The U Turn

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Turn U Martha Aitchison The

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The pdf of this book is free to download from mailartmartha.blogspot.com The paperback and eBook editions are available from Amazon.

Type-setting, design and cover illustration by the author

Copyright Š 2016 Martha Aitchison All rights reserved.

ISBN-13 978-1539853657 ISBN-10 1539853659

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CHAPTER 1 For Heaven’s sake do not be perfect but by all means try to be complete, whatever that means.

Carl G. Jung - The Tavistock Lectures Tramina Phelps felt incomplete. With her parents dead and her young brother in Australia her social life revolved around a few friends, an old couple a few doors away whom she helped sometimes with their shopping and the cat next door who visited her for the price of three or four biscuits.

Her job was most uninspiring and her colleagues far too involved in their own suburban lives to pay much attention to hers, equally suburban and boring. True, she loved the large Victorian house she inherited, more so now that she could change it to suit her taste; she had nearly finished redecorating it, a task that would have daunted less enterprising souls but she tackled it cheerfully with some help from her brother when he was over for the occasional holiday and she had worked hard in the garden.

That morning the feeling was more acute as she went about her routine; shower, rushed breakfast and quick tidy up. She always tidied up before leaving for work so as not to come back to a grim welcome of dirty dishes and unmade bed in the evening. On her way out she passed the big mirror in the hall and stopped. She tried to tidy up herself now. Her light brown hair, the most rebellious in the world, refused to stay up. She let it loose and tried again to put it up but soon abandoned the useless task, allowing it to cascade around her shoulders, concentrating her efforts on her suit. Dark blue skirt and jacket with a crisp white shirt. Anybody's idea of the efficient office worker. Not on her. It was depressing that no matter how hard she tried she always looked too young and fragile and in need of help. She would have loved to be tall and look efficient and, yes... even a bit hard. Surely her job as planning officer would have been easier. ‘ Do not fight battles you are not going to win,’ she had been told and this was one of them so she turned to the door.

The weather was changeable and the forecast was for scattered showers and sunny periods, as usual, so better to be prepared. She picked up her umbrella as well as her bag and was about to rush out as 5

When Tramina was finally out in the street it was later than usual.

Weird; she had had plenty of time a short while ago; where had it all gone?

She did not worry; the bus was always late.

While walking towards the bus stop she noticed a difference in the air, a breeze that was friendly, almost tender, instead of the wintry chill she was used to meeting at this time of the day. Spring could not be far away she thought; she fancied she saw tiny buds swelling already on the branches of the flowering cherries that lined the street.

The bus came on time for once and Tramina had to run and jump on it or it would have left without her. As she attempted to jump on the platform she found that there was hardly any room even for her slight person and she would have bounced back onto the street had a man not held her by an arm. She looked up to thank him and a friendly smile showing a wide expanse of white teeth was flashed at her. So many teeth, surely more than any decent person should hoard.

Well, well, she stole a few surreptitious looks and ascertained he was quite good-looking in a quiet kind of way. Perhaps his best asset was that he looked dependable. He wore a smart suit and carried an expensive briefcase. A copy of the Times under his arm and thick-rimmed glasses on his straight nose completed the picture, as far as she dared to investigate.

His whole being exuded strength and confidence. She could see their reflection together in the window from time to time. By his side she felt protected, an experience she had not forgotten; standing by her father had felt pretty much the same. This man though was too young to be her father but unfortunately too old to fit with her idea of a prospective boyfriend.

Pity; she could have fallen for a fellow like that; her knight in shining armour, or at least in shining smile.

The office that day was quiet; some of her colleagues were away on holiday and some were ill with the ‘flu. She herself was very lucky, hardly ever falling ill. Having to do the work of the absent colleagues was not her idea of fun though. Sitting there in front of a computer screen was not going to help her find whatever it was she needed to fill that emptiness inside her. Suddenly, with an energetic impulse that came from her very core she began to type: Dear Sirs; I hereby tender my resignation … etc… etc…

Searching for an envelope to put the printed letter in, she realized this meant she would not have a nice salary paid into her bank account every month. Still, she had a roof over her head, enough clothes to last her a lifetime and as to eating, the Italian cooking she had learned from her 6

maternal grandmother was both healthy and economical. And she had a whole month to find a job before leaving work. She started dreaming of her future, partly excited and partly frightened and how curious it was that both feelings did have the same effect on her, the slight tremor along her spine, her heart beat just a little faster, her legs turned if not to jelly at least to a soft sponge cake consistency.

The phone brutally shook her out of this reverie. It was from switchboard.

‘I got somebody with a query on an extension to his house, can you take the call?’

‘Put him on please.’

‘Planning,’ she said down the phone. ‘How can I help you?’

A deep male voice explained that the adjacent house to his was going to be extended and that he was very worried about the effect it might have on his property. Normally Tramina would have been keen to help him to understand the complicated ins and outs of the planning process, but now she felt, if not exactly uncaring, a bit remote. After asking him for his address she told him ‘I am sorry but I have to pass your call to a colleague who also deals with your area. You see,’ she could not resist adding, completely off the point, ‘I am leaving this authority soon and it is better I put you in touch with somebody who will be available to you in the future.’

Saying this, making her departure official in a way, resulted in a sublime feeling of freedom rising in her, although some regret crept in when she realized that the unknown caller gave an address not far from hers. A site visit was a chance to escape the office! So she hastened to correct herself.

‘Sorry but my colleague is away at the moment, the ‘flu, unfortunately.

I will call round myself.’

The site visit was arranged for the following day.

That evening as she left she dropped the letter of resignation in her out tray, then turned and contemplated it lying there all alone against the dark green plastic with the relish of an artist who knows she has finished a major work of art.

Out in the street she was buoyant with relief at having taking such an irrevocable step towards freedom. Being a planning officer had not been her first choice of career. She was studying architecture when she lost her parents and had to abandon her studies to earn her living. On the strength of the few years already completed, she got a job with a planning authority as architectural assistant. In her office there was a group of architects taking a postgraduate course in planning and she was lucky to manage to be accepted although she had still not qualified as an architect.

Perhaps luck had not much to do with it. The tutor allowed her to join the 7

course because, as he said, she had been a top student and anyhow soon she would prove whether she could stand the pace or not. A year went by, with her working at the office and going to college once a week with a bunch of architects.

She had always been hard working and brainy, if somewhat rebellious.

As a child the Italian nuns that brought her up had a pretty hard time with her awkward theological questions, even used to say ‘My child, your intelligence is at the service of the devil’. Her best friend was indignant but not Tramina, she thought the devil was a much more exciting person than all the boring saints and virgins whose lives she had to learn, the nuns living in the hope that she would emulate them.

The planning course therefore offered neither particular difficulties nor interesting challenges either so her teachers were sufficiently impressed.

This should have alerted her to her future life as a planning officer but her place in the course was now secured; obviously she proved her ability and after a couple of years and an external exam she qualified. OK, she was reasonably provided with brains but she knew she lacked brawn. Thanks to all the health info in the daily press she was aware of the need to develop the latter in order to maintain the former. In pursuit of this end she had been taking her neighbours' dog out to the park. That evening, as she had got in the habit of doing, she paid her elderly neighbours a visit to borrow their Mop. First she stopped by her house; she dashed in to change into jeans and trainers and a sweatshirt and left quickly again, ignoring the cat by the back door pleading for biscuits. She didn’t want to miss a second of such a lovely evening or allow her buoyant feeling to fade. It seemed to be carrying her forward, hardly touching the ground, into her new life, be it what it may be.

She found the old couple about to have a cup of tea, probably their fiftieth that day. Out of kindness she stayed and talked to them, nothing new, Louise’s worries and Fred's illnesses as usual. She did not tell them her news; Louise would say in her vague way ‘Oh, very nice for you, dear’ and he will only knit his eyebrows, open his mouth and a dry ‘why?’ will come out and hang on the air between them. She often shocked poor kind if righteous Fred. His ‘why?’ was not a question but an exclamation of horror at what he thought to be her foolhardiness and impetuousness.

‘He would have a fit if he knew what I had done,’ she thought, with mischief peeping out of her eyes.‘Cuppa?’ he said. Fred had grown up in the East End of London during the war. His childhood was not what it should have been, which did much to explain his reactions to her way of life, by no means profligate but too free and easy for him. Louise, she 8

suspected, came from a slightly better off family.

The need for conversation fortunately did not arise as Christopher the Mop came bounding in and jumped on her lap. At least half of him did, the hind quarters of the immense beast remained on the floor. The dog did not upset Tramina’s cup because, knowing him, she never held it in her hand but kept it on the little table she made sure was by her side and took one quick sip at a time.

Mopsy, as his owners called him, was an unholy beast, adopted from a rescue centre, that Fred described as a Bitsa, and explained ‘bits of this and bits of that’ with a chuckle. Nobody had the heart to tell him the joke was old, as old as Fred himself, and everybody laughed politely, every single embarrassing time.

Tramina wished to see which bits of Christopher belonged to what breed but that was impossible. The huge dog was cocooned by a long coat of untidy long ringlets - it really looked like a mop without the handle that hid all of his body and his ancestry as well. Perhaps an Old English sheepdog and a poodle had something to do with his appearance. A Sheepoodle one might say, following the current fashion of calling by funny composite names what used to be called crossbreeds. Expensive designer mongrels at any rate. A Sheepoodle anyway was what she told the dog owners at the park, with their labradoodles and schnoodles. Of one thing Tramina was sure, Christopher the Mop had more than a bit of Tasmanian devil in him. Her secret pet name for him was Catastropher, as mini and major disasters happened frequently in his wake.

She hurried her tea and asked if they needed anything from the shops and if she could take Mopsy out for a walk.

‘No, thanks, my dear, but please take him out anyway,’ Louise said gratefully, ‘it will be good for him; he sleeps better when he has been out with you.’

‘Of course he must do’ - Tramina had a private thought - ‘if you knew how hard I make him work you would never let me walk… er, gallop him again.’

Somehow Louise managed to find Mop’s collar in the mist of all that black mass of hair and hooked the lead onto it. And so a young woman soon without visible means of subsistence and a very peculiar dog were out for a run in a rather nice evening, in the quiet streets of a London residential neighbourhood, while spring was just beginning to stir.

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CHAPTER 2 Mariella was lovely, her dark loose curls framed a beautiful oval face with delicate features, the kind that Leonard Delacroix, as an artist, would describe as well drawn. Her eyes were big and of an indefinable colour that flickered green and brown, depending how the light caught them, shining in her matt skin. She was sweet and gentle, as well as very bright.

One day as she was standing there next to him, looking at the drawing in which he was absorbed, she realized that the artist had noticed her. A bit embarrassed the girl excused herself.

‘Sorry, I wanted to see what you were doing. I like the doggy. Could you do one for me?’

‘I will, if you then let me draw you.’

‘OK.’ Leo sketched the little girl by the mutt he had just finished and tore the page of his sketch book to give to her. Mariella ran to show it to an old lady sitting nearby.

‘Granny! Look what that nice man has given me!’

Leo smiled at Granny and got a wave in return. He could see that the child looked so similar to his female cousins when they were also about nine and he reflected that if he had a kid she would very probably look like this girl.

This aspiration was most unlikely to be fulfilled; so far his luck with women was only with the mothering type, which made him run away as fast as he could. He had affairs, but never had he felt in any way drawn to any permanent relationship, and a kid needs stability.

In the days that followed Mariella, Granny and Leo became friends.

The child was curious and intelligent questions tripped one over another every time she opened her mouth and he loved to play the teacher. If he did not know about a particular subject he would look it up on his phone.

And she was fascinated by his drawings. This candid admiration touched a soft spot in him. That made Leo, the last time he saw Granny and Mariella, to issue an invitation to his studio for ‘one of these days,’ as he put it.

The power of flattery! But, no, his motivation was to open a young mind to other influences, other experiences than those she would normally have 10

and he could certainly show her plenty of unusual things: his art and that of his friends who almost daily send him postcards, hand made books, and many other original creations. How to make illustrations and even animations with the computer, shoot videos and edit them, so many things.

Childhood is the time to learn and for a kid all that would be a game.

Leo began to have misgivings almost as soon as he issued the invitation. It is one thing to exchange a few pleasantries with the old lady and to help her granddaughter with some tricky French homework, sitting there on a park bench awkwardly balancing a school copybook on his knees, under the piercing eyes of the little girl. Another is letting an almost unknown inquisitive child loose among tempting pots of paint, knives, umpteen bottles of lethal solvents and electronic machines issuing forth miles of tangled cables.

Oh, the possibilities of unimaginable disasters jostled with each other inside his head. Perhaps he could find an excuse but how to tackle the problem of telling them next time he met them in the park? He imagined the disappointed face of the kid and Granny trying to console her while darting murderous glances at him. No, he couldn’t do that. Besides, his ancestors would definitely not approve, looking at him from wherever they were. He had a good idea where that was but kept it to himself and never let his opinions be known when trapped in after dinner conversations with his family in France. Fortunately those interminable family meals occurred only a few times a year. He could hear them: ‘Un De La Croix ne revient jamais sur sa parole!’

So having promised to invite the kid and the Grandmama he had to keep his word. The De La Croix had distinguished themselves in many a Crusade and, famously, Louis XIV did allow Pierre De La Croix to retain his lands while he took everybody else's. His family had been favourites at court until Madam La Guillotine arrived. The ones who escaped still in possession of their heads took refuge in their little pile of stones in the South of France and changed the family name to Delacroix to join the commoners.

‘Ah! Everything changes,’ said he aloud to the old portrait that hung over the table in the corner which he considered his dining room. It showed some nobleman, with his head sitting firmly on his shoulders. His family found the picture in the cellar of the château they inherited, which they had turned into a hotel. They suspected it was the likeness of a De La Croix and his mother had insisted he should have it, to inspire his own art and also because ‘it will help you to remember who you are’. She was only a De La Croix by marriage but had embraced the cause with the zeal of a suffragette but with less of a good reason. The true scion of this noble 11

family was his father, who could not care less.

The ancient nobleman adorning Leo’s bed-sit had a more austere look than usual, positively disapproving, he thought. So Leonard De la Croix decided to go ahead with his original plan, to appease his ancestors, particularly the one he had to live with, but really because he was a thoroughly nice chap, if a bit snobbish at times. He would not mention the invitation again, unless they did. Perhaps they will forget and he would be off the hook.

That morning Leo had no real work to do. His mother called ‘real work’ the illustrations he did freelance for several editorials because he got money for them, while his paintings seldom sold. Funny, when he admitted to people that he was an artist the first question they shot at him was not ‘what do you paint? Do you do portraits or landscapes?’ Something like that he would have welcome. That would have been a limited but fairly logical inquiry although not easy to answer. His paintings were images that formed wholly in his mind and looked like nothing anybody had ever seen before, not easy to sell. And that was the question everybody asked: ‘Do you sell?’ The best answer he found to that was ‘Why? Do you buy?’ This turned the conversation first into an awkward silence and then into some irrelevant remarks and the quick departure of the inquisitor. ‘Well, you asked for it, filthy capitalist!’ he would have liked to add but his breeding stopped him, for more than one reason.

Today he could do as he pleased with himself, as he did not have any pending engagements. So he went to the park with his sketchbook under his arm. He enjoyed sitting on a bench watching people go by, dogs running in circles in the central playing field - why do they? - as if the devil were after them and old ladies slowly cruising along the paths pushing a shopping trolley on their way to the supermarket.

He would look at a figure intently for a short while and then draw from the image fresh in his mind. A necessity as everybody shifted incessantly even those sitting on the benches around the central lawn. Also an excellent way to keep his drawing fluid and free with a good feeling of movement, he found, and an exercise he would made obligatory for his students, had he any.

The park was populated by such interesting fauna. There was a small paunchy man with two dogs, which he had to take in turns for their daily walk because he could not manage the two at the same time, so out of sync were their speeds. One was an old animal, white and sort of square with short legs, called Sugar and the other, Spice, a long legged young pup of 12

no end in case he shot out of sight. First it was the turn of the young one and then he would go all the way home to collect the other, probably to one of the two-story Victorian houses that overlooked the park on three of its sides. The fourth side sloped towards a stream, lined with woodlands on its other margin, a source of worry for parents and dog walkers and of delight for children, dogs and Leo. Two-Dogs-Man told him, patting his paunch, that he didn’t mind all the extra walking as he was doing this for the exercise. Well, anybody could tell it was not going to work; he walked as slowly as Sugar and left the young one to run freely, while standing on the path, worrying and shouting, while Spice went berserk on the lawn.

He knew all the characters that brought the park alive so well that he could draw them from memory, another useful exercise. ‘Must remember to give it to my hypothetical students too,’ he thought.

There was Bubble and Squeak; despite appearances this name belonged to only one dog, a small lump of canine energy, which, summer and winter, wore a tartan coat. As Bubs had a thick curly coat all of her own it can only be surmised that her owner was more than a bit of a hypochondriac. And occasionally there was a slim female with tangled light brown hair and a very unusual dog; enormous, black and boisterous.

He did not see her often, and technically he didn’t see her at all. With her hair covering all of her head, face and most of her upper body and at the speed she had to move to keep up with the beast the drawing he did of her and the dog was just a nest of lines with legs in pursuit of an enormous black blob. As Tramina went to the park in the early evening except at weekends because of her work and Leo’s almost daily visits were during her working hours, for him this strange apparition seemed to haunt the park only on Saturdays and Sundays. ‘Interesting,’ thought Leo, ‘a dog like that obviously needs a lot of exercise. Where does she keep it the rest of the time?’

An English bulldog he had not seen before attracted his attention so he did a quick sketch of his rear end as they passed the bench on which he was sitting. His loose, messy rendering of the animal made it look like a pig. Seeing that to do any reasonable sketch he needed to increase his acquaintance with the pooch, Leo decided to approach them as his owner sat herself on the next bench while the dog did the same at her feet. He marched towards them, armed with a smile and his opening phrase, a blatant lie in most cases, certainly in this one: ‘What a lovely dog, what is its name?’ Amazingly, this approach never failed him.

He showed the lady his sketch and apologized for making her pet look like a pig but she laughed and agreed that Frankie really did look like that.

The front end was no better than the rear but after a few doodles Leo 13

got a good likeness of the dog and the friendship and admiration of its owner. Unfortunately, a female of a certain age, as they say, and not much prettier that the bulldog.

After a while, when he judged he had stayed chatting long enough for Owner. Unfortunately, a female of a certain age, as they say, and not much prettier that the bulldog.

After a while, when he judged he had stayed chatting long enough for his departure not to seem rude, he got up and said good bye, touching the brim of his hat.

He crossed the park and went to sit in his favourite spot, a trunk that had fallen down on the margins of the stream. Shaded in summer and quite sunny in winter when the trees had lost their leaves, if the sun decided to make an appearance. This was his favourite hideaway. He did not have to wait long for the big man with two Chihuahuas to come sauntering slowly along the path. With him was a lady also rather large, not fat, either big boned or muscular or both. Leo was not an expert but he thought she might be a body builder. With her was another Chihuahua. He knew this lady to be the man’s sister because he had mentioned, with a smirk, that his sister dressed her dog, Bella, in a tutu. And the unbelievable was there in front of Leo. The tutu was part of a harness and, of course, it was that sickly pink favoured by little girls. This oversized man with his two tiny dogs cut a comic enough figure but the addition of Bella and her huge owner made the group look like clowns from a circus, they only needed the makeup to go with it. Leo found himself worrying about the dogs; they looked so vulnerable.

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CHAPTER 3 Tramina woke up the next day and allowed herself to rest back on the pillows looking at the ceiling, which, she did not tire of reminding herself, she had painted and a very good job she had done too. She felt elated about her impending freedom, seeing there projected, as on the huge screen of an open-air theatre, all the impressions of yesterday. Even the walk with Mop, which, surprisingly, had been catastrophe free. Then a troublesome thought formed in her mind; shouldn’t she tell her boss of her decision before putting a formal resignation letter in his in tray? She owed him that; after all Ray was one of the few men still old-fashioned enough to be called a gentleman and as such his brand of anti-feminism was that of the protective, polite kind. It may be patronizing at times, but not as objectionable as the crude sort that could come from some of her male colleagues, coated in what they called a joke. If she objected, she would be told that she didn’t have a sense of humour.

Jumping out of bed she rushed through her morning routine and fortunately her bus came on time - two days running! - so she arrived early at her office. To her relief the envelope was still there in her out tray. This time she was grateful to have missed the last collection of the internal post; they probably left before her, even. She took it and went to see his boss’s secretary, Mandy, an attractive and serious but approachable brunette who had the boys irked as she was not as approachable as they would have liked.

Mandy was Tramina’s only friend there. They met for a chat when either of them had enough of the office and would get over the situation with some gossip therapy.

She found out that Ray was fairly free all morning, which was handy but scary. The moment had come and it was not easy to decide how to tell Ray of her leaving. She had a soft spot for him, with all his obvious insecurities and soft bumbling ways.

She waited for coffee time and prepared his coffee and hers. They all took turns to make coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon but she often volunteered, as even making coffee was slightly more interesting than her work. When she walked into Ray's office he was rubbing his neck.

Not an unusual scenario. He had an unresolved neck problem, which 15

Tramina considered more imaginary than real because any suggestion to do something about it was dismissed with a whine and a cockeyed explanation that was no explanation at all.

‘It is rheumatism’ - ‘Do go to the doctor for treatment’ - ‘No, it is a chill’ – ‘Perhaps wearing a scarf' - ‘No, it is a question of posture; the chair is uncomfortable’ – ‘Ask admin to change it’ - and so on. She concluded that he only wanted attention so, in the face of the inevitable, she gave it freely: ‘Oh! That must be terrible! I don’t know how you manage to work, poor you!’

Anything for a reasonable working relationship.

After a dialogue as per usual, Tramina broached the subject of her departure. In keeping with his excuses she had her own excuse prepared.

‘In keeping’ was Ray's favourite phrase, used injudiciously in all cases where there was a design decision to be made, like ‘the new houses have to be in keeping with the old’ resulting in acres and acres of similar buildings, creating an extremely boring and depressing environment.

She told him she was leaving and immediately, so he couldn’t think, she blurted: ‘You see I am so sorry to have to leave but my old aunt had a stroke and is in a nursing home, nobody knows for how long.’ That seemed to go down well so she added: ‘In fact I will have to move to her house in York. She has no other living relative but me, so I need to be near her to visit frequently. Look after her. Iron her clothes. Her nightgowns are old fashioned and full of flounces, not easy to iron, you know.'

Tramina was in the zone now.

‘And look after her cat. Auntie Flo would be so distressed that she is sure to die if something would happen to Fluffikins.’

Why is it that, if you tell the truth, either you are not believed or you are bombarded with suggestions to try to force you to change your mind?

But if you make an excuse no matter how bizarre it is accepted forthwith.

She had pondered on this time and time again. Maybe it is assumed you are mad and therefore better not to contradict you, just in case…

It worked this time too. Ray gave a few whiny sounds in sympathy, presumably, or perhaps he was absorbed in the real or imaginary sensations emanating from his neck and said the platitudes expected in these occasions, stumbling over the name of the cat. Oh relief! But Flo and Fluffikins? She so wished she had thought of better names for her non-existent aunt and her fictitious cat. She made sure he signed the letter, returned it to its envelope and left it in his out tray to be collected by admin and processed.

At the end of the afternoon Tramina went to the cloakroom to tidy 16

up before leaving. She put a smear of lipstick on, enveloped herself in a puff of perfume and smoothed her impossibly straight hair back into a pony tail with a scrunchie that was the only thing that could retain it, or at least give a good shot at retaining. Its deep blue matched her suit and contrasted strongly with the light honey brown of her hair. She strived hard to give the impression of a talented, efficient and responsible person, so why did nobody get it?

Out in the open her thoughts were more cheerful, the trees were now in bloom and the evenings were longer. She had chosen well the time of her departure, not that she had really chosen it; more abandoned herself to the current of renewal around her. Nature was covering herself in bright colours and even Fred had sent his winter clothes to the cleaners and wore a light-coloured jacket now, soon to be adorned with Mop’s black hairs.

Everything was speaking to her of a new life and she felt she was more than ready for it.

When she arrived at her destination the house turned out to be one much like her own, part of a very large Victorian development, as are many in London. The large houses, once expensive single-family dwellings, were now mostly converted into flats, which saved them from demolition and redevelopment. Some still were in single ownership, occupied by professional couples who could afford not only the house but also its maintenance and hired help or an au pair. Hers was one of these outdated monsters, not that she was rich or had help. So far she had managed to keep it in good condition but now with no salary it would definitely be a huge problem.

She rang the bell, or rather knocked the knocker that adorned the middle of the heavy door, as there was no bell. Obviously the occupants did not want to change its character one little bit. Ray would have approved.

He would have liked to preserve all things Victorian forever and he even fancied that he was quite a Victorian gentleman himself. When Tramina reminded him of the poverty, the lack of medical care and hygiene and of children climbing inside chimneys to sweep them he clammed up.

Disgusting.

Almost immediately after her knock a child’s voice screeched: ‘It’s Miss Phelps!'

The door opened and a friendly round face said ‘Plees, come een, Mees Felp.’

She was expected and with a cup of coffee! She could smell it wafting from the kitchen, presumably, wherever that was.She was taken straight to it, a large kitchen still with a range - did it work or was it only for show? - where a small, plump woman was busy 17

with a coffee machine, one of the super fashionable ones that look like a 1930’s idea of a futuristic robot.

‘I am sorry Miss Phelps’ the woman said, smiling, ‘my husband has not arrived yet.’

The whole atmosphere was so friendly that Tramina nearly told them to call her by her first name but trying as usual to be taken seriously she didn’t. She admired the house and talked about her own house at length and how much she liked it and what she had done to improve it, all by her own efforts. She sensed she was very much admired for that.

They all sat, the help included, at the large table that occupied the middle of the kitchen, which was much bigger than her own and completely renovated. If they did keep the character of the house intact its present occupiers had managed nevertheless to introduce all the necessary comforts of contemporary life without destroying it. It was a very pleasant room, airy and happy.

The child suddenly came running from the garden pressing a nearly strangled cat against his chest for Tramina to admire, which she wholeheartedly did, the animal being a lovely fluffy composition in grey and black.

‘This is Scattykitty’ he told her.

'Not much better than Fluffikins,' she thought. She smiled and scratched the tortured animal on the head, between his flattened ears.

‘When Scattykitty has been naughty Daddy calls him by another name.

I am not allowed to repeat it but I can whisper it in your ear if you like.’

Tramina could well imagine the obvious word play on Scattykitty and declined the offer with a smile.

Then the front door opened and a man came in.

‘You must be Miss Phelps’ he said, ‘I am Trevor Horsfield, we spoke on the phone. Sorry I am late, the traffic is horrific. I expect Betty introduced herself and made you comfortable.’ He walked over to where Tramina sat and extended his hand towards her, excusing himself again for making her wait so long. His wall-to-wall smile filled the room and the shocked young woman found herself putting her small hand in that of the hunk who had saved her from falling off the bus. Her heart turned a somersault and landed on her stomach. It was helpful that he was the talkative sort, a rare quality in a man, because no words could possibly come out of her constricted throat.

‘Haven’t we met before?’ he asked, still retaining her hand.

The kid, whose name was Peter, wedged himself between his father and Tramina and told her excitedly that he was soon going away to camp.‘I like camp’ he shot straight at her face and followed that revelation with another equally superfluous: 18

‘Juana comes from Spain!’

And Tramina was never so grateful to an obnoxious child than on this occasion; the intrusion giving her time to recover from the shock and return her heart to its rightful place. She said to the father: ‘Don’t you remember? You saved me from falling off a bus recently.’

Mr Trevor Horsfield, knight in shining armour hiding within a suburban family man, told his wife of the incident in the bus.

‘That day the car was at the garage, remember?’- and both commented passionately on the lack of care of bus drivers these days. This was followed

by Betty informing him that Tramina lived in a house like theirs not far away.

By then they had finished the coffee, all except Peter who, of course, had none - nor needed any, he seemed to have an internal source of caffeine - but was having a great time tormenting an ant that had lost her way and found itself on the plastic table cloth, frantically trying to get back home and making a mental note not to forget the GPS next time.

They got up and went to the garden to peep at the neighbour’s to try to guess how the new extension was going to pan out. Tramina gave them the benefit of her expertise and reassured them that it would not take any sun away from their garden. She enjoyed the visit as much as if she had known the Horsfields all her life and was ready to go.

‘So you are leaving? Where will you be heading?’ Trevor said, suddenly.

‘Home,’ she said, truthfully but off the point, as he referred to leaving her job not his house. When she realized her mistake, caught off guard, she blurted out the truth; that she did not have another job lined up but was confident that a month should be enough time to find one.

‘Perhaps we could be of help; we are solicitors. Have you considered selling your house, buying something smaller and investing the rest? With the prices these properties fetch you could get a good if modest income.’

Tramina had not thought of anything of the kind, in fact, she had not thought much at all about anything but selling her house was out of the question. For once she managed to restrain her impulse to tell the truth and she only said that it seemed a good idea and that she was going to think about it. Oh, how many lies she had told today!

Finally she was allowed to leave after much hand shaking and affirmations of their friendship and reassurances of their willingness to help her with advice on her financial affairs, ‘as friends and neighbours, you understand?’

19

CHAPTER 4 Leo was standing by the French windows looking out at the garden, a mug of coffee in his hand. Still too fresh an evening to open them but the promise of warmer days was there, a feeling surely shared by the two squirrels that kept going round and round the trunk of the London plane next door like cars in a Grand Prix. Innocent play? Saucy foreplay? Too early for that. Or perhaps not. After all spring had technically started a few weeks ago. Leo was riveted to their antics. He had long been intrigued by the logistics of the creative act in the squirrel world. How do they manage with her bushy tail? The bigger one, which turned out to be the female as proved by the events that soon followed, stopped and hung for a while spread flat on the wide trunk and the smaller one eventually got the hint and climbed on her.

He was about half her length, hanging vertically from her fur.

Thinking no doubt that gravity was working against him and that his offering would fail to reach its target in that position, he gave up. She turned her head to look at him as if disbelieving such rudeness and followed a murderous look with a quick bite on the back of his neck as he moved away. Again, as Formula One racing cars, they started to run round and round at full speed. Eventually she made a pit stop on a branch that grew perpendicular to the trunk and put her tail to one side for him. One of the mysteries of life finally elucidated. Unbelievable, all through this most sacred act, the male was curiously and shockingly picking at fleas on her back. Then suddenly they both sat up side by side, very quietly looking forward. In an old black and white film that would have been the cigarette moment. Arty smoke spirals all over the screen.

The show having ended, Leo turned his attention to the music; the notes of Gillespie’s trumpet still bouncing from the walls of his studio.

Just one large open plan room in the ground floor of a London townhouse that had been converted to flats mostly with a view to getting as much revenue as possible, without any regard for its character. He owed both to his mother; his taste in music and the flat. She had a great collection of classics but also plenty of jazz that she was usually playing when he came 20

back from school in the afternoon and before his father arrived in the early evening. His father, by way of music, only liked the roar of football crowds.

The flat she insisted on buying to have a pied-a-terre in town to stay after an evening at the theatre or a long day shopping. When his parents moved to France, having sold the family house in Reading, it became Leo’s home.

This semi-basement had a bit of a garden, a paved patio rather, and a good deal of light through the windows at both ends of the room that served him as kitchen, dining, and bedroom. To these functions he had added that of studio. One welcome feature of his flat was that there was a front door from which to reach the street by going up several steps from a small sunken patio. Yes, he was comfortable there.

The top floors, with their separate entrance next door, were occupied by, possibly, a woman. He was happy to find that this being ignored him, therefore showing no maternal inclinations, or perhaps paternal, not too sure about that. This person’s hair was frequently blue, or sometimes orange. Not the elegant tinge of blue his grandmother used to have on her shiny white hair, this was a completely unearthly, an alien deep shade. The orange fell into the category of dangerous weapons. So intrigued was Leo of the provenance of these colours that that day he decided to unravel the mystery and took a long bus ride, to a part of London that he didn’t know and where he hoped nobody would know him.

Once there he searched for a large Boots and took his inquires to the shelves packed with bottles of hair colouring.

‘Can I help you?’ the assistant said with a bored voice.

‘Oh, damn!’ escaped from Leo, who was trying hard to be invisible.

‘Er, yes I am looking for a tincture in a deep blue or a bright orange, I can’t seem to see either.’ The girl suddenly woke up and looked at him, with interest, he choose to believe, or maybe with something else. May be ‘tincture’ was not the word, anyway she understood.

‘Like these? But you will need to bleach your hair first; it is far too dark for the colour to take.’

He was about to resort to his usual ruse for these occasions, saying it was for his blond sister who lived in the Democratic Republic of Congo but what the hell, he wasn’t a coward. On the other hand blow him if he was going to be intimidated into buying anything so hellish and that he didn’t need, to boot. Not even by a gorgeous pair of mocking blue eyes.

Had it been near Halloween, maybe? Then he would have an excuse, and would follow his purchase with an invitation to a drink.

He picked up both packets to have a closer look before he said thank you but no thanks and saw that the colours in the models’ photos were

21

nothing like the intense blueyness and repulsive orangyness he was investigating. Most intriguing.

During the long bus journey back his mind churned the fascinating question of his neighbour’s hair colour. Perhaps wigs? Maybe he had not seen yet the full collection and puce, octarine and other hues were still to crown the top of that fantastic being. He would have to strike an acquaintance to observe them closely and find out the provenance of that extraterrestrial hair. First a discreet search of her dustbins for discarded bottles…

Dustbins. This word took him to his art. Not in actual dustbins but lately he had been rummaging frequently in skips, picking out interesting pieces of wood, household objects and broken gadgets. He had started to create artworks with these rejects, giving to them a new life, rescuing them from dissolution and oblivion. His mind turned now to the piece in which he was engaged at that moment, a composition that included the entrails of a defunct clock and body parts from a plastic doll. It seemed to be what his fellow artists were doing and he decided to give it a try.

Taking advantage of a lull in his ‘real’ work, as his mother would say, he was also making something with discarded shopping lists he found in supermarket baskets. He intended to sketch on them people carrying loaded shopping bags, fridges bursting with stuff and dustbins overflowing with unopened packets of food. He had been collecting them for a while and had enough to make a book with a cover of corrugated cardboard from a fruit box, which he hoped he would find and rescue from the pile just inside the entrance to Sainsbury’s. One with some attractive lettering if possible. There was an artist in California who initiated a project about our wasteful society and had invited Leo to participate. This book was just the thing. He found making art with trash a fulfilling occupation, no rules, no pressure and something poetic coming out of it.

‘I suppose’ Leo told himself, ‘I am lifting the ordinary and holding it to the light.’

He liked the figure of speech, and to emphasize this he intended to use gold paint in profusion, a reference to Byzantine icons he hoped his critics would pick up.

He decided his observation should go on the Thinking Roll, for future use, perhaps his memoirs, once he collected enough words of wisdom.

He had so many projects on, invitations to join more kept appearing in his email inbox and he couldn’t resist responding to them all. Mail Art was an ever-expanding universe. He wrote this profound statement too on the Thinking Roll hanging on the wall. Since art school he had used this method to keep track of his thoughts and had done many thumbnail 22

sketches as reminders of possible projects by filling one after another of those cheap rolls of paper used to line walls before papering. One day he will publish the lot, in the meantime there was a lot of inspiration for his projects there to last him a long time. But for now he should concentrate on answering some of his most urgent post.

He checked the pile of decorated envelopes on his worktable and chose one that had lots of artist-made fake postage stamps. He knew the style; it was from Dick Lick ‘n Stick. Inside he found a drawing of a cat, a cut out on stiff card. It was neither a beautiful cat nor a cute one, thank God. It was a superb caricature of an alley cat, supercilious green eyes defiantly looking out of bristling grey striped fur. The Artistamps on the envelope also showed the same cut out of the cat in different places. The project consisted of taking the cat around, place it somewhere, taking a photo and emailing it back to Richard who would use it to make another superb stamp to add to the series. Thus, after a few months this cat will have travelled around and its journey will have been documented in stamps.

Leo was immediately seduced, this was the sort of thing that made his world go round, sometimes dizzily fast, always excitingly. The possibilities for mischief opened in front of him. This was a purely fun project and one in which he surely could seek the collaboration of Mariella and even perhaps of her granny too. That would be an interesting experiment.

Leo prepared what he considered a light meal. It consisted of half a pound of fried bacon sandwiched into a whole ciabatta and a salad of lettuce, chives and cucumber drenched in vinaigrette. With the help of a glass of red wine it all went down quite nicely and afterwards he was ready to read in bed.

But first ‌ He searched in his kitchenette cupboards and found an old tin box that had contained Lebkuchen. The smell of the spiced German biscuits still lingered, reminiscent of Christmas. It was just the thing he needed. He went out into the garden and picked up the dead pigeon he had found in the morning and which was still on the back doorstep. It had suffered a sudden death, hopefully painless, in a collision with a car and had been subsequently flattened repeatedly until there was so little of it that even the weak London sun had managed to dry it to a state that would have been the envy of an Egyptian embalmer, had he been embalming pancakes.

Leo put it in the tin and closed it tightly. The spicy odour would help, he thought, remembering that spices were used in the process of mummification. Then he piled on it some spare bricks that were lying about in his not at all tidy garden, in case foxes became inquisitive during the 23

night. He didn’t want to risk what happened to the dry toads he collected during a holiday in Thailand when still an art student.

As he was getting ready for bed he remembered the trouble he had picking them up from the road in secret, hiding them from his parents and secreting them in his bag without anybody being the wiser and then taking them to college; all for an unenlightened cleaner to throw them out overnight. He never recovered from the trauma. He could see now the artwork he would have created; an amazing construction involving coloured lighting with the transparent little bodies floating around in a huge mobile. It had to be huge otherwise it would not be Art. Sometimes it seemed to him that to be enormous was the only requirement for a piece of work to qualify as art.

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CHAPTER 5 Tramina walked home as her house was only a few blocks away, the echo of the recent conversations resonating in her head. The Horsfields reminded her of her own family and their friendship, which was apparently on offer, would be something to be valued. If it becomes true. It might, after all they were nearly neighbours, but people often say things out of politeness without having the least intention of fulfilling their promises.

