Underpainting

Underpainting thought to herself ) who’d once been a sea captain. But no artist. Art was a relaxation, something important to life, but not vital, part of a whole, not the summation, not like money.

Some days she yearned for messy studios and messy untidy students.

The young women here were mainly from good God fearing middle class families, 95% white. However, this was no ‘finishing school’, you had to have very high grades to get in. They were the pampered daughters from small southern towns that make provincial seem interesting or smart suburbs of the vast cities on the east coast.

They were all beautifully dressed in that American casualness that only they can do, what hung loose and shapeless on Marianne fitted like a dream on these young women with their perfect teeth, hair and muscle structure.

The most interesting students were those, despised by some, who’d gained scholarships, like Lorete had done, they usually came from poorer areas, some were even single mothers, and many had triumphed over great adversity to gain a place, a foot up the ladder.

Veronique was late, she always was, usually a problem with a database.

Marianne looked in her diary, Lorete was due in tomorrow, that was twelve weekends in a row, they’d talked last weekend, which was so hot, about decorating the veranda overlooking the sea, sleeping out there in summer, collecting shells and driftwood to make a mermaid’s grotto. However today, before the sun burnt through, it had started very gloomily, sea mist rolling in was a sign of a major change in the weather, but what Lorete wanted she usually got, Marianne always had to remember that she was an old JF’ian. She also noted that she must phone Peter later, it was her turn.

Marianne left leaving a note to say she’d call back later. As she walked she heard a phone ringing and it was like a recurring bad dream. Her mother refused to talk to her again, or meet her when she was in the UK, she said that she hadn’t got a daughter anymore. Whenever she rang Colin answered.

Peter sat on the rustic seat contemplating a job well done. He listened to the rain pattering, in the distance the sky was clearing, and he could see Clun church, which was always a good sign. There was a patch of sunlight travelling towards him, following the melodious contours of the Shropshire hills. In his bag he carried a watercolour pad and some paints, he laughed when he thought of what Henry would have said, English landscape watercolours were an anathema to him. But Peter enjoyed the fluidity, the immediacy. No-one saw them, he hadn’t even shown them to Marianne when she c visited and Clare didn’t seem interested.

‘A year ago already’, he thought, and Peter realised she hadn’t visited this year. The first time she returned she’d stayed at his home, and they’d been like a brother and sister, chatting, catching up on things, not lovers, but friends.

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