MACKINTOSH'S RESURRECTION

a novel by

philip gillett

chapter 1

Mackintosh beams at the day's victims and hopes that his knees will not crack when the time comes for him to kneel on the floor. Fortunately this happens less often now that he is practised in the manoeuvre, but he still talks as he gets down to hide any telltale noise. Cracking knees detract from his air of omnipotence.
He holds up his hands in a gesture of supplication which always looks impressive when he wears a robe. A few people are standing. He has learned not to show his amusement at their expressions when they realise that he has the only chair. Most people sit on the floor without prompting. Twenty people this time. He assumes his mystic expression, which is a good way of assessing the day's talent without losing the spirituality which the occasion merits. A motley collection today. Too many men. That has been a worrying trend of late. Only the prospect of sacrificing their fees stops him from restricting their numbers. Of the women, four are past their prime. That leaves four—three if the professional spinster with the red-framed glasses is excluded.
A silence settles over the group as the members watch him expectantly. He puts his hands together and looks beatific.
'Welcome to you all.  My name is Devana.'  
This provokes the inevitable muttered responses, one of which comes from the professional spinster. He thinks that he even detects a muttered, 'Peace be with you,' but he cannot swear to it. He lets his hands drop. Out of habit he probes ineffectually for his pockets. He has often considered cutting slits in his robe so that he can adopt a casual pose while he is introducing himself.
'We're here today to explore aspects of ourselves which remain hidden in everyday life because we haven't got time, because we're afraid of being hurt, or because we're simply not used to looking into ourselves.'
A woman near the front of the group is nodding. Recognition shows on her face as he catches her eye. She smiles. Mackintosh tries without success to recall her from previous groups. That unsettles him. He does not like people coming twice: they know too much about his methods. Not that he can do anything about it at this stage.
'What I'd like first is for you to arrange yourself in a circle, so we can focus our energies on the centre. The circle is nature's strongest form.' He pauses. The phrase always impresses somebody. He gazes around his audience to see whom it will be today. One of the men, alas. When it is a woman, Mackintosh uses the fact as a cue for a remark about women's curves. Disappointed, he lets his eyes roam along the serried ranks of knees in search of consolation. Some people sit gracefully, resembling mermaids in the way they curl their legs beneath them. Others less used to sitting on the ground thrust out their legs in front of them, as though on a beach. Two men rest their chins on their knees. He knows that they will succumb to pins and needles within ten minutes and have to massage their calves. A few austere souls sit cross-legged. These are the yoga devotees. He is wary of them. To a man (or a woman) they are sympathetic to the mystic outlook, but they have a habit of knowing too much. 
The punters are growing restless. Mackintosh assumes his beatific expression again and draws his chair to the edge of the circle before sitting. 
'What I'd like to do first is go around the group. If each of you can give your first name and tell us something about yourself and what made you come today.'
This is where he assumes his attentive look—and where he discovers the names of his chosen three. To demonstrate that he is not excessively concerned with pretty girls, he gestures to the man beside him to begin.
'I'm Laurence,' says a high-voiced, emaciated individual whose goatee beard and sparse hair have turned white and whose legs protrude like matchsticks. 'I came because I've felt for some time that I'm losing touch with my real self.'
Mackintosh gives his understanding nod and fixes his eyes on the next punter before Laurence can expand on his search for his real self. There is a pause. The young man with the prominent Adam's apple swallows nervously. Mackintosh remembers the type from his lecturing days: bespectacled, intense, serious and usually not very clever. They wear Marks and Spencer jumpers, sport haircuts his father would approve of and raise moral objections to going in pubs. They are always thin, as though they subsist on an unvarying diet of lettuce and carrots. On further reflection, he has to admit that the men on his courses are always thin. He considers beaming encouragingly at the tongue-tied young man, before deciding that such people are happier writhing in their own misery.
'James,' the young man manages to stammer, bringing his agonies to an end—and not before time for some of the others, judging by the expressions of relief on their faces. Mackintosh waits patiently while the wretched young man girds himself for his next utterance. 'I just do ordinary office work. I came because I thought it sounded interesting.'
A few grins, which annoy Mackintosh. Why should sounding interesting be looked down on? It is as good a reason for coming as any other. He turns his attention to the woman with the supercilious smile who is sitting next to James. She was one of those who grinned. She relishes being the centre of attention. 
'My name's Jean. I'm secretary to the director of a major company. I'm particularly interested in yoga and oriental philosophy.'
Mackintosh has an ambition. It is to insult one of his punters so much that the victim walks out, but to do it in such a way that the others applaud. Alas, summoning a simple insult is easier than doing it in a way which ensures general approbation. 
One of his chosen three is next. She is one of those who is kneeling. It makes her seem taller than her neighbours. He could fall in love with her for her knees alone. Not that the rest of her is to be denigrated. A bit on the plump side, but not excessively so. A warm, gentle face. He guesses her to be a primary school teacher or a librarian.
'Michelle,' she mouths. He strains to hear her saying, 'I'm a teacher.' Although not a sporting man, he understands why footballers who have just scored a goal like to jump at an imaginary ball, hit it in triumph and shout, 'Yes!', but he contains himself enough to hear her saying, 'I've always wanted to come on a day like this.'
Enchanting. He wants to put his arm around her, but instead he shifts his gaze to the man beside her and tries to look interested as the next recital begins. Mackintosh has been holding workshops long enough to know the routine without having to think too much about it. He prefers to let his mind dwell on the takings. Twenty students at fifty pounds each. Eight hundred pounds less rent and advertising. That leaves a profit of five hundred pounds. Five hundred pounds for a day's work. His career in town planning never paid like that, though how different things might have been if he had joined the bandwagon and become a consultant instead of taking the safe progression from local authority planner to lecturer before launching himself on the uncharted seas of working for a hard-up pressure group— 
The silence brings him back to the present. Everybody is looking at him. A group without the initiative to carry on, he deduces. But as the next victim is another of his chosen girls, the inertia is fortuitous. He does not want to miss what she has to say. He smiles encouragingly. Not beautiful, but how can he resist the combination of soulful eyes and golden hair? Long legs as well. She is tall enough to have trouble folding them under her.
'My name is Isobel.' A lilting voice with a faint Scottish accent. The voice of somebody who thinks. 'I work as an interpreter and I suppose I've always taken a fairly conventional approach to life. I wanted to look at things in a different way.'
Mackintosh nods to show his empathy. He waits for her to go on, but she remains silent. Reluctantly his gaze travels to the man beside her who looks incongruous as the only man in the group who is wearing a suit. More characters like this, Mackintosh vows, and he will look for something else to do. All he hears before he switches off is that the speaker's name is Paul. Mackintosh often consoles himself with the thought that he is experiencing his last workshop and that in future he will devote himself to painting; except that nagging doubts about money always come to haunt him. If he had started the courses five or ten years earlier, he might have enough put by not to need to worry. As it is, he manages to live more comfortably than before, but it is alarming how much money his improved lifestyle demands. Admittedly the rent for his room is high, while paints, brushes and canvas are a constant drain on his funds. Sometimes he considers emulating Alfred Wallis by painting on the inside of cornflakes packets—except that he would have to eat all those cornflakes, which in his estimation taste little better than soggy cardboard. Then there is drinking, which costs more than painting. Not that he is drinking as much as he used to, but he does enjoy beer. He is often tempted to tell punters on his workshops that if they want enlightenment, they would do better to spend an evening in a pub; but that might not go down too well.
Paul has finished his litany and the next man has continued unbidden. Mackintosh is annoyed at missing the name. At the start of each workshop, he tries to memorise the names of as many students as possible. The trick was daunting at first, but with practice, he is finding it easier. It adds that personal touch which students appreciate. Must pay attention, he tells himself, especially now that the third of his girls is next to speak. Another one with adorable knees. She smiles at him, which makes his heart leap. Everybody else is consigned to oblivion.
'I'm Debbie.'
'Debbie, eh?' He wants to prostrate himself at her feet. She peeps around the curtain of brown hair as though she has discovered a game of hide and seek and only the two of them are playing. He finds himself nodding vigorously.
'I work as a secretary,' she continues, making it sound like a phase which will soon pass. 'I thought this would be something different.'
'And it is,' Mackintosh assures her. Reluctantly he drags his eyes from her to the elderly woman beside her who is sitting cross-legged. Steel-framed spectacles and hair like wire wool. One of the keen ones, he surmises.
'My name's Dorothy. I'm retired now. Retired for years. I'm seventy-two.'
Mackintosh looks suitably impressed.
'I used to be a teacher of English. Since I've retired, I've been teaching yoga. Not that I'd call myself an expert. I sit at the feet of the masters.'
Mackintosh tries to compose his expression into that of a master while he tries to think of a way of shutting her up.
'I want to explore related fields,' she sweeps on. 'I feel there's a oneness in all natural systems which scientists don't acknowledge.'
That brings plenty of murmurs of assent, as such statements always do. Mackintosh nods politely and gestures to the man beside her before she can continue.
'My name is Cliff.'
From the soothing voice, Mackintosh guesses that Cliff belongs to one of the caring professions.
'I'm a social worker ...'
Mackintosh chalks up his second victory.
'... I want to bring a spiritual quality to my life.' 
'Don't we all?' Mackintosh murmurs to himself. 'Don't we all?' 
As the potted biographies continue, he knows that he should be paying attention, but it is too early in the morning for such an effort of concentration. He should not have been drinking the night before. On the morning of every workshop he tells himself the same thing; by the end of the day, his resolution always crumbles. Sometimes one of the punters shows a willingness to join him. That was what happened the previous week. The evening with Melanie is already acquiring the patina of nostalgia. In an Indian restaurant, they talked about life experiences. Only when she mentioned her three children did he lose interest. 
The litany of names and autobiographies continues, the voices seeming remote and inconsequential, like background music. He has come to regard the recital by the boring people as his penance. At least they pay handsomely for the privilege of talking about themselves. He has considered devising a day in which the participants do nothing else—in a guided way, of course. An exploration of inner consciousness might be a suitable title. He can already see the brochure. On the cover is a head with spirals around it to suggest an ever-expanding universe—
An itch on his waist breaks his train of thought. It is a particularly intense itch which only seems to appear during a workshop. The trouble with robes is they make surreptitious scratching impossible. He has to content himself with smoothing his hand across his stomach and distracting himself by paying attention to what the punters are saying. 
'... I wanted to experience other realities,' an elderly man with gold-framed glasses is explaining. Mackintosh guesses from the expensive clothes that he is a retired dentist. 'Like some of the other people here, I think it's too easy to be sidetracked by the day-to-day concerns of life. I've increasingly wanted to get away from that.' 
Mackintosh nods as one who long ago left the fripperies of the world behind. He is tempted to ask whether his guess about the man's occupation is right, but that may betray his inattention. 
'My name's Charles,' lisps the silver-haired queen next to the dentist. 'I'm an actor, but I spend a lot of my time these days teaching Alexander technique.' 
Expressions of interest from some of the others, including the supercilious Jean. Mackintosh knows that Charles will have to be kept in check if the day is not to be taken up with an explanation of the Alexander technique. 
'I'm interested in other techniques which can encourage relaxation,' Charles continues. Innocuous enough, Mackintosh has to concede when nothing else is forthcoming. He looks expectantly at the next speaker.
'Annette,' announces the professional spinster.
How can you be so certain of your destiny at thirty? Mackintosh marvels. She can be no older. Everything from her shapeless cardigan to those hideous, red-framed glasses proclaims her status. 
'I'm a secretary,' she reveals to the company and not entirely to Mackintosh's surprise. 'I often come on days like this.' 
Nothing better to do, is his first verdict. Needs a man, is his second. He pities her, though not enough to volunteer as the man in her life. Instead he nods perfunctorily and focuses his gaze on the suntanned young man beside her with the boyish grin. 
'My name is Matt.'
American. Mackintosh can imagine all the girls going after him, not to mention a few of the older women—and Charles. When the tea break comes, it will be like groupies around a pop star. The mystery is how he came to sit next to Annette. 
'I guess you could call me a student,' Matt drawls. 'I'm doing research in London.' 
Careful avoidance of mentioning the subject, Mackintosh notes. For research, read extended holiday. He expects Matt to hog the spotlight for a bit longer, but the American seems content with the impression he has made. 
'Dave,' announces the bearded individual next to Matt. One of the new generation of hippies. Mackintosh is always sympathetic to them, though he never gone as far as emulating them. No CND badges these days—that trademark of the hippies of old. No beads either—this one plays with the buttons on his mobile phone instead, Mackintosh guesses. He hears Dave saying, 'I'm not working at the moment.' 
'Don't dress it up,' Mackintosh wants to reply. 'You're out of work and that's the way you're going to stay.' The pleasure of the game is beginning to pall now he has found out about the attractive girls. He wants to get the opening session over as soon as possible, but the golden rule is never insult the punters. 
'I want to see whether there are ways of getting in touch with myself without drugs,' Dave is saying. His attempt to emulate Matt's relaxed, throwaway style is a failure. Mackintosh resists the urge to tell him not to bother with his quest. Thoughts of all those pints of Guinness which the day's fees will pay for come irresistibly to mind. A few of those would speed the hapless Dave on his journey of exploration. Mackintosh sees that the supercilious Jean is nodding. He is ready to nominate her as most dislikeable punter of the day. To take his mind off her, he looks encouragingly at the student beside Dave. Male. Early middle age. Thinning hair. The professional type, he deduces. Another architect? 
'I'm Michael and I'm a computer programmer. I want to get away from my job.' 
A few polite laughs. Mackintosh permits himself a smile. Every session has its programmer. Something about their work makes them seek out the esoteric. He always feels uncomfortable in their presence: rationality brings light to the shadows of mysticism in which he makes his money. 
Now the moment of levity is over, he passes on to the next student. Another female wrinkly. 
'My name is Alma. I've been retired for many years.' 
What did she do before she was pensioned off, Mackintosh wonders. Champion knitter? 
'I came because I like new interests. I want to keep my mind active.' 
Appreciative nods from the other wrinklies. Mackintosh feels uneasy: he is close enough to their age to see in them his own future. In spite of such reservations, he wonders whether he should devise a day especially to keep elderly minds active. Ordeal though it might be, there would be no problem in finding a ready audience. He could advertise in pensioners' clubs ... 
He drags his thoughts back to the present. Getting towards the end of the potted biographies. Soon be time to offer uplifting thoughts to the assembled company. Perhaps he should not wish time away as the recitals continue. Sometimes they are more than boring: they are tedious beyond belief. There ought to be a way of screening out the worst offenders—
'I'm Mick,' the next punter begins unprompted. Mackintosh watches him warily. The cockney of the group:  the wise boy who looks out of place amongst the middle-class citizens concerned about their egos. Mick's type are trouble: they are too good at smelling bullshit. Mackintosh hears the potential troublemaker saying, 'I thought I'd see what goes on.' 
Mackintosh decides not to press Mick about his occupation. There is no point in provoking an outburst. No punter has gone over the top, though a few have come close to it. 
Getting to the end of the biographies. The man who remains standing. Military type, Mackintosh surmises. Wears a blazer.
'Name's Martin—Captain Martin. Retired. Getting increasingly interested in the spiritual side of life as I get older.' 
That makes Jean nod understandingly. Mackintosh hates anybody who can be so understanding. He promises himself to find her raw nerve before the day is out. But the final recitals must be endured before he can turn his mind to such matters. 
'Olga,' says the wrinkly who had looked put out when Mackintosh took the only chair. 'I knew Freud.' 
A buzz of interest. Mackintosh knows that if he is not careful, he is going to be upstaged. He intervenes, 'I'm sure you'll be able to tell us all about that when we have a break,' and nods to the last student, a youth who looks as if he got out of bed late and found that he had no clean clothes. 
'Gregg. Twenty-two and three-quarters. I was a student, but I had to give it up because I was ill. I had a breakdown.' 
Jean looks sympathetic. Mackintosh feels less sympathetic. Why does he always get one nutter in each group? Sometimes he considers putting up his prices to exclude them, but that might exclude people like Debbie and Michelle. Another ploy is to ask for a potted biography when they apply, but the nutters might lie. Asking for a list of current medications might be more revealing, except that people might not accept it. And who is he to blame them? 
Signs of restlessness from the company as the silence stretches. Mackintosh puts his hands together once more and assumes his inspirational look. 'Now we know a little about each other, we can have a moment's repose.' 
Some of the company look down at the floor and give the appearance of praying; the rest look heavenwards, as though some divine vision has been revealed among the cracks in the ceiling. Several moments of repose are scheduled through the day. There was one on his first workshop and that only occurred to cover the hiatus when he ran out of things to say. As it seemed an effortless way of passing the time, he has made a point of incorporating such pauses into every subsequent workshop. 
Debbie is one of the floor-gazers. He takes the opportunity to study her knees. Strange how knees never look attractive when girls are standing, but are so infinitely desirable when they are bent. The paradox is worthy of deeper thought. It is something to do with curves? Those curves again. If the male mind is programmed to appreciate the curves of breasts and buttocks, then the curves of bent knees generate similar emotions. Visions of Debbie's other curves come irresistibly to mind, but he cannot indulge them for too long. The more impatient students are already looking at him expectantly. He has grown skilled in judging when to end the silence. Somebody always coughs. There is a communal stirring, as in a roost at dawn. It usually takes ninety seconds for the buzz of conversation to break out. He likes to assert his control just before it begins. 
He calls,  'Please ...',  letting the word drift away. It is a theatrical device, but it always works. There is a communal clearing of throats. People look around as though newly wakened. Time for him to smile again. 
'I want to think of yourself not as individuals, but as a community, as part of a larger organism.' He sees Jean nodding in understanding and pointedly ignores her. 'Can we get up now?' he continues. 
A collective cracking of knees as the company rises.
'What I'd like is for you to shake hands with one of the people near you.' Knowing from bitter experience that further explanation is needed he rushes on, 'You may feel silly at first, but today is going to be like no other. I want you to forget all your preconceptions. I want you to see shaking hands as more than a formal gesture. It's a way of reaching out to other people and celebrating your closeness. I want you to imagine this is a party. Say hello to the person you shake hands with. Introduce yourself. Tell him or her something about yourself—what you think is important.' 
He gestures the company to begin. The hum of conversation rises as his audience obey his instructions. While nobody is paying any attention to him, he shifts from one foot to the other to rest his varicose veins. He enjoys orchestrating the activity around him. It brings back the heady sense of power which he experienced in his lecturing days. He strains to hear what his chosen girls are saying, but their voices are too soft. He might have done better to mingle with the group. All he can make out is Jean sounding as though she is at a cocktail party. He tells himself that he must not get sarcastic with her. Gurus never get ratty. 
The dynamics of each group intrigues him. Just as he has learned to judge the silences, so he can judge when the small talk is flagging. Jean might be able to go on for hours, but Debbie with the adorable knees is already showing signs of desperation. Time to put her out of her misery. He claps his hands once. To do it any more sounds un-English. 
'Now we've got to know each other in a formal way—the way you might get to know somebody at a party. But does that mean you're part of a community?'
'No,' come the muttered responses. 
'No. We need to enter each other's psyche—to find what makes the other person tick. That's the hardest job in the world, because we automatically defend ourselves from other people. What I want to do in this session is to help you to open yourselves.' He stretches out his hands in a gesture reminiscent of an Old Testament prophet. Michelle looks adoring, which spurs him to greater eloquence. Even Jean looks impressed. 
'This is a day for feeling rather than trying to rationalise. I want you to forget about analysing and judging. Try to respond from your heart.'
The thought passes through his mind that anybody who did try to rationalise might conclude that he is talking rubbish, but this is a moment for rhetoric, not for reason. His hope is that his flock will obey his injunction. 
'Women find it easier than men,' he assures them, and sees the women look knowing. Jean manages to look more knowing than the others, which does not surprise him. The men seem to shrivel. Mackintosh stifles a smile as he continues, 'If we use on the senses of touch and smell we relied on as babies, it helps to cut away all those defences we build up.' He has always wanted to add taste, but given what he is leading up to, somebody might object. Keep the punters happy is his motto, gleaned from months of experience of being a guru.
'I want you to think in a tactile way, so I'd like you to split into pairs. The one nearest the window is to close his or her eyes. Your partner will rub something against the back of your hand: their hair, a piece of paper, clothing, anything. I want you to identify it.' 
Lots of giggles. Like a party game. It puts people at their ease. The ones who show reluctance are the stuffed shirts like Paul and professional spinsters like Annette. Probably neither of them has touched another person in years. Sometimes he spins out the session just to watch people like that wriggling. He knows from experience that they will relax eventually. His suspicion is that Guinness would do the job more quickly than all his exhortations, but the suggestion might not be appreciated. He watches his charges. Isobel is taking the game seriously, as he might have guessed. Matt, the suntanned American, has got himself paired with her, which comes as no surprise. Michelle's eyes are closed. She is giggling as Jean strokes her hand with a feather. What he cannot understand is where the feather came from. When he sees Debbie with the adorable knees touching the hand of one of the men whose name he missed, Mackintosh wishes that he had taken the opportunity to partner one of the girls. He would have preferred it to be Isobel, so that Matt could be kept at a safe distance from her. He does not altogether trust Matt. 
The problem with the sensory game is that people quickly run out of things to touch. Mackintosh has considered bringing in a box of suitable items, but he knows from the bitter experience in his lecturing days that it would take a long time to give them out and even longer to collect them at the end of the session. And there would be something which never came back.
Debbie looks as if she is enjoying herself. He wonders what makes her tick—and in particular, whether charismatic older men make her tick. She is getting on well enough with her partner. Too well. He is in his thirties and has the look of a married man. Mackintosh feels a pang of jealousy as he watches the pair. Time to bring the game to an end. Not that he is too happy about the next part of the schedule, given the circumstances. He has considered forgoing it, but he enjoys it too much.
'You can open your eyes,' he calls.
Eyes flicker open as though a collective slumber has been disturbed. 
'I think you'll agree that it can be an interesting experience to do without one sense—perhaps the one we overuse. I don't know whether we've got any artists here?' 
Looking around. Modesty prevents him from mentioning his own efforts, though surprisingly a grunt comes from the retired captain. Mackintosh focuses on him. 'You'll particularly appreciate the importance of sight, whereas a musician is likely to give more importance to hearing.'
Sometimes there is a musician in the group who gives a nod at this point, but as nothing happens, Mackintosh continues, 'Can we go one stage further? I'd like you all to close your eyes this time and feel the face of your partner. Try not to poke his eye out.' 
A few grins at this. He watches the curious mime unfolding. It provides an opportunity to watch his chosen girls openly and to fantasise. Being objective, Isobel is the most beautiful. He is annoyed at not providing himself with the excuse to stroke that long, golden hair. A lovely body, too. He could watch her for hours if an opportunity presented itself—such as employing her as a model. He has to drag his gaze away to look at the others. Unlike Isobel, Debbie brings out his paternal instincts. He loves the way her brow furrows with concentration as her fingers explore her partner's face. Mackintosh cannot help wishing that they were exploring him. For relief he turns his attention to Michelle. A homely type is Michelle. He can imagine her having a meal ready for him every day, though he might tire of such selfless devotion after a few months. So which girl will he take out at the end of the day if the chance presents itself: cool Isobel, innocent Debbie, or homely Michelle? He plumps for Debbie. He can make the most of his age and experience.
'Don't open your eyes,' he warns as the waverers show signs of boredom. 'I'd like you to explore sideways now. Make contact with another person. Try to decide who it is without opening your eyes and without getting the other person to speak.' 
More giggles. Gregg has failed to make contact with anybody and his flailing resembles shadow boxing. Laurence and Alma are having similar problems, while Dorothy looks as if she is trying to gouge Cliff's eyes out. Apart from noticing that James seems to be punching Jean, Mackintosh has to conclude that this new variation on his touching exercise is not a success.
'Okay—you can open your eyes,' he calls, hoping that his voice does not betray his disappointment. 'You've got the idea. I think you'll agree that we're heavily reliant on sight.' 
Muttered agreement.
'This becomes significant when we start to explore other senses and how we interact with each another.' 
The audience are giving him their full attention, except for Gregg who is still boxing an imaginary opponent. Mackintosh motions to Olga to stop the contest and assumes his beaming smile again. What he really wants is to sit down. His varicose veins are hurting.
'I think it's important that we get to know each other not only superficially, by which I mean being able to put a name to a face, but on a deeper level. We're thinking, feeling beings. Those are the qualities to seek out in the other person.' 
Jean is nodding again, which he finds increasingly annoying. He knows that by the end of the day, sarcasm will get the better of him, but meanwhile he tries to dismiss her from his thoughts as he explains, 'I'd like you to tell your partner how you want to be seen by other people.' He cannot resist a gleeful grin as he adds, 'The sting in the tail is that afterwards, I want you to describe yourself as you really are, warts and all.' 
The room fills with babble again. He catches Jean's peroration: she tries to put across sensitivity and practicality, and believes herself to be attractive and a typical secretary, whatever that is. Gregg is having trouble explaining anything. Mackintosh wonders what image Paul tries to put across; or is the persona of the archetypal office worker a ruse to conceal the passionate, rebellious soul underneath? Probably not, Mackintosh concludes after sneaking another look at the besuited Paul. What Mackintosh likes is to have an odd number of students so that he has to take a partner himself, making a seemingly random choice. He enjoys having an attractive girl pouring out her fears and aspirations. Against this, the advantage of not having a partner is that he can roam amongst the pairs at will. He edges close enough to Michelle to hear her revealing that she is shy and overweight. He wishes he could reassure her that her weight is fine and that her diffidence is endearing. Instead he wonders what her pupils think of her. An infant teacher, he guesses. When he was eight, all his teachers were female. They all seemed middle-aged, like his mother, and they were all wonderful. Schoolchildren might be more cynical now, though he is sure that Michelle's pupils adore her. He imagines her scuttling home to her lonely room at the end of the day. He knows her feelings. If all she can do to escape from those four walls is to go to workshops on her own, he feels sorry for her. 
What always surprises him is how long some people take to describe themselves. Dorothy is giving a lecture, while Gregg looks as though he has given up listening to Olga. Mackintosh has some sympathy: he would give up if he had to pay attention to the outpourings of some of the emotional cripples who attend his workshops. At least Isobel has finished, which comes as no surprise: he guesses her to be the succinct type. He would love to find out what secrets lurk under that placid interior—and whether she revealed them to Matt. The next stage should be interesting, if he can get close enough to her to overhear. He drifts through the group and halts beside her. Voices die away until only Dorothy is speaking. She is into what is evidently a well-worn recital of the failure of her marriage. The others try to conceal their smiles.
'Good, good,' says Mackintosh, hoping that she will take the hint. At first he wonders whether she might be deaf, but against the background silence her voice drops and eventually ceases altogether. He continues, 'You realise that you may know more about your partner than about your loved ones?' 
Michelle looks surprised.
'We hide ourselves, revealing only parts of ourselves according to the circumstances. Would you agree?' 
Nods and some muttered cries of  'Yes.'
 'When you're at work, you show the business side of your personality. In the pub you show another side—the social side. In church you show yet another side. At home you have a string of personalities: the nagging mother, the bossy sister, the dutiful sister and so on.'  He is tempted to add the passionate lover, but that might disconcert the older women. A few people have looked uncomfortable in the past. What he would like is to provoke somebody into walking out. It means risking a letter of complaint and having to refund the fee, but there must be a sense of elation in eliciting an extreme response. 
The company is hanging on his every word. Scanning the faces, he lets the pause last for as long as he dare before asking 'Is there a real you?' 
'No,' says Mick.
 'Yes,' says Jean.
 'Any other views?' Mackintosh probes, not bothering to conceal his delight at the controversy.
 'It depends what you mean by the real you,' Matt drawls.
 'Sounds like crap to me,' is Mick's verdict.
 'It depends how you define your terms,' Matt points out in true academic fashion. 'Real can mean anything.'
 'There are levels of consciousness.' 
This gnomic utterance comes from Olga. 
 'The real you is the one you know when you're alone,' says Jean.
Matt explains, 'You've got to consider factors like religion, ethic grouping, peer pressure, family relationships ... They all affect your perception of self.'
Mackintosh is reminded of seminars in his lecturing days. There was always one loquacious student, one literal one, one with her head in the clouds and one who knew the answers, but rarely spoke. Each year he hoped for a student who combined all the best qualities and each year he was disillusioned. He feels pleased that there is an argument: it helps to fill the session, which at this time of the morning threatens to stretch into infinity. 
'There's a hard core of self,' Jean insists, using her hands to mime an imaginary core which is shaped like a melon in Mackintosh's opinion. 
'How do you know?' Matt asks.
 'I know every time I'm alone.' 
Matt looks scornful. 'All you're seeing are views of yourself instilled in you by upbringing and experience.'
'Supposing you were alone on a desert island?' 
'You'd still have been brought up the conventional way, so you'd still have experiences to draw on.' 
Jean shakes her head. Her composure is going, Mackintosh notes gleefully. 
'You can't get away from your influences,' Matt says, pressing home his advantage.
No answer. Round one to Matt.
'So are we agreed there's no real you?' Mackintosh intervenes.
'No,' says Laurence with the goatee beard and countertenor voice. 'Each of us has an individual identity. We're not just moulded by our circumstances.' 
Matt shrugs. 'You can't prove it. Nobody's brought up in a vacuum.' 
'You can't disprove it either,' Jean says triumphantly.
'The evidence is all around you. It's called socialisation.'
'What about religion?' Annette, the professional spinster, intervenes.
Matt does not look put out. 'What about it?' 
'You're ignoring the soul.' 
Mackintosh holds his breath. Somebody is about to be offended. 
'The soul is something you've been told you have as part of a system of religious belief,' Matt explains. 'That's part of socialisation. If you hadn't been told about it, you wouldn't know you had one.' 
Annette looks affronted. 'That's not true.'
'It's a matter of faith, does not reason.'
'Every civilisation has had its religion,' Laurence argues, rejoining the fray. 'Doesn't that suggest we have a spiritual dimension?'
'All it suggests to me is the continuity between religions.'
'You're saying there are no absolutes?'
'The absolutes are the limitations imposed by our physiques and our genes.'
'So we're on a par with animals?' 
'Sure are.' 
It is Laurence's turn to retire looking hurt. Nobody else seems inclined to take up the challenge. Matt looks pleased with his victory. Mackintosh knows that the interlude is over. 
'Can we take our previous exercise one step further?' he appeals, mentally rubbing his hands. 'I'd like you to turn to your partner again.' 
A general shuffling which helps to conceal Mackintosh's further movement towards Michelle. He smiles before explaining, 'Now I want you to reveal a secret to your partner—something you've never told anybody before.'
He loves to watch the faces at this point. Expressions range from frozen fear to excited anticipation. He adds, 'Don't forget, please: everything which is said must remain confidential to this group.' 
