Director's Cut (21 page)

The class was made up of five women and two men. Mrs Unsworth
and the men were retired. Two of the others were forty-something
spinsters and although they had something to smile about – not being
married – they obviously didn’t know it. The other two were in their
mid-twenties. They were twins, both married, both with two children.
Their husbands were builders, their children in nursery school and,
they had decided to branch out with a hobby. They had chosen the
wrong hobby. They had neither the aptitude nor any real interest. Not
that it mattered to Mr Lawrence for the club was just a pastime, an
irrelevance, nothing more than a little diversion.

Hiding under the stairs and peering into the studio through a tiny crack
in the wall he'd discovered and made bigger when running in the
electric cable, Paul saw the legs first. Long tapered white legs bare of
tights or nylons, and covered in tiny blond hairs, unusual to find
nowadays, but tricky. Two sets of them. Legs first and then the naked
navels and then the faces of the twins. Paul had his priorities in order.
Unless the legs were interesting he rarely bothered with the rest. But
these were interesting. And the rest was interesting too. It wasn't long
before he heard their names. Sandra and Susan.

Nice old-fashioned names.

Four long legs covered in tiny fair hairs that went all the way up to
two very short black skirts.

It was funny how black was the predominant colour of women’s
clothes nowadays. It hadn’t been like that when he went in. It was
funny what you noticed when you came out. He noticed other things as
well. That more women were wearing trousers, and these thongy
things that they showed you whenever they bent down. But come back
to the trousers. You rarely saw a skirt or a dress nowadays, not unless
it was on a slapper, and that was a shame. But Sandra and Susan
weren’t slappers and they were wearing skirts, black skirts, short black
skirts. And that was bloody excellent.

Both faces were tanned but Susan's was tanned and freckled. Their
green eyes were bright reference books of information. Their lips,
quite full and painted red, told him even more. They told him, for
instance, that they were married.

He listened in on their quiet and yet quite intense conversation.
Sandra, more so than Susan, was restless, rather bored with
motherhood and her narrow existence. And she was upset at being
pregnant again. She didn't know what was best, but she would
probably have the baby. Mainly because she couldn't afford the cost in
Oxford Circus and she didn't fancy going to the NHS.

Paul shook his head. Funny old world, when you thought about it,
that a life could be decided that way.

Sandra smoothed her skirt over her belly and held in her smooth,
almost flat abdomen. “It doesn't show yet, does it?”

And Susan said, “I wouldn't have guessed.”

But someone else had. And he smiled a wicked smile and spread his
hands until the blood raced to his fingertips.

“Paul!” he heard Mr Lawrence call him. “Are you ready?”
Paul had been around so the thought of taking off his clothes for the
class was of no consequence. Even with the bruises that taking on
electricity had left he was proud of his body. In fact the idea excited
him. It was another life experience. And his thoughts of the twins
excited him even more. It was this excitement that caused concern, at
first, and had the women in the class, particularly the twins, in fits of
giggles. Even Mrs Unsworth was curious and she exaggerated his
excitement on her sketch. The men, Mr Morgan in particular, who was
retired and treasurer of the club, were hugely embarrassed and, with
their large hairy ears and hairy noses blazing, they left early.
Paul had the devil’s face on him; his grin was utterly irresistible and
he was in his element. Mrs Unsworth was covered in charcoal and Mr
Lawrence thought he had made a mistake but was enjoying himself
immensely.

Afterwards Paul had only half-dressed when Mr Lawrence found
him.

“It's time for us to talk. I can't have lunatics breaking in here and
threatening me with light-sabres. Or threatening the company I might
keep, either, even if you did lay it on.”

“I know that. Grief! Do you think I don't know that? It's been
worrying me silly all day. That's beside the kozzers. And seeing them
gave me quite a fright. What to do about it? That's the problem.
Perhaps I ought to make myself scarce.”

“For a day or two. That's not a bad idea. I'm glad it was your idea.
Either that, or we tell the police about him.”

