Art
Art
Art walked toward Hammersmith roundabout—three lanes of constant traffic flowing under the Hammersmith flyover, circling a modern shopping center, St. Paul’s church, and the Hammersmith Apollo. He ducked into the dank underpass.
Huddled against the wall was a man tucked into a sleeping bag covered in holes, stains, and burn marks. He either was fast asleep, or had passed out, and was oblivious to the commuters streaming by. They paid him no attention. He was just one of the many sights that Londoners chose to ignore, lest they took the shine off their comfortable existences.
Art pulled three cashmere sweaters out of his bag, each with its price tag still attached. He tucked the sweaters just under the sleeping bag and walked on. With each step he felt a little lighter.
For the first time in decades, Art felt as if his life were on an upward trajectory. He was making inroads into the wardrobe, and he wasn’t adding anything new to his stolen loot. He hadn’t addressed the root of the problem—he had no idea where to even find it, and suspected he’d have to dig down a very long way—but he was simply too busy for a shoplifting spree.
Art had the social club three afternoons a week, plus a few days of intensive dog training whenever he had Maggie to stay. He and William were also secretly continuing their surveillance operation. While they hadn’t yet caught Jeremy in flagrante, the man was obviously a tosser, and no doubt up to something. Plus, on top of everything else, Art was writing and directing a drama production which might just win over the hard hearts on the council and save their community center.
Art had a purpose . Several of them, in fact.
···
Art surveyed his audience. The largest, and most attentive, audience he’d had in years, actually. Eighteen children, aged from eight months (Kylie) to nearly five years old (Lucky) were gathered in a semicircle around him. The room smelled of poster paints and Play-Doh, with faint undertones of nappy, transporting him back to his own childhood, in the same neighborhood, but a different century and a completely different world.
“Say hello to Mr. Andrews, children,” said Janine.
“Hello, Mr. Andrews,” chorused the children in a singsong tone, perfectly in time with each other.
“Mr. Andrews is going to help us with our nativity play, since he is a proper actor ,” said Janine in a gratifyingly reverential tone. A hand shot up. “Yes, Zack?” she said.
“Are you in any of the Marvel movies?” said Zack, staring at him in awe. Art considered lying and claiming to have played Iron Man, but wasn’t sure he could get away with it.
“No,” he said, and watched the shine drain from Zack’s eyes. “But I was in EastEnders ! Has anyone seen that?” Thirty-four eyes gazed back at him. Lucky, as always, was staring at the floor. Zack started picking his nose, finding the contents far more interesting than Art’s unimpressive soap career. And tasty, it appeared.
“Ooh, I love EastEnders !” said Janine, taking pity on him. “What part did you play?”
“Well, I was punched once by Phil Mitchell in a bar brawl, I bought two apples and a pear from Arthur’s market stall, and I did my washing in the launderette with Dot Cotton a few times,” said Art. Janine smiled at him in a politely interested, but also faintly disappointed way. It was an expression Art had become accustomed to over the years.
“Now, the first thing we need to do is decide who plays which parts. It’s called ‘casting.’ Does anyone have a part they especially want to play?” he said.
“Yes, Tallulah?” said Janine to a pretty Black girl with intricately braided hair and an enthusiastically raised hand.
“Can I be the star?” said Tallulah, with an endearing lisp.
“ Everyone is a star in our production,” said Art, wishing that were the case in real life. Every set he’d ever been on had been ferociously hierarchical.
“No, I want to be the actual star!” pouted Tallulah. “The one over the stable. I can be twinkly and shiny and pointy.”
“Oh, right. Yes, of course you can,” said Art. “And you can double up as the Angel Gabriel as well, if you like.” Tallulah beamed.
“Lucky,” said Art. Lucky, who was sitting about five feet outside the circle, clinging on to Maggie Thatcher, didn’t look up, but he did angle his head slightly in Art’s direction. “M is going to be a sheep, and she’s going to need a bit of help, since she’s never done any acting before. Will you be her shepherd?” It seemed as if the room held its breath, as everyone waited for a response. Lucky’s head moved in an almost imperceptible nod. Or perhaps Art was imagining it. “Great,” he said, in any case. “Now, does anyone want to be the Virgin Mary?”
A single hand shot up.
“Mary is a girl’s part, Noah,” said Janine. Noah was wearing the Elsa costume which Art had stolen from Tesco and which now lived in the communal dressing-up box. The blue polyester skirt pooled over his crossed legs. He looked crestfallen.
“I don’t see why our production can’t be gender-neutral,” said Art. “It’s all the rage these days. Did anyone see Glenda Jackson as King Lear? A seminal performance! No, I guess not. Anyhow, the Angel Gabriel was male, but is being played by Tallulah, and Kylie’s going to be the baby Jesus, since she’s the smallest, and technically Jesus was a boy.”
“And a newborn,” said Janine. “Kylie’s way too big.”