There is always a silence at first, as nobody wants to be overheard. Then some brave soul reveals all to the assembled company in hushed but unmissable tones. In this case it is Dorothy who takes the plunge, revealing in measured tones how she harboured uncharitable thoughts towards her mother as the older woman was dying. Mackintosh wants to ask what uncharitable thoughts, but the floodgate of confessions has started and he strains to hear what Michelle has to say. Tantalisingly all he catches is something about a dog. He notices Debbie looking aghast at what the colourless, middle-aged man who is her partner confides. It crosses Mackintosh's mind to substitute the next exercise which he planned with inviting each person to make the confession to the whole group, but too many of them might baulk at the prospect. If he asks for volunteers, he is sure to encourage the likes of Dorothy and Matt, though it would be interesting to hear skeletons rattling as cupboard doors were opened. He wonders what secrets the buttoned-up Paul would reveal, or more likely not reveal. He glances surreptitiously at Isobel. She is listening intently to Matt—rather too intently for Mackintosh's taste—and not looking aghast. Mackintosh feels stirrings of jealousy. He diverts himself by turning his attention to Debbie again. She is whispering her own confession. She looks embarrassed and hides her face behind her hair. Mackintosh can imagine her recounting how she once went out with a hole in her tights. 
The voices wind down. Those remaining grow softer as the stragglers lapse into self-conscious silence. Mackintosh knows that it is time to assume his master-of-ceremonies role again. 
'Do you think you see the other person differently?' 
'Yes,' says Jean fervently. 
'No,' says Mick. 
Mackintosh gestures to them to continue. 
'In everyday life we rely a lot on superficial impressions,' Jean explains. 'Love at first sight—that sort of thing.' 
Mackintosh looks at Isobel and believes in love at first sight. He imagines her stripping before him. She does it slowly, gracefully. She is down to her bra and pants. He wants the fantasy to continue, but Jean is still talking. Reluctantly he draws his thoughts back to the argument. 
'... Something like this exercise makes us reexamine our first impressions.' She gestures to her partner. 'I'm not referring to James here, but it's easy to underestimate the people you meet in everyday life. We need to discover the complexity under the surface—what makes a person unique.'
'I'd say you discover that we're all much the same,' says Matt, which at least distracts attention from James's blushes. 'We've all got the same worries, guilts and hang-ups.'
Mackintosh longs to know Matt's confession. Can somebody so assured have hang-ups, or are they the sort of things which Mackintosh regards as the normal inconveniences of life like not having clean socks?
'That's denying individuality,' says Laurence. 'It's accepting that we have a range of responses in common. If we didn't, we'd having trouble rubbing along together.' 
Jean looks as if she wants to say that they do have trouble rubbing along together, but she restrains herself. As nobody else is willing to argue, Matt looks pleased with his victory, to Mackintosh's annoyance. 
'Any other views?' he asks, looking around. 
'I'd agree about individuality,' says Captain Martin.
'How do you mean?' Mackintosh enquires, his spirits rising at the scent of another argument. 
'You shouldn't deny it.'
'I'm not denying it.' Matt sounds exasperated. 'I'm merely saying individuality has its limits.'
 And so does Matt's patience, Mackintosh is pleased to note. His Achilles' heel is showing. 
'It's a question of balance,' says Laurence.
Mackintosh waits for him to continue, but that is all Laurence seems willing to say.  
'Any other views?' Mackintosh appeals.
Apparently there are none, which disappoints him. If the group is too docile, he gets through his intended programme soon after the extended lunch. This has to be followed with a longer-than-usual break for herbal tea and informal discussion. Even with such ploys, he has to extemporise. On one occasion, the final meditation session lasted half an hour. A few feet twitched, but he ignored them: exhortations to relax only make more people restless. His consolation was that one lady approached him afterwards to reveal that the meditation session was the best part of the day.
'What I want us to consider now is how we interact with ourselves.' Mackintosh pauses to watch for his audience's reaction. Those introductory words always worry him. He expects somebody to point out that you cannot interact with yourself, but nobody ever does. 
'I see a few puzzled faces.' He always says this, even when no puzzled faces are in evidence. It allows him to launch into his prepared speech.
'You may find the words meaningless, but we all talk to ourselves, don't we? In fact we have a dialogue with ourselves every minute we're awake. Think what happens when we've a difficult decision to make: we debate it with ourselves. Even when we're talking to somebody else, we're holding our internal dialogue: what am I going to say next, what's he after, how can I get away from him?'
Looks of recognition at that. Olga is nodding. Mackintosh knows that he has to hurry on before she mentions Freud.
'That raises several interesting points. Anything occur to you?' 
Nobody takes the bait. He hates it when that happens.
'For example, are the rational and emotional voices distinct?' he speculates. 
'Yes,' says Dave.
'No,' says Matt.
When nobody else says anything, Mackintosh gestures Dave to continue.
'They're different things,' the hapless Dave insists. 
Mackintosh cannot suppress a feeling of anticipation at the prospect of Matt making intellectual mincemeat of his fellow student. 
'You say they're different things,' Matt begins. 'They're both under control of the brain.'
'What matters is how we see them,' Jean returns to the fray.
'So what's true or factual doesn't matter so long as you keep your illusions?'
'I didn't say that at all.'
'Wasn't that what you meant?'
'You're the one who said they're only constructs.' 
Mackintosh marks one all in his mental scoreboard.
Matt smiles at Jean. 'I don't think we're going to agree.'
'Anybody else want to come in?' asks Mackintosh, disappointed by Matt's sudden capitulation. When nobody does, he continues, 'Back to this dialogue with ourselves. How do you think we can quieten it?'
'Meditation,' says Jean. 
'Hypnosis,' says Michael, the computer programmer.  
'Psychoanalysis,' says Olga, who knew Freud.
 'All good ways,' Mackintosh agrees. 'What I want you to think about is transcendentalism.'
'Isn't that a form of meditation?' ask Jean. 
'You're thinking of transcendental meditation.'
Jean looks mystified, which he finds gratifying.
'The whole point of transcendentalism is that it's an easy technique to learn. You'll master it while you're here.'
Initially he was wary of making such a claim, but over the months, nobody has taken issue with him.  
'What you have to do is to guide your inner dialogue so that it becomes a monologue.'
'Why is it called transcendentalism?' Jean wants to know.
'You'll see,' says Mackintosh, conscious of the uncomfortable sensation that this might be the day when his bluff is called. He turns back to the group as a whole. 'I want you to imagine you're talking to the person beside you as you were just now. Okay? What we have is a conversation going on in your head.'
A pause for those of limited imagination to realise what he is talking about. 
'Now imagine that the other person stops talking. He's feeling tired, or he's fallen asleep, so you continue talking uninterrupted, which is what we all like to do.' 
A few smiles. His audience always gives him the benefit of the doubt at this point.
'Now there's only one voice, right?' 
The ladies nod. It is always the ladies. 
'That's the voice I want you to develop. Call it your dominant voice. Can you hear it?' 
A few students are having difficulties with their dominant voice, but by and large they have got the idea.
'What happens to the other voice?' Mick wants to know. 
'That's the other person.'
'So what's happened to it?'
'You've successfully suppressed it.' 
'Is that a good thing?' Jean asks.
'In this particular case, yes. It's an exercise.'
'In most psychoanalytic approaches, suppression would be seen as a bad thing,' says Matt.
'I think we're using the concept of suppression in different ways,' Mackintosh explains. He feels on safer ground here. If in doubt, calling something a concept is a way of distancing it. Matt looks unconvinced, but he does not argue.
'If you feel the other voice coming back, visualise it as getting tired till it's stilled,' Mackintosh urges. He can tell the ones who are practising assiduously by their look of studied concentration. Curiously, they often take on a cross-eyed expression, as though the technique requires the nose to be examined. 
'I've never seen a group grasp the technique so quickly. I can honestly say that.' 
It always works. One or two of the women look flattered. Such is conceit.
'Can we go one stage further? Now we're aware of only one voice inside us, what we've got to do is to harness it.'
Matt puts up his hand. Mackintosh's inner voice groans as he nods at Matt to continue.
'Surely if you say I'm going to consciously harness this voice, that means you're introducing a second voice to comment on it.' 
'We're speaking conceptually, don't forget.'
'Isn't that what we've been doing all the time?'
Mackintosh glares. 'It what I've been doing. I don't know about you.'
 'Sure.'
'Can we get on?' Mackintosh transfers his glare to the punters farthest from him. It is a trick inherited from his lecturing days: galvanise the back row if you want to maintain attention; the ones at the front are going to be interested anyway. He softens his tone to explain, 'I want you to focus the voice and learn to use its full potential.' He rushes on before Matt can query the terminology, 'That's what healing's all about. We've all got the power inside us. The trouble is we don't use it. Have we any healers here?'
Captain Martin puts up his hand.
'You'll know what I mean,' says Mackintosh.
'Something you soon find out,' the Captain agrees, nodding.
'We've all got the power to heal, the power to work more effectively because we're ridding ourselves of distractions and of the power to improve our personal lives because we can harness our emotional energies.' 
That interests a few whose attention is flagging. Something wrong with their emotional world, Mackintosh deduces, gleeful at how the secrets are teased out. He can almost believe in the value of his sessions.
'What we're going to do today is explore this transcendental power.' 
He glares at Matt who has the decency to look cowed. A victory of sorts has been achieved. The glare is transmuted into a smile to reassure the anxious ones.
'It's important to be perfectly relaxed. Any form of stress or anxiety means that you're diverting your energy into an unproductive path.' He holds up a hand before Matt or anybody else can interrupt. 'I'm not saying that we're going to learn the whole art of relaxation, but we must make sure we can summon it at the flick of a switch.' 
Jean is nodding. Mackintosh groans inwardly and turns his thoughts to the subject at hand. 
'I want you to cast your thoughts back to your confession. Who thinks that they didn't really relax when they tried it? The reason doesn't matter: because the other person was a stranger, because you had a difficult journey here, because you didn't know what to expect. Just put your hand up if you weren't relaxed.' 
A few hands go up including those of Gregg, James and Debbie. Dear Debbie. He steals another look at her knees and tries to quell the desire to relax her.
'I don't know how many of you practise relaxation.' 
Several hands go up this time, including Jean's. A brilliant thought occurs to Mackintosh. He beams at her.
'Perhaps you could show us the yoga form of relaxation.' 
She loves it, of course—getting to play the teacher. Mackintosh stands back modestly as she exhorts the company to lie on the floor. Everybody complies, though Paul looks unhappy about risking his suit. Quietness settles over the studio. Mackintosh wishes that he had stood in the other corner so that he could see up Isobel's skirt. He might still achieve his desire if Jean's relaxation session lasts as long as he hopes and if he can sit. He has a lingering hope that she will fall foul of Matt's logical thinking, but Matt seems remarkably compliant in the face of Jean's diktat. Disappointed, Mackintosh contents himself with trying to look up Michelle's skirt. The likely accompaniment of plump, dinky knees are short, fat thighs, but there is no harm in making sure. 
Jean's tones become more like a croon. Eyes close, increasing Mackintosh's temptation to move closer to Isobel. He fantasises that everybody will fall asleep, leaving him nothing to do for the remainder of the day other than adjourning to the nearest pub. Heaven is  a day devoted to drinking—and being paid for it. 
Jean falls silent. She looks pleased with her achievement. Mackintosh gives her a watery smile and motions her not to disturb the others. With luck he can anticipate five minutes of relaxation before somebody gets restless. Five minutes of looking at three lovely girls, so long as Jean can be kept from issuing more orders. She is watching him. From her expression it passes through his mind that she has her own designs on him, which does little for his tranquillity. He gazes in Isobel's direction and tries to look spiritual in spite of the throbbing in his varicose veins. The sight of Isobel's composure makes him draw breath. He longs to edge closer, but a glance at Jean shows that she has not taken her eyes off him. 
Gregg is the restless one. After two minutes he is sitting up and looking around as though he has forgotten where he is. Jean picks her way between the bodies towards him. While she is soothing him, Mackintosh takes the opportunity to steal a look at Isobel again. He could gaze upon her for hours. In repose she is like a beautiful piece of sculpture. Impossible to imagine her growing old; hard enough to imagine that glacial beauty being human. What he wants is to paint her, but he must contrive to raise the matter when the others cannot hear. One-to-one contact will have to wait until the lunch hour. A consolation is that if no opportunity presents itself, at least he has her address. 
Jean's soothing words keep Gregg in a state of relaxation for another minute before the restlessness begins again. This time it spreads to the others as though it is contagious. Alma coughs. Michael twitches. Dave appears to have cramp. 
'Excellent, excellent,' Mackintosh intones, watching the group come alive again. It takes a long while considering they have only been relaxing for three minutes. 'Let's try to keep the mood.' 
He allows a moment's pause for reflection. Several people have beatific smiles. No need to worry about their mood. Paul looks uneasy, but that might be at the thought of what he has done to his suit.
'What I'd like to do now is for us to concentrate on an image. A single flower. Let's say an orchid.'
It is obvious that Debbie can already see her flower. Dear little Debbie. Mackintosh dreams of sending her a flower as a symbol. She is the sort to appreciate a romantic gesture. But so would Michelle. A flower for each of them, perhaps?
'Concentrate on that flower to the exclusion of everything else. Turn it round, so you can marvel at its shape from every angle.'
He half expects Matt to point out that an orchid does not have angles, but nothing happens.
'It should be easier now you're nice and relaxed.' He pauses to let everybody concentrate. 'Can you smell the flower?'
A smile spreads across Debbie's face. He wishes the others found it as easy.
'I want you to love that flower. Love it for its beauty.' He likes that phrase. Even Isobel looks impressed. He watches her concentrating and he adores her. 'We can use the power, this transcendental power, to help ourselves. I want you to imagine the energy of the flower lifting your hand.'
To Mackintosh's alarm, Gregg's hand is lifting.
'Could you use that power for other things? Could you use it to boost your energy levels, to improve your memory, or to aid healing?' 
A pause. Nobody argues. Nobody ever does. Mackintosh relaxes. Plain sailing for another half an hour. Then the predictability of the occasion makes depression settle over him. How many more times, he asks himself—and gets no answer. Sometimes he misses the intellectual cut and thrust of academic life—or even office life. But it is not the moment to dwell on such things. He stifles a yawn and wonders whether to slip away from the others at lunch time for a drink.
'We're going to stop shortly for a break. That's going to give you an opportunity to see how far you've learned to use the technique of focusing your concentration to help you relax.' 
The more relaxed members of the group blink as they emerge from their stupor. Mackintosh tries to remember whether he switched on the urn. One of the perks of being in charge is that he can head the queue for the chocolate digestives. In the event, he is at the end of the queue because Laurence insists on keeping him talking about the importance of not being distracted by extraneous information. He considers claiming teacher's rights and squeezing his way to the front, but Dorothy buttonholes him to ask his views on astral projection. By the time he gets to the biscuits, only rich teas are left. He puts three in his saucer and goes in search of the girls before there can be any more interruptions. He alights on Debbie first.
'How are you enjoying yourself?'
'It's fascinating. I didn't know what to expect.' 
'You ain't seen nothing yet.' 
'The relaxation was really good.' 
'It's important to learn the art of relaxation before we go on to other techniques.'
'How long did you have to study to learn transcendentalism?'
'A bit more than one day,' he confesses with a reasonable regard to accuracy. 'Obviously we can only cover the basics.'
'It's enough for me.'
'Do you need relaxing at your tender age?' 
'I get so tense. I've thought about a course of relaxation lessons.'
'Have you done anything about it apart from thinking?' 
'Not yet. I wanted to see what today was like.' 
'I run relaxation classes here if you're interested.' 
Her face lights up, much to Mackintosh's delight.
'Seven-thirty on Thursday evenings, he adds. 'Come along.' 
Her face clouds.
'How much is it?' she queries. 
Secretaries do not earn much, he reminds himself. 
'It's normally fifteen pounds a session, but if that's a problem, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.' 
She beams—and then the clouds return. 'I suppose the course has already started.'
'You can join at any time.'
'I'd really like to.' 
'Thursdays, don't forget.'  
He detects the restlessness of somebody who has done her social duty and is about to move away. 
'Where do you work?' he asks.
'It's just an office job—secretary to a solicitor.'
'Solicitor, eh?' He searches for something else to say and settles for, 'That must be interesting.'
'Not really.'
'What we do for money, eh?'
She gives a weak smile. 
'So long as you've got plenty of outside interests to keep you busy. That's the main thing.' 
'I don't know that I have, really.' 
'I'm sure you have. You came today, didn't you? That shows an enquiring mind.' 
She shakes her head in denial. 
'Don't run yourself down,' he urges. 
'I'm just ordinary.'
'I don't believe that.'
She looks embarrassed. The restless expression comes into her eyes again. 
'You're from London, aren't you?' he asks, wishing that he could recall her application form. 
'No—Southampton.' 
He finds the prospect unimaginable: getting up at five and facing a two-hour journey, only to be given instructions on how to lie on the floor. But his guilt is assuaged as she adds, 'I live in London now.'
'How do you like it?'
'Still getting used to it.'
'Making plenty of friends?'
'A few.' 
'Another advantage of classes like this.' 
'I suppose so.'
He is losing her. He knows it. She is getting restless and looking around for an excuse to end the conversation, and no topic of mutual interest has been found. 
 'So I'll see you on Thursday, shall I?'
She does not reply. She looks uncomfortable.
'The first class is free,' he adds hopefully. 
'I'll try to get along.'
Not quite the enthusiasm which he hoped for. He consoles himself with the thought that tepid interest is better than an outright refusal. Time to try another tack. 
'Sometimes after a day like this, we go for a meal. I don't know whether you fancy coming.' 
'I've got something on tonight.' 
Her uneasy expression belies her words, but he cannot bring himself to argue.
'Can you excuse me a minute?' she murmurs. 
'Be my guest.' 
He watches as she puts down her cup and scuttles towards the toilets. Should he wait for her return or should he move? Such a delicious decision. Realism suggests that he is not going to get any further with her. Time to move on. If all else fails, he can come back to her. 
Isobel is talking avidly to Matt. Mackintosh does not fancy breaking into the conversation while Matt is there to scrutinise his chatting-up technique. Instead he looks for Michelle. She is being buttonholed by Michael, the computer programmer. Mackintosh decides that he might have more success there. He edges towards them.
'Hello there, folks.' He beams at the couple. 'Enjoying yourselves?' 
'It's great,' says Mike with the frenetic enthusiasm which only those with really boring jobs can manage. 
Mackintosh gives Michelle his best smile. 'How about you?
'It's making me look at the world in a different way.' 
'That's good. Very good.' As he speaks, it crosses his mind that she is sending him up.
'You get stuck in a rut.'
'Common old problem,' he agrees, remembering his ruts, including years working for a local authority. Leaving such jobs was never voluntary; either he was made redundant or he was pushed. Not that he minded, except in the case of the pressure group. He liked the flexibility of being able to spend the afternoon in the pub. He is sorry that he never discovered the voluntary sector earlier.
'We need something to jolly us out of it,' says Michael.
'What is it you teach?' Mackintosh asks, ignoring him in favour of Michelle. 
'Infants.'
Another surmise proved correct. 
'At that age it's as much holding their hands as teaching,' she is saying. Mackintosh shudders as he imagines coping with a class of infants. He has not had much to do with children. He does not particularly like them. They are noisy, restless and constantly demanding attention. Children do not converse; they whine, or scream. One advantage of pubs is that they offer the opportunity to get away from children. Not that he would tell Michelle any such thing. 
'This is quite a change,' says Michael. 'I'm enjoying it.'
'I suppose you need the chance to relax sometimes,' Mackintosh says to Michelle before Michael can intervene again. 
'By the end of term I'm shattered,' she admits. 
'Do you go to relaxation classes?' 
She shakes her head. 
'I've tried them,' puts in Michael.
'I run them here, you know,' Mackintosh tells Michelle, hoping that she will look interested. She does not. 
'It's quite a way from where I live,' she says doubtfully.
'We don't start till seven-thirty.'
 'It's still a bit of a rush.' 
Don't push it, Mackintosh tells himself. He contents himself with, 'Think about it. Every Thursday. And the first one's free.'
Her smile looks forced. Something more positive is needed to entice her, he decides. He wishes that he could get rid of Michael, the manic programmer.
'What sort of interests do you have out of school?' he persists.
'I don't get much time for other things. I like squash. And I try to go to keep-fit classes regularly.'
'That's good.' 
Mackintosh has to stop himself from nodding like a doll again. He tries to remember when he could last touch his toes or run for a bus, but he has to give up. He assures her, 'You'll find the transcendental technique helps.'
'Have any trials been done?' Michael asks. 
'Trials?' 
'On how it improves performance.' 
'Not as yet. I'm trying to arrange one,' Mackintosh lies. He beams at Michelle again, hoping that Michael might take the hint and go away. Sometimes Mackintosh suspects that eligible and not-so-eligible males only come to his classes to pick up girls. He cannot help feeling indignant at such devious behaviour. 
'So you're the sporty type, are you?' he presses.
'I don't know about that.' 
'What about when you're not feeling so energetic?' 
She looks delightfully helpless as she smiles and shrugs. 
'I don't do anything much. I'm usually too tired by the time I've finished school.' 
'Shame on you.'
'I knit sometimes.' 
He stares incredulously. 
'A lot of people do,' she assures him, looking amused. 'Even some men.' 
'It's not something I've taken up,' he confesses. 
'Nor me,' says Michael. 
Some breaks are productive: they lead to that elusive dinner date at the end of the day. Some are not and this is obviously one of the latter. No point in prolonging the agony. Mackintosh calls, 'Can we get back to work, please.' And nobody except Dorothy takes any notice.

chapter two

Mackintosh removes his robes, slips on his shoes and adjourns to his favourite pub, away from the prying eyes of any students who might wish to question his inspirational words. The Red Lion is never crowded early in the evening. He can relax there. That first drink after a day spend radiating spirituality has a quality all its own. Idly he watches Irene, the barmaid. She likes to wear tight jumpers, much to the delight of her male customers. Mackintosh has plans for Irene.
Time to take stock of the day. It has been an occasion of mixed fortunes. He failed to entice Debbie to dinner. By way of consolation, the idea of attending his relaxation classes was implanted. Isobel remained imperturbable when he managed to corner her. Obviously the thinking sort. And wary—even more so than Debbie. She smiled when he mentioned a meal. That was her only response. Michelle was more amenable, but even she would not commit herself. So there is no dinner to look forward to, though Annette intimated that she might come. On another occasion he might have invited her. She is young by his standards. What passion lurks under that shapeless cardigan? At least he has her address if he ever feels inclined to find out.
After three months of running courses he still marvels that nobody has accused him of being a fraud. Being a guru is profitable, but wearing. Sometimes he hopes that he will be exposed, so that the whole experience will find its natural end. What he wants is an activity which pays well, which takes of his time and which only attracts beautiful girls. The prospect hangs before him like a holy grail as he savours his Guinness. He has to concede that his fortunes have improved. His finances are on an even keel: for a year after the charity collapsed leaving him jobless, he was harried by landladies as he moved from one cheap room to another. Now he has comfortable lodgings and he can afford to spend his evenings in the pub. What more can a man want, except for a woman? Speculatively he eyes Irene, the barmaid, again. Not that he would invite her to dinner. He muses over the paradox of why women divide into those you would take out and those who are for admiring. Something about the personality, he concludes—and the lack of stimulating conversation displayed by the latter group. Yet on those rare occasions when he is lucky enough to share the company of a beautiful girl, sparkling conversation never seems to matter. 
He brings out the diary containing the telephone numbers of attractive girls on every one of his courses. Some names have been crossed off: the ones who said no when he asked them out. All names are graded: 1 means attractive, 2 is beautiful, P indicates having an attractive personality, while S is sensuous. An asterisk denotes willing. There are few asterisks. Only two names have merited a 2PS* and both have been crossed off.
Mackintosh's buoyancy ebbs as he recalls everything which those strokes of the pen signify. The two telephone calls were made before he settled down to an evening of drinking a week ago. Both were acrimonious, despite promising signs at the workshops which merited the accolade of an asterisk. Some people he has known would have ignored such reverses and phoned again, but that is not his way. Ships that pass in the night, he tells himself as he adds three new names to the list. Debbie is a 1P, Michelle a 1 and Isabel a 2S.
As melancholy settles over him, he drains his glass and signals to Irene. She comes close enough for him to smell her scent. The old devil lust rears its head. A Pavlovian response, he knows, but the knowledge does not make any difference.
'Another pint of Guinness, please—and something for yourself.' 
He tries not to leer as Irene thanks him. What he cannot work out is how the reputation of barmaids colours his reaction. Somehow they appear more willing than girls who work in banks. He watches with satisfaction as the mug fills. 
'Girding yourself for the rush?' he enquires.
'It'll be a while yet.'
Why he likes the place: it never gets too crowded, even at weekends. Youngsters want something more exciting. What an indictment of ageing. It is not so long since he sought the pubs where students congregated. He is not sure when his preferences altered. If any single event marked the sea change, it was assuming his present role—gurus need to demonstrate that they can rise above earthly matters. But he knows that becoming a guru is no more than an excuse. The trouble is that he is getting old. His fellow drinkers in student bars might have laughed at him, but at least they were kind enough to do it behind his back. Ten years on, they would probably laugh openly. He used to pluck his white hairs until baldness seemed a more pressing risk. Now the white hairs grow unchecked—a stark reminder of mortality to confront whenever he looks in the mirror. Soon he will be worrying about his pension.
'There you go,' says Irene, standing his Guinness before him. 
'Nectar.'
'Hard day?' 
'You could say that,' he agrees, beaming as his latest plan swings into action. 'You're not tempted to come along, I suppose?' 
'Come along to what?'
'One of my relaxation workshops.'
Irene pulls a face. 'Not my sort of thing.' 
He is tempted to confess that it is not his either, but instead he asks, 'What is your sort of thing?' 
She laughs. 'I've got enough to do working here and looking after a kid.' 
'You must get some free time.' 
'If I get a moment to spare, all I want to do is put my feet up and watch television.' 
Such is life today, Mackintosh reflects as he pays for his drink. Employers demand impossibly long hours and family life counts for nought. Not that the eighties or the nineties were any better. And people like Irene pay the price. Idly he watches her. As she returns with the change, he braces himself for the big question. He has been working up to it for weeks. It can be put off no longer.
'You don't fancy modelling for me, I suppose?' 
She stares, her hand frozen in the act of handing across the coins. 
'You do know I paint, don't you?'
She says slowly, 'I don't think it's my sort of thing.' Suddenly she is wary of him. She does not look shocked, but her features have hardened. Her response puzzles him. He was diplomatic—at least he thought he was. And she is a woman of the world. Yet she leaves his change on the counter and retreats to the other end of the bar. It is not till then that an alternative explanation for her behaviour occurs to him: she was expecting him to take her out. Now what should he do? He could apologise, but he is not really sure what he is supposed to be apologising for. Better to finish his drink and creep out. This is the way his worse days usually develop. He stares into the Guinness poured by her loving hands. His taste for it has gone. Not that he ever wastes beer. One habit from his days of impoverishment has not left him. 
What was meant to be a pleasant evening of drinking and introspection ends prematurely. Mackintosh walks home slowly. On his way, he visits in to a couple of other pubs for consolation, but he cannot settle. It annoys him that he should be affected by a barmaid's misinterpretation of his motives. Gurus should be able to rise above such slights. 
At least going home is not the depressing experience it used to be in his impecunious days. He has hitherto undreamed-of luxuries like central heating, a fridge and a microwave. And he has discovered frozen meals. Mackintosh likes frozen meals. They suit his level of culinary expertise and there is little waiting involved if he comes home late and wants something to eat. In the past, cooking meant balancing a saucepan on a single electric ring. For this improvement in his fortunes, he has a lot to thank the punters who attend his courses. 
Walking through the classier parts of Islington. The streets are quiet on a Sunday evening. He can enjoy the architecture. Style is a clichéd word, but it seems appropriate after life in the less salubrious parts of Holloway and Finsbury Park. A little bit more care was taken in the planning of Islington. The houses have an elegance which darkness cannot disguise. Freshly-painted doors with three Banham locks betray that these are the homes of the new settlers—the professional classes with jobs in the media or public relations. 
One of Mackintosh's favourite games is to select his favourite square. It is a delicious dilemma. The answer varies with his mood. The intimacy of Wilton Square always touches his heart, but against this have to be set such rival pleasures as the magnificence of Thornhill Square and the open aspect of Arlington Square, its broad central garden devoid of mature trees. But perhaps his greatest affection is for his destination which is Cloudsley Square. It contrives to be intimate without being claustrophobic and gracious without descending into either monumentality or prettiness. Its special character comes from the church in its centre—like King's College Chapel transported from Cambridge to a quiet corner of London. In the past he liked walking in the square, peering into the front windows of the gentrified houses at well-proportioned rooms, tastefully decorated and sparingly furnished. On most of his visits, the square was devoid of people. It was like a stage set waiting for the actors. Hard to believe that now he lives in one of those houses. Admittedly he only rents a room and that is in the roof space, but turning the corner into the square and seeing the house which is his home always gives him a thrill. 
He opens the door quietly to avoid disturbing Mrs Parrish. The harridan landladies of his past with their stewed cabbage, incontinent dogs and patched bedclothes inhabit a world far from London N.1. Mrs Parrish is the epitome of Islington woman: attractive, cultured, always immaculately turned out and with her life under control. She is in her fifties, but money mitigates the effects of age. What puzzles him is why she needs a lodger. From the speculative way she sometimes looks at him, he suspects money may not be her first concern. 
A crack of light shows under the living room door. He hopes that the noise of the television programme will mask his entry. His repertoire is short of small talk for predatory landladies. The warmth of the house envelopes him, womb-like. Mrs Parrish, or possibly her interior designer, favours white paintwork and dark green carpets. What Mackintosh cannot get over is how everything is so clean and free from clutter. The brass door furniture never shows a fingermark; the plants never drop leaves. Sometimes such perfection unnerves him. 
He has almost reached the stairs as the living room door opens. He suspects that Mrs Parrish has been waiting for him. She smiles. Her white jumper fits tightly, reminding him of detergent advertisements from twenty years ago. Even when she is cooking for herself, Mrs Parrish looks as though she is about to go to a dinner party. Today she wears check slacks with a silk blouse. Sometimes he wonders whether she replaces her entire wardrobe every month. She never seems to wear the same thing twice.
'Hello, er, Mackintosh.' She never can get used to calling him by his surname. 'I'm glad I've caught you.'
Mackintosh tries to transform his look of surprise into one of pleasure at this impromptu encounter. Mrs Parrish responds by broadening her smile. Something of the gauche schoolgirl lives on in her features. 
'Good workshop?'  
'Not bad,' he agrees, thinking of Isobel, Michelle and Debbie. 
'That's good.'
As only the voices from the television break the silence, he glances towards the staircase with its prospect of safety.
'Would you like to come in for a moment?' Mrs Parrish presses. 
'I should be ...'  He gestures helplessly towards the stairs. 
'Just for a minute,' she pleads.
'I was going to have an early night.'
'You don't usually go to bed at nine o'clock, surely?'
'After teaching all day.' 
'I feel tired as well. Perhaps we could have a nightcap. And don't say no,' she adds before he can answer. 
How could he resist such pleading? Meekly he follows her into the living room. It is lit by two table lamps. The folding doors dividing the two ground floor rooms are pushed back. Like the hall, his surroundings are immaculate. The only sign that anybody lives there is the open paperback face down on an occasional table—something he berated students about because such thoughtless treatment damages the book's spine. He can see the title: Lady Chatterley's Lover. The velvet curtains have not been pulled across. He is conscious that any passerby will be able to see him acting his part in the drama. The thought affords him some satisfaction, though he knows that if he were the spectator, his socialist hackles would rise. 
