Chapter Thirteen #2
Earlier in the day, Bob had enjoyed a morning in pottery and, under Paul’s careful tuition, was now the proud owner of a handcrafted mug, which he would decorate and glaze.
He was proud of his work and hoped that it would impress his staff in London.
He intended to make more and by the time he got back would have a set of personalised pottery as a gift for the team.
He stepped into the conservatory and opened the door. The wind had a keen bite and as Bob hurried into the courtyard, he wished that he’d put a coat on.
A sign hung off the wrought iron gates: Art Class – This Way.
An arrow pointed towards the last building and Bob raced on until he reached a stable-style door. He grabbed the handle and stepped in.
‘Close the door!’ Lucinda commanded. She stood in the centre of the room and struck a pose.
Barefoot and dressed in a long white robe, she ignored the no smoking rule and held a cigarette holder high in one hand, whilst resting the other, bangle encased, on her bony hip.
Smoke rings rose towards the ceiling and Bob fanned his hand.
He was startled by Lucinda’s blood-red lipstick and kohl-lined eyes.
Her skin looked blue in the dimly lit, icy-cold room and Bob shivered, wondering if they would be painting scenes from a morgue.
Chairs were placed in a circle and as he sat down he picked up a selection of drawing implements, including an artist’s pad, which he balanced on his knee.
‘There’s plenty of blankets if anyone feels the chill.’ Lucinda pointed to several rugs in a corner, piled beside a heater from where a distinct smell of old damp fur wafted.
It was freezing.
Bob looked around and saw that the group appeared mummified, with only arms and heads sticking out of layers of canine-smelling blankets.
Some doodled on their pads as they waited for the session to begin.
A thin layer of dust lay on the windowsills and floor and as Bob studied pictures on the walls he realised, to his surprise, that they were covered entirely with photographs of dogs.
Stuck to every nook, cranny and expanse of brick were images of hounds of all breeds.
Retriever Labradors with bright eyes and wagging tails stood proud, alongside handsome beagles and bulldogs.
Bob was open-mouthed as he stared at dogs of days gone by, when the hotel was full of shooting parties and this room was a five-star doggy kennel, housing them all.
He knew that Alf, Jo’s handyman, had been her former gamekeeper in charge of the dogs and Alf clearly had an obsession.
His smiling face was captured in many photographs as he grinned for the lens, crouched beside his doggy friends, including West Highland Bella and Winston Royal of Windsor, fine examples of pedigree canines who’d tramped the local moors with their masters, before returning to Alf’s care in the comfort of the kennels at Kirkton House.
Bob scanned the walls and his eyes were wide when he saw that Bunty was also honoured. Alf’s show must go on and the pretty puppy had been captured, sitting on the lawn, dressed in a familiar jewelled collar.
‘Stop daydreaming!’ Lucinda snapped. She threw a rug in Bob’s direction. ‘Put this over your knees and pay attention.’
Bob hastened to do as he was told. He tried not to recoil as ancient hairs from the coats of many a fine gun dog stuck to his cashmere sweater and slacks.
Lucinda paced the room.
‘Today’s lesson will be an opportunity for self-expression,’ she said, scowling as the door opened and Sir Henry and Hugo, in full winter gear, trundled in. Waving her arm at the last remaining seats, she waited while they settled.
‘I want you to react to your inner feelings and put down on canvas what you are about to see.’ She motioned to the centre of the room.
A white sheet covered a lumpy object on a velvet-covered chaise longue.
There was an excited murmur as students, confined by their layers, struggled to sit up and take a closer look.
‘I cannot teach creativity where it does not exist and this is your chance to show me what you can do.’ Lucinda picked up a brush from a large pine easel.
‘I too will be creating an image and discussion will follow the session.’ She walked over to an arc lamp and turned it on.
Light pooled over the chaise. ‘You must draw what you see and I want absolute silence for the next hour.’
Budding artists shuffled and coughs could be heard as nervous throats were cleared.
Taking her position by the chaise, Lucinda reached for the sheet and tugged. As the cover fell away, Bob’s hand flew to his mouth as he tried to stifle a gasp.
The room was silent as the students stared at their subject.
The naked figure of a full and comely woman reclined across the chaise longue.
Her heavy breasts and exposed body left nothing to the imagination as she leaned back on the smooth velvet.
She held a bunch of plump black grapes, which barely covered her pubic area.
Bob reached for his pastels but his hand had begun to shake and the tremble jolted his fingers.
Suddenly, his sketching tools tumbled from his lap to scatter across the floor.
He glanced at the other open-mouthed students and, mortified with embarrassment, fell to his knees. As Bob scrambled to retrieve his pencils, he looked up and found that he was inches from the woman’s face.
Eyeball to eyeball, they stared.
Without moving a muscle, nor distorting her features in any way, Hattie looked at Bob and gave him a knowing wink and as Bob crawled slowly back to his seat, he was sure that he heard her whisper,
‘Eat your heart out, Mona Lisa!’