its different faces.’ 
‘Do you think we'll sell anything?’ 
‘Never get tired of it. Don't think I ever will.’ 
‘No point in standing here all day if there's no hope of selling anything.’ 
‘Get off the beaten track and you could be in the country.’ 
‘Haven't noticed all that many passers-by.’ 
‘And there's Kenwood. I go there at least once every week. Wonderful to have a place like that on your doorstep-rooms full of masterpieces and it doesn't cost you a penny.’ 
‘Are we talking to each other?’ Mackintosh asks of the world in general. 
‘Of course they know me over there by now.’ 
‘I'm sure they do.’ 
‘I might not paint masterpieces, but I'll have a damned good try.’ 
Mackintosh studies his companion's oeuvre more openly. Vistas of grass are relieved by clumps of trees looking suspiciously like palms. Two paintings show a building between the grass and the sky. It is the same building in both paintings: long, low and white-a swimming bath which has been transported to Hampstead for the major's artistic purposes. 
‘You know it of course?’ the major says. 
‘Trying to place it in my mind.’
‘Remember one time I was looking at Kenwood from the heath. Spring, I think it was. There was this downpour. I stood there, right out in the open, looking at the house. It was like something out of an impressionist painting, all the colours blending together.’ 
‘Amazing,’ Mackintosh agrees.
‘It’s Kenwood, y’see.’ The major jabs a gnarled finger at the swimming bath. 
‘Ah.’ 
‘The lake at Kenwood-that's another inspiration.’ 
‘What are you talking about?’ 
‘Especially when there's a concert on. Gets really busy then.’ 
‘Concert?’ 
‘Tried painting it once as the light was going down. Damned tricky that. Look at this one.’ 
Mackintosh looks at a likeness to blobs of cream on a blackcurrant jelly. 
‘Damned tricky, but I think I caught it.’ 
Mackintosh turns his back on his companion to study his own paintings, trying to see them through the eyes of a visitor to the exhibition. The rough-hewn textures and deep colours have the energy which went into their creation, but the compositions are crude, the aspirations unrealised. The canvases should not be in display: there is little of his work which is good enough for the public gaze. 
But people are coming. A middle-aged woman with a lined face wrapped in a head-scarf stands back to scrutinise his offerings. Mackintosh is not sure whether to start a conversation. In the end he ignores her and stares resolutely ahead-a sentry on guard over his possessions. When she moves on, he relaxes. She is inspecting his companion's works. 
‘Have a good look, madam,’ the major bellows. 
She fingers her headscarf and looks back at Mackintosh for reassurance. Mackintosh makes a point of studying the weather. 
‘The heath at every season,’ the major explains. ‘Think I've captured it all right.’ 
The woman moves on, ignoring him. 
‘You can always tell the people who want to buy,’ the major confides to Mackintosh, who nods in what he hopes is an understanding way. ‘It's the way they interest themselves in one picture. That's a good tip. You remember it.’ 
‘I will,’ Mackintosh assures him. 
‘Like that one. She wasn't serious-knew it as soon as I saw her.’ 
They wait together in the silence of two people linked by adversity, the heavy-jowled major looking balefully on likely customers and Mackintosh contemplating the pub beyond the pond. Another woman pauses, attracting their joint attentions. She is young. Chic is the word which occurs to Mackintosh. He watches appreciatively as she examines his work. When he smiles, she smiles back. 
‘How much is that one?’ she wants to know, pointing. 
Mackintosh experiences the heady mixture of excitement and frustration. He looks helplessly at the painting of Camden Lock. It looks bleak in its emptiness, which conceals his inability to paint figures. He is angry with himself for not putting prices on his work. The woman waits patiently. 
‘Twenty-five pounds?’ he suggests. 
The woman moves on without answering. Mackintosh resumes his scrutiny of the pub. He wonders whether whores feel the same sense of rejection when they tout unsuccessfully for business. At least he feels better when she walks past the major's offerings without stopping. 
‘Not a buyer,’ he says to the major, but with no response. ‘Not a buyer,’ he repeats to himself, looking at his own work again. How do you price something which nobody wants? And rain is already thudding on the tarpaulin. 
‘Daddy-what's that?’ 
Mackintosh adjusts his gaze downwards with distaste. Two children in matching yellow plastic raincoats are studying his works. 
‘Which one, Miles?’ the man in a waxed jacket asks. 
‘That one.’ The little boy points. 
‘Canal at Camden Road,’ Mackintosh says promptly. 
‘What's a canal?’ the little girl asks. 
‘It's like a river,’ her father explains. 
She screws up her face as she studies the painting. ‘It doesn't look much like a river.’ 
Mackintosh gazes with disdain over the heads of his critics and dreams of what he would like to do to little children. 
‘What's this one?’ the little boy demands. 
‘Holloway Road tube station.’ 
‘It doesn't look like anything!’ the boy exclaims triumphantly. ‘It looks like the mess Buster makes when he's been sick. Buster's our dog,’ he adds for Mackintosh's benefit. 
Mackintosh glares at the children's father. 
‘This gentleman painted them,’ the man explains. 
The two children look unimpressed. 
‘They're gloomy,’ the little boy announces. 
‘Bugger off,’ Mackintosh mutters. 
‘That's not quite the thing to say to children, is it?’ their father remonstrates. 
‘And you can bugger off as well.’ 
The father shepherds his children away, not pausing to admire the major's views of the heath. 
‘Not buyers,’ Mackintosh announces to anybody who might be listening. ‘More like bloody cretins.’ He surveys his work with a mixture of affection and embarrassment, as though the paintings are themselves children who have let him down. Life is easier out of the public's gaze. 
As the rain becomes heavier, at least the public disappears. The few viewers scurry to their cars. Mackintosh pulls the tarpaulin to form a musty cocoon around himself and his paintings. Rain drums on the fabric, to collect in the hollow above him and drip on his head. He lifts the corner of the flap and gazes longingly at Spaniards Inn. Images of its myriad delights tempt him-simple things like warmth, shelter and beer. He wrestles with his conscience. It is not a long contest. 
Even Mrs Vine could not object, Mackintosh tells himself as he sips his first pint. Nobody is looking at paintings in the rain. Nor is anybody likely to steal his works with the major standing guard. Mackintosh nods pleasantly to the only other drinker leaning against the bar. ‘Not very nice out there.’ 
The man is in his early thirties and already balding. He has the look of a man who is tired of London, if not of life itself. 
‘Not too bad to begin with, but it's getting a bit wet now,’ Mackintosh continues, attuning to the mood. ‘Not a good day at all, weather-wise.’ 
No response. 
‘You're married are you?’ 
The man nods. 
‘You look like a man with problems in that direction. Not that I want to pry, you understand.’ 
No response again. 
‘Know all about problems. Had enough in my time. Got enough now, come to that.’ They contemplate their tribulations in silence as they drink. Mackintosh decides that drastic measures are called for. He produces a note. ‘You'll join me in another one, won't you? Let's have a chaser.’ 
The man accepts with alacrity. Mackintosh hesitates on the point of ordering whisky: the habits of his unemployed years and the thought of his stomach problems make him order ginger wine instead. ‘Nothing like ginger wine for a chaser,’ he assures his new companion, pushing the glass of whisky towards him. ‘You get that down you. Name's Barry, by the way.’ 
‘Paul,’ the man responds. 
‘You get that down you, Paul. Here's to a day that can only get better.’ 
They drink. Mackintosh discovers that he likes ginger wine.
‘You live near the heath?’ he enquires. 
‘Not far away.’ 
‘You probably think it's a peaceful place for a walk on a Sunday. If only it were. The things I could tell you. Trouble is my lips are sealed-Official Secrets Act.’ 
‘Are you a policeman?’ Paul's eyes show the first glimmer of curiosity. 
‘You must be joking.’ Mackintosh looks away lest his eyes betray him. ‘The police can't help in this one.’ 
‘What one?’ 
‘Different branch, you see.’ 
‘No I don't.’ 
‘A few flatfoots in panda cars aren't going to help much in this sort of business.’ Mackintosh takes a sip of his ginger wine and nods to emphasise his words. Paul nods back. ‘So you had a row with the wife this morning, did you?’ Mackintosh surmises. ‘That's nothing to being hunted across the heath like an animal at five in the morning.’ 
Paul's eyes open wide. 
‘Anyway, tell me about your problems to take my mind off it,’ Mackintosh invites. 
‘There doesn't seem much to say now. We had a row yesterday because I didn't want to go to a party. It was being given by one of her friends at work, so I wouldn't have known anybody.’ 
Mackintosh remembers a party given by a lecturer in geography. The most vivid image is of a flat crowded with books and pretty girls. Girls always looked pretty at parties. He cannot decide whether that was the consequence of nostalgia, genetic selection, or abundant alcohol. He spent the first part of the evening peering down the dress of a raven-haired beauty who turned out to be the lecturer's wife. After the lecturer objected, Mackintosh took two bottles of wine and settled behind a settee to wile away the night. When he emerged clutching the second of the empty bottles, all the guests had gone. Even the lecturer had disappeared, presumably to bed his raven-haired wife. Mackintosh drifted back to sleep musing on these events. When he awoke, sunlight was flooding through the window on the chaos of the silent room. Crisps crunched beneath his feet as he lurched to the door. He let himself out quietly and made his way home through streets peopled only by cats and milkmen. It was six o'clock. 
‘I walked out,’ Paul is saying. ‘I couldn't stand another row.’ 
‘Very wise,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘I mean it's my choice, isn't it-whether I go or not?’ 
‘Did you ever think there could be a manhunt on the heath?’ Mackintosh asks, tiring of Paul's domestic trivia. 
Paul shakes his head. 
‘I drifted into the work, of course. Everybody does. It's word of mouth stuff-friend of a friend. You think it's going to be exciting, then like most jobs you find the glamour's on the outside. It's dog eat dog-all the departments trying to score off each other. And you don't get any backup. Look at this morning. Supposed to be a routine job-surveillance.’ Mackintosh drops his voice. ‘You understand all this is confidential?’ 
‘Sure.’ 
‘Do you want another one?’ 
‘My round.’ 
This time Paul orders beer for both of them. Mackintosh drinks the remains of his ginger wine while he is waiting. When the two pints are on the bar in front of them, he pulls his stool closer to his confidant. ‘You know there are trade missions around here?’ 
‘Go on,’ Paul urges. 
‘I can't tell you all the details. Let's say I was keeping an eye on a man who's supposed to be a trade official, but has another job.’ 
‘I get you.’ 
‘And he meets somebody who's in the government. That floored me for a moment, seeing chummy with someone who turns up on television. Had my guard down. Seen. That was it. All hell let loose. You wouldn't notice much, but chummy called his friends in straight away. Our government friend made himself scarce. Probably shitting himself somewhere. All I was concerned about was getting away. I've never run like I did then, I can tell you. Knew I had to get to the rough ground, you see. Anyway, I made it. Found a hollow under a bush and holed up there for two hours. Heard them beating the undergrowth. Good thing they didn't have dogs. If they'd got me then it would have been curtains, but I was lucky. That's when it was difficult-in the early morning. Nobody around, you see, so they could shoot without anybody being any the wiser. By seven, you've got the joggers coming out and the people walking their dogs. That clipped chummy's wings a bit. Whatever he did, it had to be quiet. So all I had to do was lie low. And here I am to tell the tale.’ He sips the beer. ‘They're probably watching all the roads from the heath, but I'll get around that one.’ 
‘Is all this true?’ Paul is staring at him, frowning. 
‘You don't spend six hours hiding in a hollow in the ground for fun-not this weather.’ 
‘True.’ Paul does not look totally convinced. ‘What about your pals?’ 
Mackintosh snorts in an attempt at laughter. ‘What about them? Like I said-no backup.  Saturday, you see. All government departments are the same-trying to get anything done on a Saturday is a bit like moving the coliseum. Anyway, we might as well enjoy ourselves. Another chaser?’ 