They could be, by the looks of them, too polite to be honest, as her granny used to say.

Thinking of Granny Rosa she began to feel a bit down. On the whole she had coped well with the sudden death of her parents, which had followed that of her grandmother by a few months, but finding herself in the midst of a family as happy as her own had affected her.

Tramina got home, had a shower, made herself a cup of tea and curled up on the settee to watch some television. She was addicted to detective series, which she recorded to watch when it was convenient, but sadly at the moment she was out of thrillers. Instead she picked up the laptop and started an email to Julian. She talked of this and that, avoiding mentioning her decision to leave her job. She had to think how to break the news to her brother who thought of himself as the pater familias despite being her junior. For now she only needed to talk of inconsequential things, the everyday chit chat that made her feel close to him. ‘And now for a walk in the garden,’ she finally wrote and ended the message with lots of kisses. She smiled, remembering how, when a child, he hated being kissed by her, an activity in which of course she would persist, undeterred by his going stiff as a gatepost.

The evening was fresh so she picked up the old cardigan that she had left on the settee that morning. The choisya covered in white blooms by the back door was pumping its glorious perfume into the air, quite unlike any man-made scent she knew, while the robin was having a bath in the shallow ceramic dish she kept full of water in the middle of the garden.

She froze, so as not to spook it, and the garden seemed to freeze with her.

Only aware of the staccato movements of the bird and the slight rustling 25

of feathers splashing in the blue dish it was not difficult to imagine the earth travelling through infinite space with just her and the robin on board, with its breast shining crimson in the fading rosy light of the evening, the goodnight kiss of the sun.

She loved the old garden even more than the house, if that were possible, and she could not imagine ever moving away. She felt closely connected to it, the garden created by her parents for her and her brother.

It had seen them grow up and it had graciously put up with their rather destructive games.

The robin abruptly stopped bathing and with a shrill succession of warning calls climbed almost vertically to perch on the roof of the large shed covered in ivy that filled the back of the garden. From the dark of the ivy it continued to cut the peace of the hour with its sharp voice.

Tramina was now free to move and sat on the large tree trunk lying on the ground that served her as bench. Something had disturbed the bird but nothing was there to be seen, at least not by human eyes.

‘We are really handicapped with our puny senses,’ she said to the night.

As she sat alone in the mysterious and slightly menacing creeping darkness, contented non-the-less, Tramina did not feel lonely, enveloped as she was by a warm awareness of stirring life all around. A small piece of shadow slowly broke away from the dark at the back.

‘Come in,’ said Tramina ‘it’s getting too cold to be out. I’ll get you some biscuits, not that you deserve them after frightening that poor robin.’

The grey cat slinked along with her into the kitchen where it sat and fixed her green eyes on the tin where she knew the cat biscuits were.

‘What’s the matter, Lucy, your humans haven’t arrived yet?’ Tramina said as she reached down with a handful of biscuits. Lucy grabbed her hand with both her paws without taking too much care as to whether her sharp claws were out or not.

‘Ouch! Bad, bad cat!’ Tramina let out; sometimes she had a suspicion that Lucy was short for Lucifer.

During the following days in the office she had to cope with the awkward questions that her colleagues kept asking, having heard of her resignation. She fended them off as well as she could, keeping alive the pretence of an ailing aunt and a nearly orphaned cat in need of tender loving care; her ridiculous excuse.

Nobody queried it, surprisingly. And even more of a relief for her was that they did not seem to be aware of the ludicrous names, Auntie Flo and Fluffikins, oh, dear, dear! They seemed only concerned for the health of her aunt and what she intended to do about a new job and whether she would sell her house and many rather other impertinent questions, or so they seemed to her. A horrible thought broke loose in her brain creating 26

havoc throughout her nervous system; if she was supposed to be moving away, what if somebody were to see her around? ‘I will have to be careful not to come anywhere near the office, at least for a time. That is the problem with lying, makes life too complicated by far, how do politicians manage?’ And then a saving idea popped up, ‘I can always tell them, if caught, that I have come back to check on the house.’ Liars have to be resourceful.

She was happy to finish work, happier than usually; surely this had to be the worst day and in those that will follow the questions would dry up as curiosity would be assuaged and the novelty of her amazing decision would wear off. Soon it would be her Last Day, not a date she was looking forward to. The Last Day comes hand in hand with the Leaving Party. She always tried to avoid leaving parties, strange things happen then; mostly behind filing cabinets.

As she was walking to the bus stop a little voice was beginning to make itself heard in the back of her mind. The message it gave had the effect of making Tramina rather uncomfortable.

‘Shut up’ she told it, but no dice, it became more and more insistent until she had to acknowledge its warning: it was high time she took a serious look at her prospects or in another words; find a job.

‘Mañana’ she told the voice, now she had to get milk and something to eat. While sitting on the bus she decided to make a quick couscous.

‘Couscous is so easy, a blessing for a working girl.’

‘Which soon you will not be’ whispered the voice.

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ said Tramina.

There was a small supermarket near her house, the pup of a national brand, one of those sprouting all around London to fill the gap left by the demise of the old corner shop that had a bit of everything and was eventually killed by the very same big supermarkets now stepping into the breach. She waited to the next stop to leave the bus and rushed to get her shopping. She got some cooked chicken and a few fresh vegetables and then remembered she was out of harissa. She liked the spice hoping that it added a touch of authenticity to the dish, wishful thinking on her part, as she had never tasted a traditionally cooked one. She had learned to make her couscous from an Internet recipe.

The pot of the Mediterranean pepper was on the highest shelf; it had to be, hadn’t it? Tramina looked down concerned that the metal edging protecting the bottom shelf seemed partially loose. She had climbed that way many a time and all had been well but today she had misgivings.

Cautiously she put one foot on the shelf, gave a little push with the foot 27

still on the floor and stretched her arm up when a hand appeared from behind her and picked up a pot of cayenne.

‘Is this what you wanted?’ said a voice with a hint of laughter.

Tramina, now back firmly on the floor and not at all pleased with the tone of the somehow familiar voice, turned round to inform the do-gooder that it was harissa what she wanted. Not a polite but cool ‘thank you’ but a strangulated ‘Oh!’ came from her, what with having been caught in a fairly embarrassing position and the annoyance of the mockery she imagined in the voice, not to say the surprise to face Trevor. Her embarrassment went up several notches when she saw that not only him but also Betty were looking at her with similar expressions reflecting both amusement and a sort of warm surprise. She took the cayenne and popped it in her basket and finally remembering her manners she thanked him, said hello to his wife and added ‘Well, nice to see you, bye, bye.’

She had nearly managed to escape when Betty said ‘what a coincidence.

We were thinking of you as we were planning to invite a colleague of ours for a drink and eats next Saturday evening; he is Austrian and does not know many people in London. Perhaps you would like to join us? Of course you can bring your boyfriend, husband… so sorry I do not know if…’ Tramina put her out of her misery with a ‘No, I am not married and I don't have a boyfriend’ which she immediately regretted, so she added, after a pause, ‘at present.’

‘Gee, now that sounds lame’ she said to herself and realized that the time had gone to have given a plausible excuse, preferably not involving aunts or cats, so she capitulated and accepted the invitation with as much grace as she could find.

What a stupid reaction. All because she could see herself as if on a photo, half hanging from the shelves in such a ridiculous way. Her carefully constructed self image thus destroyed she imagined that the Horsfields were probably mocking her. Perhaps they were only amused and happy to see her. Had she presented a more dignified picture she would have been only too delighted to meet them again.

Before going home she decided to have a short walk in the park and have a think.

‘I am far too concerned with my image, it is beginning to get in the way of so many things’ and she resolved to put the incident out of her mind, or at least try. ‘After all these nice people did not seem to notice or if they did, they probably put it down to me being harassed, a hard working girl like me.’

‘Not for long …’ said the voice 28

‘I'm not listening!’ Said Tramina It was quiet in the park. She was full of gratitude to the Victorian planners who had the forethought of creating these large open spaces that peppered London. When she walked the dog there she could breathe the fresh air while making sure Mop did not get into trouble or more likely get her into trouble. Today she could look around and absorb the park and its few visitors. In the evenings there were not so many dog walkers, mostly there were people returning from work and crossing the park quickly in a hurry to get home. During the day there were the regulars and their dogs and a few others without canine companions; mothers and toddlers and the slim man with a large hat and a sketchbook under his arm. She had seen him sometimes sketching busily and sometimes talking intently to a little girl. Perhaps a single parent, a divorced man. Come to think of it, this last scenario was quite possible, she only saw them together some weekends, so it could be those were his days to take his daughter out. She felt a pang of empathy; did he also feel incomplete? This evening he was sitting alone, bent over his book, pencil in hand. She wanted to walk past him and casually steal a glance at his artwork but didn’t dare. Seeing this man, who embodied a whole other world of feelings, thoughts and impulses of which she knew nothing, made her reflect on her own isolation.

Later that evening it was not with her usual good appetite that the poor thing ate the dish she prepared automatically, without harissa.

She felt annoyed with herself at having been so flustered as to appear rude when meeting the Horsfields. She did not imagine she was going to see them again and the encounter took her by surprise. A surprise that should have been pleasant but her over sensitive ego had ruined it.

Perhaps she had not seemed so horrible to them as she thought, perhaps they did not notice or if so, they had forgotten about the episode by now.

At least she had the coming Saturday evening to make up for it. She was pleased to have been invited to their house as a friend.

29

CHAPTER 6 The pigeon survived the night, if such a thing could be said of a dead bird. When taking it out of the tin more feathers broke away so, to prevent further disintegration, Leo hastened to glue it there and then on the wooden board with the clock works and the bits of doll. The PVA, he hoped, would help to preserve it.

He had once created a goose in chicken wire. It was not too difficult to achieve a good shape, although after a few attempts he gave up trying to give it legs to stand on and decided it would be laying eggs in the middle of the garden instead. First Leo conceived it as a transparent volume that would contain a stone he found, sufficiently large and egg shaped, to give the ethereal construction enough weight not to dance around the garden with the wind. He painted the stone gold; a nice poetic hint he thought.

Unfortunately his goose-about-to-lay-the-golden-egg was on the untidy side, the shaping of the bird requiring much cutting, bending and patching of the chicken wire, resulting in many joints that had to be twisted round each other. The raw bits of wire that Leo had to handle pierced and scratched his fingers, but he would not give up, not even when blood was pouring out of them. A true De La Croix to the bitter end, he finished the goose, washed his hands and, holding them wrapped in a towel, sat on the doorstep contemplating his creation.

It did not take him long to accept he hated it.

That was why the goose ended up plastered with newspaper soaked in PVA and painted white, which gave it sufficient weather protection to grace the garden for months and it would still be there if the foxes had not discovered it and taken it for a real bird, thrashing it about by the neck to kill it. Leo loved it when animals appreciated his work.

He worked at the pigeon composition all morning, stopping only, briefly, for a cup of coffee. By midday he was satisfied with his progress so he prepared to leave for the place where he usually lunched.

The Cafe Esperanza was his home from home, he had established a good relationship with the owners, Mehmet and Consuelo, he a small dark Turkish gentleman and she a large rubicund Spanish lady, who father and mothered him awfully. He did not mind, such was the sincerity and warmth 30

with which he was welcomed, particularly by Consuelo, who served love and friendship together with the capuccini and the croissants. When he had suggested to them to hang a few of his pictures on the red walls of the small bistro to try to sell them, the proposal was met with enthusiasm by the couple. It was of course a business arrangement; Leo would not have it otherwise.

The first pictures he put up on the dark red walls were a series of nudes he had made while learning to paint in the traditional Chinese style.

He had taken a pretty expensive course at the Victoria and Albert Museum so keen had he always been to learn calligraphic painting, so when the opportunity arose he did not hesitate despite the cost. He loved to handle a Chinese brush loaded with black ink, the spontaneity of this method that did not allow for corrections was refreshing for him and he felt running through his being the sensual pleasure of feeling the thick black ink oozing as the brush in his hand caressed the paper. The Chinese nudes he called them, although the model they had was an Irish girl with very white skin and black hair, so good at her job that the teacher did not have to pose her, just tell her to change the pose and she would fall, as if a rag doll, into another interesting shape. No doubt the experience and beauty of the model contributed to the merits of the paintings.

The Chinese nudes in question sold one after the other, they were bought as fast as they hit the walls of the Esperanza and either Mehmet or Consuelo would text Leo to collect his money and take another picture to fill the space left bare.

‘If I ever write my memoirs,’ mused Leo, ‘I shall tell budding poor artists to paint nudes and cats; those are the subjects that sell best. I cannot imagine why horses do not enjoy the same popularity. I would have expected them to be a favourite subject in England.’ He began to wonder if the mortal remains of a pigeon among clockwork and bits of a doll would be any more popular. It was not finished yet, and may never be. His heart was not in it. It was not his Thing.

The trouble, and it was a huge lump of trouble, was that he did not really know what his Thing was; if he saw it walking towards him with open arms he would not recognize it.

He decided to leave trying to work out the solution to that problem for the time being and concentrate on ordering something to eat.

Mehmet, who was usually in the role of waiter, suggested the mackerel and aubergines bake. The dish had more than those ingredients, the fish laid on a bed of potatoes, onions, green peppers, plus the eponymous aubergines, all mixed with garlic and herbs, lemon slices, drenched with olive oil and served with abundant chit chat from Mehmet. Leo suspected the owner chose to deal with the customers because of his love of talking, 31

leaving Consuelo as the Queen of the Kitchen. What is more, he was sure Mehmet started the business solely with the purpose of having an audience.

You could not go to the Esperanza for a quick cup of coffee, instead you would be sure that you would be enthralled by the entertaining stories and would be very likely to order another, not to interrupt the raconteur.

Today, however, there were no stories, a rare happening, so Leo was alone with his thoughts and they were giving him a bad time. After the nudes were all gone he brought out of oblivion all his college work and every piece of work he had done since and framed them to feed these hungry red walls. The trouble was that this source of sellable work was beginning to get exhausted too.

There was no alternative but to put up the pigeon picture and hope Public Health did not close the cafe. Or he could sit down to work steadily again. ‘Not so much fun and Mail Art, mister,’ he told himself. Or he could talk his good friend Gerald into joining the show and so share with him the responsibility of keeping the walls covered with pictures.

Leo and Gerry had endured Art College together and had remained in close contact ever since, no doubt because they lived within walking distance of each other. It is amazing how many of his friends he had lost simply because of not being thrown into regular contact by circumstances, going to college in his case. One would think telephones and the Internet had not been invented yet.

Gerry sometimes lunched at the Esperanza but liked to change venues.

He was one of those people who like change; it seems, for its own sake.

Leo, by contrast, would be loyal to his choices, unless there was an imperative need to change. Forming deeper relationships was his reward but also sometimes he got hurt and disappointed. This surely had to do with the intensity of his character; superficial friendships tired him and he had a horror of those people who laugh between every few words with no joke in sight. Why? Is it a sign of submission, similar to the rolling over of a dog or cat in front of an aggressor? Is it putting up a barrier, not to have to speak and so not laying bare intimate thoughts? Or is it simply a passing fad? One of those intriguing traits some people have and that he could not understand.

After he finished the delicious mackerel a la Mehmet he went back to his flat to work but he was too full of that siesta time feeling of pleasant laziness and starting on the cat project with Mariella was more appealing.

He picked up his hat and slung over his shoulder his artist's bag with the cardboard feline and camera inside and he went out in search of the child As soon as he was out in the street a fine drizzle started to fall.

32

‘Just what I need now, they will not be there and anyway a soaked cat won't do.’

‘On the other hand, it could.’

He was thinking of the melting watches in Dali’s The Persistence of Memory and imagining how good the soggy cut-out would look dripping down from a tree branch as if the cat had melted as it sat on the tree.

When he got to the park the sun was out, trees, bushes, the paved path, all wet and shining from the light rain and Mariella’s granny sitting on a bench, still under her open umbrella oblivious that the rain had stopped, her small figure looking like a garden gnome under a toadstool. Leo silently approached the old lady and playfully peeped under the umbrella.

‘Anybody at home?’ He asked, shielded from any possible angry reaction by deploying his cutest smile.

‘Oh dear, you nearly gave me a heart attack!’ She protested, with a fairly good imitation of severity rendered null and void by her laughing eyes.

Mariella, who had been fluttering around in the rain, happy as a little bird, appeared with dripping hair and all flushed with the exercise. During the next hour Leo and the girl had a great time placing the cat in the most ridiculous situations and taking photos. On top of Granny’s umbrella, reopened for the photo shoot, hanging from the low branches of a tree, of course, teasing Bubs who came just in time to participate in the project and many more outlandish pranks were played by the two at the expense of the cardboard feline, which, it had to be admitted, was a good sport and did not complain at all, not even when the dog bit its ear and threatened to thrash it to extinction. It was narrowly saved by the owner of Bubs who had to praise his jaw open with considerable effort.

Leo left his friends in the park with the promise to collect them soon to finish the project and returned to his work back at the flat. With the fun and games his brain had woken up and he was keener now to complete the collage if for no better reason than getting rid of it.

While he worked he was trying to think of a suitable title. Time Waits for No One, The Revenge of the Fourth Dimension, Circumstantial Evidence... Even more ridiculous ideas were elbowing each other to attract his attention, none making the faintest bit of sense, because, he admitted quietly to himself, the collage was utter nonsense. He decided to call it Composition 23. Why 23? Well, it implied there were twenty-two more at least, giving the impression of a prolific successful artist. Although he felt time should be mentioned in the title to justify all those gears from the destroyed clocks.

He was fascinated by Time. Was Time an independent thing with its 33

mind? He could not decide. Sometimes it appeared to be the one and at other times the other. He pondered on this for the umpteenth time; he certainly used the word all the time. There it goes again, there is no escaping it. He had a good working relationship with Time, perhaps because he never killed it.

Leo simply filled it.

His phone buzzed. It was an email from his editor, there were two book covers to design with the full instructions in an attachment. He liked this electronic way of working; he would send the drafts of the covers also by email. If they were accepted the final design would also be eventually sent by email back to the editor. Neat and simple. He could not imagine himself working in an office.

At the end of the editor's email there was a short sentence he almost missed ' I need to see you, phone Sandra.' No indication why, this was unusual. Trying not to sound nervous Leonard phoned and was lucky to get Joe's secretary first time. Sounding Sandra out did not reveal any more about the mysterious summons but he got an appointment at ten the next morning.

34

CHAPTER 7 Saturday evening arrived and Tramina prepared to go to the Horsfields.

It crossed her mind that Betty might be contemplating pairing her off with this Austrian friend of theirs and that was why she asked whether she had a boyfriend. So she chose a fairly serious dress, trying to send out the message that she was not fishing for any man. Betty was very nice and obviously happily married. Who would not be happy with somebody like Trevor? Exactly the sort of woman who, with the noble desire to share their own happiness, becomes a self-elected matchmaker. She was not put off in her good disposition towards Betty by this assumption, though, and was sure all three would become good friends. She wondered if Trevor might not join his wife in trying to get her settled. Tramina felt his paternal instincts homing in on her. He was perhaps approaching fifty, now that she had the opportunity to observe him better. Coming to think of it, he could almost be her father, and fathers may collude with mothers in these things. If so, they may be difficult to handle but she would not be seeing them all that frequently after all. She would surely manage. ‘Well, I’m quite capable of finding my own boyfriends, thank you very much,' she lied to the mirror. Tramina finished her preparations by putting her hair up in a bun on top of her head. Perhaps she should leave a few strands loose around her face, but decided that it would soon be flopping about of its own accord. Feeling as ready as she could possibly be, she left her house and headed for the bus stop.

Trevor opened the door, excusing Betty for still being upstairs getting ready. He then took her to the living room where a very blond man was already sitting in one of the comfortable leather chairs with a drink in his hand.

His blondness went further than any God-fearing blondness should allow itself to go, it was a pervasive blondness, his hair was practically white, his eyebrows and his eyelashes would have been invisible were it not for growing on the most evenly tanned skin Tramina had ever seen. In fact he was so short of melanin that under the tan he must be almost transparent,she surmised. He was tall and obviously very fit, muscular 35

and certainly attractive in a Nordic sort of way.

The blond jumped up at the sight of Tramina, ‘I’m Otto Kringer,’ he said and bowed slightly. She thought he had also clicked his heels, surely her imagination; nobody would do that today, no matter how Germanic one may be. He extended a strong capable paw, which swallowed hers and retained it for a good while. Tramina felt the current of attraction flowing from him to her and her own unwitting response made her a bit scared of what little control she had over her own body.

Then Betty came down in a long robe that was a little over done for such an informal gathering but suited her tiny, round figure and they all sat down round the large coffee table.

It was all very pleasant; the eats turned out to be several large dishes of delicious finger foods and there were as many different drinks as had ever been invented, surely. Betty and Trevor were attentive and friendly in their role of hosts; Otto was genial but a bit too full of himself. It crossed her mind that they must be used to these gatherings because of their jobs.

Soon she found herself relaxing and enjoying it all, despite the conversation being limited to their jobs and Tramina’s.

They asked many sympathetic questions and commiserated with her on her woes and sufferings while they painted a much rosier picture of their office set up, which consisted only of the three of them and another person, their secretary. There was also a cleaner who came in the morning and let herself in the locked up offices. Apparently Hazel was a bit of a menace, deciding to do the filing if she found any files left on top of the desks, with the predictable unpredictable results. It was useless to explain to her the limits of her job. The usual complaint bosses have of employees is that they would not do anything that is not carved in stone in their job description. With Hazel it was quite the opposite; she never said: ‘It’s not my job.’

Tramina was fascinated by the stories but suddenly the chat stopped and Trevor and his wife looked at each other, Betty pointed her head towards Tramina and smiled. Immediately her husband said: ‘Go ahead, ask her!’

So that was how Tramina was offered a job; it happened that they were losing their present receptionist cum secretary and general girl Friday.

Betty was most apologetic because it was not a glamorous position and Trevor added ‘but it would tide you over while you look for something more suitable to your qualifications’ with his usual fatherly concern.

Tramina was now prey to conflicting emotions. Working for Trevor and Betty sounded fantastic but it may pose some problems with cheeky Otto thrown into the mix. She could not deny she found him very attractive 36

but hated being pushed into a relationship, although she could not honestly say that the Horsfields had shown any evidence of that during the evening.

She was lost in thought trying to find a response when through the fog she heard the job was part time together with more apologies. It seemed a neat if temporary solution to her problems but a solution that might bring about new headaches. With part time work she would be able to look for something else and they seemed happy with that, not many employers would hire somebody who might leave at any moment. If she was happy working for them she would have time to study as she planned while still having a job. She opted for a polite thanks and a request to have a little time to think about it.

Peace was more or less restored in Tramina's mind and she went back to enjoy the eating and drinking and the light conversation, until…

‘I hope you would not mind my asking, why are you named after an Austrian dessert wine?' said Otto looking at her from limpid blue eyes.

‘He would, wouldn't he? He is Austrian after all,' she told herself.

To him she said ‘Yes, actually after Traminer Spätlese, fortunately an obscure one, not many people know it, in England at least, and my name is spelled T-r-a-m-i-n-a. It is a boring long story; I am not sure you'll want to hear it’ Everybody said ‘yes, please, do tell us!' and even shifted in their seats to a more comfortable position as children do when storytelling is in the offing.

‘My parents’ Tramina began, a little shyly, ‘were on their honeymoon in Vienna when they were given a nice fresh sweet wine with their dessert.

Because my mother liked it very much she asked its name and when she was told it was Traminer, which, due to her very limited German, she took to be spelled ending in an ‘a’, such being its pronunciation, it sounded to her like a girl's name. Apparently they had a great time' - here there was some giggles from her audience, which did nothing for her confidence ‘and later on, when I came along, what more natural for them than to name me after this wine’ she concluded. Betty said that it was a lovely story, Trevor that he found it very interesting when obviously he did not and Otto asked her if she had drank it herself.

‘Of course, my mother gave it to me in my bottle instead of milk,’ she could not help joking.

Otto retorted, rather idiotically, ‘That's why you are so sweet.’

‘Oh, oh, so tacky and this is taking a turn towards flirting’ thought Tramina. ‘This is my cue to flutter my lashes, but do I want to join in the game?’ She decided she did not, at least not tonight, and instead she turned to Betty and said: 37

‘Talking of children where is your son?’ Gosh, she wished she could remember his name. Betty replied that Juana had taken Peter to their house in Spain, where she would join them soon. Then it will be the turn of Trevor to go and she would return. They only get a couple of days of holidays together at the changeover time as they cannot both leave the firm together for long, but they make up for it by going away often. After more drinks and light talk Tramina said she had better go, it was getting late for her, to which Betty touched her husband's sleeve and he immediately offered her a lift but Otto, quick off the mark, said he also had to go because the next day he had to see a client quite early in the morning, and it would be no trouble for him to take Tramina home.

Both hosts, surprised, exclaimed together ‘tomorrow is Sunday, Otto!’

To which he replied he was taking the client in question to his club for a round of golf.

Trevor turned to Tramina with amusement on his friendly face.

‘This guy deals with his clients more often on the links than in the office!’

Thus she found herself in Otto’s car, some expensive sports model exuding quality, trying to appear nonchalant but being nothing of the kind.

Was the client on the links a ruse to get her all to himself? She felt strongly the man’s proximity and that added to her sense of unease, hindering her natural loquacity.

Otto broke the silence.

‘You mentioned a brother, what’s his name?’

Turning to her briefly with a slightly twisted smile, almost a sneer, he added, ‘something a bit more robust, perhaps Cabernet Sauvignon?’

Quite irritated and hoping it did not show Tramina replied that her brother was called Julian.

‘This joker will make life difficult if I join the firm.’ The memory of similar characters from her previous office was too vivid to dismiss.

When they arrived at her street they could not find anywhere to park and had to leave the car a good distance from her front door; most houses had more cars than people could, or would, keep on their premises so at night and weekends there hardly was any spare parking. Otto insisted on seeing her in, to her dismay, and walked with her, holding her elbow in quite an old fashioned way.

‘Perhaps it is the way they still do things in Austria,’ the thought crossed her mind.

Passing Fred and Louise’s house she thought she could hear Mop barking. Was there a slight fluttering of the net curtains in the top window?

38

horror she remembered the many times that Fred had told her of not being able to sleep through the night, of getting up to read or make a cup of tea, sometimes Louise would also be awake and then they would watch a film or a recorded program on television. Did the dog wake them up? Did they spy on her walking home so late arm in arm with a man? No doubt she would hear about it in her next visit and there would be lots of questions.

It was not difficult to imagine Fred’s reaction had he witnessed her and Otto returning at that late hour. She did not imagine that Louise’s could have been any different; although she was not as close minded as her husband she would have been shocked nonetheless. Noticing there was no light coming out of any of the windows Tramina was a bit reassured and decided she would leave that to be faced as and when the need arose, at the moment she had more pressing problems right in front of her, or rather by her side. In the depths of her own mind she was uncertain of the wisdom of the path she found herself treading, both metaphorically and in all its stark and frightening reality.

Walking arm in arm with Otto she was wondering what she should do, invite him in? Was he expecting it? Was that what everybody did nowadays? It was so long since she had been on a date!

When they reached her doorstep his hand left her elbow to travel slowly up her back while drawing her softly towards his chest and, while holding her close enough but not so close that it could be thought too forward, he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

He let out a surprisingly casual ‘See you,’ after the warmth of the embrace, and walked back to the car. Tramina could just about manage a faint ‘good night’ and turned key in hand to open her door, grateful for the cool darkness that received her.

The events of the evening that were spinning round and round in her poor head, clashing with decisions to be made and with the awakening of desire for a man she hardly knew, were like the bits of coloured glass inside a kaleidoscope, which come together to form a pattern only to disperse again.

39

CHAPTER 8 The next morning Leo woke up in a mixed emotional state, half exhilarated and half apprehensive. Two covers were good enough to tide him over financially for a little while but why did Joe want to see him? He was comfortable with the covers, they were his stock in trade, the interview could mean a bigger commission or, something he always feared, an invitation, no, a command to join the other illustrators on the permanent editorial staff. Something Leo would hate; Joe had hinted several times that it would be good to have him working there near at hand. This Leo did not want to do, it would mean sure money, true enough, but at what cost? His freedom, freedom to work as and when he wanted, to take time off to make his collages, to make mail art, gone. Of the three it was probably the last that would surely kill him if he had to abandon it. The cosy postal exchange meant so much to him that he could not envisage giving up the interchange with so many people so far away, the excitement of opening those decorated envelopes and of responding to the constant stream of projects, all so different, but above all, giving up the friendships that had developed through their art was unthinkable.

He stepped into Joe’s office gingerly and sat on the chair that was offered him.

Joe was nice enough but not the kind of chap who would make a nervous wreck likely to reverse the process of crumbling to pieces.

Without preambles he put a few sheets of paper in front of Leo and said ‘can you do this?’

It took Leo a few seconds to be able to see through the thick red fog, then the realization that he had been summoned to discuss a new project bucked him up and he managed to read the brief. Some woman had written a book of poems and the book needed plenty of illustrations.

He responded with an enthusiastic affirmation, already living the many pleasant hours he would spend dreaming up illustration after illustration and also, because he had to live from his work, he could see himself counting the pounds that would land in his bank account. He kept on reading and a bit further on what he saw made him lift his eyes to meet the editor’s.

40

‘I would love to!’ he nearly shouted.

‘I was wondering if you had the time, it is going to be a tough job,' said Joe, ‘and there is a catch: the author wants to meet you. She says she would not entrust her book to just anyone, she wants to make sure the artist has the right vibes, whatever that is. I will be grateful if you agree to see her; it took me a lot of effort to convince her of the need to illustrate the poems. You see - Joe was unusually chummy - poetry does not sell so I thought your illustrations may help. She reacted badly at first, saying that she does not write children's colouring books.'

After a thoughtful pause he added ‘She sounds like a right bitch’.

Leo did not care if she was Cerberus’ estranged wife and as to the right vibes he would borrow, buy or hire them and if not quite ‘right’ he would straighten them up with his bare hands. So again he was referred to Sandra to arrange a meeting with the alleged virago. In the knowledge that his future was assured, at least in the short term, he came out into the fresh air walking on pink clouds of happiness. This new project, if it all worked well, was to be a book of poems inspired by the magic of everyday things; those little happenings that only some privileged souls notice, only those in tune with the oneness of the universe.

A young child who smiles spontaneously at you, a cat which detaches itself from the sunny spot in which it was dozing to rub the side of its head on your leg, the sight of those brave humble weeds which poke through the concrete on pavements; so poignant when they put up an occasional flower in the hope of attracting a pollinating insect.

This was so close to the feelings which poured out of him in his walks through London that he had even considered making a series of sketches, perhaps collecting them to form an artist book, hand made and produce only a very short edition.

And here it was, Wild Flowers from my Mind by Alexandra Royston-Fry and he, if he had the luck to pass the vibes test, the illustrator.

All of a sudden his star was shining brightly in his private sky. Not all would be fun and games; he knew he had to work hard, even before meeting the poet. His portfolio had to be revised with some new drawings added to make sure it fitted the brief. This was the kind of work he would love to do and he could not afford to mess it up. With such a book in his CV he was sure others would follow. He needed to impress the bitch, not easy if Joe was right. He would have to use all his charm; surely he had some, somewhere, the question was to find it and lose his shyness on the way.

A couple of days passed and still no message from Sandra. Leo concentrated on his covers, quite an easy task with his experience but he 41

was a perfectionist and took great care to do a superb job. His first drafts had been quickly approved as usual and his final design did follow effortlessly from them because he was very much in tune in design matters with Joe if nothing else, so he did not expect any trouble getting these two approved. Now he had the time to tackle his portfolio and think of what he was going to say. He threw a cloth over his easel so he would not be tempted to fiddle with the collage and he let the mail art pile up on the top of his desk.

It was not difficult to decide what examples of his work to take to the interview as he only had a few left; in the end he picked all he had and added a few of the books he had designed. ‘There, that should do it,' he said to the Ancient Ancestor.

He wondered if this exalted personage approved of his line of work; perhaps he considered that a De La Croix should spend his energies killing dragons. Leo could not do that; dragons should be a protected species in his view. They surely were in danger of extinction as their staple food, virgins, was becoming scarce.

Leo found himself thinking of the cat project. Somehow the thought of dragons reminded him of the cardboard cat and of his promise to collect his friends to finish the project in his flat. Would he let them see the collage? The grandmother would certainly conclude he was loopy and not a suitable playmate for Mariella but having a large bulk covered by an old sheet stained with paint of all colours was a lure to any child. Better to wrap it up and hide it behind the sofa.

He went to the picture, he looked under the cloth and he did not see the pigeon. A column of tiny red ants had carried it away, bit by microscopic bit, underneath the frame of the back door into their lair. Only what amounted to a stain remained from the bird and a few ants milling about carrying out the last cleaning operations. ‘Bon, tant pis’ he said aloud and, leaving the ants to finish their job, he pulled the sheet away from the panel and placed his tall stool in front of the collage. The stool was also covered in multicoloured drips of paint, matching the sheet. Thus perched high he had a good view of it, a perfect observation post to consider the further developments that could happen to this piece of unashamed rubbish.

Where the pigeon had been there was the ghost of an irregular circle with the strange impressions made by the feathers now on the floor. Well, at least Public Health could not object to this masterpiece hanging in the Esperanza.

He decided to declare the collage finished, apart from a coat of varnish.

42

Then he found himself again pondering on the title. He was not happy with Composition 23. The title was a very important part of the work; sometimes he felt perhaps the most important. A title can make or break a picture, it gives a clue as to what the artist had in mind, and everybody always wants to know what the image represents. They simply cannot plunge into it, like into an unknown pool, and find their own meaning in its waves of colours and shapes. For Leo that was unbelievable, he never needed to know about the art works he saw, much less about their creator.

He only cared about what was in front of his eyes, for him, the artist's work is always incomplete until it is seen by somebody, somebody who absorbs it and is absorbed by it in return. It should be a personal experience and therefore he never read critics' reviews, a useless exercise as far as he was concerned. The best way of seeing a picture is being confronted by it suddenly, at the turn of a corner, when nothing of the sort is expected. He remembered reading that somewhere and it was true.

He hated the question ‘What is it?’ So he gave his work descriptive titles but this time he could not call it Just a Lot of Rubbish I Collected and Put Together for no Good Reason. He would choose something so obscure that people would go ‘Mmm… ahem… very powerful!’ for fear of not looking cool if they revealed they did not understand. ‘What is there to understand, you fool,’ he wanted to say; ‘feel! Have you forgotten how to feel, all by yourself, without the help of some critical review in some trendy magazine?’

He opted for Prandial Palimpsest in this case. Coming to think of it, it was pretty descriptive of the collage in its present and final form. The bird had been reduced to a stain in the centre of which Leo had now stuck a round piece of clockwork making it look like a fried ostrich egg, a bit on the mechanical side, with more clock pieces, the dismembered doll scattered around and other rubbish here and there, including a carton from MacDonald’s stuck on top.

As satisfied with the outcome as he could possibly be and it being near the time schools finish for the day, he left for the park to fetch Mariella and her Granny to witness the processing of the photos of the cat. Perhaps they even would like to participate. By now he knew he could trust the child not to be a problem in his studio. With the collage safely tucked away behind the sofa he had done a quick tidy up taking the most dangerous items out of circulation. Just in case.

He was gratified to find his friends already there. They too greeted him with as much enthusiasm as he felt. Granny smiled a little wise smile and quietly wondered how such a nice man had not found an equally nice woman to marry and start a family. He seemed to her purpose made to be a dad.

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Once in the flat he offered them tea or orange juice and they both plumped for the juice. He was glad, for it was quicker and he could sit immediately at the computer and start to show them the ropes. How to trim and organize the photos on a page of the desktop publishing program in such a way that once printed it could be cut into four postcards and how to write on another page information about the project so it would be printed on the back of each card. Granny found that rather difficult to take in and when later the printer did it automatically she was full of surprised admiration. When she was a child the only possibility of communication was the post and if in a hurry, a telegram. The phone consisted only of the land line set and not every household had one. Things had changed a lot and very fast during her lifetime. Now she even had a smart phone, which she managed to use quite well but this printing thing was news to her.

Mariella, a child of the electronic era and particularly bright, soon took over from Leo and her hands were flying over the keyboard jumping to grab the mouse from time to time. With hardly any supervision from him she wrote the entire blurb at the back, insisting on writing Mail Art Project

by Uncle Leo and Mariella on each card. She chose a font very ungrammatically named Year Supply of Fairy Cakes just because she liked the name but it was bold and quite appropriate for a title. When the printing was done Leo got Mariella to decorate an envelope with stickers and rubber stamps and address it to Richard and then all they had to do was to take it to the post office, which by then was closed. ‘I will take it tomorrow on the way to school, if that is all right with you. It would be my contribution to the project, since I couldn't do anything else,’ offered Granny, taking the envelope.

When they had gone, Mariella happily clutching her own set of cards to her chest, an unfamiliar emptiness took hold of Leo's flat. He walked to the garden and sat there for a while, thinking.

44

CHAPTER 9 Time went by faster for Tramina now that the big day was approaching.

She had lost the little interest she had for her job and went through life in a bit of a daze, very keen to finish her day at the office and get home. In the evenings she would often go to see Fred and Louise, who, to her relief, had apparently remained unaware of the appearance of Otto in her life, and she would borrow their dog.

Christopher the Mop was a good jogging partner; in fact it would be impossible not to jog when hanging on to his lead, the only respite was to let him loose in the park which, although really large, seemed too small to contain him. She only let him off the lead on the central lawn, which was about the size of a football pitch and where he would run and run around in circles like a demented, and gigantic, hamster in its wheel, until he exhausted his pent up energy. Only then he would come back to Tramina, possibly wagging his tail, impossible to tell as nobody had ever seen it, so well hidden was it in the hairy storm that was his black coat. In fact one could only guess which end of him was which by the direction he moved or some times by the pink tongue that hung out at one end.

On these occasions she did a lot of thinking, mostly about the direction her life was going; difficult as it had turned out to be of late, now at least it was going somewhere, a change from her usual feeling of being stuck in a boring mire of mediocrity with no hope of reprieve. It took her a few days to reach the decision to join the Horsfields' firm, Otto or not.