“This is a play, dear girl,” said Art. “It’s make-believe. We can be size-neutral as well as gender-neutral. I’m sure you’ll make a fine Virgin Mary, Noah!” Noah grinned at him and clapped his plump hands together, and Art thought this might be the best day he’d had in years.
···
Art and William sat at opposite ends of the bench, just as they’d sat at the bus stop as children, leather satchels at their feet, on the way to school. They had a perfect view of Lydia’s husband’s office, right across the street.
The vast glass skyscrapers towering above them made Art feel incredibly small. Why hadn’t he traveled into the center of town for so long? He’d forgotten how magnificent the capital he lived in was. Here, in the city, these giant modern offices butted up against each other, each trying to look down—both physically and metaphorically—on its neighbor. And, right next to them, the ancient Tower of London and the majestic, winding Thames, which had seen the city evolve over centuries, through the Great Fire and the Black Death, outlasting millions of its inhabitants who had, for their short time on this earth, fooled themselves into feeling significant.
They drank the coffee they’d brought in a Thermos flask, raising their two tin cups in perfect synchronicity. William kept a practiced eye trained on the glass revolving doors, while one hand rested on his camera, hidden beneath his large overcoat. A never-ending, fast-flowing stream of cars, taxis, cyclists, and pedestrians passed in front of them.
“I had such fun with those kids today, William,” said Art to his friend.
“That’s great, Art,” said William. “But doesn’t it make you wonder whether you should maybe get to know your grandchildren? I bet you don’t even know their names. You should look up Kerry. Apologize. Build bridges.”
“I have apologized. Over and over,” said Art, trying not to sound as sulky as he felt. For once, he’d been feeling positive about his life, and William had just rained on his parade. He felt a drop of water on his forearm. Oh, great. Now it was actually raining.
“I know you have,” said William. “But you need to try again. You’re the parent. Enough time has passed. Give it another go, before it’s too late. I don’t want you being lonely.” William reached across the gap between them to grab Art’s hand. Art snatched it away, then immediately felt guilty.
“I’m not lonely. I have you,” he said, punching his friend on the arm in a well-worn gesture.
William was one of the Windrush kids, arriving by boat from Grenada as a baby in 1948. His dad had worked for British Rail, and they’d lived just around the corner from Art, in one of the only boarding houses not displaying a sign in the window reading No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish . They’d met at primary school, when Art had decked the boy in the lunch queue who was waving a banana at William and making monkey noises, and they’d had each other’s backs every day of the subsequent seventy years.
“I might not be here forever, Art,” said William. “And I worry about what will happen to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, William! You’re younger than me!” said Art.
“By three months,” said William.
“Car crash or train crash?” said Art, desperate to change the subject.
“Train crash. More dramatic. Car crashes are so common,” said William. This game had started in 1958, with debating who was the best footballer; had morphed, once the hormones hit, into who was the hottest girl; and had now become the more morbid “Best Way to Die.” The only way, they’d found, to deal with approaching death was to stare it right between the eyes.
“Train crash or plane crash?” said William.
“Still train,” said Art. “Definitely. A plane crash is way too drawn out. Imagine that plunging-to-earth thing, with oxygen masks dangling from the ceiling, and everybody screaming while the air stewardesses shout, ‘brACE! brACE!’ because there’s nothing else they can do. No, thank you.”
“Hey, do you remember that time you were desperate to impress some kind of big-shot casting director, and you’d turn up at the same events as him while I followed you around with a camera, shouting, ‘Art Andrews! I love your work!’?” said William.
“Yes!” said Art. “Days of effort, and all it got me was the ‘before’ man in a TV advertisement for dandruff shampoo.” Art mimicked brushing flakes of dandruff off his shoulders.
“Look, isn’t that Lydia’s husband?” said William, nodding toward the man being propelled from the revolving doors onto the pavement opposite. “He’s with that girl again.”
They watched as Jeremy unchained a silver metal scooter from the bike rack outside his office. What kind of a grown man rode a scooter ? What a pillock.
Jeremy pushed the scooter slowly along the pavement, keeping time with the girl walking beside him. The same girl he’d been kissing in the photo they’d shown Lydia. The kiss they’d insisted had been entirely innocent. Art could hear the rapid shutter-click of William’s camera.
“I’m going after them,” said William. “You stay here. It’ll be less obvious if I tail him alone. I’ll message you when they get to wherever they’re going.” William stood up and rushed off, more fluid and mobile than Art had seen him in years, which just went to prove that gainful employment was good for a man.
Art drained the last of his coffee, which had turned cold and bitter, and rested the cup on the bench beside him. He sat in the drizzle, his head deeply in the past, in the days when he’d had lines and call sheets, a runner who fetched him scones and jam between takes and a family waiting for him at home with the table laid and a stew in the oven.
Art watched two teenage girls walk past, heads together, laughing at a shared joke, and felt the familiar wave of grief that time’s passing had dulled, but could never eradicate.
A rattle brought him back to the present with a jolt. He looked down at the source of the noise. Someone had thrown a handful of copper coins into his cup.