‘Might as well.’ 
‘If you see anyone with a gun in the doorway, get on the floor.’ 
* 
Staying in a pub till it closes after lunch imparts a sense of living life at its proper pace. Some people never understand that, Mackintosh concludes. Pubs are not so much about drinking as about knowing one's fellow man. Filled with well-being, he goes back to his stand. The canvases are still there. 
‘Wondered what happened to you,’ the major says. 
‘Had a bit of business to sort out.’ 
‘Enough said.’ The major holds up his hand. ‘Felt like going off myself. Damned rain-kept the people away.’ 
‘Sold anything?’ 
‘Tried to look after things for you. Didn't know the prices, that's the trouble.’ 
‘Doesn't matter.’ 
‘Eh?’ 
‘Doesn't matter,’ Mackintosh shouts. 
‘Sold one.’ 
With his pulse quickening, Mackintosh scans his canvases. 
‘Pays for being here,’ the major says. ‘That's all I'm worried about.’ 
‘Which one?’ 
‘Only twenty pounds.’ 
‘Which one?’ The shout has risen to a scream.
‘That was half an hour ago. Good job I stayed. Thought of calling it a day when the rain set in.’ 
Mackintosh turns away in frustration. 
‘One of Millfield Lane in autumn. Don't know if you remember it?’ 
‘One of yours!’ 
‘Wife liked it as well. She'll be sorry not to see it in the lounge. We keep them all in the lounge. Our friends say the house looks like an art gallery.’ 
Mackintosh ducks under the tarpaulin to escape his companion. All he can do is wait for Mrs Vine to come with the car. He hopes that his deliverance will come soon. As he leans against the metal stand, drowsiness steals over him. After an uncertain start, it has not been a bad day. 
Somebody is shaking him. Mackintosh opens his eyes to see Mrs Vine leaning over him. 
‘What's the matter?’ 
He groans. 
‘Mackintosh!’ The urgency in Mrs Vine's voice drags him into wakefulness. He struggles into a sitting position. Mrs Vine kneels beside him. ‘I got a shock when I saw you lying there.’ 
‘Felt a bit tired, that’s all.’ 
‘Are you sure you're all right?’ 
‘Nothing wrong at all.’ He hauls himself up by clinging to the stand. Gravity conspires to send him down again, but he hangs on with the persistence of one who has to create a good impression. ‘Leg's gone to sleep,’ he explains, hoping to assuage Mrs Vine’s obvious concern.  
‘I didn't think there'd be any paintings to bring back,’ she comments, getting to her feet with enviable ease. 
‘That's the way it goes.’ Mackintosh, shifts uneasily, aware of the fullness of his bladder. 
‘I'm surprised.’ 
‘Rain kept a lot of people away. Everybody here's been saying the same.’ 
‘I thought with Christmas coming up, a lot of people would be interested.’ 
‘Apparently not.’ 
‘You weren't charging too much, were you?’ 
‘No, I was careful about that.’ 
‘You don't want to undervalue yourself-I know what you can be like-but you mustn't overcharge either.’ 
‘No problem with charging-just not enough customers.’ 
Mrs Vine shakes her head. ‘I don't know what else to suggest.’ 
Mackintosh forbears from saying that he does not mind the disappointment. His paintings need more work. All he wants is time. ‘Can we get them packed up?’ he urges, conscious that time is running out. 
‘I wondered if you wanted to stay a bit longer now the rain's stopped.’ 
‘No.’ 
‘You really are all right, aren't you?’ 
‘Yes, All I want is to get home. Gets chilly standing here all day.’ 
They carry the canvases to the car, watched by the major. Mrs Vine seems inclined to study the major's paintings till Mackintosh steers her away. His greatest wish is to leave that place, never to return. 
Hampstead High Street is still crowded. The traffic moves slowly. In the warmth of the car Mackintosh feels drowsiness overcoming him again. Beautiful girls flit from shop to shop like butterflies attracted to flowers. He watches with the fleeting interest of one who has more pressing concerns. 
‘Perhaps we should try asking shops to sell your work,’ Mrs Vine suggests. 
‘No.’ 
‘Well what are you going to do?’ 
‘I don't know.’ 
Silence settles between them. By Rosslyn Hill, Mackintosh vows never again to drink so much beer near closing time. 
‘Perhaps Simon can think of something.’ 
‘Simon?’ 
‘He's coming tonight.’ 
‘Problem is I've got to go out.’ Mackintosh ventures a glance at Mrs Vine to see how his words have been received. She has tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She stares fixedly ahead with the expression of one who is not pleased. ‘Something I arranged weeks ago,’ he explains. ‘Don't know how I can get out of it now. It's about selling paintings, as a matter of fact.’ 
‘You can stay for a while to see Simon, can't you?’ 
‘So long as it’s only a little while.’ 
‘I think this time you really should make an effort.’ 
Mackintosh follows his instincts and keeps quiet. 
‘And then tomorrow you can give Jeremy a drawing lesson.’ 
Mackintosh ventures another look at Mrs Vine. Not the moment for arguing, he decides. As the car stops outside her house, he clambers out hastily and dodges behind the garden wall, giving thanks for his perspicacity in not prematurely demolishing it in reshaping the garden. 
‘Mackintosh, what are you doing?’ Mrs Vine emerges from the other side of the car. ‘Don’t start worrying about the garden now-it's getting dark...’ Her words trail away as the gentle splashing against leaves begins. ‘That's disgusting!’ 
Such is the glorious sense of liberation that Mackintosh does not care. ‘Sorry about that,’ he says as he finishes. ‘I suppose we'd better get all this stuff unloaded.’ 
‘Couldn't you have waited till we got inside?’ 
‘No. I've been standing out there all day, remember. I couldn't leave the paintings.’ 
‘I really think you could have waited.’ 
‘I'm truly sorry.’ He stands before her, his eyes downcast-a little boy who waits to be forgiven. 
‘Let's take these paintings in. We'll hang them for Simon to see.’ 
* 
Mackintosh pours a whisky before facing the guest. He avoids looking at his works arrayed around the room. ‘So how has Simon been getting on?’ he enquires politely. 
‘I've found some sort of equilibrium,’ Simon assures him. 
‘Good, good.’ 
‘And you?’ 
‘Been holding a little exhibition.’ 
‘How wonderful.’ Simon lifts his eyebrows, allowing Mackintosh to marvel anew at the blueness of his eyes. ‘Where was it? I could have come.’ 
‘Only local-just a little thing.’ 
‘Successful, was it?’ 
‘Pretty successful,’ Mackintosh assures him, nodding vigorously. ‘Lot of interest.’ 
‘I'm glad.’ 
‘Here we are,’ Mrs Vine intervenes, presenting Simon with his fruit juice. ‘Have you been looking at Mackintosh's paintings?’ 
‘I haven't had a chance to look around yet.’ 
‘Just a few things I had lying around,’ the artist explains modestly. ‘Certainly nothing special.’ 
‘I keep telling him he shouldn't underrate himself,’ Mrs Vine puts in. 
‘Do you?’ Simon regards Mackintosh again. 
‘Interesting question,’ Mackintosh muses, playing for time. ‘Can one underrate oneself, or is it only other people who can make that assessment? And if it is only other people who can do it, where does that leave the creative artist driven by his own obsessions?’ 
Mrs Vine looks pleased. Simon looks surprised. Mackintosh takes the opportunity to refill his glass. 
‘Does the very notion of creativity make a statement about the ego?’ he continues, looking at the darkness outside and realising that the pubs are already open. ‘Does it mean that as I’m expressing my ideas in the form of art, I believe them to be important and original, or does it mean that this is my form of expression which other people can either accept or ignore as they choose?’ 
‘I didn't know you thought so deeply about art,’ Mrs Vine says with awe. 
‘Or is art merely a reflection of the society in some way, so what matters is its social value rather than any intrinsic artistic merit?’ Mackintosh turns quickly to catch the expressions of his listeners. Mrs Vine and Simon are staring at him. ‘Cheers.’ He holds up his glass. ‘Have a look. Browse amongst my works and enjoy, as they say.’ He waves towards the paintings. 
‘Mackintosh likes to hide behind his bluff exterior,’ Mrs Vine explains. 
‘Exteriors,’ Mackintosh continues. ‘Do we put on an exterior like donning a coat, or do others make interpretations of how they think we look and feel?’ 
Simon is studying the paintings, so the impact of the peroration is lessened. 
‘House-backs,’ Mackintosh explains, abandoning the rhetorical approach. ‘Experimenting with textures.’ 
‘You could buy one, couldn't you, Simon?’ Mrs Vine urges. ‘Mackintosh hasn't had a very good day.’ 
‘No definite sales,’ Mackintosh intervenes, suspecting that Simon might not be too impressed by the open-air exhibition. ‘It's the definite sales that count.’ He watches Simon warily, though as the latter has his back to him, the scrutiny yields little. ‘Canal at Camden Road. Don't know if you’ve been there.’ 
Simon shakes his head. 
‘Fascinating area. Rundown sort of place. You think you're back in the fifties. Don't know if you like that sort of thing.’ 
‘Not particularly.’ 
‘He doesn't particularly,’ Mackintosh murmurs, heading for the drinks. 
‘Don't you think Mackintosh's paintings are interesting?’ Mrs Vine is saying to Simon.  
‘I'm afraid I don't know much about art.’ 
‘Does one have to know about art?’ Mackintosh queries, pouring himself another drink. ‘Is it something like a language that you have to learn, or do you draw on your instincts? We all have instincts. We all know lust. We all know greed. Is art a way of bringing us into contact with our emotions, or are we reaffirming our range of cultural references?’ 
Simon is staring with rapt attention at the view of the canal beside Camden Road. 
‘What do you think, Simon?’ Mackintosh prompts.
Simon lifts his shoulders-and drops them again. 
‘Is it intellectual, or is it raw emotion?’ Mackintosh persists. 
‘Is it both?’ Simon asks as though expecting a joke. 
Mackintosh shakes his head sadly. ‘If only we knew, if only we knew.’ 
Simon moves to the next painting. 
‘The old Bedford Music Hall in Camden High Street,’ Mackintosh explains. ‘Hardly anything left of it now-just a stretch of wall beside a car park. But you can still make out the exit. You can still dream of the laughter.’ He ventures a glance at Mrs Vine. When he sees the beatific smile on her face, he knows that he is redeeming himself. 
‘They're certainly interesting,’ Simon says, showing every sign of abandoning his perambulation. 
‘There are more,’ Mackintosh points out, gesturing to the remaining paintings. ‘Have a good look.’ 
‘Yes do,’ Mrs Vine urges. 
Simon looks. 
‘Camden Lock,’ Mackintosh explains. ‘I painted it when the market was closed. Unusual that. I wanted to get away from the cliches. Are you a market man, Simon?’ 
‘Not really,’ Simon admits, beginning to look bored. 
‘Didn't think you were. Still, have a good look at the rest. There might be something you like. The next one's another view of house-backs.’ 
Simon nods, bemused.
‘Don't you think there's something special about the view from your own window? Matter of relating, isn't it? It's between you and a place you know intimately, yet only from the outside. An ordinary London street, but you want to encapsulate its essence. Don't you feel that?’ 
Simon moves on without responding. 
‘Now that's an interesting one. Do you recognise it?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Bridge at Regents Park Road.’ 
Simon nods again. 
‘You get interesting patterns with the shadows of the latticework.’ 
‘I noticed that.’ Simon turns away from the paintings. 
‘You haven't looked at them all that.’ 
‘I've seen enough for the moment.’ 
There is the sort of silence which should not occur on social occasions. 
‘I don't know what we're all standing for,’ Mrs Vine, says, breaking the spell. 
Mackintosh takes a seat near the drinks table before Mrs Vine can suggest that he joins her on the settee. Simon sits as far from Mackintosh as possible. 