The sound from the television is extinguished, worsening Mackintosh's sense of foreboding. 
'Sit down,' Mrs Parrish urges. 'We know each other well enough not to have to wait for me to tell you.' 
He ignores the sofa and perches on an upright chair at the table. His hostess looks disconcerted, but she recovers quickly. 
'Now, what would you like?' 
Mackintosh frowns. 
'Ovaltine, Horlicks, cocoa?' 
'Er ...'
'Or would you like something stronger?'
'That's an idea,' Mackintosh agrees, brightening. Something stronger might mix better with several pints of Guinness. 
'I think I know what you'd like.' His landlady selects a bottle from the drinks cabinet and holds it up for approval. Mackintosh approves. In spite of his unease, he cannot stop himself from salivating. 
'Do you want anything with it?'
'Mustn't spoil it.'
'I knew you were a whisky man.' 
Mackintosh grunts. As he watches his landlady pouring a generous measure of single malt, he has to admit that she is not unattractive. Still slim for her age, but her age is only part of the problem. A more pragmatic worry is that if things do develop, he might be expected to keep her in the manner accustomed. That is an expensive manner. His thoughts steal back to homely Debbie with the beautiful knees. 
Mrs Parrish holds out the glass of whisky. 'How's that?'
'No half measures here,' he jokes, taking the glass.
'This isn't a pub.' 
'No—certainly not. I didn't mean that.' He sips his drink to avoid continuing the conversation and making any more gaffes. He rarely has whisky—particularly single malt whisky. His landlady pours herself sherry and seats herself at one end of the sofa. She watches him like a cat watching a hapless mouse. They raise their glasses.
'As we live in the same house, I think it's a pity we don't see more of each other,' she says. 
'I have got quite a lot on at the moment,' he demurs. 'What with one thing and another.'
'One thing and another?'
'Courses and things.'
'I must come to one of your courses.'
'You're always welcome.' 
'I might take you up on that.' 
He sips his whisky again as he considers the implications of her words. Play his cards right and he could be a kept man.
'What exactly are they about?' Mrs Parrish asks. 'I know you told me once.' 
'It's to do with opening up people's consciousness—making them more aware of themselves.'
'And you can really do that?' 
'The courses get fully booked.' 
Mrs Parrish looks impressed. 
'Does it take a lot of training?' she wants to know.
'You can get the hang of it in a day.' 
'I meant for you.' 
'There's no formal training. It's more a matter of understanding people.' 
'Empathy.' 
'That's it exactly.' 
'I knew you had that as soon as I saw you.' 
Mackintosh looks coy and concentrates on his whisky. The glass is emptying more quickly than he expected.
'So how long have you been running these courses?' Mrs Parrish continues.     
'Several months now.' 
'Isn't it quite a crowded field?' 
'No one else does courses like these.' 
'So you're unique?' 
He tries to look suitably modest. Soon, somebody else will be doing them—probably one of his former students. He views the day with a mixture of trepidation and relief. 
'You were a planner before that, you said?' Mrs Parrish continues. 
'Planner, lecturer and environmental campaigner.' 
'A man of many talents.' 
'It's all planning really.' 
'Still, it's quite a career change—from planning to therapy.'
'You have to be adaptable these days,' he agrees. It crosses his mind that she is making fun of him, though he cannot be sure. He guesses that people like Mrs Parrish have little understanding of what it means to have your livelihood taken away. 
'Jobs go out of existence,' he points out. 'Firms close down or rationalise.' 
'Still you've bounced back and made a go of it—that's the main thing. And you've got your painting.' 
He does not doubt that she looks around his room when he is out. He has yet to hear her verdict on his efforts, though this might be the occasion when he finds out.
'Do you exhibit?' she asks.
'Sometimes.' 
'You must let me come next time your work's on show.'
'I haven't done much on that side lately. Too busy with the courses.'
'You mustn't neglect the creative side of your life.' 
'I know.' He hesitates, wondering whether he should continue. Mrs Parrish seems to want him to. Time to impress. He reveals, 'I've been developing a new approach to painting. I haven't had much time to bother about exhibiting.'' 
Emboldened by the way Mrs Parrish raises her eyebrows in admiration, he explains, 'You find your style changing as you're exposed to new experiences. You want to express different things.' 
Mrs Parrish looks unconvinced. She cautions, 'I admire your dedication, but you still have to sell your work, don't you?' 
Her concern about his potential income makes him uneasy. He tries to take refuge in whisky, only to find that his glass is empty. 
'Do you want another one?' Mrs Parrish asks, noticing his alarm.
'I shouldn't really.' 
She takes that as agreement and gets up to refill his glass. 
'Just a small one,' he cautions, remembering the days of his ulcer. It seems so long ago, though it is no more than four years. When the glass is restored to him, he is pleased to see that Mrs Parrish has not taken him too literally. 
'You want people to see your paintings, don't you?' she presses when she is settled on the sofa again. 
'Doesn't worry me.' When he sees her puzzlement, he explains, 'It's the process of painting I'm interested in.' 
'But people have to see them some time.'
'I suppose so,' he concedes, though judging by his previous efforts to get work exhibited, people are not too interested. He wonders how Mrs Parrish would fare, arguing with an irate churchwarden in the rain, while her works are strung along the churchyard railings and covered by a tarpaulin which is not quite large enough. Not much Christian charity was in evidence on that day. 
'Is there anything I can do?' she asks. 
'I can't think of anything.' 
'There must be something. I could help with contacts.' 
The more he thinks of the idea, the more he likes it. Somebody who has money must have contacts. 
'Or if you're going to exhibit work, I could help you sort out the arrangements,' she offers. 'Then you can concentrate on the creative side.'
'It's a possibility,' he agrees warily. 
'Or you could hold an exhibition of your own.' 
Visions come to him—of a gallery crowded with guests who have come to look at his work. Mackintosh, the society artist. It has a ring to it. He does not want to dismiss the notion entirely, though he knows that it is fanciful. His finances might have improved, but not enough to mount an exhibition. 
'We could have it here,' Mrs Parrish is saying. 'I've heard of it being done. People use an ordinary private house as an art gallery.' 
'It's an idea,' the aspiring artist agrees, marvelling that she can think of the house as ordinary. A more disturbing vision is of crowds dispersing at the end of the viewing to reveal his opus left unsold. 
'Have a think about it,' she urges. 
He nods sagely, not bothering to reply. 
'I admire your tenacity—the way you carry on without recognition.' 
He would feel happier if she admired his paintings. She is smiling at him fondly, which he finds disturbing. He starts on the second glass of whisky and hopes that his stomach will stand up to the experience.
'You do eat properly, don't you?' she probes. 'I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I think you've got thinner since you've been here.' 
'I'm fine,' he assures her, thinking of the pot noodles and Guinness which comprise his staple diet. Mrs Parrish looks hesitant, as if she is working up to something and fears that he will take exception to it. For a moment he feels power. 
'You don't have to agree if you don't like the idea,' she begins, 'but I was wondering if you'd like to take your meals with me sometimes.' 
He stares at her wonderingly, but before he can argue, she explains, 'It would give you more time for painting and I enjoy cooking for other people—not that I get much chance these days.'
'It's an idea,' he agrees.
'I don't know whether you're limited in what you can eat by your religion.' 
'Religion?'
'Transcendentalism.'
'Ah—I see what you mean. No, no problem there.' 
Mrs Parrish looks surprised. 'In that case I'm sure I could come up with something we'd both like.' 
'It's kind of you.' 
'I don't want you to think of me as just a landlady. Think of me more as a friend.'
'Very kind,' he murmurs, trying to drink his whisky with unaccustomed haste. For once he wishes that the glass was not so full. 
'I think it's silly for us to live in the same house and prepare meals separately.' 
He wants to say that he prefers things that way. He is used to it. 
'Don't you agree?' she prompts. 
'I'm sure you've got plenty to do,' he lies. How Mrs Parrish spends her time has remained a mystery to him. Housework is left to the woman who comes every morning. Nor does Mrs Parrish occupy her time in charity work, judging by the absence of such telltale signs as sacks of old clothes in the hall, or WRVS stickers on her car. All she seems to do is to see friends: they visit sometimes in the afternoon and he has overheard her talking to them on the phone in hushed tones and at great length. In sum, his landlady is rich and bored—and he is destined to fill the void. This conclusion is both flattering and alarming. It makes him feel like a kitten bought to amuse a child—and like a kitten he might be discarded when the novelty palls. His suspicion, arrived at with regret, is that he will soon be looking for somewhere else to live.
Sometimes he wonders whether Mrs Parrish has children. No pictures of them are on display, unless they are in her bedroom. He has never tempted providence by looking in there, even when he is sure that she is out. People like Mrs Parrish have elaborate security systems. 
'My art teacher said I should have gone to art school,' she reveals. 
Mackintosh tries to look suitably impressed. When people discover that he is an artist, they often exhume artistic talents which have been thwarted by the exigencies of life. 
'Then other things got in the way,' she adds. 
'Things?' 
'Earning a living. Then I met my husband, of course.' 
Mackintosh waits for more revelations, but Mrs Parrish's reminiscences have come to an end. He samples his whisky again and knows that he could cultivate a taste for single malt without much difficulty. 
'Do you want some more?' his hostess queries as though reading his mind. 
With some regret he puts his hand over the glass. 'Better not. Never get up in the morning.' 
'Of course. I'm sorry. I should have thought of that.'' 
She is almost painfully understanding. He knows that such attentiveness will soon become irritating. 
'What was your job before you married?' he asks, seizing the opportunity to discover something about her own life. 
'Just a secretary.' 
'Ah.' 
'Mr Parrish's secretary, as a matter of fact.' 
Mackintosh raises his eyebrows. He knows that he is being told something significant, though he is not sure what it imports. 
'We got married two years after I started working for him.' 
A faraway look comes into her eyes. He watches, fascinated. 
'We were together for twelve years,' she continues. 
He waits for more revelations, but the room fills with silence. 
'I'm sorry,' he murmurs. 
'It happens, I'm afraid.'
'I suppose so.' 
He drinks the remainder of his whisky in one gulp, anxious to make his escape. 
'We're still on good terms,' she adds. 
'That's always best.' Mackintosh puts down the glass on the adjoining table—and then worries whether he has made a wet ring on the polish. 'I'd better be going upstairs.' 
'There's no hurry, is there?'
He tries to calculate how much more whisky he can take while still being able to negotiate the stairs and without reawakening his ulcer. 
'I am a bit tired,' he demurs. 
Mrs Parrish looks contrite. 'I'm sorry. I'm being selfish.' 
'No you're not. Not at all.' 
'I'm glad we've had this little chat.'
'It's been ... very pleasant.'
'And you're happy here?' 
'Very happy.' 
The words sound patently insincere. 
'Very happy,' he insists.
'Good.' Mrs Parrish smiles and Mackintosh feels obliged to smile back. 
'I'd better be heading upstairs,' he announces, hauling himself from the chair. He can almost believe that he is tired. 'Thanks again for the excellent whisky and your company.' 
As he walks carefully from the room, he knows that she is watching him. With the door closed behind him, he gives a sigh of relief now that his performance is over. He would never have gone far as an actor, but he has never got far at anything, really. It is a sobering thought with which to end the day. He clings to the handrail as he climbs the stairs. On the first landing he looks back, half expecting to find that Mrs Parrish has opened the door quietly and is gazing fondly up at him; but to his relief, the living-room door is closed and the hall is empty. He continues on his way to the attic, reflecting that at least for the moment he has had a lucky escape. 
His eyrie is as warm as the rest of the house. The benefits of central heating have seduced him. It has never figured in his domestic life before. The deep pile of the carpet muffles his steps. He takes off his coat and falls on the bed. The scent of the freshly-laundered duvet is preferable to the musty smells of army surplus blankets which have been his lot in the past. Kitchen units which he rarely uses gleam in the alcove. The fridge purrs. The green, digital figures of the microwave clock glow. He draws his gaze away. He will be sorry to leave all this behind. He bangs his fist against the mattress in mute protest against the ironies of life. He has found the best room which he has ever had and he must contemplate leaving it, not through any fault of his own, but because his landlady wants complications. A guru should be able to handle a few veiled advances. The trouble is that he knows he cannot. Delay too long and things will get poisonous. His knowledge of women extends that far. 
Has it been in Mrs Parrish's mind all along to change their relationship from landlady and tenant to something more intimate? Was he naive to move into her house in the first place? It is not as though he has given her any encouragement. He reviews their first meeting in the light of what he now knows. He was on his best behaviour. No smell of alcohol tainted his breath that day. In all honesty he has to confess that Mrs Parrish's demeanour gave no hint of what was to come. Something has changed her. Whether it is her hormones, or some gesture or remark on his part which she has misconstrued, he is not sure. Siren voices tell him that he is fortunate to find a lady like Mrs Parrish. After all these years, money and comfort are his. She is even willing to promote his art. Can he really turn down such prizes? But he is suspicious of siren voices. He knows that if he wants his freedom, there is no alternative to leaving. The problem is how to tell her. She is not going to like it. He recalls warnings about the fury of scorned women and he shivers. The situation has never arisen before in his life—his landladies have always been delighted to see him go, except on those occasions when he owed rent. He could employ his well-tried technique of abandoning the room when he has the house to himself, but increasing affluence has meant that he has more possessions than before. He is not confident of moving them elsewhere before she comes back, though he does resolve to keep a close eye on her comings and goings in the hope of discerning enough of a pattern to make an emergency departure possible, should it become necessary. The most likely outcome of his efforts will be some bungled excuse for leaving—and weeks of baleful glances as he works out his notice. He wonders what excuse to use. An aunt in Yorkshire who needs looking after? Mrs Parrish might insist on driving him there. A sudden worsening of his financial fortunes, so he can no longer pay the rent? Unconvincing while cheques for courses are spread over the doormat with every post. And she might reduce the rent. Should he plead a creative artist's need to starve in a garret? He finds the notion no more convincing, though it might appeal to Mrs Parrish. At least the dilemma can be set aside till a time when his mind has not been clouded by whisky. 
How to spend the remainder of the evening: to work or to dream? His gaze travels towards his easel, on which rests his latest creation. Paint is spattered on the carpet. He keeps promising himself to put down newspaper before he starts painting, but he never has any at the crucial moment and he does not want to ask Mrs Parrish. He resolves to make a spirited attempt to remove the incriminating evidence with white spirit before he leaves, though he knows that he will never get around to it. Anyway, his landlady must know what has happened. He breathes deeply. He has become so familiar with the smells of paint and turpentine that he does not notice them. Mrs Parrish has hinted that they are pervading the house, though she is always quick to assure him that they are quite acceptable smells. 
There must be another way of leaving without causing ill-feeling. The problem preoccupies him as he reaches under the bed. His taste for Baileys was acquired in the days when his ulcer troubled him—nothing else proved as soothing. He smiles as his fingers encounter the bottle. Mrs Parrish would disapprove if she knew about his habit. He really must be more careful about hiding the bottle. His hand explores under the bed a second time, groping for the glass. He likes to think that he still has standards and drinking Baileys straight out of a bottle is falling below them. 
A generous measure of the adorable liquid helps to put his dilemmas in perspective. It is absurd that he cannot retain the advantages of his present lifestyle whilst steering clear of the complications posed by Mrs Parrish. Delaying tactics are the obvious ploy. This approach appeals to him, given his long experience of fending off landladies demanding rent. An alternative is to find another eligible man for Mrs Parrish, but the strategy has to be dismissed immediately on the grounds that he knows of no suitable candidate. This course is easier if he can face pained silences and reproachful glances for an indefinite period. Another strategy is to bring home a girl from one of his courses, ensuring that Mrs Parrish sees her; but he doubts whether he can orchestrate such a situation with sufficient panache to avoid making things worse than they are already. His inevitable conclusion is that he must seek a clean break. He pours another glass of Baileys and lies back, wishing life could be as simple as it was in his teaching days. He knows that he should not have mixed his drinks. In the morning he will awaken with a queasy stomach and a mouth which tastes of old leather. 
He is not spending as much time on painting as he should. Distractions keep occurring. The constant need to find new punters for his workshops entails seeking out mailing lists at every opportunity. And there is drinking. Pubs are such comforting places. Like-minded people gather there, while a few drinks help to allay his worries. He gazes at the canvas and feels guilty because he is not working. Painting the view from the window is something which he does in each of his lodgings. He has enough views to make an exhibition. Each one brings back a moment from his past, triggering a cascade of memories more effectively than any diary. Sometimes it crosses his mind to incorporate the paintings in his workshops. He cannot think of a suitable excuse, but he would like to see what the girls make of them. 
Beside the easel is his other work in progress. Inspiration came from a painting of Sickert's room by Spencer Gore. Difficult to get away from Sickert in north London. Like Mackintosh, he changed his lodgings with disturbing frequency. In Camden or Islington, one of the houses where he lived is never far away. That gives Mackintosh a fellow feeling. Doubtless Sickert suffered from landlady troubles. 
Mackintosh's aim in the painting was to convey the discrepancy between the safe, comfortable modernity of his surroundings and the primaeval instincts which are the wellspring of his art. He peers more closely at the canvas. Difficult to say whether he has succeeded in his aim. Objectivity depends on distance and he will not achieve that until the painting has been finished and put aside for some time. All he knows for sure is that the darkness is missing. Not a good harbinger. 
It is a matter of lasting regret to Mackintosh that he has no contact with other artists. There must be something companionable about sharing experiences over a pint, as Sickert, Spencer Gore and Harold Gilman discovered. When Mackintosh visits a pub, he always wonders whether the terrible three drank there. Not that they would recognise it given the breweries' habit of refurbishing their premises every ten years. Nor did the three artists have a long drinking career—Gore and Gilman both died in their thirties. Slender reputations built on short lives. Mackintosh has lived longer than both of them, though he has yet to establish any reputation. The thought dampens his spirits still further. Is he in any position to turn down Mrs Parrish's offer of help? He would feel happier if his landlady were able to offer intelligent criticism of his work, but he suspects that at heart she is a philistine. What he needs is informed friends. At least salaried work brought acquaintances, but they were left behind with each change of job. There were promises to keep in touch, but invariably these came to nothing. Local authority work was not to his taste: he felt a small cog in a large and ramshackle machine whose function was often nebulous. Lecturing was better. He liked contact with young people, especially girls, not to mention the cheap beer in the student union bar. He often wonders what became of his town planning students. Most are likely to be ensconced in local authority planning departments, dreaming of their pensions and harrying unfortunate citizens who have started one-man businesses in back bedrooms, or erected outsized porches without permission. Some will have assumed the mantle of lecturer, regurgitating his own world view or something like it to the next generation. A handful of enterprising students will have graduated into private practice, helping developers and multinationals to push swathes through the bureaucratic thickets. He wonders whether they ever remember the lecturer who preached the social responsibility of the planner. Probably not. 
He enjoyed working for Ecowatch. As a pressure group it was ineffective, but at least the researchers kept their ideals. A more pragmatic advantage of working there was that the director tolerated long lunch hours. Most policy formulation seemed to take place in pubs. At least one of his colleagues from those days ended in prison. Mackintosh often wonders what happened to the others. 
The trouble with being a guru is that you lack friends. The attractive faces at workshops are seen only once before disappearing into the melee which is London, leaving him alone and dependent on his own resources. Now Mrs Parrish has given him an escape route, if that is what he really wants. He knows that the first casualty of such a liaison would be his painting. Which brings him back to the dilemma of what to do about Mrs Parrish. He groans and hauls himself from the bed to turn off the light. This is a problem to sleep on. 
Standing in the darkened room, he lets his eyes adjust to the light filtering through the dormer window. On peering down at the square, he almost expects to see a private eye standing in the pool of light cast by the nearest street lamp. Instead, one of the neighbours is walking a poodle. Mackintosh turns away. In the darkness, the brass doorhandle seems to glow. Sounds become prominent—fluid trickling in the cooling system of the fridge, creaks from the wooden flooring as it responds to the central heating being switched off for the night, and jazz filtering from an adjoining house. He pads across the carpet to the bed and tops up his glass before settling on the duvet. As he sips the seductive liquid, he reflects that fitted carpets are the greatest boon to civilised life—except for central heating. In the past, keeping warm was an ever-present problem in winter. A year ago, he could only dream of such luxury—
The whisky has made him drowsy. He closes his eyes. 
*
When Mackintosh awakens, sun is streaming into the room. He peers at his watch on the bedside table. Ten past ten. A workshop should have started ten minutes ago. The thought prompts him into wakefulness before he realises that this is Monday. Mrs Parrish will be up. Her name rings warning bells, though at first he cannot remember why. He moves—and groans. He knows that he ought to do something about his drinking. He vows to begin the regime which he has often considered—going for a jog each morning before sitting down to a breakfast of muesli and yogurt. Of course, his vow has to be tempered by realism. So much time has been lost by oversleeping that jogging is out of the question until tomorrow. Anyway, he has to buy the right clothes before he can demonstrate to himself that his new regime is more than a passing fad. As for breakfast, the very thought of food prompts a wave of nausea. On those mornings when he does feel hungry, his habit is to go to a cafe on Essex Road which provides a sumptuous English breakfast of egg, bacon, fried bread, beans and sausages. Given that he only goes there two or three times a week, he does not think that even Mrs Parrish could object to one of his few pleasures in life. 
Every movement makes his head swim. It is going to be one of those mornings when everything has to be done in slow motion. He relieves himself in the washbasin to save making the journey downstairs. Everything goes the same way, he tells himself as he runs the tap to wash away the telltale stains. Afterwards, while the washbasin is filling for his wash, he reflects that constant hot water is another of those pleasures of civilised life which is easy to take for granted. Not that he does so after years of having to rely on boiling a kettle if he wants to wash in hot water. 
Splashing his face and armpits is as much as he can manage. Dabbing himself dry is equally painful. As he combs his hair, he avoids looking in the mirror. Now he is ready to face the world. He averts his eyes from the easel. The half-finished canvas stands in mute reproach of his indolence, but in his present state, work is out of the question. Anyway, there seems little point in starting with three quarters of an hour to go before the pubs open. He needs a morning drink to put him in the right frame of mind for an afternoon's painting. 
Getting out of the house without encountering Mrs Parrish is always nerve-wracking. As the events of the previous evening surface in his mind, his anxiety increases. He follows his usual strategy of closing the door of his room quietly before listening for telltale signs of his landlady's presence. Sometimes he can hear the shower running in the bathroom two floors below, signifying that his departure will be unimpeded. On this occasion he is greeted by silence. He creeps downstairs, avoiding the tread which makes a sound like a rusty hinge. The floor below the attic is given over to spare bedrooms—needlessly in his view, given that they have never been used during his residence there. Beyond this point, speed is of the essence. He keeps close to the wall to avoid telltale creaks. He is on the first floor landing when the door of Mrs Parrish's bedroom opens. She favours him with that sad, brave smile which she often uses and which makes her look as though she has suffered a recent bereavement and is putting on a brave face. There is smell of expensive perfume. 
'How's Mackintosh this morning?' 
'So, so.' 
'I wondered whether you'd like me to cook you a meal later.'
'It's kind of you ...' His voice tails off as he tries to think of an excuse. 
'I know you don't like to waste your time cooking when you're painting.' 
'Mmm.' Mackintosh gazes helplessly down the stairs to the ground floor and to freedom, trying to decide whether he imagined the hint of sarcasm in her tone. 
'So would you like me to cook?' 
'It's kind of you, but we'd better not make it today.' He glances at his watch as one who is late for a pressing engagement. 'I'd better be getting on.' 
Mrs Parrish conceals her disappointment well, as befits her breeding. 'Perhaps tomorrow, then.' 
'It's something to think about, certainly,' Mackintosh agrees, backing away till he feels the balustrade behind him. 'I'll have to be going. Got an appointment and I'm a bit late already.' 
He scuttles down the final staircase and out of the front door without looking back. As he walks away from the house, he has the feeling that Mrs Parrish is watching from her bedroom window. The sensation of being under scrutiny makes him walk awkwardly. His legs and arms are uncoordinated. Not until he has rounded the corner and the house is out of sight does he lose his self-consciousness. But the sense of relief is transient. Depression settles over him. His every action seems destined to upset Mrs Parrish and to hasten his departure from her house. Is the sensible course to welcome her advances? He might be giving up a life of ease by his equivocation. A comfortable house, a willing cook—not to mention a willing lover—are his for the taking. But so are the bills if a jealous husband finds out. Mackintosh groans. Why does life have to be complicated? 
* 
The Red Lion is never crowded on a weekday morning. Mackintosh savours its tranquillity—and Irene's figure. The time and the place conjunct for serious drinking, serious thinking and the occasional arcane conversation. Today there is only one other customer leaning against the bar—a balding man in his forties wearing a crumpled and grubby raincoat over what looks like an equally unkept business suit. Eye contact is made and nods exchanged. When Mackintosh has paid for his Guinness and taken the first mouthful, he knows that this is the moment to begin conversation. 
'Getting colder out there,' he opines. 
'Aye.' 
'You know you're into autumn.' 
No answer. As the silence stretches, Mackintosh wonders whether his instincts were wrong. 
'Still you've got to expect it this time of year,' he perseveres. 
'Aye.' 
'What's your line of work?' 
'I'm out of work at the moment.' 
'Sorry to hear that.'
'I used to be an accountant.' 
Mackintosh raised his eyebrows. 'Should have thought there was plenty of demand for accountants these days. It's business by the balance sheet.' 
The man shakes his head. 'Not at my age.' 
'Tough.' 
'You go to these firms and they say, "Sorry, too old.”' 
'At least I'm in a job where you never get too old.' 
'What's that?' 
'And you never get used to being out of work.' 
'What is it?' 
Mackintosh takes another mouthful of Guinness before announcing, 'Actor.' 
His companion looks impressed. 
'I thought you recognised me,' Mackintosh reveals, assuming a reproachful look. 
The erstwhile accountant studies his face. 
'So much for being in the spotlight,' Mackintosh says ruefully. 
'I know the face, but I can't quite remember your name.' 
'Alan.' 
'Mine's Ray. What have you been in?' 
Mackintosh puts on his surprised look. 'Do you want me to name them all?' 
'The ones I'm likely to have heard of.' 
'I've just done a season at the National, then before that I was doing the rounds—West End, fringe. I don't know whether you've been to the Almeida—I did a stint there.' 
Ray shakes his head. 
'Shame on you—not supporting your local theatre.' 
'I don't go to the theatre much.' Ray sounds put out by the rebuke.
'You don't know what you're missing.'
'What are you in now?' 
'Are you keen on Brecht?' 
'Wasn't he a communist?' 
'I wouldn't let that put you off. He's a great playwright. I'm starting rehearsals for a Brecht play, so I've got time on my hands.' 
'Have you been on television?' 
'It's the excitement of a live audience I like—gets the adrenaline going. Difficult to describe unless you've experienced it.' 
Ray looks uncomprehending. 
'You ought to join a drama group,' Mackintosh urges. 
'Eh?' 
'Amateur dramatics. Good old am. dram.' 
Ray shakes his head. 'Not my sort of thing.' 
'Let yourself be touched by the magic of the theatre.' 
Ray looks unconvinced. 
'You stand before an audience and you know you've got control of them. You can make them laugh or cry. You can move them like a lover. That's real power.' 
Seeing that Ray looks impressed, Mackintosh presses home his advantage. 'It's a wonderful feeling. There's nothing quite like it. When the curtain comes down, you're on a high. You're ready to conquer the world.'  
'I don't think it's for me.' 
'Try it. It's like a drug—once you've tasted the excitement, you're hooked.' 
'Even when you're doing it professionally?' 
'That's the only reason we keep it up. It's certainly not for the money. God knows—there's little enough work around most of the time.' 
'So I've heard.' 
'The only profession where appearance counts as much as talent. I mean you couldn't have a geriatric Hamlet or a Romeo who looks like something out of the Adams family. It's tough, but you put up with it.' 
'I've never thought much about it.' 
'You don't unless you're in the profession.' 
'I suppose it's the same with most jobs.' 
'Are you married?' 
'Divorced.' 
'An ever—a growing club, alas. Happens a lot in our business.' 
'Happens a lot in every business these days.' 
'The thing about the stage is that it's not conducive to relationships. When you're having to assume another persona every day, it's difficult to find your real self. And there's the hours, of course.' 
'What about you?' 
'What about me?' 
'Are you married?' 
'Same as you,' Mackintosh confesses, sensing that an ex-wife will bring out Ray's fellow-feeling. How long since you split up?' 
'A year almost to the day.' 
'Eighteen months, me.' 
'Hard, isn't it?' 
'You can say that again.' 
'You miss finding somebody there when you open the door.' 
'She was working longer hours than me, so I didn't even get that.' Mackintosh feels genuinely aggrieved. He watches his companion, but the answer does not produce the sympathy which he anticipated. Evidently Ray does not approve of working wives. Something more homely is needed. 
'It's the everyday things,' Mackintosh continues in heartfelt tones. 'Somebody to cuddle up to. And you go in the bathroom expecting to find her scent, but she's not there.' 
A faraway look comes to Ray's eyes, denoting that Mackintosh has scored a hit. Time to make the most of it. He continues, 'You can have a warm bed with an electric blanket, but it's not the same.' 
He watches, expecting to see the clouds of nostalgia gathering. To his surprise, they do not. The bathroom reference was more promising. He adds, 'You think you're going to welcome the chance of not having to wait half an hour for a shave, but you miss it.' 
One glance shows that he has hit his target this time. 
'And the jars and bottles—they're all gone,' he presses on. 'You practically put your nose in the medicine cabinet for a smell of her.' 
Ray's face is crumpling. As he mutters apologies and hastens to the gents, Mackintosh feels a glorious sense of release. He has not lost the knack, though he knows that he ought to curb his nastier games. He never used to be like this—his flights of fancy were all harmless fun. How time has warped him. 
When Ray comes back, Mackintosh composes his features to those of somebody who has not noticed that anything is wrong. For a while they drink in silence. 
'Don't you do any television?' Ray asks. 
'You have to—for the money. You don't turn down work. But I don't like the tele. There's something mechanical about the process. I've been in a few adverts, of course, and bit parts in the soaps. No star roles. Pays the bills and keeps things ticking over. Trouble is the location work. You've got nothing to do, so you go to the bar and spend all the money you've made. Then when you're shooting, you spend hours sitting around while they adjust the lighting and the cameras—all for five minutes filming that ends up on the cutting-room floor. That gets to you.'
'What have you been in?' 
'You won't remember me. As I say, no leading parts. Just a face in the crowd. I was in Morse, Cracker, that sort of thing. Done my stint drinking in the Rover's Return.' 
Ray looks impressed. Mackintosh sighs at this evidence of the seductive power of television. Not that he can be too dismissive now that he has a set himself for the first time. His qualms were such that a week went by before he switched it on. Now he sometimes watches the late night film when he cannot sleep. He never watches during the day—he knows if he did, he would succumb. 
'I've been in a few films as well,' he adds to keep his companion's attention. 'I don't know if you go to the cinema much.' 
Ray shakes his head. 
'Pity. I've been in several of the Bond films, a few Spielberg epics.' 
Ray looks even more impressed. 'Which Bonds?' 
