I Watson - Director's cut

This caused some excitement and they hurriedly unpacked their trappings.

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

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

Nice old-fashioned names.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“In the studio?”

“I'll make another exception.”

Under the studio light Mr Lawrence drew back the cover.

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

“Don't! It's still wet.”

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

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

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

“Fuck the women,” he told the colonel.

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

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