‘This is very pleasant,’ Mrs Vine says. 
‘Very pleasant,’ Mackintosh agrees. ‘Don't you think so, Simon?’ 
Simon agrees. 
‘Do you want to tell us more about your ideas on art, Mackintosh?’ Mrs Vine invites. 
‘I'm very glad of the opportunity-very glad indeed.’ Mackintosh nods trying to think of something more to say. ‘Of course, the paintings should speak for themselves. Wouldn't you agree, Simon?’ 
‘As I said, I don't know much about art.’ 
‘Forgive me, but you haven't got something on your mind, have you?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘You didn't mind me mentioning it, did you? Thought it might be something you want to share with us.’ 
‘There's nothing.’ 
‘You don't seem quite your usual self, not that I know you well, of course.’ Mackintosh turns to Mrs Vine. ‘What do you think?’ 
‘You do seem subdued, Simon,’ Mrs Vine has to agree. 
‘We are concerned about you,’ Mackintosh says, trying to hide his glee. 
Simon bangs down his glass in annoyance. ‘I didn't expect to be looking at paintings as soon as I got here.’ 
‘Let's talk about something you're interested in,’ Mackintosh continues in his most soothing manner. ‘How about your visions?’ 
Simon shows a reluctance to talk about his visions. 
‘Do you want to tell us all about computers?’ Mackintosh perseveres. 
‘No.’ 
‘Then what else are you passionately interested in?’ 
Simon is about to say something and thinks better of it. He makes a mute appeal to Mrs Vine who smiles back. ‘Simon's very keen on astrology,’ she reveals. 
Mackintosh’s spirits soar at this new ammunition. ‘It must be wonderful to contemplate the heavens through a telescope,’ he says. 
‘That’s astronomy,’ Simon tells him, stung into speech. 
‘You mean fortune telling?’ 
‘Astrology is more scientific than that.’ Some of the old authority returns to Simon's voice. 
‘Simon's developing a computer programme for interpreting astrological charts,’ Mrs Vine reveals. 
‘Well, well, well.’ Mackintosh looks suitably impressed. ‘Who'd have thought it?’ 
Simon looks wary. 
‘Who'd have thought it?’ Mackintosh repeats. ‘A rationalist and a computer expert getting into fortune-telling. Who'd have thought it?’ 
‘It's not fortune-telling,’ Simon insists irritably. ‘You obviously don't know anything about the subject.’ 
‘That's why I want you to tell me. This is obviously something important.’ 
‘As I said-it's now been proved scientifically.’ 
‘Amazing.’ 
‘Will you do my star chart?’ Mrs Vine asks. 
‘When the programme's ready.’ 
‘I'd be interested as well,’ Mackintosh adds. 
‘It's going to be a couple of months yet.’ 
‘What do your stars foretell?’ Mackintosh wants to know. 
Simon looks uncomfortable. 
‘Don't be bashful,’ Mackintosh prompts.
‘I told you-the programme's not ready yet.’ 
‘But you must be interested in what the stars foretell for you.’ 
‘It's not fortune-telling-I've told you.’ 
‘But you must have got someone to make up your chart.’ 
‘Well...’ 
‘Do tell us,’ Mrs Vine urges. 
Simon avoids their eyes. 
‘What's going to happen to you?’ Mrs Vine wants to know. 
‘What about your love life,’ Mackintosh prompts, ‘or don't you want to tell us?’ 
Simon looks down. ‘I'd rather not.’ 
‘You must!’ 
‘I think I ought to be going.’ Simon gets to his feet. 
‘You can't go yet,’ Mrs Vine urges. 
‘I think I'd better.’ 
‘Don't go,’ Mackintosh agrees. ‘You've got to tell us all about this astrology business. We don't know anything about it, you see.’ 
‘It's very nice to see you again, Mrs Vine. I hope to see you again before long-if circumstances are right.’ 
Simon scowls at Mackintosh as Mrs Vine gets up to show him out. ‘I'm sorry you couldn't stay,’ she is saying as they go into the hall. Mackintosh takes the opportunity to refill his glass. When Mrs Vine returns, he is seated again. He looks for signs of disapproval in her face. Surprisingly there are none. 
‘I don't think Simon's too well,’ he confides. 
‘He did seem irritable today.’ 
‘Do you think we should have let him go?’ 
‘We couldn't keep him here.’ 
‘He wouldn't do anything silly, would he?’ 
Mrs Vine shakes her head. ‘Not Simon. I'm sure he wouldn't. He's much too level headed.’ 
‘A great pity he went off like that. I thought he was quite interested in the paintings.’ 
‘Never mind.’ Mrs Vine smiles sympathetically. ‘We'll find you a buyer in the end.’ 
‘Let's hope so.’ 
She moves closer, becoming more girlish in her expression. ‘I know I was short with you this morning, but you do need pushing. I don't mean to nag.’ 
‘It's true-I need pushing. What else can I say?’ 
‘We can leave your paintings in here for Monday.’ 
‘What happens on Monday?’ 
‘Our next soiree.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘You surprised me tonight, Mackintosh.’ 
‘Did I?’ 
‘I didn't know you were so articulate.’ 
‘I don't show it much.’ 
‘I've discovered that. I was so pleased to hear you talking about art.’ 
Mackintosh is lost in contemplation of the canal by Camden Road. 
‘At least we can have a nice evening together.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘Shall we sit on the settee?’ 
‘It's an idea,’ he agrees, mentally running through his repertoire of excuses. What he wants is one which will cut short their evening together, whilst making Mrs Vine revere him all the more. 
‘We never get a chance to find out about each other.’ 
‘That's true.’ 
‘You never say much at all usually. I don't know what you're thinking.’ 
Mackintosh is rather glad. He is thinking that he has drunk too much whisky. Things are happening in his head. 
‘I want to know how you started as an artist.’ 
He draws his attention to the subject in hand. ‘Went to art school and carried on from there,’ he reveals, looking surreptitiously as his watch. 
‘I wish I could have gone to art school.’ 
‘It's no big deal.’ 
‘I think it is.’ 
Mackintosh stares again at the canal by Camden Road. If he had gone to art school, would his paintings be so very different? Would he be accepting commissions from people like Mrs Vine? ‘I think I ought to get on with some work,’ he says, finishing the whisky rather too quickly so that it burns his stomach. Thoughts spiral into a void so that he cannot grasp them. He fears that his speech will betray him. 
‘You've been working all day.’
 ‘I haven't done anything yet. Not real work-not painting.’ He levers himself from the chair. The room lurches around him, as rooms do. With supreme concentration he walks in a fairly straight line to the door without having to hold on to anything. The glass drops somewhere along the way, but it would be courting fate to attempt to retrieve it. 
‘I shall say good night to you,’ he announces, leaning against the door frame. He is aware that Mrs Vine watches him curiously. 
‘You are all right, aren't you?’ 
‘There are sides of me you don't know yet.’ 
‘There'll be plenty of time for us to know each other better.’ 
Mackintosh’s mouth moves in what he hopes is a smile. 
‘Don't work too hard,’ Mrs Vine calls. 
‘No-no, I shan't be doing that. So farewell to you.’ He closes the door with elaborate care and remains with his hand on the knob till the journey across the hall and upstairs can begin. It is a long journey, interrupted by several disasters on the stairs. He grunts with exertion. Fortunately the door to the drawing room remains closed: Mrs Vine does not see his ignominy. 
Without any furniture to fall over, the landing is easier to negotiate. Mackintosh feels like a sick animal regaining its lair as he lets himself into his bedroom. The surge of relief lasts long enough for him to reach the bed. The mattress yields without protest as he collapses. He decides that he likes whisky.

Sunday

Mackintosh used to love Sundays, though not quite so much as Saturdays. Sunday was a day for lying in bed even longer than on Saturday, to recover from Saturday night. It was the day when he indulged in an afternoon walk. The Sundays of memory are suffused with watery sunlight suited to weekend idylls. The streets were quiet. He watched family groups, the fathers stooping to hold children's hands as they strolled to the park. He enjoyed the bright clothes of West Indians on their way to church. Only Asian shops were open. Mackintosh marvelled at the way such shops became social centres as everybody popped in to buy milk and newspapers. In the Sundays of memory, weekday work was set aside in favour of reflection. Painting helped to focus the mind. It let Mackintosh attune to the unending quest for perfection. Then he knew that he really was an artist.
Sunday at Mrs Vine's makes him long for the freedoms of old. The lady of the house has retreated to her room to meditate. In the drawing room, Mackintosh sits facing Jeremy who has donned his spectacles and is regarding him with undisguised disdain. The art lesson has begun. Mackintosh tries a smile on his young pupil who is clutching several sheets of paper.
‘Have you got some work there to show me?’
‘Are you a famous artist?’
‘Quite famous.’
‘I haven't heard of you.’
‘Perhaps you don't know many modern artists.’
Jeremy does not look convinced.
‘So let's see what you've got to show me,’ Mackintosh perseveres.
Coyly Jeremy hands him the three sheets of drawing paper. ‘I did them at school.’
‘Did you? Jolly good, jolly good.’
‘You're saying things twice again. You’re always doing that.’ 
‘Jolly good,’ Mackintosh says grimly, trying not to show his distaste for Jeremy's offerings. The first is identifiable as a zoo: the title is inscribed in wobbly print over the entrance. Behind the fence, an elephant floats over an unconcerned zebra. Spindly-legged animals unknown to nature are herded into a corner. The second painting is of a house, apparently surrounded by a stockade. Mackintosh passes without comment to the third in which an incident is taking place beneath a tree. Whether the event is a murder, a picnic, or something more erotic which boys of Jeremy's age should know about is not clear. 
‘Mummy said I was to show you the ones I like best.’ 
‘Very true.’ Mackintosh agrees, his eyes glazing. He thinks of all the things which he would like to be doing, including seeing Sarah, painting, drinking and looking at the beautiful people in Hampstead High Street. Almost anything is preferable to teaching the rudiments of drawing to Jeremy. And Mackintosh's head aches. He has gained a healthy respect for whisky. 
‘Are you going to show me your paintings?’ Jeremy asks, interrupting his thoughts. 
‘You can see them-they’re all round you.’ 
‘Mummy said you’d talk me through them.’ 
‘Mummy's wrong.’ 
Jeremy regards the paintings before pronouncing, ‘I don't like them.’ 
‘In that case there’s not much point talking you through them, is there?’
‘I’ve seen the sexy ones you didn’t put on show.’
‘Have you been in my room?’
‘It’s not really your room-it’s ours.’ 
‘While I’m here, it’s my room. You don’t go in guests’ rooms and look at their things. Do you understand?’ 
‘You can’t tell me off.’ 
‘I most certainly can.’
‘I’ll tell mummy.’
‘She’ll agree with me.’ Mackintosh sees Jeremy looking uncertain and presses home his advantage. ‘You’ve been very naughty. Go on like this and you'll be in real trouble.’ He tries to inject anger into his tone. It is the first enjoyable moment of the morning. His only regret is not telling Jeremy off earlier. A whole new world of being nasty to people opens before him: at least he can thank Mrs Vine for that. There has not been much opportunity to do so before. If he attempted it in his lecturing days, the student union would have called a strike. In his career as a researcher, everybody was equal-except for the Director who was more equal than others. He draws his thoughts back to the matter in hand. ‘Now what are you going to draw for me?’ 
‘Nothing.’ 
‘That's not very nice, is it?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Well then.’ 
‘I don't want to draw anything.’ 
‘You know why we're here?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘So I can help you with your drawing. That's what your mummy wants.’ 
‘I don't want you helping me.’ 
‘You're stuck with it, mate.’ 
‘I'm not your mate.’ 
‘You're right there.’ 
‘And it's not your room. This is mummy's house.’ 
‘I'm staying here, aren't I? I'm a guest.’ 