Mackintosh experiences a moment of panic as he tries to recall the title of James Bond films. Many years ago he went to see From Russia with Love and Goldfinger because everybody talked about the girls. After that, his memory is blank. 
'Have you seen the latest one?' he probes. 
'No.' 
'I was there, as they say. Worked with lots of the greats in my time—Olivier, Gielgud, Brannagh, Connery, Helen Mirren ...' 
'Which Bonds?' 
'Several with Sean. It's working with the greats that gives you a buzz. It's an insecure profession—we all realise that—but it's like a drug. I wouldn't do anything else. Couldn't.'
'Bit too uncertain for me.' 
'You get used to living by the seat of your pants. Mind you, that applies to most occupations these days. Once upon a time if you worked in a bank, you could reckon on being there for life. Now you can be out on your ear at any time.' 
'Don't I know it.' 
'You weren't in a bank, were you?' 
'No. Same thing applies, though.' 
'It's an insecure world. Actors are used to it. Always have been.' 
'What do you do when you're resting?' 
'Worry. You don't want to get tied down with a routine job when there might be a film role coming along tomorrow, so you end up sitting by the phone till the money runs out. Then the desperation sets in.' 
Ray is getting restive. The delicious choice for Mackintosh—whether to let the whole edifice drop, or to find some crowning achievement with which to dazzle his victim. On the whole, he likes to dazzle. Let his performance be a bravura effort. He smiles. 'I was lucky.' 
'Why was that?' Ray asks. 
'Sitting by the phone yesterday and an offer came along. So it's off to the States for me. If I'd been doing some menial job like filing or washing up, I'd have missed it.' 
'You could have put the answering machine on.' 
Mackintosh shakes his head decisively. 'If you're not there in person to give a yea or nay, the work goes to somebody else.' 
Ray looks disbelieving. Mackintosh feels that his dramatic moment has lost its edge. An example is called for. 
'It's happened to me. I was out for the morning and when I got back, there was a message to ring my agent. Apparently there was a lead role at the RSC up for grabs. Because I wasn't there, they'd offered it to somebody else. That's a season's work lost.' 
As Ray still looks less than overwhelmed, Mackintosh decides to press on. 'Anyway, as I say, it's off to the States for me. I should pick up more than I get here in a year.' 
'What are you in?' 
'It's the next Tom Cruise epic. How it's going to work out, I don't know. Not my usual style.'
'I wish you well.' 
'I'll miss Islington.' 
'Who wants Islington when you can have Hollywood?' 
'Have you been there?' 
Ray shakes his head. 
'It's great on the first visit when you're basically a tourist.' Mackintosh explains. 'After that, you find there's not much to do in the evening, unless you like eating out. You miss the pubs.' 
'I can understand that.' 
'I'll be glad to get back—I can tell you that. Have a bit more money in my pocket, of course.' 
'Accountants don't get opportunities like that.' Ray sounds wistful. 
'What field are you in?' 
'I worked for a general firm of accountants and auditors.' 
'I thought they were doing all right.' 
'Don't believe it. They want to be leaner and fitter like all other firms.' Ray stares into his glass. 'Eleven years I was there.' 
Mackintosh sees the pain and frustration in his companion's face. He wishes that he could generate more interest in the tragedy of a redundant accountant. Time to move on before Ray becomes too maudlin. Mackintosh feels disappointed by his inability to orchestrate his own charade to better effect.
'Sometimes I think I'm never going to find a job again,' Ray is saying. 
'You shouldn't feel that at your age.' 
'It's the way things are.' 
'At the Jobcentre they talk about retraining. I mean what's the point of that? If I can't get a job as an accountant, why should I do any better if I retrain as a bricklayer?' 
'That's the bureaucratic mind for you,' Mackintosh commiserates, remembering his own encounters at the Jobcentre. 
'You're used to being out of work. How do you feel about it?' 
'I rather like it, actually.' 
Ray's face reveals that this is the wrong thing to say. The bond of fellow feeling has been severed. 
'Well, not so much like it,' Mackintosh assures his companion by way of damage limitation. 'You get used to it.'
'Don't know if I will.' 
'You do, I promise you. You do.' 
'Sometimes I feel like doing myself in.' 
Mackintosh considers giving Ray a leaflet for the workshops, but concludes that the hapless accountant will not be able to afford the fees. Anyway, such characters are better avoided—they depress the others. 
'What you need is another pint,' he diagnoses. 'What are you drinking?' 
'Bitter.' 
'That's my man.' Mackintosh pats the drooping shoulder and tries to catch Irene's attention. He feels a glow of benevolence at helping the disadvantaged. After all, not long ago he was the one worrying about how to pay for the next pint. 'Alcohol makes the world bearable. Essential if you're out of work, believe me.'
'Until the next morning.' 
'That's why you need it regularly. Don't weaken. It's the only way to keep the grey world at bay.' 
'Grey world.' Ray repeats. 'I like that.' 
Irene notices Mackintosh's gesturing and abandons washing glasses to serve him. From habit he orders Guinness before correcting himself. 
'Not having one yourself?' she asks.
'Better not. Things to do.' He watches her drawing the pint further along the bar. 'What do you think?' he mutters to his companion. 
'About what?' 
'The barmaid.' 
'I hadn't noticed.' 
'It's a good measure of how things are going—when you've had enough to drink, she looks like Cleopatra.'
'I've got a way to go then.' 
'You've got plenty of time. I'll leave you to it, if you think you'll manage.' 
'I'll try.' 
'No words of doubt. Stay till you're well and truly pissed, then totter off home, sleep it off and repeat the whole thing tomorrow.' 
'That's your advice?' 
'Fruit of years of experience.' Mackintosh breaks off as Irene returns with the beer. He wonders why he is buying Ray a drink, but it is too late to back out. Ostentatiously he looks at his watch. 
'Time for me to go, alas,' he announces.
Ray nods. He looks so regretful that Mackintosh has to remind himself that the accountant has not kept to the rules of the game, which is to repay him for his advice by buying a round. 
'I'll leave you to it then,' says Mackintosh. 
Ray puts out his hand. 'Nice talking to you—and thanks for the drink.' 
Mackintosh shakes the limp hand. 'Remember—go for that next pint.' 
'Good luck in the States.' 
'Ah yes—the States. It's just a job. Could be in Wigan.' Mackintosh sees Ray's puzzlement, but feels no inclination to explain. 'Anyway, look after yourself.' 
He turns away abruptly. As he steps outside and the doors close behind him, he feels an overwhelming sense of liberation. It makes him want to celebrate with a visit to the next pub.

chapter three

'Cooee,' Mrs Parrish calls from downstairs.
Mackintosh surveys himself in the mirror. He has gone for the smart, casual look. His wardrobe has improved out of all recognition since his career as a guru began: he never goes to jumble sales now. The knifelike creases in his trousers continue to fascinate him. In the era when he worked for a local authority planning department and had to wear a suit for committee meetings, the creases disappeared within three days; these have remained pristine for three months. The shirt is made of a soft fabric which he loves to touch. He has always harboured a secret admiration for men who can wear a casual shirt and make it look expensive; now he is one of them. And there are his shoes. His former colleagues would raise their eyebrows at his polished shoes. He wonders whether he is appropriately dressed for dinner with his Mrs Parrish. He is saving himself the trouble of going out for a meal, but he has yet to find out the cost.
No smells of cooking waft through the house, in marked contrast to his previous lodgings which were impregnated with the odours of countless dinners. Knowing Mrs Parrish, she will be preparing something more appetising than his other landladies favoured. Not that the others invited him to share their feasts.
Clutching his bottle of wine, Mackintosh hesitates in the hall, wondering whether the tête- -tête will be held in the living room or in the basement kitchen. No sound comes from beyond the living-room door; no telltale crack of light shows underneath. After giving a polite cough to announce his presence, he ventures down the steep flight of stairs to the basement. The kitchen is brightly lit. Mrs Parrish turns from the cooker to greet him. She is smartly dressed, as usual. An apron protects her clothes.
'I thought you hadn't heard.' 
'I was changing into something respectable.' 
'You needn't have worried. We're quite informal.' 
'We?' 
'A figure of speech. I meant the two of us.' 
The table setting does not look informal by the standards of somebody who often eats out of tins. He notes with approval that a bottle of wine is waiting to be opened. 
'Something smells good.' 
As Mrs Parrish smiles, he feels pleased that he has struck the right note for once. He puts his own bottle on the table. 'A modest contribution to the proceedings.' 
'That's kind of you. I did get a bottle, but I wasn't sure what you liked.' 
'Catholic tastes, that's me.' 
'That's what I thought.' 
Mackintosh looks around, taking in the beechwood cabinets, the halogen lighting and the German appliances. 'I haven't been down here before.' 
'You're always welcome. You know that.' 
'Right. Thanks.' 
'Would you like to open the wine?' 
Mackintosh obliges, uncorking the bottle already on the table. He samples it to make sure that it is in good condition. 
'Sit down,' his hostess urges. 'Don't stand on ceremony.'
'You're sure there's nothing else you'd like me to do?' 
'Everything's almost ready.' 
He cannot believe the turn which his life has taken as he settles himself at the pine table. The pavement is visible beyond the barred window. The fantasy comes to him of using the room as a studio, so that at every footfall he can break off work in the hope of seeing a girl's legs. The less happy thought is that passersby can see him. Supposing he gets on with Mrs Parrish better than he expects and passion overcomes them? He pushes the idea firmly from his mind. 
'I think we're ready,' Mrs Parrish announces. 'Have you opened the wine?'
Mackintosh fills her glass—and refills his own as she brings the bowls of soup to the table. She sits opposite him.
'I didn't put much salt in it, so add some more if you want.'
He tries to remember when he last started a meal with soup. 
'My cooking's hopelessly conventional, I'm afraid,' Mrs Parrish apologises. 
'And why not?' 
He sips the soup, remembering not to make a sucking noise. The taste is reminiscent of tomato soup, though it is flavoured with orange and something which he cannot identify. He hopes that the dark flakes are herbs. 
'I didn't make it myself,' his hostess confesses. 'I bought it at Sainsbury's.' 
'Where would we be without Sainsbury's?' muses Mackintosh, whose experience of that estimable establishment is confined to venturing into the Camden store on one occasion in search of a bottle of Baileys—and leaving empty handed half an hour later. 
'It's better than anything I could make myself.' 
'I'm sure that's not true,' he responds loyally. 'Not that there's anything wrong with this, of course.' 
'I find it always makes a good starter.'
'Interesting flavour.' 
'I wasn't sure what to cook,' Mrs Parrish confesses, suddenly coy. 
'Anything will do me,' Mackintosh assures her. 
'You don't mind garlic?' 
'Love it,' he lies.
'And you're not vegetarian?' 
'No—meat and two veg. man, me.' 
He has the satisfaction of seeing the relief on her face. 
'After I'd got it ready, I was suddenly afraid I'd have to eat it all myself and cook you an omelette.' 
'No problems like that. I'm looking forward to it.' 
'I don't get much chance to cook for other people these days. Perhaps I'll be able to do more in the future.' 
'I was trying to work out the other flavour in the soup.' 
'Tomato with orange and fennel.' 
'Ah—fennel.' It is not something he encounters in pub food, even in Islington.
'You do like it, don't you?' 
'Delicious.'
'And I've cooked chicken for the main course. Is that all right?' 
'I love chicken,' he assures her between spoonfuls of soup. What surprises him is her nervousness—as though she has never entertained a guest before. Perhaps their relationship will flourish. She is still a striking woman, he has to concede. And she has contacts. It would be intriguing to see the punters' reactions at seminars if she came to meet him. 
'Very refreshing,' he pronounces, finally putting down his spoon. Mrs Parrish pushes her own bowl away though he has not finished her soup and pats her lips with a napkin. When she picks up her wine glass, it is a cue for him to do the same. As their glasses touch, he tries to read her expression. She looks happy.
'Excellent,' she pronounces, sipping the wine. 
'Fruity.' 
The silence grows. He tries to think of something uncontroversial to say. 
'Do you want to start the main course?' his hostess asks.
'We might as well.' 
'Unless you'd rather talk first.' 
'Let's eat before it gets cold,' he suggests. Conversation seems more bearable on a full stomach and after a few drinks. 
'Are you very hungry?' 
'Pretty hungry,' he admits. 
Her brow wrinkles. 'What do you usually have to eat at lunchtime?' 
'Varies.' 
'Today, for instance.' 
'Just the usual sort of pub meal,' he responds. Guinness is not an answer calculated to retain her goodwill. 'It's convenient when I'm out. It's often very good, pub food.' 
'I'm sure it is,' Mrs Parrish agrees, her tone belying her words. Such concern for his welfare is something new for Mackintosh. He cannot decide whether to feel flattered or alarmed. He turns the tables by speculating about where she has lunch. She is not the sort to make do with a ploughman's. Through the window, he glimpses her red Golf parked against the kerb. Every day she is out in her car. It baffles him why she needs a car in central London, but this is not the moment for questioning her environmental principles. He watches her getting up. As she takes the bowls to the sink, he wonders whether he should have offered to help. 
'It's in a wine sauce,' she explains, taking the chicken from the oven. 'I hope you like it.' 
'Sounds lovely,' he assures her, refilling the glasses as his hostess brings the dish to the table. 
'As I say, I wasn't sure what you liked.' 
He has to admit that the smell is good. His attempt to remember when he last sampled home cooking proves hopeless. He imagines being married and having such a meal waiting for him every evening. The notion is not easily dismissed, though he knows that it can come to nothing: however close his relationship with Mrs Parrish, she will never be the doting housewife.  
'There's plenty more if you want it,' she tells him as she goes back to the cooker. This time she brings warm plates to the table. A smile plays on her lips as she watches him. 'You look like the Bisto boy, sniffing like that.' When he looks blank, she explains, 'On the side of the Bisto packet. Don't you remember?' 
'Ah yes.' 
'You're not very domesticated, are you?' 
Mackintosh does not answer. He watches, bemused, as his hostess bustles to and fro, bringing more dishes of vegetables to the table. Her notion of his appetite seems much inflated. When the table is crowded with dishes, she turns her attention to the chicken, transferring the pieces to the plates with fork and spoon. His portion is by far the larger. Only then does she sink into her seat, like a doll which has wound down. 
'You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble,' Mackintosh demurs, guilty at doing nothing to help. 
'I enjoy entertaining.'  
He watches her taking a token helping of each vegetable, which makes him feel bound to emulate her. As he eats, his hostess looks on fondly, as though watching a favourite nephew. 
'You only have classes at weekends, don't you?' she probes. 
'Mainly,' he agrees, disconcerted by this change of conversational tack. 'Weekends and Thursday evenings.'
'I suppose they take a lot of arranging.' 
'It keeps me busy, what with booking the studio, sending out leaflets and the like. I've hardly stopped today.'
And it is almost true. Admittedly he was in the pub till three o'clock, but that is something which he feels is better left unmentioned. 
'And there's the painting. I suppose you need to devote as much time as you can to that.'
'I like to work on it every day,' he agrees. 
'Have you thought over what we talked about?' 
He tries to remember their last conversation. 
'You'll have to show me some of your work,' she presses. 
'It's all work in progress at the moment.' 
'I don't mind that.' 
'I do.'
'You've got to show people your work some time. That's how you get noticed.' 
'True.' 
'You must have some finished paintings.' 
'A few,' he concedes. Over the years he has completed many works. The trouble is space. Some paintings had to be abandoned whenever he left his lodgings at short notice, or when he could not cram anything more into the taxi. Others were painted over when he did not have enough money to buy new canvases. Mrs Parrish would not know about such problems. 
'You said you've exhibited some. Couldn't you show me those?' 
'All sold, I'm afraid.'
'I'm glad you're selling your work, of course. I'd be happy to buy something if it's the only way I'm going to see what you do.' 
'I'm not keeping them from you.' 
'I wasn't accusing you. What I meant was could I commission a painting?' 
'Don't let your food get cold,' he reminds her. 
'I'm not all that hungry.'
'You don't want to waste it after all the trouble you've gone to.'
'Haven't you got anything that would fit on the second floor landing?' 
'Not that I can think of,' he has to concede, marvelling at the way Mrs Parrish expects art to be produced to blend with the decor. He watches her sipping wine, unaware of the effect of her words. 
'I've often thought I'd like to know more about modern art,' she reveals as he tops up their glasses. She hesitates. 'I don't suppose you'd like to take me to the new Tate at Bankside? If you've got the time, that is.'
'It's an idea,' he agrees, though in truth he does not think it a good idea. He likes to go to Tate Britain every couple of months, but the ritualistic quality of his visit will be lost if Mrs Parrish is with him. He likes communing with paintings, which is only possible when he is alone. And he likes eyeing up the female art students who throng the place. He tells himself that Mrs Parrish will enrich his experience by bringing an innocent eye to the works, but he cannot quite believe it. 
'Everybody says it's worth visiting,' she urges. 'I thought it would be nice to look around with somebody who knows what they're talking about.' 
'I don't know whether I come in that class,' he confesses. On the face of it, Mrs Parrish and modern art are incompatible. His suspicion is that her interest lies more in having a male escort than in where they go. He finds something sad about her attempts to share his enthusiasm. 
'Or if you can think of somewhere else we could go.' 
Difficult to imagine Mrs Parrish at an exhibition of avant garde art. He suspects that she would be shocked rather than enlightened. 
'I'll think about it,' he assures her. 
'I've never been to the Tate—the old Tate, that is.' Seeing his look of surprise, she adds, 'I did go to the National Gallery many years ago.'
'You should visit the Tate.' 
'So will you take me?' 
'The trouble is I'm a bit busy at the moment.' 
Mrs Parrish looks disappointed. Mackintosh wishes that he could make his excuses more believable to women. Perhaps the trouble is his tone of voice. He resolves to practise sounding assured. Meanwhile the best he can manage is a diversionary tactic. Find another topic of conversation. And his plate is emptying rapidly, while his hostess has barely touched her food. He breaks off for a drink. 
'Don't let's talk about me,' he says between sips of wine. 'What about you? What have you been doing today?' 
'Shopping.' 
'That doesn't take long.' 
Her face shows that he has said the wrong thing. She points out, 'Buying food for a meal like this does.' 
'I was thinking about generally. I know you went to a lot of trouble over this meal.' 
'I was buying food for the week. I've still got to cook for myself.' 
'That can take a lot of time,' he admits, recalling his recent attempt at preparing beans on toast. It seemed logical to put the beans straight on the toast rather than heating them first. The trouble was that the toast ended up burnt while the beans were barely warm. Mrs Parrish remarked on the smell. 
'And I like to see my friends,' she is saying. 'I get lonely here on my own.' 
He nods understandingly. 
'Don't you feel like that?' she wants to know. 
Loneliness is not something which troubles him. His problem is never having enough time for painting rather than pining for company. If he wants to be with people, all the pubs of London are open to him, with the exception of one near King's Cross from which he is banned. Vomiting over the landlord's feet was unfortunate, but Mackintosh feels that this consequence of eating a suspect kebab was treated with disproportionate severity. 
Conscious that Mrs Parrish is waiting for an answer, he draws his thoughts back to the present. Instinct tells him that a lot hangs on his answer. 
'So long as I've got my painting, I'm happy enough,' he assures her. And it is true. Once he is in his room and working, being on his own does not concern him. It is settling down to work which proves difficult. 
'I'm not talented like you.' 
'I'm sure you've got skills.' 
'Nothing like yours. You were a university lecturer, weren't you?' 
'How did you know that?' 
'You told me.' 
'Did I?' 
'You seem to have done everything.' 
The multi-talented Mackintosh tries to look modest. 
'Still, I suppose we can't all be clever.' 
'I don't know whether cleverness comes into it,' he reasons. 'It's more a matter of luck.' He is tempted to add that marrying somebody with money was Mrs Parrish's major stroke of good fortune, but this is better left unsaid. Instead he reaches out to fill his glass again—and finds the bottle empty. 
'I'm sure it's not all down to luck,' Mrs Parrish says.
'The divine hand of destiny, would you call it?' 
Mrs Parrish does not answer. He guesses that she is not sure what he is talking about and fortunately she does not ask. To bring an end to a conversation which threatens to lead into difficult waters, he tackles the remains of his chicken.
'There's more in the dish,' she reminds him. 
'You're not saving it?' 
A silly question: he realises that as soon as the words are uttered. Mrs Parrish is not the sort who needs to make food last for several days. 
'Have as much as you like,' she urges. 'It'll only go to waste.'
'I don't get food like this too often.' He spears the remaining pieces of chicken onto his plate, along with generous helpings of vegetables, and reflects that this is what married men take for granted. 
'I can see I'll have to take you in hand,' Mrs Parrish says, watching with approval as he eats. At that moment he knows something of how an animal in a zoo must feel at feeding time. The bars at the window add verisimilitude to the impression. He tries to concentrate on his food, but it seems not quite so tempting as before. 
'I've often wondered whether you look after yourself properly,' his hostess confides. 
'I think I do.' 
'Men have different ideas about these things.' 
'I'm getting better at it, really.'
Mrs Parrish looks unconvinced. 
'I'll leave you to open the other bottle,' she announces. And as his hand closes lovingly around the remaining bottle, she adds, 'You don't have to do it straight away.' 
'No time like the present.' 
'We seem to be getting through the wine quicker than we're getting through the food.'
'We've only had one bottle. I wouldn't call that a lot.'
He wishes that she was not watching as he wrestles with the cork. He is not good with corks. Either he struggles to make any impression on them, or they break in the bottle, leaving granules of cork floating on the surface. At least the distraction gives him a chance to consider what happens next. He knows that he ought to repay his hostess for her hospitality by asking her out for a meal, but this raises the problem of which restaurant to choose. Anything too expensive might be construed as showing a degree of interest which he does not feel, whilst a pizza house seems miserly. Caution is the watchword. Perhaps he should wait until the next invitation before he broaches the matter. He feels sure that there will be another. It is at moments like this that he longs for a landlady who keeps herself to herself.
The cork comes away intact, much to his surprise. 
'Not too much for me,' Mrs Parrish cautions as he tops up her glass. 'I'm not used to it.' 
'I don't have all that much myself,' he assures her, recharging his own glass. He hopes that she has not discovered the Baileys under the bed. 
'To us,' she says, holding up her glass. 
'To us,' Mackintosh agrees, marvelling at this strange byway into which fate has led him. His eyes stray back to his surroundings—the granite work surfaces, the gleaming stainless steel saucepans and the cooker large enough for a cafe. He cannot help making the contrast. 'To think that this room was once the preserve of the cook and scullery maids.' 
'I suppose it's always been the kitchen.' 
'The lady of the house might come down here once a day to sort out the menu, but otherwise it was strictly below-stairs territory.'
' I hadn't thought about it.' 
'Any idea what it was like before it was modernised?' 
She shakes her head. 'It was already like this when I came here.' 
'The kitchen range was there.' He points to the chimney breast housing the cooker. 
'What do you think happened to it?'
He shrugs. 'In the sixties they'd have taken it out and dumped it. These days they'd flog it to an antique dealer.' 
'I know ranges are becoming popular again.' 
'I suppose there must be a few original kitchens left in Islington—where houses have owner-occupiers who've been here since the war.' 
'I don't suppose there are many.'  
She is not looking at him as she speaks. He senses that she is losing interest. 
'If you knew Islington in the twenties and thirties, you wouldn't have been so keen on it,' he perseveres, not willing to abandon his chosen theme. 'Houses like this might have had seven or eight families in them.' 
'Some of the houses are still shabby.' 
'Nothing like then. It was one family to a room stuff—plus plenty of bugs to keep the occupants company.' 
Mrs Parrish shivers. 
'It was a matter of whether there were more bugs in the bedding than in the walls,' Mackintosh continues with relish. 'And they'd chop up the doors for firewood. It was that or going without heating.' 
'How do you know all this?' 
'When you live in an area, you absorb it somehow.' 
'It's certainly a different way of looking at buildings.' 
'That's the trouble. People don't look at their surroundings—not really look. They take them for granted.' 
'You ought to be on television.' 
'A second Ian Nairn?' 
Mrs Parrish looks mystified. 
'He used to talk about architecture,' Mackintosh explains. 
'I don't know him.' 
'He's dead now.' 
'Don't let your food get cold.' 
Mackintosh eats obediently. He feels like a child being watched by its mother. And if he eats all his dinner, what will his reward be? 
'Perhaps we could go for a walk around Islington one day,' Mrs Parrish suggests. You can show me all the things I'm missing.' 
'I'm a bit busy at the moment.' 
'There's no hurry.' 
'No hurry,' he agrees, emptying his plate for the second time. 
'Do you want any more?' 
'I'd better not.' 
'You don't have to be polite.' 
'I'm getting full.' 
'Don't you want any sweet?' 
'I wasn't expecting any.' 
'It's fruit salad made with fresh fruit.' 
'Perhaps I can manage a little,' he says to please her. Fruit is something which he knows that he ought to eat. He has considered including homilies about food in his workshop programmes. My body is my temple. Food is the offering at my temple. Notions like that appeal to the jaded Londoners who attend his sessions. 
As Mrs Parrish begins clearing the table, he jumps up to help her. 
'There's hardly anything to do,' she assures him and he sinks into his chair again, sipping wine. 
'Do you want cream?' 
'Just this once,' he allows. In his new fitness programme, cream will have no place. That will be one of the sacrifices, but until then he can allow himself little luxuries. He watches with anticipation as his hostess takes the container from the fridge and he knows how Pavlov's dogs must have felt. 
'There we are. Help yourself to cream.' 
A pot of thick cream to go with the fruit. He licks his lips, remembering childhood treats on Sundays, when cream was a luxury. After scooping out two heaped spoonfuls, he passes the container to Mrs Parrish. Her modest portion makes him feel greedy. 
'I've got to think of my figure,' she explains, noticing his interest. 
'You don't have to worry,' he says loyally. 
'If only it were true.' 
His own waist is expanding, judging by the way the clip on his belt fails to reach its familiar holes. For the first time he has considered dieting: it would never do for a herald of the alternative lifestyle to sport a paunch. An option which he quickly dismissed was going to a health farm. A better idea is opening one himself. Twenty guests at four hundred pounds a week is a tempting prospect. All he needs is a suitable property—and finance. He looks speculatively at Mrs Parrish as she picks at her fruit salad. Is she interested enough to introduce him to the right people? He is not keen on cultivating the moneyed classes—by instinct he has an antipathy towards them—but these days, expediency rules. Would she be willing to invest her own money? He imagines her mortgaging her house for his sake, though he knows that this is no more than a dream. 
'Do you want some more of the juice?' she asks. 'It's only natural juice from the fruit.'
'No thanks—I'm fine.' He puts on a show on of enthusiasm, trying not to grimace when the sweetness hits his sensitive tooth. 
'I was going to cook something, but I thought fruit would be healthier.' 
'Quite right.' He pours himself more wine to settle his aching tooth. 
'How many servants do you think there would have been in a house like this?' Mrs Parrish muses. 
'I don't know. Three, perhaps? It wasn't a grand house, so they might have got by with a cook, a maid and a skivvy. You could find their names if you went through the census returns.' He is gratified to notice that after this display of erudition, his hostess watches him with awe. He remembers the expression from those rare occasions when his students displayed it. 
'Have you seen them?' 
He looks puzzled. 
'The servants,' Mrs Parrish prompts. 'I suppose they lived in the attic.'
'The skivvy and the maid would. The cook probably lived down here.'
'They must have left imprints and you're obviously sensitive to these things.' 
Mackintosh has imagined what his room used to be like: the sparse and cheap furnishings, the maid of twelve or thirteen standing where he stands to look out the window, watching her betters leaving after a dinner party before she falls exhausted into bed after a day's work. But he is not sure about imprints. If any ghosts have come his way, he has taken too much alcohol to notice. He wants to groan at this unexpected turn in the conversation, but to show willing he asks, 'You're interested in ghosts, are you?' 
'I don't go to seances or anything like that. I just thought you might have seen something.' 
'It was divided into two rooms then.' He knows that he is being pedantic, but he feels that he ought to keep Mrs Parrish in touch with reality. 'You could get a couple of people in each room if they were sharing beds, so potentially there could have been up to five servants.'
'You can understand why they were needed, can't you?' 
Once a statement like that would have made his socialist hackles rise; now he accepts it with more equanimity, though he cannot resist adding, 'When you had a mistress of the house who had nothing to do except swap visiting cards.'   
'At least it kept a lot of servants in work.' 
'Working for peanuts,' he agrees, before realising that peanuts is probably what Mrs Parrish pays her cleaner. He reflects that the servant class is just as big these days, but its members are now called cleaners, jobbing gardeners and outside caterers. He applauds the demise of subservience. His annoyance at encountering poor service in bars makes him feel a hypocrite, but so many of life's contradictions leave him feeling like that. He is a tortured soul, he tells himself, though even that conclusion has its irony: you have to be middle class and sensitive to be tortured. 
'There was so much to be done—the brass to be polished and the rugs to be beaten,' Mrs Parrish is saying. 'All those coal fires and gas lights must have made everything filthy.' 
'Very true,' Mackintosh agrees, omitting to point out that the lady of the house never bestirred herself to take on a share of the work. And now that the coal fires and gas lights have gone, why does Mrs Parrish still need a cleaner? It is not as though she is working all day.
'When did Islington start changing?' she asks. 
Mackintosh does not know, but he tries to think of an answer which will sustain her interest. 
'End of the nineteenth century,' he pronounces. 'Happened a lot in the inner city suburbs: hoi polloi started moving in and the social tone went down. If you wanted to remain exclusive, you joined the exodus.' 
'It's amazing when you think of everything this house has been through.' 
'You ought to research its history,' he suggests.
'Could I?' 
Mackintosh knows that he is in danger of talking himself into the task. Why could he not keep the conversation on a non-contentious topic like how she cooked the chicken? 
'Where would you start?' Mrs Parrish presses. 
'Deeds, if you've got them. Census material, directories, rate books. There's a whole array of things you can use.'
'I didn't know any of this.' 
'The sort of useless knowledge you acquire,' Mackintosh says modestly. 
'I never acquired it.' 
'You've taken a different path. We each have our appointed paths.' He raises his hands in the beatific gesture which his female students always appreciate. To his satisfaction, Mrs Parrish looks spellbound. He takes the opportunity to finish off his glass of wine before explaining, 'I mean you've got your cooking skills. I'm useless at it. Can't even cook an egg.' 
His hostess frowns. 'Don't you use the microwave? I got it specially for you.' 
'I do heat things in it—ready-made meals, that sort of thing.' 
'I said you're eating properly.' 
'I am. Honestly.' When Mrs Parrish looks unconvinced, he explains, 'In my job you have to look after yourself and set a good example.' 
'I suppose so.' 
To give force to his words, he tries some more fruit. If he coats it with cream and chews on the opposite side of his mouth from the offending tooth, nothing too unpleasant happens. He wonders what is so good about fruit if it causes such suffering. Guinness never does. 
'I think we need to look after ourselves when we get to a certain age,' his hostess is saying. 'You walk everywhere, so you must get plenty of exercise.' 
He nods, trying to work out what age she means. He does not think of himself as 'of a certain age', which is a euphemism for 'old'. Not yet. True, the grey hairs have become more prominent and he has to trim the hairs sprouting from his nose and ears, but he still looks at girls in the same way as he did when he was fifteen. 
