Chapter 21 Kate
KATE
Our doubts are our traitors.
Colin cannot make it, and Bardy is clearly thrown.
Or has something else upset him? It was a strange story to tell them—sweet and completely unexpected.
She got what he was telling them all, and of course, he was right.
These things took time. She will just keep going with her painting; perhaps she will look at how other artists approached oils.
“He’s really sorry to let us down, but his mother has had a fall,” Bardy explains.
“Nothing he can do about that. Your mom’s your mom. Got to come first.” Lou nods. “What about the model?”
“Am I in the right place?” a voice booms from the door. Very Welsh. A large man wearing camouflage trousers and a neon orange jacket. “Colin said this was the spot. Which one of you is Bardy?”
Bardy rises to greet the man. “I’m sorry, that’s me. I’m afraid Colin can’t make it. His mom . . .”
“Enid? Has something happened to her?”
“She’s had a fall. They are on the way to the hospital now.”
“Best place,” the Welshman says philosophically.
“So you see—” Bardy starts.
“Could I help, Bardy?” Kate cuts in. “I’ve done a few life drawing classes in the past. Would you like me to organize this?”
The look he throws her confirms what Kate is thinking. For some reason or another, Bardy is barely hanging on.
Kate turns to the model. “Come and meet everyone . . .”
“And let’s get you a coffee and some cake,” Linda finishes.
A few minutes later, “Bazza” and Kate are on the dais, talking about the arrangement of chairs and the pose.
Bazza has taken off his jacket but still has his trousers on and a black Bruce Springsteen T-shirt that has seen better days.
“Eighteen concerts. No one comes close to the Boss,” he tells Kate.
Chairs arranged, Kate suggests, “Would you like to go behind the screen to undress? We are ready whenever you are.” Kate returns to the chairs that have now been lined up facing the dais.
Everyone has a board and art pad—it seems Bardy has bought in bulk—and a selection of pencils.
Kate has kept hold of all the erasers. Her first art teacher had said, You need to look and have confidence in what you draw.
Even if you get it wrong. Kate glances along the row.
All are looking nervous. Bardy is doodling something on the page in front of him.
Bazza comes out from behind the screen naked as the day he was born.
Kate knows that it is a huge advantage if the model is professional and confident.
It puts inexperienced artists at ease. Bazza exudes a world-beating, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping confidence.
He stands, hands on his hips, legs apart.
“Well, now,” he booms, “let’s get this show on the road. ”
He settles on the chair and shuffles like a hen about to lay, legs still akimbo. Then he leans back into the pose that Kate and he had decided upon. The group is quiet and respectful, although Kate can sense they are like children in church trying not to laugh.
“Thank you, Bazza,” Kate calls. “Now let’s get started. And forget what your mind is telling you. Just draw what you can see.”
“I think I need my glasses,” Linda murmurs from beside her.
Kate pushes the laughter down inside her.
She can’t say she has a huge amount of experience with different penises, but there is no doubt that Bazza’s member is by far the smallest she has ever seen.
She didn’t actually know they came that small.
Which makes his overwhelming confidence even more admirable.
She glances along the line. Lou and Leonard are sitting that bit taller.
Bardy is drawing, concentrating. There is a grim look on his face, which she thinks has nothing to do with whatever he thinks of Bazza’s body. He is miles away.
“Okay, for this first pose, we will give it ten minutes. Just try and get down a basic outline, a sketch. You are looking at the overall proportions of the body. It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is about warming up and getting your hand and eye in.”
There is complete silence apart from a gentle humming from Bazza—“Born to Run,” very melodic—and the soft scrape of pencils over paper.
Kate quickly gets down the form and pose.
This she can do. It is oil painting that is sapping her confidence.
She loves this looking and absorbing shape and form.
She now sees that the man in front of her is a joy to behold.
Mountains of stomach, rounded and rather magnificent.
Powerful thighs and graceful, curving calves.
Beautiful, neat ankles. Feet are a problem to draw.
She knows one artist who always starts there—If you can get the feet right, the rest is a walk in the park.
She looks up to check that the blinds are shielding Bazza from the gaze of those enjoying a late evening walk.
Not that she thinks the man would care in the least.
Leaving her drawing on her chair, she walks along the line, checking how everyone is getting on.
Most are holding their pencils way too tightly and, as she suspected, are concentrating nervously on the detail, going over the same part again and again.
She knows if they had erasers, there would be more eraser marks than pencil marks on the paper.
She makes some gentle suggestions and moves on along the line.
Tay is really good. Confident. She’s having trouble with the feet, too.
Pia’s effort is not at all bad. Although she is scowling at her paper.
Leonard’s proportions are good, but his perspective is way off. She wonders if he once worked with technical drawings.
“I just don’t want to make a mess of it,” Satya says, turning her pad this way and that.
This gives Kate an idea. She knows doubt and nerves make people tentative when they draw. They worry about spoiling what they’ve put down, or even ruining the book they are drawing in.
“Okay, thank you, Bazza, you can relax that pose.”
Kate flips through her art pad to the last few pages and pulls these out.
She then tears each page very roughly into four.
She then gives each person four pieces. “Right, we are now going to do a series of four quick sketches on rough paper. These can be thrown away. They are just for practice. Two minutes each.” She looks at Bazza, who nods back.
A professional. “Bazza will choose each pose. You can draw a quick sketch of the whole pose or look at one part and get that down. My advice is, don’t think too much about it. Off we go then.”
The atmosphere changes completely. People start to chat—and, Kate suspects, breathe normally.
After eight minutes, the group asks for four more poses.
Some pieces of paper are discarded, but she can see one or two of the small, swift sketches being held onto.
Leonard’s outline of Bazza’s head. Lou’s drawing of his whole outline.