‘Mummy said you were like one of the family.’ 
‘You don't poke around in your mummy's room, do you?’ 
Jeremy's brow wrinkles as he senses he is being guided towards a logical abyss. 
‘What about your daddy?’ Mackintosh asks, seizing the opportunity.
Jeremy shakes his head. 
‘I don't know what that means,’ Mackintosh prompts. 
‘I don't want to talk about him.’ 
‘All right then.’ Mackintosh casts about for another topic now that his chance to solve the mystery of Mr Vine has come to nothing. He lights on Jeremy’s paintings. ‘Have you heard of perspective?’ 
The boy shakes his head. 
‘Perspective means that things look smaller as you get further away.’ 
Jeremy's brow wrinkles again. 
‘Like a train. As it comes towards you, it looks bigger, but it's not bigger, is it?’ 
‘I've never been on a train, except a tube train. They come out of tunnels.’ 
Mackintosh laments a generation which has so little contact with his favourite form of transport. Trains are socialist in concept, acceptable environmentally and often a means of travelling without having to paying the fare. ‘How about cars,’ he perseveres. ‘If you see a car coming towards you, it looks larger as it gets closer.’ 
Jeremy looks sceptical. 
‘Haven't you noticed?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Well they do. I mean look at this.’ Mackintosh holds up the painting of unspecified events beneath a tree. ‘Why have you drawn these trees smaller?’ He points to the mushroom-like objects around the edge. 
‘They're small trees.’ 
‘They could be big trees in the distance.’ 
‘Well they're not,’ the artist says with authority. 
‘But if they were, that's how you'd draw them.’ 
‘I'd draw them big if they were big trees,’ Jeremy says scornfully. 
‘But if they were a long way away, you'd have to draw them smaller,’ Mackintosh persists.
‘Why?’ 
‘Because that's what perspective means.’ 
Jeremy looks disbelieving. Mackintosh casts a longing glance at the bottles left on the table from the previous evening. 
‘Why don't you draw something?’ Jeremy challenges. 
‘I will if you give me some paper.’ 
‘I'll have to go upstairs to get it.’ 
‘I'm not stopping you.’ 
When Jeremy has gone, Mackintosh takes a swig from the whisky bottle. The experience is like lighting a fire. Warmth radiates through him, bringing the vitality which has so far eluded him. He stares through the window at a garden glittering with frost. If he were at Mrs Morrow's, he would be wearing a coat and mittens while still indoors. On the other hand he would have the rest of the day to himself. The notion of a day devoted to painting fills him with nostalgia. Even the thought of a walk to his favourite Holloway supermarket is comforting in its familiarity. He takes another swig of whisky as consolation for things lost. The prospect of a new lifestyle seduced him. How weak he is. Suddenly he knows that the garden must be finished quickly. His life at Belsize Park is no more than an interlude. If he tries to make it more permanent, Mrs Vine's personality will overwhelm him. 
So profound are Mackintosh's thoughts that he does not notice Jeremy's return. 
‘What are you holding that bottle for?’ the boy wants to know. 
‘I was looking at it,’ Mackintosh explains, putting the whisky bottle down. ‘Bottles are particularly difficult to draw. Did you know that?’
‘Mummy says she's worried about your drinking.’ 
‘Little boys should mind their own business.’ 
‘You shouldn't say that to me.’
‘I say what I like to little boys,’ Mackintosh announces, gratified to see that Jeremy looks suitable cowed. Perhaps he has the knack of being able to cow little boys. Teaching could have been his career if he had known earlier. At least school holidays are long. He takes the paper from Jeremy. ‘Now this is what it's all about.’ He draws a railway track disappearing into the distance. ‘You know what a railway track is, don't you?’ 
‘Of course I do.’ 
‘If you look at it from a bridge, it looks as if the rails are coming together.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘Because of perspective.’ 
‘I don't understand.’ 
‘That's what perspective is-things looking smaller as they get further away.’ 
‘I still don't understand.’ 
‘Christ Almighty.’ Mackintosh looks longingly at the bottles. 
‘Mummy says you shouldn't take the name of Jesus in vain.’ 
‘I don't care what your mummy says.’ 
‘I'll tell her that.’ 
‘Perspective. If I'm standing in front of you, I fill a lot of your vision, right? And if I'm standing down the end of the road, I'm only a speck.’ 
‘You're still the same size.’ 
‘But I look different.’ 
Jeremy shakes his head in bafflement. 
‘All right-look out the window,’ Mackintosh orders in despair. 
Jeremy stares at him, suspecting a trick. 
‘Go on-look out the window.’ 
Jeremy obeys. 
‘Now what do you see?’ 
Jeremy looks back at Mackintosh suspiciously. 
‘Just tell me what you see,’ Mackintosh urges. 
‘The garden.’ Jeremy watches for his mentor's response. Mackintosh nods. Thus encouraged, Jeremy continues his recital. ‘I see the house opposite-and a lamp post.’ ‘Good, good.’ 
‘And some trees.’ 
‘Splendid.’ 
‘And that's all.’ Jeremy ventures another look at Mackintosh to see whether the commentary is going down well. 
‘Now what do you see in the garden?’ Mackintosh prompts. 
‘Trees.’ 
‘Look at the small trees outside the window and the big trees across the road. What do you notice about them?’ 
Silence. 
‘The small ones look just as big as the ones across the road, don't they?’ 
‘I can see a man coming up the path.’ 
Mackintosh joins the boy at the window and together they see a thickset man of about thirty wearing jeans and a windcheater who is disappearing into the porch. A few moments later the bell rings. 
‘Are you going to answer it?’ Jeremy asks. 
Mackintosh feels like one of the family as he opens the front door and assumes the welcoming smile of a host. The man does not smile back. 
‘Are you Mackintosh?’ 
‘You particularly wanted Mackintosh did you?’ Mackintosh queries, feeling stirrings of unease. 
‘It's you,’ the stranger deduces, taking a step closer. ‘You've been going after my wife.’ 
‘I was invited here,’ Mackintosh protests, wishing that he had left Mrs Vine to open the door to her husband. It is hardly surprising that she should separate from such a surly individual-the wonder is that she was ever attracted to him. And if she likes virile young men, why should she choose Mackintosh? 
‘So that you remember to keep off her in future...’ 
Mackintosh crumples under the blow to his stomach. 
‘Keep away from Sarah, right?’ 
‘Sarah?’ Mackintosh wheezes, still doubled up. 
‘I've had you followed, so don't come the fucking innocent, right? You took her down the seaside.’ 
Mackintosh's teeth jar as his jaw makes contact with his adversary's knee. Then his legs threaten to give way. 
‘Have you got that?’ 
Mackintosh grunts that he has. 
‘And don't forget it, or I'll be reminding you.’ 
A final kick makes Mackintosh collapse like a rag doll. He lies sprawled on the tiled floor, awaiting his fate. Nothing happens. When he opens his eyes, Jeremy is regarding him with interest. The front door is open. Cold air lances his face. 
‘Are you all right?’ Jeremy asks. 
Mackintosh tries to speak, but no words come. Only being still eases the pain. He lies there for what seems like a long time. Mrs Vine kneels beside him. He recognises her by her perfume. 
‘I'll get an ambulance,’ she is saying. ‘Lie still in case you've broken something.’ 
He mouths that he does not want an ambulance. 
‘And I'm calling the police.’ 
That makes him moan all the more, but if Mrs Vine understands, she does not take any notice. 
* 
The siren, it wails for thee. Mackintosh decides that he does not like hospitals. He does not like other people having control of his life. Nor does he like the waiting, or being prodded by men in white coats. He likes the nurses, though none of them will tell him what is happening. And he wishes at the end of their ministrations that they would let him go to the Cornucopia rather insisting that Mrs Vine take him home. He looks longingly at the pub from the back of the car. 
‘It’s frightening, having something like that happen in your own home,’ Mrs Vine is saying. ‘Especially with Jeremy watching. You realise it could warp him for the rest of his life?’ 
Mackintosh grunts. The effect on Jeremy is the least of his worries. 
‘Is it painful to talk?’
He grunts again.
‘You're going to bed as soon as you've been to the police, and I don't want any objections.’
His objection is to seeing the police. 
‘You were almost killed. You can't just leave it,’ Mrs Vine protests as he manages to voice his reservations. ‘They won't keep you long-I'll make sure of that.’ 
Mackintosh makes an alarming discovery as he runs his tongue around his mouth. His front teeth move. With grave misgivings, he prods them with a finger. They definitely move. Visions of further encounters with Mr Wagstaff make him moan in despair. The whine of the drill is already in his ears. 
‘Who's this Sarah?’ Mrs Vine asks. 
‘I used to know her,’ Mackintosh explains warily. 
‘She's obviously got a very jealous husband.’ 
‘How did you know about her?’ 
‘Jeremy heard the man mention her name.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘You obviously don't see her now.’ 
Mackintosh feigns sleep. He does not open his eyes again until the car stops at the police station. 
Mrs Vine is excluded from the interview, despite her protestations. It is a short interview, as she predicted. Mackintosh takes his leave with foreboding, anticipating interviews to come. What rankles is the sergeant's knowing look as he tried to describe his relationship with Mrs Vine. 
On the journey home, Mackintosh's eyes are closed again. 
‘How did you get on?’ Mrs Vine wants to know. 
‘Okay.’ 
‘You did tell them everything?’ 
‘Everything I can remember. Feeling a bit tired now.’ 
‘Did you tell them about Sarah?’ 
He wants to be sarcastic, but instead he murmurs his agreement. His mind is no longer clear. Weakness makes his body feel leaden. He is vaguely aware of being helped into the house and up what seems an endless flight of stairs. Then he feels the warmth of a duvet around him and he is overwhelmed by sleep. 
* 
The smell of Mrs Vine's perfume permeates Mackintosh's senses. He opens his eyes. Light comes from the doorway. Mrs Vine is leaning over him. ‘Did I wake you up?’ 
‘What's the time?’ 
‘Half past six. You've been asleep all the afternoon.’ 
He tries to sit up, which is a mistake. Somebody has been stamping on his ribs. 
‘What's the matter?’ Mrs Vine asks anxiously. 
‘Hurts a bit.’ 
‘Perhaps I ought to get the doctor.’ 
‘It's all right,’ Mackintosh assures her, sinking back. ‘You don't have to worry.’ 
‘Do you want anything to eat or drink? Could you manage some soup?’ 
‘I'll get up in a minute.’ 
‘Why don't you stay in bed for the rest of the day?’ 
‘I'd better get up. Things to do.’ 
‘You're stubborn, Mackintosh.’ 
‘I know.’ 
‘I hope you'll be well enough for tomorrow.’ 
‘What happens tomorrow?’ 
‘Monday evening-our little soiree.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
‘I thought we might make it an exhibition of your work.’ 
‘Do you mind if we talk about it later?’ 
Mrs Vine bites her lip. ‘I'm sorry-I shouldn't be tiring you, should I?’ 
‘I do feel a bit rough.’ 
‘Are you sure you don't want anything to drink?’ 
If he told her, he suspects that Mrs Vine would disapprove.
‘You lie back and rest,’ she urges. ‘Have a sleep if you can.’ 
He dozes when Mrs Vine has gone. The sounds of the household and of the traffic hardly intrude on his consciousness. Only when somebody enters the room does he jolt into awareness. 
‘Don't look so surprised,’ Sarah says as he searches for words without finding them. She tries to smile. ‘You look like a fish, opening and closing your mouth like that.’ 
‘What are you doing here?’ 
‘I came to see you, of course. I was worried about you.’ 
‘How did you get my address?’ 
‘The police told me.’ 
Mackintosh dreams of what he would like to do to policemen. 
‘So how are you?’ Sarah asks, perching on the edge of the bed. 
‘Sore. Few bits not working.’ 
‘Poor you.’ 
‘Got a ribbed strapped up, but it should be all right in a few weeks, so they say.’ 