That half embrace and quick kiss awakening tremors in her predicted romance, even if she disliked the fellow she surely could ... After all she had nobody to call boyfriend. And she found herself thinking with exciting anticipation of what may come. Suddenly her conscience pricked her hard; she had no right to use the Austrian as the temporary filling for the rotten tooth that was her life. Otto may seem tough and, frankly, quite obnoxious and a little dense, but the man had feelings too. Possibly.

When the dog tired of running and came to sit in front of her, tongue out and panting, Tramina dropped to her knees, threw her arms around him and burying her face in his mane she whispered in what she hoped was his ear.

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‘I will join them, Mopsy, after all what can I lose? It is only temporary.’

She added, to make sure of the dog's blessing ‘and I will see more of you’ but she knew that was impossible so she corrected herself and told him ‘and I will see you more often.’

At that moment she caught sight of a familiar figure with the corner of one eye, the one that was not buried too deeply in canine fur. The artist with the wide brimmed hat was sitting not far from them, with his nose inside his sketchbook as usual. Again seeing him looking so alone made her think of her own isolation and how much of it was of her own making.

Tramina resolved not to be a ninny and jump right into the life that was opening in front of her. ‘Let us, then, be up and doing with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to …‘What was it?’ At first she could not remember the words; then they came ‘…to labour and to wait.’

She should read her Longfellow again.

Betty was delighted when Tramina contacted her and it was arranged that she was to start immediately she was released from her present employment. Starting early in the morning and finishing around midday, she would have a huge chunk of the day free to do as she pleased and the money, although much less than her present salary, was not bad for half a day. She could see the advantages clearly; short hours meant short boring time and more time to prepare to go back to college. The possibility of finishing her architectural course began to take shape in her mental landscape.

That settled, Tramina felt that now, without delay, she ought to tell Fred and Louise and email her brother. She was sure Julian was going to approve of her move but expected trouble from the old couple. May be the fact that she would be able to walk their dog more often was going to help her. Why was she so concerned about their reaction? Tramina realised that somehow in the depths of her mind, adoption papers had been signed and Fred and Louise were effectively parent substitutes for her. Was Christopher the Mop her brother? The silly thought made her smile inwardly, she hoped only inwards as she was on the bus heading home.

After her usual ritual of cup of tea, shower, falling into fresh casual clothes and doing a few yoga postures and a mini meditation in front of the small Buddha hand carved in teak her brother had brought her from Singapore, she felt duly relaxed, yet invigorated and ready to face Fred and Louise with her news.

The old lady opened the door and took Tramina to the garden where they were sitting, he reading and she knitting something large and shapeless.

What? A winter coat for the dog? Was that necessary? Really?

With a gesture to indicate a vacant seat to Tramina, Louise sat by Fred 46

and picked up the enormous amorphous tangle of wool by the two needles sticking out of it and began to work, hardly looking at the stitches she was creating. Her head was slightly tilted and her eyes fixed on Tramina, smiling in harmony with her mouth, the truest and most honest smile that anybody could have wished. Fred had put down his book, no doubt one of those accounts of some terrible conflict, semi historic, semi sensationalist, that he loved. Was this not the perfect moment to break the news to them, here in the old garden, somewhat overgrown, in the golden end of the day?

Gently, not to shock them, she reversed the order of the facts in her account. Not a lie, not even much of a creative interpretation of the truth, just some poetic licence.

She started by introducing the Horsfields as people she had met through friends and then relating the evening at their house. She told them about Otto, this interestingly peculiar Austrian, so funny and friendly, but did not mention the degree and nature of his friendliness. She kept those details to herself. Then she told them about the offer of the job, as well paid secretary with very important duties – ahem, her nose suddenly felt decidedly bigger – and how she was planning to finish her studies now that she would have more time. It all went very well, Fred even said he was glad, which surprised her no end, adding that he never approved of her job as a planning officer and that he considered a secretarial position more appropriate for a woman. Ah! That was more in character‌ Tramina contained herself with great difficulty taking some consolation on the smooth conclusion to her mission. She left them to their evening and, patting the dog on the head, or the rump, who could tell? she went, fuming, to her own house a few doors away. She tried to find ways to forgive Fred for his blunt hurtful comment, remembering he could not help his upbringing and that despite these hideous opinions, which were daily fed by the tabloid he read, he was always kind to her, but, well, she was not that magnanimous and felt a sharp resentment.

The worst part was that she did not like to feel like that, but could not help it. She knew that the strength of the emotion would pass but it would always stay there, in some recess of her mind, barely asleep, ready to jump up and bring back all the memories of similar episodes; the hurtful, humiliating remarks of insensitive people that carve away at her confidence.

She also felt annoyed at the implication that a secretarial job is any easier on the brain than the day to day reporting on planning applications to the Council and the following reporting back of the decisions to the applicants and letter writing and such clerical stuff that was the job of most planning officers.

A secretary like Mandy, on the other hand, had to sort out the mistakes 47

and do it with great tact so the bosses were under the misguided impression they made the decision themselves.

The following evening instead of her habitual long run with the dog she cut it short to email her brother. Julian knew of her feelings about her job and had told her repeatedly with his usual straightforwardness not to be an idiot and look for something better, which facilitated her task. She wrote at length about meeting the Horsfields, the true version, albeit a slightly abridged one, omitting her feelings for Otto. There are things even a brother as good and understanding as Julian did not need to know, at least not immediately. She also told him about Fred’s remarks. She knew what Julian would say ‘Ignore him!’ Yes, he would say that because he could do it.

The reply came a few days later, obviously he was not so shocked or worried that he felt he had to answer her straight away. He started by announcing that there was a new addition to the family but reserved the details for later. Then he congratulated her on her pluck and wished her every success, of which, he said, he had no doubts.

He did not mention her long account of Fred’s reaction to her announcement or her feelings about it. Just like him, he did not even notice how important it was for her. For him it was nothing and she knew that he thought it was silly to worry so much about the opinion of other people.

She was convinced that it was a question of how sure one is of oneself, all well and good but what to do? She had tried with little success to become more confident, and he knew it. So perhaps he had ignored the issue not to seem to be scolding her again. What he did say was that she should check with the college where she wanted to study architecture but he was sure she had left it too late. To start this autumn she should have put her application in months ago. That was a problem; all her plans got delayed at least for another year.

With tearful eyes she continued reading. Julian launched himself into a description of how a few nights ago a wombat had strayed into the hospital were he worked. He added the link to YouTube where some student nurses had posted the video taken by the security camera. She could see in the video that the wombat was a very young one; no wonder it got scared by a noise in its first visit and it turned tail and left.

When it did return a few nights later it took refuge under the desk in the lobby. The receptionists were not too happy with a frightened wild animal so near their toes so Julian had to rescue the beastie and, being true to himself, he could not do anything but take it to his digs and start the 48

process of taming it. He found it was a timid animal and barring a few destroyed items of clothing there were no major disasters caused by Cinnamon, he said. Tramina liked the name, obviously chosen because of its colour, but it sounded feminine and wonder if it was a she. In her hastened reply she asked that very question, feeling that some female influence on her brother, even from a baby wombat, would be to his advantage. Like Tramina herself, he had been on his own for too long.

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CHAPTER 10 On the day of the luncheon appointment with the woman his editor had so harshly described, Leo woke up early, too early, thinking how to make the right impression. He imagined The Bitch to be a fifty-something woman, or perhaps older still, fat from sitting on her bum all day, writing and eating chocolates. It did not matter; to get the job he would put up with anything. Not anything really. Not if she tries mothering him.

Although on reflection lately he had allowed Consuelo to do quite a bit of mothering, which, to his surprise, he found himself enjoying but then their relationship was steeped in silly banter and nothing seemed as serious with her as with other women that he had known. Life was a big laugh for her; she and Mehmet had obviously a very happy marriage and her love for him seeped out of her pores and spread out over everybody like warm custard over a pudding, which indeed she did resemble. Leo was contented and at ease in the atmosphere they created in the cafĂŠ but he was a bit jealous also of their relationship, the likes of which he had never tasted, only perhaps a little bite here and there but nothing that could account for a whole meal with starter, main dish and dessert.

Meeting Mariella got him thinking that it would be nice to have a child.

Can men get broody? In his case it seemed so. First he needed a partner of the female persuasion who would be willing to put up with him and his peculiarities and who would not bore him out of his mind in the space of a few months. No matter how hard he squinted he could not see such a woman on the horizon.

So he was thinking, while he varnished the collage he was going to pass for art and would try to sell to some poor sod at the Esperanza; perhaps he could induce the buying spirit with some spirits of the liquid kind. These thoughts were not typical of him. Normally he had a kind temperament bordering on idiocy but he wanted to get rid of the monstrosity; it was out of character for him, others can create similar stuff that he would admire, but his never came up to scratch. ‘I will sell it very cheaply’ he conceded to his prickling conscience. That settled, he started to get ready to go and join his editor and The Bitch for lunch. He wanted this commission more than anything he had ever wanted, except for that 50

puppy he never had as a child and could not have now; the flat was too small. If he succeeded today, he soon could be on the road to afford a bigger flat of his own and a dog, maybe a house, even a car, a small one, just for him and his dog. He got carried away to impossible heights in his reverie, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of this breed of dog over that other but knowing he was going to adopt the first mongrel he chanced to come across.

Leo had a last look at the drawings he had collected to take to the interview, the few he had not sold but kept for himself. There were a couple of nudes from the Chinese series, a few watercolours of landscapes done on holiday in France and the head of a horse in charcoal.

‘She will be able to see I am versatile but would it not be better were they all similar?’

He was aware of the school of thought that preferred an artist’s work to be all in the same technique and style. Artists were supposed to be consistent. Perhaps that was for the benefit of the galleries, you get to be known, with luck, and then buyers expect to get a similar Delacroix next time too.

‘As if that could happen to me!’

Well, bad luck if he was not consistent; he loved being able to dive into all kinds of art and swim with the current, to see where it would take him. Besides, thanks to his success in the café he had no choice but to show her what he had left.

He was taking also a couple of the books sporting the covers he had done, probably she would be more interested in those because of the illustrations. He could not trust Joe to remember to have some at hand although he always seemed to remember to send him at least a copy of each with his cheque. Probably that was Sandra, come to think of it. The appointment was at the Wooster, the trendy busy eatery in central London.

When Leo opened the heavy wooden door and walked in, he hit a wall of sound that stopped him in his tracks. He could almost touch it. Expensive, fashionable and noisy, all hard surfaces and no carpet or soft furnishings; he wanted to run away. These nowadays went together quite frequently, he had already noticed at other places favoured by celebrities and by those who went to bask in their celebrity. In another of these restaurants the ceiling above the bar, all along the length of a very long wall, was inclined in such a way as to reflect the noisy unintelligible conversations back onto the tables. With this ruse, added to all the hard surfaces around, the architect - could there possibly have been an architect? - hit the ultimate device to increase the eardrum smashing power of sound waves. If this had been a factory it would have been closed under the pertinent health

51

legislation. Or everybody made to wear earplugs, certainly the staff should do, they would lose their hearing at an early age otherwise.

Why on earth would anybody choose one of these places to hold a meeting? Joe had to be out of his mind. He found the editor sitting at a window table, waiting for The Bitch, apparently. Ha! She had to be late of course.

The first thing Joe said was ‘don’t blame me, she insisted. It is near her hotel.’ At least that was what Leo guessed from his apologetic gesture.

Shouting at the top of his voice, accompanying himself with gestures, which came easy to him with his Gallic background, he managed to make himself understood and gleaned from Joe’s not so effective signalling that she was in the Ladies, no doubt adjusting her support girdle, Leo thought, fixated on the unflattering image of a humongous mass of humanity with a very bad character that he had built up.

When she finally appeared it was obvious that she had no need for a girdle. She was tall, slim and elegant in a simple way. Her beautiful face, framed by short straight black hair, wore a don’t-you-dare-touch-me expression. When she reached the table Leo jumped up and they shook hands. He was astounded, Ms Royston-Fry was so far from the disgusting image that had taken hold of his imagination that he was completely speechless and lost the little confidence he had left.

The interview was a nightmare for Leo; his mental turmoil and the noise stood in the way of getting a clear picture of what would be expected of him but he more or less picked up from body language and the odd word that she liked the work he was showing her. To add to his problems the eggs Benedict he had chosen were far too heavy and his stomach joined his mind in a neck to neck contest for the Gold Cup of Discomfort. Finally to his relief she brought out of her handbag a bunch of photos, only snapshots she herself had taken, and passed them on to him. That seemed to be the end of the meeting, as it appeared that she wanted him to go home immediately to work from them to see what he could do.

This suited Leo, who not only wanted to escape the place but was eager to start on the project. It was arranged that when Leo had done a few drawings based on her photos they would meet again and then she would decide to have him or not. She did not mention vibes and the look she gave him through her long black lashes when parting was ambiguous.

Leo only saw a detached if polite goodbye. A more confident man would have been flattered.

Joe appeared to say behind the curtain of decibels ‘Sandra will send you the manuscript, Leonard’.

Leo was anxious to look at the photos and try to decide in which 52

pictorial language he was going to work. That is the problem of being versatile; he had a host of different ways of working and could handle practically any medium, from a humble pencil to a sophisticated computer program, passing through watercolours, oils, charcoal, any of the traditional media and techniques in fact. Often he produced alternatives for Joe to choose, so the sooner he looked at the photos and started sketching the better, Madame was evidently in a hurry, or perhaps it was Joe with his famous deadlines. To this day Leo still did not really understand the ins and outs of publishing. Deadlines were always mysterious distant events to start with. ‘No hurry at all’ editors would say, until the work suddenly became urgent.

He looked at the snapshots in the bus. They weren’t great but good enough to work from, aided by his imagination and Google Images to clarify the details. Full of curiosity he studied the photos, which were all similar; intimate shots of urban details featuring weeds and birds and in one a dirty football laying forgotten at the bottom of a bank by a stream.

There was one that immediately touched him. It was a photo of a solitary dandelion in flower at the edge of a path. It reminded him of a tiny violet that had sprouted from the pavement between two drainpipes by the door of the Esperanza. Its only flower looked at him straight in the eyes, so poignantly; an escapee from a suburban garden making a bid for freedom. Was it trying to attract the attention of passers-by like a cute kitten from the window of a pet shop? He had considered digging it up to put it in a pot but it was impossible, tightly wedged by concrete slabs as it was. So he only could help by watering it when necessary but despite all his caring the plucky little plant died as the weather became warmer.

The file with the poems had already arrived by email so he spent the rest of the day pouring over the book and getting over his stomach upset.

Never again clogging Eggs Benedict, he swore. The book was a short collection of poems that spoke of nature, love and human frailty. The music of the words immediately conjured up images in Leo’s mind and he knew that, as always in the past, the only thing he had to do was to look within and draw. He could be lost in this world of words and images forever. If only all his commissions were as fulfilling as this. Here he began to worry again, he so much hoped that The Bitch would not find fault with his work, it would destroy him were he to lose this job. He could not tell if she had really liked the few drawings he had shown her, perhaps the fact that there were so few put her off.

Remembering what Joe had said about right vibes he panicked again as she had not shown any signs of liking him personally. As to him, 53

beautiful as she was, he did not feel drawn to her, her coolness was impenetrable and, in the frosty perfection of her make-up, she resembled more an android than a flesh and bones woman.

With an effort Leo left his depressing thoughts to talk among themselves and went back to his reading.

One particular poem hooked his imagination and that shook him out of the darkness that had enveloped him a few moments ago. This was it!

Leo could see clearly the finished drawing in full colour rising from its lines; perfect for the cover illustration.

By the Wayside As I walk along the suburban roads, Back from work at the end of the day, The proud roses in their splendid robes Stand aloof round the fenced front lawns But among empty cans and cigarette ends And a greasy carton from the takeaway, -Temporary home to an opportunistic snailThe humble dandelions waiting by the wayside Lift their sunny faces to welcome me home.

Well, well, The Bitch was human after all, her response to the Lilliputian scenes she encountered while walking around town mirrored his. If that was not pretty much the same sentiments that had come to him on seeing the lonely violet!

‘Talking of right vibes! Her dandelion, my violet! Surely our vibes are the same at least on the subject of humble little flowers lost in an urban environment.’ He would have to let her know, preferably before showing her the drawings he was going to do from the photos, which hopefully would soften her. Getting Joe to pass the message on was doomed to fail from the start, for all his editing, the man was impervious to poetry and could do more harm than good.

‘On second thoughts it would be better to broach the subject of vibes as I show her the new drawings, more casual and also I will have something to talk about.’

That was a good idea! He was nervous of seeing her again and this time Joe would not be there to keep up the conversation.

‘At least I shall insist we meet somewhere quiet, but where?’

As it turned out he did not have a choice.

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CHAPTER 11 The day of her leaving party arrived and passed, as everything eventually does. Tramina was hugely relieved and somehow ashamed of the misgivings she had experienced in the weeks leading to the big event.

All that worry, she reflected, it was not such a big event after all, not a big deal at all.

At lunch time Ray and Mandy came to her office and said to her as many a time before: ‘We are going for a drink, would you like to come to the Slug and Lettuce with us?’

Of course this was not one of those occasions; her colleagues had acted oddly all morning, almost ignoring her. As she expected something, she was ready and got up, picking up her bag from the back of her chair and followed them, pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

She did not even try to smooth her loose hair back; a useless gesture anyway When they arrived at the pub the familiar crowd was there with drinks in their hands. They cheered with gusto and obviously slightly drunk already. There were a few heart shaped silver helium balloons with her name on them tied to any of the fixtures that would accept them.

There were all her colleagues and a few people from admin and even a couple of the traffic engineers with whom she dealt frequently.

Her boss once removed was also there. Mr Freeman was Ray’s boss, a nice enough bloke with a paunch who kept bees and brought their honey to sell in the office. Interestingly, it sold very well indeed despite being tasteless and twice the price of the best supermarket brand.

He came forward and offered her a glass of Pimm’s. She noticed there were several jugs of the stuff on the tables; no doubt it had something to do with the jollity that was welling up from the group reminding her of the steam rising from a pot of boiling spaghetti.

Thanking him she casually slid towards Mandy, who was talking to Mrs Thompson from the typing pool, as far from the engineers as possible.

It was curious how these boys behaviour changed depending on the environment in which they found themselves. When she was with only one of them on a site visit he would act as a friendly, serious colleague but when in a group it was a competition of more or less veiled sexist remarks 55

and jokes. How they expected to pick up a girl with such coarse tactics she could not guess, but pick them up they did. ‘I must be very odd,’ she thought.

Eventually, raising his third glass, this time a gin and tonic, Ray, who had got quite mellow by then, addressed her as ‘my dearest friend and colleague’ and he went on to detail all the different ways in which Tramina had supported him, although some of the things he attributed to her were done by Mandy. In his usual absentminded state it was doubtful that he ever noticed who did what. The praises were as eager to leave his mouth as pent up sheep that found the gate open.

‘Yeah! Had you said half, no, a quarter of these things during all the years I worked for you I might had been much happier and would have stayed put,’ Tramina wished she could reply.

With wet eyes and a bit of a tremor in his voice, Ray was by now in the ‘We will all miss you’ stage and Mandy, trying to avoid further embarrassment, approached him with a gift-wrapped packet and an envelope.

Tramina had been dreading this moment and had been thinking hard about what to say, consulting Mopsy even, and the conclusion of her feverish cogitations was: ‘Thanks Ray, I also will miss you all, it was great to work with you and will pop in from time to time (liar!) to make sure you all behave. Thank you for a great party, I really was not expecting it (double liar!)’.

And she went on to buy a round of drinks, which certainly was surplus to requirements, to entertain them while she opened her packet.

It revealed a box from Run Rabbit Run, a posh sports shop she could barely afford while she had her well-paid job, even less now. Inside there were a pair of running pants and a t-shirt, both items beautifully coordinated in tones of blue and purple. She could see the hand of Mandy in their choice. The book token that was in the envelope was more likely Ray’s idea. Tramina was moved now, they had surely collected a lot of money for her, she knew how expensive Run Rabbit Run was, may be perhaps they would really miss her after all. She melted and revised her plans there and then making a mental note to really, really, make the effort to keep in touch. She went around kissing and embracing everybody. Some of the males tried to get at her mouth but she deftly avoided it, including Ray, who always tried to kiss her when he was sloshed.

‘Who knows? He may confuse me with his wife; all is possible in his peculiarly forgetful mind,’ thought Tramina. Suddenly she had fallen in love with all her colleagues en masse despite their faults, which yesterday were so irritating. Oh! The tempering influence of Bacchus…

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The weekend passed with Tramina lazing about doing bits of this and bits of that and achieving nothing. To think she was going to tackle the garden and those jobs in the house that she had been putting off for what seemed years! ‘All in good time’, she told herself, ‘there will be plenty of spare hours now.’

Instead she thought a lot about the new job, they had said it was not difficult but she had her doubts. To start with, she really couldn’t type, not as well as Mandy who churned out letters and reports with her eyes on the screen and her hands flying over the keyboard picking out the keys as fast as seagulls pick up from the water the fish thrown out of fishing boats.

That is what was needed from a proper secretary, a thing she wasn’t. She had tried to teach herself typing once, years ago, when she had caught the ‘flu and was kept away from work by her doctor long after she had recovered, not to spread the disease, which had been a very bad strain of the virus that winter. By now she was only good enough although she did use all her fingers but she had to look at the keyboard quite often. And she never got to learn which finger hit which number and other subtleties, her illness was not long enough and she had to return to work. The idea of typing all those verbose documents solicitors were so keen on seemed an impossible task for her, unless they gave her a few months to do them.

Not really on. Still, she had not lied to them about her experience and abilities and they were quite happy to employ her.

When Monday came she was pretty nervous and excited, feeling a new chapter of her life was starting and hoping it would turn out to be more interesting and fulfilling than the past. She skipped breakfast and put more time to dressing and in her make up. She was quite pretty but now she managed to reach stunning status, not that she believed the mirror. Despite all the stress she had been going through plus the added worries of the day, her creamy skin was clear and her eyes shone brightly through the dark eyelashes and through a few stray strands that had already abandoned her carefully styled hair. She had concluded it was no point trying to restrain it so she left her hair loose. ‘Good enough’, she decided, after agonizing over it all for an hour, ‘it’s not the first time they’ve seen me.’

Her pleasant introduction to her work soon put her at ease. The bosses, as Trevor and Betty were now, made every effort to smooth her day.

They told her not to worry about the long letters and reports, that they would get those done themselves for the time being, as they did when they just started the business. They looked at each other and smiled.

Tramina guessed those two had a pretty good time in the early days and 57

still were very much in love, despite the obnoxious kid. They confessed she was there mostly as the front-desk person, to welcome the clients because, as Betty put it, ‘it is important to give a good impression, and you, dear, are just the person to do it with your good manners and super looks.

Tramina somehow did not find this offensive, which was unusual for her; it rather amused her. It was strange, this turn her life had taken and perhaps she was in a bit of a shock but it was likely that it had more to do with Betty’s attitude, her natural kindness that permeated all her actions and comments.

Otto came in a little later and shook hands with her, wishing her well and offering his assistance whenever she needed it. He was quite restrained today. That was a relief and she began to think she had judged him too harshly perhaps after the experiences with her former colleagues who after all turned out to be not so bad. She resolved not to judge Otto until she knew him better.

The morning passed quickly, finding her way around the office and learning where everything was. She found herself dealing with clients in a kind of remote, detached way, as if she was acting in a movie, keeping a smiling mask on. This was in complete contrast to her normal face full of expressions rapidly chasing each other that made her pretty features even more attractive, perhaps because it reflected an innate honesty, a wish of her inner self to be all there, out in the open the better to connect with another soul. Often she had admired those people who hid behind an immobile face and did not give a hint of their thoughts or emotions; if she could be like that she was sure her passage through life would be easier, that she would command respect and all her troubles would go away. But many a time, though, she had been in awe of somebody who was silently cool only to discover later that the cool silence meant only that they did not have anything to say, no ideas, no spark of creativity.

Her day finished at two in the afternoon when everybody broke up for lunch. They all went to a cafĂŠ nearby but Tramina excused herself and went home.

She was in need of the solace of the big old house with its cool shady garden. In its sanctuary she could reflect with some detachment on the events that had rolled out seemingly smoothly and carried her to her present position, with not much direct input from her, apart from the initial leap into the unknown she had taken when she gave Ray her letter of resignation.

That had been rash, she accepted now, and had unleashed all kinds of strange happenings, the like of which she had never experienced before.

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Her life so far had been uneventful; school, college, a secure job she did not relish, a few boyfriends with whom she had not much in common and who had fizzled out quite naturally without leaving any scars, just, perhaps, that familiar empty feeling. That was it, then? Was it possible that the emptiness was waiting to be filled by a man? A partner with whom she would complete her being? Where to find the man from whose rib she came? And was that really all a woman needed?

The religious metaphor surprised her, popping up in the middle of this most serious examination of her life.

‘Tramina’ she admonished herself ‘you are turning to God, a hypothesis not proven yet, better focus on the passing existential phenomena in which you find yourself submerged, my girl, and swim with the flow.’ She could hear her brother pompously saying those very words; for a younger brother Julian was a source of strength, even at a distance, even only as a ghost in her head.

In the days that followed Tramina let the flow carry her forward, or backwards, how to tell? She did not feel she could be too proactive yet in her new post with people she hardly knew and decided to put her energies into getting to know the ropes.

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CHAPTER 12 In a few days Leonard had several sketches ready from the photos and some straight out of his head and he felt reasonably satisfied with them.

He had also managed to take a little time to paint some postcards for his Mail Art friends that now needed posting. So in the late afternoon he stuck his hat on and was ready to go to the post office when he remembered the collage, still behind the sofa, waiting to be delivered to the Esperanza. With post and collage under his arm he went out, walking fast towards the café and cursing the weight and bulk of the monstrosity. He was not a weight lifter by any means but at least he had long arms. He staggered towards the café where he managed to find a bit of wall big enough to hang it. Once on the dark red wall it actually did not look as bad as he thought it did in his flat where the juxtaposition of styles near all his other work and the portrait of the Ancient Ancestor created a visual cacophony, perhaps just a cacography?

His friend Gerry was there sitting in front of a frothy cappuccino, long faced and short tempered as he frequently was. With whom did he have a quarrel this time? Leonard gave up his trip to the post office to sit with him and pour the proverbial milk of human kindness over him. With a cappuccino of his own he asked how he was doing, which brought about a barrage of insults directed to his upstairs neighbour. After some careful prodding it came to light that she had been using her washing machine at ten in the morning, which of course was a very antisocial hour in Gerry’s books.

‘Useless’ decided Leo ‘to explain to him, again, that sleeping until one o’clock is not what most people do and that using a domestic machine during the day is not a crime, so I won’t.’ Instead he let the fury and rancour sweep over his head and dissipate in the upper atmosphere. By the time calm was restored the Post Office had already closed and the letters had to wait until another time to go on their way.

Next day, after working all morning unnecessarily going over his sketches and agonizing over their possible rejection he ate a sandwich by way of lunch in the garden in the company of a wood-pigeon that had 60

become hooked on apples and was waiting patiently for Leo to finish his.

Leonard threw the core to the bird, grabbed the postcards and hat and left for the Post Office. Going through the park in the afternoon he remembered Mariella and the old lady and the good time he had with them yesterday. To work with a child had been exciting and an experiment that had not been carried out very often in Mail Art. She had certainly learned how to handle the art programs in a trice. It was a pleasure to watch her concentrating so seriously. Leo decided that as soon as another suitable project came through his letterbox he would invite her to join in. Maybe soon he could delegate part of his Mail Art making to Mariella, he joked in his mind, sometimes he had so much mail that coping with it was difficult.

‘Too much of a good thing, as they say, of a very good thing.’

The old lady picked up her grandchild from school by mid afternoon so he went first to the Post Office to give them time to arrive. He had to queue for a good ten minutes and when he finally made it to their favourite bench they were already there. From their expressions and warm greetings there was no doubt that they had also enjoyed the art session of yesterday.

Granny particularly was most impressed.

‘I never imagined that one could paint pictures on the screen of a computer, cut and stitch photos together, write all over them and then print it all in seconds!’ she said.

Mariella took it in her stride and accepted it as another fact of life; her young mind was used to absorb new experiences by the truckload.

‘I don’t use the computer all the time,’ clarified Leo, conscious that for most people if you did not get covered in paint you were not an artist, ‘I also paint and sketch on paper, quite traditionally really.’

‘We know, uncle Leo!’ Mariella interrupted, ‘you draw that lady with the big black dog all the time!’

Her granny smiled and her pretend uncle, inexplicably, felt uncomfortable.

When he got back home Leo decided there was no point in continually retouching his sketches and it was time to arrange the fateful meeting with The Bitch. He contacted Sandra who promised to get on to it right away, and she must have done because she rang back the next day with the date and venue.

On the morning of the meeting the alarm on his phone went off and Leo jumped out of bed. The appointment was ridiculously early and he would have to brave the rush hour so he had given himself plenty of time.

He showered, shaved and spruced himself up, as he did not do very often, brushing his dark hair back until it shone and wearing something a bit more conventional than his usual tired jeans. After much sartorial 61

reflection he decided to leave his rather battered fedora at home. His beloved hat started as a simple head cover for bad weather and to shield his eyes from the sun when sketching out of doors but it had taken on the role of a trademark for his Mail Art; he even had carved a rubber stamp of it to use as his signature.

He breakfasted lightly; he could not stomach food this morning and left the flat casting a final glance at the mirror. The image he saw, of a lithe young man clutching a large portfolio, casually but smartly dressed, did not displease him but for that rebellious twist of hair, Superman style, falling on his brow.

‘I look ridiculous, just today of all days!’ he complained aloud.

While striding purposefully along the street he kept running his fingers through his hair to sort out the stray lock, which only served to fluff up the whole. Unaware of the result, he continued to rush to the tube with his mind rushing even faster ahead of him, anticipating the interview. What if his quick sketches did not please her? What if she refused to have him?

He should have done more finished drawings, even if later he had to do the lot all over again.

He arrived at Green’s, the elegant but low key, one of the best hotels in London and the preferred by his family to celebrate birthdays with a great English tea, sandwiches and cakes galore. By then he had managed to calm himself down somewhat while its hair maintained its rebellious attitude.

He walked to the desk and asked for, what was it? Ms Something or other. He did not like the Ms, so he just said ' I'm here to see Alexandra Royston-Fry,’ after consulting the crumpled piece of paper he had been torturing in his pocket the entire journey when he was not trying to knock some sense into that silly curl. He could hear his voice in the silent hall and it sounded to him that by calling The Bitch in such familiar way made him appear to be an old friend of hers. There was a brief phone call, after which he heard and hardly believed ‘Ms. Royston-Fry says to take you up to her suite, sir, please follow me.’

As he did as he was told a question kept dancing in his mind: ‘What if she doesn’t want to have me?’

When the door opened he saw The Bitch sliding towards him in what he preferred to call a peignoir, dressing gown conjuring up an image more suited to the middle aged lady of his nightmare. Lace from an otherwise hidden garment - a nightgown? - was peeping from its front.

‘Excuse my getup, I have done precisely that just now, I haven't even washed my face.’ Adding with a cheeky smile ‘that’s why I won't kiss you.’

She extended her hand to him.

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Leonard felt that instead of shaking her hand he was supposed to take it to twirl her around in a Strictly Come Dancing fashion, her gear contributing a lot to this image, but shake it he did; hers was a firm and positive squeeze.

‘Good’, he thought, ‘a straightforward person, or may be one used to getting her way always? Time will tell.’

They sat down together on a sofa and she said, looking at his portfolio.

‘I see you have brought the sketches; we will go through them later but first let’s have breakfast and get to know each other better; that place where we met the other day was far too noisy for civilized conversation.’

Leo asked only for a cup of black coffee, while thinking that a double chamomile would have been highly recommended under the circumstances but it would make him look like the idiot he was.

To her ‘tell me about yourself’ he said there was not much to tell, proceeding immediately to relate, in plenty of detail, the whole of his life.

For somebody that had worried so much because he would have nothing to say during the interview he was not doing badly.

In return she confided that Joe made her rather nervous, this was strange because she was used to deal with publishers and lately she had seen to her business affairs entirely by herself, she said, as a divorcee she had no other alternative. She admitted to leaving Joe’s office with the impression that she had talked nonsense and that the little round man did not like her. She did feel that perhaps the source of the trouble was her shyness resulting in her abrupt answers to Joe's questions and hoped that Leo may smooth her relationship with their editor.

‘And it is so important to have a close rapport with the people one works with,’ she said very seriously, leaning towards him and then, more lightly, ‘or rather, with whom one works! I, the writer, so ungrammatical!

What must you think!’

He was thinking lots of things at the moment and none of them involved any grammar.

True, on close examination, la Royston-Fry was not as young as she appeared at first, but she was quite a sexy woman, despite the lack of make up, or maybe because of it. One of those unexpressed thoughts was that he felt relieved that she was divorced, now he could relax and stop fearing that Fry, whoever he was, would burst through the door of the suite and find him there with his attractive wife in rather compromising circumstances.

After breakfast she told him to spread his drawings on the huge bed that occupied quite a lot of the splendid bedroom. Observing his gaze roving all over the room she explained she had decided to splash out this once.

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‘When I come to London I like to treat myself to a bit of luxury, it is only very, very occasionally, truly.’

Is she excusing herself for having money? Or for spending it?

Interested, Leo wondered who she really was. Had she been spoiled and rich from birth or had she married a rich man who spoiled her? Until they divorced.

One thing was sure; she had money and she spent it. If she worked, it was not for the cash, particularly as poetry did not pay according to Joe; it had to be for love. So they had at least this in common. And Leo also began to wonder where had Joe got the impression of her bitchiness. He could not find any sign of it. Not today. Only a very beautiful and desirable woman was there in front of him. She was free, he was free too, was there any harm if… Assuming he could find the courage.

He realized he was reacting like an average male, neither the sensitive artist nor the gentilhomme he was supposed to be. He was glad the Ancient Ancestor was not there.

She did not seem to notice any of this and left him arranging the sketches while she had her shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom the peignoir and nightie had been replaced by a white bathrobe and nothing under it, he guessed.

With both of them kneeling on the bed they went through his artwork and she made very positive comments.

Leonard regained his confidence and began to see the illustrations in front of them as if they were already inked and coloured, so much so that he could describe them in more detail than the quick sketches showed, seeking her approval, of which she was not short.

It all began to go to the young man’s head, her heady perfume contributing not a little towards his intoxication.

Then she leaned towards him, her wrap slightly parting. Praising his cleverness she touched the side of his neck lightly with her lips. He turned to respond to her kiss, his hand sliding into the inviting opening of her bathrobe.

It was a miracle that some of the sketches survived.

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CHAPTER 13 Her new office was not far. Every morning she travelled to work on the same familiar bus she was used to taking; only now she stayed on until it reached the West End. The bus stop was not far from Horsfield and Waddon on a tree lined street that once had been the High Street of a village, eventually submerged in the London sprawl. Now it was an urban canyon flanked by tall impressive office buildings with elegant shops on the ground floor selling ridiculously expensive designer clothes, designer furniture, designer objects of various kinds and degrees of success in their functionality.

Tramina did not agree with the noun designer being sprinkled about happily as an adjective signalling desirability and relegating everything else to the limbo of mediocrity, as if every single (wo)man-made thing that exists were not the product of a human mind thought and design. True, she admitted that the design of factory made stuff often lacks in beauty but it does not have to be so. William Morris considered that there is no room in a home for an object unless it is either beautiful or useful but she thought that every object in a home should be both; useful and beautiful.

Utensils should have aesthetic appeal in her opinion. Works of art, which obviously do not have a practical purpose, do have a function. Is not a painting uplifting, thought provoking and a window into a different world?

An image can also inform, convey ideas and change opinions. This could be said to be the function, the purpose, the use of art. She saw beauty in the clean lines of a smoothly running machine, a machine with nothing added to what is necessary to achieve its purpose. It is this that informs the shape and looks of an object, she most firmly believed, and that this marriage of form and function is most obvious in objects that are the product of a long evolving tradition.

Take a teapot. Tramina smiled when she remembered an anecdote that her grandparents had told her about Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. The Prince was judging a competition at the London Design Centre, unfortunately long gone now. When a teapot was placed in front of him he asked for a glass of water to test how well it poured. That in the Duke’s opinion fitness for purpose was so important, even essential, 65

illustrated what she truly believed.

Tramina’s grandfather and grandmother, not daring to ask for a glass of water at the shops, bought quite a few gorgeous so called designer teapots during the course of their life together, which were all discarded pretty soon and eventually taken to a charity shop. What finally replaced them was a common brown earthenware pot, with a long curved spout that did not dribble; a definite design advantage for anybody who had better things to do than waste precious time soaking and rubbing tablecloths.

Tramina had a red china teapot now, perhaps better looking than the earthenware pot of her parents, but still in the traditional shape. She had managed to find it thanks to a new revival of retro design.

‘Maybe common sense is now trending,’ she thought.

All this was going through her mind as she was running with the dog in the park. Now she could exercise in the afternoons and show off her trim figure in her new sport clothes. The long leggings and T-shirt had more than one airing already. Many admiring glances were thrown at her along the way though nobody complimented her; maybe the intimidating presence of the huge mountain of black fur by her side had something to do with it. If they only knew sweet Mopsy! That baby’s buggy that got upset yesterday was only an accident. There was not much room between it and the bench on which the mother was sitting and the baby did fall inside the open hood after all so no harm was done. That did not stop the mother from saying many unkind things aimed at the poor dog and perhaps at Tramina as well, only she could not hear them as she was running trying to catch Mop. As he passed the dog had taken the child’s teddy bear and would not let go of it. He was in one of his most obnoxious moods, pretending deafness.

Days and days went by and she had not yet started on any of the projects that had been in her to-do list for months. Ashamed, she decided to buy the necessary paints tomorrow and start redecorating without delay.

She could only tackle the gardening chores on days when the weather permitted and so the garden would be on standby for the moment, waiting for the sunny days, when she would drop the brushes and take up spade and secateurs.

