Chapter 4.
Harry sat on his bed pressing his hands under his thighs. His eyes studied the weave of his trousers, his mind emptied. He got up and opened a chest of drawers underneath the window. He drew out several sketch books, small A4, looked through them, spread some on the floor, and crouched over them. The women, all the sketches were of women, were drawn in various positions, common pornographic poses. Each a crudely rendered life drawing copied from magazines. He traced around the thigh and the buttock of one picture, the folds of the woman’s midriff pleated as she turned her head towards the viewer. He studied it as if he had no idea of what he was seeing, he then stood up and opened his cupboard and took out a magazine from which the original had been copied. He looked closely at the woman’s face, tried to divine something of her, and then put it away. He did not keep stacks of material, only what he was working on at the time. He picked up another sketch of woman in stockings vacuuming, the long pipe held too suggestively, naughty housewife. He pulled out his box of charcoal and sketch pad and began to draw, this time from a picture of a woman lying on a bed, her buttocks slightly raised in the air. He heard McClain fiddle with his keys next door, and enter his flat.
He looked about him. And saw nothing. He went to the bathroom, he stood for a few seconds in front of the mirror, he rubbed the stubble on his chin, pushed his hand through his dirty grey hair. His teeth were yellowed, he listened to the pipes, a toilet flushed and a bath was being run, the couple above him, McClain to his side and Mrs Green below him, all together in this plaster and board house separated by fragile walls. He went into the small bedroom and looked out of the window onto the backyard, smashed concrete blocks and black rubbish bins with their numbers crudely swabbed on them, a bicycle locked and rusting. The paint on the window frame was peeling; it came away in his hands. He heard the click of the emersion come on, a light rain began, spitting at his window.
In the kitchen he took tin a of beans and sausages and poured the contents into a dirty saucepan, the sauce hardened on the sides and base, too hot, the beans bubbled and spat at the tiny sausages. He found some bread, stiff, but good enough to toast. He turned the radio on as he waited, stirring the food once in a while, not hungry, not caring. He allowed himself a laugh, as the phone in program discussed modern art; the usual characters rang, sharing what they didn’t know with the rest of the metropolis. But then the host was as bad as his audience, although Harry felt sympathy for his sentiments, he thought him patronising. The food done he took it into the sitting room and set the plate down on the long low coffee table and turned on the television.
They were covering the same story, The Shock-Art! Biennial and the scandal surrounding the exclusion of Gavin Stampe. Stampe’s gallery were represented in the interview by a woman who tried hard to articulate her arguments despite the constant interruptions of her opponent Geoff. Harry knew Geoff well, he liked him, liked him a lot. He had known Geoff for a long time, drinking in the same bars. Geoff he thought looked a little gaunt, his jowls were sagging.
He could smell Mrs Green’s damp dinner, sprouts, pie, mash and gravy. The odour lingered over his empty plate. He sighed, turned the television off, and looked at the clock. There was time for a quick pint, round the corner.
The orange fluorescence of the street, struck him, the colour of anonymity, as sad as the telephone directory, which he leafed through, a great dry lost social network.
The Horse Shoe was empty. No Dolly, she must have sloped off somewhere else. He stood at the bar, and Danny appeared, from the cellar. He raised his eyebrows by way of hello and set down the plastic crate he was carrying.
“Dead in here. Don’t know where they’ve all gone.” Danny said.
“Down to the Odeon.” Harry replied, the new super pub down the street.
“Aye, well how am I to compete against them? One forty a pint, shit I’d go and drink there myself.”
He began placing the bottles on the shelves below the bar. He stopped, remembering he needed to serve Harry, but not until he had finished the job, he decided, then he stood up and stretched.
“What are you having?”
“I don’t know, use your imagination.”
Danny poured him a pint of bitter.
Harry took it and drank.
“Give me a packet of cheese and onion and change for the cigarettes.”
He went over to the machine slotted in the money, the pound coins were spat out, until he found some more, which were accepted.
“Pissing down.” He commented.