‘I'm sorry.’ 
‘So who was this guy?’ 
‘My ex-husband-David.’ 
‘He didn't seem very ex.’ 
‘We're separated.’ 
‘Perhaps you ought to remind him.’ 
‘He gets jealous.’ 
‘So I noticed.’ 
She shivers. ‘I don't like thinking about what happened.’ 
‘Makes two of us.’ 
‘The police are looking for him.’ 
‘I hope they find him. I don't fancy meeting again.’ 
‘I don't think he'll do it again.’ 
‘Good.’ 
‘He's impulsive. He does something, then he regrets it afterwards.’ 
‘That's comforting.’ 
‘I didn't know he was having me followed.’ 
Mackintosh recalls their day by the sea. Only a few faces come back: the old woman in the cafe, the Frank Zappa look-alike and the manager in the Regency pub. None of those fit his image of the private detective, yet somebody was watching. The thought makes him shiver.
‘He's been to the flat a few times.’ 
Mackintosh thinks of his own visits. His palms go clammy. 
‘He wants me to go back to him,’ Sarah is saying. 
‘When did you split up?’ 
‘Four months ago.’ 
‘Why didn't you tell me?’ 
‘Would you want to talk about it if you had a husband like him?’ 
‘You never even said you'd been married.’ 
She picks at the duvet. ‘It's not something you advertise.’ 
‘Nothing else you forgot to mention, like three children at home?’ 
‘What about the things you haven't told me?’ 
Mackintosh tries to think of murky secrets about himself and fails. What strikes him about his life is how boring it has been. 
‘He came to see me last night,’ Sarah confesses. 
‘So you told him my address. Thanks.’ 
‘He already knew it.’ Tears are welling in her eyes. She does not look directly at Mackintosh. ‘He told me you were going out with another girl.’ 
‘Who?’ 
‘I don't know, do I?’ 
‘Neither do I.’ 
‘He had photographs of you walking along the street together.’ 
‘I haven't been going out with anybody!’ 
‘What about the photographs?’ 
‘I don't know, do I? What did she look like, this girl?’ 
‘She had very long legs.’ 
Mackintosh remembers Isobel. He feels tempted into a relapse, till he considers that Sarah might call Mrs Vine. The thought of his hostess opens new and alarming possibilities. If she has talked to Sarah, there will be more explaining to do. He glances at the door, half expecting Mrs Vine to appear. Sarah has turned away from him. He hears her crying. 
‘Have you got a tissue?’ she asks in an unsteady voice. 
He points to the packet of tissues on the bedside table. The sudden movement makes him wince. As he watches, seeing her face distorted by tears, he remembers their few times together with affection. 
‘I don't know what to feel,’ she confesses when she has wiped her eyes. 
‘Tell me about David,’ Mackintosh urges to preempt a return to the more difficult topic of his lunch with Isobel. 
‘There's not much to tell. I'd gone to Liverpool as a student, l was in digs and I didn't know anybody. Then David came along. All we had in common was coming from the same town. I'd gone all the way from Reading to Liverpool to end up with somebody who lived two miles from home.’ 
‘And you married him.’ 
‘Which was a stupid thing to do.’ 
Messy things marriages, Mackintosh decides. He looks at Sarah, her eyes puffy, her face streaked. Lines show which he has not noticed before. 
‘He drank a lot, which I only found out about after we'd married. He lost his job, so he'd spend all his time in the pub or drinking in our flat. I ended up working part time to keep him. Then he started knocking me about if I argued with him.’ Her voice grows unsteady. She begins sobbing again. Mackintosh lies back helplessly, wondering what life would be like if all women lived in another country. It is an interesting proposition: a life of drinking unrelieved by the deception of love. 
Sarah blows her nose noisily. ‘So tell me about this girl you were with.’ 
‘I told you I was seeing a television producer, didn’t I? He couldn't make it to lunch because he had to go to the studio, so I was sorting out the details with his assistant.’ 
‘She looks very attractive.’ 
‘People in television always are. They have to cultivate the image.’ 
‘Why did you go to the pub?’ 
‘Because that's the way business is done in television. I don't know why they have offices except to keep things in. Hardly room to swing a videotape, the one I saw. So it's all business lunches in wine bars and pubs.’ Mackintosh tries to sit up, conscious that he is at a disadvantage, but the movement makes him wince. He sinks beneath the duvet again. 
‘Who's the woman who let me in?’ Sarah asks. 
‘That's Mrs Vine.’ 
‘Your landlady.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
Sarah looks around the room for the first time since their conversation began. 
‘It's a bit different from your other place.’ 
‘That's why I came here. A step up.’ 
‘So she's nothing more than a landlady?’
 ‘No.’ 
‘She cooks you meals.’ 
‘How do you know?’ 
‘I'm supposed to ask you if you want anything.’ 
‘I can't do much cooking for myself at the moment.’ 
‘She looked surprised to see me.’ 
‘I've never had any visitors here before.’ 
Sarah dabs her eyes ineffectually. ‘I'm sorry for what happened to you.’ 
Mackintosh settles further under the duvet. 
‘I don't know what's going to happen to us,’ she continues. ‘I've got to think about it.’ 
Mackintosh wants to say that after having his ribs kicked, even thinking seems difficult. Instead he contents himself with grunting his acknowledgement. 
‘So I'm sorry,’ Sarah repeats. ‘I've got to go now.’ She hurries from the room. Mackintosh watches without turning his head. Her steps make no sound on the carpeted stairs, but he hears the front door slamming. At least he knows that she has not talked to Mrs Vine. He waits for the inevitable. It is not long before a board creaks on the landing and his bedroom door opens again. 
‘I didn't know whether to let her in,’ Mrs Vine says. 
‘Old friend,’ he murmurs, feigning drowsiness. 
‘Sarah.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘She's very young.’ 
‘Married young. Tragic.’ 
‘She seemed very upset.’ 
‘She knew about what happened.’ 
‘I expect that husband of hers told her.’ 
‘They're separated. I think it was the police who gave her this address.’ 
‘They shouldn't have done that.’ 
Mackintosh does not answer. 
‘You don't want to get involved in disputes between husband and wife,’ Mrs Vine advises. ‘There can be so many problems.’ 
He opens his eyes. ‘I wasn't getting involved. She just happens to have a paranoid ex-husband.’ 
‘If she comes again, I'll tell her you don't want to be disturbed.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘I'd better let you sleep.’ 
Dutifully Mackintosh closes his eyes. The door shuts. The board on the landing squeaks again. Peace descends. He knows that it is safe to relax. Unfortunately relaxation does not come easily. Apart from the pain in his ribs, his jaw still aches and there is a tenderness in his stomach. He groans and tries to find a more comfortable position. What he wants more than anything is a whisky. Yesterday the immediate future looked if not certain, at least rosy. Now the rosy glow has gone, perhaps for ever. He is not clear whether Sarah has gone with it. He thinks of the paintings he has left with her and groans again. Life was much simpler when he lived at Mrs Morrow's and knew nobody.

Monday again

Hangovers are never so bad. Mackintosh looks in the mirror and sees an old man looking at him. He turns away quickly, which is a mistake. Pain shoots through his chest and shoulders, making him gasp. More cautiously he turns his head-a movement which presents fewer problems. Pouting his lips seems easy enough. He remembers the discovery about his teeth and pokes them experimentally with his tongue. They move: he was not mistaken. The prospect unfolds before him of a life on a liquid diet. He wonders which is more nutritious-Guinness or Baileys.
His legs work, though they feel weak. He makes his way downstairs with the slow movements of an old man. The house is silent. For a moment he fears that Sarah's husband has returned to murder Mrs Vine and Jeremy. Mackintosh listens carefully, but apart from his own heartbeat there comes no sound. The front door is intact and closed. There is nothing to show what has happened.
The drawing room is unchanged. His works still adorn the walls. The low shafts of winter sunlight catch the surface of his paintings of house-backs, robbing it of colour so that only the texture remains. He stares at it for a long time, seeing something serendipitous in that trick of the light. It is ironic that a chance angle has brought about something more interesting than his own considered efforts. The thought is so depressing that he pours a whisky to wash down another painkiller before continuing his search for Mrs Vine. He looks in all the rooms except her bedroom. Jeremy's room has model aircraft dangling from the ceiling. Mackintosh has not been in there before. Except for the computer, it reminds him of his childhood bedroom with its bright furniture, the jumble of toys outgrown but not yet discarded, and the shelf of worthy books presented by fond relatives and never opened.
Mrs Vine returns five minutes later as Mackintosh is searching the kitchen for something edible. She puts two bags of groceries on the table. ‘I didn't think you'd be up yet.’
‘Got to get on with things,’ he says bravely. 
‘How are you now?’ 
‘Bit better. Still hurts a lot, of course.’ 
‘That girl hasn't been back, has she?’ 
‘I don't think we'll be seeing her again.’ 
‘I'm glad.’ 
‘She did come to apologise.’ 
‘I thought she might have wanted to see you again.’ 
‘Only to see how I was.’ 
‘I'd better ring the police. I want to know whether they've caught that man yet.’ 
Mackintosh wants to know that, too. The thought of Sarah's husband being somewhere out there-perhaps in the garden-makes his legs feel weak. He sits down. Mrs Vine abandons unpacking the groceries. She cradles his head against her. ‘Poor Mackintosh.’ 
He smiles bravely. 
‘I'm glad there's nothing between you and that girl.’ 
‘That's all in the past.’ 
‘I want you to be happy here.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘I think we are happy, aren't we, Mackintosh?’ 
‘It's great,’ he assures her, mustering all the sincerity at his command. 
She kisses his head. ‘That's good.’ 
‘Where's Jeremy?’ 
‘At school. I took him to school and got the groceries on the way back. Her hands caress Mackintosh. ‘So we've got the day to ourselves. Isn't that good?’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘I think you need looking after.’ Her hands explore him. ‘You've lived alone too long. It makes you forget how to get on with other people.’ 
‘Jeremy misses his father, doesn't he?’ 
‘That's natural, especially at his age.’ A wistful note has come into her voice. Mackintosh nods understandingly. 
‘So what was it that happened to Mr Vine?’ he asks as casually as he can. He feels Mrs Vine's grip tighten. 
‘I thought you knew.’ 
‘No.’ 
‘He died.’ 
‘Ah-I'm sorry.’ 
‘Poisoned.’ 
Mackintosh has a sudden terrible vision of his fate, not as the latest of a long line of aspiring artists befriended by Mrs Vine, but as her intended victim. Her hands assume a sinister significance as they rest on his shoulders. He stiffens. Mr Vine must have been well insured if the money paid for a house in Belsize Park. 
‘But life must go on,’ Mrs Vine is saying. 
‘True,’ Mackintosh agrees, wondering whose life she means. 
‘You say he was poisoned.’ 
‘While working in South America. I still don't know how it happened. There were enquiries here and in Peru, but they never came to anything.’ 
Mackintosh feels reassured. 
‘It's good to have somebody here again,’ Mrs Vine reveals. 
‘You've got Jeremy.’ 
‘I mean a man.’ 
‘Ah.’ 
A new vigour has come to the hands kneading Mackintosh's shoulders. He winces. 
‘I'm sorry-I should have thought. I was trying to massage you, but you've got all those bruises.’ 
‘I try to forget about them,’ he says bravely. 
‘You haven't had any breakfast yet, have you?’ 
‘I was thinking about it when you came in.’ 
‘I bought some bacon specially for you. How would you like bacon and eggs?’ 
‘I'll leave it for the moment,’ Mackintosh demurs. He would rather eat alone to see how his loose teeth perform. Eggs he can manage; he is not so sure about bacon. 
‘I hope you're going to eat it now I've got it.’ 
‘I'll eat it all right,’ he assures her, wondering whether to mention his dental problem and deciding against it. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap.’ 