She had thought that with so much more time on her hands her spirits would soar and she would be taking up the redecoration of the rooms in her list with much enthusiasm. After all she had managed to paint ceilings and walls at weekends while in a full time job. Now she could manage more and have the whole house completely done at last. Otherwise by the time she finished it would be necessary to begin at the beginning again. The 66

garden needed a lot of work too; summer would soon arrive and the flowerbeds were hardly ready for new planting. The weeds, although tolerated, half because of lack of time and half due to the fact that bees and butterflies loved their flowers, had taken over more space than she was prepared to allow them. To add to the general feeling of a small cosy jungle, some of the bushes were seriously overgrown and in need of a good trim. That is, if they were expected to behave and not strangle their weaker neighbours. Perhaps she had not quite settled into her new life yet and had to learn to manage better the extra hours of freedom she now had.

She welcomed the physical work awaiting her.

It should help to distract her from the ridiculous attraction she felt for Otto, a man who was nowhere near the type of man she liked. Otto was muscular and sporty; his expensive clothes seemed to be on the point of bursting to allow him to emerge in some colourful superhero body stocking while she had always been attracted to the intellectual types. Brains were highly sexy in Tramina’s book and their lack put her off. Otto was no doubt sharp and hard working, although he seemed to be loafing around most of the time. In his apparent laziness was hidden a calculating mind that snared his clients and maybe his women also. He appeared to be interested in art and music, was it genuine or a pose?

He was mostly very helpful and considerate towards his colleagues but occasionally showed little regard for people’s feelings. Sometimes he could be jokingly insulting and, not being able to resist sounding clever, his occasional cynical remarks deeply wounded his targets. She certainly did not love him, how is it possible to be so strongly and disturbingly drawn to a man that one does not love? Or even like? Those questions were playing in her mind, practically continuously, like an annoying earworm.

On the other hand Trevor was fast becoming her idea of the man she hoped to find, one day, and Betty, well, she was the type of woman she wished for her brother. For Tramina the couple formed an inseparable whole to which she related as she used to do to her parents, giving her the comfortable feeling that she had acquired a family, people to whom to turn when in need of support.

‘I may not be so independent as I think,’ she mused.

One morning when there was not a lot to do and Otto was out with a client, the three of them were having coffee and the question of Tramina’s role in the office was broached by her bosses.

There was no doubt that the situation was not ideal, Tramina’s typing was a disgrace and although her manners and appearance were an asset when dealing with clients the firm could not afford both a secretary and a receptionist. Also she needed to get a more rewarding job and as before 67

the Horsfields came up with a solution. Trevor went first.

‘The few times you have advised us on planning matters have been of great help to us, Tramina,’ he said and Betty added ‘we would like to make a proposition to you, dear, which we think would be of advantage to all of us.’

‘Honestly,’ thought Tramina, ‘these two are like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, practically finishing each other’s sentences.’

Trevor and Betty continued to explain their idea in their usual collaborative style. It boiled down to Tramina staying as advisor in all things to do with planning on a commission basis, being paid professional fees each time she participated in a case but that was not often enough to give her a good income they had come up with a solution, which was Pure Genius, according to Betty, her face brimming with unbridled enthusiasm.

‘Yes!’ Said Trevor, the darkish room suddenly illuminated by his neon smile, which he kept switched on, making it a bit difficult for Tramina to understand fully what he went on to say through it.

Eventually she twigged that the full package comprised the use of one room as her office from which she could conduct a planning practice, independently of her benefactors. Apparently, they could recommend her to the Right People as Horsfield and Waddon had Connections. Betty looked most conspiratorial, at least she tried to, rather handicapped by the image she projected; that of a plump British housewife and mother with a homely cat to boot.

‘And as you are such a rotten typist,’ a few more volts added lumens to Trevor’s grin, ‘you can share the secretary cum receptionist we are going to get.’

Tramina was taken aback and although she could see the advantages of such an arrangement she could also see the pitfalls. The rent of her office, that would have to be paid from whatever she earned, being stuck with planning and having to deal with her old colleagues at the local authority, were the first problems that came to her mind but she was sure she would think of more.

‘This is so generous of you two and I am very grateful but please let me think a bit about it, I don’t want to say yes as I dearly want to do right now and then find that my head tells me otherwise,’ she said hoping not to give offence.

The Horsfields looked a bit disappointed but accepted it was the wise thing to do. As she walked back to her desk Tramina saw with the corner of her eye that Trevor was giving Betty a quick hug. By way of consolation, perhaps?

It was obvious that the couple was very much in love with each other, 68

and that filled Tramina with a sweet and sour longing. It must be great to have that kind of relationship! A borrowed dog and a visiting cat could hardly take its place.

Still, now she had enough to make her days interesting, her routine was settled, but as everything was so new, her work was a challenge although pleasant enough and her colleagues were agreeable and friendly.

Even Otto seemed to have decided to make an effort. In the afternoons she worked on the garden or the house, according to the whims of the weather, taking Mop for a run in the longer evenings, when there was no danger of encounters with babies’ buggies of any kind. Then as usual she reflected on serious matters, like whether to take this new opportunity that presented itself to her, which meant giving up her dreams of continuing her architectural studies.

Walking in the park she was thus involved in her own little world when she caught sight of the lean tall man she had noticed before, the single parent, the artist. There was something poignant about him, in her imagination she saw him longing to have his daughter with him, sharing his life. She felt a curious kinship with him and wished to get to know him.

She could approach him and praise his art, even if it seemed to be the work of a chimp, just to start a conversation. It would have to be another time; today he was walking fast and carried no sketchbook, only a bunch of letters.

And then the extraordinary happened. He lifted his hand to the brim of his hat in a rather old fashioned greeting and smiled at her. She smiled back despite the surprise, and wondered if he had seen her smile, as at that moment her hair, the bane of her life, blew in front of her face. No matter, next time it will be easier to stop, look casually at his drawings and assuage her curiosity.

‘Crikey,’ she thought, ‘what is it with young men now-a–days? Otto clicks his heels and this one touches his hat in a greeting. Coming to think of it, wearing a hat is peculiar enough…’

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CHAPTER 14 It was an internally triumphant but somewhat sheepish looking Leonard who reached the lobby and hurried to pass the desk trying to make himself as insignificant as possible, said a quick goodbye to the fellow holding open the front door for him and stepped onto the shady London street, hoping nobody had noticed his wet hair. When he had been worrying if she would have him he did not mean it so literally. He breathed the pollution as gratefully as if it had been the freshest air at the top of the tallest mountain in the remotest part of the world. The truth is that he had felt a bit trapped, enjoyably so but still trapped. He was fresh from his shower in the blue and gold bathroom, which he was mentally describing to his friend Gerry – ‘…with its dark blue ceiling pierced by tiny lights imitating stars, would you believe?’

When he got to his flat he threw his portfolio with the bruised sketches on the bed and opened the doors to the garden. The evening was mild, the bench looking west, brushed with the pinks and oranges of the setting sun, was inviting him to sit and meditate. He was naturally prone to much contemplation and now he had plenty to ponder; a commission that he loved and a beautiful woman who was rather keen to have his company; why beat about the bush, to have him. He still could not get his head round it. He had cause to celebrate.

With that idea in mind, whistling a jaunty tune, he went to the cupboard where he kept his booze to see what he could find. There was a half empty bottle of red wine that in his present state of mind he considered half full. Not suitable for the magnitude of the events he had experienced. Disappointed, he was going to make tea when he remembered that at the back of the fridge there was a good Muscat that his parents had given him, which he was reserving for a special occasion. That occasion had arrived with an entourage of carnival dancers blowing trumpets and throwing colourful streamers in the air. He grabbed the chilled sweet wine extricating it from all the small containers with the remains of his meals.

This was one of the disadvantages of living alone; almost always there were leftovers, if he wanted to keep trim, that is.

With a small glass of the golden nectar in one hand and a bowl of roasted monkey nuts in the other he walked to the bench and sat down.

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Almost immediately the robin appeared demanding his share of whatever was on offer, his red breast redder than usual in the last rays of the sun.

Then the blackbirds arrived, so it was a shelling marathon until there came the wood pigeon named Gala, not after Dali’s wife but after the apple of that name, as both Leo and the bird had a strong preference for them. Not only the smaller birds flew off but also Gala finished with all the nuts in a trice, giving his well-rehearsed impersonation of a vacuum cleaner. He had not realized for quite a while that Gala was a male until one day he caught him up to no good with his girlfriend but by then the name had stuck.

Gerry thought Leo was bonkers, spending time and money feeding the wild life that came to his very urban garden. Leo thought he was privileged, he felt he was witnessing a daily miracle. It also had practical advantages; the foxes were great at disposing of his leftovers except that they were rather picky and would not eat potatoes and some vegetables.

It didn’t really matter as overnight everything disappeared. Mice? Rats?

Who knows? Who cares? The eco system in his garden was working fine, the snails ate the rotting vegetation under the bushes, the mice ate the snails, the foxes ate the mice, humans did not eat the foxes but routinely killed them with their cars in the surrounding streets. Humans do not have natural predators, an evolutionary design fault that humans themselves have corrected by enthusiastically killing each other or by allowing famine and disease to take their toll.

He started to plan all the things he would do with his future riches but soon common sense took over and he went in to look at the work piling up on his table. He made a to-do-list with all the things he ought to do before he could start spending the money he had not yet got and it was a long list. Tomorrow he would tackle the most urgent job, with a fresh head unruffled by the wine and the memories of a certain lovely lady of rather bizarre behaviour.

The next day he worked all morning on the sketches for the ex-bitch now upgraded to hot chick and then went to the cafĂŠ for lunch. In the afternoon he went to the park to try to catch his young friend and her granny to tell them his good news, much edited, but they were not there.

The weather was not inviting with grey skies and quite a fresh wind so that was perhaps the reason for their missing their outing. For Leo it was perfect; he needed to refresh his mind having been at the computer tidying up the sketches and beginning the painstakingly slow process of colouring them. The originals were rather worse for wear but after photographing them and feeding them into the computer he managed to have reasonable bases on which to build the final pictures.

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He was striding along the path that surrounded the central lawn trying to think of nothing, to give his brain a well-deserved holiday when he saw Spaghetti Head and The Blob. The dog was darting across the playing field and she was standing on the path, looking at the animal. She had on some striking running clothes, dark with brightly coloured stripes here and there, for no particular reason that he could figure out. The whole scene appealed to him as an artist. There she was, standing with one hand on her hip and the opposite leg slightly to one side, the hand on that side dangling the lead of the dog with which she softly hit her leg from time to time, as one would a horse one wants to encourage to walk but not too fast. The tight clothes sculpted her slim figure, he understood now that the strategically placed stripes were there to help to define her shape, and over all tumbled and cascaded the spaghetti. He would choose raw sienna to paint her mane, definitely. The light brown shone gold when the sun decided to take a furtive look from behind a cloud; a few touches of cadmium yellow pale, he decided.

On the other hand, the looks that Leo took were not at all furtive, he drank shapes and lines with his eyes and stored them somewhere in his mind for future use, a habit that proved very useful when somebody described a scene for him to draw and the relevant images just popped up ready made. He only had to look at them with his mind’s eye and his hand would pour them onto the blank page.

When he reached her, she slightly turned her head and shot a glance at him. He lifted his hand in a friendly greeting gesture and touched the wide brim of his hat by accident. He saw the corner of a mouth and an eye, as the curtain of hair parted, and both appeared to be smiling. Walking on he wondered if inside the silky curtain she was making fun of him or she was returning his greeting with a friendly smile. Perhaps she had noticed him looking at her intently and thought he was up to no good so better pacify him with a smile.

Soon his long legs put a good distance between them and he reached the side of the park that bordered the stream with its mini forest lining it.

There he found his favourite seat, a large tree that had fallen years ago during a bad storm and had been left by the park keepers as a breeding ground for insects. He did not know if any had colonized the log but it made a very good bench by the edge of the running water. It was in the shade in summer. In winter it was bathed in sunshine when all the trees had lost their leaves and the sun deigned to shine, of course. An excellent spot to slow down and think. Leo loved to sit there and look at the brownish green water where fish would slide silently by, a few centimetres below the surface, as his own thoughts did across his mind.

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Today his thoughts turned to his situation with Alexandra, what would be the outcome? She was divorced so no irate husband to break his bones, which was a good start; he was fond of all his bones. When they parted at the hotel, a prolonged kiss stopped them from considering practicalities and they did not mention anything about another meeting. It was obvious that he needed to finish the drawings, now that they had been seen and approved and that would take a while, a few weeks actually. He would like to see more of Ms Royston-Fry, figuratively and literally. He had to admit he was very keen on taking up where he had left off. Soon. Normally he would have contacted her by now, sent flowers too, but the situation was hardly normal. This female was predatory, she was very beautiful and must be used to getting any man she fancied, she was older than him and surely more experienced. Most important of all she was, in a way, his boss. Any faux pas of his could mean the loss of this commission and that was frightening. Looking idly at the running stream Leo noticed that a small pool formed by a few stones and logs near where he was sitting was full of water boatmen. He found those little beetles on skates very funny and after watching their apparent aimless comings and goings on top of the water for a while he was able to leave the subject of Alexandra alone for the time being and was ready to go back to his work with his batteries topped up.

On the way back he passed again the favourite bench of Granny and Mariella, which was still unoccupied, and reached the park gate but instead of taking the most direct route to his flat he walked in the direction of the shops. There still remained a shopping parade from what once had been a village High Street, very handy for him who, without a car, had to buy his groceries and other necessities often and a few at a time. He stopped at the florist and went in. Whether or not it was a good idea he arranged for a bunch of mixed flowers to be sent to Greens addressed to Ms Alexandra Royston-Fry with one of his professional cards on which he scribbled ‘To Alexandra, from Leo.’ Just that, what else could he write?

Either it was a very stupid thing to do or a good investment in his future, time would decide. Having taken such a bold step he walked home slightly more at ease with himself.

He worked hard for several days, enjoying every creative minute of it, leaving his desk only to go to the Esperanza for lunch and a short walk in the park. He settled into this routine, the same as many a time before when he was lucky to have plenty of work. During these busy days no word from whom in the most secret recesses of his mind he was beginning to consider his mistress. ‘Wishful thinking’ he told himself, the woman was deranged 73

and was probably pouncing on another unsuspecting, and lucky, victim at that very moment. She could not keep her hands off young men, he imagined, and she may well be given to switching her attention from one project to another too. Panic struck Leo at the thought that Alexandra could decide to drop her book just as easily as she surely had dropped him.

Much as he wanted to have her again, touch her nudity, smell her perfume, he was more shaken at the possibility of losing her commission than losing her‌.

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CHAPTER 15 One day Otto came out of his office waving an envelope, stood directly over Tramina who was busy at her desk typing a letter and tapping her head playfully with the envelope said: ‘I have just been given two theatre tickets, would you be interested in accompanying me, dear Miss Phelps, to see Wicked next Friday?’

Since it opened Tramina wished so much to see Wicked; witches and all to do with them was something of a magnet for her since she was a child and her grandmother appeared with the first book of Winnie the Witch. She loved Granny reading aloud about Winnie’s attempts at witchcraft that always finished in disaster. As an adult she became devoted to the fantasy world of Terry Pratchett. His death was devastating for her, no more weird wizards and wonderful witches and sudden jokes coming like thunderbolts from nowhere taking her by surprise and making her burst out laughing, highly embarrassing when it happened on the bus.

Nevermore would she experience the thrill of buying his latest book, rushing home to curl up on the sofa and dive into his storytelling, slowly unfolding in the perfect foil of his superb prose. He had even been ‘accused of literature‘, as he put it.

When she was very little she imagined flying on a broomstick and pirouetting around her teacher’s head when she was bored with the lesson; a habit that she had not quite lost yet. She resorted to such fantasies when Fred started one of his interminable diatribes about his pet hate of the day and sometimes with dire consequences in long meetings at her old job.

Unfortunately theatre going was out of her reach now with her reduced means and Otto’s offer was tempting. First, the sensible thing was to decide if she wanted to take their present work relationship one notch up. He was so full of himself that he could read more into it than Tramina intended by accepting his invitation.

‘Are you with us?’ she heard Otto saying, startling her and making her look up at him. He was standing there, an amused half smile on his lips.

She excused herself.

‘Sorry! I was miles away trying to understand Trevor’s writing’.

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A lie; and not a clever way out as it happened. Otto bent over her.

‘Let me see,’ and he went on to translate the letter, his hand on her shoulder. Tramina again went into meltdown as it happened when the critical distance between them was breached and out of her embarrassment came the answer: ‘Of course, yes, I will love to go.’

She bit her lip, fearing that in the middle of Otto’s dictation her outburst may have sounded too eager.

Latter Betty saw her and giggled, inexplicably. Or not so inexplicably.

Otto must have told them, she assumed, by the knowing glances of both her bosses as Trevor had joined forces with his wife for the only purpose, it seemed, of embarrassing her further, were that possible. Of course, she thought, for them a match between her and Otto would be the perfect solution. They would love to keep the Austrian permanently and a girlfriend in England would surely help. Or perhaps they were only thinking of her and her future. Most people consider that a woman on her own cannot have a fulfilling life, that a man is an essential requirement for female happiness. ‘Well, I don't think so, my friends.’ Especially a couple so close, so happy, were sure to think like that.

‘That’s probably it,' Tramina decided, ‘they only have my happiness in mind, which tallies with their inclination to father and mother me’.

Well, she would follow her natural inclinations too and in accordance with her essential truthfulness she commented, casually she hoped, on her passion for everything to do with magic and witches and how pleased she was that Otto offered to take her to see this play. There, all in the open now, no more giggles and knowing glances but to her surprise and frustration her ruse did not work with Betty.

‘Oh! For heaven’s sake, grow up!’ she wanted to shout. Nevertheless at least now they talked about her visit to the theatre as if it was a Sunday outing with her family and Tramina got some well-meaning advice from Betty as to what she should wear and even was told by Trevor that she had to be careful with Otto who in their opinion, although an excellent bloke, was ‘a bit wild.’

That afternoon Tramina texted Mandy to ask her to come around one evening, she needed to unburden on her friend’s kind shoulder as she used to do when they worked together. Not that she was ever in a similar situation there.

A couple of days later Mandy came with a box of tiny savoury pastries from the outlandishly expensive delicatessen near the office. Tramina, who was enjoying having time to try new recipes, had spent that afternoon preparing some delicious finger food from a recipe she had found in a 76

magazine. The two friends sat together indoors despite the mild summer evening; they did not want to give the neighbours the chance to hear their intimate conversation.

It was perhaps fresher indoors. With all the windows in the house open and the patio doors wide open too, a cooling breeze ran tenderly across the living room. Tramina had brought back to life a pretty tablecloth that had lain dormant in a drawer for ages and dressed the low table in front of the sofa with it. The white buds of Peace, barely touched with pink, were already opening in the red china vase and a bottle of sparking white wine was peeping out of a bucket of ice.

After asking Mandy about her work and all the office inmates and Mandy telling her new versions of the same old stories, Tramina unburdened herself. She made a fair account of all that had happened to her since leaving and was surprised at how long her story was. She tended to dwell on details, it was true, but nevertheless a lot had been going on, especially inside her mind.

Finally she came to her present predicament, Otto and her own strange reactions. Her strong attraction to him devoid of the slightest hint of love or even of any feelings of friendship, rather quite the opposite, worried her. She disliked the man as a person. That was the truth. And yet, she was physically drawn to him.

Mandy, who was somewhat older than her and had been married for quite a few years, listened with a kind expression while sipping her wine and delicately biting pieces off Tramina’s tasty canapés. Tramina could not eat anything; her mouth was too busy shooting out words, her hands enthusiastically helping in the process. The vase of roses nearly had it a few times.

At one stage she paused to allow Mandy to comment or only to catch her breath maybe. Her friend did not waste the opportunity and chipped in with a question.

‘And how do you feel about your bosses and your work?’

‘The truth is,’ said Tramina, her eyebrows rising over her puzzled gaze, fixed on her friend's amused eyes, ‘I enjoy dealing with the clients and even the filing is kind of relaxing, would you believe it? And I feel quite drawn to both my bosses who are lovely and very patient with my horrible typing.’

‘From what you tell me they couldn’t be nicer to you. Quite a contrast to the right load of you-know-whats in your ex-office, eh? You have been very lucky to meet the Gorsefields.’

‘Horsfields’, was the automatic correction. Spoiling the picture was Otto, a situation to be resolved, so she asked: ‘What should I do about Otto?’

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‘Well, from what you tell me he is no delicate flower, he wouldn’t lose much sleep if you dumped him.’

‘I cannot dump him, there is nothing to dump him from.’

‘But if there were…’

‘So you think it would be OK to…?’ Tramina cleared her throat of nothing at all.

‘Mm… mmm…’ Mandy inclined her head over her right shoulder, immediately mirroring this movement to her left side as her eyebrows went up and the corners of her mouth went down.

After all this facial gymnastics Tramina was more confused than ever.

She asked sharply ‘What would you do?’ leaning heavily on the you.

‘I would ignore my lofty ideas about sex and love and archive my romantic self for later use, when the real thing comes along. No doubt it will, I waited long enough for Colin and it was worth it. Relax and enjoy the free ride, think of it as work experience.’

They both broke up in laughter until tears were running down their cheeks. A sense of relief spread over Tramina and she decided to allow herself to play, after all whom would she harm? Not herself, as long as she did not become attached to Otto, which was unlikely. He would not suffer much; only perhaps his pride might get bruised if she were to be the one to finish the liaison, and there was no other man in her life who could be jealous. Mandy’s Colin was a lovely man, not a paragon of male beauty exactly but attractive enough and they were very happy so Tramina decided to wait patiently for her Colin.

Colin, by the way, was at that time waiting patiently himself for the return of his wife. He knew what happened when those two got together.

Mandy and Tramina went on well into the night; eating, drinking and laughing until all the wine had been drunk and all the food had been eaten.

Unnoticed by the two women, a crafty paw appeared from time to time from under the table to sweep a canapé out of sight. Lucy had come in from the garden to join the party.

Friday evening Tramina met Otto at the door of the theatre; armed with her new attitude towards him and hoping that her resolution to enjoy whatever was coming her way may result in less embarrassment in his proximity. She had boyfriends before and perhaps that was the problem, they were only boys, well within her comfort zone.

On seeing her, Otto inclined his head. The lobby was noisy enough to deaden the sound of his heels coming together if indeed they did, Tramina could not be sure, but something in his bearing made her think so. Nobody noticed of course, so what of it?

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The play lasted two and a half marvellous hours, during which Otto kept his hands to himself, to her surprise and perhaps a little, only a little, disappointment. She was sharply aware of his body very near hers and his aftershave, more likely an exclusive perfume, wafted warm and enticing towards her. She hoped hers did the same to him. Do perfumes combine in the air or intertwine or simply slide around each other? This intriguing question made her miss a good chunk of the action on stage until she thought better to leave it unresolved for the moment until she could Google it.

In the intervals they had drinks, chatted about the plot and Tramina told Otto of the marvellous Discworld she loved and to her surprise he said he had read almost all of Pratchett’s books. She was gratified that she had found something in common with him at last. They left the theatre in an exhilarated mood and took a taxi to Tramina’s, Otto insisting on accompanying her right to her doorstep.

‘I want to make sure you get into your house safely.’

Tramina stood at the top of the steps that led to her front door, managed to find her key and opening the door a crack turned to say good night to Otto. He bent, holding her by the shoulders, kissed her lightly on the cheek, rather too near the corner of her mouth to be only a friendly gesture, and sliding his face against hers reached her ear where he breathed a few words she did not understand, sending shivers down the length of her spine.

He took a step back, his hands still on her shoulders and said ‘You did not get a word of that, did you? Right, little miss, this week we start German lessons. Wednesday Ok with you? I’ll be here at seven.’

Tramina wanted to grab him and kiss that mouth that so teased her but all she managed was a faltering: ‘Yes… good night…thanks, Otto’ while she said to herself ‘Stupid woman, am I thanking him for the kiss? He could well think so!’ and aloud she added: ‘For the play, it was great’, she was relieved that the taxi was waiting so she need not ask him in for the mandatory coffee. So she pushed the door and went in.

She had seen it in certain films, but never guessed she could do such an idiotic thing herself. She went in and closed the door behind her; leaning on, it she let out a sigh.

Oh, the shame of it.

And then it crossed her mind that she might have seen one of Fred’s windows still lit. What had they seen?

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CHAPTER 16 On a nice sunny morning, a change in a sequence of grey days, Leo sat in the garden to take stock of his work. Sitting on the bench looking from time to time at the birds which argued with each other for a place on the feeder dangling from the neighbour’s tree, he started to think, pencil softly tapping his lips. He made notes in the copybook he used to jot down his to-do list and other things he did not want to forget.

The Alexandra drawings had reached a satisfactory point. Still a long way to go, at least now he knew where they were going. They could be left alone while he took a few more photos and that was something he was looking forward to do, to roam around London looking for suitable scenes that reflected the spirit of the poems still left to illustrate. So that was where he stood in respect to Alexandra’s commission; he wished that he knew also where he stood with respect to their relationship, dare he call thus the brief encounter they had. There had been no news, no thank you note, text or email directly from her about the flowers or about the work and nothing either indirectly through Sandra or Joe. He was itching to know, and scared, maybe the job was off, he feared.

No point in worrying, better get on with the two covers he had also to do. One was a novel by a new author, apparently an old biddy’s first effort; a romantic comedy said the blurb that Joe wrote. He had a quick look at the synopsis and formed a picture in his mind almost immediately, the faces of a woman and a man, both looking forward as if they did not know the other one was there. Linking them a background drawing of a shaggy dog, in black and white and a bit fuzzy. He gleaned that they had come together, after much fracas and heartbreak, because of a beast of such description. Banal, quite banal.

The other, more to his taste because it would certainly stretch his imagination, was a book on science fiction, something of a crime thriller too. A professor at a fictitious university had found the solution to the Rymann’s Hypothesis and had been taunting his colleagues with his success but he did not let out what the solution was. One day he was found murdered, his research papers were incomplete so it was assumed the murderer had taken those that were missing and so on and so forth. Leo 80

did not need to read the rest; he began to build an image of papers and formulas, a semi abstract and very atmospheric picture. A huge bloodstain over it all? Perhaps not, something subtler. To start with, he had to find out what on earth was the Rymann’s Hypothesis and hope that there was a complicated equation to go with it. He could do a lot with symbols and letters and transparencies to create a strong attractive image. Blessed be the Internet that makes instant nerds of us all.

He searched and found out a lot he did not understand, annoyingly.

He believed that if he put his mind to it he could puzzle out anything but not this. He only understood that it had something to do with prime numbers and that did not fire his imagination. Besides somebody had apparently resolved the problem in the last few weeks, all the scientific community was buzzing. This could be good for the success of the novel or not. A dramatic crime scene would have to do this time. Red cover and a police chalked drawing of the dead body full of numbers from a list of primes he downloaded. He was ashamed of the trite solution but could not think of anything better.

He had also plenty of artwork to do in answer to his Mail Art. He decided to try again to find the kid and her grandmother in the park. Today he would stand a good chance; the sun was shining and there was not the faintest breeze. Summer had at last come to waken up nature and human hearts too. Taking his fedora from the hook on the wall near the front door but leaving his jacket there he went out, feeling light in his t-shirt and jeans and lighter still in his mind. He was dying to tell his friends his latest news and was lucky today to see them almost as soon as he stepped onto the gravel path that led to the rose garden and their favourite bench. The old lady was sitting there, apparently completely absorbed in her newspaper, while Mariella was lazily kicking a little stone around with such despondent air that Leo felt sorry for her. ‘What this kid needs is a friend of her own age,’ was the thought that came to him accompanied by a tug in his heart, as he remembered his own lonely childhood. He had been an only child too, overprotected, while highly disciplined at the same time. An upbringing he would not recommend to anyone.

When Mariella saw him her whole little being suffered an amazing transformation, her face lit up, her body language said goodbye to the dark cloud she was under and she ran to him, embracing his knees so hard that she nearly unbalanced him and the two were on the brink of rolling together on the ground. The child took Leo by the hand and pulled him towards her granny who was smiling, having witnessed the scene.

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‘Look, Gran, Uncle Leo has come today! He has! I told you he would!’ Leo revelled in these encounters despite the fact that they filled him with longing for a family of his own. He could imagine that it would be quite possible for him to have a child in the future but he could not summon up a grandmother like this one too. His mother would make a cold grandmother likely to give expensive presents instead of hugs and to criticise him for teaching art to the kid. Facing the impossibility of having what he could not have, he settled for enjoying to the full what he had today under his nose. He shared his good news and then they chatted of many things, inconsequential things that were only important because telling them to each other brought them together. Mariella talked at length of her schoolwork, her lessons and what she would like to do now her holidays were approaching. Leo told them of his latest adventures, trying to make the stories as funny as possible to make them laugh, obviously leaving out the highly unsuitable episode of his hotel tryst. The old lady, while listening to them, commented on how lucky he was to have work and work that he loved so much. Leo felt her approval as tangible as he felt the support of the bench on which they were sitting.

For a few days Leo worked steadily on his Mail Art postcards that he had abandoned due to the pressure he was under. There was a lot to do, not fun any more. He made himself a promise that he would, from now on, work on one response at a time and do one a day, and only one, no matter how many other things he had to take care of. To mount a production line, as many times he had to do to fulfil his commitments to his friends, was soul destroying. So following his resolution he picked the envelope at the bottom of the pile; it contained several plastic objects outlining the shape of an envelope in the proportions of a postcard, only smaller. They were made with a pen which wrote with plastic, so the author explained, a 3-D printer pen, it was called, apparently. Leo picked up one of the mock envelopes, instinctively holding it up to look through it. That gave him the idea of taking photos of typical London scenes through these shapes and feed them into the computer, writing on the work: Wish You Were Here! He could do this at the same time as taking photos for Alexandra’s book. He was nothing if not practical, too practical and organized for an artist, his art teachers had told him, but he found this trait perfect for a designer.

In the hot days that followed he kept going as he planned while all along he kept thinking about Alexandra and worrying what would happen with the job and, to be honest, also worrying that the day they had together 82

was not to be repeated. Even if they had been in touch he would not have known how to bring about a repetition of the magic event. Eventually his patience gave up and he phoned Sandra who told him that Alexandra had gone abroad and did not want to be contacted but that as far as she knew the job was still on. Relieved, he took to the streets of London carrying his camera in search of the appropriate scenes for the book illustrations.

They had to be the hottest days of the year, of course, still, he would not complain, there were always the cold beers at the pubs to refresh him and when back home the welcome coolness of his shady garden, a shade he resented the rest of the year when nothing wanted to grow in it.

He rejoiced in this life; up early to beat the traffic, roaming without a goal but to discover that significant moment to shoot the photos, turning tail mid afternoon to avoid the evening rush, all the while having Alexandra’s poems dancing in his mind. He wished his life could go on like this forever but one day the book would be finished and he could only hope for more of the same. Was Alexandra a prolific writer? Would Joe find him another author like her? Not quite like her, he didn’t think that possible, or indeed desirable.

One perfect evening after one of these perfect days he was soaking in the freshness of the garden when he heard the doorbell ring repeatedly.

As he moved towards it the bell rang again and again.

‘Who the hell, at this time?’

He addressed himself to the universe as a whole and as no answer came he got to the door, which he opened without bothering to wear his standard welcoming expression.

A blaze of cropped orange hair over a face, as white as a white sheet, with worried eyes reaching out at him from their frame of thick lashes, thick with shoe polish it seemed, graced his doorstep. This appealing picture was completed by a large mobile mouth, with thin bright red lips, which did not wait to start shooting words like an AK49 at the bemused Leo. He instinctively grabbed the door for fear of being gunned down, no doubt, managing to get out a fairly polite ‘Good evening Miss err…’

Realizing he did not know the name of his peculiarly coiffed neighbour from upstairs, he just said ‘Come in, please, you seem distressed, how can I help you?’

‘How perceptive of you,’ the apparition said ‘I am told I do not show my emotions, but yes I am very worried. Arthur went out last night as usual and has not returned.’

‘So she has a partner?’ He had never seen another human being with her. That she was a female of the genus Homo, there was no doubt now, 83

as she passed through the door flattening Leo against the wall with her ample hips and large breasts. After she had sat down and he had got his breath back from the squeeze, Leo’s brain recovered enough from the temporary oxygen deprivation to listen to her.

‘He was not in bed this morning as usual, something horrible has happened to him’ she wailed, dabbing her mascara clogged eyes and creating an effect that the most accomplished abstract expressionist would envy. Leo asked what Arthur looked like. From her words interrupted by sniffing and more dabbing, he surmised that he was a short man with grey hair and very fit. To this description she added with a sigh ‘I always make sure he has a good diet’.

‘What a contrast, if only she took a leaf from her own cookery book… a better diet was a good recipe for improving her appearance. So we are looking for a small but fit man with grey hair who goes out at night and sleeps during the day. A security guard?’ - Leo was intrigued.

‘Your Arthur, why does he go out every night?’ Leo’s question while quite reasonable in his view nevertheless had the effect of upsetting her.

‘He is a proper night owl, for Pete’s sake!’ she said.

Leo could understand why she called him an owl and said to her that if they were to find him it could be important to know where he went at night.

‘And what he does,’ he added.

‘I don’t know, I suppose he hunts mice.’

‘A pest control man’ internally concluded Leo. ‘He likes to eat them’ Marilyn added.

‘What!’ Leo exclaimed, shocked, he could not help himself, he was pretty blasé about exotic dishes but even for a Frenchman, or even half of one like him, mice were strictly off the menu.

And then it dawned on him…

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CHAPTER 17 Tramina felt quite bucked up by Mandy’s pep talk but for good measure she wanted to tell Julian about her dilemma during a video conference, which she would have liked to be more frequent but his job meant he was not often available for a chat so mostly they resorted to emails. This time she was lucky and they talked of this and that for a while, with Cinnamon walking across the keyboard and upsetting the connection more than once. She was cute and had an obvious attachment to Julian.

Tramina was happy to witness that he was besotted with the little pup.

Neither of them liked to see wild animals in captivity and the plan was to return her to the bush as soon as she was self-reliant, probably never by the look of it, was the cynical thought that popped into her mind.

Julian was quite talkative, perhaps because of not being able to communicate with her more often, so Tramina waited patiently for a gap in which to tell him about Otto. She had to wait a long time, because her brother was full of the new friend he had acquired, a new doctor in his team, Sam, apparently very bright and funny and friendly. She thought that her brother was very fond of this Sam, this new mate seemed to be quickly taking the place of his old school friend who had remained in England and whom Julian missed a lot. ‘Sam is so good to Cinnamon, Sam and I go jogging every morning early because Sam is very keen about keeping fit, Sam cooks fantastic dishes’ and so on and so forth. He seemed to get something out of just repeating his name.

At long last she found a gap and she broached the subject of Otto, trying to sound casual and carefree but her brother knew her well and guessed the strain she was under. He listened attentively, at the same time caressing the wombat now settled on his lap and when she finished her account he said that she took life too seriously and should have more fun.

‘Go ahead, be more open to the poor bloke, you may find you like him better as you get to know him.’

Glad in part for the consistent advice she was getting from the two most important persons in her life, still Tramina was not entirely convinced of the wisdom of it. Her old feelings of lacking something essential had been stronger lately, especially when waking early; it would subside during 85

the morning, as she got busy at work. Again reappearing in the park where the sight of the loneliness of the artist with the wide brimmed hat would bring her own feelings back to the surface. She still had not summoned up the courage to approach him to look at his work.

Thinking again about her problems, more pressing than to check on some sketches, it did not strike her that Otto’s attributes were designed to fill that empty space; he may be a palliative but not the cure. What was it that she needed? She had not a clue. Sometimes she looked at the void in an existentialist way, resigned to the emptiness of being, which made her feel rotten, and at others in a Zen way, accepting it as an essential truth, calm and concentrating in her affairs, at the same time being mindful of all the little happenings surrounding her. For the moment she gave her full attention to the rain drops racing each other down her office window, and then, when the shower was over, the dust dancing merrily in the rays of sunshine squeezing through the gaps of the blind, even the patterns of circular stains created by the dirty cups of coffee on the small counter by the sink appeared beautiful to her. When Tramina managed this, the effect was magical. After such an exercise she could tackle life from another perspective, one that comprised more than her own being.

On Wednesday afternoon after work Tramina did her shopping and went home to prepare some eats for the evening. She decided to make a substantial quiche of chicken and sweet corn, a potato salad with chives and one of mixed leaves and tomatoes. She thought that she could not expect a man the size of Otto to be happy with just finger food. She imagined those small morsels she had made for Mandy disappearing at the speed of light into his mouth. The image of the mouth that had taunted her so last Friday presented itself, with the familiar half smile. She wondered how a real kiss would feel. Judging from the sample, pretty amazing she concluded. She shook her head trying to dispel the annoying thought and concentrated on the preparation of the food. She made the pastry for the quiche, a true English crust with lard that had been made by all the women in her family for generations. Ordinarily she avoided lard and any other hard fat but for her pies it was essential; nothing gave a shorter pastry. She was sure she had enough olive oil in her diet to wash off all the nasty free radicals. This was not how it works, she knew, but she liked the image of torrents of the green pungent juice of those Greek olives full of sunshine in her veins, chasing the terrified free radicals, which she imagined like those devils in medieval miniatures torturing souls in Purgatory.

For dessert, with her salary, she felt justified to make do with some ice cream.

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This time she set the table outside, spring having decided to settle in to a pleasant heart gladdening warmth by now, and she did not envisage talking about anything she could not want the neighbours to hear. At least she hoped not and perhaps being exposed to the view of others would prevent Otto from getting intimate. She realized she may be following Mandy’s advice and that she may want more than anything Otto’s sensual touch but she was pretty scared all the same; scared and embarrassed for allowing this man into his life. How could she? He was pushy and patronizing, ‘little miss’ indeed!

She reviewed with some pride all that she had prepared; the pie cooling inside a kitchen cupboard protected from cat burglars, the salads on the counter, as they were in no real danger from the attentions of Lucy, who had been all the time sitting judiciously on a tall stool surveying the proceedings, and a jug of sangria in the fridge. ‘Alles in Ordnung,’ she said to herself, and then remembered having been told that real men, whatever ‘real men’ were, did not eat quiche. Bad luck, he will have to, this time at least. Quiche and pies were her thing; everybody said her pastry was excellent so when she wanted to impress that is what she made. Bother!'