Paul froze. “No, no, no. I couldn't handle the police again so soon.
I'd go to pieces. The man is dangerous, you're right. The kozzers will
give him a name and then he'll be back. The kozzers are like that. And
when he comes back…” He puzzled then nodded. “You're right. I'll
make myself invisible for a couple of days, sleep at the chess club, or
the squat. He might get fed up by then. Innit? Know what I mean?”
“While you're away you can make yourself useful.”

“What's that?”

“There's a woman. I'll give you her address. I want to know more
about her, for artistic – aesthetic – reasons, you understand? Nothing
more than that.”

“Nod, nod, know exactly what you mean.” Paul smiled a knowing
smile, his previous thoughts quite forgotten. “The woman you're
painting?”

“Yes, that's the one. I'd like to know what she does, where she goes,
who she sees.”

His eyes lit up. “No bother. Right up my street. I'll make notes, just
like for real. It’ll be like, knowing your subject, adding depth to the
expression, right? Innit?”

Mr Lawrence raised an eyebrow. Such an observation coming from
Paul was quite astonishing. For a moment he felt giddy. He said,
“Come and look at the painting.”

“In the studio?”

“I'll make another exception.”

Under the studio light Mr Lawrence drew back the cover.

“That's pretty good. You've got her just right. You could actually
reach out and run your hand under the dress.”

“Don't! It's still wet.”

“Only kidding, Mr Lawrence. She looks as if she might be wet.” He
crept closer to examine it, hands behind his back, leaning forward just
like an expert. “I'd like to stay and look at it some more, but I better be
off. Wouldn't want to get caught by that bastard with my trousers
down.”

Mr Lawrence nodded and caught the twinkle in Paul's eye.

Between the restaurants and The British was an old-fashioned barbershop
with a real barber who knew nothing about hairdressing. He was
an ex-navy man and if you wanted to hang around long enough he
would tell you about the ports he sailed into and the girls he had away.
Not long ago the barber had lost all respect when he tried to turn his
establishment into a unisex affair. He reckoned without the colonel,
The British man of action. Having to wait while the women were
pampered, being on edge because they were there at all, was just too
much, and he organized a boycott. The barber saw the error of his
ways, particularly when he was ostracized in the pub and eventually he
banned women from his shop and for good measure, making good
sense and making amends for his shortcomings, he refused to serve
men with earrings. His profits went up and he was happier. He was
allowed back into The British, not totally forgiven, that would take
time, but the regulars would at least pass the time of day.

“Fuck the women,” he told the colonel.

“Exactly,” the man of action, the action man, agreed. “Exactly.
Dangerous as hell, they are, and there's a lot of them about. Dangerous
as a cornered kraut.”

So then, once a month, on the way to lunch, it was short back and
sides. While the finishing touches were applied with a razor the barber
said, “Someone's been looking for Paul.”

Mr Lawrence tried not to show interest.

“A big chappy,” he went on. “A gorilla, hirsute, but not on his head.
That was bald. Didn't want a haircut, thank God. I didn’t know what to
say, whether to point it out, that he was bald. I mean, just think, if he
hadn’t realized. As it happened he just wanted Paul but I wasn’t to
know that. If I’d had a dodgy ticker I could have been in trouble, just
seeing him in my shop. There should be a law against big bald bastards
walking around in public. Maybe the National Health Service should
provide a service, a warning like they do about cholesterol or smoking
when you’re pregnant, or maybe they should pay for someone to run
five yards in front carrying a sign saying: Big Bald Bastard On The
Way.”

He shot hair lotion into Mr Lawrence's eyes and ears and brushed
loose hair down his neck. Then he showed him the back of his head.
“That it?”

“That's it.”

They trod hair to the till.

“Paul came in here, when was it? Earlier, I don't know. You lose
track of time cutting hair. He wanted some hair. First time anyone has
come in wanting hair. Wanted black hair, no grey, no brown, no
speckled, just black. I didn't bother asking him what he wanted it for.
You give up sometimes, don’t you? The world's full of victims.” The
barber sighed. “Hair restorer? Comb? Rubbers?”

“At my age?”

“You can fantasize.”

He pointed to the stack of magazines where finger smudges blurred
the glossy images. “If you want to hang around for an hour May is
good and August quite passable.”