'I try to have some fresh fruit every day,' Mrs Parrish is saying. 
'So do I,' he lies.
'I think we have a lot in common.' 
Mackintosh does not answer. He takes an intense interest in the remains of his fruit salad. 
'Do you want some more?' his hostess asks.
'No thanks. This is fine.' He scoops up the remaining segment of fruit and manages to swallow it without either chewing or setting off his aching tooth. 'Excellent.' 
He dabs his lips clean on the linen napkin in the way which he hopes will meet with Mrs Parrish's approval. 
'Would you like coffee?' 
He reaches for the bottle. 'Let's finish this first.' 
'Then we can have coffee afterwards.' She smiles. 'It seems strange—entertaining somebody who lives in your own house.' 
'I suppose it is.' He considers consoling her with the thought of the money she is making from him, but he thinks better of it and pours more wine. 'What made you live in a house this size if you're on your own?' 
'It wasn't from choice. It was where I lived with Mr Parrish before we separated.' 
Generous of Mr Parrish is Mackintosh's first reaction. If he was separated from a wife, he thinks that he would hate magnificently. If he were forced into providing her with somewhere to live, she would have to be content with a flat in West Ham. 
'We decided the easiest way was for me to stay here,' Mrs Parrish explains.
'I see,' he says, not seeing. 
'I wanted to stay in Islington because I've got my friends here. It seemed silly to move.' 
He knows the sort of women who are her friends. The chattering ladies of Islington. He sees their kind every day, frequenting the fashionable hairdressers and clothes shops in Upper Street and swooping on their favourite restaurants to exchange gossip. 
Mrs Parrish clears her throat. 'Have you had any thoughts about the thing we talked about?' 
'The thing?' 
'Letting me help you to launch yourself as an artist.' 
'It's an idea,' he agrees as remnants of their previous conversation come back to him.
'I'm sure I know some people who'd be interested.' 
'Art dealers?' 
'They're not dealers, but they're very interested in art.' 
The prospect fills Mackintosh with foreboding. He knows that the sort of people Mrs Parrish knows will be chocolate-box art lovers. 
'So would you like me to arrange a meeting?' she presses.
 'If you think it's worthwhile.' 
'You want to sell paintings, don't you?' 
He is no longer sure. He has visions of wasting drinking time by making small talk to people with whom he has nothing in common. He enquiries, 'What are they supposed to do exactly?'
'Help you!' 
'How?'
'However they can. Buying paintings, sponsoring an exhibition ... You can sort that out.' 
Mrs Parrish, the facilitator. He feels uneasy about this new role. He will be obligated to his landlady in a way which has never happened before.
'So would you like me to organise something?' she presses, reinforcing his forebodings. 
'It's an idea.' 
'Do you want me to or not? I don't want to go to a lot of trouble if you're not interested.' 
The big decision. If he says yes, a host of new problems might be opened up, but saying no will precipitate the process of having to find new lodgings. And Mrs Parrish will brook no prevarication.
'I'd like you to. Thanks.' 
It is like plunging off a cliff without knowing how far he has to fall. His hostess looks thoughtful, making him question whether he has supplied the right answer. Perhaps she was only being polite.
'How many people were you thinking of?' he ventures. 
'I don't know. Perhaps a couple of dozen.' 
A couple of dozen people does not sound quite so bad, except that they are likely to be the sort of people he would do his best to avoid in everyday life. The trouble is that he is being catapulted into elevated circles where social niceties count. 
'And there's my other idea,' Mrs Parrish is saying. 'Have you thought about that?'      
He searches his memory for her other idea. 
'Do you think it's feasible?' he temporises. 
'If we hold an exhibition, it's going to take a lot of organising.' 
'It only needs a hall.'
'I'm talking about if we hold it here!'
'Ah.' 
The conversation about the exhibition comes back.
'There's the catering to sort out,' Mrs Parrish is saying.
'We could get in a few containers of wine and some peanuts,' he says hopefully. 
'We'll have to give them more than that.' 
He has visions of outside caterers providing a buffet and plying the guests with unlimited supplies of champagne—and of himself footing the bill. It is a daunting prospect.
'Then we'll have to take down all the pictures right through the house and put yours up instead.'  
'It's going to take a lot of paintings,' he warns. 
'There aren't all that many rooms.'
'If we only put four paintings in every room and some in the hall and on the landings, we'll need at least thirty.' 
'Is that a problem?' 
'Yes—I haven't got thirty. Perhaps we could try out the idea on the ground floor.'
'People wouldn't come for a handful of paintings,' Mrs Parrish points out, frowning.
Mackintosh feels the evening slipping from his grasp. Time for a strategic retreat. He drains his glass. 'An excellent dinner.' 
'Thank you.' 
Mrs Parrish hardly sounds mollified. Mackintosh casts around for some way of appeasing her.
'Do you want me to help with the washing up?' 
'I'll can put it all in the dishwasher. Thanks for offering, though.' 
He glances at his watch. 'I suppose it's time to leave you to it.' 
'Already? I thought we could have coffee.'
'You know me. Always something to do.' 
'It's up to you, of course.' A coolness has entered her tone.
'I'd better be going.' He gets up. 'Thank you again for your hospitality.'    
'We haven't got anything settled yet.' 
'I thought we had.' 
'Not about the exhibition. If you don't want me to help you ...' 
'I do. I'm flattered that you thought about me.' 
She watches him, her face alive with anticipation. 
'I've got to go out,' he mutters, turning away first. He does not look back. 
* 
Promising start, dismal end is Mackintosh's conclusion as he heads for to the pub. Could have been handled better. His social skills are no longer equal to dealing with the likes of Mrs Parrish. He has the feeling this his final departure from her house has been brought forward, but if an exhibition can be arranged, to leave before it would be churlish. The occasion might—just might—be the making of his artistic career. 
The taste of wine is still with him as he sips his first pint of the evening. He can almost feel that life is reverting to the hand-to-mouth, nomadic existence which was his until he moved to Cloudsley Square. The immediate issue is how many pints of Guinness will be needed to obliterate the earlier part of the evening. Five is his estimate, gleaned from long experience. 
His conscience nags him. Mrs Parrish took so much trouble to prepare a meal that the least he can do is to show his thanks with a token gift. Chocolates are the obvious option, but he is not sure whether she likes them. He knows little about Mrs Parrish's tastes, in spite of sharing her house. Wine is another possibility, though presenting her with a bottle might reawaken unfortunate memories of the dinner. Flowers are more appropriate. In Islington of all places, there must be a florist's shop open in the evening.
He tells himself that he should welcome somebody taking an interest in his career. If only that somebody was not his landlady. Just when it seems that the gods are on his side, something like this happens. 
* 
Mackintosh does not consciously decide against buying flowers, but by closing time he has missed the opportunity to look for peace offerings. He consoles himself with the thought that Mrs Parrish will be in bed when he gets back, allowing a veil to be drawn over the whole sorry occasion. His pace slows as reaches Cloudsley Square. In other circumstances he would enjoy the tranquillity of the night, with the noise of traffic muted so that he can hear the scratch of fallen leaves skeltering across the pavement. If only people like landladies did not insist on presenting him with dilemmas.
Except for hall light showing above the front door, the house is in darkness. Mackintosh half expects to find himself locked out. He pauses, savouring the fresh night air. In warmer weather, he would not mind sleeping in the gardens around the church. At least there would be no recriminations to worry about in the morning. 
Several attempts are necessary to insert the key in the lock, but at last it is done. The door swings open, confounding Mackintosh's forebodings. Before entering the silent hall with its scent of potpourri, he raises his fists to the heavens in salutation to providence which has for once looked benignly on him. He makes a special effort to close the door quietly before creeping upstairs. The first floor landing is negotiated without Mrs Parrish's door opening. On the second floor he visits the toilet before continuing on his way to the attic. Once the door of his own room is closed behind him, he is safe until the morning. As he undresses, he dreams of getting in a crate of Guinness and not going out for a week. A week of uninterrupted painting. He has not managed this feat since his new life started. It has been a comfortable time—perhaps too comfortable. His painting might gain from uncertainty, though he does not relish the prospect. It is an unsettling thought with which to go to bed.
*
In the cold light of morning, the prospect of going back to the world of cold, shabby rooms loses its appeal. Mackintosh is annoyed at not making his peace with Mrs Parrish. His failure might have cost him the chance of an exhibition. Apathy and Guinness have contrived to make him miss out on the best opportunity to come his way in years. 
How to redeem the situation. He ponders the matter as he lies on his bed, gazing at the dormer window. Is it too late for apologies? He is not sure how Mrs Parrish will respond. Whatever her motives for inviting him to dinner, it is safe to conclude that he did not live up to them. Why does the morning after always have to be filled with regrets? 
The house is silent as he pads to the guest bathroom on the floor below. Half past ten. He hopes that Mrs Parrish is out. Her absence might not solve any problems, but at least it puts off having to make decisions. He wonders where she has gone. She might already be recounting the saga of her ungrateful lodger to her friends. He shudders and tries once again to dismiss the events of the previous evening from his thoughts. 
What to do? Should he look for somewhere else to live immediately, or should he exploit the advantages of his present position by staying where he is, assuming that such a course is still open to him? The only certain thing is that reaching such an awesome decision will be aided by a Guinness. 
Mackintosh's exit from the house is unimpeded. Even this minor victory and his customary liquid breakfast fail to raise his spirits in the face of the uncertainties ahead. If he thanks Mrs Parrish for the dinner, should he seize the moment to introduce the delicate topic of the exhibition? Though more drinks might give him courage, too many might make him incapable of following through his chosen course. He has a second Guinness while musing on this dilemma. An exhibition is a prize which should not be discarded lightly. 
A squirt of aftershave to mask any lurking odour of beer and he is ready. On the way back to Cloudsley Square he buys a bunch of chrysanthemums. The cost alarms him—it would have paid for enough Guinness to last him the rest of the day—but gurus have to be magnanimous. 
Mrs Parrish is out when he gets back, which makes him doubt the wisdom of his gesture anew. In the safety of his room, he debates whether to put the flowers in a vase—and decides that his attempts at flower arranging are likely to prove a disaster. Better to hope that the blooms do not wilt before his landlady's return and to present them to her still in their cellophane wrapper. He leaves them in the sink and marvels anew at how the affluent can leave the central heating on all day, even if nobody is home. It is an incentive to stay in his present lodgings—gurus should not have to feed the meter to keep warm. 
He tries sketching to take his mind off events, but he cannot concentrate. This serves to prove his point about being wary of further involvement with Mrs Parrish: people always prove a distraction to art and at heart he is an artist. He needs calming, which is a cue for another visit the pub. It is almost time for lunch. 
Mrs Parrish returns at twenty past four, while Mackintosh is taking a well-deserved break from his afternoon's labours to savour a glass of Baileys. The stairs creak. He hears the closing of her bedroom door two floors below. His heart thumps as the moment for his performance approaches. No chance of resuming work now. The bunch of chrysanthemums looks small and mean, but his course is set. Give the woman ten minutes, he tells himself. That way, he has time for another glass of Baileys. 
A quarter of an hour later, Mackintosh creeps downstairs with his offering, water drips from the stems on to the carpet. The only result of shaking the flowers is that water splashes on the wallpaper. He dabs ineffectually at the marks with a tissue. At least Mrs Parrish visits the upper floors so infrequently that she is unlikely to notice. On the first floor landing, he clears his throat before knocking on her door. No response. He continues to the ground floor and coughs politely before knocking at the living-room door. Still, no response. More hesitantly he descends to the basement. Mrs Parrish sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee as she leafs through a glossy magazine. His arrival makes her look up. She smiles, which augurs well. 
'Hello, Mackintosh. Would you like some coffee?' 
'Er, no thanks—just had some,' he lies. 'I only came to give you these.' He thrusts the chrysanthemums towards her. 'A little thank you for the meal.' 
'That's very kind of you.' A bemused Mrs Parrish holds the dripping stems away from her. 'I wasn't expecting anything this.' 
'Would you like me to put them in water?' 
'I can do it.' 
He watches helplessly as she goes about the task of filling a vase and arranging the flowers with customary efficiency. She puts the display in the centre of the table. 
'Shall we leave them here to brighten the kitchen?' 
'It's up to you.' 
'I do love flowers.' 
He feels pleased at having done something right. 
'Why don't you sit down?' she presses. 'You look as if you're about to rush out again.' 
A more confident Mrs Parrish than the one who cooked him a meal the previous evening. Meekly he sits opposite her. She smiles again. 
'Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?' 
'No thanks.'
'What have you been doing today?' 
'Nothing much.' Seeing her smile fade, he confesses, 'Trying to draw.' 
'Only trying?'
'That's the way it is sometimes.' 
'It must be terrible for you.' 
'It's not very pleasant,' he agrees.
'I've been to see my friends.' 
'Talking of friends, it was a good idea—what you suggested.' 
'What I suggested?' 
'The exhibition.' 
'Ah.' Mrs Parrish looks pleased. 'That's one of the things I was seeing my friends about. There's a lot to arrange if we go ahead.' 
'Serendipity.' 
'What is?' 
'You suggesting the idea. I've been thinking about an exhibition.' 
That pleases her even more. 
'What should we do first?' she wants to know. 'Perhaps I'd better draw up a list of people to invite.' 
'And fix a date.' 
'Doesn't that depend on when the paintings are going to be ready?' 
He reviews his output. Given the years of painting behind him, it is surprising how few finished paintings he has amassed. Somehow they always require more work—and he always puts it off. There are at most five canvases which he would be happy to exhibit. It hardly constitutes an exhibition. 
'Perhaps a month,' he suggests, hoping that a deadline will concentrate the mind. But as soon as the words are uttered, he regrets his offer. He is committing himself to producing a finished work every day as well as holding workshops at weekends. A full-time job was never so demanding. 
'Will that be enough time?' Mrs Parrish wonders, as if sensing his doubts.
'Have to be, won't it?' Seeing his benefactor's expression, he assures her, 'There's really no problem on that score.' 
Mrs Parrish draws her chair closer. 'I think we need to be quite sure what we're looking for from our guests.' 
'We want them to buy pictures, don't we?' 
'We want more than that.' She pauses. When he does not supply an answer, she explains, 'We want contacts!' 
'Ah—contacts.' Mackintosh feels that contacts ought to be useful—except that the more he thinks about them, the less sure he is what to do with them. 
'We won't get far without them. It depends how much they like your work and what sort of impression you make on them, of course.' 
Once he might have bristled at the implied suggestion that he should ingratiate himself, but in the headiness of the moment, he does not care. Another idea strikes him while Mrs Parrish is in expansive mood. He ventures, 'I suppose you haven't got any friends in the country?' 
'Why?' 
'I'm looking for a residential centre—somewhere to hold courses.' 
'I thought your courses were doing well?' 
'They are, but there's a limit to what you can do in a day. In the country, the punters, I mean students, could make a holiday of it.'
Mrs Parrish looks doubtful. 'How many people?' 
'Say twenty at a time.' 
'You really need a hotel. I don't know anybody with that many bedrooms.' 
His hope of enlisting his landlady's assistance in his new venture fades. So does the prospect of getting better acquainted with his younger female students, which is the enjoyable aspect of being a guru.
'I'll think about it,' she assures him. 'Still, if your painting takes off, you might not need to give courses any more.' 
He does not want to lower himself in her estimation by voicing his doubts. 
'Have you thought about giving courses in painting?' she suggests.
'It's an idea,' he agrees guardedly. The prospect terrifies him, but to admit to Mrs Parrish that he is not sure of his talent is out of the question. 
'It would be another string to your bow.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Have a think about it.' 
'I will,' he assures her, knowing that whilst he cannot decry the idea, he must curb Mrs Parrish's enthusiasm. 'Let's get the exhibition over first.' 
'Would you like to live in the country?' 
Mackintosh reflects on this. He never ventures out of London without good reason. He hates the country with its mud and its incontinent animals, not to mention the lack of pubs. 
'Wouldn't mind a holiday there,' he concedes, lest Mrs Parrish should be a lover of the countryside. 
'I've thought about living out of town now London's getting so congested.'
He wants to explain that is has always been congested, but that is something else which he keeps to himself. The excitement of a city comes from the attempts of succeeding generations to squeeze the maximum number of people into the smallest possible area. The most successful of their efforts remain for all to see. Buildings have a permanence denied to people. The jerry-built houses of jobbing Georgian builders have come to be revered long after their builders are forgotten, but he does not think that Mrs Parrish would appreciate this argument. He contents himself with pointing out, 'You'd miss this place.' 
'I'd miss my friends.' 
Those friends again. The leisured women of Islington whom he has always despised, but on whom he is making himself dependent. He enquires, 'Is this exhibition going to be just for friends?' 
'I hope we can go a long way beyond that.' 
'We could give them a sneak preview if we're going to open it to the public.' 
'That's a lovely idea.' 
He smiles, pleased at having struck the right chord for once—until he considers the problems of trying to impress her friends. 
'What's the matter?' Mrs Parrish asks. 
'Nothing,' he assures her. He is imagining the responses to his series of house-backs. In his mind's eye he can see his works framed in a living room denuded of furniture to make it more like a gallery. But the illusion fades. He knows this it is not what Mrs Parrish has in mind. 
'What I'll do is get some proper invitations printed,' she is saying. 'What we can do is have a preview day for friends and then let the public come. How would that be?' 
'We'll need to invite the critics before the public come.' 
'A preview day for critics and friends—that would be rather good.' 
'Fine,' he agrees uneasily, aware that he is being swept along by Mrs Parrish's enthusiasm. 
'Have you got their addresses?' 
'I haven't got as far as making a list out.' 
'I'm sure you can soon do that.' 
Mackintosh does not disillusion her. He imagines critics on the daily papers viewing his efforts. The prospect is exciting, but it fills him with apprehension. If they unanimously condemn his work, how will he face Mrs Parrish? More important, how will he be able to continue painting? He wishes that he had insisted on holding the exhibition some time in the comfortably distant future, by which time he will have moved out. He toys with suggesting a later date, but a glance at Mrs Parrish's face shows that the moment for changing his mind has passed. Instead he asks, 'How many friends would be coming? Twenty? Thirty?' 
'More than that, I hope. I'm sure I can find at least a hundred people.' 
He tries not to look surprised. How many friends does the woman have if a hundred of them can be dragooned to an exhibition by an unknown artist? The revelation makes him question anew why his own circle of friends evaporated so many years ago. Is something lacking in him? Has he devoted too much time to his calling as an artist? But before he can contemplate these uncomfortable realities, his mercenary side comes to the fore. If a hundred of Mrs Parrish's friends come to the exhibition, at least half will feel a moral obligation to buy something. If he keeps the average price of a painting to a hundred pounds, he stands to make five thousand pounds in a day. To that must be added sales made at the public showing. His earnings could be stratospheric . . .
What dampens his spirits is the prospect of having to produce so many paintings. Time to make his excuses before Mrs Parrish's ideas become too extravagant. 
'I'd better leave you in peace.' He gets up, unintentionally scraping his chair on the floor. 'I'm glad we've had this little chat—got things sorted out.' 
'I don't want to keep you if you're busy.' Mrs Parrish smiles. 'Thank you again for the flowers. It was a lovely thought.' 
'It's nothing—nothing at all.' He bumps against the doorframe as he backs away. Once out of Mrs Parrish's view, he scuttles upstairs, relief coursing through him. From his attic lair he can put the world in its proper perspective. He slumps on the bed and automatically feels underneath for his Baileys. By going along with the exhibition, he has committed himself to producing paintings at a rate which he has never managed before. If anything, he is working more slowly. He glares at the house-backs on the easel and wishes that his range of subject matter had more instant appeal.  Not that house-backs held back Carel Weight. Like Weight, Mackintosh wants to portray is the menace of the urban world, but it obstinately refuses to come across. Perhaps a more abstract style would allow him to work more quickly. A visit to Tate Modern is called for—without the company of Mrs Parrish. His thoughts drift towards the works of Modigliani and Jackson Pollock. Splashes of vibrant colour will be the mainstay of his new style. He will have to buy new paints: generally he hardly uses bright colours. Then an even easier way of obtaining enough paintings occurs to him. It entails some travelling, but at least there will be a pub at the end of the journey.
*
The pub with its clutch of students reminds Mackintosh of his lecturing days, except that it is smarter than he was used to. He orders Guinness. While it is being poured, he studies his fellow drinkers. His gaze lingers on the girls. It was a matter of lasting regret both in his student days and in his lecturing days that more girls did not take up planning. Perhaps he might have done better as an art student. 
Like the pub, students have become smarter and more flamboyant than in his day, when they dressed as though charity shops were unacceptably upmarket. Now, even the boys are fashion conscious. And where did socialist ideals go? How many of this generation would demonstrate in sympathy with the miners?
The Guinness settles and is topped up. Mackintosh savours that first, delicious mouthful. Nothing compares with the experience. There is no need to hurry. He raises his eyes to the flimsy brass lamps attached to the plywood panelling above the bar. Crass, like the shelves of books in the alcoves, which are supposed to create the atmosphere of a gentlemen's club. He thinks nostalgically of the student union bar where he once drank. It was a wooden shed which would not have looked out of place as a mess hut at a railway depot. Becoming accustomed to the gloom took a while: the few windows were tiny and placed high in the walls to deter vandals, while wire grilles on the outside meant that the glass was never cleaned. He remembers the ever-present condensation and the thumping rhythm of the juke box. The floor was bare concrete, stained by generations of spilt drinks. There were benches rather than chairs. He was happy there, watching the girls and drinking cheap beer between lectures. When the new campus was built, the old shack was demolished. Undoubtably the new buildings are a great improvement on the commercial office block which served as a campus in his time, but affection for buildings has nothing to do with their efficiency. How can a shack evoke such feelings? Are the rules of good architecture no more than a sham? How often he has mused over such questions as he sips his Guinness.  
Reluctantly he draws his thoughts back to the present and selects a group of students at a corner table for his plan. The impedimenta of portfolios and sketch pads surrounding the drinkers betrays their calling. Two boys and two girls. One of the girls notices his interest. She has spiky red hair. Her pouting, wide-eyed curiosity is disconcerting, so that he is pleased when her attention is diverted by her companions' conversation. Now he is free to gaze longingly at the softer, innocent look of the other girl, whose fluffy, blonde air has the carefully untended look which he cannot resist. Time to act before his courage fails. Armed with his drink, he sets off across the room. 
'Students are you?'
They all look up. Mackintosh's spirits rise as he feels the elation of the teacher who has the attention of his audience—and the apprehension of one who has to keep it.
'I take it you are. Which year are you in?' 
He knows as soon as he speaks that he is being too inquisitorial. He would never have made such an elementary mistake in the days when he spent his days lecturing. But now the tenor of the conversation is set.
'Second,' vouchsafes the girl with spiky hair. He notices the wariness in her eyes.
'What's the course like?'
'All right.'
'There's so much variation these days. I wondered whether it's living up to expectations.'
'Who are you?' the youth in a tartan shirt want wants to know.
'Gave up my job as a lecturer.' Mackintosh notices the glimmer of interest in the eyes of spiky hair. 'Mind if I join you?' Before anybody can object, he puts his Guinness on the table and settles himself on the spare seat. 'So what do you do on your course exactly?'
Spiky hair glances at her colleagues as though by divination they might come up with a collective response.
'How's the course organised?' he persists. 
'The first year's a foundation year,' explains tartan shirt. 'After that you can specialise.'
'And what are you all specialising in?'
'Graphic design,' says spiky hair promptly.
'All of you?'
'Yes,' says tartan shirt.
Mackintosh tries to hide his disappointment at this dearth of idealism. 'No old-fashioned artists amongst you?'
Frowns.
'Nobody working on canvas?' he probes. 
Looks of incomprehension.
'You must do some painting sometimes.'
'I do a bit,' admits the other youth, an unprepossessing individual with a bullet head and a ring through one nostril.
'I'd like to see some of it,' says Mackintosh, trying to conceal his doubts. 
'Are you a dealer?'
It was not something he had thought of to explain his presence, but it seems a better reason than anything which he can devise. 
'Found out,' he admits ruefully.
Suddenly the interest grows.
'I've got some drawings,' spiky hair reveals. 
'Splendid.' 
'Where's your gallery?' bullet head wants to know. 
'Don't have one.' Mackintosh waits for the surprise to show before explaining, 'I arrange touring exhibitions. I'm not too keen on the West End clique.' He expects support for his stand against the art establishment, but there is little sign of it. Sadly he has to conclude that even disdain for authority has lost its appeal for the young. 
'Does it work—touring exhibitions?' bullet head demands. 
'Well enough. Have you got something for me?' 
'What do we get out of it?' 
'Everything you'd expect: exposure, publicity, sales, the works.' 
'How much do you make out of it?' 
Mackintosh's lack of knowledge about the ways of dealers makes him hesitate. He knows that they take a percentage, but he has never been in a position to discover how much. Now his audience is waiting for an answer. 
'The usual percentage,' he declares. 
'What's that?' 
'Let's see some work first, then we can talk terms.' He looks around the group, pleased with his handling of the situation. 'Who's got something for me?' 
'We didn't know you were coming,' spiky hair points out. 
'Haven't you got anything with you?' 
The students exchange glances. 
'We could bring something,' says spiky hair. 
'Or you could give me your address.' 
She shakes her head. Mackintosh feels disappointed that his image departs so far from that of the reputable dealer. He has to content himself with the explanation that she is one of those rare girls who do not like mature men. 
'Can I get you a drink?' he offers.
For once the students respond with alacrity. As Mackintosh heads for the bar after taking their orders, he hopes that his investment will be rewarded. He gambles that one of the girls will help him to carry the drinks back. Unfortunately it is tartan shirt who obliges. 
'I always like to see what the next generation's doing,' Mackintosh explains. 
'Where did you train?' 
'Closed now. That's the way of things in this country. The Philistines are at the gates.'
'They're inside.' 
'Aye.' 
They carry the drinks back to the table. The mood is easier now. The girls smile at him. The fair-haired girl has a radiant smile which belongs in a painting of a Madonna. Mackintosh falls in love with her. He beams. 
'Have you got some paintings for me?' he enquires, directing his question to her. 
His reward is a shake of the head and that radiant, shy smile. 
'You must have something,' he presses. 
Flustered, she plays with her hair. 'I don't do much painting now.'
'But you used to?' 
'A bit.' 
'Give me your address and I could call round and see them.' 
She shakes her head, avoiding his eye. 
'I could bring a bottle round,' he offers. 
'Give us your card,' bullet head suggests. 
'I can pop in here any time you like,' Mackintosh offers, pleased at how fluently the excuses come. All he hopes is that one of the students will be able to paint—and preferably it will be his Madonna. He catches her eye again and smiles for the pleasure of being granted her smile in return. 
'We need to know when you're coming,' the tiresome bullet head points out. 
'So let's arrange a date. Supposing I come along in a couple of days? Could you have something for me?' He looks from one to the other. 
'What do you want exactly?' asks spiky hair. 
'Whatever you've got: canvases, sketches, anything that can be hung on a wall.'
'Where are you showing them?' asks bullet head.
 'I'm negotiating on that one.' Another idea occurs to Mackintosh. 'I'm also looking out works for private clients, so I might be willing to buy some canvases outright.' 
The enticement provokes more glimmers of interest. Time to get things on a more friendly level. He smiles and announces, 'I'm Mackintosh, by the way.' 
'What's your first name?' spiky hair asks. 
'Just call me Mackintosh.' 
'I'm Maria.' 
His gaze turns to his Madonna, who seems a more suitable candidate for being called Maria. His eyebrows are raised. He holds his breath. 
'Tamsin,' she reveals. 
Perhaps it is a sign of increasing age, but Mackintosh thinks that girls' names are getting more exotic. In his schooldays girls were called Jane, or Susan, or Maureen. Then he came upon Tasmin. He longs to ask whether Tamsin is a variant devised by somebody who could not spell, but the youths are introducing themselves. Tartan shirt is Mark. Bullet head is Steve. Mackintosh nods perfunctorily and turns back to Tamsin. 
'And you're another graphic designer, are you? What's the attraction?' 
'It's useful for getting a job.' 
Though he is tempted to groan, he does not want to upset his beloved. It depresses him that students are so obsessed with future security. If the trend continues, they will be worrying about their pensions before they gain their degrees.
'What did you do in art college in your day?' Maria wants to know. 
He can remember life as a town planning student with uncanny vividness. Sit-ins were part of the culture. Hardly a term went by without the library block being occupied. The protests may not have achieved much, but they were an irritant to the powers-that-be. When you are in your teens, authority should not be accepted so readily. 
Maria is waiting for an answer. 
'Not so much emphasis on design,' he improvises, feeling on safe ground. 'Draughtsmanship was important. Lots of that. Lots of life classes.' 
Maria looks impressed, which pleases him. 
'Do you still paint?' she asks. 
'I try to keep my hand in.' 
A mischievous glint comes to her eye as she asks, 'Are you going to bring us some of your work?' 
'I don't really paint seriously now. Wouldn't dare show it to you.' 
'I'd still like to see something.' 
'I'll see what I can look out,' he promises, knowing that she will not give up. He wonders what she would think of his efforts. Probably dismiss them as amateur and unoriginal, though graphic design students cannot be too avant garde. At least having some paintings to see gives him an excuse to lure girls to his room and for once he has somewhere to lure them, so long as his landlady is out. He has a fantasy of entertaining Tamsin in Mrs Parrish's house and passing it off as his own. 
Somebody is talking to him. He turns to the youths. 
'What made you come here?' Mark repeats. 
'Fate.' 
The questioner looks sceptical. 
'And it's near the college,' Mackintosh adds. 
'Do you know any of the lecturers?' 
'No.' 
'They'd probably be interested to meet you.' 
Mackintosh feels the stirrings of unease. Lecturers ask awkward questions. 
'Have you had any exhibitions?' Tamsin asks, saving him from having to put off meetings with lecturers.
'The occasional one,' he agrees, remembering windswept Saturday afternoons by the pond on Hampstead Heath. 
'Where were they?' 
'One of the West End galleries. It closed long ago, so you won't know it. That was where you went in those days. Things have opened out now. Hackney's the place to be.'
'Which artists have exhibited with you?' Maria wants to know. 
'What I like is young artists with promise.' 
'Where do you show them?' 
'As I say, I avoid the West End these days. Touring exhibitions are better. Get art to the people.'
'Where do you tour?' Mark asks. 
'Smaller commercial galleries, a few municipal galleries, people's houses. That's an up and coming area now. You take over somebody's house and use it as a gallery.' 
He is pleased to see that for Tamsin this is new information. He explains, 'You find somebody with a suitable house who's willing for it to be used as a gallery for a couple of days and you fill it with paintings. That way you attract people who are out of the run of normal gallery-goers.' 
'Gallery art's dead,' declares bullet-headed Steve. 'People look at posters every day on the tube. They have to use designed objects every day. That's where the future lies.' 
It is daunting to have your work consigned to the past. Mackintosh goes back to his Guinness while he digests the idea. He hopes the girls feel differently. He watches for their response. Tamsin notices and smiles. 
'Do you agree?' Steve asks her.
'I suppose posters are what the people see most.' 
Mackintosh wants to say that of course they are what people see most, but an audience needs to be educated to think of art as something more than a way of selling underwear. In spite of this, he agrees, 'It's a point of view.' Tamsin goes down a notch in his estimation. 
