I Watson - Director's cut

“I know," Albert said. "I can feel it too, out there. Or it might even be in here.”

The colonel said, “As long as it's only the women, it could be worse.”

Roger said, “Well, I hope you keep all your kissing and cuddling outside. I won’t have it in here.”

Sid the Nerve shook his head despondently and moved off shaking his ring.

Once he’d gone Roger said, “I’m thinking of banning the blacks…” Albert shook his head. “Not possible with the race relations. You’d end up in court.”

Roger continued, “…along with the Jews.”

Albert turned to Mr Lawrence. “So, snow? I feel the chill, too.” At the shop Paul was helpful. He helped him unpack the shopping. “Walnuts, Mr Lawrence, and shoe polish. You’ve already got shoe polish under the sink.”

“You can never have too much shoe polish.”

“You’ve bought lots of walnuts.”

“Walnuts are the thing, Paul. They lower the cholesterol.” “Well, I didn’t know that.”

“And you’ve always got to put one in the sock you hang up on Christmas night.”

“Oh, Mr Lawrence, does that mean I’m staying for Christmas?” “Now, now, Paul, I didn’t say that, did I?”

Downstairs Paul proved even more helpful.

“I'll keep the shop open,” he said.

“There's no need, really.”

“No problem, really. It's getting close to Christmas. You never know. In any case, now we’ve put the walnuts away, I'm doing nothing else.”

“As you like,” Mr Lawrence said, secretly pleased.

“One thing, Mr Lawrence?”

“What’s that, Paul?”

“Last night, late, I heard babies crying. It was coming through the walls.”

“That will be the cats. I’ve heard them myself. When they cry they sound just like babies.”

“Oh, that’s all right then.”

The woman from India or Pakistan or Luton, arrived at three-thirtyfive, five minutes late.

Mr Lawrence believed that punctuality marked the man – and the woman.

“What about the specs? I think I'll take them off.”

“As you like,” he said, still smarting.

“I'm long-sighted. They're bifocals. People wouldn't recognize me without them. What do you think?”

“I think I'd recognize you without them. But perhaps I don't know you well enough not to recognize you.”

Her glance was quick and questioning.

“Off for now,” he added, softening a little. It was difficult to maintain severity before such an engaging face. “We can always change our minds later.”

Carefully she removed her spectacles, folded them and slipped them away. In the rich brown of her eyes was a challenge. Taking off the spectacles had removed the innocence. The bridge of her nose was slightly marked, as though she wasn’t used to wearing them. The thick green drapes behind her were going to lend their value to her skin tone. Her brown dress was loose; the pleats and folds presented a pleasing contrast.

She spoke from the side of her mouth. There was no need to keep still. When discomfort had set in maybe he would tell her. “Have you painted for long?”

“Since before you were born.”

“You used to teach?”

“Ah! Mrs Harrison told you that.”

“Yes.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You taught art?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Biology.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Why should you?”

“Why did you stop?”

“To concentrate on art. I still take small classes here. I find it more satisfying. And of course, working for myself, and shutting up whenever I feel like it, the holidays compare, although the teachers do edge it.”

“You take classes in here?”

“There's room for five or six, eight at a push.”

“Is there a particular age group?”

“Yes, indeed. We don’t cater for children. They find it difficult to concentrate.”

“It sounds interesting.”

“Yes, it does.”

“How much do your lessons cost?”

“There is no charge. It's more of a club. The members buy their materials from me but there's no obligation. They get them at cost in any case. The club charges a small annual subscription but you'd have to ask the treasurer about that. I am not a member. The subscription goes toward outings and transport. This summer, for instance, they spent a day in Essex discovering Constable, that sort of thing. Some of their work hangs in the gallery. It's not very good, really, but I show willing.”

“When we are through you'll have to show me.”

“Yes, I'll have to.”

“You used to teach in school?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you give up teaching?”

“I told you, to spend more time painting. And I discovered that I didn't like children. Do you have children?”

“No. I have a Labrador.”

“Do you work?”

“In personnel or, rather, HR. BOC.”

“I know it. In Wembley. How long have you been there?” “Since school. Over ten years now.”

“And have you been married long?”

“Three years.”

“Is your husband in the same line of business?”

“No. He's in marketing. In the city.”

“Do you have hobbies?”

“I play badminton.”

“That's good. It's good to have a sport.”

“Do you have a sport?”

“No.”

“My husband's a runner. Weekends. Sometimes, I go to watch him run. Cheer him on.”

“I bet he likes that. I don't know any runners. I've been out, painting, and they've run past. But they never stopped. Do you live far from here?”

“The Ridgeway.”

“Of course, near Mrs Harrison.”

“Well, Mrs Harrison isn't there at the moment. She's gone off somewhere. Mr Harrison is quite worried.”

“My goodness, I bet he is. I hope she's not another missing woman. We've got enough of those. Hope we don't see her picture up in the bus shelters.”

“How long have you lived here? Do you live here?”

“I moved here in the mid-eighties. There's a small flat upstairs, enough room for one.”

“You're on your own, then?”

“I suppose I am. Apart from the lodger.”

“You have a lodger?”

“Yes.”

“It's good to have company.”

“You think so?”

“Don't you?”

“I've been on my own so long it takes some getting used to.” “You never married?”

“No. No one would have me.”

“I don't believe that.”

“Every time I got close to a woman she disappeared.”

“It’s not a joke, Mr Lawrence.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“It's frightening.”

“It's never frightened me. I suppose it should. But it doesn't.” A wide belt pinched her dress at the waist. She had an awkward hip that gave him trouble. There was a sharpness that needed smoothing. Part of the problem lay in her deportment. Her weight was on her heels, her shoulders dragged slightly forward to compensate. The main cause was a flat masculine behind. It wasn't in the picture but it took away the natural curve to the hip.

There were a couple of other areas where he could help out too. It depended how charitable he felt when it came to the detail. It depended on the mood and how ugly it was on the day.

Off the studio was a small kitchen with a sink and tea-making equipment. But he didn't make tea. He opened a bottle of red wine. While he fought with the cork the voice of his new assistant carried in from the shop. Moments earlier the doorbell had struck.

“Hang on! Hang on! Here it is: Reclining Nude on Red Settee with One Arm. Done by a geezer named Reynolds. What I can tell you about him, mate, is that he spent his life doing copies of Goya's… You know? Innit? This tart wasn't just any old tart. They were close. I mean very close. He must have changed his mind about her arm.” Red wine splashed into glasses. Mr Lawrence shook a wondrous head.