Mr Lawrence hesitated and raised a critical eyebrow.

The barber remembered the recent past and said, “Women! You’re
right. And so is the colonel.” At the door he switched open to closed
and took his coat from the hook. “Lunch? I'll walk with you.”

“There should be a law against drunken barbers.”

“You’re right. Mind you, having said that, blood-letting was an
important role at one stage. Think of Sweeney Todd. That’s what the
red and white pole signifies. Not much call for it nowadays, though.
There’s enough blood-letting on the street. It’s put barbers out of
business.” He turned off the fourteen-inch colour portable. “Paul got
that for me on the cheap. Bloody good lad, he is. Wouldn't want him to
come to any harm.”

On the cold platform the colonel was in good voice. He had an answer
to the yob culture. “What you should do,” he told everyone in all
seriousness. “Is bring back the birch. It’s laughable, really, all these so-called
experts talking about absent fathers. What total bollocks. What
about the soldiers fighting wars for years on end? Our kids didn’t turn
out to be hooligans. If they had, by God, they’d have got a bayonet up
the arse.”

He had a small audience of half-pint drinkers who were only half-convinced
of his seriousness so they only half-humoured him. Some of

these half-pint drinkers were strays, they had strayed in from the High
Road looking for a little respite. They had not met the colonel before
and were beginning to hope they would never meet him again.
“One other thing, before you go, and let this be a word of warning
from an old soldier. Be careful of apples. The Eighth Army didn’t fight
its way through North Africa to let these damned immigrants from
Europe pick our apples. Monty would turn in his grave.”

The bargirls ignored him for they had heard it all before, and went
about their business bending here and there. That's why Roger kept the
bottles on the lower shelves when the top shelves were free. Roger
wasn't stupid.

The British was musty, filled with the fumes of wood smoke and
old wood and stale beer and the beef curry that was special for lunch.
A tiny tributary had broken away from the pool on the bar surface and
headed at snail's pace towards the edge. Sid the Nerve leant against the
bar and the other customers watched the beer edge towards his back.
Albert finished his beer and licked his moustache and concentrated
on the stream.

Roger leant back, arms folded, eyes narrowed over his fixed smile.
Eventually Nervous Sid said, “Shit!” and, with a shaking hand,
tried to wipe his back.

The barber emptied his glass of bitter and said, “You know, Roger,
you’re the only boozer in town that hasn’t bothered with Christmas
decorations. Just an observation, that’s all.”

The owner remained silent for some time while his face ran through
a series of pulls, then he said through gritted teeth, “Well, you can fuck
off to one of the others then!”

“I don’t like Christmas decorations,” the barber said quickly as he
waved his empty glass at a bargirl. “Reminds me of Christmas.”
Roger said, “I’m thinking of renaming The British. Calling it The
English instead.”

“Why do that?”

“To make a point that we’re not European, we’re not British, we’re
English and proud of it. Saint George is the bollocks. Fuck Saint
Patrick and Saint…the other fuckers. I don’t want my kid to grow up a
European, not knowing what a pint was. In this boozer the English
pound is sacrosanct. None of that Euro shit. We’ve got more in
common with the Russians than we have with the French or the
Germans.”

“The Boche! The Frogs! Here, here! Fought them for a thousand
years so why should we be friends now?” The colonel fingered his
medals with knackered fingers that had once caressed the cold trigger
of a red-hot sten. My God, how he had enjoyed killing jerry and, after
a few gin and tonics, the Nips. Not that he was ever in the Far Eastern
theatre, apart from in his dreams. But age and booze had a habit of
mixing dreams with reality.

It was the colonel’s turn and Roger turned on him. “You’re an old
soldier, we all know that, for Queen and Country, a Desert Rat. Bet
you’ve still got your Jerboa shoulder flashes hidden away some place.”
“Maybe I have. What of it? I was proud to belong to the Seventh.
But the Queen?” She had always presented the serviceman with a
dilemma. Think of the kraut connection. Not an easy thing to think
about.

Roger said, “Although they are banned from this bar we’ve got
enough queens around here. We don’t need another.”