Only as he gets to near the end of his pint does he remember that financial stringency makes students habitually drink slowly. Apparently the rules have not changed. He wants to avoid buying another round of drinks. His only regret at leaving is having to say goodbye to Tamsin. He glances at his watch and registers surprise. 'Is that the time? I'll have to be on my way, I'm afraid. Got a board meeting at the Tate.' He drains his glass. As he puts it down, he beams at Tamsin. 'You'll bring your paintings, won't you? Doesn't forget—here in two days' time.' 
'I'll see what I've got,' she assures him. 
'All of you. Bring something.'
Murmurs of assent.
Outside, he reflects that the visit has cost him eight pounds. Two years ago he would have baulked at such expenditure; now he is more concerned about whether his investment will prove worthwhile. What it is to have money.
* 
Mrs Parrish intercepts Mackintosh in the hall. She looks pleased.
'I've done it,' she announces. 
'Eh?' 
'The invitations—it's all arranged. And I've booked a catering company.'
'Already?' 
'They get booked up so quickly. We've only got a month, remember.' 
Mackintosh remembers.
'The printer's going to send us the proof to check and the catering company's sending some sample menus.' 
What alarms him is the thought of the expense, but he does not want to dent Mrs Parrish's enthusiasm. He excuses himself and retreats to his room. He has the feeling that events are slipping out of his control. The old temptation comes back to pack his bags and creep from the house when his landlady is out. But then there will be no exhibition—and he will have no excuse to see Tamsin again. Sometimes the dilemmas of life seem insurmountable. On such occasions the only answer is a drink.

chapter four

The thought of seeing Tamsin preoccupies Mackintosh the following day. It stops him from painting. He has to spend more time than usual in the pub to keep himself calm. In his dreams, his Madonna is pining for him, flattered by the interest of a mature man. And she has no boyfriend.
The next morning, when he is to the meet the students again, Mackintosh dresses with a degree of care which would have been unthinkable in the days of his impoverishment. He wants to convey an impression of casual affluence. He wears a leather jacket which is his pride and joy. He has never owned a leather jacket before. With it, he puts on a soft, dark-blue shirt and green trousers with a velvet sheen. 
His apprehension increases on the journey. He feels like a callow youth as he walks from the tube station with his heart pounding and his hands clenched. What he hopes is that Tamsin will be in the pub alone, but he knows that this will not happen. If by some quirk of fate he did find her alone, he suspects that he would fail to seize the opportunity. 
It is with uncharacteristic hesitation that he opens the door to the pub. Tamsin and her friends are seated at the same table. Bulging portfolios lean against the chairs. Mackintosh feels the stirring of excitement as Tamsin smiles. He wants to cherish the moment, but there is no time. Instead of following his usual custom of making for the bar first, he goes to the students.
'Hello there, boys and girls,' he begins—and knows that he sounds patronising. If only his entrance could be repeated. A charismatic guru should do better. But he has to banish his doubts. He beams at his audience who smile back amiably enough, showing no obvious signs of having taken affront. 'Anybody want a drink?'
Amiability is replaced with enthusiasm. Mentally repeating the orders over and over, Mackintosh heads for the bar. As he waits to be served, he laments the mercenary instincts of present-day students. As if to reinforce his opinion, tartan Mark materialises to help as soon as the money has changed hands.
Tamsin and Maria smile their thanks as they accept their drinks. Mackintosh perches on a stool facing Tamsin, feeling like a master of ceremonies. He sips his Guinness before beaming at his companions.
'So what have you got for me?'
'You don't want anything except paintings and drawings,' Mark clarifies.
'Sculptures are out of my field, I'm afraid.'
'You're excluding a lot of art.'
'That happens in the real world,' says Mackintosh in his man-of-the-world tone. 'You produce what people want.'
'It's not a production line.'
Mackintosh assumes his superior smile. 'If you don't want to be commercial, why go in for graphic design?' When no answer is forthcoming, he continues, 'College is a bit of an ivory tower. You have to steer between the shoals of artistic integrity and financial realism.' The phrase has a splendid ring, except that the more he thinks about it, the more certain he becomes that shoals is the wrong word. Mark does not look impressed; nor, alas, does Tamsin. He has to concede that she may not the innocent he dreamed about after their first meeting. Can any girl of seventeen be innocent in this day and age, he wonders. And yet there is something otherworldly in those eyes. It crosses his mind that this is not entirely a natural state of affairs, but he cannot believe that she is in the grip of on illicit substances by lunchtime. Endearingly, she has a pimple on her cheek which she fingers self-consciously. 
'How's Tamsin?' he asks, smiling.
'All right.'
So much for the stimulating intellectual conversation of his imagination. He presses on, 'Have you got some paintings for me?'
'I brought some drawings. They're easier to carry.'
He loves that flustered shyness as she delves between the chairs to produce a slim portfolio, the battered covers adorned with Simpsons stickers. He is conscious of the others watching as he unties the tapes. He feels apprehensive for Tamsin's sake, not knowing what he should say if he does not like her work.
The first drawing is of a boy. Carefully done. Mackintosh feels reassured as he turns over the sheets. A series of portraits. He pauses at a drawing of a naked girl to savour its erotic charge. Disappointingly, it is not a self-portrait. When he glances up, Tamsin looks more anxious than embarrassed. He continues working through the drawings. More heads, including one of the girl. The boy appears again.
'Boyfriend?' Mackintosh enquires, holding his breath. 
'My brother.' 
Mackintosh hopes that his relief does not show. 
'You obviously like heads.'
'I like drawing people.' 
'Who's the girl?' he asks casually. 
'Just a friend.' 
He flicks through the drawings again without responding. It is an opportunity to savour the power over students which he has not experienced since his lecturing days. 
'I like them,' he pronounces. 
As Tamsin relaxes visibly and a smile transforms her face, Mackintosh knows that he could have given no other answer. Though he is pleased at making her happy, he feels a nagging sense of dissatisfaction at having his options circumscribed. But he does not let his doubts show as he declares, 'I think we can find a place for them.' 
To his surprise, Tamsin's smile changes to a frown.
'You won't sell them all, will you?' 
'Not if you don't want me to.' 
'Some of them are drawings of people I know.' 
'What I suggest is you put a cross on the back of the ones you want to keep.' 
He passes the portfolio back to her and watches as she sorts through the drawings. The sketch of her brother is one she wants to keep: any sibling rivalry must be a thing of the past. Fortunately the nude does not receive a cross. Mackintosh is aware that her companions are becoming restless. To show his evenhandedness he beams at Mark. 
'What have you got for me?'
Mark produces his own portfolio for inspection with none of Tamsin's self-consciousness. This time Mackintosh's trepidation is justified. Mark eschews draughtsmanship and the restrained use of colour. Mackintosh gazes at the succession of gaudy masks on canvas which are an obsession of the artist. 
'They're striking,' he concedes. 
'There's some you haven't looked at yet.' 
'Do you paint anything except masks?' 
'Don't you like them?' 
'They might get a little monotonous.' 
'There's some abstracts further down,' Mark says, sounding put out. 
Mackintosh rifles through the remaining sheets, lighting upon a pattern of red and green squares. The next canvas has a greater claim on his attention: curving black lines like curled-up leaves look ready to crumple to dust on the page. He half expects to see a face hidden in them, but there is nothing. 
'That's just something I was experimenting with,' Mark explains. 
'Did you do any more like it?' 
'No.' 
'Pity.' 
'Which ones do you want?' Mark asks as Mackintosh reaches the last canvas.
'Supposing I have a few masks and that abstract with the leaf-like pattern.' 
'The masks are a series. You can't just take some of them.' 
Mackintosh flicks through the pile helplessly. 'There's a dozen here.'
'So?' 
'Do you want me to sell them or not?' 
'Yes.' 
'Then trust me.' 
Mackintosh removes the chosen works and puts them with Tamsin's drawings. Mark looks sulky. 
'Don't you want to see mine?' asks an aggrieved Maria. 
'I haven't forgotten you,' Mackintosh assures her, taking the proffered portfolio. As he examines the contents, he is conscious that the others are watching. He knows that he has the potential to split the group of friends. 
Maria follows Tamsin in liking portraits. Mackintosh has to admit that Maria's work has more variety and shows a flair missing from Tamsin's careful drawings. She is particularly keen on drawing old people. Bent figures lean on sticks or shrivel in armchairs. An old woman gazes suspiciously up at him, her hair almost hidden by a scarf. 
'She's an old Cypriot woman I saw in Kentish Town,' Maria explains. 'I had to photograph her and work from the print. It's not something I do normally.' 
'Striking,' he has to admit. Somehow he did not expect much from Maria's work. A street scene in pastels makes him pause. 
'Kentish Town,' she tells him.
'Thought it looked familiar.' 
'The Greek Orthodox church.' 
'Near Prince of Wales Road.' 
'Do you want to take anything?' she presses as he sifts through the final sequence of portraits. 
'I'll take the lot, if that's all right.' 
Maria's face lights up. The hardness in her features is wiped away. Mark scowls. Mackintosh cannot read Tamsin's response. 
'You think you'll be able to sell them?' Maria asks.
'They should be popular,' he says truthfully. 
'Are you going to look at mine?' Steve asks. 
'I was getting around to you,' Mackintosh assures him, watching with foreboding as the final member of the group slides a carrier bag from around a thick wad of papers. 
'Impressive pile.' 
'I do a lot of work.' 
'Obviously.' 
The wad is placed in Mackintosh's hands. He hesitates. 
'Have a look then,' Steve urges.
Mackintosh looks. Misshapen animals hobble over what resembles the floor of a sandpit. Delving further into the pile he uncovers a cache of portraits. The influence of Picasso after a bad hangover is discernable, though Picasso's sense of colour is notable by its absence. Steve's favourite colour is green. Muddy greens blend messily into olive greens. Emerald greens stubbornly refuse to sparkle. Mackintosh gazes helplessly at the outline of a face scored into the murk. 
'I'm not sure whether I can find a market for these,' he has to admit. 
'Fuck you then.' A mutinous Steve snatches his work back and stuffs it into the bag, not caring that some sheets get folded. 
'It's the commercial element I have to think of,' Mackintosh murmurs, hoping that his words will sooth Steve. They do not. Mackintosh concentrates on his Guinness and wishes that Mark and Maria could be dealt with in the same way as Steve storms off. Perhaps he should have been less polite to them. But he has to admit that Maria's work is good. 
'Don't take any notice of Steve,' she advises him. 'He's a moody bastard.' 
'I thought he went into graphics because it's commercial?' 
'We know it's contradictory. Steve does really, but he won't admit it.' 
'I was trying to give an honest appraisal.' Mackintosh shrugs. 'I don't know what else I can do.'
'Where's this exhibition going to be?' Mike wants to know. 
'As I say, they're peripatetic. I might be able to sell works privately if a buyer comes along.' 
'How much do you take as commission?' 
'I've got to cover my expenses.' 
'So how much?' 
The three students are looking at Mackintosh. He knows that there can be no evasion. 
'If I take 20 per cent,' he ventures, waiting for somebody to call him a capitalist pig. Surprisingly, nobody does. 
'What sort of prices are we talking about?' Maria wants to know. 
'If we aim for fifty or sixty pounds as an average,' he hazards. 
'A hundred's more like it,' Mark says. 
Mackintosh turns to Tamsin. 'What do you think?' 
Tamsin smiles and looks embarrassed. 'I don't know.' 
He loves her. He adores her. 
'Are you taking these with you?' Mark taps Maria's portfolio. 
'I can't sell art on promises.' 
'Do we get a receipt or something?' 
'Surely.' Mackintosh produces his wallet and makes a play of searching through the compartments. 'I haven't got a card with me. Give me some paper and I'll write you a receipt.' 
Maria tears a page from a notebook. Mackintosh rests it on the portfolio to write. When he hands it back, she frowns. 
'You've only put your telephone number on it.' 
'We need your address,' Mark agrees. 
Mackintosh takes the paper back. No opportunity for procrastination now. It crosses his mind to make up an address, but that might generate as many problems as it solves. He scribbles his address and gives Maria the paper again. She looks partially reassured. 
'All I want is to get my work exhibited,' she confesses, putting the paper in her bag. 'If I can sell something, that's a bonus.' 
Mackintosh can sympathise.
'I need the money,' Mark admits. 
'And you don't want me to sell all of yours,' Mackintosh sums up, looking at Tamsin. She smiles and says nothing. 
'Art for art's sake, eh?' 
'I don't know about that,' she murmurs.
'The money would come in useful,' Maria prompts. 
'Doesn't it always?' Mackintosh agrees. 'Having trouble with the grant?' 
'Grants finished years ago,' Maria says scornfully. 
'Which goes to show how times have changed. When I was a student, you could live on a grant.' 
'These days you're more worried about keeping your overdraft down,' Mark observes. 'Most of us have to work.'
Mackintosh wonders how he would have fared without a grant. In his day, students only got part-time jobs when the grant ran out before the end of term. No wonder there is so little student militancy: students have no time for demonstrating. 
'Shows where education stands in the state of things,' Maria is saying. Mackintosh has to agree, but he ignores her and turns to Tamsin.
'You seem to like portraiture.'
'I've always liked drawing people.' 
He knows that he has touched on something which animates her. 
'You'll have to try drawing me,' he suggests, keeping the tone light.
She gives a half smile, not sure whether she is being serious. 
'It might be interesting, if you'd like to give it a try ...' 
Instead of responding with the alacrity which he hoped for, she looks even more flustered. 
'Do you hire yourself out as a model as well?' Maria asks sarcastically. 
'Never tried it before,' he confesses. 
'I suppose it doesn't pay so well as buying and selling other people's works.' 
It is the moment when he realises that she despises him and when he knows that somehow he has to get Tamsin on her own. He smiles at his Madonna and asks, 'Do you have to work?' 
'I do in the holidays.' 
'How about lightning portraits outside the National Portrait Gallery?' 
The thought amuses her. He loves the smile which plays around her lips. She shakes her head, letting the curls fall around her face. 
'A lot of art students do.' 
She shakes her head again. 'Not me.' 
'How about the old standby—bar work?' 
'I wouldn't be much good at it.' 
'So what do you do?' 
'I worked in a boutique over the summer.' 
'What about at Christmas?' 
'I don't know. Whatever I can get.'' 
'I might be able to arrange something there—gallery work or something. If you could give me your number. I'll need it for when I sell your drawings. And perhaps I could pop over and see the rest of your paintings.' 
'Do you want our numbers?' Maria asks. 'Or don't we count?' 
'I was thinking of all of you,' he lies. 
Tamsin seems happier to give her telephone number when the others do the same. Mackintosh watches her writing on a fresh page of her exercise book—careful writing, with rounded letters. Only girls write like that and only girls of her generation. She tears out the page and gives it to him. Tamsin Abbot. 
'Whereabouts do you live?' he asks, staring at the telephone number. 
'Colliers Wood.'
'Don't know it.'
'You haven't missed much.'
Mackintosh can believe that. Rustic-sounding districts make him wary. 
'Do you want our numbers or not?' Maria interrupts his reverie. 
'Of course.'
He watches her writing. Her script is angular.
'I live in Brixton,' she adds as she gives him the paper, 'but I don't suppose you're interested.' 
Mackintosh does not comment on her perspicacity. 
'And I'm in Clapham,' adds Mark. 
Mackintosh can only comprehend south London in a generalised way. True it is better than the countryside, but he never feels at home south of the Thames. He wonders whether the people who live there feel the same about places like Holloway and Kilburn.
'I've got to go,' Maria announces, rising. She turns to Tamsin. 'See you later.' 
Tamsin looks surprised by her companion's abrupt departure. Mackintosh is elated,  particularly when Mark drains his glass and announces, 'I'd better be going.' 
A lightness comes to Mackintosh's heart. Perhaps there is a god after all. He nods his goodbyes as Mark moves away. His smile broadens as he turns to Tamsin. 
'Have you always wanted to go to art school?'
His beloved looks disconcerted. She confesses, 'I always liked drawing.' 
'You're good at it.' 
'Thanks.' 
'I think there's a tendency to denigrate draughtsmanship these days. Don't you agree?' 
'There's not much of it in the syllabus,' she admits. 
'Great pity in my opinion.' He knows that he is beginning to sound old and pompous. Time to change tack. 'Do you want another drink?' 
'Actually I'd better be going.' 
'You'll keep me company for another one, won't you? Please.' Imploring a girl is something new for him. He finds the experience disconcerting. It makes him dependent on another person.
'A quick one, then,' she relents, looking uneasy. 'Lemonade and lime, please.' 
'That's more like it. Don't go away, will you?' 
As he walks to the bar, his steps have taken on the spring of a younger man. He dare not turn round while he is being served lest he finds that Tamsin has gone. But his fears prove groundless. She even smiles at him as he returns with their drinks. 
'So where's your home?' he enquires when he is settled opposite her again. 
'Bristol.' 
'Bristol, eh?' says Mackintosh, who has never been there. 'Were you glad to get out?' 
'I like it. I only came to London because of college.' 
'Well, well.' He sucks the froth from his Guinness while he thinks of what to say next. 'And has London lived up to expectations?' 
'Everything's more expensive.' 
'That's the capital for you. You get used to it.' 
'You end up with a bigger overdraft.' 
'There are ways around these things.' 
'I haven't found them yet.' 
'Come for a drink or a meal one evening and I'll explain it all to you.' 
The big step in their relationship. He has to admit that she does not look overjoyed at the prospect. From her expression, she is regretting that she accepted another drink, but he presses on, 'It's a chance to talk about your plans. I might be able to help.' 
She shakes her head. She will not look at him. 
'No strings,' he adds. 
'I'd better not. I've got to be going.' She is already sliding along the seat, away from him. 
'You haven't finished your drink yet.' 
'I've got a class.' 
As she stands, Mackintosh knows that he has lost her. 
'I'll let you know about the drawings,' he tells her, but she is preoccupied with getting away from him. He watches her scurrying to the door without looking back. The inescapable conclusion is that she thinks of him as a dirty old man rather than an eligible bachelor. It would be a sobering thought—if he allowed himself to become sober. And her lemonade and lime is untouched. He reflects that he might as well have ordered an extra drink for himself. But at least he has her phone number.
*
Five pints later and clutching two portfolios, Mackintosh walks unsteadily to the tube station. He guesses people will assume that he is an artist, which pleases him. In the train he has to concentrate to stay awake—the ignominy of being aroused at Cockfosters by a railway official is something not to be contemplated. By an effort of will, he manages to change trains at King's Cross and to get off at the Angel. Outside the station, he sniffs the fume-laden air. He feels at ease in the familiar surroundings. This is where he wanted to bring Tamsin to show off the sights of Islington. Art students should appreciate architecture and Islington is rich in Victorian terraces. He wants to explain how they developed from their Georgian predecessors behind the station. The eyes which so bewitch him will open wide in wonderment. 
It is hard for him to understand how local residents can be so lacking in curiosity about their surroundings. The tramps who haunt the gardens have an excuse for not caring. He has sympathy for them, knowing that he might yet be counted amongst their number. On occasions when he is trying to rid himself of a hangover, he sits in the gardens separating Duncan Terrace from Colebrooke Row. Trees help to muffle the noise from the City Road. Looking up at the blackened houses, it is easy to be transported back to the nineteenth century, when Charles Lamb lived in Duncan Terrace. It intrigues Mackintosh how artistic and literary figures could afford such houses. 
Brushing such thoughts aside, Mackintosh turns north into Islington High Street, remembering how the area looked in the seventies before developers destroyed its individuality. Across the road was the empty Odeon with its narrow, tower-like entrance dating from the interwar years; only the tower remains. On the site of the office block beside the station was the derelict Grand Theatre from an earlier era. How he would have liked to visit both places in their prime. The post office adjoining the theatre was still open in those days. Down a cobbled alley beside it was a cafe, converted from what must once have been a stable beside the canal. Though he only ate there a couple of times, the cafe has stayed with Mackintosh as a place cut off from the hurly-burly of urban life. It seemed so permanent. But Islington was not fashionable then. 
Where the high street widens, tourist Islington begins. In Camden Passage expensive restaurants vie with equally expensive antique shops. It is a place which Mackintosh is glad to avoid. Holding the two portfolios more tightly, he crosses the road and plunges into the familiar and less pretentious side streets.
The lunchtime drinkers have gone back to their jobs, leaving the pub to a handful of seasoned drinkers. It looks down-at heel now the crowds have departed. There is a lingering smell of chips and baked beans. Out of habit, Mackintosh watches Irene as she pours his Guinness. Even though she wears a shorter-than-usual skirt in addition to her tight jumper, she holds little attraction for him after Tamsin. His gaze travels to his two fellow drinkers at the bar. Both are absorbed in their own thoughts. One is in his sixties, swarthy and unshaven. His shiny suit has broad lapels and probably smells of mothballs. With dark glasses and a fedora he would have the appearance of a retired mafioso. Not the sort to appreciate Mackintosh's brand of conversation. The other drinker is more promising: young, dressed in the standard student uniform of grubby jeans, T-shirt and a fabric jacket which has seen better days. Spectacles which need cleaning and lank hair in  need of cutting complete the picture, though Mackintosh has to admit that until the workshops started, he looked little more prepossessing himself. Armed with his drink he sidles closer. 
'The precious liquid.' 
The youth glances at Mackintosh who lifts his glass in salute. 
'Nectar.' 
The youth's response is a grunt.
'What have you got there?' Mackintosh continues.
'Eh?' 
'The drink.' 
'Lager.' 
Mackintosh suspects that he would have done better getting into conversation with the retired mafioso, but now he must follow his chosen course. 
'Student, are you?' he perseveres. 
'No.' 
'Unemployed?' 
'Right.' 
'Common old problem.' 
'Bastards.' 
'Eh?' 
'Fucking bastards.' 
'Who?' 
'They said don't bother to come back.' 
'Who's that?' 
No answer. 
'Your bosses?' Mackintosh hazards. 
'Bosses. Fucking bastards.'
'Why didn't they want you back?' 
''Cos they're wankers.' 
'I suppose that's a good enough reason,' Mackintosh agrees.
'And I told 'em.' 
'They wouldn't be too pleased.' 
'You on their side?' 
Mackintosh steps back at the prospect of having a glass of lager thrown over him.
'I'm never on the side of the bosses,' he avows.
The youth looks appeased. 
'What are you going to do now?' Mackintosh ventures. 
'Get pissed.' 
'A man after my own heart.' 
'Then I'm gonna go back and fucking do 'em.' 
'I'd just get pissed, if I were you.' 
'You're a fucking wanker as well.' 
Mackintosh considers this assessment. He is tempted to look affronted and move away, but his companion might be offended. Offended people can become difficult. Instead he asks, 'Where do you work?' 
'This pizza place.' 
'Obviously a place to avoid—because of all the wankers, I mean.' 
The youth looks interested. 'Have you worked there?' 
'Heard about it,' Mackintosh lies. 'Managed to avoid the place. Done a lot of jobs like it, of course. You have to in my line.' 
'What's that?' 
'Artist,' says Mackintosh, feeling a sense of elation such as he has rarely known. He has the satisfaction of seeing the youth raise his eyebrows. 'Been arranging an exhibition. Helps to pay a few bills.' Before his prospective audience can object, he moves the glasses aside and hauls the two portfolios onto the bar. 'I don't know what your taste in art is.' 
'I dunno much about art.' 
'I specialise in portraiture.' Mackintosh unfastens the tapes of Tamsin's portfolio and opens the covers to reveal Mark's drawings. He tries to look on them as a philistine might. 'I'm quite pleased with them. I've worked through other styles, of course. This is a series of masks. I think  they've got a certain primitive power.' 
'They're bright.' 
Mackintosh turns over the pages until he comes to Tamsin's work. 'I don't know what you think about these.'
'They're better. Delicate.'
Mackintosh put Maria's portfolio on top. 'These are in a different style. Much more expressionist.' He opens the covers to reveal one of the portraits. 'How's that grab you?' 
'I like the masks best,' his critic declares. 
'Think I do as well,' Mackintosh lies. 'Trouble is they'll go the quickest.' When there is no response, he explains, 'You get fond of them. You don't want them to sell.' 
'You've got to, ain't you?' 
'True.' Mackintosh closes the covers unfortunately as the youth reaches for his beer. 'Never tried painting or drawing yourself, then?' 
'Nah—not my thing.' 
'Wasn't my thing? I didn't go to art school, you know. Universities of life for me.' 
The youth makes no pretence at being interested. 
'Got into art while I was in prison,' continues Mackintosh in a moment of inspiration. The effect of his words exceeds all expectations. Never since his lecturing days has he become an object of awe so quickly.
'What were you in for?' 
'Armed robbery,' he confesses modestly. ''They had an art teacher in there who got me into expressing myself.' 
'What sort of jobs did you do?' 
'Banks, mostly.' 
'How many?' 
'Six or seven. I can remember precisely.' Pleased at the effect he is having, Mackintosh presses on, 'On this last job we have had plenty of time, but somebody set off the alarm. You should have seen it—all hell broke loose. Even then we'd have got away all right if there hadn't been an armed response unit nearby. As soon as we got out of the building, there they were waiting, crouching with guns at the ready like they were on the tele.' 
'I wish I'd been there.' 
'You wouldn't have liked it—not when you've got half a dozen police rifles trained on you.' 
'I'd have gone for a shootout.' 
'Too many of them.' 
'It's one way of getting back at the bastards.' The youth looks around to make sure that they cannot be overheard and then leans closer to murmur, 'Can you get me a gun? I wanna take the fuckers out.' 
Mackintosh sips his Guinness. A relatively law-abiding life, a healthy conscience and guilt at recounting the story make him want to deter his companion from a life of crime. At length he says, 'As soon as you've got a reputation, you get hauled inside for questioning whenever anything happens. Three times that's happened to me. I'm expecting our friends in blue at any minute, as a matter of fact.' He reinforces his message by glancing towards the door and has the satisfaction of seeing his companion look uneasy. 'There's been some sort of fuss in the West End, so they'll be looking for me. Don't worry if they burst in and haul me off.' 
'They're coming in here?' 
'They know where to look. To be on the safe side, I'd bugger off if I were you.' 
The youth hesitates. 
'It's up to you, of course.' 
The youth buggers off. Mackintosh considers whether to drink the remains of the lager, but decides against it. He does have some standards. Anyway, lager tastes insipid after Guinness. Instead, he catches Irene's eye and smiles. 
'Funny chap, that,' he confides when she comes closer.
'Funny peculiar,' she agrees. 
'I'll have another pint. Having something yourself?' 
He always feels buoyant when he makes that offer. It is a tangible sign of his good fortune. Until he started the workshops, finding money for his own drinks was enough of a problem. 
'I'll have a coke. Thanks.' 
He watches her setting the Guinness to pour while she squirts coke into a glass from a gadget which resembles something from a dental surgery. When she brings his drink and his change, he explains, 'We were just looking at my drawings.' 
Irene shows polite interest. 
'I'm just getting an exhibition together, as a matter of fact. I don't know whether you go in for things like that.' 
She shakes her head. 'Not really.' 
'I was hoping you might help me to decide what drawings to show.' 
'It's no good asking me.' 
'See what you think.' 
He turns both portfolios to face her. As she leafs through the drawings and paintings, he becomes fascinated by her hands. He has never been good at drawing hands. He is tempted to ask whether he can sketch them, but she might read too much into the request. People always do when he suggests being a model. The word has connotations. 
'These are good.' She has stopped at Maria's drawings. 
'I'm rather proud of them.' 
'They're different to the others.' 
'When you get a different mood, it shows.' 
'Where's this exhibition going to be?' 
'Only round the corner. Why don't you come along?' 
She hesitates. 
'I'll drop in an invitation for the preview.' 
'Thanks.' 
'You'll get a glass or two of wine out of it. And there's food—we're getting a caterer in, so it should be good. Not that I have anything to do with that side of things. Leave it to other people.' He realises that he is babbling. 
'I suppose you're too busy painting.' 
'Keeps me busy,' he agrees. 'It's only a small exhibition, but it should keep me going for a year if I sell most of the works.' 
'All right for some.' 
'A lot of work goes into each painting, you know. I don't knock one off in ten minutes.' 
'I didn't mean that.' 
'Some of them take weeks.' 
'I'd lose patience.' 
'You get driven. You feel you've got to get an idea down on canvas.' 
Irene looks impressed. 
'I don't like all the business of exhibitions,' he confides. 'Trouble is you've got to do it for the money. It's great to get shown in the Tate, but then your painting's like a library book—everybody's property.' 
'You've got a painting in the Tate?' 
'One or two. It's like a seal of approval, for what it's worth. Getting something into the American galleries is better—they pay well and they give kudos. Like the Museum of Modern Art in New York—they've got one of mine.'
Irene looks even more impressed.
'I haven't exploited the American side of things as much as I could. I suppose I should get down to it, but I just haven't had the time. Quite honestly, I'd rather get on with painting.'
Irene seems lost. 
'It's a compulsion,' he explains, unable to turn back. 'Don't you feel like that about anything?' 
'No.' 
'Shame on you.' And he means it. A life untouched by art or obsession seems hardly worth living, yet how many of the people whom he sees every day or who come to his workshops are like Irene? 
'I'm not talented,' she confesses. 
'Talent doesn't count.' 
'What does then?' 
He hesitates, annoyed that he still opens his mouth without thinking. And Irene is waiting for an answer. He explains, 'It's all to do with what you want—what your dreams are.' 
Irene looks baffled. Mackintosh knows that there is little point in revealing more confidences while he is getting so little response. 
'So tell me about yourself,' he invites, just to show that he is not self-centred. 
'There's nothing much to tell.' 
'I'm sure there is. You're not planning on a career as a barmaid, are you?' 
'I used to work in a boutique, then it went broke.' 
'So you fill in here.' 
'I couldn't get nothing else.' 
'And what about when you're not working?' 
He sees the wariness in her eyes. She thinks that he is trying to chat her up. And she is right.
'I mean what are your hobbies?' he presses. 
'I haven't really got any.' She looks uneasy. 'I'd better get on with washing the glasses.' 
He despises her. And he despises himself for despising her. He looks down on the likes of Mrs Parrish for their pretensions and their casual acceptance of money, but at the same time he cannot be one of the people. At times like this he wants to be on his own. He closes the portfolio as a sign that the conversation is at an end. Irene looks relieved to get away, which helps to assuage his guilt. He sips his Guinness. At least some things never change.
*
A pleasant walk home though the well-tended squares of Islington on a balmy autumn day provides a chance to plan what to do next. The most tempting course is to leave the portfolios in his room and to while away the rest of the afternoon in a pub. He might even go back to see Irene. His conscience pricks him for summarily writing her off. He knows that he should be producing paintings—lots of paintings—but the events of the day have reduced the need for that, which merits a celebration. 
Chapel Street market is winding down. The street is littered with discarded cartons and slippery with rotting fruit. Mackintosh treads carefully, wary of slipping while he is carrying the precious portfolios. With hindsight, showing them in the pub was tempting providence: the topmost works might easily have been splashed. How would he explain that to viewers—or to the artists? A combination of the pleasant dulling of the senses occasioned by alcohol and the effort of avoiding the fruit on the pavement means that he does not notice the tramp sitting on the ground until the last minute. 
