Chapter 14 Bardy, Six Little Words

Chapter 14 Bardy

BARDY

He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Bardy thought the least he could do after the betrayal of the art gallery was to hold the second meeting at Lou’s.

Anyway, everywhere else is booked.

Still, he thinks Lou makes a great host. At his best. He has the long table piled with pastries and Florentines. The coffee machine is cranking up in the background, and two bottles of wine are open, glasses ready. Lou has even plumped the cushions on the long bench—a Tina touch.

No sweater. Good idea. Clemenza would never have worn cerise.

“All set?” Bardy asks, drawing up a chair.

Lou does a quick professional scan of the room, turns one central light off, and flicks on the Christmas lights that always hang above the row of espresso cups. He absentmindedly touches the nearest cup.

Lou turns back to Bardy, “Wine?” he asks, pulling up a chair at the head of the table.

The Godfather.

Bardy nods and throws another nod at the wrapped package on the counter. “Going to show me what you’ve made?”

The wine glugs into glasses. Good-sized glasses. Thin glass. Lou said it made a difference. Bardy thinks he could be right.

“Going to have to wait, mate. I want to see how the others are getting on first.”

Leonard and Linda arrive, followed shortly by Tay, who disappears behind the counter and starts making herself a coffee. Bardy thinks she looks tired, but it’s tricky to tell with so much black around her eyes.

Lou, Linda, and Leonard are chatting over wine when Pia and Kate arrive together.

“No Tash? That’s a shame,” Pia says, and it takes a split second for the laughter. No one had expected the joke. Well, not from Pia.

“Whoa, he’s a beauty.” Bardy has just spotted Noy at Pia’s heels. Not sure about the sheepskin coat. Dogs and coats? But stylish, definitely that. And if he were that thin, he’d probably feel the cold.

Noy moves with Pia, as if Velcroed to her legs, until they reach the table, and he makes a beeline for Linda. Bardy wonders if dogs see people in color, too.

“Luigi . . . or may I call you Lou? You do not mind me bringing Noy?”

Pia smiles at the godfather.

“Yes, happy. Very. Whatever you like,” Lou says, somewhat incoherently.

Now they’ll all be calling him Lou. Tony and Jakub come to mind. Bardy tells himself to get over himself. “Right, Lou, d’you want to go first?” Bardy smiles blandly at his best friend.

Lou gives a small open-palmed shrug—very mafioso. Why me?

Tay comes from behind the counter and hands him the wrapped package. “There you go, Lou.”

God, they are all calling him Lou. It was Jon and Lou.

Tay and Lou?

Not so bad.

Tay heads toward Bardy, but not before she has detoured to stroke Noy’s head.

Small, delicate hand caressing his ears.

The look on her face surprises him, soft, a little wistful.

Between a child and an adult. He is taken back to teaching To Kill a Mockingbird—that poignant coming-of-age story.

She joins him at the end of the table and twists her chair slightly toward the door.

Phone in her lap. Noy settles between Pia and Linda, who are sitting on the bench.

Head on Pia’s lap, back arched for Linda to pat.

Smart dog. He heard somewhere that whippets are emotionally intelligent.

Gentle dogs. He read that you should never shout at a whippet.

Lou coughs self-consciously as he unwraps his package, exposing a wooden bowl.

It seems perfectly round and smooth to Bardy, but when Lou tilts it to the light, he can see ridges in the interior.

“This is a first attempt. Nowhere near perfect.” Lou runs a big finger over the ridges. “But I thought, well, it’s a start.”

“Nice bit of wood. May I?” Leonard asks, holding out a hand.

He runs his palm over the outer curve. “Very nice. What would that be? Ash?”

Lou holds his head higher and nods. He looks around at them all. “Look, I know this isn’t the sort of stuff that’s going to win anything. May not even enter, but I’ve got seven weeks to get better.”

“Oh, you have to aim for something. And you can use this now. Put a nice green salad in it and no one will ever see the inside.” Linda. Kind. Mellow plum.

Noy sees his chance and takes it. One swift movement. Forepaws on the table. Pastry gone.

“Noy!” Pia cries. Although, to be fair, it sounds more like “Noohhaaai.”

Most are laughing. Except Noy, who is gulping down the pastry as fast as he possibly can. He then puts his head under the table, bottom in the air.

Even Pia is reluctantly laughing now. “He thinks we can’t see him.”

Noy certainly looks surprised when Pia hauls him out from under the table.