She had forgotten her beef Wellington! Just as well, she could not afford beef now.

By six o’clock she was ready. She wore a loose red dress with thin straps that left her shoulders bare; this was an old thing that she loved to wear when it was hot. As hot was not a frequent experience in England it did not get much use and always looked new. Her hair was more or less holding on top of her head, she put on a touch of mascara to curl up her lashes and stepped into her new sandals, hoping the high heels did not make her trip at some crucial moment. They were really instruments of torture, these unbelievable high heels. ‘But there you are,' she had to admit, if only to herself, ‘I bought into the latest fashion too.' To be fair, she had looked for heels of a reasonable height and found none; the choice was between these monsters or flatties.

When the doorbell rang, she glanced in passing at the large mirror in the hall and was reassured by what she saw; the image of a young woman, slim and lively and definitely pretty. She did not consider herself beautiful but knew that she was attractive enough to turn some men’s heads, possible Otto was one of them.

There he was, standing on the threshold, like a… No, no, too hunky to be a Greek god, Tramina always pictured the inhabitants of Mount Olympus slim and lithe and definitely not blond. Otto was more like her idea of a marauding Viking, albeit without the characteristic beard.

The Viking came in with an unwrapped bottle held in both his hands in front of him, purposely showing the label. This time she was sure. He 87

inclined his head and clicked his heels! Oh, dear, surely he was pulling her leg. Or was he bowing to her inner Buddha essence? What ever it may be, it went straight to the most intimate part of her being, sending tremors through her entire body.

‘I haven’t got a hope on earth of being able to resist him, if he decides to make a pass at me’ she thought, as she knew he would.

‘Look what I found for you!’ He proudly said, a tad childishly. The label on the bottle said Traminer Spätlese.

That was a present that really touched her, the very wine to which she probably owed her existence. She took the bottle with reverence and carried it to the kitchen to put it in the fridge for the moment, while she got the ice bucket ready.

She turned to thank Otto who had followed her and who said, opening his arms: ‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’ He embraced and kissed her, this time full on the mouth, a long soft sensuous kiss. When they separated Tramina was rather the worse for wear but he, with his usual self-assurance, coolly asked where her books were. She explained that she had left them on the dining room table, which they could see through the archway that separated dining and living spaces. He took her by the hand to walk her there.

‘Just a minute’, freeing her hand Tramina stumbled in her high heels back to the kitchen to fetch the sangria and the glasses.

They sat studying the textbooks for well over an hour, reading, talking and drinking. Otto very straight on his chair with Tramina crouching over her book, trying to understand his brand of German as well as she could.

Only part of her mind was on the job, the rest of it was concerned with the logistics of serving the meal full of apprehension for what might follow, while her body was busy coping with all kinds of sensations triggered by his proximity, some new and some long forgotten.

Finally Otto decided to call it a day and they both got up, Tramina leading the way to the kitchen where between them they collected the food to take to the table in the garden. The uneven slabs of the patio almost tripped her and she was relieved to reach the safety of a chair. The faint scent from the bushes that not long ago had burst into flower was mingling with his perfume. This did nothing to keep her cool.

During the meal they talked of this and that; the show they had seen together, of course, and both had a lot to say, all good, about Trevor and Betty and the office set up. Otto had opened the wine to go with the ice cream and Tramina drank it with pleasure, not a remarkable wine but fresh and slightly sweet. It felt right for a late spring evening. They sat there drinking its coolness until the bottle was empty.

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So far Otto had not made any movement towards her, which in a way disappointed her just as his behaviour in the theatre had done.

Disappointed she was but also relieved as she could not imagine how she was going to cope if he did, her mind having run through many scenarios the last few days. She was so scared of what she wanted to happen.

She got up and went into the kitchen in that frame of mind, if it could be called a frame, it seemed to her a frame was much too tidy an image for what was going on up there under her hair that had got into its usual mess in sympathy with her mind.

She made coffee, which she put on a tray planning to take it out into the garden, braving the uneven patio again. She felt safer outdoors. As she reached the living room she met Otto. He took the tray from her hands and deposited it on the low table in front of the sofa. Then he turned, held her by the shoulders and drew her to him, while Tramina, putting her hands on his chest, unsuccessfully tried to resist him. At least that was what she thought she was doing. Ignoring her as a dinosaur must have ignored a mosquito, if there were mosquitoes at the time, Otto proceeded to kiss methodically her bare shoulders while he slowly lowered the straps of her dress. Then his mouth travelled up her neck and rested on her ear, where he softly said something in German which this time she did understand and left her in no doubt about his intentions. Pulling apart slightly, he smiled into her burning face and kissed her lightly on her cheek, almost brotherly.

What he did next was not brotherly at all. She did not resist and her dress did not put up much of a fight either.

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CHAPTER 18 Arthur was an owl, a proper owl, really, swore Marilyn. Unbelievably, such was the sweet name given to this woman, a name conjuring a delicate being prone to pouting and with a colour of hair that, though also tinted at least it always kept to the same hue. You could not blame her parents; when admiring their newborn baby they could never have known the final shape it was going to assume.

Soon Leo learned that one day she had found Arthur hiding in the loft; he had got in through a broken windowpane and Marilyn did not have it repaired not to frighten him. She had done some research and discovered he was called just ‘little owl’, as he would only grow to around 20 centimetres. She also found out he could be tamed and treated as a pet but either because she was ecologically minded or more likely, because she was lazy, Marilyn did not attempt to domesticate him. She left him to his own devices, except for providing him with a sort of bed in the attic, that she swore he used, improbably as it seemed, and giving him water and a breakfast of puppy biscuits every morning. She was content knowing he was there and was happy, which at the moment he definitely was not the former and the latter was doubtful, considering the quantity of cats that prowled about the neighbourhood.

Leo suggested calling the bird protection people but she was horrified at the possibility that they would take Arthur away.

The only course of action left to Leo was to offer sympathy and convince Marilyn to wait a little longer for his return because he thought that maybe Arthur had reached maturity and was looking for a mate. That consoled her; perhaps she relished the possibility of becoming a grandmother by proxy.

Next morning during breakfast he wondered if Arthur had returned and wanted to check with Marilyn but he did not know his neighbour’s habits well enough as to be sure of what she considered a convenient hour and decided to leave it for later.

After toiling for ages at the computer processing the sketches and the photos he already had, he discovered he needed to take more shots on which to base his illustrations and armed with his camera he left to roam 90

London searching for the images he needed.

First as it was midday he went to the café for a bite. When he got there Mehmet burst into an ‘Oh there you are!’ so excited that it could have led a bystander to believe that Leo had been away for months circling the earth in the Space Station. He hastened to call Consuelo who came out of the kitchen waving a large wooden spoon around, if possible even more excited than her husband. They made him sit down and when he was perched on the edge of his chair, still with his hat on wondering what all this fuss was about, they burst out the news. A man chanced to come into the café and was so taken by Leo’s latest effort that he wanted to talk to him, apparently uttering words like ‘gallery’ and ‘show’. They were far from clear but to Leo it all sounded like the possibility of The Big Break he had been hoping for since leaving Art College. The excitement of his friends took hold of him and he was beside himself with the hope of at last becoming An Established Artist, promoted by a London gallery no less.

After a few minutes and lots of searching questions he managed to put together a likely interpretation of the staccato story he was hearing. A man wearing a smart suit had been there and had kept looking at the infamous collage over his macchiato, which he raised to his lips and held there just under his nose, lost in thought. Mehmet thought he was going to buy it but he had only asked for the artist to contact him and gave Mehmet his card, mumbling something about a gallery in central London and could please the artist phone him soon.

‘It has to be that heap of rubbish!’ Leo wished the work that had attracted the mysterious admirer, if that was what the man was, were one of his drawings and not the monstrous collage, but then of course the gallery world, like everything else, is subject to the whims of fashion. And now there was no importance attached to drawing, even when he was at college years ago assemblages of found bits and pieces were very in, paintings in bold patches were somewhat in and line drawings were definitely not in. Once his studio master caught him picking up a shape up with a couple of lines to give the mess of patchy colours some structure, he was told, with a contemptuous curl of a bohemian upper lip, that he, Leo, was a designer, not an artist. Being a designer was the pits. Now his own master, Leo practised a sort of artistic monism, blurring the boundaries of painting, drawing, photography, computer graphics and everything else. This choice, this taking a fancy to the monstrosity, therefore, was not entirely welcome by Leo but he decided to phone the man, whose name was Cliff Gardner, and take it from there. If nothing 91

else, he might learn something; there is always something to be learnt, no matter how bad the experience, or the teacher. After his meal he left to hunt for suitable images to shoot for his work.

His afternoon was successful and he got several photos from which he could work out pictures and computer images that would fit very well in the poetry book.

These should keep him occupied for the rest of the week.

It was a very tired Leo who went to bed that evening only to be woken up by some almighty strong banging on his front door not long afterwards.

He slipped into his dressing gown and holding it close around him and shouting ‘I’m coming! ‘I’m coming!’ he went to open the door a crack only to see Marilyn standing there, as colourful as ever, with a birdcage in her hand.

‘I decided to go and search for him, he has not come back yet.’

He could see now she had been crying, her eyes as red as two ripe cherry tomatoes popping out of her more than usually red face. Cruelly he thought that her eyes and face were trying to keep up with the rest of her colour scheme, which tonight consisted of an embroidered waistcoat over a huge lime shirt. He realized that a shirt capable of covering Marilyn’s ample person had to be enormous but this one exceeded its brief. These garments floated over a voluminous aubergine skirt. Loud pink trainers and a pink hat full of animal pins completed her getup.

Flattening himself against the wall he asked her in; he could not help himself, damsel in distress, the honour of the De La Croix and all that rubbish.

She came in like a tornado, her skirts sweeping wide and catching the edge of one of Leo’s smaller constructions that was leaning against the wall.

The mishap did not slow her advance, she continued with the assemblage following her for a while and then crashing to the floor. Leo silently thanked his private deity for the invention of modern glues. As much as he disliked this particular piece after the approach made by Mr Gardner he was treasuring every work he had done that might fit in.

‘I hope you will come with me’ she said ‘ You see, I couldn’t climb up a tree to rescue him.’

Leo wanted to ask what made her think he could, but the honour, etc, etc. He had to grab his clothes and disappear into the bathroom to dress because she was sitting on the tall working stool surveying her surroundings like a hawk perched on the post of a motorway fence. He could not foresee how the night would finish but vivid images of ambulances and paramedics flashed before his eyes.

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The couple that emerged into the night was something to behold: she, a large determined ball of colour and flowing cloth, and he, tall and lean, crowned by a battered hat and carrying an empty birdcage, reluctantly following. His family honour, again, made Leo take the cage from her hands. Thus the Arthur Rescue Expedition set forth full of hope; at least one of its members was, the other was full of foreboding.

‘Where does one start looking for a flyaway owl?’ This was the first question in Leo’s mind. The next question was how to catch him once they spotted him. Once, to his despair, Marilyn, convinced that she had seen the little owl on a tree in a neighbour’s garden, tried to climb the fence, which not only was far too high to climb but also would certainly have collapsed under her weight. Fortunately she gave up when realizing that the bird on the tree was a plastic bag fluttering in the wind.

The bizarre expedition began to play tricks on Leo’s tired mind, a mind which was in great need of its nightly rest after all the day’s work, and half dreams danced around him. He saw, or thought he saw, that Marilyn had a butterfly on her right cheek. More strange images appeared, to disappear promptly when he shook his head in an effort to remain conscious and above all, rational. Something she was probably incapable to be now in her obsessive grief, if ever had she been able to be so.

At last the dawn broke and no sign of Arthur. With no little effort Leo managed to get Marilyn to give up the search and return home. He left her at her door, both feeling and looking sad. Giving her a parting glance, Leo saw that the butterfly was real; at least it was a real transfer posing as a tattoo on her cheek, an incongruously cheerful little picture at that moment.

Leo slept for most of that day.

And then it all happened at once.

That specially positive knock on the front door that was Marilyn’s trademark made him jump. When Leo opened the door she grabbed him and squeezed him without any ceremony into her Earth Mother’s bosom shouting in his ear: ‘He is back! Arthur is back!’

Repeatedly.

Eventually she became sufficiently calm to be able to relate that she had gone to the loft with the intention of clearing it all up; his little water bowl, his bedding, his toys.

Leo wondered, the owl had toys?

‘Arthur was there. Looking at me with his big yellow eyes,’ she said, ‘as if nothing had happened.’

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Leo made some coffee for both of them and they chatted for a while like two old friends, the experience of the night before creating an odd bond between them.

As she left Marilyn said, patting Leo’s arm, ‘ I’m making a casserole, I’ll bring you some.’

‘Merde!’ he thought ‘I have another mothering female in my life! And a mad one at that!’ which, for the benefit of Marilyn, he translated to: ‘Thanks, that would be great.’

When she left he phoned the number on the card Mehmet had given him and found out that indeed Cliff Gardner was the owner of Gardner Gallery, in Chelsea no less. Mr Gardner ‘lurved’ the monstrosity and wanted to show it and other pieces of Leo’s as part of a group show he was planning for the ‘fall’. The man was American and also had a gallery in New York. Would Leo like to send him photos of his work? Leo liked it very much indeed. In fact he was struck with the enormity of it and could hardly think straight but managed to remember that he had hardly any work to show, nothing remotely similar to the infamous collage and would have to throw a few together.

‘What to do? Lie of course.’ He explained that everything was packed as he was in the process of moving and he still had not taken any photos of his latest work. He would prefer to send him all the photos together and would contact the Gallery as soon as possible. As his speech was impaired by the shock he sounded hesitant and rather cool.

Later a text arrived. It was from Alexandra and it read: ‘Hi back at Green’s call me’.

He bounded out of his flat, into the street, round the corner and did not stop until he burst into the Esperanza, where he hugged Mehmet, Consuelo and Gerry and kissed them on both cheeks. The first two were not particularly surprised at this continental demonstration, having more than an inkling of the reason for it, but the latter, whose long face was unaccustomed to so much kissing, stiffened and tucked his chin even further into his neck trying to avoid any more attacks to his dignity. Leo was dancing around them, shouting: ‘I am going to have my work shown in a proper show in a proper gallery!

So, we are not good enough for you anymore, are we?’ joked Mehmet and Consuelo nearly choked him in one of her most maternal embraces, tears in her eyes.

‘Which gallery?’ Gerry said.

Leo told him and then he added, casually.

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‘And Alexandra is back.’

‘Who?’ Leo had forgotten they knew nothing of his amorous adventures, so he told them.

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CHAPTER 19 Tramina stretched lazily under the sheets, surprised at the unfamiliar feeling. Wide eyed she lifted the covers and peeped under them. She was naked. Shock! Then the memories of last night came pushing each other out of the way to reach her consciousness.

With the memories came the feelings. And what a mixed bag it was, from a faint sense of triumph to a tinge of shame. Why? Why triumph?

Why shame? She decided to get up, leaving the self-examination for another day, perhaps to a better-qualified person than herself, like a psychiatrist or the vicar. The vicar of course would be free of charge, unless one was to consider the price of mortgaging one’s soul.

Deciding it was too early for metaphysical discussions even if only with herself, she turned her head on the pillow carefully checking if Otto was lying besides her but she was alone in the large bed, the sheets and covers in an uncharacteristic mess.

‘Surely he must have got up and gone quietly’ she told herself with relief.

About to jump out of bed she heard whistling downstairs. Horror of horrors, he was still there, and worse, the whistling was approaching.

‘Oh, bother! He’s coming up!’

She looked for her dressing gown which she usually left lying on the top of the bed at her feet. It had fallen on the floor, out of easy reach. That is, for anybody less prone to lateral thinking than Tramina. With the whistling definitely sounding louder, still lying on her back and covering herself up to her chin again, she extended a naked leg out and fumbled for the gown. It was pretty difficult to hook it with her toes but the door being pushed slightly gave her the needed resourcefulness. With relief she recognized that particular swishing noise made by doors when Lucy pushed them and breathed a bit more freely but not for long because the cat was sure to be in the vanguard with Otto close behind; his musical approach was gaining ground fast.

Lucy strolled leisurely up to the bed and jumped up, no doubt expecting to enjoy a lie-in close to her human friend. The tabby had not taken kindly to the German teacher and now she was trying to reassure 96

herself that all was as it should be and this prepossessing man was not a permanent fixture of her second home.

Desperation took over Tramina, empowering her at last to drag the dressing gown under the bedclothes with her and to proceed to put it on, trying to remain under the covers. Only strands of her long hair showed on the pillow, golden snakes emerging from a choppy sea of sheets and blankets.

Slipping into a slippery garment while keeping covered up was an Olympic challenge, particularly with a cat jumping on her, pretending she was hunting mice hidden under the blankets. By the time her teacher turned to lover entered the room carrying a large heavy tray Tramina has just managed to get into her robe and was sitting up, tying the belt of the gown tight round her waist while blowing a curtain of hair off her face.

Otto had caught a glimpse of the last convulsions of the monster-underthe-covers and tactfully ignored it. He looked quite cheerful and let out a happy ‘Good morning, sleepy head!’ while Tramina could only mumble an incomprehensible greeting through a mouthful of hair in response. He left the tray on the small round table nestling in the bay window and went towards her but Tramina jumped out of bed saying ‘I must hurry or I will be awfully late!’ Somehow she was suddenly not keen on more physical contact, for the moment at least. Lucy jumped down in sympathy, hissing at Otto.

Tramina was immensely proud to be trusted with the keys to the office when she had not really been working with the Horsfields for any length of time. Today it was handy to be able to arrive with the Austrian and not to have to face anybody else in the empty office. Her bosses arrived much later on. What she had not reckoned with was Hazel. She was there and saw them arriving together. Tramina thought she detected a bit of a smirk in the cleaner’s smile. Bad luck; she felt guilty enough without any encouragement from anybody.

Now she would have a couple of hours alone with Otto; it could be a little difficult. She suddenly longed for some space in which to be herself and digest the happenings of the previous evening and night. Especially those of the night, oh dear! Fortunately he had reverted to the cool Teutonic god stance and shut himself up in his office while she sat in front of the computer checking some documents.

‘Blessed be Microsoft for it gives us our daily Spell Checker’ was her silent prayer. Without it she would find it impossible to write anything.

Her spelling was accurate and she had an extensive vocabulary. With pencil and paper she was unbeatable. However, sitting in front of a keyboard her fingers developed a will of their own and hit any key they fancied. All the 97

letters of a word would be typed but in a different order or letters substituted or missing or added. Anything could happen, sometimes really funny things.

While she did her best, with her tongue often peeping out of the corner of her mouth and eyebrows tied up in a knot, she kept thinking about last night and this morning. Otto had been a considerate lover, an interesting companion and had also proven to be quite domesticated; preparing a full breakfast she hardly touched. Surely his intentions were good and she appreciated his attentions but at the same time she could not help resenting his cheek. The picture of this man loose in her kitchen, getting breakfast ready, presented a scene of domesticity she was not yet prepared to consider. The first time he stayed the night and already taking possession of the place. No way!

She had had a wonderful experience with him, actually several during the long night. She had to admit, and felt herself blushing, that she had enjoyed it more than she had imagined. Yet there was still a grey area in their relationship, what was missing she could not fathom. She was in the grip of conflicting feelings. Perhaps she did need to talk to the vicar after all.

Now she was also worrying that Otto’s cooling had to do with her avoiding his touch since she woke up. She did not want to hurt him, even if she had serious reservations deep down about their relationship. This mental turmoil did nothing for her typing and it took much longer than her record of five minutes per word, as was the office joke. She took the joke on the chin because it was pretty near the truth. It was high time she asked Mandy if she could help to find her replacement.

Not long after the Horsfields arrived they called Tramina into their office. When she entered the atmosphere there was considerably heavier than usual, both Betty and Trevor wearing expressions she could not define; somewhat between worried and embarrassed. She had never seen them so ill at ease, Trevor kept fiddling with the objects on his desk and Betty, who was never short of words, seemed to be plucking them out of the corners of the room, her eyes avoiding direct contact with Tramina’s, who thought, against all logic, that somehow they knew about her romp with Otto last night and disapproved.

‘Please sit down, dear,’ said Betty, ‘we have a couple of things to tell you.’

‘It’s not bad news, really, well, maybe, depends how you see it, that is…’ added Trevor.

‘You are frightening me’, said Tramina trying to smile politely but wanting to shout a hardly polite ‘do get on with it!’

Betty replied for both of them.

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‘As a receptionist you are fantastic, everybody loves you but as a secretary there are a few problems, your typing…’

Tramina, forgetting her manners, interrupted with a chuckle.

‘Oh is that all? I fully understand, I am a dead loss. I am very sorry but I have tried and have come to the conclusion that I shall never be able to reach the proper standards and decided to contact my friend who knows an excellent typist.’ Feeling that perhaps she had overstepped the mark she added ‘That is, if you two agree?’

She needn’t have worried; the relief on both faces was her answer.

‘You said you had a couple of things to tell me.’ She said, fearful that the answer was going to be a kindly worded ‘Good bye, Tramina.’

‘Oh yes. We have a new case, one involving a large firm embroiled in a difficult planning situation. They have come to us to prepare an appeal and we need your input. They will also need an expert witness; would you like to act for them?’ Said Betty, Trevor following suit with ‘You don’t have to answer right now, first read the file and give us your answer in a day or two. Perhaps you could keep in mind that you will have to charge substantial consultant’s fees, more is the pity.’ And he accompanied this statement with a wink and a smile. Tramina’s eyes opened wide. Suddenly her mouth went dry and her tongue would not move. She could not find the right words to answer. All she could think of was telling Julian. It always happened that when receiving news either too good or too bad she would feel an urge to run to tell Julian.

She went back to her desk with the file, put it in her bag to take home to read and went about her business, with her head in another plane, until it was time to leave.

She went home, settled with the file, a sandwich and a cup of tea on the sofa and got immersed in the planning problems of her client. Wow! Her client. Unbelievable. She only stopped to phone Mandy and arrange to see her next day. There was so much she wanted to discuss with her friend. That was why poor Mop had to wait until late afternoon for his walk, with catastrophic results.

Tramina got into her running gear, having finished her reading and deciding that, although highly complicated, she was sure she could handle this case; a challenge, yes, but not outside her expertise. After all, it was the boredom of her former planning job that she hated; here there was excitement and plenty of scope to engage her grey cells, rather underused of late.

Elated with her new role she went to collect the dog and told her old friends she was being promoted and would get more money. It seemed the best way to summarize her news for their consumption; any more details would have been terribly difficult to get across. Fred and 99

Louise were happy for her and did not ask any questions. Oh relief!

Tramina expected the usual inquisition form Fred.

As she was running, hanging from the lead of the dog towards the park and trying to keep a little control over his pace, she noticed the clock on the church tower. ‘Is it that late, Mop?’ She asked of the dog. Far too busy reading the many smells he sniffed along the pavement, the dog did not answer her.

When they arrived at the park she let him loose and he went berserk, having been cooped up far too long for his taste and so went into his habitual circuit around the central lawn at full speed with Tramina describing a smaller inner circle to his in a sedate jog, so as to keep up with him. She was enjoying the sense of freedom with the wind she herself generated combing her hair back from her face.

And then she saw the artist going at full speed on a collision course with Mop, both evidently oblivious of each other. She doubled, tripled her pace to try to reach them and avoid the disaster but she was too late.

The man had been carrying a bunch of letters in his hand, which now were spread on the playing field among the dandelions, with him sprawled over everything. His perennial hat having left his head had rolled away like a loose wheel after a car crash. It had come to rest near the dog that so far had not noticed it, so busy was he licking the envelopes. As Tramina arrived at the scene, Mop was having a good roll over the letters while the man had managed to sit up amid his scattered post and flattened dandelions and was rubbing his right shoulder, his face distorted by pain. He looked dazed, to the great distress of Tramina who, defying common sense, felt responsible for the accident.

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CHAPTER 20 Leo woke up pickled in anger. It was a red, thick anger, the sort of anger that stands up by itself, rigid, and doesn’t bend when reason attempts to fold it up to put it away neatly.

‘Why? Why me? Why now?’

The stupid questions without answer filled him entirely and he could not think of anything else. It was not a directed, sharp anger, more a dark strangling of the whole world, the universe and beyond. What made it worse was that it had no target. He could not attach a scrap of guilt to the agents of his misery. Getting up was quite an effort with only his left arm relatively functional and the whole of his body feeling as Pinocchio must have felt before turning into a boy. His right arm was a write off. The rest of him slightly less useless but equally stiff. It was painful even to think of moving. He managed to hobble to the kitchenette and start the coffee machine.

Now back in bed propped up on his pillow with a steaming cup by him on the night table from which the aroma of good coffee was wafting up he could contemplate in a slightly calmer mood the events of yesterday.

It had been a day like any other; a good morning’s work followed by a sandwich and a beer and in the late afternoon, after he finished putting the handmade postcards into their envelopes, a dash across the park to the post office, with his head full of the exciting prospects that had suddenly opened up in front of him.

That dash was the catalyst that unleashed the disaster.

A large dark shadow nearly as big as a wardrobe suddenly hit his left side making him trip. The impact sent his post flying in all directions, followed by his hat, with him falling over the lot, legs and arms flapping about. Seeing the ground rapidly travelling towards him Leo instinctively used his arms to shield his face. The impact on the right side of his body sent waves of searing pain all over him. With effort he sat up and checked for broken bones. His right arm seemed to have been wrenched out of its socket. On examination he was surprised to find it was still attached despite 101

the intense pain he felt. It had twisted badly under him as he landed. It appeared that no other harm was done, Dieu merci.

Sitting there holding his injured arm against his chest with his not-so-bad one, Leo had the impression to have been attacked by a grizzly bear but when the shock wore off he saw The Blob playfully licking the letters which were strewn all around them.

The solicitude with which Spaghetti Head, the owner of the monster dog presumably, bent over Leo asking the silliest of silly questions anybody could ask in the circumstances - ‘Are you OK?’- did nothing to assuage his annoyance. Neither did the torrent of apologies that she let out mixed with imprecations, hopefully directed at the dog, like bad boy! The tickle of her loose hair on his face made him sneeze causing their heads to bump one against the other. There they were, sitting on the grass, Spaghetti Head and Leo rubbing their heads, in his case also his shoulder, with The Blob rolling on the carefully decorated envelopes, until the ridiculous situation made them burst out laughing.

‘I am Leo Delacroix,’ said Leo remembering his manners and extending his left hand with a grimace and an automatic ‘Sorry!’

‘My name is Tramina, Tramina Phelps,’ she said, taking his hand and pulling from it carefully to help him up.

‘It was the letters that you were carrying that excited my dog so much,’ explained Tramina, trying not to make it sound as if she was excusing the dog in the least, ‘Mop must have thought you are a post man and he hates postmen. I am so sorry. I try to train him but as you can see, with no success.’

Leo wanted to point out that it should be an offence to let loose such an enormous animal with an obsessive behaviour problem in an area where there is delicate human tissue walking about, but he didn’t. The contrite attitude of the young woman stopped him.

At the time he thought nothing of his injury and managed to scramble to his feet only to find that walking was not as easy as he remembered. All his body had sided up with his arm and refused to move, at least to move in synchronicity.

In truth Leo could hardly walk, he must have twisted all over instinctively trying to recover his balance and so overstretching practically every one of his muscles. With this realization he lost his bonhomie again.

His irritation and frustration came back at the thought that at this juncture of his life he was in dire need of his complete functionality. Love scenes featuring Alexandra, the shots for her book he still needed to take and the possible show at the gallery for which he had to prepare all presented themselves vividly to him.

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With Leo accompanied by the apologetic young woman, who had quickly rescued the letters and the fedora from the attentions of the dog and put him on the leash to avoid further mishaps, they reached a bench where they sat and she proceeded to lecture him in the correct treatment for twisted shoulders, as taught by Julian.

‘A know-all as well as a careless dog owner,’ he thought.

Eventually with the help of Mehmet whom Tramina had fetched at the bidding of her victim and who came to the rescue with a glass of wine from the Café Esperanza, Leo was sufficiently revived to start thinking straight again. And what he thought was not to his taste.

He had to get those letters to the post office today. With one thing and another he had taken too long a time working out the replies to some of the mail art invitations and now he might miss the deadlines. He loathed having done a lot of work for nothing.

As if reading his mind, Tramina lifted the bunch of decorated envelopes and said, ‘I can put these in that letterbox over there’ pointing at it with the letters, which had the effect of making the dog lift one end of his anatomy, the head presumably, in expectation.

‘I am afraid I have to take those to the Post Office to be registered, I don’t want to have them go astray and it is getting late.’

‘I could do that too, of course, you are in no state to walk that far, but I must take the dog to his owners first, they do not allow him in the post Office.’

That did not surprise Leo, what surprised him was that The Blob was not hers and a slight admiration crept into his assessment of Tramina.

Anybody who would volunteer to walk such a beast must be very plucky indeed or completely off her rocker.

‘They worry about us, you know’ she went on.

‘Yes, I can imagine why’ came to him but did not voice it. Aloud he thanked her and as he had no other option he accepted the offer and asked her to get him a receipt.

Tramina and Mehmet insisted in accompanying him to his place and again he could not resist the pressure so they walked together; Leo limping, leaning on Mehmet followed by a worried Spaghetti Head and The Blob.

At his front door he managed to get rid of them, claiming he was perfectly fine, and woman and dog went on the short distance to Tramina’s road while the café owner rushed back to his cafe.

Leo spent the rest of the day wondering what to do about all his commitments and eventually he carefully stretched his aching body on top of the bedclothes and fell asleep, a troubled sleep at best, waking up often because of the pain.

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The next morning as awareness slowly crept over him he took stock of his situation. His shoulder hurt, his arm hurt, his back hurt and all the rest either hurt or was as stiff as hell. What had the girl said? ‘Put ice on it and rest it but move it gently to keep the muscles flexible. Don’t go to the doctor as they can only give you painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, which would ruin your digestion’. All this came from her uncle, brother, cousin, something like that, who is a doctor in New Zealand or some other remote place, perhaps a witch doctor?

A pretty sticky wicked he was in. Not being able to do anything else he decided to heed her advice and hobbled to the freezer. Rummaging among the frozen veggies looking for frozen peas, the traditional substitute for an ice bag, all he could find unopened was a bag of broccoli. That would have to do, rather knobbly but serviceable.

He made himself comfortable on the sofa, with the broccoli riding his injured shoulder and a bande dessinée at hand.

He had bought the illustrated comic last year during a visit to his parents and had not found the time to read it. It was the story of a colony of rabbits, mostly engaged in doing what rabbits do best; more rabbits, with hilarious results. Certainly not meant for children, it was rather crude but the sweet long legged rabbits somehow remained appealing in their innate innocence all the same. The fairly explicit drawings were excellent, which is what had attracted Leo in the first place. He had been browsing at a bouquinist, the second hand bookshop in the village where his parents lived. He loved the small place with its smells of old books and with the unseen presence of so many minds dripping from the shelves in its comforting darkness after the relentless sunshine outside. He had already collected a pile of books and was looking for somebody to take his money when a jolly and friendly man rose from behind a desk that was at the back, completely covered by layers of old volumes and hidden by a bookcase about to topple under the weight it carried.

It turned out that he was the author of the comic and so Leo felt half inclined and half obliged to buy it. The glass of Banyuls that was offered to him of course had nothing to do with his decision. The man was so delighted with the sale that he made it obvious even to somebody with an emotional intelligence level of absolute zero that this was a rare occurrence.

He opened the book to dedicate it to Leo and while the latter sipped the local sweet wine the delighted author very quickly and with great dexterity filled the two large front flyleaves with scores of funny rabbits jumping about. At the moment he could not think of reading anything half serious, so the rabbits came in handy.

Tramina, on her part, had not had an easy time since the accident either. She wanted to do something for Leo but the young man was quite 104

grumpy and made her feel uneasy. He seemed to live on his own so how would he manage now? He had not asked them in and insisted on being left alone. After returning the dog to Fred and Louise she rushed to the Post Office and was lucky to catch it still open. It was the least she could do for the poor guy.

That night she hardly slept and in the morning she went through her work like a robot, a well programmed one but still on autopilot. Betty noticed her absent mood and so Tramina had to tell her the story. Betty approved of Tramina’s inclination to ignore the stubborn independent spirit of Leo and go round, with a Thermos of soup, that midday, and finished by telling her to leave early to do her Florence Nightingale bit. So it came to pass that at noon a nervous Spaghetti Head, minus The Blob, was knocking at Leo’s door, carrying a supermarket shopping bag full of goodies.

With the knock Leo’s mind, which had been mercifully dozing, jumped up and out of its dream of rabbits. Unfortunately his body was less agile and it was with much effort and swearing that he got up and started hobbling towards the front door. Halfway he turned round with double the amount of swearing and returned to the settee to hide the rabbits. He pushed the book under the cushions so that the visitor would not see it; he felt slightly ashamed of his choice of reading material, stupidly, but that was him, a bit prim. He continued his hobbling to see who the nuisance outside his door was. ‘Oh, please, God, not Marilyn!’ he entreated whichever deity was on duty at that moment.

He was not too sure if he was relieved or not when he saw it was the young woman from yesterday.

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CHAPTER 21 Seeing Tramina all contrite and shy standing on his doorstep did nothing to diminish the anger that Leo felt but he became uncomfortably conscious of his unshaven face and of his dressing gown, which he drew to his body tightening up the belt so she would not see he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes under it.

‘What do you want?’ came out abruptly.

Leo’s belief was that a De la Croix’s flat is his château and this intrusion was not welcome.

‘Good morning!’ said Tramina trying to sound in control ‘I have got you a few things. I imagine you are not able to shop much right now.’

‘Well, the morning is hardly good, at least for me’ he said, rudely, not smiling, even slightly ‘and I always have a good supply of food’ he lied, thinking of the blessing of online shopping.

Cowardice was not part of Tramina’s make up. She could be terrified but if something needed doing despite all the terrors it may hide, she would do it.

‘Facing an unshaven grumpy young man in a rather expensive silk gown is not the worse thing that I have done in my life’ she thought and could not help noticing how his tussled dark hair gave him a vulnerable air, like a distraught child. She felt an impulse to hug him and comfort him, despite his rudeness, an impulse she only just managed to resist.

‘This is awful, he is in pain and all alone and it is all my fault.’ The thought bucked her up and she knew what she had to do, as much for her as for him, and to Leo’s surprise she softly pushed him aside and stepped into his impregnable château.

Delicate as Tramina was, passing close to him made Leo lose his balance and he found himself leaning against the wall on his injured right side. However brief, the contact made him wince and let out a half suppressed ‘P’tain!’ He hoped she did not speak French. On the other hand why should he care?

Tramina threw a hurried but sincere ‘Sorry!’ over her shoulder as she, now on her warpath, went straight into the kitchenette. That was the advantage of a one-bedroom flat over a castle for an invader; the said 106

invader can see in one glance where everything is.

She proceeded to unpack the groceries and asked, ‘Where do you keep your pots and pans?’

Leo had managed to crawl back to the settee and was resigned now to the worst but did not forget to check the rabbits were well tucked away out of sight. From his lair he explained to the cook where everything was and she heated soup and made two impressive sandwiches. Next, bless her, she opened a bottle of red wine. He found that despite his resentment he was enjoying looking at her moving around with such ease, as if she belonged there and he was the visitor. A bit too pushy for him, though.

Tramina, now fairly confident seeing that he was not sending her packing, put everything on a large tray and the tray on a chair she had moved close to the couch within Leo’s easy reach. Drawing a second chair she sat near it to share in the light lunch, to his amazement.

‘Has the woman no shame?’ He winced with the effort of sitting up fairly straight.

‘I posted the letters; I left the receipt on the fridge door, under the Mickey Mouse magnet. It came to almost thirty pounds.’

‘Thanks.’ He did not know how to get the money from his trouser pocket without her noticing he was fully dressed. He decided to wait for her to get up and start packing up to reimburse her.

‘Do you always spend so much on postage?’ She asked.

‘Sometimes more.’

‘It’s quite expensive, your hobby.’

He hated hearing Mail Art described as a hobby, why do people seem to take seriously only what one does for money?

Tramina promised to return tomorrow to repeat the performance of today, leaving Leo feeling half resentful and half grateful. On purpose he forgot to reimburse her the postage; he would give her the money tomorrow with his apologies.

He returned to the rabbits only to be disturbed again by the doorbell; again the hiding of rabbits and the painful crawl to the door, accompanied by much swearing sotto voce. This time it was Gerry on his porch. During his lunch at the café he found out about the accident with all the grisly details, much elaborated by Mehmet, and rushed to see his friend.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘so you were run over by a puppy?’

‘The hell I was. More a wildebeest than a puppy.’

‘Have you been to the doctor’s yet?’

In reply Leo explained the theories of Tramina’s medical relative, which failed to impress his friend. Gerry visibly straightened up, as if he 107

was expecting to be challenged to a fight and told Leo in a tone that did not admit contradiction that he intended to help him out of his clothes and into the shower. Leo did not try to offer any resistance, on the contrary, he was grateful and did as he was told but he was not prepared for the sequel. When he emerged, towelling his hair with his left hand, and managed to get to the sofa he found a commanding Gerry announcing in a matter of fact voice that a doctor was coming after surgery hours.

Apparently while he was in the shower Gerry had picked up his phone and dialled his doctor’s number.

Abandoning his curls to their wet fate a surprised Leo asked, ‘how did you manage that?’

He could not imagine his doctor making home visits; it was difficult enough to try to arrange an appointment at the surgery.

‘I asked for an appointment for you to which the receptionist said they did not have a slot today or tomorrow. I described your situation in some detail and insisted you were in a lot of pain and she relented and told me a doctor will come to see you after hours.’

Gerry seemed to have blossomed. A changed man, he shook off his habitual depressed attitude and took over the task of getting Leo spruced up. Once comfortably settled again on the sofa Leo proceeded to complain of his luck, lamenting the many exciting prospects in front of him now fast receding from his grasp.

‘Let’s see,’ the new Gerry was very much in charge and while shaving Leo, continued ‘I can help you to take the photos you need to complete the commission for Joe, also I can under your direction build the collages for the gallery bloke but I am afraid that I cannot help you with Alexandra, as much as I would like to,’ the last bit was accompanied by a wink. Leo was touched by his friend’s offers and accepted them willingly and agreed with an amused smile that Alexandra was definitively not part of the deal.