Her hands stray over his shoulders again. 
‘I'm afraid I'm on edge. I keep worrying if that dreadful man's going to come back.’ 
‘I shouldn't think he would,’ Mackintosh assures her, wishing that he believed it. 
‘You will be careful if you answer the door, won't you?’ 
‘I don't think I'd better open it.’
‘Put the chain on if you do.’ 
‘Mm.’ 
‘I lay awake worrying last night.’ 
‘You should have one of my tablets.’ 
‘The terrible thing is that somebody attacked you in my own home. That's what I can't get over.’ 
‘Terrible,’ Mackintosh agrees, glad that the subject of Sarah has been forgotten. 
‘It's bad enough in the street, but here...’ 
‘Absolutely terrible.’ 
‘I suppose we've got to get on with our lives, whatever happens.’ 
‘I'll just go in the other room then,’ Mackintosh suggests as Mrs Vine lets go of his shoulders and begins unpacking the groceries. ‘I ought to start thinking about the garden.’ 
‘You should be resting. Don't worry about the garden till you're better.’ 
‘I'll sit and look at it-put some ideas together.’ 
‘Mackintosh.’ 
‘Yes?’ She smiles. She has broken off from the unpacking. 
‘I'm glad you're here.’ 
‘I'm glad to be here,’ he responds dutifully, seizing the opportunity to retreat. In the drawing room he pours another whisky and eases himself into a chair. The central heating, the regular meals and the alcohol which are part of life with Mrs Vine have become charged with nostalgia now that he is close to abandoning them. He scowls at the garden which was his pretext for coming to the house. It looks malevolent in its stillness, challenging him to make any change. At such a moment he can believe that every event in his life has an inevitability. The course that fate is shaping for him is distinctly unappealing. The pity is that Simon did not see it in his visions. 
As Mackintosh muses on these weighty themes, he sips whisky. It helps to sooth the pain which each breath brings. Unfortunately it does nothing for the nagging ache in his stomach. To take his mind off it, he turns his thoughts to the garden. He can see it through the window. He glares at the laurel bushes, still gleaming while other vegetation has died back. Whatever happens, they are going to suffer. He searches amongst the gardens of his memory for inspiration. Those seen from his window at Mrs Morrow's house revealed a rich variety of horticultural skills. Upwardly mobile households favoured York stone patios, which sported swinging seats where mothers could sit on hot August Sundays. Downwardly mobile households such as that of Mrs Morrow had gardens distinguished by their luxuriant weeds and overgrown lawns-havens where the neighbourhood cats roamed unmolested. Forgotten pieces of iron rusted in the grass to catch the unwary foot. Nearer to the house, a clothesline was strung over the broken concrete. Convolvulus adorned the crumbling garden walls. The images were so familiar to Mackintosh that they infused his work. 
Heedless of his aching joints, he hauls himself from the chair to study the nearby gardens from the window. They look much the same as Mrs Vine's. No inspiration there. The only solution is a clean sweep: to take Mrs Vine at her word and turn the garden into what it was when the house was built. He settles in the chair by the telephone and thumbs through the yellow pages. 
After the call is made, he has another whisky by way of celebration. There is an art to drinking whisky, he decides. The body has to be primed. With regular intakes it will become expert-or it would if he stayed with Mrs Vine for long enough. Is he mad to consider leaving, asks Mackintosh the opportunist? He is losing his freedom, cautions Mackintosh the idealist. Life is being made too easy. And if he stays with Mrs Vine, she will want him to visit Mr Wagstaff again. This thought is so traumatic that he takes the rest of the whisky in one gulp-an action which he immediately regrets. The burning consumes him. Pain obliterates everything. The glass falls unheeded to the floor. His cry resonates through his body, though he is not aware of articulating it. It goes on and on.
Mrs Vine is kneeling beside him as he curls on the floor. She is saying something to him which he cannot understand. He pants for breath. The pain is unrelenting. He welcomes death. He is grunting, curling his body into a ball to protect himself from the red-hot poker which is thrust into his stomach. Being attacked by Sarah's husband was nothing compared with this. 
* 
The siren whines, it whines for thee. Mackintosh knows the routine: the ride of a trolley, the audience in white coats and the questions which might be addressed to him. His reward is an injection. Then pain eases enough for him to appreciate the nurses till drowsiness overtakes him. 
* 
It is dark when Mackintosh gets back to Mrs Vine's house. He pauses by the gate to get his breath, appreciating the quietness. Light from the drawing room spills over the lawn. The house is like an old friend waiting for him. He shuffles to the porch, his body bent like that of an old man. The front door is open, but he rings the bell to signal his return. 
‘Mackintosh!’ 
‘Always turning up, aren't I? The bad penny.’ 
Mrs Vine stands aside. Mackintosh sets foot in the house which he never expected to see again. 
‘I didn't think they'd let you out so soon.’ 
‘You can't tell with hospitals.’ 
‘I telephoned a couple of hours ago and they said they were keeping you in for tests.’ 
‘That's what they wanted to do,’ Mackintosh agrees. ‘Trouble is they didn’t have any beds. They had to send me home.’ 
Mrs Vine looks puzzled. 
‘So I thought I'd come back in time for your little soiree.’ 
‘You didn't have to worry about that.’ 
‘I wasn't exactly worrying,’ Mackintosh confesses. 
‘I am pleased to see you. I'm just surprised.’ 
‘Makes two of us.’ 
‘Did they find out what was the matter with you?’ 
‘They think it's a stomach problem.’ 
‘What sort of problem?’ 
‘Gastritis, they called it. They think it was those pain killers.’ He thinks it wise to omit what the doctor said about taking alcohol with them-and how he discharged himself. 
‘What about the tests?’ 
‘I've got to go back for those,’ he lies. 
‘You are going, aren't you?’ 
‘Of course.’ 
Mrs Vine is mollified. She smiles. Mackintosh submits to being embraced even though it hurts his ribs. 
‘I'm sorry to go on at you. I've been so worried with this on top of everything else.’ 
‘I wanted to get back,’ he says, pleased that at last he can say something truthful. Anything is better than hospital. 
‘I'm glad you are back.’ She kisses him. ‘The others are already here, but I don't suppose you want to start seeing a lot of people.’ 
Mackintosh would prefer to lie down, but the urge to make a dramatic entrance at a soiree for the last time proves too great. 
‘I understand if you'd rather go to bed,’ Mrs Vine is saying. 
‘Why shouldn't I join you?’ Mackintosh asks. ‘Why not join the merry throng?’ 
Unsteadily, with Mrs Vine holding his arm, he enters the drawing room. The familiar faces are there. The surprise which they show gratifies him. He smiles graciously, knowing how royalty must feel. Conversation becomes muted as people watch. He feels curiously detached from his surroundings: the artist observing his subjects. Clive and the sepulchral poet, Trevor, are the first to approach. Clive's face registers appropriate concern. 
‘Mackintosh! You were the past person we expected.’ 
‘The way of the world,’ Mackintosh answers enigmatically. 
‘It's good to see you again.’ Clive offers his hand. ‘How are you feeling?’ 
‘Rough,’ Mackintosh pronounces as his arm is pumped interminably. 
‘They gave you lots of tests, did they?’ 
‘Dozens of them.’ 
‘You'd better drink this,’ Mrs Vine says, presenting Mackintosh with a glass of fruit juice. 
‘You haven't got any Baileys, have you?’ 
‘That's alcoholic. I'm sure you shouldn't be having alcohol with the problems you've got.’ 
‘There's very little alcohol in Baileys. They said at the hospital it was the best thing for soothing the stomach.’ 
‘I think you'd better stick to fruit juice for now.’ 
Mackintosh looks at the contents of the glass with distaste. His gaze strays to the carpet, but there is no stain to show where he dropped his glass that morning. 
‘I see you've got your paintings hung,’ Clive says, gesturing towards the canal by Camden Road. ‘Sorry about the other day, but it's the demands of the medium, I'm afraid.’ 
‘Demands of the medium,’ Mackintosh repeats mechanically, feeling suddenly tired. 
‘Suppose I'd better circulate,’ Clive decides, switching on his smile. ‘Good to see you again, Mackintosh. Glad everything's all right.’ 
‘Good to see you, Clive,’ Mackintosh says without sincerity. He watches the producer making his retreat. Trevor remains motionless, draped in his undertaker's coat and looking like a large and malnourished bird of prey. Mackintosh turns his gaze on him. ‘Any poems today?’ 
‘I did bring a few.’ 
‘Thought you would.’ 
‘Everybody tries to make these events a success.’ 
‘Don't like fruit juice, do you?’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘You could have this.’ Mackintosh holds out the glass which Mrs Vine gave him.
‘I'm not keen on it.’ 
‘Pity.’ 
‘These paintings.’ The poet gestures around the room. ‘They're yours, are they?’ 
‘All mine,’ Mackintosh agrees truculently. 
Trevor gives them a cursory examination. ‘Not to my taste, I'm afraid,’ he decides. 
Mackintosh feels past caring. 
‘They aren't what I expected,’ Trevor explains, ‘not from what Mrs Vine was saying.’ 
‘That's life.’ 
‘I want a quick word with Clive,’ Trevor excuses himself. Freed from the need to make conversation, Mackintosh sinks gratefully into the nearest chair. From that vantage point he scans the company idly, feeling more remote from his fellows than before. For the first time he notices that Mrs Vine only invites men. 
‘You are better?’ Raj asks, looking down at him. 
Mackintosh gathers his thoughts for another round of conversation. 
‘Just about,’ he agrees. 
‘Mrs Vine-she tells me she has been very worried about you.’ 
‘It got a bit hairy,’ Mackintosh admits. 
‘Hairy?’ 
‘Doesn't matter.’ 
‘Getting hairy: I have not heard that expression.’ 
‘Things not going right.’ 
Raj smiles. ‘Now I understand.’ 
‘Have you ever wanted to paint?’ 
‘It is what I have wanted, but I cannot paint like you.’ 
‘Take my advice and don't try.’ 
Raj looks puzzled. 
‘In the end you don't get any satisfaction from it,’ Mackintosh explains. ‘Stick to your office. Good life, office life. Money comes in every month unless you bugger the boss, not much to do if you play it right, coffee whenever you want it and you can nick the ball point pens. What more can a man want?’ 
‘I am not understanding.’ 
Mackintosh shakes his head. ‘Don't worry, because neither do I. Can you tell Mrs Vine I'm going to bed now?’ He gives Raj the glass of fruit juice. ‘I'm sure you like this.’ 
‘You are still not well?’ 
‘That's right-bit more tired than I thought. Tell her that.’ Without waiting for more questions, Mackintosh slips from the room. He goes to his bedroom. No need to put on the light. For a moment he stands inside the door, savouring the warmth and stillness. In the welcoming darkness he shuffles forward till his legs touch the bed. Gratefully he lowers himself on the cover. His hands are shaking.

Tuesday again

What a day-so bright and clear. Birds squabbling outside Mackintosh's window tell him so. He turns over and pretends not to hear. The subterfuge never works, but he tries it every morning and lives in hope. Either Belsize Park has more birds than Holloway, or they make more noise. Inevitably the moment for opening his eyes and facing another day draws close. The pain from an experimental stretch of his muscles reminds him of what happened. He probes his teeth with his tongue. The ones at the front still move. His remaining hopes that the restorative power of sleep might wreak a miracle are dashed. If anything he feels worse. A tremor afflicts his hands. Cautiously he presses his abdomen and regrets his curiosity. Leave well alone, Mackintosh, he counsels.
Ten minutes elapse before he can summon the strength to get up. His body feels heavy, as though his muscles have shrunk to lilliputian proportions. It cries out for a calming drink, but he knows that there can be no more drinking for a while-except perhaps for the occasional glass of Baileys. He pulls back the curtain and contemplates the garden with the satisfaction of one who knows that it will have changed irrevocably before the morning is out.