Pia seems fascinated by the big man’s hands.
Only Bardy seems to just be going through the motions.
Although what he is producing is competent.
Then again, he was married to an artist. Has something happened to Hana?
Only once this evening has Kate caught him looking at Pia, and that was when she and Pia had their heads together talking about perspective.
“Okay, Bazza, do you need a break?” Kate asks.
“A coffee and another slice of that orange cake would go down a treat.” He takes a small towel from his backpack and wraps it around to (almost) cover his modesty and joins the group.
Kate goes with Linda to the kitchen to replenish the coffee and cut more cake. When they return, the group is gathered around the semi-naked Welshman.
“I’m sure I know you from somewhere, Barry,” Leonard is saying.
“Well, I ran the post office out by the dike road for many a year. But I had to give up when all that nonsense happened with the computers. Terrible it was.”
Despite his near nakedness, Kate can sense the group draw closer in sympathy.
“So were you one of the subpostmasters caught up in it?” Pia asks.
“Not personally, but friends of mine were, and I could see they were getting stitched up right, left, and center. Decided to throw in the towel, so to speak.” He tucks his towel more securely around him. “Now I’m a delivery driver.”
“!” Bardy has come out of his preoccupied fug.
“That’s right.”
There is a collective “Aah,” and Kate thinks they are all mentally reviewing everything they have ever ordered from .
“That is an interesting ring you’re wearing,” Pia comments, pointing to a large metal band on Bazza’s left hand. It has a small ball of metal at the top of the band with a small metal ring suspended from it.
“Ah, now that,” Bazza informs them proudly, “signifies that I am a dom. If it were on my right hand, I would be a sub.”
“I’m sorry?” Pia queries.
“I’m president of the East Anglian Sadomasochistic Society. We meet every other Tuesday. New members are always welcome.” He beams around at them.
Kate can’t help but laugh. Nor can the others.
Bazza continues to smile at them. Kate thinks he must be used to this. Kate sees Bardy cast Tay an anxious glance, and in return, she widens her eyes at him. It is a look that is youthful but also says, For goodness’ sake, I’m not a child.
As if aware of this, Bazza continues, “It is all consenting adults. We are very strict about that. We sometimes have to exclude the goths who think the ring is a fashion accessory, but for us, it is a way of communicating with other like-minded enthusiasts. I used to laugh with fellow members from the post office. Other subpostmasters. We would say, ‘Sub by day. Dom by night.’ Oh, how we laughed.”
They are all laughing now.
“You are remarkably open about this,” Linda observes.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, dear lady. As long as the safe words are in place and we ensure that it is all age-appropriate. Why shouldn’t we be with people who have a similar sexual preference?”
“No reason whatsoever,” Pia agrees, and she gives Kate the smallest of winks.
“Now back to work,” Bazza says, flicking off his towel and striding back to the dais. Ever the professional. Kate wonders if she will ever order anything from again.
The last ten minutes are spent on one pose.
There is some conversation, but an air of concentration fills the room.
It is Bardy who now patrols the line of artists.
He seems to have overcome whatever was bothering him.
When he comes to Kate, he leans forward.
“Thanks for all that,” and he touches her lightly on the shoulder.
He pulls his hand away as if burned. Kate wants to say, It’s okay.
She knew it for what it was, a friendly gesture.
She knows she really likes the man, but friendship would be good too.
Knowing Pia is gay and that Bardy has no chance with her makes very little difference to what she hopes for.
Pia had said, when talking about her musical family, that she didn’t like to be second best. Neither does Kate.
Bardy addresses them all. “I really want to thank Kate for stepping in for Colin.” There is a round of applause.
Satya looks down at her current drawing. “I know it’s not brilliant, but I’m quite proud of this.” She looks up. “And I think it is going to influence how I photograph people.”
An image flashes into Kate’s mind of Satya presiding over an exhibition of arty black-and-white sadomasochistic imagery.
“I still feel like a fraud, though,” Pia admits, though Kate can tell by her voice that she is secretly pleased with what she has drawn.
“You have to fake it to make it,” Tay says, packing up her bag. She glances at Bardy. “It’s what someone we know used to say.”
Hana.
“Yeah, my wife was an artist. She said you had to start somewhere. No one is born an artist.”
“Well, they are,” Tay challenges him.
Kate has a sense of what is coming next. What an interesting girl Tay is.
“Picasso said all children are artists,” Tay finishes.
It is Satya who follows this. “Our boys were like that. They would just go for it, they came up with the most amazing ideas, and then they seemed to lose confidence.”
“School,” Bardy mutters sadly.
“After that, they would always try and copy each other, wanting to be sure they were getting it right, worried if someone was doing better . . . and now . . .”
“Now?” Leonard says.
Kate isn’t sure if he is asking a question or querying if he has heard right.
Satya quickly packs her own bag. Head down. “I don’t know. Jack does all of that sort of stuff.” She mutters, “Why does everything have to be moneymaking and fame-making? It’s not fun anymore.”
Kate doesn’t think Satya expects an answer, but she does wonder if Satya is talking about art, business, or life.
Kate lies in bed that night, curtains and window partly open so she can smell what she thinks of as the eau-de-nil scent of blue salt water mixed with vegetation, turned a greenish gray by the night.
She listens to the gentle wash of the tide and thinks about Bardy.
What had upset him earlier? Tay? No, he and Tay seem argumentative but close.
She’s an interesting girl. A child, still, but sometimes so much older than her years.
A quicksilver mix of anxious and confident.
Strong though. And Satya? Why does thinking about children and Tay make her think of Satya and her photographs?
She reviews the images in her mind and thinks of how Satya spoke of her family. Then it comes to her.
Her boys.
Was Jack just one of her boys?
Loved, for sure, but often irritating, just one of the pack to keep in line?