'Spare some change for a cup of tea?' 
The voice sounds familiar. Mackintosh hesitates, staring at the tramp's face. Recognition is in those eyes behind grime-encrusted, wire-framed glasses. Memories of Mackintosh's Ecowatch days flood back. 
'Mackintosh!' 
'The editor!' 
'Not these days, alas. Nothing to edit.' 
They stare at each other. Mackintosh tries to remember the other man's Christian name. At the office, he was always referred to as the editor. Now the gaunt features are obscured by the beard and tangled hair. A filthy raincoat hardly conceals a torn and equally filthy suit. Judging by his hands, he has not washed for several days, or cut his fingernails for several weeks. 
'Better call me Derek now,' the unfortunate says. 
'Might be difficult after all those years of knowing you as the editor. I thought you were inside.' 
'They don't keep you in for ever.' 
'Not thinking. Sorry.' Mackintosh hesitates before asking, 'Do you want to come for a drink?' 
'I can't pay for it.' 
'Don't worry.' 
'Down on funds at the moment.' Recollecting habits from more affluent days, the editor dusts his coat with his hands as he gets up. The gesture does nothing to improve his appearance. The two men walk slowly, weighing up the nature of their new relationship.
'Do you live around here?' the editor ventures. 
'Few months now.' 
'Doing quite well by the look of it.' 
'Not bad.' 
Conversation lapses until they reach the pub. It is not a place which Mackintosh visits frequently: he dislikes pubs which have juke boxes and where there are no barmaids to admire. He orders a Guinness and a lager, half expecting the barman to refuse to serve him while he has such a disreputable companion in tow. In the event nothing is said, though the barman regards the editor with distaste. The latter drinks eagerly, as one for whom alcohol is a treat. 
'So when did you get out?' Mackintosh enquires when the editor draws breath. 
'A month ago. Time off for good behaviour.' 
'Put you off child porn?' 
'It wasn't child porn. That was what the tabloids said.' 
'So did the judge.' 
'You should have seen the girls. Christ.' The editor shakes his head. 'They weren't children—not with bodies like that.' 
The two men turn back to their drinks as they dream of bodies. 
'It wasn't the erotic side that interested me,' the editor explains. 'It was the technical challenge. How do you conjure an erotic charge in a still photograph?' 
'I can understand that,' Mackintosh the artist sympathises.
'I seem to remember us having this conversation before.' 
'Did we?' 
'When you came over to my place years ago.' 
'You've got a good memory.' 
'That's one thing about being inside: you get plenty of time to chew over memories.'
'Where are you living now?' 
'Third bench on the left, courtesy of Islington Parks Department. I did have a dingy little bedsit in Holloway paid for by Social Security, but there was a falling out over the rent.'
Mackintosh thinks of those empty bedrooms below his attic, but on reflection it is not the moment to upset Mrs Parrish by suggesting an extra lodger—particularly one who looks so disreputable. 
'Getting a bit cold these nights,' the editor is saying. 'Might have to think about a hostel for the winter.' 
'I've never had to sleep out.' 
'Take my advice and don't try it.' 
'Come near to it a few times.' 
'It's got a few compensations. I woke at five this morning and watched the dawn coming up. That was magical. You're not really aware of dawn when you're inside—inside buildings, I mean. Inside prison, you're not aware of anything much.'
Mackintosh nods, trying to remember when he last watched a dawn. He is tempted to tell the editor that enough alcohol banishes early morning speculations about the future, but somebody who cannot afford a roof over his head will not be receptive to such advice. 
'That was when I wished I had my camera,' the editor says wistfully. 
'What happened to it?' 
'Confiscated by the police, along with the rest of my stuff. I suppose it all got sold.' 
'Tough.' 
'What amazes me is how many photographs I took in those days. I must have had thousands of prints and negatives. I hope they weren't all burnt.' 
'There was a black and white photograph of Mornington Crescent,' Mackintosh recalls as episodes from his sole visit to the editor's flat come back. 
'I went there a few days ago to see how it's changed. Hasn't become trendy, I'm delighted to say.' 
'We never saw you without your camera.' 
'Trouble is you can't look at anything without putting a mental viewfinder around it. You're conditioned.' 
'Same with painting.' 
'I noticed the portfolios.' 
Mackintosh tries to look modest. He considers explaining that the work is not his, but there is no need to do that unless he really has to. Instead, he reminds his colleague, 'I was painting when you knew me.'
 'You kept it quiet.' 
'Sunday painter in those days.' 
'Can I see?' 
Mackintosh heaves the two portfolios onto the bar with less enthusiasm than when he showed their contents to Irene. The editor moves his glass away as Maria's work is revealed. Mackintosh concentrates on his drink and tries not to watch as his companion examines each work carefully. 
'I like this.' The editor pauses at Maria's drawing of a street sweeper. 
'Getting some stuff together for an exhibition.' 
'You're going up in the world. Where's it being held?' 
'Just a local thing.' 
'I'd have liked to come, but ...' 
Mackintosh understands. 
'I'm impressed,' says the editor, hesitating at the pastel drawings. 'For what it's worth, you shouldn't have any trouble selling them.' 
'That's the best of the crop.'
'Quite a variety of styles,' the editor remarks, peeping into the second portfolio. 
'Eclectic is the word.' 
'A good word.' 
'Eclectic,' Mackintosh repeats, enjoying rolling the syllables around his mouth. He suspects the editor of guessing that several hands are involved. He feels apprehensive for Tamsin's sake.
'Interesting.' The editor closes the second portfolio. 'Do you make a living out of painting?' 
Mackintosh is tempted to agree that he does, but a vestige of honesty compels him to explain about the workshops. 
'Can't imagine you as a new age guru,' confesses the editor. 
'Times change.' 
'Too true. Do you actually know anything about new ways of seeing?' 
'I remember what it's like to go home with ten pints of Guinness inside you. You see things in a new way then. If I look like forgetting, I have another ten pints to remind myself.' 
'And people pay you?' 
'That's why I do it. They flock in every weekend to get their spiritual sustenance.'
'Amazing.' 
'I think so myself sometimes.' 
'Perhaps I should try it.' 
'It keeps you on your toes. You've got to think of spiritually uplifting things to say for six hours. Mind you, once you've thought of them, you can repeat them every session. It's a bit like lecturing, really.' 
'You used to be a lecturer, didn't you? I'd forgotten that.' 
'Happy days.' Mackintosh turns back to his Guinness as waves of nostalgia threaten to engulf him. 
'Ever thought of going back to the academic world?' 
'Too old.' 
'You're not in your dotage.' 
'I am by the standard of lecturers. Anyway, they're cutting back on staff.' 
The editor pulls a face. 'They're always cutting back on staff. I keep thinking I ought to apply for a few jobs, but there's not much point the way things are.'
'The clothes, you mean?' Mackintosh surveys the tall, cadaverous figure. 'Can't offer you mine, I'm afraid.' 
'I wasn't expecting you to.' 
'Wish I could.' 
'Even if I turned up in Saville Row suit, I'd still have the problem of explaining what I've been doing for the last few years.' 
'Use the old standby: say you've been travelling abroad.' 
'Could do, I suppose.' The editor sounds doubtful. 'The other thing you need is an address.'   
'You could always use mine.' 
'It's a tempting offer.'
'Do a c.v. on the computer down the homeless centre, use my address, then if you get a nibble, buy some clothes from a charity shop. It's worth a try.' 
'You're right, of course.' 
'You don't sound sure.' 
'You know how it is.' 
Mackintosh knows how it is, particularly when the pubs are open and he has money in his pocket. Cue for another drink. 
'What we need is another Ecowatch,' says the editor, clutching his second glass. 'Remember how we used to go through the newspapers every morning, looking at Situations Vacant?' 
'You didn't. You never turned up at all, some days.' 
'I was at conferences and press dos, wasn't I? Sometimes I'd pop in during the evening after you'd gone—see what papers were left. Somebody always took The Guardian home. That was the one with all the job ads.' 
'After we'd gone through the Situations Vacant, we'd spend the rest of the morning writing applications.' 
'Happy days.' 
'Never to be repeated.' Mackintosh gazes nostalgically into his Guinness.
'You don't think that somewhere there's another organisation like Ecowatch crying out for our talents?' 
'No.' 
'Pity.' 
'These days even charities have to be lean and fit,' Mackintosh assures his companion.
'Sounds like a contradiction in terms.'
'That's why Ecowatch came to an ignominious end.'
'Do you see anything of the others?' 
'Nothing. When everything collapsed, we went our separate ways. I heard that the director was in the States.' 
'He was always angling after a lecturing job there.' 
'Dylan's probably charmed himself into a job somewhere.' 
'I always thought he should have been a salesman. I can see him selling double glazing.' 
'Chatting up the housewives. It would suit him.' 
'Then there was Rob who did the accounts.' 
'That's right. I don't know what happened to him. And don't forget little Sue.' 
'I never saw much of her.' 
'That was because she kept office hours and you didn't.' 
'Pity we couldn't all keep in touch.' 
'Always happens when you leave a job. You mean to see everybody again, but once the thread that binds you together gets cut ...' 
'Being inside, you lose touch with everybody.' 
Mackintosh feels a pang of guilt at not visiting his erstwhile working colleague.
'Strange feeling when you come out,' the editor muses. 'It's like you're let loose in a world that doesn't belong to you any more. It's a moment you've been looking forward to, but when it comes, you want to run back inside. You can't cope. All the comforting routine's disappeared and you're on your own. Bit like waking up to find you're in a foreign country.' 
Mackintosh wonders what such an experience would do to his painting. He cannot resist asking, 'What was it like inside?' 
'As I say, you get into a routine. If you numb your mind to where you are, you get by.' The editor takes a swig of lager. 'It's not something I'd want to repeat. Got too used to having my freedom again, even if I have to sleep out in the rain.' 
'Don't they give you some sort of rehabilitation?' 
'In theory. You have a chat with an overworked probation officer and get pointed towards the social security office. That's about it. You can understand how people drift back to crime.' 
'So it was tough?' Mackintosh knows that the question is crass, but he can think of nothing more empathic to say. Gurus are short on small talk. 
'It's that all right.' 
'You haven't been tempted to write your memoirs or sell your story to the News of the World?' 
'They never asked me.' 
'You could ask them. Put your side of the case. Might be worthwhile. At least you'll get some money out of it.' 
The editor looks thoughtful. Having implanted the suggestion, Mackintosh concentrates on his Guinness.  
'How did you get into this business with the workshops?' the editor wants to know.
'I was going broke, so I thought it was time to do something. Then fate took a hand. I picked up a copy of Time Out somebody left in a pub and saw all these courses about personal growth and development at exorbitant prices.' 
'Did you go on one?' 
'I had to see what it was like, didn't I—what sort of demand there was, who goes to them and what goes on. Begrudged every penny, mind you.' 
'Didn't think of you as hot on market research.' 
'You've got to do it these days. There's a lot of competition.' 
'Am I that out of touch?' 
'It's the shape of the post-industrial economy, for better or worse.' 
'So what happened on this course you went to?' 
'Long while ago now.' Mackintosh sips his Guinness as an aid to memory. 'About a dozen people there—mainly female, I might add. I don't know whether I'd have been interested if they were all men. When the chap started talking, I thought: I can do this. So I did.' 
'What was he saying?' 
'Exhortations to "get in touch with our inner selves," and that sort of stuff. He had these exercises to help us.' 
'Which you copied.'   
'Which I adapted.' 
The editor looks sceptical. 
'I did,' Mackintosh insists. 'You have to devise your own system. So long as it sounds convincing, that's all that matters.'
'What sort of exercises?' 
'Chanting ...' 
'Bet it was “um”. It's always “um”.' 
'Only with my version, you raise your voice at the end of each phrase.' 
'Can you have a phrase when you're only saying “um”?' 
'So long as you're paying, you can.' 
'Anyway, carry on.' 
'There's not much more to say, really.' 
'What about the other exercises on this session you went to?' 
'There was meditating. We had to sit cross-legged for that one.' 
'What's that do for you?' 
'Gives you pins and needles.'
'What's it supposed to do?'
'It's good for your karma. Don't ask me what that is.' 
'Can you sit cross-legged?' 
'I can stick my knees up and pretend.' 
'Doesn't it show?' 
'Nobody notices. They're too busy contemplating infinity. And I always have a meditation period in every workshop. That's most important. You lie back and think of all the money you're making.' 
'Don't the students get restless?' 
'You stop things short before that happens.' 
'What about the rest of the day?' 
'You're not thinking of running courses, are you?' 
'Difficult to organise from a park bench.' 
'There's a lot of interacting to get through,' Mackintosh reveals. 'Must have your interacting.' 
'Getting in touch with each other's karmas.' 
'Touch being the operative word.' 
'Sounds fun if it's all girls.' 
'Can be,' Mackintosh agrees, recalling occasions when it was. 
'So you went on this one-day course and decided to give it a go?' 
'Seemed like a good idea—a paying idea, at any rate.' 
'Don't you ever feel a fraud?' 
'You think of the money and that gets you through. Sometimes I even believe in what I'm doing.' 
'Don't get carried away.' 
'Don't worry—it never lasts.' 
'Good. I don't want to think you've changed from the Mackintosh of old.' 
'You hardly knew me.' 
'We came into contact most days.' 
'Did we?' 
'Got the measure of each other.' 
'So long as one of us remembers.' 
'Each trying to perfect his persona.' 
'What was mine?' 
The editor reflects on that one. 'A loner, idiosyncratic, bit too fond of the drink.' 
'I haven't changed much.' 
'Quite admired you, actually.' 
'Why?' 
'The way you treated the director with contempt.' 
'Did I?' 
'Everybody else thought so.' 
'I thought that was what you did, the way you never came to Monday morning meetings.' 
'That was because I had trouble getting up early.' 
'I know the problem.' 
'Prison soon cures you.' 
'I'll put up with getting up late.' 
'Anyway, I don't like offices. They make me feel claustrophobic. That's why I didn't stick around too much.' 
Mackintosh sympathises. 
'You get used to being in a cell, that's the strange thing,' the editor muses. 
'So has it cured your claustrophobia?' 
'Don't know. Haven't been in an office since I came out—except the social security office, and that doesn't count.' 
But Mackintosh is paying little attention. Ideas buzz in his mind, like running courses to overcome claustrophobia. Visions come to him: of standing in the doorway, being stormed by claustrophobic punters anxious to escape the crowded studio. Fully-fledged agoraphobics unable to face the journey to Islington would be unable to attend. As payment would be in advance and nonrefundable, he could keep their fees and revert to spending weekends in the conviviality of pubs. It is an intriguing prospect.
'So where are you living now?' the editor asks. 
'Just round the corner.' 
'You were always complaining about where you lived.'
'Was I?' Mackintosh betrays genuine surprise. 
'Your main topics of conversation were the state of your rooms and how stupid it was that pubs closed in the afternoon. That was before the licensing laws changed.' 
'Some pubs still close in the afternoon.' 
'When you've been inside, that's a small price to pay.' 
'Anyway, I've got a decent room now. How long I'll be there I don't know.' 
'If you've got somewhere good, hang on to it. Anything's better than a park bench.'
'It's more complicated than that. Landlady troubles.' 
'Sounds intriguing.' 
Mackintosh explains. 
'Doesn't sound like a problem,' the editor decides. 'I'd say you've got it made.' 
'You think?' 
'Go along with it, especially if she's loaded.' 
'I don't know.' 
'If she thinks you're turning down her overtures ...' 
Mackintosh tries not to think about it. 
'Tempted to do a runner?' 
'Don't know yet.' 
'Think you might have to?' 
One thing Mackintosh is sure about, though he does not mention it: nothing must disrupt the exhibition. He reflects on the disparate paths which the editor and he have taken. His own life since leaving Ecowatch has been uneventful by comparison. He shudders at the thought of how he might have fared in prison. 
'How did you find the place?' the editor is asking. 
'Local paper.' 
'Ah.' 
'What's that mean?' 
'Just remembering the old days when we mingled with the Hampstead liberals and the champagne socialists of Islington. That was the world of the New Statesman.' 
Mackintosh thinks about that one. He could never consider Mrs Parrish as a champagne socialist—or any sort of socialist. He wonders how he will get on with her friends at the preview. 
'If you hear of any jobs going for media types, think of me,' says the editor.
'I''ll do that,' Mackintosh promises. 
'I'd appreciate it.' 
A world of literary parties and exhibition opens. Mackintosh knows that this is the image he is putting forward of his life. Though it is false, he is wary of giving the true picture. Nobody should be disillusioned while he has a pint in his hand. 
'I hate scrounging drinks off you,' the editor says. 
'Don't worry about it.' 
'I'd like to buy you one in return, but alas ...' 
'Don't worry.' 
'It's good to see a friendly face and to go in a pub again.' 
'I've often wondered how you were getting on.' 
The editor does not reply. Mackintosh suspects that after such a cliche, the silence is deserved. His concern has hardly been noticeable since the trial. 
With serious matters left behind by tacit agreement, the two men settle to the serious business of drinking. Mackintosh opens a conversation about what makes one pub better than another. It is a question which often preoccupies him. Do congenial surroundings relax the drinker, making him more willing to appreciate his surroundings, or do memories of those final moments before intoxication become incorporated into the experience and in some mysterious way enrich it? Perhaps the principle could be extended, so that every drink becomes an entry into another world. 
'Not used to drink these days,' the editor confesses. 'Not that I used to drink a lot anyway.'
'You've got to get into practice.' 
'You don't get much chance when you're inside.' 
'They ought to run courses. An essential part of rehabilitation.'' 
'There isn't a suggestion box, unfortunately.' 
'At least it's all behind you.' 
'The problem is what's in front of me.' 
The mood grows sombre as they begin the next round. Mackintosh tries to remember what he meant to do that afternoon—and gives up. From now on, the course is set for the rest of the day. 

chapter five

'What do you think?' asks Mrs Parrish as Mackintosh tries to focus on the card she holds out. 
'Impressive,' he pronounces. His forebodings about the summons to the living room have proved unfounded. Such petty misdemeanours as using a teaspoon to mix paint remain unremarked, if not undiscovered. His head still aches from his session with the editor the previous day.
'I think it's quite tasteful.' 
'Certainly can't complain,' he agrees.
'Particularly as they've done it so quickly.' 
'Is there a rush?' 
'We've only got three weeks left.' 
Too late to voice his doubts. Much too late. One of the few useful things which experience has taught him is never to hem himself in by opening his mouth unnecessarily. If he had kept to the principle, there would be no exhibition.
'People are going to have full diaries if we don't get the invitations out this week,' Mrs Parrish warns. 
'And they're going to the press and to all your friends?' 
'And anybody you want to invite. It's your exhibition.' 
A moment's thought convinces Mackintosh that of the people he meets in pubs, none is likely to be interested in an art exhibition, except for the editor. 
'We've got to get all the paintings and drawings framed,' says Mrs Parrish with an enthusiasm which Mackintosh finds disturbing rather than infectious, 'and then we'll have to work out where we're going to hang everything.' 
He does not answer. Framing is something which has not occurred to him. The cost is sure to run into three figures. And there is the problem of what to do with the works which remain unsold. With frames, they will take up more room than canvases. They will also be more difficult to transport should he need to make a hasty departure. The students are the ones who will gain from the deal. He begrudges paying to have their work framed, except in the case of Tamsin, but he cannot imagine them meeting the cost. 
'Everything in here I can take off the walls.' Mrs Parrish is saying. Mackintosh looks at the tasteful Victorian watercolours in their gilt frames. He has a liking for Victorian paintings. What puzzles him is why people think of the Victorian age as sombre when their paintings are so richly coloured. Not that these pallid efforts will do much to change anybody's opinion. The beach scenes are peopled by a few tiny, indistinct figures. He suspects from the dominating skies that these are the works of an amateur painter—skies are easy. Not that the lack of talent was likely to be reflected in the price. Anything Victorian is sure to fetch a three-figure sum in the sort of shops which Mrs Parrish frequents. The thought galls him, though the idea does pass through his mind that he should paint a few fakes himself. At least he is good at skies.
'I think we should put something striking in the hall to get their attention,' his mentor is saying. 
'Sounds a good idea.' 
'Have you got something suitable?' 
Mackintosh considers. 
'Something big,' Mrs Parrish urges. 
'It doesn't have to be big to be striking.' 
'I realise that, but it does help, doesn't it?'
'I'll think about it,' he assures her, regretfully consigning Tamsin's work to one of the upstairs rooms. Mark's masks are striking, but too crude for such a prominent position as the hall. Whatever the merits of Maria's work, they lack boldness. The fitting solution is to display one of his own paintings. After all, he is doing the students a favour. 
'Don't leave it too long,' Mrs Parrish warns. 
'You said we've got three weeks.' 
'We might need to try out several paintings in each position to see which one looks best.' 
'Can't we can do that the day before the exhibition?' Sensing Mrs Parrish's resistance, he adds, 'If we do it too early, all the spontaneity goes.' 
'We can't leave everything till the last minute.' 
'I'm not saying that.' 
'There's a lot to do. We'll need a catalogue—'
'Which is all in hand,' he lies.
'Then there's the catering to worry about.' 
'I thought we were getting somebody in.' 
'I've still got to organise it.'
'I suppose so.'
'And when the invitations go out, there'll be all the phone calls from the press. Are you going to stay here to deal with them?' 
Mackintosh feels stirrings of alarm. 
'I hope you're going to show me some of your work beforehand,' Mrs Parrish is saying. She watches him. Mackintosh senses an implied threat in her words. 
'I've got to get all the canvases framed first,' he tells her. 'That's the priority.' 
'How long does it take?' 
'There's quite a few. I think we'll need to give it a week at least.' 
'Then we can't afford to leave it, can we?' 
Mackintosh's alarm deepens. His landlady is coming to know him too well. 
'I'll get it organised today,' he assures her. 
'We don't want to get to the last minute and find they're not ready.' 
'They'll be done,' he declares, edging towards the door. 
'Aren't you going to help me?' 
'Help you with what?' he asks, pretending not to notice that she looks put out. 
'Sending out all these invitations.' 
'Now?' His voice has risen to a squeak. Panic at being deprived of his longed-for first drink of the day rises within him. 
'It's no use leaving them.' 
He senses from her tone that he is going down in her estimation. 
'I've got to go out,' he insists. 'There's the framing to be sorted out. You said that's a priority.' 
'Can't you do it over the phone?'
'I don't know the numbers.'
'They're all in the Yellow Pages.'
'I know where the firms are, but I don't know the names.'
'Have you got a list of your friends' addresses?' 
'It's in hand,' he lies. 'If you leave me a couple of dozen invitations, I'll get that organised.'
'We've got the press invitations to address as well, don't forget. I don't know who your contacts are.' 
Mackintosh is reluctant to confess that he has not got any contacts. Instead he glances at his watch. 'In fact I'm due to meet one of them now, so I could take an invitation with me.' 
To her credit, Mrs Parrish manages to smile. 'I suppose if you've made an appointment, you've got to keep it.' 
'You lose credibility if you don't.' Mackintosh tries to sound regretful at missing out on a session of addressing envelopes. 'I'll deal with the press invitations, of course.' 
'So I should hope.' 
'If you leave another twenty invitations out.' 
'Twenty?' 
'Better make it thirty.' Mackintosh looks at his watch. 'I really ought to be going ...' He backs towards the door under the reproachful gaze of Mrs Parrish. When he reaches the hall and the door is closed, relief sweeps over him. He hurries outside to the pavement, her words still with him. Was she issuing a veiled threat when she said, 'So I should hope', or was she merely showing her exasperation? The incontrovertible fact remains that he must redeem himself in her eyes if he is to avoid putting his exhibition at risk. He has already bought her flowers, so something more impressive is called for. Inviting her to a restaurant is one option; buying chocolates is easier and cheaper. He hopes that she eats chocolates. But such matters can be set aside for the moment. His immediate priority is a drink. 
As Mackintosh heads for the pub, the meeting with the editor comes back to him. It was a cold night—too cold for sleeping outside. The thought of those empty rooms beneath his attic makes him feel guilty. He knows that he ought to ask Mrs Parrish if his old colleague can stay at the house, but he can envisage her reaction on encountering the editor in his present state. Reluctantly he has to conclude that any generous gesture which carries an element of risk is better deferred until after the exhibition.
By the time he turns into Liverpool Road, his spirits have risen. A little gentle exercise always revitalises him, particularly when there is a Guinness at the end of his journey. And there is the architecture to look at. It has been his long-cherished ambition to write a book on the effect of the environment on the psyche. To the best of his knowledge, nobody else has explored the subject. The opportunity is there. He has been planning the opening chapters since his lecturing days, but he knows that the work will never be written. 
One feature of Islington which fascinates him is finding streets where the road is lower than the pavement, as though worn down by traffic long before anybody got around to metalling it. In Liverpool Road, the unwary pedestrian is protected from falling in front of traffic by railings which are worn shiny by use and threaded through thick, cast iron posts. Behind them, the nineteenth-century terrace of blackened stock bricks harks back to the Georgian symmetry of the earlier century, when the area must still have been fields. Such large front gardens are unusual for Islington. Because of the lower level of the road, they have survived the vicissitudes of road-widening schemes and conversion into hard standings. Weeds proliferate: the relentless traffic discourages gardening. Though Mackintosh has little sympathy for cars, never having been able to afford one, he enjoys the bustle of main streets. There he can be anonymous, vicariously sampling the excitement of London. He is happy as an outsider. That is one of the virtues of drink—it detaches him from other people. 
The girl coming towards him smiles with recognition, or he might have passed without giving her more than a second glance to acknowledge that she is attractive. Long, golden hair. Long legs enticingly encased in black tights. Her face is familiar, though it takes him a moment to place her as a student who attended one of his workshops. He tries desperately to remember her name. 
'I hardly recognised you without your robes,' she says as they stop. A Scottish lilt to her voice.
'I only wear them for business.' 
'Very wise.' 
'You think?' 
'You'd have kids shouting things at you, or people sidling away because they think you're going to start preaching.' 
'Added to which, robes aren't very practical when it's raining.' 
At least he can make her laugh. 
'They get splashed,' he explains. 'Like wearing a long dress.' 
'You know about that, do you?' 
'Not about wearing dresses, but do I get splashed.' 
'Right.'
'What we gurus have to bear.' 
'It's a tough life.' 
The conversation falters. She is ready to move away. He searches for gambits which will hold her. All he can manage is, 'Coincidence, seeing you again so soon.' 
'Isobel.' 
'Eh?' 
'My name.' 
'I hadn't forgotten.' 
'On the tip of your tongue.' 
'How about a drink to celebrate this fortuitous meeting?' 
'Now?' Her eyes grow large. 
'They're open,' he says, glancing at his watch. 
'Okay,' she agrees after a momentary hesitation.
Fate is being kind, he tells himself as they head for the nearest pub. He is coming to believe in fate. 
'I didn't think gurus went to pubs,' Isobel remarks. 
'It's been known.' 
'That's quite reassuring.' 
'Why?' 
'Even gurus have feet of clay.' 
Mackintosh suspects that she is laughing at him. Not that it matters now she has agreed to join him. There is a definite buzz in having an attractive girl beside him. Men who pass them look admiringly at her. An unaccustomed spring has come to his step. Since Melanie, he has failed to entice a girl attending one of his workshops to join him for a drink and a meal. That was a month ago, though since then there has been no want of trying on his part. Thinking back to his lecturing days, he recalls the fruitless attempts to entice earnest teenage students into his favourite Indian restaurant. Those were heady days. What depresses him is remembering how many years have passed. These days he can appreciate older women—not as old as Mrs Parrish, but girls in their twenties, like Isobel. 
The fog in his mind is clearing. Now he remembers being unable to decide between Isobel, Debbie and Michelle. He sneaks a look at Isobel's shapely legs and wonders whether in another ten years he will be setting his sights on women in their thirties. 
'Do you run courses through the week?' she is asking. 
'No, certainly not.' 
'A vehement denial.' 
'Other things to do.' 
'Are you going to tell me what?' 
'Painting.' 
He cannot resist watching for her response. Disappointingly, her only show of interest is an almost imperceptible smile which he cannot interpret. 
'Pictures or houses?' she asks.
'I'm not too good on houses. Don't like heights.' 
That makes her laugh. He loves the way her teeth glisten. 
'I've got an exhibition coming up, if you're interested,' he offers.
'Sounds impressive.' 
'I can send you an invitation, if you like. It's in three weeks.' 
'I'll look forward to it.' 
'If you could tell me your address again. It's on file, but my secretary's on holiday and I can't get into the computer.'
'You should get over your techno fear.'
But she does not tell him her address. As they walk in silence, he wonders why she is wary of him. At least she shows no sign of changing her mind about the drink. He imagines how Mrs Parrish might react on being introduced to 'a close friend' as young and attractive as Isobel. Not favourably is his guess. At least once the invitations are out it will be too late to stop the exhibition. 
One of his favourite pubs. A generation ago, the nondescript interior was turned into some brewery designer's idealised vision of a Tudor inn. There were the blackened beams across the ceiling, the horse brasses on the walls and gas flames licking merrily around the imitation coal in the grate of the brick fireplace. Since then, the Tudor interior has declined into comfortable shabbiness. Mackintosh hopes that it remains forgotten by the designers. Bad taste like that deserves to be celebrated.
Superficially the pub is little different from the one where he went with the editor, yet for some reason he feels more at ease there. Perhaps it is something to do with being known by the staff, though on this occasion familiarity proves a disadvantage: in the absence of other customers, Christine, the barmaid, displays unseemly curiosity about his new companion. He feels glad that he did not head for the Red Lion.
Isobel has rum and coke. In honour of the occasion, Mackintosh forsakes his usual Guinness and has a whisky, eliciting more curious glances from Christine. He suspects that his relationship with her will never be the same. To complete his transformation into a woman's man, he escorts Isobel to a table instead of remaining at the bar. A problem presents itself: whether to sit opposite her in the hopes of seeing down her cleavage, or beside her, where she might fail to notice his bloodshot eyes and shaking hands and from where he can compare her with Christine. It is a difficult decision, especially when it has to be made quickly and before the first drink of the morning. He takes the safe course and sits beside her. A consolation is that he can admire her thighs.
'This is all very decadent,' she remarks, wriggling delightfully as she gets comfortable. 
'Serendipity, I think they call it.'
'Who's they?'
Mackintosh does not know. He bows his head in acknowledgement that he has been bettered. He would never have been guilty of woolly thinking in his lecturing days, or during his time at Ecowatch, where people like the editor kept him on his intellectual mettle. 
'I enjoyed the workshop,' Isobel says.
'Splendid.'
'Getting in touch with ourselves.'
He cannot be sure from her tone whether she is making fun of him. To change the subject he asks, 'What do you do? Modelling?' 
She laughs. 
'You should with your looks.'
'I'm a humble translator,' she informs him, recovering. 'Didn't I tell you that at the workshop?'
'It must have slipped my mind.'
'With everybody telling you their life histories, I expect you forget.'
'I shouldn't.'
'Even gurus can't be perfect.'
If only she knew how far he has strayed from perfection, he tells himself. If only she knew. He watches her studying her surroundings with more curiosity than enthusiasm.
'I've never been in a pub this early,' she admits. 
'It's quiet this time of day.' 
'Because most people are at work—which is where I should be.' 