A bath should be something to savour. At Mrs Morrow's, it was something better avoided. Lodgers conditioned to daily baths left after a week of braving the unheated bathroom. Mackintosh always wanted to see their expressions after that first encounter with the geyser which promised much in noise and fury, but delivered only a trickle of rusty, tepid water. Mrs Vine's bathroom is in keeping with her aspirations for the house, though her notion of Victorian style embraces a bidet and gold-plated taps. Mackintosh luxuriates in hot water whilst he has the opportunity. By staying in the bathroom, he hopes to avoid the breakfast encounter with Jeremy. In that calculation he fails miserably. Jeremy regards him with undisguised scorn.
‘I'm not having another drawing lesson.’
‘I'm not giving you one.’
‘I don't think you're very good.’
‘At least I'm better than you,’ Mackintosh retorts, looking at the array of herb teas and wondering whether that is the sum of his achievements-scoring points off an eight-year- old boy.
‘How long are you staying here?’ Jeremy wants to know. 
‘That's no business of little boys.’ 
‘I'm not little boys-I'm Jeremy.’ 
‘Don't I know it.’ 
‘I don't like you.’ 
‘Good,’ Mackintosh says, sawing at a loaf of bread. His technique is improving: the result is a recognisable slice. He spreads it with sunflower seed spread and sugar-free jam before he remembers his teeth. 
‘Do people buy your paintings?’ Jeremy persists. 
‘Yes.’ 
There is an eloquent silence. 
‘Aren't you going to eat that bread?’ Jeremy queries. 
‘No.’ 
‘Then why did you cut it?’ 
‘Why don't you get on with your breakfast?’ 
‘I don't have to do what you tell me.’ 
‘That's very true.’ 
‘Why do you keep looking out the window? Do you think that man's going to come back?’ 
‘Just looking at the garden.’ 
‘You haven't done anything to it yet.’ 
Mackintosh permits himself a smile. 
‘Do you think that man's going to come back?’ Jeremy continues. 
‘I shouldn't think so.’ 
‘He was very angry, wasn't he?’ 
‘Very angry,’ Mackintosh agrees. 
‘I hope he doesn't come back.’ 
‘That makes two of us.’ 
‘Are the police looking for him?’ 
‘Sure to be.’ 
Curiosity satisfied, Jeremy concentrates on his breakfast. Mackintosh goes back to probing his teeth with his tongue. He casts around for something drinkable. The best that he can manage is decaffeinated coffee. When it is made, he sits at the other end of the table from Jeremy and broods. It is going to be a momentous day-difficult but momentous. 
‘Mummy thinks you're a rough diamond.’ 
Mackintosh raises his eyebrows. 
‘What's a rough diamond?’ Jeremy wants to know. 
‘Someone who's direct.’ 
‘Is that good?’ 
‘Depends. What else does your mummy say?’ 
‘I don't know whether I should tell you.’ 
‘I'm sure she wouldn't mind as I'm almost part of the family.’ 
Jeremy shakes his head. 
‘Go on-I'm sure you can tell me,’ Mackintosh urges. 
‘She says you've got some unfortunate habits because of the sort of life you lead.’ 
Mackintosh suppresses an urge to laugh. The effort makes him wince. 
‘What's the matter?’ Jeremy asks. 
‘Mustn't move my ribs. Keep forgetting.’ 
The coffee tastes like ordinary coffee. Mackintosh suspects that it is ordinary coffee sold at a higher price to concerned people like Mrs Vine. 
‘Mummy likes you.’ 
‘Good,’ Mackintosh murmurs, suddenly conscious of how much he is losing. Free and comfortable accommodation will go, along with a ready supply of wine and whisky and introductions to people like Isobel. Another thought occurs to him: a matter to clear up while the opportunity is available. With all the insouciance which he can muster, he asks, ‘Does mummy have any other people to stay?’ 
Jeremy thinks carefully. ‘Not very often,’ he decides. ‘But sometimes she does.’ 
‘Anybody I know?’ 
Jeremy looks puzzled. 
‘People like Simon,’ Mackintosh prompts. ‘You know Simon, don't you?’ 
‘He used to be here a lot.’ 
‘He used to stay, did he?’ 
‘He did sometimes.’ 
Mackintosh nods wisely. ‘Do many people stay?’ 
‘Some.’ 
‘Very often is that?’ 
‘Mummy says she likes to help people.’ 
‘She’s a very accommodation woman.’ 
‘I'd better finish my breakfast. I've got to go to school in a minute.’ 
Mackintosh tries to work out what to do with his canvases. Sarah still has some. Some are upstairs. Some are still at Mrs Morrow's-or at least he hopes they are. If she has let his room to somebody else, he will be spending the coming night on the streets. 
The doorbell rings. Mackintosh slops his decaffeinated coffee. 
‘There's somebody at the door,’ Jeremy points out. 
‘I can hear that.’ 
‘Aren't you going to answer it?’ 
Mackintosh complies with ill grace. He hesitates as he sees the shadow through the glass. It is a large shadow. He puts the chain on the door before opening it. A man in overalls peers through the gap. 
‘You ordered a digger.’ 
Mackintosh's spirits rise. He releases the chain and smiles at the man with all the warmth of someone welcoming a long-lost friend. ‘You come as part of the package, do you?’ 
‘That's what you wanted, isn't it-digger and driver?’ 
Mackintosh's smile broadens. ‘Absolutely right.’ 
‘You been in a fight?’ 
‘Something like that.’ 
‘Looks as if you had the worst of it.’ 
‘You're probably right.’ 
‘So what do you want done?’ 
‘Clearing the garden.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘Clear it. Walls, trees-everything. You can leave the grass if you like.’ 
‘That'll get churned up anyway.’ 
‘I shouldn't worry too much.’ 
‘I don't worry-I’m just telling you. You did say walls as well, didn't you?’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘Up to you, mate. They're your walls.’ With a shrug the driver returns to his machine. Mackintosh closes the door and goes to the drawing room to watch the operation. His interest is overshadowed by apprehension at Mrs Vine's response. A roar comes from outside as the digger leaves its trailer, mounts the pavement and trundles across the garden, brushing aside the garden wall on its way. The laurel bushes bend and succumb. Mackintosh can see the driver's concentration as the digger turns sideways. A heady excitement overcomes his own apprehension. Flatten-flatten everything says the voice in his head. 
‘What’s going on?’ 
Mackintosh turns to see Mrs Vine standing in the doorway. She wears her dressing-gown. The scent of expensive soap wafts across the room to him. His excitement turns to apprehension. 
‘They're starting on the garden,’ he explains. 
‘You haven't told me what you've planned yet.’ 
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ 
Mrs Vine looks surprised, though hardly pleased. 
‘Getting back to basics,’ he explains. 
The digger looks set to demolish the porch, but veers away at the last minute. It makes its unsteady but inexorable progress back to the gate, taking in a bed of shrubs on the way. The onlookers in the drawing room watch the shovel rearing over the gate and descending slowly. Both the gate and the remains of the wall on either side topple and fall. 
‘I want you to see the garden as it was when it was built,’ Mackintosh explains. ‘I'm trying to do things the way you wanted.’ 
Mrs Vine stares at him, her mouth open. 
‘Completely open,’ Mackintosh adds, imagining how Clive would describe it. ‘I want to emphasise the concept of openness.’ 
Another section of wall collapses, to the excitement of two small boys watching from across the road. 
‘It's flattening everything!’ 
‘That’s what you wanted-a clean start.’ 
‘I didn't want this. What he’s doing is vandalism.’ 
Jeremy comes into the drawing room to join the audience. They watch the battleground widening as the digger crosses the lawn. 
‘I think you'd better stop that thing while there's still something of the garden left,’ Mrs Vine commands. 
‘If that's what you want,’ Mackintosh agrees meekly, knowing that his course is set.
‘It is.’ 
‘Right.’ 
‘That's no good,’ Mrs Vine says tartly as Mackintosh bangs on the window. ‘Go out there. Stop him.’ 
‘Right.’ 
‘While there's still some garden left,’ she snaps as the roots of a eucalyptus tree erupt from the ground. 
‘Absolutely right,’ Mackintosh agrees, hastening to the front door. He follows the noise  to the rear of the house, where the garden shed has already lost its side, exposing a jumble of garden tools and dusty flower pots. The digger, like some giant insect, is devouring the bushes along the boundary wall. Mackintosh shouts, but to no avail. Heedless of both his safety and his bruised ribs, he stands in front of the machine and waves his arms. The engine noise subsides. The driver leans out of the cab. 
‘You'll have to stop,’ Mackintosh calls. 
‘I haven't finished yet.’ 
‘We don't want any more done.’ 
‘Make your mind up.’ 
‘She's changed her mind.’ 
The engine dies. 
‘Up to you. It's going to cost you the same,’ the driver informs him indifferently, descending from the cab. 
‘That's what she wants.’ Mackintosh gestures to the house. ‘She'll sort out the financial side if you go in and see her. I've got to...’ He looks around for something to do without finding it. He gestures to the house again. ‘You'll find her in there.’ 
The driver clambers over the ruts with his invoice pad, leaving Mackintosh to survey the remains of the garden. Best not to be present at the encounter between Mrs Vine and the driver, he decides. Best not to go in the house at all. In the untouched enclave on the far side of the shed, he settles himself on an upturned barrel to get his breath. The exertion has made his ribs ache. 
Ten minutes later, when the digger is driven away and quietness descends on the garden, Mackintosh contemplates his fate with resignation. A definite mishandling of the situation. He emerges expecting to hear Mrs Vine calling him, but nothing happens. He goes to the back door, but it is locked. The same proves to be the case for the front door. He curses gently. Then intriguing ideas form in his mind. If he walks away, all that he will leave behind are a clutch of flawed paintings and a few clothes. The promise of liberation from Mrs Vine is a heady experience-until he feels in his pockets and encounters only holes. Liberation does need money. 
When Mrs Vine returns, picking her way across the remains of the garden, Mackintosh rises from his seat in the porch. He smiles, trying to gauge his mentor's mood and despising himself for the hypocrite that he is. Mrs Vine walks past him without speaking, which gives a fair estimation of her mood. When she opens the front door, he follows her into the house like a good and faithful dog, albeit one in disgrace. 
‘I wondered where you'd gone,’ he begins conversationally. 
‘I was taking Jeremy to school.’ 
‘I should have thought of that. Silly of me.’ 
They go in the kitchen. Mackintosh's decaffeinated coffee, now sporting a skin, is still on the table. 
‘I'm getting a man in to restore the garden,’ Mrs Vine announces. 
‘I'll just pop upstairs then,’ Mackintosh says. 
No answer. He backs out of the door. His stomach is sore. His ribs throb with each breath. What he wants is to go back to bed, but that cannot be. In his room he looks at his possessions, aware of how pathetic they would seem to people like Clive and Simon: a few clothes, a sketch pad, paints and brushes, all of which fit into a couple of holdalls. It was a waste of time bringing the paints: he has not used them in his week there. A pity to abandon his canvases, but some of them have been painted over twice already. He smiles mirthlessly: the man deciding his destiny. 
Downstairs, he takes four of his favourite paintings from the drawing room walls. Sounds of Mrs Vine's activities come from the kitchen. Clutching his holdalls and with two canvases tucked under each arm, Mackintosh crosses to the front door and lets himself out quietly. 
* 
‘Hi,’ says Isobel, more with recognition than with warmth. 
‘Hi,’ Mackintosh responds self-consciously, marvelling anew at her legs. ‘Clive not around?’ 
‘He's at the studio.’ She plays with her hair. ‘It's best to ring first if you want to see him. He's always in and out.’ 
‘It was you I wanted to see. Thought I'd catch you before you went to lunch,’ he adds as Isobel raises her adorable eyebrows in surprise. She gives a dreamy, knowing smile. 