That evening and after much pulling and pushing and poking, surely adding a few more bruises to the beautiful purple and indigo ones starting to come up, the doctor reassured him that he had not broken anything and told him to take it easy. He gave Gerry - obviously considering Leo too ill or too stupid to look after himself - a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug to be taken after a meal to avoid affecting his digestive system, he emphasised.

‘Ha! So the obnoxious woman was right’ Leo told Gerry as soon as the doctor left.

While Gerry went to a 24-hour chemist for the prescription, Leo decided to find a physiotherapist straight away; maybe she also was right about that. He soon found one by trawling the Internet. He looked for the nearest one that had the most letters after its name and the criteria were 108

fulfilled in Bobby Ferguson. Bobby was an expert in sport massage as well as a physiotherapist, said his web site, and had more letters after his name than a plateful of Alphabetty Spaghetty soup. Leo made an online appointment for two days later. He hoped the man was as good as promised. In the meantime he would take the pills.

The obnoxious woman was at that moment having a chinwag with her best friend at a café nearby. The subject of the need for a receptionist and secretary at Horsfield and Waddon was discussed and the problem quickly solved. Mandy recommended a young woman from the typing pool who was particularly good. She spent ages praising Cathy, not just her typing but also her intelligence and her pleasant demeanour. Tramina knew how particular Mandy was and was sure her protégée would be fine, certainly much better than Tramina herself so she gave Mandy the Horsfields’ number to arrange an interview.

Phew! Great! Soon she would be out of the nightmare of typing and would be able to concentrate entirely on her client. Tramina loved to refer in her mind to her client, and sometimes not just in her mind. She kept telling Lucy, just to hear the words floating about in her kitchen. ‘My client, Lucy, my first client, my new client…’ and as many permutations as she could think of.

Cathy came across as an excellent secretary and the Horsfields were delighted with her. They told Tramina all was well and she could move to Otto’s office when Cathy, who had to give notice to her present employers, would join them. Maybe sharing with her German professor-cum-lover was not a brilliant move, maybe it would turn out to be just another kind of nightmare.

These days Tramina was arriving earlier in order to leave early to go to Leo’s for lunch. As his arm started healing with the help of the physiotherapy he was having, he was not so grumpy and she was enjoying the routine. It was nice not to have to eat all by herself and they seemed to enjoy the same food. At least he never complained of her inclination towards Mediterranean cooking.

He had insisted that she should not pay for the lot and they should divide the bill. A bit difficult today as she had made a leek open tart and had no idea of the cost of the ingredients. As soon as she went through the door, she noticed that Leo had his arm in a sling. Gerry had rigged up the makeshift contraption from a piece of old sheet.

‘Hi, how are you?’ He seemed preoccupied and the formula came out automatically. Without giving her space to answer he said ‘I have to get on 109

with some work, a friend is coming to help later,’ while he kept milling about, surveying his tools and paints.

During the meal he went into some detail about what he had in mind, which was very basic really, but Tramina, who was not familiar with the making of anything remotely artistic, was fascinated and asked many questions. Leo seeing her interest and beginning to enjoy her presence more and more every day, found himself telling Tramina that she could stay to help if she liked.

‘Me, help? Apart from painting walls I have never ever done any painting. I surely shall ruin your work!’

‘Hmm, I doubt it. You might even improve it.’ He chuckled and quickly added: ‘You know, a fresh eye…’ to cover up that he really meant the more absurd the resulting work the better his chances to have it accepted by Cliff Gardner.

With a cautious ‘OK’ she took up the challenge. ‘But first I have to walk the dog. His owners are very old and cannot handle him any more so I have become his official walker now.’

‘Yes I can imagine.’ He said, mischievously thinking that she was not doing a brilliant job of handling the dog herself and nearly said so but felt perhaps they were not enough well acquainted yet to crack such a joke and still keep getting the benefits of her friendship.

‘Do not worry, Gerry will not be here for a couple of hours, he gets up late and goes to the Esperanza to have lunch. Talking about lunch that pie was delicious you must tell me how much I owe you.’

‘The pie was peanuts …’ she started to say and he interrupted: ‘Funny, it tasted of leeks.’

‘Ha, ha! You’re the funny one!’ She said mockingly and they both laughed. ‘I was going to say I made it and really it is nothing, but we can divide the cost of the rest.’

‘So you can cook as well as open cartons of soup? A very accomplished young lady,’ said he with a cheeky smile but then quite seriously added ‘It was delicious, the pastry especially, I should have known, you don’t get pastry like that in packets.’

‘Thanks. Well, I must go, be good and don’t do anything you shouldn’t, wait for your friend to start work.’

‘See you later. Don’t push anybody else over, I’ll be jealous!

‘I won’t, promise.’

Tramina left feeling happier than she had been for a long time. Was it due to seeing her victim getting better, maybe, or to the satisfaction of helping another human being? Who knows?

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While walking the dog she kept feeling that warmth inside her, perhaps the wine contributed to it. Perhaps; but seeing Leo smile and joke was heart warming enough. She felt she had had a glimpse of the man he could be and whom she did not know at all. Getting to know him promised to be a lot of fun.

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CHAPTER 22

When Tramina went to fetch Mop she was not wearing her running outfit. She thought it more appropriate to change into her old jeans and t-shirt, the ones she had used to paint walls and ceilings; she was excited at the prospect of collaborating in an art project. Was that the right word?

She wondered; there were so many types of art on that she was not sure, perhaps it was a performance. No, that was something else. Well whatever it was she could not wait and the poor dog got the shortest walk of its life.

If Christopher the Mop was disappointed he did not show it. Fred and Louise did though, because they depended of him having enough exercise to subdue and quiet him down so they could have a good night’s rest. They asked Tramina if she was feeling well, fearing that the shortness of the outing coupled with her unusually flushed cheeks might indicate impending illness, a fever perhaps. But they were reassured when she explained she was only in a hurry and excited because she was helping a friend to make a work of art.

That was a mistake.

‘What friend? What did you say you are making?’ Fred wanted to know all about it, while this friend about whom they had not heard anything before intrigued his wife no end. Tramina hung the dog’s lead on the hook behind the front door and quickly left saying ‘I’ll tell you later, bye-bye, have to run!’

And run she did, so eager was she.

On her return to Leo’s she found him and Gerry sitting on the sofa having coffee. Leo introduced them and Gerry got up to fill another cup for her while Leo patted the sofa next to him. When she sat she realized she had been given a front row seat for what was to follow. In front of them there was a large wooden panel propped up against the wall and next to it on the floor a heap of what could not be described as anything else but rubbish or perhaps trash if you were American. Pieces of rough wood mostly but also flattened and deformed plastic containers, a torn poster, with brown marks from the many shoes that had stepped on it, a flattened beer can and pieces of green glass from a broken bottle. She thought she could distinguish also a bra strap, no… Yes! There was a huge brassiere 112

that in its halcyon days must have been peachy pink, now old and tired just an undefined shade of pinkish grey.

Gerry came back with the coffee and reclaimed his seat, leaving Tramina sandwiched between them. Leo had done a few quick sketches that now he was showing to Gerry, leaning across her so that she had to lean back on the sofa and be very careful not to spill the coffee all over the three of them and the drawings. The two friends got into a lively discussion while she listened to all this stuff about composition, volumes, textures and, most importantly, apparently, as the subject kept cropping up frequently, how to glue all the bits together. Finally she pieced together that they intended to make some panels with all sort of things stuck to them, which they called collages.

She kept looking from one to the other in amazement that they could be seriously considering using that, that … refuse. The sticking issue appeared to be the most pressing and eventually Gerry was off in search of the appropriate sticky stuff.

Leo and Tramina, left now alone, found they had nothing to say after the artistic discussion and an uncomfortable silence filled the room. Leo broke it.

‘How is the Puli?’ He asked.

‘The pulley? What pulley?’

‘Your dog, the Puli.’

Her puzzled blue green eyes hooked onto Leo’s amused brown gaze ‘Why d'you call him a pulley?’

‘Because he is. Catastropher is a Hungarian sheep dog, a Puli.’

As she still looked puzzled he spelled the name of the breed for her.

‘Oh! Tramina exclaimed with a broad smile, ‘I was told, jokingly, that he is a Bitzer. He was abandoned as a puppy and Fred and Louise, my neighbours, adopted him. They are retired and quite old so now that I work part time I have volunteered to walk their dog every day.’

‘I do admire you’ his smile warmly responding to hers ‘and I can imagine why he was not wanted; apart from the danger he represents to life and limb he must cost a packet to feed.’

‘Well, they adore the dog and really they have nothing much on which to spend their money. He also makes them feel safe. They think he will defend them against intruders although he is such a softie that he would probably roll over to have his tummy scratched.’

‘Yes I have had the opportunity to test his softness,’ laughed Leo. Just then his phone vibrated and he looked at it, eyebrows raised in surprise.

‘Sorry, I have to take this.’

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He spoke softly on the phone and Tramina, who had moved to the kitchenette ostensibly to take the cups to the sink but really to give him some space, could not make out much of the short conversation but heard him laughing and the name Alex mentioned several times. While washing the cups she enjoyed hearing him laugh and it had been particularly good to hear him joking about his collision with the dog. Good to see him getting over the anger as well as getting physically better. At first she thought he would never forgive her and that hurt. He seemed such a nice bloke; she found herself more and more drawn to him as they spent more time together. Leo reminded her of Julian in the easy way she could communicate with him.

Gerry came back with a collection of bottles and tubes, PVA, Superglue, UHU and that special glue for glass that required the cooperation of a source of ultraviolet light - it was decided that they would have to wait for a very sunny day and take the panel out into the garden when the time came to stick the glass to it. They found they needed another coffee to stimulate the brain and plan how to tackle the job.

With all this it was getting late to start the sticking now and Leo was getting tired so they decided to leave it for the next day. Gerry would bring a take-away from the Café for the three of them at his usual mid afternoon lunch hour. There was nothing that could possibly make him alter his habits.

His timing suited Tramina who could not keep leaving early every day. Leo did not mind when he ate; he was only too grateful for the help he was getting and kept himself propped up by frequent cups of coffee until his lunch arrived.

After their departure Leo was left pondering on the conversation he just had with Alexandra over the phone. He had put her au courant of his situation of which she knew very little, only what Joe had told her and he did not know much either. She had been very concerned and offered to come and help him.

‘My darling,’ she said when he protested at her offer to help him shower, ‘I think I have seen you naked before or don’t you remember?

And any way I would like the opportunity to admire all those colourful bruises you say you have.’

Leo was not too sure he would like to be mothered by his lover or would having Alexandra tending to his basic needs not qualify as mothering? At the very least it would be rather unromantic. She had to be dissuaded. He knew by experience that it is most difficult to refuse the unnecessary help of somebody who has made up her mind, or his mind for that matter, to be helpful. It is so often the case that people believe that they know what is best for you better than you know yourself. It had 114

happened to him that after a long exchange, in which he had tried to explain, over and over again why he did not want whatever was offered, nicely and politely, the insistence of the would-be-helper had finally irritated him so much that he snapped. Then he was blamed for being unreasonable, while the other was ‘only trying to help.’

Alexandra did not insist; she assured him that she only wanted to see him, with or without his clothes on. He laughed and described the state of his flat. If she would not mind picking her way around the bits of future artwork strewn all over the floor she would be most welcome, he told her.

She did not mind, she reacted pretty much as Tramina had done, with the enthusiasm of a kid promised a visit to the zoo.

‘I have to go now; I have a friend with me. I’ll call you soon to arrange something’ he said cheerfully.

Now he was not too sure he wanted to see Alexandra yet, he felt less than attractive and not so masculine, probably the effect of needing so much help. Even graciously given, as it was, he found it diminished his self-esteem, not a thing he possessed in bucketfuls anyway. Better not to hurry to invite her over, not until he was well on the way to recovery. It should not be long now or so his physiotherapist had said. Leo suspected though that Bobby was one of those kind souls who could not give bad news and the recovery might take longer than his predictions, at least those he voiced. He could not deny that the weekly massage had made a huge difference and the program of exercises that followed was certainly working.

Perhaps not long now, patience, patience…he told himself.

That evening Tramina popped in to see the old couple. She had been uncommonly short with them in her haste to return to Leo’s and felt she owed them an apology or at least an explanation. Louise was all ears while Fred was all questions and no ears; he was so full of his own opinions that his questions were more statements than questions. Tramina was sure that all through the afternoon, while she was at Leo’s, they had talked only about her and speculated wildly on the reasons for her haste. In common with everybody who has little of interest to do they vicariously live the lives of others; in this case hers. Well, if that made them happy…

She explained to them now about her new friends and the art making in which she had become embroiled. Fred asked which of the two men was her boyfriend. Of course he did not believe her answer; neither of them could conceive that she could have male friends; any male in her life had to be a boyfriend. When learning she had two male friends at the same time their minds did indeed boggle.

And so a few days passed with the three friends getting together to have lunch and to work, with the work progressing steadily while Leo was 115

mending fast, the physiotherapy helping immensely. Still Leo could not do much and devised a method all of his own to participate in the artistic process. As phoney as the pictures were he felt that he had to have some direct input in their making and so he sat upright on the sofa with the wooden bits and the other debris beside him and picking them up with his left hand he threw them one by one onto the panel lying on the floor further away. A bit like bowling, but played with his left hand the aim was not all that accurate, which was the reason for Gerry and Tramina jumping about to avoid being hit and the cause of much laugher and joking.

As soon as a projectile landed they got down on their hands and knees fighting playfully to be the one to chalk its position. Then the other would stick it in place with the appropriate glue, with more care than the job deserved. A few dabs of paint followed and the work was done. In that way they soon had several panels drying, propped up against all the available walls. The place was crowded; they could hardly move and in the middle of all this Alexandra arrived, to the surprise of Leo, the amusement of Gerry, who guessed who she was, and the polite welcome of Tramina, who had not a clue.

Introductions completed Leo pulled himself together and the host reawakened in him to offer a glass of white wine to everybody.

Alexandra was genuinely impressed with the artwork, or so she said.

Surely she must see through the ruse, Leo thought, but perhaps not; let’s hope Tramina and Gerry do not give the game away. Leo had no reason not to trust his mistress but his instinct told him that it was better to keep his deception as private as possible.

The other two cleared up while Alexandra and Leo kept getting in the way, simply because there was nowhere else to go in the tight space, and all of them giggling. There was an atmosphere of end of term at college as they toasted a job well done. Soon both helpers left saying an ‘until tomorrow!’ filled with innuendo in the case of Gerry and wide-eyed innocence in that of Tramina.

As soon as the front door closed behind them Alexandra slipped her arms under Leo’s shirt and softly pressed herself against him, carefully, without causing him any discomfort, which was not short of a miracle given his still painful bruises. His left arm responded to her touch by circling her waist but his right was somewhat reluctant, not so the rest of his body.

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CHAPTER 23

‘Where is your bathroom?’ said Alexandra, bringing out from her bag a frothy handful, which later turned out to be a nightdress of the flimsiest persuasion.

An astounded Leo answered with an automatic gesture of the head while terrifying thoughts filled the inside of the same head. Are the bedclothes clean? And what about the bathroom? And for that matter the entire flat? He was better than most artists at housekeeping but at the moment the place was not fit to receive anybody, much less a lady who stays at five stars hotels and has for a friend some rich Italian with a luxury manor house in Tuscany and a yacht in the Med. Looking around he felt his heart sink until his gaze fell on the Ancient Ancestor who returned it with a stern look that clearly said ‘Remember who you are!’

‘And aristocracy has never been renowned for its cleanliness is surely what he meant,’ thought Leo. Waking up next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and toast he saw Alexandra busy in the kitchen area, still wearing the frothy flimsiness that had made him forget about his arm and all his bruises.

They had breakfast sitting in bed and then, as she dressed, Alexandra asked if she could come back sometimes to join in the art making.

‘I had so much fun; I enjoyed working with you all so much; it was a new experience for me. As a writer, I work alone and loneliness is the price to pay for the peace and quiet I need. Ideas do not come to me while socializing.’

‘I understand; I too need solitude to create artwork’ Leo nearly added ‘real artwork’ but refrained from it. ‘Although the kind of solitude I prefer is the one I find in the reading room of a public library. I usually go there when planning a job. To be surrounded by minds working on their own affairs sustains my own creativity, weird, no?’

After a pause in which he assessed the likelihood of the other two being completely at ease in the presence of this sophisticated woman he added: ‘Of course you can come over whenever you wish, my friends will surely welcome you; they are very nice people. There are still a few finishing 117

touches to add and your input will be great.’ But he was not sure. Gerry despised everything contrived and Tramina, although Leo did not know her well, seemed to care nothing for frippery and trimmings, while Alexandra obviously dressed at some posh boutique and never appeared with a hair out of place. Even after furious and passionate lovemaking she only had to shake her short black hair and it all fell heavily into place.

Tramina, well, she had a private gale force six around her head at all times and seemed happier in her running gear than anything else. He wondered if the group was going to gel.

He did not need to worry. In the days that followed the friends met at Leo’s to help him with the collages. Alexandra joined them as much as her commitments allowed it and they all worked smoothly together. She and Tramina made friends quickly although Leo felt that Alexandra was a bit subdued in the younger woman’s company. That he found odd, very odd from somebody that so far had exuded nothing but confidence.

One sunny day they carried the collages outside so that Leo could put the finishing touches to the panels by adding the bits of broken glass. His arm had healed almost completely now and he did not need the sling but still he could not lift heavy weights. They found that the special glue for glass only stuck glass to glass but not to the wooden panels. After creating interesting constructions sticking bits of glass together, they made holes in the panels to pass wire through and they tied them on. All these goings on were occasion for more fun and games, of course. Leo was glad of the help and the company and he did not look forward to the day when he would return to work on his own.

They agreed to call the collages Composition and a number, any number below 23. The lack of continuity in the sequence of numbers implying that there had been other collages now sold. By the end of the afternoon Leo had the panels named and photographed and the photos sent by email directly from Leo’s tablet to Cliff Gardner’s gallery.

It was Cathy’s first day at the firm. Tramina had installed herself in Otto’s office the day before, which was a bit of an upheaval. There was plenty of room; due to Otto’s tidiness the office was almost bare except for a forgotten geranium, struggling to catch a few photons at the north-facing window.

Cathy was all smiles and youth; she immediately took possession of the reception area with Otto hovering around her moving filing boxes she deemed in the wrong place. Whether she welcomed his attentions or not was not easy to guess. By coffee time Cathy had settled as if she had been there for months, if she was nervous, she did not show it. Without asking she made coffee for the three of them.

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‘Thank you, Cathy.’ Tramina said with a smile as the new girl deposited a mug on her desk.

Time to go home arrived and Tramina grabbed the ailing geranium to go to Leo expecting to have a quiet lunch, the two of them or maybe with Gerry, as they had finished all the work the day before.

She was surprised to be greeted by a swinging party. Gerry and Alexandra were there and also a hefty woman in green leggings and a multicoloured top with a pattern of circles and hibiscus flowers. In her hair, which was an incredible shade of purple, she had a band made of metal encrusted with glass beads clashing with much heavy and shiny jewellery all over her ample figure, tottering on red high heeled shoes. Red lipstick, golden eye shadow and tattooed butterflies on the cheeks completed this extraordinary sight. As Tramina entered she was explaining to all in a booming voice that from her upstairs flat she had seen Leo’s artwork in the garden and simply had to come and admire it. And how much she regretted not realizing that Leo had been incapacitated and therefore not having gone to help – internal sigh of relief from that subject - because Leo was such a good friend and had come to console her when she thought her beloved Arthur was lost. At this Leo behind her mouthed silently ‘Arthur is her pet owl’ for the benefit of the others.

That day Leo had assumed they were all meeting as usual but he decided to make a special effort to celebrate the completion of the collages.

He went to get a takeaway and buy a couple of bottles when he almost fell into the arms of Marilyn, standing on his doorstep ready to ring the bell.

In a mad moment of euphoric and celebratory generosity he invited her to lunch. He was thankful to Gerry for having stopped him sticking on one of the panels the bra he had found hanging out of his neighbour’s dustbin.

Marilyn had trundled alongside him to the shop while he brought her up to date as to his latest adventures. Back at the flat he asked Marilyn to extend his dining/kitchen table by putting one of the panels, face down, on it. With all the stuff stuck on it, the panel did not lay flat and glasses and plates did not stand a chance. Marilyn decided to turn it round with its back on the table. That worked fine and they placed glasses and the rest among the excrescences that were stuck to it. The result was a colourful, original and very festive table, which would have been at home in the pages of a glossy magazine.

When Tramina saw it she was delighted, and realizing she was still clutching the ailing geranium she placed it on a piece of a wicker basket painted green stuck on the middle of the panel. The geranium, grateful for the water it had at coffee time in the office and enjoying the unexpected 119

attention it was receiving now, had decided to make a come back and was perky enough to raise hopes for its complete recovery.

‘For me?’ said Leo, ‘ how thoughtful!’

Now he was confident enough to pull Tramina’s leg without fear, knowing she would sweep her hair back from her face better to give a hearty laugh, in a gesture that was becoming dear to him.

‘If you like’ she said, having gone through the hair sweeping ritual and beaming a warm smile at him. ‘I meant to rescue it as it was so badly neglected. It needs to be outside this time of the year.’

The party got animated as soon as the wine started to flow. Alexandra asked Tramina about her new role in the office and about the new girl.

Leo noticed them talking as if they were old friends and wondered. He sensed that there was a bond between the two and asked himself what could it be. He had not the least suspicion that the bond was he.

By now Gerry and Marilyn were dancing to the tune of their own singing, Gerry in a falsetto and Marilyn in a deep bass. There was not much room for dancing or even standing still and Gerry insisted on holding his glass of red wine at all times; an obvious recipe for disaster. Eventually he tripped, either all by his own efforts or because Marilyn lost balance on her high heels and leaned on him at the time he was pirouetting on one leg. It could not be ascertained. The glass of red went flying over the table and landed by the geranium, miraculously not braking but its contents covered a huge area of the panel on which a piece of old canvas was stuck.

Alex rushed to the sink to get a cloth to mop the spill but Tramina stopped her.

‘Let’s wait and see; it may look just right.’ Leo gave her a quick appreciative squeeze across the shoulders accompanied by a ‘that’s my girl!

You’re learning fast!’

They all watched the stain spread until it reached the edge of the canvas. Some of it ran over the painted area, where it was not absorbed, until it dripped onto the floor. For some reason everybody thought the episode extremely funny and fell about laughing. Marilyn lost balance and fell on the sofa dragging Gerry down on top of her.

In the opposite corner Leo slipped between Alex and Tramina from behind, and putting his arms round their waists, he whispered in their ears ‘ Luckily it was Gerry that fell on Marilyn not the other way about!’

‘Pity! We could have stuck him on one of the panels…’ Tramina added.

Alexandra ticked off both Leo and Tramina: ‘Children, children!

Behave; you two are simply horrible!’

The three giggled, mostly due to the wine, which was affecting everyone. Marilyn had turned into a heavy quivering mass of giggles too, unable to move, so Gerry was trying to extricate her from the depth of the 120

sofa, not immune to the infectious giggles with its loss of energy side effect.

The process took a good ten minutes. At last Marilyn managed to get up and, recovering her shoes that had flown off as she fell, she was finally upright. Gerry, in contrast, was on all fours retrieving the metal tiara that had sat so proudly on her purple mane from behind the sofa where it had fallen, as well as a collection of jewellery of all sorts that got strewn about due to the energetic dancing.

Wiping away his tears Leo noticed the geranium and picked it up saying ‘ We have to give it a name.’

Everybody, with replenished glasses, sat on the floor to consider the possibilities. All except Marilyn, who sat on a chair, thinking it risky to attempt the sofa again, even worse the floor in case of take-off problems.

The quest for the ideal name turned into a game, they all wrote names on small pieces of paper, rolled then up and thoroughly mixed them in Leo’s fedora. Traditionally a child would pick one out, children being suspected of having no guile, oh such misplaced trust. As there was no child available the friends were faced with an insurmountable problem. They would have to think outside the box and choose a suitable innocent substitute. Who would be the right choice? Who? Who? ‘Arthur of course!’ Marilyn was volunteering her owl.

Arthur was fetched and introduced to the fedora. The rolled papers looked like worms, the humans thought. The owl did not agree. Arthur ignored the hat preferring to perch on Alexandra’s shoulder. With Alex bravely trying not to show her abject terror Marilyn offered the hat again to Arthur. Arthur again ignored it and flew to the table. The hat followed him. Arthur decided that to get rid of these obnoxious people once and for all the best course of action was to do what they wanted and jumped inside the upturned fedora where he proceeded to peck at the bits of paper and scatter them to the four quarters of the room. Desperation began to grip his audience but just then Arthur, trying to eat one of the little paper worms, got it stuck in his throat. Opportunity winking at him, Leo grabbed the little owl and managed to pull the paper out of its beak aided by Arthur retching just at that moment. It was unanimously decided that whatever was written there was the winning name and Arthur had fulfilled his role.

Arthur was returned to his travelling cage and the paper unrolled. It said Violet.

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CHAPTER 24 Leo was in a good place at the moment. Alexandra was very much in his life - although slightly absent at the moment - his arm had healed completely and he had plenty of remunerative work to do, what his mother called ‘real work.’ On top of that there were the collages, which would surely take him to unparalleled heights of fame and fortune. So why was he not brimming with confidence in the future and happiness in the present? Instead he was not exactly despondent but inexplicably in a very low key mood waiting patiently for the American to contact him.

Tramina was also waiting, in her case it was for a meeting with her client. She had booked the interview room at Horsfield and Waddon and was getting more nervous by the minute. It was not the first time they met but now this would be particularly important because it included representatives of the Planning Authority and also the traffic engineers. As it turned out she did not need to worry; she scored a few points in favour of the proposed development and her client was very pleased with her handling of his affairs. The proposal still had to go to appeal and she had to prepare a strong case if they were to win. She would be very busy from now on, she told Otto, and added that regrettably she would have to stop the German lessons - if they could be called that.

Not that she had seen much of him lately, those collages at Leo’s had absorbed her and she had frequently cancelled their Wednesday evenings finding that she preferred the friendly company of the artistic crowd to that of the sexy Austrian. She had considered introducing him to the group but was reluctant, as she could not see him fitting in.

She had to face the truth; she had been carried along by circumstances and allowed Otto to make love to her purely as an experiment, maybe also because she was lonely. She had never liked him as a person, that was clear, and it also seemed clear to her now that from the beginning he was only interested in the physical side of their relationship. They had not been out together after that visit to the theatre and she had begun to feel like a mistress conveniently kept out of sight. To cap it all, she was baffled by his two alternative moods, the hot lover and the cool colleague, which he could switch on and off so easily.

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Allowing the affair to continue for the sake of having a bloke around was suddenly distasteful to her. Worse of all; their relationship had not made that emptiness inside her disappear. She began to fear it was chronic.

Otto’s reaction to her decision was surprising. She expected trouble, recriminations and arguments to try to get her to change her mind but nothing of the sort happened. He was most understanding, even appeared a tad happier than he had been lately. Although a relief to Tramina it was also a let down, she would have liked some resistance, even a tear or two.

‘As if,’ she told herself, ‘he is tough and I am not a great beauty, like Alexandra’ but her ego was bruised and her brain intrigued, ‘surely he should be a little sad?’

If nothing else he should be sorry to miss her cooking, even Leo admired her pastry and he, being kind of French, must know of such things.

That reassured her.

Thinking of Leo she found that she longed for the company of his crowd. She was sure immersion in that pool of creative chaos was what she needed right now. The beauty of these people, she realized, was that she would not have to tell them anything; being among them would be sufficient to restore her self-esteem.

That working day passed ever so slowly; she could hardly wait for the time to be out on the street and jump on the bus to get to Leo’s flat.

Tramina now felt self-conscious in her shared office when Otto was around but fortunately he spent quite a lot of time with Cathy telling her how to handle his correspondence and his files. He was very particular as to how his work was organized. Tramina knew what it was to be the new girl; only a little while ago she had quite a job to learn all his quirky ways.

She was sorry for Cathy and offered to help her and take the burden of explaining from Otto but he said that he did not mind and that Tramina had plenty to do with her own workload, which was true enough. Nice of him. She was grateful that he did not bear her any grudges and showed as much consideration towards her as he always did. She had to give him that.

‘It is only me today,’ said Leo when he opened the door to Tramina.

‘Alex has disappeared again, no doubt carried on a wave of inspiration somewhere quiet and foreign and Gerry woke up with a serious headache after a night in the pub celebrating somebody's birthday.’ Tramina did not know if to say sorry or good and opted for a neutral ‘Oh...’

‘Now that I am no longer the invalid you made, er, met,’ he added with a spark in his eyes, ‘there is no need to eat in, we can go to the Esperanza.’ He refrained from saying ‘you will like it there’ because he hated when people said that to him, presuming to know him so well and were able to pre-empt his tastes in everything, from food to books and 123

even in women. Nevertheless he did hope she would like the café as much as he did, how couldn't she?

‘And Marilyn?’ asked Tramina. Confronted by his mischievous expression of pretended horror she laughed.

‘Perhaps we will leave my neighbour of the bubbling personality for a day when Gerry is with us, I think they bonded, don't you agree?’

The image of Gerry collapsing on the sofa on top of Marilyn and nearly suffocating in her flowing garments presented itself vividly to both of them.

‘Yes! You are right. For a few minutes they were inseparable!’

He laughed ‘Indeed! And with Gerry around she would concentrate on him so we will be able to breathe!’

He turned to lock his door and turning back, he briefly put his hand on her waist to guide her to the path. She enjoyed the light touches that now and then descended on her unannounced when near Leo; never lingering, always friendly. As always her spontaneous response was to lift her face to him and smile into his friendly eyes.

Mehmet rushed to greet them, surprised to see the girl from the park with Leo but pretended otherwise. Later he would comment and gossip with his wife to his heart's content. For now he greeted them with his usual cheerfulness and shouted at Consuelo in the kitchen to come out to see the miracle of a Leo looking happy and full of beans.

Consuelo appeared drying her hands on her impeccable apron, which became less impeccable with this treatment. After she crushed Leo in one of her maternal embraces she pushed him away from her and holding him at arm’s length she said: ‘Look at you, more good looking than ever,’ which was true, the enforced rest or perhaps the fun and games he had with his friends had brought back the lustre to his brown eyes and the shine to his dark hair.

In the presence of Tramina, Consuelo’s maternal effusions made him more than a little uncomfortable.

‘This is Tramina; it was her dog that tripped me.’ Leo said, introducing his companion.

‘Not her fault’ he quickly added fearing that, out of loyalty to him, Consuelo would react unfavourably to Tramina.

Consuelo on the contrary gave Tramina one of her hugs, which seemed to be appreciated by the latter and Leo relaxed seeing that his new friend was accepted in the familiar group. Mehmet took them to a little round table by the window where they sat facing each other and pointing at the blackboard that listed the dishes of the day he recommended la bouillabaisse. He had gone to market early in the morning and found that there was a good selection of shellfish with which to make a superb dish.

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While they waited for their lunch Tramina told Leo of the success of the meeting and how she was relieved and surprised as she was not expecting an easy ride.

‘You do not have much confidence in your abilities, eh? Well, that will come with more experience.’

‘That is true but I need to get quite a lot of it without delay for the appeal.’

‘Which consists of?’ asked he.

‘I will have to present my client's case and then the Planning Authority will demolish it and ask me awkward questions and I will collapse in tears.’

‘Hmm… How can we boost your confidence? You seem to be all negative.’

‘If I could be more like Alex, she is so beautiful, elegant ...no wonder she is so self-assured. I so admire her.’ Tramina said wistfully.

Remembering how he felt when he went to meet Joe and Alex at the Wooster, he said ‘I am not the world authority on this subject but I imagine that confidence comes not from looks but from attitudes. You will have to learn to act self-assured even if you are not. For that you need to practise being a ... what it is it you will be?’

‘The expert witness, acting on behalf of the developer.’

‘Right, act is the operative word. Could you imagine the situation in the courtroom and act out your role as if you were in a play?’

‘Gosh, you make it sound worse than it is. Not a courtroom, thanks!

And there isn't a judge. Well, the planning inspector is a sort of judge, really.

Oh, now I am really scared!’

‘Nonsense. With the collaboration of Gerry and Alex, if she reappears in time, we can set up a whatever and you can practise. How’s about that?

Hmm?’ ‘I can't say I am convinced but it is worth a try.’

‘Done. I shall try to get Gerry and Alex on board. By the way can I call you Trami? I am lazy as to longish names.’

‘Of course, as long as you do not call me Tram, it sounds too hard.’

‘No, that would not do. Tram brings to mind an image of parallel lines, it implies certain inflexibility; a trait you do not seem to have.’

‘Certainly not, I am too much of a scatterbrain for that,’ said the amused person now named Trami.

‘By the way I never told you how grateful I am for all your help.’

‘For nearly breaking your arm you mean?’

‘That was an accident and if you feel guilty, wrongly, you can be sure that you have wiped clean your celestial slate with all the care you have shown me afterwards, truly,' he said, very seriously, holding her hand over 125

the table; an incident that did not go unnoticed by the owners of the Café Esperanza.

Without letting go he added ‘I have a favour to ask. Would you help me with a project I’ve got to do pretty soon? It would be more fun with you involved.’

‘What kind of project?’ She felt she had to ask, it might be something beyond her abilities and she did not want to let him down.

‘A peculiar one, as all mail art projects are’ he said and explained the exercise with the objects in the shape of the outline of an envelope in thick plastic. It was this the exercise that he had in mind to do with Mariella.

‘You see, one of us will hold the plastic shape so that it frames an interesting scene and another will take a photo. Then we will write on the image ‘Wish you were here’ and email the resulting graphic to the mail artist that initiated the project. What will my friend do with the images I don’t know, there were no details on the invitation. We would have to wait and see.’

Tramina’s delight was clearly visible; Leo did not need to ask if she would like to join in, and she, for her part, thought this was the answer to her prayers. Had she not missed the creative sessions she had so enjoyed with Leo and his gang?

‘Oh yes’ she almost shouted and Leo, with a final pat, let go of her hand saying ‘Bon, after lunch we could go to the park to see if we can find Mariella.’

He always carried the shapes with him to take advantage of any photo opportunity that presented itself, his phone being good enough to take care of the shooting.

Mariella was happy to do another project and when she got the idea of what it was about, she wanted to know if she would get to use the computer again.

‘Better still, you will have to use my phone.’

‘Your phone? Ah, OK.’ Tramina found the idea bizarre but decided to keep her counsel.

So leaving Granny to doze sitting on her bench, the three went together around the park each trying to spot the best shot.

Around half an hour later, the work done, they returned to the bench where Granny was waiting and Leo showed Mariella how to type on the images with a beautiful and decorative hand and how to send them off directly by email from within the painting app he had downloaded to his phone. A little miracle of modern electronics that left Granny and Tramina astounded while to Mariella it was just a lot of fun. Her young mind was used to miracles.

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CHAPTER 25 Tramina was working from home now, most days anyway. She needed to concentrate and the comings and goings of her office colleagues were a little disturbing. Her report was taking shape, slowly but surely. She began to feel she had nothing to fear as to her ability to write it but it was another matter to deliver it in front of the planning experts acting for the opposition who would look for every possible angle to trip her up. Besides she had to make an intelligent guess about the arguments they would put forward and think of ways to refute them. However, from time to time, with laptop open, her gaze strayed and got lost in the patch of sky framed by her window and she would fall into a reverie dreaming of a future in which she would be established as a consultant. She saw herself well off and respected, maybe with the man of her dreams by her side; somebody intelligent, kind, full of fun and good looking. And a dog and a cat all of her own... That would make a change.

She had enjoyed the company of Leo and Mariella yesterday; the child was so sweet and bright and the man had acted much as the doting father towards her; the fact that evidently they were not related was a surprise and Tramina had to revise the romantic story she had woven around Leo. The experience had filled her with an indefinable sense of well being.

Perhaps she should add a kid or two to her dream of a future ideal life.

For the time being she had to stop having lunch with her friends and instead rustled up a sandwich so as not to waste time, being acutely conscious that she needed to work on her submission steadily if she was going to succeed and achieve her dreams. ‘Knock, knock!’ It was the middle of a particularly busy morning and she had got into her work so deeply that her phone made her jump. After digging the little mobile out of the mess on her dining room table Tramina found a message from Leo. Alexandra had come back from her break, all refreshed and full of creative energy, and had agreed to coach her, could she come over in the afternoon?

She quickly calculated that, at the rate she was working, by midday she would feel happy with her progress. Yes, she could take the afternoon off. She answered in the affirmative and got up to make 127

herself a cup of coffee.

Lucy was waiting in the kitchen intently looking at the tin full of cat biscuits, ready to pounce if one of them were to escape.

‘Hi Lucy, d’you know? This is not that difficult and it is by far more interesting than any of the other aspects of planning I have been involved in. And I haven't a quirky boss to contend with. I can work here at home and see you often …’

At this point the grey tabby shot her a demanding glance. ‘...and contribute to your early death from obesity. No, you are not getting titbits every time I come into the kitchen,’ she said sternly.

Tramina did not put her usual biscuit on the side of her saucer, she could not, after denying Lucy hers. Feeling a bit guilty yet righteous she went back to work.

Leo was surprised to learn that Alexandra had not gone anywhere glamorous to write but had returned to her home in Cornwall, as she explained, to see how things were there. She met her ex with whom she was on quite good terms, she said, and she had all in all a pleasant time.

She loved the challenge of turning Tramina into a bit of a dragon so she could fulminate against her opponents.

When the wannabe planning consultant arrived she found not only Leo and Alex but also Gerry and Marilyn. It was Leo’s idea; if the scheme was going to succeed it had to be as close to reality as possible and as large an audience as he could muster was necessary to unsettle the speaker.

Tramina was unsettled enough and the thought of delivering her speech in front of these eager faces put her in such a state she could hardly find her voice. Nevertheless, she took a deep breath…

‘That's a good idea, but try to do it so nobody notices, it’s a dead giveaway' came from Alex. ...and she started to state her case.