The wind thumped against the window, the bar could have been cosy but wasn’t, too many bodily fumes and regrets pervaded the place, too many men, breathing in the same air, conversation, jokes and lies.
“You seen Dolly?” Harry asked.
“Lunch time.” Danny replied, looking up from the paper.
There was no food served here, except for a roll or two, preserved under a plastic hood.
“What was she doing?”
Danny looked up at him quizzically. “What do you think?”
Harry shook his head at the question and looked around him, there was nothing here to help him start a conversation, no prompts that hadn’t been used before, Danny always kept his newspaper away from the drinkers so there was no chance there.
Harry took some change for the fruit machine, knowing this would make Danny happy, waste some more cash in the place. He lost five pounds in as many minutes, but in the meantime someone else had come in. Two people he hadn’t seen before, young, confident, probably moved in, trying the local, the one and only time. He ordered another pint, stared where he always did, at the spot at the very top of the back shelf of the bar, where his eyes had rested many hours, he could almost fancy that the varnish was worn in that spot.
“She say anything?” He asked.
Danny was now standing leaning on the bar, smoking, his skin pale and freckled, he was balding, a ring of coppery hair around his shiny pate.
“No she didn’t say nothing.”
“She paying was she?”
“You having a laugh? Think I’d give her a slate?” Danny felt a twinge of shame, or pity, it could be either, but he said no more, instead turned to see two more people come into the bar, another young couple, meeting the other two.
Harry eyed them in the jaundiced light, what could they want from this place? The new arrivals looked over what was on offer and both ordered bottled beer and glasses, the distinct likelihood being that this they deemed to be the most hygienic option as they both used a tissue each to wipe the glasses. The conversation was self assured, for newcomers, they paid no attention to Harry, or the pub, they looked at the juke box and put on a couple of songs, he didn’t know and then was surprised to hear one of his favourites Rhinestone Cowboy. The women were laughing and the men were writing something on a sheet of paper on the table, then all four began to become involved in a serious discussion.
Harry sat on his bed pressing his hands under his thighs. His eyes studied the weave of his trousers, his mind emptied. He got up and opened a chest of drawers underneath the window. He drew out several sketch books, small A4, looked through them, spread some on the floor, and crouched over them. The women, all the sketches were of women, were drawn in various positions, common pornographic poses. Each a crudely rendered life drawing copied from magazines. He traced around the thigh and the buttock of one picture, the folds of the woman’s midriff pleated as she turned her head towards the viewer. He studied it as if he had no idea of what he was seeing, he then stood up and opened his cupboard and took out a magazine from which the original had been copied. He looked closely at the woman’s face, tried to divine something of her, and then put it away. He did not keep stacks of material, only what he was working on at the time. He picked up another sketch of woman in stockings vacuuming, the long pipe held too suggestively, naughty housewife. He pulled out his box of charcoal and sketch pad and began to draw, this time from a picture of a woman lying on a bed, her buttocks slightly raised in the air. He heard McClain fiddle with his keys next door, and enter his flat.
He looked about him. And saw nothing. He went to the bathroom, he stood for a few seconds in front of the mirror, he rubbed the stubble on his chin, pushed his hand through his dirty grey hair. His teeth were yellowed, he listened to the pipes, a toilet flushed and a bath was being run, the couple above him, McClain to his side and Mrs Green below him, all together in this plaster and board house separated by fragile walls. He went into the small bedroom and looked out of the window onto the backyard, smashed concrete blocks and black rubbish bins with their numbers crudely swabbed on them, a bicycle locked and rusting. The paint on the window frame was peeling; it came away in his hands. He heard the click of the emersion come on, a light rain began, spitting at his window.