‘I'm not going out today. I don't bother most days.’ 
‘I can't tempt you?’ Mackintosh asks with the nonchalance of one who has fifteen pounds in his pocket. 
Isobel shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’ 
‘Pity.’ 
‘Brought some more paintings for Clive?’ 
‘They're the same ones.’ 
Isobel smiles-the smile of one who does not understand. 
‘Been in hospital the last couple of days,’ Mackintosh reveals. ‘Still trying to sort myself out.’ 
The smile changes to concern. 
‘Got beaten up,’ he explains, gratified by the response. 
‘That's terrible.’ 
‘I thought so too-especially as I was at home. Opened the door and this man went for me.’ 
‘What did the police say?’ 
‘Not very much. It happens all the time, according to them.’ 
Isobel shakes her lovely head in wonderment. 
'Still, we soldier on,' Mackintosh says philosophically. 'Sure I can't tempt you out?'
Isobel shakes her head more determinedly. 
‘You're not worried about what Clive's going to say, are you?’ 
‘I don't usually go out to lunch. I told you. I've got so much to do.’ 
‘You could have a little break, couldn't you?’ 
She shakes her head again. ‘I'm sorry.’ 
Time for a change of tack, Mackintosh decides. ‘Couldn't have a cup of coffee, could I?’ he asks. 
‘Sure-help yourself.’ 
He helps himself. 
‘I must get on with this,’ Isobel explains. ‘They've got to go out today.’ 
As he sips his coffee, he watches her copying addresses on envelopes from a directory and remembers those little deadlines which make office life seem frenetic and worthwhile. 
‘How's life with you then?’ he asks. 
‘Fine,’ she murmurs, not looking up.
‘How's the boyfriend?’ 
‘He's fine as well.’ 
‘Good, good,’ Mackintosh encourages, entranced. 
‘Tell me all about what's been happening to you. It sounds hairy.’ 
‘It was hairy all right. I opened the door and bang. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground.’ 
‘You're all right now though?’ 
‘Haven't done anything too nasty, the hospital said. Just a question of resting.’ 
‘That's good.’ 
‘The real problem is that my landlady's thrown me out. Says she can't risk having the same thing happen again. Not that I can see why it should.’ 
‘So what are you going to do?’ 
‘The big question.’ 
‘Pretty big question.’ 
‘I'm supposed to take it easy and here I am, homeless.’ He studies Isobel speculatively. ‘I was wondering whether you could put me up for a few nights.’ 
That makes her look up. 
‘Just for a few nights,’ he pleads.
‘We haven't got room.’ 
‘I don't mind where I sleep. Put me in the bath if you want.’ 
‘I'd like to, but there honestly isn't room. It's crammed with Wayne's work. You don't know.’ 
‘I thought what I'll do is ask Isobel. It's that or a park bench.’ 
‘Why don't you go to a Citizens' Advice Bureau? I'm sure your landlady can't throw you out. She has to give you notice.’ 
‘I've tried,’ Mackintosh extemporises. ‘All they say is I haven't got a leg to stand on legally.’ 
‘I can't believe that.’ 
‘That's what they say.’ 
‘There must be somebody who could help.’ 
‘I wish there were.’ 
‘I wish we could do something.’ 
‘Doesn't matter,’ Mackintosh says, sensing a weakening. ‘I thought I'd ask you before I go searching out a cardboard box for the night.’ 
‘I'm sure it won't come to that.’ 
‘Unless you can think of an alternative.’ 
‘I can't think of anybody who might help.’ 
‘I thought if anybody had a bright idea, it would be Isobel.’ 
‘I haven't been much use, have I?’ 
‘Never mind.’ 
‘You could try coming back when Clive's here-see whether he can think of anything.’ 
‘That's an idea,’ Mackintosh agrees, thinking it a truly terrible idea. A park bench would be preferable to coming under Clive's wing. 
‘He should be back by four.’ 
‘I might call back,’ Mackintosh lies. He takes his mind off Clive's possible suggestions by watching the beautiful curve of Isobel's body as she leans forward in the chair. And he lusts after her, envying Wayne. He sips the coffee which tastes disgusting. 
‘You could leave your paintings here,’ Isobel offers. ‘I’m sure Clive wouldn’t mind if it’s only for a few days.’
‘That would be a help.’ 
‘I hope it works out for you,’ Isobel says, not sounding too interested. 
‘So do I.’ 
* 
Sarah looks surprised. 
‘Thought I'd look you up while I was around,’ Mackintosh says. 
She manages a smile. 
‘Do you think I could come in?’  
‘I don't know whether you should.’ 
‘That's being a bit silly.’ As indecision shows on Sarah's face. Mackintosh presses home his advantage. ‘I mean two days ago you wouldn't have said that, would you?’ 
‘Things are different now.’ 
‘How do you mean-different?’ 
‘You can come in for a little while.’ She opens the front door wider. 
Mackintosh feels relief when he is inside with the door closed behind him. 
‘I rang the police station,’ she informs him. ‘They haven't found David yet.’ 
‘Great. There's a lunatic out to get me and they can't find him.’ 
‘I was half expecting him to come here.’ 
‘I did try to make sure he wasn't here before I came.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘I had a good look around to make sure he wasn't watching.’ 
They are in Sarah's room. Mackintosh savours the remembered scents of flowers, food and perfume. His canvases are stacked in the corner. 
‘I feel as if everyone's spying on me,’ Sarah complains. ‘First David, then the police in case he comes here and now you're at it.’ 
‘I’m hardly spying.’ 
‘People hanging around me, watching. That's what I don't like.’ 
‘What did you expect after he nearly killed me?’ 
‘I don't know.’ 
‘Every time I go round a corner I keep wondering if he's going to be there. How do you think I like that?’ 
‘It's not easy for me, either.’ 
‘You haven't asked me how I am.’ 
‘How are you?’ 
‘I've been in hospital again.’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘Problems with the tablets. I'm all right now, you'll be pleased to know. As all right as I can be with a possible stomach ulcer, bruised ribs and a few teeth in danger of falling out.’ 
‘I'm sorry.’ 
‘Everybody's saying that today.’ 
‘What do you mean?’ 
‘Doesn't matter.’ 
‘How's your landlady?’ 
‘Do I detect a sneer in your tone?’ 
‘I was just asking.’ 
‘She threw me out,’ 
‘Why?’ 
‘Haven't got something to eat, have you?’ 
‘What do you want?’ 
‘Anything-so long as it's soft.’ 
‘You ought to see a dentist.’ 
‘Don't talk to me about dentists.’ 
‘Tell me what you want to eat then?’ 
‘How about some cheese?’ 
‘Do you want Welsh rarebit?’ 
‘Don't know whether I could manage the toast.’ 
Whilst Sarah is in the kitchen, Mackintosh inspects his paintings still stacked in the corner. What amazes him is how many he has produced-and how bad they are. He marvels at how his critical powers have changed so much in a week.  
The click of the bead curtain announces Sarah's return. 
‘There you go-one piece of cheese.’ 
‘Just what I needed.’ 
She watches him pushing slivers of cheese into the side of his mouth. ‘You can't go on eating like that. You'll have to do something about your teeth.’ 
‘They're the least of my worries.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘Can I stay here for a day or two?’ 
‘It's better if you don't.’ Sarah avoids his eyes.
‘Great.’ In the heat of the moment he bites into the cheese. That proves a mistake. 
‘What have you done?’ she asks, sounding more concerned than before. 
‘Have a look.’ 
‘Swallow the cheese first then.’ 
‘I might swallow the tooth.’ 
‘It looks okay,’ she concludes as he opens his mouth. 
‘It doesn't feel it. I don't suppose you've got any Baileys?’ 
Sarah shakes her head. 
‘Never mind-I shall struggle on. Advocaat was another one I was thinking about.’ 
‘How do you mean?’ 
‘Instead of food. It's got eggs in it, hasn't it? Highly nutritious. And the alcohol deadens the pain.’ 
‘I haven't got anything alcoholic here.’ 
‘Pity.’ Conversation grinds to a halt. Mackintosh takes a few more cautious sucks at the cheese. 
‘I'll have to go to work soon,’ Sarah reminds him. 
‘Serve the happy drinkers of Hampstead.’ 
‘I'd rather you didn't stay here.’ 
‘You said that before.’ 
She does not reply. 
‘Why?’ he asks. 
Sarah shakes her head. ‘I'd rather not talk about it.’ 
‘Great.’ 
‘You keep saying that.’ 
‘What I can't work out is why I'm in the wrong when your husband's the one who beat me up. I mean what else am I supposed to say?’ 
‘I didn't know it was going to happen.’ 
Then he remembers the purpose of his mission and smiles what he hopes is a winning smile. ‘I suppose I couldn't kip down here for a while?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘What have I done wrong?’ 
Sarah closes her eyes. ‘I don't think that woman is just your landlady.’ 
‘She's not now, is she? She's thrown me out.’ 
Sarah turns away. ‘And I'm afraid that David might come here.’ 
Mackintosh thinks about that too. ‘At least can I leave my canvases here?’ 
‘If you want.’ 
‘Till I sort out where I'm staying.’ 
Sarah nods. She looks preoccupied. The sparkle which first attracted Mackintosh is no longer there. 
‘So it's time to go to work, is it?’ he asks. keeping his tone light. 
‘Gone time.’ 
‘Those terrible words.’ He watches her struggling into her jacket. Some of the affection of their week together survives. He wants to touch her, but he dare not for fear of upsetting her. In the hall, the unease haunts him again. He hangs back, clutching the two holdalls, as she opens the front door. 
‘It's all right,’ she tells him. ‘David isn't out there.’ 
‘Don't want to tempt providence-I'm running short of teeth.’ 
‘You're safe this time.’ 
‘I'm sure you can calm him down better than I can,’ Mackintosh assures her, emerging warily into the outside world, alert for any sign of his adversary concealed behind walls or bushes. Nothing happens. 
‘I'm off to the Cornucopia then,’ Sarah announces as they stand on the pavement. 
‘I'm going the other way,’ Mackintosh improvises, resisting the temptation to go with her in case David is waiting. ‘I'll let you know about the paintings.’ 
‘So I'll wait till I hear from you.’ 
‘Just till I sort something out.’ He tries to think of something else to say as he looks past her. 
‘I'll have to go. I'm going to be late.’ 
‘So goodbye for now.’ He avoids her eyes. 
‘Bye.’ 
She walks away. Mackintosh watches for a moment, enjoying her body, before self-consciously walking in the opposite direction: a duellist in a Western who knows that he is unarmed. He dare not look back. At least nobody shoots him. 
* 
The front door of Mackintosh's old home in Holloway can be opened noiselessly: coming and going without having to announce the fact to Mrs Morrow was always an advantage. The familiar scent of stewing cabbage greets him in the hall. A clean patch of linoleum marks the spot where his Baileys spilled. He reflects that he has never spilt so much alcohol as in the last few days. 
The other lodgers are out during the day. Mrs Morrow's door remains closed as Mackintosh climbs the stairs. From long experience he avoids the one that creaks most. He fumbles with the key as he always does when trying to unlock his door. When it turns, he knows that he is really home. 
Superficially the room looks the same, except that it is tidier. There is a smell of after-shave. The dressing-gown lying on the bed does not belong to Mackintosh. There is a new plastic cloth on the table. An unfamiliar towel hangs by the washbasin. Mackintosh investigates the wardrobe. The clothes are not his clothes and there are a lot of them. His canvases are missing, leaving a faint aroma of turpentine to mark their passing. He groans gently as he closes the wardrobe. When he leaves the room, he locks the door again, so that there will be no trace of his visit. On the landing he pauses, savouring the stillness of the empty lodging house which was his home. But it is not the moment to linger. He goes down the rest of the stairs even more cautiously than he ascended and lets himself out. Nobody calls after him as he walks away. He drops the keys down a drain. He will not be needing them again.