CHAPTER 12 #2
Jacqui was indeed just pulling up in her immaculate pale blue Fiat 500 with white leather seats. Pat excused herself and strode back across the green towards the village hall.
‘Do you want a hand with anything?’ she asked Jacqui, who’d started unpacking the boot.
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, Pat, but there’s no need to worry,’ smiled Jacqui, picking up a large bag containing various sizes of blank canvas. ‘We’ve got a lot to do today. I’ve got an exciting announcement for the group.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ replied Pat, almost meaning it.
‘I do hope Fiona has remembered to bring the biscuits. See you inside.’
Pat walked through the double swing doors into the village hall.
It was a well-used community facility, with a Sunday-school corner, beanbags and finger painting, a pile of mats for the new mums and tums yogalates class, and a line of desks with elderly-looking computers appropriately used for computing for the elderly.
There was also a small kitchenette. As she hung up her anorak, she noticed there was a circle of red plastic chairs in the middle of the room, likely left over from last night’s Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
‘There you are!’ Prichard’s head popped out of the kitchenette. ‘I’m just making the tea to go with the biscuits.’
Biscuits played a large role in art club, much larger than Pat really thought they warranted.
Each week, one of the students was required to bring enough for the whole group.
Some took it very seriously and baked cookies when it was their turn; Prichard had made some rather delicious rosemary rock cakes last time and someone else brought home-made lemon curd tarts.
When it was Pat’s turn, she’d nipped by the Co-op and bought two packets of Rich Tea biscuits, which went down surprisingly well, especially with old Colonel Thomas, a retired army officer who’d moved to the village after his wife died.
He seemed to have some sort of Proustian experience when she opened the packet, inhaling deeply, his rheumy blue eyes closing slowly with pleasure.
The colonel arrived at that very moment, walking stick in hand, dressed immaculately in a cream and brown checked Viyella shirt, a knitted dark green tie and a tweed jacket, with brown cords and brown suede brogues.
His thinning hair was combed flat, with a neat side parting.
He had what had probably once been a jovial face, which was now etched a little in melancholy.
‘Good morning, Patricia,’ he greeted her. ‘I gather we’re in for a surprise today, according to our dear teacher.’
‘Indeed we are,’ said Pat. She was fetching the easels that were stored in the back room along with the optional smocks. They brought their own paints.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked.
‘I’m OK, Colonel,’ she replied. ‘I’m only bringing out a few bits.’
‘In which case, I shall take a seat,’ he replied, before joining the erstwhile Alcoholics Anonymous circle and watching Pat set up the easels in the middle.
‘Tea!’ Prichard came out of the kitchenette clutching a cluster of mugs, each containing pale-looking milky tea. ‘Pat, Colonel.’ He carried on around the circle. ‘Lucy. Nice to see you. Margot.’ He paused.
‘Thank you,’ Margot replied, nodding at the floor for Prichard to place the mug at her feet.
Pat had always found Margot a bit little imperious, with her aquiline nose, hooped earrings and purple turban that she tied on the top of her head like a Quality Street.
It wasn’t until the art club Christmas party, when she drank far too much white wine and found everything Pat and Prichard said to be beyond hilarious, that Pat realised the imperiousness was simply shyness, and she wasn’t such a bad sort after all.
She had apparently worked in the theatre back in the day and fancied herself as a bit of an artist. Quite a few of the class did.
Well, all of them did. Even Pat, who had wanted to go to art school but had ended up studying law and becoming a solicitor.
Her father had told her there was no money in painting and she should get a proper profession. He was probably right.
‘Oh good, we’re almost all here now,’ said Jacqui, entering the hall with her bags of canvases and dumping them in the middle of the circle, next to the easels. She sat down and then immediately leapt out of her seat.
‘I feel I should be standing for this.’ She smiled broadly and glanced at the door.
‘I don’t think we can wait for Fiona.’ She looked back to the group.
‘So, we, you – the art club – have been asked to paint the view from the village hall for a competition!’ Her voice went up two octaves as she clapped her hands with excitement.
She tended to speak to the club in the same sing-song tones employed by a kindergarten teacher.
‘A competition?’ asked Prichard, sipping his tea.
‘I know!’ Jacqui grinned and nodded at the same time. Her enthusiasm was palpable. ‘It’s being organised by the parish council and will be judged by our honourable member of Parliament.’
‘Oh, I know him, he came to my launch,’ declared Fi, trotting through the door in a pair of box-fresh trainers and head-to-toe athleisure, including a very fetching pair of leopard leggings. ‘So sorry I’m late, I had meetings.’ She shook her blonde hair, exuding importance.
‘Thank you for joining,’ trilled Jacqui. ‘I was just telling the class that we’ve been asked to paint the view outside the village hall for a competition.’
‘Great,’ said Fi, only half listening, as she bent down and pulled out a large Tupperware container.
Prichard sat up and peered across. Whatever she had there, it looked home-made.
Pat could tell he was salivating. His cup of weak tea was certainly in dire need of something to soak it up.
Fi clicked open the lid and offered up the Tupperware. ‘Carrot, anyone?’
‘Tea and carrots?’ The colonel looked bemused.
‘You don’t have to eat them with tea,’ she smiled, producing a giant sipping cup with a straw attached and the word Yeti emblazoned down the side. ‘They work equally well with water.’
Before anyone could say anything, the doors opened again and in walked Dorna Braddon. Pat glanced over at Prichard, who had his mouth wide open – at the carrots or Dorna, she couldn’t be sure.
‘Dorna!’ exclaimed Jacqui. ‘I was hoping you’d join us after our conversation the other night at Fi’s. Welcome, welcome. Everyone, this is Dorna Braddon and she’ll be joining us from now on. Say hello, everyone.’
‘Hello, Dorna,’ the majority of the group chimed.
‘Why don’t you come and sit next to Pat,’ suggested Jacqui, ‘and I can tell you what’s happening today.’
Dorna took her seat without so much as a sideways glance or a nod of acknowledgement.
While Jacqui talked her through the exciting news of the competition, Pat observed her furtively.
Dorna was dressed in blue trousers and a navy jumper, an expensive-looking watch peeking out from under the cuff.
But most interestingly, as she put her hands in her lap, Pat noticed that the bandage was gone.
Straining to see the state of the hand, she leant forward and picked up her tea from the floor, then glanced up.
It was red and swollen across the knuckles, with faint scabbing and bruising, the kind of injury you might get from punching a wall.
Or a person. Or falling on gravel. Pat wasn’t sure.
But RSI it wasn’t. She coughed in the hope of attracting Prichard’s attention, but he was too busy listening to the rules of the competition.
‘So if you’re ready,’ said Jacqui, ‘gather your things and let’s meet outside the front of the hall. Choose your canvas, any size, and may the best man – or woman – win!’
There was a scraping of chairs as everyone stood up.
‘Oh! I see your hand is better.’ Pat approached Dorna.
‘At last.’ Dorna smiled. ‘Let me tell you, RSI is a right bitch.’
Maybe a little too much emphasis on the word bitch, thought Pat.