Both ears are lying back. Pia looks at him with such adoration that Bardy wishes he was a dog.

“They tell me that you are clever, but you give yourself away every time.” She runs a hand over his head, and he nuzzles into her.

She looks up, “When his ears are back, it is a sure sign he has stolen something.” She looks down again, “And you think you’re so smart.

” Noy gives a small bark, circles twice in the tiny space between Pia and Linda, and settles, curled at Pia’s feet.

Pia turns to Lou. “I am so sorry about that. And I am sure it will have had the most expensive ingredients, that pastry that he stole.”

Lou gives his head a small twist, lips pursed. Impressed. “It did.”

The man really could be an extra if they ever got around to making The Godfather Part IV.

Bardy wonders for a moment why this man, his best friend, has no color. He thinks Lou should be a rich claret red. Still, he reflects, with a mental shake of the head, he really gets no say in it. Only in the poems he writes about color.

“Who’s next?” he asks.

Before the words are out, Leonard is pulling a canvas from his bag.

Proud? Or wants to get it over with?

“I decided to have a go at acrylics. Spoke to my friend Stan who goes to the U3A art group. He gave me some tips.”

“U3A?” Tay asks, looking up from where she has been surreptitiously flicking through her phone.

Something’s up. Or maybe she’s bored being here. Good of her to come, really.

“University of the third age,” Kate explains.

“They cover most subjects. It’s really for people who’ve retired. You’d be amazed at what you can study,” Linda adds.

Tay: “Real.” Her version of Lou’s head twist of approval.

Leonard turns the canvas around. This time, a brighter sunset scene. Countryside and trees in the background. Only one boat on the water. Dead center. Flag flying.

“I see you’ve got your focal point,” Bardy says, suppressing a grin.

He thinks the watercolor was heaps better.

He glances around, and the rest are nodding at the painting—except Tay, who is looking at but not touching her phone.

Expecting something? He sees her knee is bouncing—a sure sign she is nervous.

“That definitely leads your eye into the picture,” Kate says. Smiling. But not unkindly.

It dawns on Bardy that Kate has no color. She is definitely a woman who should have a color.

Leonard doesn’t even glance at Kate. Bardy wonders if he has heard her. No sign of the (bloody) hearing aids.

Leonard plows on, “I spoke to Stan about different media and I’ve now thoroughly researched focal points . . .”

Then Leonard talks at length about what he has read. Which is a lot.

“You don’t think maybe you’re overthinking this, mate?” Gentle but firm, from the godfather. “I liked your watercolor. Sort of thing I’d buy.”

Bardy rows in behind. “Focal points aren’t the be-all and end-all.”

What does he know? But he does agree with Lou.

“It’s all he’s talked about all week,” Linda complains. “Made me walk around our house assessing all of our paintings.”

“That is quite a good idea,” Kate comments.

“Yes, it would be, Kate, if it had taken ten minutes. Half an hour, maybe. Two hours later, and we are still on the ground floor. If I ever see that Tash woman again, I will rip the sole off her other boot.”

“Really, Linda, I don’t think there’s—”

Bardy jumps in, “So, how’s the poetry going, Linda?”

Linda laughs, patting her husband’s hand, effectively shushing him.

“I don’t think poetry’s going to be my thing.

” She pauses. “I’m thinking I might have a go at a pen-and-wash drawing.

I saw some nice pictures in a tea shop this week.

Lots of focal points,” she says, mischievously. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

“Did you manage to write anything? I have always thought poetry might be quite hard,” Pia confesses.

Linda chuckles. “Well, I did, but it wasn’t up to much.” She sips her wine, adding, “Do you want to hear it?”

There is a loud chorus of assent from around the table. Even Tay stops looking at her phone.

Linda draws a sheet of paper from her bag. “Last year Leonard made me go camping.” She shakes her head as if in disbelief. “I am not built for camping. And at our age . . .”

Leonard leans forward, “But such a good cause.”

Linda continues, “It was part of a fundraising event for the local hospital. A jamboree of some sort he’d organized.”

“Such heroes,” Leonard interjects.

“No one is arguing with that, Leonard. I was a nurse for over forty years. I know how hard everyone works. But camping?!” Linda carries on quickly before Leonard can say more.

“Anyway, he’s been on at me to sign up again for this year, and it inspired me to write a poem about last year’s experience—which, if you like, I will share with you. ”

More noises of assent. Leonard looks pained.

Linda starts to read.

We’re out in a tent,

My back is all bent.