As she warmed up it became easier to be fluent and to appear confident. When she finished they all decided that her performance was very good indeed.

Gerry had had a brush with the planning authorities over the question of a shed he built without permission in the front garden of the old converted house where he rented a flat. In the London Museum of Mail Art, as he wrote over its door, he stored his vast collection of hand-made postcards, artist’s books, artistamps and some indescribable objects that the postal services had amazingly managed to deliver without damage. The landlord, the other residents and several neighbours all officially complained and the shed was dismantled, the wood was reused in some of Gerry's artistic endeavours and the Mail Art went back to its former 128

hideout in the cluttered flat. On the strength of that experience he considered himself a bit of an expert and began bombarding Tramina with questions that he hoped would reflect those she would get from the opposition.

Everybody else joined in and the gathering developed into a lively party helped along with the bottles of Chablis Leo had deemed essential to open.

Alex did not forget her role as style consultant. With full glasses in their hands the two women retired to the only other room in Leo’s mansion where they could have a private talk, which happened to be the bathroom.

It was a sizeable bathroom for such a small flat with the added advantage of having a lock on the door. Thus ensconced Alex pushed her young friend gently towards the mirror to confront her reflection.

‘What do you see there?’ she asked.

‘Hmm, an untidy person too young-looking to be respected by anybody?’

‘No’, was the reply; ‘that is what you think you see, what others see is a beautiful young woman with intelligent eyes and a fresh, honest smile.’

‘They do?’ said Tramina, genuinely surprised, particularly at the word beautiful.

She had always considered herself just about reaching pretty on the aesthetic scales and only on a good day.

‘But what about my hair? My hair is always in a mess, it is soft and shiny I grant you but it is so fine that it flies around my face like, like...’

Not being able to find a suitable metaphor she left the sentence hanging in mid air.

‘Hmm, there you got me,’ said Alex, her black eyebrows nearly joining above her small nose. ‘Mine is heavy and easily drops back into its place, if kept short. But I would not have your hair cut if I were you, maybe plait it?’ Adding ‘just kidding!’ as she saw the look of horror on Tramina's face..

After a few moments of reflection Alex’s face lit up.

‘I got it! Hat!’ ‘I know, I sometimes wear a hat, well, a cap, to hold it in place but I cannot wear a hat indoors.’

‘Of course you can.’

Taking Tramina by the hand, Alex dragged her back to join the others, searched for Leo and pushing her reluctant companion in front of him she said: ‘Leo, tell Trami about your art teacher, Nikki, I think she was called?’

‘What?' said Leo, ‘about how she told me off for daring to paint a flower on a ceramic sample I was preparing? I was such a wally, I should have known she would have preferred a dead rat!’

‘No, no, about how she dressed.’

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‘Ah! Well, always in a black outfit topped by a black hat stuck permanently on her head. She had a collection of them but none was pointed as one would have expected.’ He answered sarcastically, adding more kindly ‘‘A great pity as she had super hair; pitch black, dead straight and heavy like yours, Alex, but I fear she may have lost it all by now, from lack of oxygen.’

Alexandra turned Tramina round to face her, announcing that what she had to do was wear her hat with panache, planting a kiss on her cheek so happy was she to have solved the problem.

Tramina was not so happy; the proposed hat was one more worry. It would have to give the right impression while at the same time she had to be comfortable wearing it. It could not be so tight that it would stop her blood flow but tight enough so it would not slip off. It could take ages to find the right headgear. And that would not do.

Marilyn suddenly got up from the couch where she was nesting, giving a spot-on imitation of a brooding hen. Once vertical she walked surprisingly briskly towards the door, shouting to a bemused Gerry to accompany her, because, she said, she could not carry them all by herself.

Soon they reappeared carrying several hatboxes between them. They all had great fun trying the hats on, which really were too large for Tramina’s head but they were ideal to stuff her hair inside. Leo was the most enthusiastic, perhaps because of his beloved fedora he favoured a smaller version of it that Marilyn had decorated with poppies and a brooch in the shape of a dragonfly. Truly Tramina looked very fetching in it, despite the ridiculous additions, and Leo's eyes told clearly of his admiration.

He spoke in a soft deep voice.

‘Tomorrow you and I will hit the shops and find you one like this. My treat, to thank you for all you have done for me.’

Then looking towards Alexandra who was a little apart from the group observing the scene, he added casually, too casually: ‘Would you like to come with us, Alex?’ - hoping nobody realized it was an afterthought.

‘Oh, no, I think two people taking Trami shopping will look silly.

Better you two go, anyhow I have lots to do,’ she replied, punctuating this with her widest and friendliest smile, hoping in turn that nobody would guess how difficult it had been to bring such a smile to her lips.

Leo smiled back at her but did not say anything while Tramina looked at the sophisticated woman who had become her unlikely friend with an imploring tilt of the head.

‘D’you think it would be safe for me to choose a hat without my fashion advisor at my elbow?’

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‘Yes, of course it is; don't forget you will have Leo with his impeccable taste in hats to guide you.’

Alex gave a little chuckle echoed by a hearty laugh from Gerry, who, despite his amusement at the idea of Leo as fashion arbiter, was acutely aware of the pathos of the situation in which his friend’s mistress found herself.

Tramina was a little uncomfortable going shopping with a man, even if the man was Leo, or perhaps precisely because of that, but could not see how to get out of the situation so decided to go with the flow.

‘Tomorrow I will have to work at least for a few hours. I have to check a few things on line.’

‘That's fine,' said Leo, ‘we can go in the afternoon to John Lewis to get the hat – my mother swears by their clothes and I suppose she would swear by their hats if she wore them. And then have tea there!’

The last was said with the expression of a child promised a treat.

That evening Tramina had a longer run with Christopher the Mop, they went all around the park twice, she needed to think and running cleared her head. There was not much in the dog’s head to clear up but he enjoyed the extra time outdoors anyway.

Back at the house she decided to Skype Julian. There was a lot she had to tell him and could not face writing a very long email. The trouble was that she could not remember how detailed her accounts of her relationship with Otto had been, whether or not her brother knew how far she had allowed it to go. It was not a problem she soon discovered, because Julian was uncharacteristically full of his own stories and he hardly paid attention to hers. Besides he muddled up all the names of her friends so it was difficult to make herself understood.

This was to her advantage, as she really did not feel she wanted to tell him too much, she was not particularly proud of the Otto experience. She gratefully opted for listening to his tales about the hospital, his animals and about Sam, the new doctor, who was going to move in with him. Julian showed her a photo of the three of them, Cinnamon, Sam and him at a beauty spot where they had a picnic and it was plain to see that Sam was short for Samantha.

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CHAPTER 26 Leo accompanied Alexandra to the bus stop. They did not have to wait long for the bus that was to take her back to the hotel, to their separate and private relief. An alien feeling was palpable between them. Alex had been uncharacteristically pressed to leave and Leo kept asking himself why, if she had to return early today as she said, her flimsy nightwear had winked at him from her handbag when she had opened it to get her comb to try to organize Trami's hair into a more suitable arrangement. She had mentioned a video conference with her divorce solicitor back in Cornwall as the reason for leaving so early.

Well, no matter, his ardour for the beautiful Alex had somewhat diminished lately, what with all the hard work and the worry about the interview with the gallery.

Walking back to his flat with a spring in his step he found himself whistling and it took some effort not to start dancing or at least skipping to the tune. Today he was not inclined towards introspection so he let go of the impulse to analyse his reasons for his present elated mood and instead, the evening being still pleasant though summer was beginning to ebb, he turned on his tracks and headed for the park.

He did not see Spaghetti Head and The Blob. Whether he was disappointed or he let the melancholy of the hour get at him, Leo suddenly had enough and briskly walked home.

Tomorrow it would be fun to hunt for a hat that would contain all that gold spaghetti and turn Tramina from a well intentioned if somewhat awkward young thing into a sophisticated woman capable of eating alive the suits representing the Planning Authority, spitting the buttons out of the side of her mouth. The unflattering metaphor made him smile as he painted in his mind a vivid picture of his friend, the unyielding defendant of the oppressed and misunderstood capitalist who was her client. Not a role he would have thought she would relish but she appeared to be happy with the turn her career had taken. He concluded that it must be the improvement to her finances. Ah, everybody has a price.

Who was he to criticize? As this point he too was dreaming of his own future as a rich successful artist, even having got there on the crest of a 132

wave of seriously faked art. His dream included a penthouse by the river, a fast car, red bien sûr, a cellar full of good wines, hand picked during his special trips to France visiting vineyard after vineyard... and tasting all that was on offer. He was jolted out of his daydream by somebody hooting angrily at him from a car quite similar to the one he had been dreaming about. He had been on the brink of jaywalking right into its path.

The next morning Tramina found she needed to go to the office where she was received by Trevor and Betty with a ‘Hello stranger!’ Not original but heartfelt; they had really missed her. She could tell by the happy smiles of the couple and the many questions about how she was getting on and how she was managing, working all alone in the big house. She reassured them that all was well, not mentioning her new circle of friends; she did not know why but she wanted to keep that to herself; for the time being at least. One day she would invite everybody, perhaps when she had won the appeal, and celebrate with a great party.

Oh dear, the appeal! Fear grabbed her and excusing herself she went to the office she shared with Otto. He was not there so she could concentrate on her case for a couple of hours, checking the papers she had left behind in an oversight.

Suddenly she was aware of laughter coming from reception and of Otto’s voice mingling with Cathy’s in a lively chat. He had arrived and was making his presence unequivocally felt. ‘As he would,’ she thought.

That was when Betty came in, closing the door behind her. She sat on the edge of Tramina's desk with an unfamiliar serious cast on her face.

‘Tramina, there is something we feel we have to tell you. Trevor says he warned you. I wonder if you remember.’ Surprised, Tramina gave Betty a puzzled look.

‘Oh my, my! As usual he leaves me to do the difficult jobs’ complained Betty. ‘Obviously you do not remember. It's that, while you have been away, er, these few days, well, Otto ...Had you been here you, er, certainly would have noticed …’

Tramina had a feeling of déjà-vu; she felt transported back in time to the presence of Ray, indecisive Ray. What was she supposed to remember?

The old familiar injunction was rising in her mind; ‘for heaven’s sake. Get on with it!’ But she only smiled at poor embarrassed Betty. Through the closed door they could hear the voices from reception. This made Betty more nervous but also more determined to finish with the painful conversation.

‘I am sorry dear but Cathy and Otto are going out together,’ she blurted in one quick sentence, without any pause, the equivalent of taking a running jump to clear a precipice in one go, which in a way it was; she did not know 133

how her statement was going to be received. Would there be tears? Would there be wailing? Would Tramina take her grief out on her?

‘Oh, is that all?’ Tramina said smiling; she feared job-related bad news.

She had well and truly finished with Otto and what he did now was of no concern of hers, as she explained to Betty who jumped down from her perch to hug her.

‘I am happy you are taking it well and I’m sure Trevor will be as well.

He couldn't tell you himself, the coward!’ Betty said jokingly but then, dead seriously, she explained how worried they were about her, holed up with her work, having lost her boyfriend as well.

Tramina decided it was time to let the poor concerned Betty know about her new friends and it all came out in great gushes of fond memories and funny anecdotes while Betty, most happy, fuelled the conversation with weird comments and witty remarks so that when Otto came into the office the two women were laughing so much that they had to wipe the tears from their eyes to see him clearly.

His face dropped, which did not escape his ex-girl friend, who thought that it served him right.

‘Does he think I would be broken hearted? It's time he realized Teutonic gods are overrated.’

Tramina had arranged to meet Leo in John Lewis but with the turn her conversation with Betty had taken she texted him and asked him to come over to the office instead, which he did, interested to see her place of work.

When Leo arrived not only Tramina but all the crew was waiting for him, even Otto. Fedora in hand, the graphic designer cum future famous artist took in the faces looking at him and gave thanks he was not such an introvert that could not handle a group of strangers obviously too curious about the nature of his relationship with Tramina. Introduced as ‘a good friend’ by Tramina, after the hand shaking ritual with everybody plus an spontaneous and maternal kiss from Betty - at least Trevor hoped so, the newcomer impressed him as the sort of man some women might find attractive - Leo was allowed to sit in reception and a mug of coffee was put in his hand. Tramina had to go back to her office to sort out something urgent and when she came back she found Leo the centre of attention.

While he was amused by this, Tramina was troubled thinking her friend was uncomfortable. It showed; even Leo noticed it and his impish side took over. He got up, grabbed his hat and put an arm round Tramina’s waist, saying loudly ‘Well, love, time to go shopping’ and with a ‘Bye bye, nice to meet you’ to the others over his companion's head he steered a course to the door, leaving his audience quite mystified.

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Outside and out of sight he laughed heartily letting go of her and she, recovering her freedom, faced him.

‘Why did you do that?’ She asked, not exactly amused.

‘Only teasing’ he said. ‘Teasing you, mainly. You looked so concerned; you thought I was having a rough time, didn't you?'’

‘Well, yes. You’re cruel.’

‘I'm sorry… love?’ He went on with his tease.

Seeing the expression of exaggerated remorse that he affected she could not help but laugh, which did not stop her from complaining.

‘Don't you ‘love’ me! You patronizing, horrible man!’

‘Sorry, sorry!’ he said to her, this time seriously. He quietly admitted to himself that not to love her was becoming a bit difficult.

Horsfield and Waddon was a few blocks from Oxford Street, possibly the busiest street in London, packed with tourists and visitors seriously shopping before going home to their hotels or their houses in the suburbs.

They walked to John Lewis, a fair distance away but they had plenty of time and the weather was kind that day. Once there they went directly to see the hats. They were on a mission, concentrating on type, colour and quality. Tramina insisted it had to be blue because her best and most serious outfit was navy. Leo was of the opinion that a contrast would be better; it would be unlikely to find a good match and that is often worse, he argued.

Convinced, Tramina asked him to pick one.

‘I think I should trust your artist’s eye in the choice of colour,’ Tramina conceded.

He did not hesitate for long. Looking around he homed on to a pale but lively green cloche and stuck it on her head. Standing in front of Tramina he concentrated his gaze on her, as if he was painting her face, which in a way he was. He was taking in all the details of her lovely features, so much so that, later on, he was able to draw her portrait from the image that persisted in his mind.

Suddenly he bounded to another counter and taking another hat from its stand he returned, very pleased with himself.

‘This is it!’ He announced, not only to Tramina but also to the department store in general. When excited his deep voice could be heard far and wide. He then proceeded to bundle Tramina’s hair inside the perky trilby, the colour of ripe plums, dark but of a pinkish hue.

‘Look at me’ he said, bending his knees so as to lower his face to hers.

After some consideration he inclined the hat over to her left and then, after a bit more thinking, to her right. Then he inclined it slightly forward.

Deciding this was it, he stepped back and contemplated the pretty if bewildered face of Tramina.

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‘Spot on! You look capable but not stuffy, don’t forget you will be facing mostly men and we run on testosterone. A trilby, a masculine symbol in a feminine but serious colour, will say: I may be a weak woman (a quick smile flashed on his lips) but I am as tough as you, so watch it, fellows!’

Tramina, dazed by the whirlwind of Leo’s style of shopping, hat in hand, followed Leo who went to find his beloved fedora, abandoned disrespectfully on a display counter among the jungle of hat stands.

They were sitting facing each other across the small table. Leo had got the tea and the cakes. He was not holding back his infectious enthusiasm.

Tramina, smiling at him in response, carefully bit into a glossy Danish pastry. As she was enjoying the cake her gaze strayed out of the large window and floated over the rooftops of London. She became absorbed in her thoughts and Leo, who was watching the play of light on her hair with an artist’s eye, became curious.

‘What is on your mind?’ he asked, patting her hand gently to bring her out of her reverie.

Tramina turned to face him.

‘Fear is on my mind, that's what's on it; the appeal, you know. At the same time I feel incomplete, a feeling I have had for a long, long time. So long that it has become chronic.’

Encouraged by his sympathy and the warmth of his hand, which now was holding hers, she went on.

‘Have you ever felt incomplete?’

Without leaving him the space to reply she added ‘I thought landing this job would fill the gap but if it has, it has only filled it with fear.’

Meanwhile Leo was busy processing her question and after some internal deliberation he emerged with the conclusion that he felt quite whole with no gaps he could detect.

‘Sometimes I feel overwhelmed, which is, I suppose, the opposite of your state of mind. My problem is that I always find something new and terribly exciting to do and the days are not long enough for all my... my creative output, for lack of a better term.’ He said laughing. ‘Have you ever done something creative?’

Tramina was not sure.

‘I can rustle up a reasonable meal from anything I find in my fridge... and I have redecorated the house…parts of the house. Does that count?’

‘Lots of people would be happy with that’ he said ‘but obviously not you.’

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‘Tell you what,’ she lit up, ‘I was very happy when we all helped you with your collages!’

‘There you are, have you done any art or writing, maybe’ prompted Leo. ‘I used to write short stories to amuse my brother; children's stuff.’

‘Have you still got them? Can I see them?’

‘They are in my desk at home. Would you like to come over now? I want to show you my house too; I've got a proposal to put to you.’

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CHAPTER 27

‘What do you mean?’ said Leo with candid appreciation ‘You redecorated this huge house all by yourself?’

‘Yes, well, it is not really finished. Besides Julian kick started the project and when he left I went on, bit by bit. I had to get help with the plumbing and a few other things but yes, I have mostly done it with my own fair hands. I meant to do a lot more when I started to work part time but somehow it’s not happening.’

She looked sideways at him, to see if he noticed the allusion to them spending so much time together but he was absorbed in his thoughts.

‘I’m bowled over; you do not look the navvy type.’ Leo’s eyes darted from ceiling to walls to window frames.

‘Thank you, kind sir’ said Tramina, amused and at the same time not too sure how to take the possibly sexist remark. She decided to take it at face value, Leo never having shown any hints of chauvinism so far. Anyway, was it sexist or empowering, to be thought a navvy? She let it pass and continued to mock him.

‘Appreciated as they are I did not bring you to my beautiful mansion fishing for compliments. There is something that I think you will like even better.’

She led the way through the patio doors to the garden. Gesturing theatrically towards a large structure almost drowned in ivy that filled about one third of it and spanned its whole width, she said: ‘Ta-dah!’

All Leo could take in was that at the back of the garden there was a wall of greenery.

‘Lovely garden’ he said, nonplussed.

‘Thanks but what do you think of that?’

‘Think of what?’

‘Your studio!’

With eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose and half closed eyes he tried again and managed to discern a door in the greenery to one side of a row of small windows barely visible through the leaves. Tramina had run ahead and somehow found a door handle. She had fought with 138

the door to open it and was now waiting inside for him, happy as a kid on Christmas Eve, a kid with rich parents, of course.

He crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and stepped in.

‘It was built by Dad and Julian to house their machines. They were both into carpentry. When Julian moved to Australia we sold the machines and most of the tools to help with the expenses. I only kept a few which are in that cupboard. Mum wanted to plant climbing roses at the front but they would not grow facing north. Do you think it would do for a painter’s studio?’

‘It would indeed, a north outlook is essential, I’m told.’

‘Isn’t it too low? The ceiling, I mean,’ asked Tramina.

‘Not at all; I don't go for oversized pictures. No, I firmly believe one’s work should be of moderate proportions; otherwise it is art for galleries and boardrooms and the mansions of fat cats.’ He said this with passion in his voice.

‘Done then! Move in whenever it suits you. At least it will do you until you become famous.’ There was so much faith mixed with admiration in her smile that it made him believe his success was guaranteed.

Back in the house Tramina went straight to an old desk with large drawers each side under the writing surface and smaller ones plus cubbyholes on top, like those seen in Westerns in the sheriff office, usually with a sheriff’s booted feet on them. It had belonged to her grandfather and under Trami’s ownership it was home to everything she did not need but she did not want to throw away either.

She had been thinking of clearing it out now that she worked at home.

It was lucky she did not or she might have chucked away the stories that lay at the bottom of the bottom drawer, on the right. She collected the hand written pages and gave them to Leo while she put Miles Davies on the CD player. They sat side by side on the couch; he intent on his reading and she intent on the handsome profile cut out against the fading light coming from the patio doors. Her thoughts went back years to the time she read the same pages to her younger brother. A longing for that simple life suffused her; for the first time she fully realized how much she felt the loss of her family. She had never before admitted her feelings, especially to Julian, to spare him the guilt of leaving her.

Leo found it difficult to understand some of the scribbled words and turned to her for clarification, finding her quietly crying under a curtain of hair. He did not ask the obvious question; for once he guessed. Parting her hair he kissed her; a tender quick kiss that would have been brotherly if it had not landed on her lips.

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‘You have me now.’ He murmured. After a pause he added, to dilute the meaning of his words and his embarrassment.

‘Also Gerry and Alex and Mehmet and Consuelo and, also, yes, you have Marilyn, for better or for worse.’

At the mention of their colourful friend a weak smile, like a watery sun reappearing after an April shower, lit Tramina’s face. Leo put his arms around her and drew her to him asking: ‘You never had a good cry when you lost your parents, did you?’

‘No, I had to be strong for Julian’ came out the reply, muffled by the softness of his jacket.

‘Well, now is your opportunity, make the most of it.’

And she did, snuggling against him. They stayed like that, swaying slightly to the music for a long time, until Tramina pushed Leo gently saying, with a hint of regret in her voice: ‘I should pick up Mopsy.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ he said and dropped a kiss on the top of her head before letting her go.

The door opened on Louise hanging on to the dog trying to restrain the animal from jumping on the visitors. Leo, to his shame, instinctively half hid behind Tramina. Thinking better of it and emboldened by the sight of Mop only concerned with his companion, he stepped sideways and offered his hand to Louise.

From the sitting room Fred hollered a hearty ‘Come in Tramina!’

They both did and Fred pointed to the settee without taking his eyes from his young visitors, patently curious.

‘I’m afraid we cannot stay, it is late and soon the light will be completely gone’ said Tramina ‘we just will grab Mop and be off, if that is OK with you? By the way this is my friend Leo.’ Leo extended his lean body bending almost in two to shake hands with Fred, who did not rise from his easy chair. Fred was ogling him unashamedly.

‘Are you the one with the expensive motorcar?’ the old man said.

‘I wish’ said Leo mystified. ‘I cannot afford even a cheap one.’

Tramina clarified ‘No Fred, I told you.' Had she? She could not remember. ‘The sports car belongs to Otto, a colleague.’ Again she wondered if the old gossip had noticed Otto’s car had been parked there until the following morning on more than one occasion. This intrusion into her private life, in front of Leo, annoyed her.

‘So the handsome Otto visits Tramina and has expensive wheels to boot.’ Leo was surprised by his feelings. Envy? Jealousy? Hmm… Once outside, Leo took the dog lead. Although slim he was strong, a curious fact since his only sport was some occasional swimming, the 140

necessary walks to the post office and a few half hearted push-ups and squats done when he remembered, which was not often.

He could control the dog and although Christopher was pulling and choking and coughing at least they could advance at a comfortable pace.

‘Crikey!’ Said Tramina, eyes popping out in awe. ‘Could you come to help every day?’

Leo ignored the question and posed one of his own, as his heart was heavy with… he did not know with what but it was making him unhappy.

‘Who is Otto; is he the blond fellow I met in your office?’ He asked, knowing perfectly well who Otto was, but he expected this was a suitable ruse to find out more.

‘Yes, he used to come after work to give me German lessons but I stopped them ‘cos now I am too busy for that. Anyway I don’t like him much; he is quite self centred and pushy and a show off.’ She said trying to sound casual and not managing it very well. The subject was one she did not want to bring out for examination, especially by her fellow dog walker.

‘Hmm hum…’ trickled out from him, a sound he thought would encourage more revelations, but it did not.

‘Yep, not very pleasant learning experience’ she said curtly, stealing a furtive glance at her companion but he was looking ahead and she could not make out his expression. He seemed absorbed in the complications of steering the hairy mountain, trying to avoid pedestrians. She wondered if he could read between the lines and what had he made of it.

‘But why should I care,’ she told herself in the privacy of her head, ‘surely he must have had affairs too. Indeed, what is it to me if he had affairs or not?’

She nearly shouted ‘I am a grown woman and I can have as many lovers as I … manage to grab!’ This sounded so pathetic. She resisted the impulse to grab Leo’s sleeve and make him turn so she could bury herself again in his jacket. There she had felt both vulnerable and safe.

‘What is happening to me? I used to feel incomplete, now I feel completely confused.’

They arrived at the park, let the dog loose and stood watching him, each wrapped in their own thoughts, which did not seem pleasant at all judging by their expressions.

She broke the silence first.

‘What do you honestly think of my stories? Please do tell me your honest opinion, please?’ pleaded Tramina, afraid he would be too kind to tell her they stank.

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‘I only have honest opinions, too many of them and they get me into trouble far too often.’

‘I know! I have noticed the same thing and also that nobody believes the truth so I have decided to tell fibs instead.’ She candidly admitted.

‘I see, well, thank you for the warning!’ With a half smile Leo dismissed the subject and switched back to the original question.

‘I think your stories are pretty good, the bits I have read at least. It is not an expert opinion but if you agree I will show them to Joe and if he rejects them I know other publishers who may be interested.’

From this little speech the words expert opinion jumped at Tramina who could hear already the planning Inspector saying ‘And what is your expert opinion, Ms Phelps?’

‘Oh, dear, the inquiry, it is only a few days away!’ She informed Leo. ‘You’ll be fine! Don’t worry, in a few more days you will know that you have made an eco-unfriendly capitalist happy.’

‘Ha! It will take months for the result to be announced,’ complained Tramina.

He saw that this time no amount of sympathy was going to console her so he clipped the lead to Christopher's collar and took Tramina’s hand.

The dog had been walking judiciously by him for the last few minutes, from time to time looking up as if trying to ask in which direction they were going, perhaps recognizing his new handler as He Who Must Be Obeyed.

The three walked sedately now to Louisa and Fred’s to return their charge and then retraced their steps to Tramina’s.

At her door she hesitated.

‘Would you like to come in?’

The image of Trami saying the same thing to Otto was too vivid for Leo to ignore. It went to his core.

‘I think we have had enough of each other for one day, don’t you?’ As soon as he said this he was sorry. That was not what he had meant to say.

What had he meant to say? Tomorrow he would sort out his thoughts and, well, do something about it; whatever it was.

‘Thanks for the hat and the tea,’ she said, hurt.

‘You’re welcome.’ He replied.

‘Bye then.’

‘Bye.’ Tramina went in, feeling let down by the abrupt parting. After the cathartic moments of the afternoon she expected something more, something warmer from him.

She had thought there was a new bond between them but perhaps she was imagining a connection that was not there.

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CHAPTER 28 Back in his flat Leo made a sandwich and a coffee and sat on the couch to read Tramina’s stories with more attention. She must have written them when she was quite young and they would need considerable editing but the more he read the more he was taken by their originality and charm.

The best part in his purely selfish view was that they were a gift for an illustrator.

Alex might decide to go away for good with her Italian friend, or whatever he was, or her muse may go AWOL suddenly. Anyway kiddies' stories were something he always wanted to illustrate. He took a sip of his coffee and over the rim of the mug he saw the furious look on the face of the Ancient Ancestor.

‘What now?’ he said aloud.

‘What kind of behaviour is that, De La Croix? How could you be so rude?’

Leo felt crushed by the shame of having reacted so churlishly at the thought of Trami’s suspected affair with Otto.

‘Sapristi! Enough of each other for one day!’ Tomorrow you will buy a bouquet of red roses and present it to the lady with your apologies. What do you expect in the twenty first century, mon ami, a virgin bride?’

‘Hey! Steady on! Who mentioned brides?’ Shaken, Leo took his mug to the garden to finish his coffee in peace. Nonetheless the next morning he bought a large bunch of mixed flowers in a gamut of blue and white; red roses were full of a certain symbolism the meaning of which he wished to avoid.

Tramina had a bad night. Impressions from the day before, episodes from her relationship with the Austrian and memories from her happy family life all kept boiling in her mind. When she finally fell asleep her thoughts turned into disturbing dreams. She woke up exhausted and mixed up; only one thing was clear: she did not want to appear as an expert witness to defend a proposal that was going to destroy a pleasant urban area and which those who lived there had strongly resisted.

When the doorbell rang she was still in her nightgown and housecoat, her old shabby candlewick housecoat she inherited from her gran that she 143

wore when she was in need of cosseting and comforting. Possibly the most unflattering garment that had ever been invented. Understandably she was reluctant to open the door but the bell kept ringing until a determined fist took over, playing a musical tattoo. She opened the door a crack keeping the chain on.

‘Hi, lovely morning!’ stated unnecessarily a cheerful Leo as anybody could see it was.

‘Oh; yes it is’ agreed a mortified Tramina.

‘Well, won’t you let me in?’

‘I’m not dressed.’

‘What’s that long sleeve here?’ He pulled playfully from the cuff of the robe from which emerged the hand holding the door a fraction open.

‘My housecoat. I look awful.’

‘I've seen worse.’

‘I haven’t done my hair.’

‘Do you ever?’ joked he.

As nothing was going to make him go away she let him in.

‘Here’ he said offering the flowers to Tramina ‘I am sorry I was a monster last evening, I had a weight on my mind but that is no excuse to be rude.’

‘No, you weren’t’ said she, through a shower of tears and a storm of sobs, grabbing the bouquet as if it had been the only log in a maelstrom.

‘Oh dear, you are in a bad way.’ Leo gathered woman and flowers in a loose embrace, musing that it would be very easy to pick her up and carry her to that plush sofa in her living room and ravish her. So easy; in her vulnerability she was unlikely to resist him but a gentleman does not take advantage of maidens in distress. Not with an Ancient Ancestor to reckon with.

Instead, with his arm round her waist he guided her to the sofa that would have been the setting of the love scene still playing in his imagination.

‘Let’s sit down and you tell Uncle Leo what’s the matter.’

‘I’m not going!’ she whispered, dropping like a dead body on the sofa and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the faithful robe.

‘I assume you mean to court?’

‘Not to court.’ Explained Tramina with a reasonable amount of patience considering it was probably the third time she had to do so. ‘The hearing is held at the Council Offices, but, yes; to the appeal. I resign.’

‘You cannot do that!’

‘Yes I can, of course I can. Why not?’

It was obviously not a rational decision. Tramina was in the grips of an emotional crisis. Leo saw that no amount of intellectual arguing would 144

convince her that she had a contract to honour and decided to appeal to a more basic part of her psyche.

He looked around for inspiration and his eyes fell on the hatbox still on the coffee table where it had been left last night.

‘Because you have a magic hat now.’ He was trying to forge a link through the hat via her imaginative stories to the times when she must have felt safe surrounded by her family.

The ploy might not work, he feared, as Tramina gave a derisive little laugh.

Undeterred, the self - appointed healer took the plum coloured trilby out of its box.

‘Look, it’s like Robin Hood’s hat, whom you dragged into one of your stories, and he would not flinch at a mere Inspector, a pussycat compared to the Sheriff of Nottingham, I’m sure.’

‘Robin had a GREEN hat.’ She said wearily, as if talking to an obtuse child.

‘It has ripened now.’ At last, a smile.

Leo left to organize the rental of the van to take his pictures to the gallery and Tramina picked herself up, figuratively and literally. She had a shower and then a cuppa in the company of Lucy. The grey tabby had come in earlier and had sat behind Leo on the back of the couch, purring in his ear, at which he had remarked: ‘See? Even your cat is saying you should go ahead with the trial. Oops!

I mean the appeal.’

Tramina was too churned up by then even to consider clarifying the question of the ownership of the feline or introducing her, so Leo continued to address Lucy as pussycat and a few times as minou, the French equivalent.

Now with him gone woman and cat had one of their intimate chats.

‘What do you think, Lucy? Do you find him as nice as I do? He calls you mee-noo, so sweet. I like him, he is nice and funny …and sensual.

Have you noticed his hands?’

Lucy had; his long fingers knew how to caress a cat. Behind the ears first, moving slowly under the chin and only straying to her tummy when he was allowed, just at the right moment. From the back of the couch she had moved onto his lap, while he was talking to Tramina, and her whole cat-self had been in ecstasy under his fingers.

‘I would like… I think, I don’t know. The trouble is I wonder what he really thinks of me. What he feels. He has never shown anything but respect and friendship, quite different from the Austrian.’

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Lately Tramina in her chats with herself or with her borrowed cat, which amounted to the same, always referred to Otto as the Austrian as if avoiding to articulate his name would make him recede into nothingness all the quicker.

Lucy agreed, the present male visitor was a cat-man, sensuous and subtle, had she known the term she would have said he had savoir faire, and he was for sure after Tramina, who did not seem to notice.

The feline had disliked the orange visitor, the one with the big feet that, many times, had been on the brink of crushing her tail. She had made her feelings clear to him and she was sure it had been her attitude that had made him go away, for good she hoped.

Lucy suddenly decided she had had enough, as cats often do, and as there were no biscuits in the offing she took herself away, with a tail as vertical as a maypole.

Her hostess threw after her: ‘No point building castles on the air, or châteaux either, hey, Lucy?’

Tramina may have been despondent but the cat knew that this tom would persist: when she felt as Tramina felt at the moment all the toms in the area came to visit. Only Tramina did not know this, she was not as experienced as herself, Lucy concluded.

The day of the appeal came. Tramina dressed carefully in her most serious suit, put on her supposedly lucky hat and left, briefcase and umbrella in hand, because a fine drizzle was threatening to ruin her outfit.

Although she did not believe in the magic powers of the hat, the trilby with its paradoxical masculine-feminine message gave her confidence. It was a reminder of the often repeated teachings of her father. From him she had learned that a brain, whether male or female, was supposed to be used and that she could achieve anything with the right amount of effort.

Now in the train, for the appeal was in Croydon, she was reading precisely on this subject in Focus, her favourite scientific magazine with well explained articles on the latest research. Science had little to do with her studies but she was fascinated by it. The article clearly stated that cultural expectations had been found to be the determinants of the role people chose or were pressurized to play in society, expectations that did not exist in her family. Her reading gave her courage and distracted her, so she forgot about her ordeal and arrived quite relaxed at the ‘court’ as Leo would have said.

Her speech went well and she did not dry up in mid sentence, which was her worst fear. She answered the questions thrown at her with authority and her voice did not falter. With that curious temporary split of personality 146

that occurs in moments of stress, Tramina could at the same time speak and hear herself, indeed, she could see herself. She was defending the indefensible. She was not pleased, she had been tempted by the prestige attached to winning such a difficult case and now she did not feel good, exactly.

She had promised to text Leo as soon as she was out and so she did.

‘Come over straight away, I want to hear all about it’ came the reply.

The door of Leo’s flat opened to the loudest welcome she ever had.

It seemed that all her friends were there, even Mehmet who could not stay long and had to go back to help Consuelo but he wanted to bring a bottle to celebrate her triumph. He shook her hand, Gerry gave her a pat on the shoulder, she, Trevor and Betty had a threesome hug and Marilyn squeezed her against her huge bosom and did not seem to contemplate letting her go, not this year anyway. Leo saw that Tramina was nearly suffocating and her trilby had fallen to the floor where it laid in great danger of being flattened. He picked up it up and tapped his exuberant neighbour on the shoulder saying: ‘My turn now.’

As soon as Tramina felt free she turned to him and put her arms round his neck.

‘Thank you, thank you! I am glad you made me go and face the music!

It all went well, it was amazing… I was amazing!’ she said, pleased with her performance but she could not help wishing it had been for a worthy cause, not in the interest of crass profit.

‘Nonsense! It was all due to the magic hat.’ He waved it above her head and kissed the tip of her nose, which was all that was available, as her hair having been cooped up for too long had cascaded down with a vengeance and had hidden everything else.

The congratulations done with, they all turned to the table laden with food and drinks. The panel with the collage that Gardner had so much liked had been called into service again.

‘This must have been organized days ago’ exclaimed Tramina, surprised. ‘How did you know it would go well?’

‘We all have faith in you so when Leo contacted us we thought it a brilliant idea,’ explained Betty, adding: ‘before I forget, Otto and Cathy say congrats and apologies. They couldn’t come over. Both had things to do…’

The wink that accompanied this statement said all that Betty did not.

Soon the Horsfields had to go home and Mehmet had to rejoin Consuelo. Gerry always sensitive to emotional vibes, asked Marilyn to show him Arthur’s attic, which apparently she had promised to do one day.

‘How about now? ‘ He said, and off they went.

Tramina also said she had to go.

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‘No you don’t,’ Leo grinned cheekily.

He sat on the couch in front of the Ancient Ancestor, who for once had a vacant look; perhaps the fumes of the wine had got at him.

‘I don’t?’ Asked Tramina, hesitating.

‘Come and sit here.’ He begged.

‘With Uncle Leo?’ A pretend question in her sparkling eyes.

‘Not quite.’

She sat on his lap, not by him as he had indicated, and holding his face in both her hands she showered it with kisses.

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CHAPTER 29 Leo woke up first, an arm painfully trapped under Tramina. She was curled like a kitten against him, both uncovered on his bed to where they had moved during their love play. With his free arm Leo carefully tried to reach the corner of the sheet to pull it over them to avoid Tramina any embarrassment on waking up but as he moved the pain in the trapped arm increased to unbearable levels and he gave up. He dropped back on the pillow, defeated. The situation was also uncomfortable for him, after the heat of the lovemaking he felt he should not have been so impulsive. It was true that Tramina had taken the first step, but those playful little kisses could be only due to her gratitude, as she ascribed to him her success, or to Mehmet's champagne. He should have found out first how she felt about him and about what was about to happen.

Now that what had been about to happen had happened, what should he do?

The pain had escalated and he had no option but to move. Tramina woke up and her eyes smiled into his. At that precious moment, he knew.

She seemed to take their nakedness as the natural order of things. Leo dearly wanted to know how Tramina regarded him and he resolved to ask her, but not then. The place had to be carefully chosen and the manner of his delivery also; his declaration of love, the first in his life, the first genuine one at any rate, had to be a work of art.

He had to admit that this was an occasion when the help of the Ancient Ancestor would come in handy.

For the second night running, Tramina, now back in her own bed, had little sleep. The events of the day, and particularly of the evening, were playing on a continuous loop inside her head.