In the kitchen he took tin a of beans and sausages and poured the contents into a dirty saucepan, the sauce hardened on the sides and base, too hot, the beans bubbled and spat at the tiny sausages. He found some bread, stiff, but good enough to toast. He turned the radio on as he waited, stirring the food once in a while, not hungry, not caring. He allowed himself a laugh, as the phone in program discussed modern art; the usual characters rang, sharing what they didn’t know with the rest of the metropolis. But then the host was as bad as his audience, although Harry felt sympathy for his sentiments, he thought him patronising. The food done he took it into the sitting room and set the plate down on the long low coffee table and turned on the television.
They were covering the same story, The Shock-Art! Biennial and the scandal surrounding the exclusion of Gavin Stampe. Stampe’s gallery were represented in the interview by a woman who tried hard to articulate her arguments despite the constant interruptions of her opponent Geoff. Harry knew Geoff well, he liked him, liked him a lot. He had known Geoff for a long time, drinking in the same bars. Geoff he thought looked a little gaunt, his jowls were sagging.
He could smell Mrs Green’s damp dinner, sprouts, pie, mash and gravy. The odour lingered over his empty plate. He sighed, turned the television off, and looked at the clock. There was time for a quick pint, round the corner.
The orange fluorescence of the street, struck him, the colour of anonymity, as sad as the telephone directory, which he leafed through, a great dry lost social network.
The Horse Shoe was empty. No Dolly, she must have sloped off somewhere else. He stood at the bar, and Danny appeared, from the cellar. He raised his eyebrows by way of hello and set down the plastic crate he was carrying.
“Dead in here. Don’t know where they’ve all gone.” Danny said.
“Down to the Odeon.” Harry replied, the new super pub down the street.
“Aye, well how am I to compete against them? One forty a pint, shit I’d go and drink there myself.”
He began placing the bottles on the shelves below the bar. He stopped, remembering he needed to serve Harry, but not until he had finished the job, he decided, then he stood up and stretched.
“What are you having?”
“I don’t know, use your imagination.”
Danny poured him a pint of bitter.
Harry took it and drank.
“Give me a packet of cheese and onion and change for the cigarettes.”
He went over to the machine slotted in the money, the pound coins were spat out, until he found some more, which were accepted.
“Pissing down.” He commented.
The wind thumped against the window, the bar could have been cosy but wasn’t, too many bodily fumes and regrets pervaded the place, too many men, breathing in the same air, conversation, jokes and lies.
“You seen Dolly?” Harry asked.
“Lunch time.” Danny replied, looking up from the paper.
There was no food served here, except for a roll or two, preserved under a plastic hood.
“What was she doing?”
Danny looked up at him quizzically. “What do you think?”
Harry shook his head at the question and looked around him, there was nothing here to help him start a conversation, no prompts that hadn’t been used before, Danny always kept his newspaper away from the drinkers so there was no chance there.
Harry took some change for the fruit machine, knowing this would make Danny happy, waste some more cash in the place. He lost five pounds in as many minutes, but in the meantime someone else had come in. Two people he hadn’t seen before, young, confident, probably moved in, trying the local, the one and only time. He ordered another pint, stared where he always did, at the spot at the very top of the back shelf of the bar, where his eyes had rested many hours, he could almost fancy that the varnish was worn in that spot.
“She say anything?” He asked.
Danny was now standing leaning on the bar, smoking, his skin pale and freckled, he was balding, a ring of coppery hair around his shiny pate.
“No she didn’t say nothing.”
“She paying was she?”
“You having a laugh? Think I’d give her a slate?” Danny felt a twinge of shame, or pity, it could be either, but he said no more, instead turned to see two more people come into the bar, another young couple, meeting the other two.
Harry eyed them in the jaundiced light, what could they want from this place? The new arrivals looked over what was on offer and both ordered bottled beer and glasses, the distinct likelihood being that this they deemed to be the most hygienic option as they both used a tissue each to wipe the glasses. The conversation was self assured, for newcomers, they paid no attention to Harry, or the pub, they looked at the juke box and put on a couple of songs, he didn’t know and then was surprised to hear one of his favourites Rhinestone Cowboy. The women were laughing and the men were writing something on a sheet of paper on the table, then all four began to become involved in a serious discussion.
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