‘Anything wrong?’
‘No, just something we suddenly remembered.’
Tone told her as they walked home that he lived in one of the blocks of high-rise flats quite near her own road, an infill that faced some of the bigger houses. It was OK, he said, now that the rest of the family had left home and there was just him and his mum. Quieter, like. She gave him a swift glance, but didn’t ask him what that meant.
Later, after some soup, tooth-achingly sweet, vinegary and luridly coloured, which the label alleged was tomato, and of which no fewer than eight cans had been left in the cupboard by Angel Honeybun (which must have said something about her), Cleo said, ‘What are you doing working for MO with a talent
like yours, Tone? You could get a really interesting job if you wanted to.’
‘I’ve no qualifications.’
‘Who needs qualifications when you can draw like that?’
‘Everybody needs qualifications these days.’
‘Then why not get some? You could do, easily.’ Look who was talking, but it was different when it was someone else, wasn’t it?
‘Nah,’ he said dismissively, and something in the way he said it told her to leave the subject alone.
After Tone had demolished both, now cold, lentilburgers, when they were still sitting at the table in the kitchen, Cleo suggested they took their coffee mugs into the other room to sit more comfortably.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed when they went in, staring around. ‘You have a thing about Art Deco?’
‘Not me. It’s just as my Aunt Phoebe left it.’
‘You can make whatever changes you want,’ Daphne had said, ‘but I’m afraid you’re stuck with the furniture …’
‘I don’t mind the furniture, Mum, but maybe a coat of paint on the walls?’
Throughout the house, Phoebe’s beige, textured wallpapers, with their indeterminate patterns, had now faded, so that the walls had taken on the colour and consistency of porridge. ‘I’m thinking of painting the walls,’ she told Tone now. ‘And that fireplace! It’s driving me mad. I keep trying to balance things on it but they slip off, because of its curve. I wondered about a shelf just above it. Dad got some ready-made ones with brackets from B & Q the other week.’
There was a stunned silence from Tone when she told him this. Then he said, reprovingly as a museum curator, ‘That’d be sacrilege. You don’t want to go ruining everything with things like that.’ He thought for a while. ‘I could do you some murals.’
‘Some what ?’
‘Murals. No, hang on and listen – could be great.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘Deco stuff to go with the gear, you could choose what before we started.’ He saw her face. ‘OK,’ he went on, though obviously disappointed. ‘Sylvan scenes and all that, if you really want. Though I was thinking more on the lines of
trompe l’oeil, you know? Deceive the eye, make the room seem bigger.’
‘I know what trompe l’oeil means. But no,’ she said firmly, ‘just paint. And what d’you mean, we?’
‘I’ll help you. Better still, do it for you. No sweat.’
‘Well …’ she began weakly. ‘That’s really nice of you, but, sorry. I couldn’t pay you.’
‘I wouldn’t want paying,’ he said stiffly. ‘Not for a mate.’
Oh dear, had she hurt him again? But no, ‘You just buy the paint,’ he said. ‘Though this paper’d be a bit dodgy to paint on. Needs stripping off before we start. I could begin straight away.’
This was all going a long way beyond the few cans of emulsion paint she’d been thinking of.
‘Tone, it’s an old house, it’ll probably need replastering under the paper.’
‘Then I could do you some frescoes – paint straight on to the wet plaster, they’ll last for ever. They used to do that in the olden days.’
‘Frescoes?’
‘Go for it. Semper sursum !’
‘ Semper what?’ She gave him an odd look.
‘ Sursum. Latin for Onward Christian soldiers, more or less.’ He could see she was weakening. ‘Go
‘No, just something we suddenly remembered.’
Tone told her as they walked home that he lived in one of the blocks of high-rise flats quite near her own road, an infill that faced some of the bigger houses. It was OK, he said, now that the rest of the family had left home and there was just him and his mum. Quieter, like. She gave him a swift glance, but didn’t ask him what that meant.
Later, after some soup, tooth-achingly sweet, vinegary and luridly coloured, which the label alleged was tomato, and of which no fewer than eight cans had been left in the cupboard by Angel Honeybun (which must have said something about her), Cleo said, ‘What are you doing working for MO with a talent
like yours, Tone? You could get a really interesting job if you wanted to.’
‘I’ve no qualifications.’
‘Who needs qualifications when you can draw like that?’
‘Everybody needs qualifications these days.’
‘Then why not get some? You could do, easily.’ Look who was talking, but it was different when it was someone else, wasn’t it?
‘Nah,’ he said dismissively, and something in the way he said it told her to leave the subject alone.
After Tone had demolished both, now cold, lentilburgers, when they were still sitting at the table in the kitchen, Cleo suggested they took their coffee mugs into the other room to sit more comfortably.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed when they went in, staring around. ‘You have a thing about Art Deco?’
‘Not me. It’s just as my Aunt Phoebe left it.’
‘You can make whatever changes you want,’ Daphne had said, ‘but I’m afraid you’re stuck with the furniture …’
‘I don’t mind the furniture, Mum, but maybe a coat of paint on the walls?’
Throughout the house, Phoebe’s beige, textured wallpapers, with their indeterminate patterns, had now faded, so that the walls had taken on the colour and consistency of porridge. ‘I’m thinking of painting the walls,’ she told Tone now. ‘And that fireplace! It’s driving me mad. I keep trying to balance things on it but they slip off, because of its curve. I wondered about a shelf just above it. Dad got some ready-made ones with brackets from B & Q the other week.’
There was a stunned silence from Tone when she told him this. Then he said, reprovingly as a museum curator, ‘That’d be sacrilege. You don’t want to go ruining everything with things like that.’ He thought for a while. ‘I could do you some murals.’
‘Some what ?’
‘Murals. No, hang on and listen – could be great.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘Deco stuff to go with the gear, you could choose what before we started.’ He saw her face. ‘OK,’ he went on, though obviously disappointed. ‘Sylvan scenes and all that, if you really want. Though I was thinking more on the lines of
trompe l’oeil, you know? Deceive the eye, make the room seem bigger.’
‘I know what trompe l’oeil means. But no,’ she said firmly, ‘just paint. And what d’you mean, we?’
‘I’ll help you. Better still, do it for you. No sweat.’
‘Well …’ she began weakly. ‘That’s really nice of you, but, sorry. I couldn’t pay you.’
‘I wouldn’t want paying,’ he said stiffly. ‘Not for a mate.’
Oh dear, had she hurt him again? But no, ‘You just buy the paint,’ he said. ‘Though this paper’d be a bit dodgy to paint on. Needs stripping off before we start. I could begin straight away.’
This was all going a long way beyond the few cans of emulsion paint she’d been thinking of.
‘Tone, it’s an old house, it’ll probably need replastering under the paper.’
‘Then I could do you some frescoes – paint straight on to the wet plaster, they’ll last for ever. They used to do that in the olden days.’
‘Frescoes?’
‘Go for it. Semper sursum !’
‘ Semper what?’ She gave him an odd look.
‘ Sursum. Latin for Onward Christian soldiers, more or less.’ He could see she was weakening. ‘Go
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