Images quickly succeeded each other. She saw her most serious suit discarded on the floor and herself in her everyday underwear, plain, white and as alluring as that of Mother Theresa’s, while the fire of Leo's gaze scalded the most hidden corners of her being. And how it felt perfectly natural to dive into his arms. There had been both tenderness and passion in their mutual and total surrender.

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Leo was a sensitive lover, making her feel she was everything to him in that beautiful moment, both eternal and so brief. But he had not said anything about his feelings. On reflection she seemed to have jumped at his neck and kissed him far too much and too soon. The thousand of kisses with which she covered his handsome face! What did he think of her?

It had not been long since they met. She had seen him often in the park with a little girl and had built him up into a romantic figure; a divorced father having to limit his contact with his daughter to furtive encounters thanks to the connivance of the old nanny. She had seen him sketching under that tatty hat that hid his face almost completely, emphasising his sensuous mouth and giving him an aura of mystery, the lonely artist concentrating on his work, ignoring everything else, including her. Until that day when all of a sudden he had raised his hand to the brim of his hat, flashing in her direction a quick smile, when she had felt the full impact of his dark eyes. Now she knew she wanted him in her life, totally.

She wanted to see his funny crooked smile, one side down the other pointing up, under the wide brimmed hat; she wanted his slim body with its quick reactions and its scruffy gear; she wanted his eyes laughing into hers for ever, she wanted his sensuous hands playing the piano along her back, she wanted to run her index finger along his long nose and poke fun at it.

She recalled the events of the day and felt the appeal was as good as won and she could take the world in her stride now. Opening in front of her was a new life and nothing would stop her career taking off but she had acted against her convictions and this made her uncomfortable. She tried to justify to herself her involvement in the defence of the ugly and intrusive development but could not, in all honesty. After many feverish turns, counter-turns and drinks of water from the glass she had on her night table, Tramina found peace in the decision never to take a case that did not wholly agree with her principles.

Still, today she was proud of her performance at the ‘court’. the misnomer came to her spontaneously, so much had Leo used it, and the memory of his boyish charm came with it and filled Tramina's whole being.

It had been generous of him to be so supportive in the days before the appeal and then to think of inviting all her friends, to have created such a delightful atmosphere in his flat all for her. When she saw them gathered to congratulate her she loved them all, only Alex was missing. Tramina wondered where she was. Mandy was not there either, of course, as Leo had never met her. There was so much Tramina had to tell her.

Other missing persons were the Austrian and Cathy, her replacement, at the reception of Horsfield and Waddon.

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‘Isn’t it typical of Otto to shirk the party and as for Cathy... Well, poor thing, she must be under his spell,’ she thought.

The image of the man who had been her lover brought with it an uncomfortable prickling of guilt, like a mental heat rash. The fear that Leo would find out sooner or later worried her. Tramina could not guess how he would react and the idea of losing him, whom she had only just found, was unbearable.

She wanted his friendship and his laughter and his playfulness but most of all she wanted him to love her at least half as much as she loved him. Were the events of the afternoon merely the consequence of a friendship with benefits? After all, she had sat on his lap and kissed him.

No man would have ignored the invitation. Perhaps he really had only meant for her to sit by him. He must have thought…Oh! The shame!

The hiring of the van presented no problem but where to park it for the night did. Leo’s flat did not have a parking space and indeed it was very difficult to find one anywhere nearby so he decided to ask Tramina in person - not to miss an opportunity to see her - if he could park on the drive in front of her garage. He dropped her a text to say he would like to pop in.

‘Give me ten minutes’ she answered.

With her heart flapping she changed her t-shirt three times and her jeans twice before she could decide on the best combination, ran to the kitchen and put the coffee maker on – nothing says welcome like the smell of coffee brewing - put some lipstick on, only to wipe it off with the back of her hand, washed her hands, drying them on her hair to smooth it, tied it back, let it loose again when fortunately the ten minutes were up and the door bell rang to take her out of her misery.

Lovely and flushed she opened to a Leo with hat in hand, a broad smile and the firm resolution not to allow himself to be carried away by his passion until he was sure of her feelings. An assurance he had to seek as soon as possible.

They fell into each other’s arms and kissed but he said, with mock seriousness: ‘Now, Ms Phelps, I am here on business.’

Tramina tried to conceal her unease by getting busy with the coffee, feeling that again she had been forward. She replied without looking at him: ‘And what is the nature of your business, Monsieur de la Croix?’ she pronounced each French word carefully like a good pupil trying to get the accent right.

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He explained his parking problems for the next two days and his proposed solution because he also had to move his large easel, paints and other paraphernalia to the ivy covered shed recently upgraded to artist’s studio. She approved of the plan; anything that meant Leo would be close to her was her idea of heaven, even if she had to be careful to overcome her impulse to kiss him. She promised herself not to jump at his neck no matter how temptingly his mouth might smile at her.

After they drank their coffee almost in complete silence Leo left to organize the van rental while Tramina went to the office: there was something she could help with, said the text Cathy had sent.

In the afternoon Leo was back. He and Tramina took the dog to the park, where the animal ran around as the Tasmanian Devil he appeared to be while the humans walked and chatted about their day.

‘I booked a Ford transit, white of course; they are always white, what a lack of imagination these people have.’

Tramina remained silent and he added: ‘I also booked Gerry to help with the heavy stuff, both for tomorrow.

The interview is in the afternoon so I will pick up the van in the morning; load it up with the collages for the Gallery and all the stuff for the studio you have so kindly rented to me…’

‘Not rented,’ interrupted Tramina, firmly.

‘We have to work something out; I cannot accept that, I will be using electricity and will be a nuisance coming in and out through your house.’

‘You can have a key to the side gate and then you can come in and out as much as you please, like Lucy. I will have one cut this afternoon.’

‘Well, thanks, for the key and for allowing me the same privileges as your feline friend.’

Tramina thought that Leo with his sensuous ways was certainly quite catlike but did not tell him; for once she managed to keep her counsel.

‘You’re welcome!’

‘Anyway, I expect I will have finished unloading my easel and my bits and pieces by midday and then I will be off with Gerry.’

‘I can make lunch for the three of us; it will be like old times,’ offered Tramina.

‘That’s great.’ Leo felt more and more determined to disclose his feelings. But how, where, when?

‘What did the Horsfields want?’ He asked.

‘Oh, nothing much, some legalese input for one of their cases that has planning implications. I can do that in a couple of hours; tomorrow afternoon will be fine, while you take the collages to the Gallery.’

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A few days later they were walking hand in hand along the river under the trees while Christopher was running around, turning back from time to time to check if his humans were still following.

Leo’s plan was to sit Tramina on his fallen tree and personal park bench, offer her a dandelion, and tell her how much he loved her. A dandelion was a most suitable choice, he reckoned, after having read Alexandra’s poem for the umpteenth time and anyway they were the only flowers around. There were also problems of logistics attached to bringing a rose in his pocket so under the circumstances a freshly picked dandelion had to do.

He was risking rejection, he knew. Worse, she may not take him seriously interpreting his declaration as a joke. He hoped that even in the case of a negative result they at least could remain friends; he could not imagine life without Tramina now.

They reached the secluded spot.

‘So this is where you come to meditate?’ stated Tramina, more than asked, immediately taken by the magic of the shady wild corner.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘to escape the reality issues that plague my day.’

Covertly his eyes were searching for a dandelion; they were scarce, the flush of their season over and here the shade had chased them away early. Then he saw a solitary bloom, fortuitously growing near Tramina’s feet. Leo crouched to pick it up and as he got hold of it he lost balance and fell onto one knee.

It could have been, unrehearsed as it was, the perfect romantic moment he was striving to create, had not his right knee landed on a brown lump of animal origin.

‘Merde!’ he let out, explosively.

‘Precisely!’ laughed Tramina holding her nose in mock disgust.

Leo used the dandelion to try to dislodge the offensive matter only to achieve an interesting stain in shades of Van Dyke brown and Indian yellow on his light chinos.

‘You should consider framing those trousers to take to the gallery tomorrow,’ she teased, still laughing.

Leo was not inclined to mirth. He felt dejected. Looking for consolation he sat by Tramina and holding her to him he buried his face in her hair pretending to sob. Holding him she sensed genuine distress and put it at embarrassment due to the ungainly fall, never guessing what his agenda had been, but really he was mourning the loss of his carefully planned moment. What to do now?

Hugging and kissing seemed just right.

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CHAPTER 30 Leo went to collect the van early to beat the traffic but London traffic is unbeatable and he took much longer than envisaged. When he returned to his flat Gerry was waiting on the doorstep, his back pressed against the door. It was an attempt to hide from Marilyn, who could be too much of a good thing at times. The day of the party he had quite a job leaving her flat without losing his celibacy record, he explained to an amused Leo. While they were loading the van he related his visit to Arthur’s attic.

The bird had not been there at the time despite it was broad daylight; Arthur’s landlady explained that he had strange habits for an owl.

‘More likely he was escaping her attentions,’ commented Gerry, ‘I saw some tiny clothes, which Marilyn had made, laying on a chair. Sort of embroidered waistcoats, d’you know? When I asked she admitted that he does not want to wear them but she said she hopes one day he will. Yeah, duh!’

When the van was loaded they drove to Tramina’s. Gerry was impressed with the Ivy Studio as he had only a kitchen table to work on in his bedsit. He supplemented his working periods at home with occasional sessions during his sporadic visits to the launderette. There was a conveniently large table for folding clothes, which he would take over.

This had the advantage of a captive audience of self appointed art critics and, perhaps because of that, Gerry created his best pieces there.

He could not help but to be a bit jealous of Leo's good fortune, still, being the good friend he was, he willingly put his back into the unloading.

Once the easel was given pride of place in the shed there were quite a few boxes with pots of paint, envelopes, sketchbooks, brushes, pencils and all kinds of implements to accommodate. Leo was fed up with the lack of storage and decided to treat himself to some cheap shelving soon. He was satisfied with the move. Now he could have his flat, henceforth to be known as The Office, only to house the computer with its peripherals, where he would be The Well Known Book Illustrator, leaving The Famous Artist in The Ivy Studio. At the house, meanwhile, Tramina was engaged in preparing her signature dish, a quiche and salad. This time she did not have to worry about what she had heard about quiches and real men. These two were not real men; they were much better than that. After lunch with a 154

good luck kiss for Leo and a friendly hug for Gerry she saw them off on their way to the gallery.

She worked for a while on the documents Trevor had given her and then she phoned Mandy to bring her up to date with the latest news. Mandy was at work but did not mind going out to the car park with her mobile for a chat. As she would explain to all who wanted to hear it, she did not smoke so she considered it her right to pause occasionally, as the smokers did.

There were so many things to talk about. It had been a long time since they had seen each other. Tramina gave Mandy an abbreviated version of events from the dismissal of Otto to the present day. Her friend was amazed at the glowing description of Leo, this man who had managed to displace a Teutonic god, no less, and was dying to meet him. An evening get together was therefore required.

Tramina had missed not having Mandy at the party thrown by her friends but thinking now about it, they would probably have left together and what happened would not have happened and she much preferred the party to have ended as it did.

On his way to the gallery Leo was driving with only half his mind on the road.

Now at mid afternoon the traffic had calmed down. Most people were working and schools had not yet disgorged their contents onto the street for mothers to pick up and drive back home. With his other half he was thinking of many things: Tramina, his collages, his future as an illustrator, his future as an artist, the conflict between them, if any, and about dandelions.

The van did an U-turn and the sudden lurch woke Gerry up. That day the poor soul had to get up at the crack of dawn; the crack of dawn being around nine o’clock for him. Surprised he looked around and could not make sense of anything.

‘This is not the road to the Gallery, is it?

‘Nope.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To IKEA.’ All Gerry could see of Leo was his profile, which was set in grim determination.

‘To IKEA! Why? What about the collages?’

‘I need shelves and I’m going to dump them.’‘Why are you buying shelves if you are going to dump them?’ A severely confused Gerry threw the words at his confusing friend who turned to him with a broad smile and said slowly and kindly: ‘The collages! I am going to dump the phoney collages. The shelves 155

are for the studio.’

Silence followed while Gerry digested this statement. Now he was the one to have a serious expression. Leo shot him a sidelong glance from time to time, worried about his reaction. After all, Gerry had worked hard to help him and now his efforts were for nothing and so were those of Tramina and Alex, not forgetting Marilyn.

‘OK,’ said the practical Gerry, used to the idiosyncrasies of Leo. ‘But first let’s go to the dump, it may close early. IKEA closes later for sure.’

‘You can keep one, if you like.’ Leo offered and added, to avoid any confusion: ‘Collage, not shelf. I will keep the one with the ex-pigeon for sentimental reasons and because it is the largest and makes a good table.’

‘Thanks.’

They drove in silence for a while and then Gerry broke it.

‘What are you going to tell Mr What’s-His-Name?’

‘Nothing, you will.’

‘Me? What can I say? My friend is cuckoo, off his trolley, has gone bananas?’

‘No, you are going to tell him that I broke my arm and cannot work any more. A bit displaced in time and slightly exaggerated but almost true.’

Leo turned to his friend, his face lit by the brilliant smile he had just got out of storage, dusted and polished. A big weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he was happier than he could have ever imagined.

‘Tramina says that it is better to lie because people never believe the truth but readily accept bizarre apologies.’ He explained to the amazed Gerry.

‘Aha! So Tramina is also cuckoo, that is why you two get on so well, now I know! You forget the gallery owner knows you have a lot of work done, he has seen photos. You may be able to get off from doing new work but these collages are expected and have to be delivered.’

‘Hmph! Tell him ball lighting came through the window last night and they were burnt down or that they were stolen.’ Leo continued happily.

‘Yes! That is it, they were stolen which implies they are highly desirable; even if I don’t want anything to do with him no need to let him know I’m a failure.’

‘Don’t be daft; you cannot substantiate any of those claims.’

‘Just tell him I’ve given up art for good. And that’s the truth. Happy now?’ He teased.

‘That's better.

Still, he may want to see you to try to change your mind.’

‘I’ll deal with that when the situation arises, now let’s have fun.’ And Leo passed his phone to Gerry so he could call the gallery.

They disposed of most of the collages and the surplus rubbish plus a 156

few similar pieces Leo had made in the past, keeping some for their friends.

Then they went to collect the shelves and Leo also bought a small cupboard on the spur of the moment. Spurs of the moment are rife in IKEA, if one is not careful one can trip over them; and Gerry did. He bought a few gadgets he did not need and would never use and a present for Tramina, which consisted of a large jar of sild in mustard sauce and a packet of savoury biscuits to go with it. He loved the little fishes and was sure everybody else did as well. This did not seem enough so he added a fruitcake, a slice of which was enough to keep a reindeer in rut fighting rivals for days. He figured that she could do with some help in the kitchen.

The lucky object of these attentions was waiting by the gate, which was wide open for the van, anxious to hear about the interview.

‘How did it go?’ She inquired of Gerry who was the first to get out of the van.

‘Ask him!’ He said with a despondent look in the direction of Leo, who did not waste time to hug and kiss Tramina.

‘And?’ she asked when they surfaced for air.

‘It went fantastically well!’ Leo picked her up and swung her round in the front garden laughing all the time.

Tramina was radiant.

‘I’ll go and start the tea.’ Gerry mumbled and disappeared into the house.

He managed to find kettle and teapot, a tray and plates and cutlery but the whereabouts of the tea caddy had him flummoxed. When Tramina got there she found a tray laden with all that and the goodies Gerry had brought but no tea.

‘Oh lovely!’ she said. ‘Please, you two, take it down to the garden, the table should be still clean from lunch and I’ll finish here.’

‘Gerry can do that,’ Leo said putting his arms round her waist from the back so she could still make the tea, in theory, but in practice his mouth on her neck interfered with the functioning of her brain and other vital organs. Handling a kettle full of hot water seemed dangerous under the circumstances and so she called Gerry for help.

‘Could you knock some sense into your friend, please?’ Tramina said, squirming in Leo’s arms, laughing and complaining at the same time.

‘I have been trying to do that for hours.’ Gerry answered. ‘Perhaps I should take over now. You two go out, sit at the table and behave.’ A chastened Leo let go of his prey and mentally kicked himself. If Gerry had not been present he would most probably have abandoned his resolution there and then.

Even at this distance he heard the Ancient Ancestor’s voice:

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‘You nincompoop, you have to declare your intentions to her first, pour l’amour de Dieu!’

And at that moment a flash of inspiration struck Leo. It was simple, he knew now what to do, how to do it and where. He only had to engineer the when.

While serving the tea Tramina looked at the other two and said: ‘Well, are you going to tell me exactly what happened?’

‘What happened was that, instead of getting to the gallery, the Greatest Artist of the Twenty-first Century went and dumped the collages in the rubbish tip,’ said Gerry.

‘Not true.’ said Leo grinning. ‘I kept one to serve as table and one for each of my friends; you can choose yours if you like.’

‘What! But you said…?’ The surprise shook Tramina and Leo was compelled to explain his bizarre behaviour.

‘I’m not an artist; I don’t have an immortal soul in desperate need of expression. I am an illustrator and a designer. I solve design problems and I like to sketch people and animals. That’s all. The collages were rubbish, literally. There are excellent artists who work that way but I was only imitating them, trying to be famous, because it seemed an easy thing to do.

In fact the piece which I hung in the Esperanza and attracted the attention of the gallery owner was made as a joke. It was all phoney, I’m ashamed of myself!’

The speech was delivered with such passion that his friends applauded him, ‘now I understand!’ Gerry said.

Tramina gave Leo a puzzled look, not convinced that she did.

After tea they all went to the van to see what was left of their work, Gerry and Tramina chose a panel each.

‘I have been meaning to ask after Alex, I was surprised not to see her at the party.’ Tramina said ‘Where is she?’

‘Alex has gone again somewhere to write, I expect she will come back any day now with a new volume of poetry under her arm,’ said Leo. Gerry thought she would not but kept the thought to himself. As he was looking at the remaining collages Leo felt quite uncomfortable for having disposed of the fruit of his friends’ labours and he apologized.

‘Don’t be silly; we enjoyed ourselves’ said Gerry.

Tramina enthusiastically added ‘Yes, we did!’

To herself she said: ‘Yes and we all five bonded. I have now a super gang of friends and a boyfriend as well, sort of.’

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CHAPTER 31

With considerable effort Tramina had managed to find an evening when all her friends were free and could come over to hers for a drink.

She wanted Mandy to get to know the others, it was weird how many new acquaintances she had made since leaving the planning department, but principally she wanted her friend to meet Leo. She had to accept now that she was in love with him, and said so to Lucy. The cat was obviously pleased at the turn life at Tramina's had taken, she had guessed the new human tom would be around frequently but that he would move in and occupy the shed in which she had many times held her own love trysts was a bit off-putting. Still, there were advantages; the field mice that lived in the garden had begun to visit the shed to feed on the crumbs falling from his snacks, plenty of sport there for her in the evenings. Frequently Leo would make himself a cup of tea and take a biscuit from the tin he kept in his new cupboard, having only a sip from the first and a bite from the second before forgetting both somewhere among the paints and the papers, books, photos and the rest of the paraphernalia that littered all available surfaces. Sometimes the only place free to work on was the floor, with luck. The cat loved to sit on one of the new shelves and watch Leo’s antics. She would purr loud enough for him to turn off his music, the rrr… nnn… rrr… of the cat was as much noise as he could tolerate while thinking. And there was for Lucy the added thrill of diving from her shelf after a pencil or an eraser that he had carelessly dropped – on purpose? - and running around pushing it from one paw to the other along the cluttered floor with its rightful owner in pursuit, laughing loudly and swearing in two languages that she would never again be allowed in.

‘As if! He is clearly besotted with me.’ Lucy knew exactly where she stood.

For Tramina to see such romps was reassuring. The cat had shown only contempt for Otto, and she, rightly or not, attached great importance to the instincts of animals in general, more so to those of Lucy.

She had begun to believe that there was a future in her relationship with Leo and that it was time to let Julian know. So far in her frequent video conferences brother and sister had avoided being too specific as to 159

the nature of their relations with their respective friends, Leo and Samantha, but she could feel the warmth in his voice when he talked about their excursions into the Bush and all the things they did together. Tramina was sure that if she opened up and told Julian how she felt about Leo he would reciprocate and would tell her all about his feelings towards the pretty doctor. Or may be not, men were peculiar. They seemed to find talking about what really mattered to them, as she saw it, an insurmountable task.

It is commonly accepted that men only have three subjects of conversation: beer, sport and women. It was well documented that Leo drank only wine and he had never mentioned sport so far. Women, of course, would not be a subject of conversation between them but perhaps with Gerry‌Somehow Tramina could not conceive of those two discussing her, not intimate details anyway. She knew she could trust Leo in that respect.

Going back to her planned talk with Julian she also would have to confess that Leo was just as much in her house as in his flat, a fact that so far she had kept to herself as it would have given the game away. The truth was that he would go back to visit his desktop computer, as he put it, when he needed to work on it. He spent most of his time working on his paintings and his Mail Art in his studio and joined Tramina in the house for meals, which he often prepared himself. In the afternoons he would sometimes accompany her to the park to walk the dog and then have a cup of tea with Louise and Fred. They had got used to his visits and if they suspected that he did anything more in Tramina's house than work at his art they kept it to themselves. Of course, not having a car to betray his presence overnight helped.

In the evenings, the lovely long evenings of the English summer, they sat in the garden if warm enough or cuddled up together on the big couch if not. In the nights... Julian did not need so many details to get the picture.

Leo had decorated the garden with the Christmas fairy lights, fetched from the attic for the party, while Tramina had made finger food and prepared the table with candles in jam jars.

Gerry was already there when Mandy and her husband arrived, followed closely by Trevor and Betty. Marilyn presented herself last, a whirlwind of brightly coloured garments of undetermined shape floating in layers around her tremendous bulk.

Leo took everybody to his studio where they admired - or pretended to do so - the new drawings that had been temporarily stuck on every available bit of wall. The last of the infamous collages was not on display.

When Gerry was about to open his mouth to ask for it a well-aimed elbow silenced him, causing a bruise on his ribs that lasted for weeks afterwards.

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When they went back to the house Lucy, hearing the noise from her own garden, had invited herself in and was strolling leisurely about among elegantly trousered legs, depositing her loose hairs on them with unbounded generosity. Gerry picked her up as he was in need of comfort, having been treacherously attacked by his best friend. The cat allowed him not only that liberty but also to be kissed on top of her head, a sure sign that a friend of Leo's was a friend of hers.

Tramina had fed Mandy the latest news and had talked at length of her feelings over the phone so all she wanted now was for her friend to meet Leo and show a small sign that she approved of her lover and was searching for her reaction in her face. It was plain that she was smitten by Leo's charm and his good looks, thought Tramina, who considered, rightly or wrongly, that Leo was the most handsome man that could possibly exist, not in the Teutonic manner of the Austrian but more in the style of a starving poet of southern European provenance. Betty also looked quite adoringly at the young man when they were gathered around the table chatting and eating and drinking. Marilyn only had eyes for Gerry, the nice, dependable Gerry of the sad countenance. All of which proved that beauty is definitely in the eyes of the beholder.

Once when Tramina went back to the kitchen to refill the jug of sangria she found Mandy behind her, carrying a few dirty dishes; an obvious excuse to follow her. The two friends had a whispered chat peppered with many giggles on the subject of Leo. From Tramina’s happy expression it was clear that Mandy fully approved of him.

It was a perfect evening, the weather was quite agreeable, the food was obviously appreciated, judging by the rate at which it was disappearing and all her friends were enjoying the party. Tramina was surveying it all with relief, for she had everything, except for the resolution of her problem.

And her problem was there, dispensing bonhomie to all; but for her were the wider smiles, the most appreciative looks and the casual caresses. If only she could be sure ... Fine, for the time being she would enjoy the moment; tomorrow may bring the change she hoped for… or not…

At one point Tramina noticed that Gerry was filming.

‘Gerry! That is a brilliant idea!’ She exclaimed. ‘Could you email the video to me so I can pass it on to my brother, please? I keep talking to him about you all and it would be nice for him to meet you, as it were.’

‘And to me,’ said Leo. ‘I have the same problem with my family.’

When all the guests left except for Gerry and Marilyn, Leo took a postcard, quite a bit crumpled, from his pocket and showed it to the others.

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It was from Alexandra who had gone to Thailand this time and was in Bangkok, missing them and asking Leo to pass her good wishes to Gerry, Trami and Marilyn.

‘She really must miss us,’ he commented, with a puzzled expression ‘she has never sent a postcard before, ever. Alex appears always to be in control, at least that is how I see her; self sufficient and independent, not likely to miss anybody.’

Gerry was sure by now that his friend would never guess the truth.

It was better like that. ‘ Alex also says she finds Bangkok too busy and noisy and has not been able to write a line yet,’ said Tramina, who had picked up the postcard and was now examining the picture.

‘It certainly looks busy and exciting. I would love to go there one day, maybe on the way to visit Julian in Australia.’

Marilyn agreed that it was a most attractive place. She sent a seductive glance from under her fringe of green hair, the colour of the month it seemed, in the direction of Gerry.

‘To travel on one’s own is not my idea of fun but of course it would be lovely to go there with a friend,’ she added.

Gerry did not give the impression of registering the unsubtle hint.

It suddenly struck Tramina that Alex had always stayed behind when everybody else left Leo’s flat after the art making sessions. It had not occurred to her so far, as there was nothing obvious in their behaviour to suggest it, but now it seemed to Tramina that maybe the gorgeous brunette was behind her troubles. Were she and Leo having an affair? Quite possibly, a beautiful woman and a handsome man, how could they have avoided being attracted to each other? On the other hand they worked together; they could have been discussing her book and his sketches in the evening.

Tramina tried to believe the latter but it was most unlikely; too late for business meetings. If they were in a relationship, albeit a very loose one as Alex disappeared often, that must be the reason for Leo’s reticence, she told herself. She was sure that her suspicions had to be right. The thought filled her with dismay; she felt powerless and defeated. The poor thing imagined she had not a chance against the beauty and experience of the more mature woman and yet she could not hate her, such was the charm of Alexandra. On the contrary, Tramina admired her and had begun to consider her a friend but now this realization had the effect of shaking her to the core; not only was her relationship with Leo in jeopardy but also hers with Alexandra. A double sense of loss invaded her and something within her suddenly sank.

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Aloud she said, wistfully, ‘Alex is fantastically independent, you are right, Leo, she is so much in control of her life. I admire her.’

To which Leo, remembering Alex telling him of her lack of confidence when confronting Joe, replied ‘I wonder; sometimes those who look the strongest are really weak. They are only hiding under a mask of coolness, while those apparently fragile have the strength of a lion.’

‘Like you’ he added and putting his arm around her shoulders he gave her a loving little squeeze that completely failed to reassure her.

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CHAPTER 32 A few days later a half despondent and half expectant Tramina was waiting in front of Leo’s door. When he opened it a strong aroma of roses wafted from the flat. Even Leo smelled of roses when they embraced.

‘No wonder,’ Tramina thought, catching a glimpse of the botanical décor, ‘he must have bought a whole flower shop.’

The red of the roses was accentuated by the setting sun joining in the fun through the patio doors, which were fully open. There were roses in a variety of containers, some in antique vases that had obviously come from his family, some in simple modern ones that he must have chosen himself, others in jam jars and even in an old zinc bucket. A host of odd containers had been pressed into service for the occasion.

Violet, the geranium, was peeping in from the patio. It had fully recovered from its ordeal at Otto’s hands, which were not the sort that end in green fingers, and it was blooming in an intense red, deeper than the roses.

‘Is this it, finally?’ thought a hopeful Tramina, who had been lured to her lover’s lair with the words ‘come over for a drink; there is something I can’t wait to tell you’ and was now sitting upright on the sofa, on edge and not just on that of the sofa. On the low stool that doubled as coffee table a small bowl of nibbles, two empty glasses and a glass with a lonely dandelion were also waiting.

The dandelion looked as crumpled as the postcard from Alex that now was pinned to the notice board. Did they share the same pocket, as she may be sharing the same heart with Alex? Her spirit was just as crumpled.

She could not take her eyes off the dying flower and hoped it reflected the fading of Alex and Leo’s relationship, if indeed there was one.

Somehow, whether it had faded by now or not, what hurt was the thought that there may have been one. A stupid thought, she told herself, but that did not help.

Noticing the object of Tramina’s gaze Leo lit up as he would do when possessed by the creative spirit of Mail Art - or any other that may be passing by.‘I had a Great Idea!’ His ideas to start with were always great, until they proved to be impracticable or expensive or both. This 164

time he had it all under control.

‘I will send invitations through the network to a show of art postcards on the theme of Dandelions to be displayed on the walls of the Esperanza.

Like a frieze, below the pictures, so the customers sitting at the tables would have the opportunity to enjoy them.. I am sure to be able to get Mehmet on board; he and Consuelo both love the bohemian atmosphere that the subversive character of Mail Art lend to the place.’

‘That’s nice.’ Tramina was not especially moved. All her emotions were engaged somewhere else and she had nothing to offer, nothing that could match his enthusiasm.

‘I must let Gerry know soon so he can invite his contacts too. We have done this before, Gerry and I, and it worked fine. We are going to have a super fabulous show!’

His excitement was not the sort that could be contained and Tramina was sure he was going to bolt out of the front door and run to the Esperanza while at the same time tapping a message to Gerry on his mobile.

Instead a foxy expression spread from the grin on his lips to his half closed eyes.

‘I may do for dandelions what Van Gogh did for sunflowers...’

The ludicrous comparison shook Tramina out of her lethargy.

‘That could be the title of the show – Delacroix’s Dandelions. There’s a ring to it,’ she said.

‘Not possible, I’m afraid. The show is not mine, I only manage it; it belongs to the artists who participate.’

‘Can I also participate? I did an apprenticeship with a famous artist, she teased.

‘Indeed you did!’

‘And I took heaps of Mail Art to the Post Office more than once!’

Tramina was also getting exited about the show now, Leo’s mood was contagious.

‘You can proudly consider yourself an Honorary Mail Artist. The Delacroix Art College does not bestow such a title lightly.’

‘Thanks, I have to work on a postcard then. Don’t expect a drawing, I am rubbish at drawing but could I write a silly poem or a very, very short story, just as silly probably?’ She was thinking of using certain past adventure of her borrowed dog; the one involving a collision with an artist on a field of dandelions.

‘Anything you like.’

‘Good, almost done. I’ll bring it to you as soon as it is ready. I can print it at work. ’‘Ah, ah... You cannot bring it to me,’ he warned.

She jumped at the curt statement.

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‘Why not?’

‘Because it is Mail Art, otherwise known as postal art, art postal, arte postale, arte correo, arte correu, etc.’ He rattled each term with his own idea of what its appropriate accent should be. Quite hit and miss and Tramina laughed.

‘Absolutely forbidden, not allowed; it has to arrive by post. That is possibly the only rule of Mail Art that I can think of,’ he said soberly.

‘Hmmm... What about sending art by emails? Is email art an acceptable variety?’

‘That is the subject of much controversy and it is better to leave it to our elders and betters. I like to participate in both and I must say that a kind of mixed approach is getting more and more common. As it has to be; all evolves.’

‘I see, so I shall send a letter to you, by post, although we will probably meet when I'm crossing the park on my way to the Post Office, with the letter in my hand. Weird.’

‘That’s it. On second thoughts, send it to Gerry; he lives further away, not much but it all counts. I’ll give you his address, later’ Weirder and weirder. She shook her head and promised to do so, who was she to query the one rule of Mail Art? After all she only had an honorary degree.

‘And you can help with the setting up of the show and the million things that will crop up’ Saying this Leo got a bottle out of the fridge and navigated towards the sofa, carefully avoiding the flowers. Serving the golden liquid he said: ‘I hope you like this, it is my favourite summer drink, a Muscat from Rivesaltes, near where my parents live.’

Tramina tried it and was converted.

‘Mmm, it is like drinking liquid honey, I could finish the bottle by myself, but I suppose I’d better not.’ She was already feeling the warmth of the drink permeating her.

‘Right!' He laughed. It is a sweet dessert wine, yes, but its sweetness hides quite a kick. My mother gets quite giggly with just a small glass.’

‘So before I get too squiffy, what is that you wanted to tell me?’ asked Tramina, wide eyed with hope, despite her suspicions.

Leo sat by her and slid an arm behind her back, drawing her to him.

With his face near hers, so that he could punctuate his words with the occasional kiss, he launched himself into a detailed account of an interview with Joe, to Tramina’s despair, and how the outcome was everything he had hoped for.Proofs of Alexandra’s book were printed and a very pleased Joe had given him three more books to illustrate and a few covers to design as well.

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But the best, Leo whispered in her ear, was that Joe had been most impressed with Tramina’s story and wanted to see the rest of them. It seemed to Leo that his friend’s career as author of children’s books had taken off.

Tramina’s heart capsized in a very choppy sea of emotions, she had expected that what he had to tell her would be of a more personal kind.

Her disappointment was tempered by the knowledge that book illustration was what Leo most wanted to do and she was happy for him.

As to the success of her own writing, she could not quite take it in.

She was contemplating self-publishing one way or another, never believing her first storybook, written when she was a child, could possible impress a chap like Joe, used to dealing with proper writers. This encouraged her; there were so many stories she could tell…maybe even one about a divorced father who can only see his little daughter in the park and one day he falls in love with the girl who walks the big dog and…

Leo pulled her out of her daydream.

‘So now, my Beatrix Potter, get typing!’

‘I think I will ask Mandy to do that for me. Typing a single story took me ages and to do the lot, I don't know, Joe would have retired by then, I’m afraid. But what about you? You have got three new books to illustrate!

Just what you wanted, I am so happy for you!’

With an effort to shake her despondent feelings she looked up to him offering her mouth to his waiting lips. They lost themselves in one of those long kisses in which lovers surrender completely to each other.

Catching a glimpse of the Ancient Ancestor’s impatient look, Leo emerged to pick up a small packet that was hidden under the sofa.

‘Do you remember the poem in which Alex talks about roses and dandelions?’ he asked.

The image of the poet came between them and in her troubled mind Tramina concluded that Alex could never be far away enough for Leo to forget her.

To him she answered ‘vaguely... no, not really.’

‘For you,’ he said and gave her the packet. It was a picture showing fenced gardens full of rosebushes in flower and dandelions growing freely on the edge of the path against the garden fences. On his beautiful drawing he had superimposed Alexandra’s verses.

Tramina read:

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By the Wayside As I walk along the suburban roads, Back from work at the end of the day, The proud roses in their splendid robes Stand aloof round the fenced front lawns But among empty cans and cigarette ends And a greasy carton from the takeaway, -Temporary home to an opportunistic snailThe humble dandelions waiting by the wayside Lift their sunny faces to welcome me home.

Now she understood not just the sentiments of the poem but much more. She understood why he had given up his aspirations to be, as Gerry had put it, the best artist of the century and why she had been troubled by the appeal and its implications and had resolved to defend only ethical projects in the future. He had wanted fame and fortune, she to be important, respected and affluent too. Luckily, they had both come to their senses, giving up any ambitions of becoming roses. Leo’s U-turn that day when he and Gerry were supposed to take the collages to the gallery had been monumentally decisive for them both. His decision had not only brought him back to his senses but also it had opened her eyes to what happiness was really about. She was cradled in a hammock of gratitude.

‘I love you.’ She blurted out spontaneously before she could check herself. Mortified by her outburst, she buried her face in Leo’s shoulder.

He swore to himself, frustrated, and then he let out aloud a truthful but childish remark.

‘I wanted to say that!’

He just about managed to hear a tiny bashful voice wrapped in giggles coming up from somewhere down his chest.

‘Well, why don't you?’

‘Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime, ma p’tite tête de fideuá!’

As Tramina lifted her face to ask what he had called her, he caught her lips again but she wriggled to free her mouth.

‘What did you just say?’

With his cheek against hers he translated his words, which were mostly in French with some Catalan thrown in, whispering softly in her ear.

‘It means that I love you, my Spaghetti Head. It is what I called you when I kept seeing you in the park and I didn’t know your name.’

Contentment and excitement stirred in Tramina like eggnog in a blender, frothing up and flooding her whole world, which now included Leo at last and something beautiful in which to engage together; their art.

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While her eyes talked to him of love, her mouth told him of her happiness at the prospect of working together. ‘Yes,’ murmured Leo, almost to himself, ‘a husband and wife team, I always found the idea appealing.’

It had not been quite as planned but it worked out fine anyway.

A satisfied expression lit up the Ancient Ancestor’s face. Pity Leo did not notice, for he was lost in Tramina’s gaze.

The End

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Postscript The last I heard Tramina and Leo, together with the Ancient Ancestor, moved to France where they bought an old farmhouse. There they work and expect to raise a family. Gerry has free board and lodging with them whenever he needs a break from Marilyn.

Meanwhile Alexandra is on a extended holiday in Thailand, waiting for inspiration and trying to sort out her life.

Martha Aitchison

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Born far away and long ago, Martha Aitchison has lived most of her life in the South of England.

By profession she is a Town Planner and holds also a degree in Art and Design.

After dipping her artistic toes in the murky waters of the commercial art world and finding them not to her taste she took refuge in Buddhist art.

Martha follows the Buddha’s teachings as best as she can. She has created religious images in traditional and in electronic media and has written and illustrated short stories published as eBooks. This is her first novel.

She discovered the pleasures of writing when she started adding a few words to her drawings and to her computer images and found that some did actually rhyme.

As MailArtMartha she is well known through the Mail Art network, an international art movement in which shows are not for profit. Within this non-commercial set up she can freely give vent to her imagination in pictorial and in written form.

She is married, has a son and a daughter and borrows a dog every Friday.

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Turn U Martha Aitchison

The

Set in a London suburb this story is a light hearted but serious exploration of friendship, of love and of the importance of being true to oneself.

Tramina, a bored town planning officer, impulsively goes in search for what she is missing, not knowing what it is, while Leo, a graphic artist, already has what it takes to be happy and fulfilled, almost, but he does not realize it and he nearly loses it, seduced by the lure of fame and fortune.

When Leo takes the eponymous U-turn it all starts to fall into place under the gaze of the Ancient Ancestor.

A dog, a cat, an owl, an ex-pigeon, some helpful red ants and several good friends are all part of the story which has humour, romance, a mere suggestion of sex and violence, a touch of poetry and even a suspicion of philosophy.

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