'Am I getting you into trouble?' 
She shakes her head. 'I'm freelance.' 
'Very wise. I don't think I could go back to a nine-to-five job these days.' 
'You could if you didn't have the workshops to pay the bills.' 
'They help.'
'You must make a bomb out of them.' 
'Hardly a bomb. They're only at weekends, remember. And there's the Thursday relaxation class.'
'We mustn't forget the Thursday relaxation class.'
'It's very popular.' 
'So the classes are really to subsidise your art?' 
'You have to do something, unless you're a Damien Hirst.' 
'Sorry. It sounds as if I'm criticising you. I just didn't think of you as an artist.' 
'What did you think I was?' 
She considers before admitting, 'I don't know. I thought you might be a piss artist.'
'Thanks.' He is tempted to ask whether other students took the same view, but on reflection he does not want to know. 
'Now I've upset you.' 
'No—I love being called a piss artist.' 
'I have upset you.' 
'No you haven't.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
In response he nods his head graciously. Perhaps inviting Isobel to the pub was not such a good idea. A quick word in the street before bidding her goodbye and all his illusions about her would have remained intact. 
'It's always the risk with workshops,' she excuses herself. 'You don't know what you're going to get.' 
'And were you satisfied?' 
'I didn't ask for my money back, did I?' 
Not an over-enthusiastic answer, but he decides not to press her. Instead he urges, 'Tell me about being a translator.' 
'There's not much to tell. I translate technical papers into Spanish.' 
'Spanish, eh.' He knows the remark is facile, but he cannot help himself. Isobel unnerves him. 
'Do you speak Spanish?' she wants to know.
'No.' 
'I thought by the way you said it ...' 
'No, nothing like that.' 
'Ah.' 
'Just seems unusual—Spanish.' 
'Why?' 
'You don't think of it as a language for technical work. I don't, anyway.' 
'It is one of the world's major languages.' 
'I suppose it is. I hadn't thought of it that way.' He knows that he is babbling and that he should have kept quiet. 'Don't you get bored with technical stuff?'  
'No.' 
'I would—trying to translate papers about the finer points of widgets.' 
'It's quite varied, actually. At the moment I'm doing work for an oil exploration company in South America.' 
'Big business, eh?' 
'I suppose you don't approve.' 
'I never said that.' 
'There's a sneer in your tone.' 
'Quite unconscious, I assure you.' 
She does not respond. He guesses that she has classed him as an aging lefty. It is an interesting role. He feels that he ought to live up to it by making a few ritual jibes at the greed of big business, but he does not know where that will lead. Better to be safe and dull. 
'Do you live around here?' he asks. 
'No.' 
'When I saw you walking down the street ...' 
'I've been staying with a friend.' 
Mackintosh's turn to say, 'Ah.' 
'I take it this is home ground for you.' 
'I live round the corner.' 
'You're obviously known in here.' 
Observant girl, Mackintosh decides. Attractive and bright. She belongs in his dreams and now he is sitting beside her. He should feel exultant, but it has happened with so little fanfare that he experiences a sense of anticlimax. Nor does he not know what happens next. Possibilities open up, like saying goodbye to Mrs Parrish and moving in with Isobel. It is a delightful thought, though he knows that it will never be more than a fantasy. For one thing, the chemistry is missing; for another, his independence suddenly seems infinitely precious. Still, the idea of seeing her again and being seen with her is appealing. 
He realises that she is speaking. He cocks an ear in her direction. 
'How long have you been running courses?' she repeats. 
'A few months now.' 
'I'd seen a lot of your adverts around.' 
'That's good. Saturation coverage.' 
'Health stores, magazines ...' 
'That was a waste of money.' 
'What?' 
'Inserts in magazines. Half of them fall out before anybody looks at them.' 
'Inserts always fall out. So long as people pick them up, it doesn't matter much.' 
'But do they pick them up?' 
'Apparently, if you're pulling in the punters. That's what it's about basically, isn't it?' 
'It's a bit more than that.' 
She raises her eyebrows. 
'I want people to empower themselves,' he explains. 
'Do you really believe all that?' 
'That's the whole reason for the workshops!'
'Okay, okay.' 
He realises how much his voice has risen in pitch. He says more apologetically, 'I think it's important.' 
'Fine.' 
The conversation sags, giving him a chance to muse on their exchange. The disconcerting thing is how easily she has seen through him. It prompts the question whether other people have done the same. He can imagine the knowing smiles at the end of the day when his back is turned. It is a disturbing thought: his students being aware that he is a fraud. If it is true, his seminars cannot survive for long in their present form. The only consolation is that nobody has yet asked for a refund. The time has come to expand into topics like stress management and visualisation. He is not quite sure what visualisation is, but judging by the advertisements in health food store windows, it is becoming popular. The prospect of devising new ways to fill a one-day workshop is daunting. Planning one in the first place was bad enough. 
'You ought to give out forms for feedback,' Isobel is saying. 'It might give you some ideas for changes.' 
'Do things need changing?'
'They always do.'
'Like what?'
'That's what you'd find out.'
'What sort of things would you mention?'
'The fallow periods when you seem to be spinning things out.'
'Oh dear.' 
'Of which there were several.'
'It's an idea,' he agrees, resolving not to let the fallow periods show so obviously. 
'It's elementary market research.' 
Markets. Once they were the province of street traders and economists; now everybody has to look to markets. He thinks of his conversation with the editor. His own distaste for the way things are going never came through as he tried to portray himself as the successful entrepreneur. Universities no longer concentrate on teaching and research: they look for marketing opportunities. He wonders how he would fit into the competitive environment of academe if he was still a lecturer. Badly is his conclusion. What he liked about the life was long holidays, short hours and having enough time to enjoy the endless parade of female students passing before him. Marketing has changed all that. Is it all down to Thatcherism, he wonders. Can one person really change a country so profoundly? Perhaps twenty years of Labour government will bring back the old ways, but he is not banking on it. 
Isobel is looking bored. His gaze drifts back to her thighs as he fantasises about her undressing at night. Better still is the prospect of undressing her himself. There ought to be a workshop which requires people to undress as a way of stripping their facades. It is a promising idea, if he can interest enough attractive girls who do not baulk at the prospect.
'Was it your boyfriend?' he asks to take his mind off such provocative matters. He has the satisfaction of seeing his companion look disconcerted. 
'Sorry?' She frowns engagingly. 
'That you were staying with.' 
As she recovers her composure, her amusement shows. 'What makes you say that?' 
'Seems likely.' 
'Is it a roundabout way of asking whether I've got a boyfriend?' 
'Just being curious as I don't know anything about you,' he insists. 
Isobel does not answer. As she sips her drink, he ventures another look at her face with its expression of contained amusement. So attractive, but she is bored. Not that he cares any longer. He is surprised at his own lack of concern. The remaining point of interest is how she will extricate herself from his company. 
'Are you married?' she asks. 
'No.' 
That makes her smile broaden. 
'Did you expect me to be?' he enquires. 
'Not particularly.' 
His thoughts keep turning to Tamsin. He wishes that she were beside him. His tries to analyse this disconcerting response. How can he switch his affections so quickly? Is he fickle, or does his attitude betray that Isobel is a flawed character? Further reflection leads him to the conclusion that the blame is his. Forbidden fruit really does taste sweeter. He ventures another look at Isobel's thighs and allows his imagination free rein. The flaw in his fantasy is that the girl with whom he is intertwined has Tamsin's face and Isobel's body. He tries to make the images coincide, but they stubbornly refuse. As a relief from his frustrations, he turns to the whisky. The burn hits his stomach, rekindling half-forgotten pleasures. Now his ulcer no longer troubles him, perhaps he should take up whisky drinking again. 
'Tell me about your painting,' Isobel invites. 
'I don't know what there is to say. It's like music: expresses things you can't put into words.' 
'I meant what style do you paint in?' 
'You'll see when you come to the exhibition.' 
'Why be mysterious about it?' 
'I'm not. I just think it's misleading to describe styles in the abstract.' 
'Surely it's not that difficult. Is your style abstract?'
'If you like.' 
'It's not a question of what I like.' 
'It's abstract.' 
'Who are your influences?' 
He is coming to question the wisdom of inviting Isobel for a drink. It is clear that she is determined to expose any weakness in his answers. 
'Mondrian,' he announces. 
When she smiles her mysterious smile, he asks, 'What's the matter?' 
'I thought you were going to say Picasso.' 
'Why?' 
'Did you go to art college?' 
'No.' 
'That figures.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'Doesn't it limit you, not having any proper training?' 
'If you think something like painting is learned.' 
'Surely art college develops your technique.' 
Mackintosh wonders what she would think of his technique. Not much is his guess. He is not sure what sort of work she would like. Probably Maria's. Everybody likes Maria's drawings. 
'I did have lessons, of course,' he volunteers. 
'Who with?' 
'Francis Bacon.' 
She studies his face, not sure whether to believe him. 
'Just for a few months,' he adds, taking another sip of whisky, 'Quite an eye-opener. He didn't do much formal teaching.' 
'I didn't know that he did any.' 
'It wasn't something he advertised, or he'd have had students queuing up.' 
'I'll look forward to seeing your Bacon-inspired works.' 
'You won't see much of Bacon in them. He was insistent about not imposing his own style on students.' 
'I think this exhibition's going to be interesting.' 
Her words strike him as ominous, though at least they reveal that she intends to come. He decides that this will be the guest whose invitation never arrives. 
He lifts his glass, only to discover that it is empty. His dilemma is whether to suggest another drink, which Isobel might decline and take as a cue to leave, or to cradle an empty glass and continue their desultory conversation. The possibility that she will agree to another drink seems unlikely given the tenor of the conversation. He steals another glance at her. She is growing restless. 
'What about when you're not translating?' he asks. 
'How do you mean?' 
'All the things that make life worthwhile.' When she continues to look puzzled, he explains, 'Other interests.' 
'Not painting.' 
'I guessed that.' 
'I'm doing an MA in European studies.' 
'An MA. Sounds like work rather than pleasure.' 
'Bit of each.' 
'How's it going?' 
'Okay.' 
'Good, good.' His patronising tone again. Not that he cares now. 'What are you going to do with it?' 
'Do I have to do something with it?' 
'You don't have to. It just seems a lot of effort to no purpose if you don't.'  
'I'm doing it because I want to.' 
'Ah.' 
'What's that mean?' 
'Nothing, Just saying "Ah."' 
As she gets up, he feels bound to exclaim, 'You're not going already, are you?' 
'Got to. Thanks for the drink.' 
He gets up himself so she will not see his bald patch. 'It's been a pleasure to see you again. Don't fancy a meal one evening, I suppose?'
'I don't think so.' 
As she turns away, he is treated to her rear view. He has to admit that she has an infinitely watchable arse. His own fascination intrigues him: do genes dictate what he finds attractive? What part does free will play in his choice? And how many generations have asked the same question? 
'Bye,' he calls, but Isobel pays no attention. He watches the wonderful lilt of her hips as she walks to the door and he wishes that the occasion had passed off more successfully. When the door closes behind her, he can still see her in his imagination. She is in his room and taking off her clothes. The film is replayed for him again and again—until he notices that Christine is watching him. He is glad that she cannot read his thoughts. Reluctantly he drags himself back to the reality of an empty glass. Time to make amends to Christine the barmaid, which at least provides an excuse for having another whisky. 
'Don't usually see you in here with a friend,' she remarks when he buys her a drink. 
'Just a girl from one of my workshops. You ought to come along.' 
He sees the inevitable regretful smile and the shake of her head. The invitation has almost become a private joke between them.
'Not my sort of thing.' 
'You don't know till you try it,' he pleads, knowing that no argument will persuade her. Sometimes words seem a waste of time. He watches her moving away.
Now that the unexpected interlude of meeting Isobel is over, he turns his attention to how he should spend the rest of the day. The temptation once he enters a pub is to stay there, but he knows the state he will be in by closing time if he does succumb. His relationship with Mrs Parrish needs to be nurtured for the next three weeks, not worsened. The trouble is that once staying in a pub is excluded, he can think of little else to do. He should be thinking of useful things to say about stress management for his new series of workshops, but he has no heart for the project after Isobel's strictures. And he ought to get estimates from picture-framers before Mrs Parrish grows impatient. Paying to frame other people's work still rankles. Tamsin is the exception. He is pleased to have something to offer her, if only picture frames. Tamsin. The name conjures an image of those appealing brown eyes and the tousled blonde hair which looks as though she has not combed it since getting out of bed. That settles his plans for the immediate future: he will see Tamsin. He glances at his watch. Not yet twelve. With any luck he can intercept her at the start of her lunch break and detach her from the others. 
'Sorry—got to dash,' he explains as Christine prepares to refill his empty glass. She looks surprised; he guesses that she is relieved at not having to decline another of his invitations. When he is outside, he looks for Isobel, There is no sign of her. 
Because he is in a hurry, the tube train keeps stopping between stations. He arrives on the southbound Northern Line platform at King's Cross in time to see a train pulling away. When he reaches the art college, Tamsin will already be at lunch. Not that he minds another visit to a pub, but he would prefer not to encounter her friends. 
He sees his Madonna immediately. She is with her inseparable companion, Maria. No sign of the men, which is some consolation. Take the bull by the horns, Mackintosh tells himself as he assumes his most sincere smile and heads for the two girls. 
'Good afternoon, ladies.' 
The ladies look surprised rather than overjoyed. Mackintosh brings out his wallet—a gesture calculated to gladden the heart of any student—and asks, 'What can I get you?' 
To his relief, both girls opt for lemonade and lime rather than anything more expensive. While he is at the bar, he puzzles about how he might get Tamsin on her own. He is forced to conclude that providence will play a large part in any success. On the principle that neither providence nor ulcers should be tempted, he orders Guinness for himself rather than whisky, sipping the head before carrying the drinks to the table. After whisky, the taste is uncharacteristically pallid. 
'There we are, ladies.' He sets down the glasses before his guests. Tamsin smiles. Maria mutters her thanks.
'What's happened to the others?' he asks, settling himself on the seat opposite Tamsin. Her nails are bitten: it is a foible which he finds endearing and which he never noticed before. 
'If you mean Steve and Mark, they're in the studio,' Maria volunteers. 
'Where all good students should be. Not that you can work all the time,' he adds when neither girl smiles. He beams at his beloved. 'How are you today?' 
'We weren't expecting you,' Maria answers for her. 
'I wasn't expecting to be here. I happened to be in the area, so I thought I'd pop in.'
'Quite a coincidence.' 
'It was.' 
Maria looks unconvinced. 
'So how are you?' he repeats, looking at Tamsin. 
'Okay.' 
'Good, good.' He searches for something else to say. More than anything, he wants to touch her hand. Instead he asks, 'How's the drawing going?' 
'I haven't done any.' 
'You what?' He sees the vehemence of his response alarming her and immediately he regrets his over-enthusiasm. 'I suppose it's a time problem,' he continues in a more conciliatory tone. 'Always difficult to fit everything in when you're a student. I've been there.' 
Tamsin looks uncertain how to respond. 
'When I was working full time, I used to spend the evenings painting,' he reminisces. 
'If you're so single-minded, why didn't you give up your job?' Maria wants to know.
Mackintosh stares into his drink to play for time while he thinks of a reply. Suddenly he feels very old. 
'Perhaps he had a family to support,' Tamsin answers for him. 
'Now having a family really does show a lack of single-mindedness.' He expects Maria to show approval of such dedication, so her scowl comes as a disappointment. 
'There are women artists with families,' she points out. 
'I wasn't saying there aren't.' He searches for words which will not alienate her further. 'I just meant it's difficult—having a family.' 
Maria mutters, 'How would you know?' before sipping her drink. 
'What do you think?' he asks Tamsin. 
'I don't think it has to be one or the other. Women should be able to have families and do other things.' 
'I'm not against that. I'm just saying it can make life difficult.' 
'That's not how you spoke,' Maria insists. 
'I didn't mean to give that impression.' 
'But you're not in favour of family life.' 
'It's got its problems—that's all I'm saying. What was it Cyril Connolly said? There's no hindrance to creativity like a pram in the hall.
'That's a male argument.' 
'I don't see how an argument can be male.' 
'That's because you're a man.' Maria is looking exasperated, which is some consolation. It occurs to Mackintosh that with any luck he might goad her into storming out. 
'An argument can be valid or not valid,' he explains. 'That's all. You can't ascribe a gender to it.' 
'Balls.' 
'The content of an argument might suggest your bias. The context doesn't.' He is not sure whether he is right, but at least the remark niggles Maria. 
'What do you mean by "Suggest your bias"?' She sounds scornful. 
'Whether there's a sex bias.' 
'Gender bias.' 
'Is there any difference?' 
'Gender is more inclusive. It's a way of looking at things.' 
'I'm not clear what you can bring to it other than sex.' 
Maria looks mutinous. 
'So you two might have different genders, despite your sex,' he perseveres, beginning to enjoy himself. 'It's all according to what you bring to things.' 
'The content of what you were saying gave away your gender bias. Is that all right?' 
He cannot recall what he did say, but he retorts, 'I wasn't arguing.' 
'You said having children gets in the way of creativity.' 
'And doesn't it?' 
'There's nothing more creative than having a baby.' 
'If you want to spend two years changing nappies and being woken up every night. I'm not sure what's creative about it.' He can speak from the heart, for he never has understood the appeal of babies. Fortunately he does not come into contact with them often; when he does, he finds them smelly, noisy and infinitely unpredictable. What intrigues him is how women change when they are near babies. Some primitive maternal instinct is triggered and all he can do is to watch with awed fascination mingled with despair at how the trappings of culture are so easily shed. Then he thinks of his own response to Tamsin and he knows that there is no escaping the genetic imperative. He also knows by looking at Maria's face that he has said the wrong thing. 
'Have you sold any paintings yet?' Tamsin interrupts with impeccable timing. He wants to kiss her for changing the subject. 
'Not as yet, I'm afraid.' 
'What about all these private buyers you were talking about?' Maria demands. 
'They're not queuing up, you know.' 
'They do they exist, I suppose?' 
'They exist all right.' He tries to invest his words with hurt at being doubted.  
'You said there would be travelling exhibitions.' 
'And they will be. Things take a while to arrange, that's all. It's about making contacts and pulling strings.' 
'I take it we can go to these exhibitions?' 
'You could,' he agrees, consigning peripatetic exhibitions to the category of ideas which sound good, but which have unforseen flaws. 'The trouble is that they're mostly out of London.' 
'So?' 
'So you wouldn't want to go to Edinburgh or somewhere, would you?' 
'We might, if our work's being exhibited.' 
'They're often arranged at short notice—that's the other problem. But if I can let you know in time, I will.' 
Maria hardly looks satisfied, but at least she does not argue. Relieved, Mackintosh takes the opportunity to savour his Guinness. He wishes that he had a salesman's persuasiveness, though if he did, he would prefer to use it to charm Tamsin in preference to wasting it on Maria. He looks at his beloved and dreams of living happily ever after with her; not that he believes it will ever happen. Experience has made him a realist, yet in spite of that, her aura of being a goddess is not easily dispelled. He finds it hard to believe that such mundane concerns as ingrowing toenails and constipation ever sully her thoughts. He tries to be objective. That nature made her beautiful is something he can accept without reservation, but as for nurture shaping her character, can anyone so beautiful know the messiness of family life with all its rows and jealousies? He tries to imagine her as a child, throwing a tantrum, her face smeared with chocolate. The picture does not come easily. The Tamsin he knows belongs in a painting. Then his flights of fancy come down to earth. What does he really know of her character? They have barely exchanged a few dozen words. But the situation is going to improve, he promises himself. He gives her one of his winning smiles. 
'How's life in Colliers Wood?' 
'All right.' 
'Good, good.' 
He knows from her surprise that she did not expect him to remember. Now he has to continue the conversation. He casts about for a subject which might interest her, while hoping that his desperation does not show. 
'You share a flat do you?' 
'A house. There's five of us.' 
'Five, eh? Must get a bit fraught sometimes.' 
'We get on fine.' 
'You surprise me. Don't things get heated at breakfast time when you all want to get in the bathroom?' 
'Not usually.'
Suppressing thoughts of Tamsin in the bath, he continues, 'What I always found was if you don't get the right people, the rows flare up.' 
She shrugs. 'We must be lucky.' 
'Well, well.' He remembers his own ill-fated attempt at flat-sharing in his student days. How could you share with somebody who regarded coming home at closing time as being unreasonably late? 
'We're close,' she explains. My parents are divorced. I don't see my mother much and my father's abroad, so my house mates are like a family.' 
Mackintosh gazes at her adoringly, touched by her confession. Without breaking the mood, what he has to discover is whether she lives with a man. He probes, 'All art students, are they—the people you live with?' 
'No.' 
'Pity. It's always good if you can discuss what you're doing and share ideas.' 
'We do.' 
'But it's not the same as having fellow artists to talk to, is it?' 
'They don't mind criticising me.' 
'Five of you, did you say?' 
She nods. 
'Five girls together and no rows?' 
'Not many.' 
'That's amazing.' 
'It's only three girls.' 
'Why do you expect people to row all the time?' Maria demands. 
'I don't expect them to. It just happens.' 
'With some people, perhaps.' 
Disappointingly, Tamsin does not spring to his defence. 
'Colliers Wood,' he muses, ignoring Maria. 'Sounds like a sylvan glade.'
'You must be joking,' says his beloved with more animation than usual. 
'Another illusion shattered.' 
'You didn't really think it was like that, did you?' Maria asks. 
'I don't know what it's like.' 
'Haven't you ever been there?'
'It's not the sort of place you feel a compulsion to visit.' 
'You know what south London's like. You don't find many sylvan glades.'
'It varies a lot.' Before Maria can argue, he turns back to Tamsin. 'How's the course going?' 
'All right.' 
'Splendid.' 
'Except for getting behind with everything.' 
'Never as much time as you'd like.' Seeing her nervous smile, he confesses, 'I have the same problem. All you can do is make time.' 
'You can't make time,' Maria objects. 'I thought you liked to be careful with words.'
'You can organise it better.' As he speaks, another idea comes to him. He could run workshops on organising time. Stressed executives would love it. Companies might offer him contracts ... 
Maria is talking. Reluctantly he tries to concentrate. She is saying something about all the domestic chores which apparently fill her evenings. Mackintosh is scornful of chores. Years of living in bedsits have taught him that ironing-boards and the other impedimenta of housework are the product of little minds intent in filling the days of more creative souls with pointless rituals. Because he does not want to provoke her hostility by arguing, he tries to look interested while his real focus of attention is Tamsin. When Maria's diatribe comes to an end, he nods sagely and agrees, 'It's all a matter of priorities.'
Judging by her scowl, it is the wrong answer. Not that he cares greatly. He smiles at Tamsin again.
'What's the matter?' she asks. 
'Nothing. Nothing at all.' 
'You're not consistent,' Maria objects, glaring at him.
'Who is?' 
'You pull anything I say to pieces, but you won't take criticism yourself.' 
'I didn't think of it as criticism.' 
'You talk about being an artist and devoting yourself to your work, then you say you only do it as a hobby.' 
'I didn't say that.' 
'Why don't we see any of your work?' 
He sighs before explaining patiently, 'Because I'm a dealer. I can hardly drag canvases around when I'm seeing clients.' 
Tamsin looks convinced; Maria does not. 
'Do you fancy coming to the cinema?' he asks Tamsin on impulse. He dare not look at Maria. 
'When?' 
'Now.' 
Tamsin looks uncomfortable. 'I can't. I've got studio work this afternoon.'
'Go on. Give it a miss.'   
She is shaking her head. He knows then that he will have to make an ignominious retreat, but while there is a thread of hope he presses on. 'You don't have to go in to college, do you?' 
'You're expected to.' 
'But there's no rule.' 
'There is,' Maria says. 'If you miss a session, you have to tell the faculty office why.' 
'You're making it up.' 
'It's the same everywhere. You have to get a medical certificate if you miss two.' 
He recalls his own student days. Any attempt to force students into attending lectures would have been greeted with a riot. Things had not changed when he was a lecturer. One student never appeared for a whole term: Mackintosh heard later that the miscreant was working on a building site. 
'You could say you've got a headache or something,' Mackintosh suggests. 
Tamsin shakes her head. 
'Pity. Perhaps another time.' 
'We'd better be getting back,' Maria announces, getting up. Her drink is barely touched. Meekly Tamsin picks up her bag. 
'You don't have to go yet, do you?' Mackintosh protests. 
'We'd better,' says Tamsin. 
'You haven't finished your drink.' 
But she is leaving. As he watches her sidling around the table, her jacket brushing its edge, Mackintosh wants to confess that she is adorable and that he loves her madly. Instead, he asks, 'What about the drawings?' 
At least his words make her pause. She looks puzzled. 
'What about them? I thought you said you hadn't sold any.' 
'No, but I'll need to get in touch with you when I do.' 
'You took our telephone numbers,' Maria reminds him. Tamsin gives an apologetic smile and scurries after her friend. Mackintosh watches as she leaves. He wants to call after her, but he knows that there is no point. When the doors have closed behind the two girls, he looks at the glasses they have left behind. There is a wet crescent where Tamsin's lips have been. He draws the glass towards him and drinks from where she drank, trying to taste her. Nobody else pays any attention. 

chapter six

'It's rather exciting, isn't it?' Mrs Parrish's voice has taken on a girlish breathlessness.
'Certainly is,' Mackintosh agrees, still smarting at the bill for the picture frames. Even the artisans of Islington are cashing in on the area's trendiness. He will have to sell at least a dozen paintings merely to recoup the cost of the frames. 
'Shall we start putting them up?'
'Now?'
'I've cleared all the walls—or haven't you noticed?'
He looks around at the uncharacteristically bleak living room.
'And we don't want to leave all these paintings hanging about on the floor to get damaged.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'And they're going to get in the way.' 
'Sorry about that.' 
'Have you decided what you're going to hang in the hall? That's most important. People get their initial impression from the hall.' 
'Not only important, but difficult.' Dutifully he sifts through the nearest stack of paintings for something of his own. His efforts look different in frames.  If they belonged to anybody else, he would call them crude. 
'That's a nice one,' Mrs Parrish comments over his shoulder as he pauses at Maria's sketch of a street sweeper leaning on his barrow. 
'But not for the hall. We need something more striking.' He flicks through the pile until he comes to his own painting of the horse trough in Mornington Crescent. The survival of such a venerable piece of street furniture beside an artery like Hampstead Road always fascinates him. He remembers the feeling of kinship when he saw the editor's black and white photograph of the same subject. He glances at Mrs Parrish's face. Evidently she does not share his enthusiasm. 
'It's a bit mournful,' she comments. 
'I'd call it sprightly.' 
'I don't see how a horse trough can be sprightly.' 
'In style.' 
'It's not striking, is it?' 
'Isn't it?' 
'Haven't you got anything brighter?' 
Mackintosh turns to the next stack of paintings. He hopes that he is not going to fall out with his landlady. 
'Something like this?' he asks hopefully, pausing at one of his beloved house-backs. 
'It's very nice, but it's not striking.' 
'I thought it was.' 
'This is better.' Mrs Parrish pulls out a painting from another stack. One of Mark's masks. Mackintosh looks on it with distaste. 
'That was an early effort.' 
'It's the sort of thing people are going to notice.' 
'I'm not sure I want them to.' 
'Then why did you frame it?' 
'I thought it could go in a corner somewhere.' 
'I think we should put it in the hall.' 
Mackintosh concludes from the determination in her voice that the safest course is to agree. He pauses at another of Maria's drawings and suggests, 'This would go well in here.' 
'It's very tasteful. You ought to do more like that.' 
'Depends on the inspiration of the moment. Not a style I go for all that often.' 
'Which is a pity.' 
'I prefer painting places to people these days.' 
'I'm not sure the buyers do.' 
Another topic best deflected. 
'Do we really need to put them up now?' he queries. 
'We can't leave it much longer. It's going to be a rush to get the catalogues printed as it is. There's only ten days left, remember.' 
'The framing took longer than I thought.' He takes Maria's drawing from the stack and holds it over the fireplace. 'How does this look?' 
'You'll have to put it where the hook is.' 
'It'll be too low then. The picture you had there before was a lot smaller.' 
'I don't want any more pins in the wall.' 
'In here, you mean?' 
'Anywhere. I only had the house decorated a year ago. I don't want it spoilt.' 
'So every picture has got to go where there's a hook?' 
'There's one on every wall.' 
'That's not going to be enough.'
'We've got all the bedrooms, remember.'
'The hooks still won't be at the right height or in the right place.' 
Mrs Parrish looks uncomprehending. 
'You've got to hang works at eye level,' he explains. 'So people can see them properly.'
'All the ones I've taken down were at eye level, so the hooks must be in the right place.'
No use trying to explain that some paintings are larger than others, or that some might need to be grouped together. 
'It's finding something that's right for the setting that matters,' Mrs Parrish declares.  
'Something tasteful?' 
'And getting colours to match the decoration. I think colours are so important.' 
Mackintosh stares at her wonderingly. 
'Are you going to put that one up?' she prompts. 
'Ah, yes. Sorry.' 
He tries to engage the ring on the back with the hook. 
'Don't make marks on the wall,' she warns.
'I'm trying not to.'
At last the drawing is hung. Mackintosh lets go gingerly, but it does not fall. 
'I like that,' Mrs Parrish declares as he steps back to see the effect.
'It is rather good,' he has to agree. 
'Very tasteful. Now let's put the others up.' 
Mackintosh obliges, hanging Maria's drawings on either side of the chimney breast. Mrs Parrish looks pleased. 
'Now if we have another over there,' she commands, indicating the wall opposite.  
'We need something striking there.' 
'We'll have something like the one over the chimney,' Mrs Parrish decides and Mackintosh feels in no position to argue. Dutifully he seeks out another of Maria's drawings and hangs it. He has to admit that the result shows symmetry, even if it is not dramatic enough for his liking. The grace of Maria's work dwindles to an item of decoration. He wonders where Mrs Parrish will let him indulge his preferences. 
'Are we still going to live here when the exhibition's on?' he queries. 
'Of course.' 
To his way of thinking there is no 'of course ' about it, but he does not labour the point. Instead he points out, 'We won't have room for all of these, even using the upstairs rooms.'
'We don't want the place looking cluttered.'
'We want to make it worthwhile for people to come.' 
'Anything you can't hang up, we can prop around the walls.' 
'Leave them on the floor, you mean?' 
'I've seen it done.' 
'Not in exhibitions!' 
'At an auction sale.' 
'That's different.' 
'I don't see why.' 
'You've got to present things properly in an exhibition.' 
'It's still about selling paintings.' 
'In part. It's about making your mark, so people remember you.' 
'I still don't see why we shouldn't have paintings propped around the walls.' 
'You said you didn't want it to look cluttered!'
'It won't if we don't have too many paintings on the walls.'
'We're going to have people scuffing paintings with their feet.' 
'Not if they're careful.' 
'They won't be.' 
'If we ask them specially.' 
'Why not hang pictures from the picture rails?' 
'They're not made for that.' 
'I thought that's what picture rails were for.' 
'I mean I had them put up when the house was renovated.' Mrs Parrish sounds annoyed. 'They're part of the decoration, not to hang pictures on. They're not strong enough for that.' 
'I didn't realise that.' Mackintosh scratches his head. 'Perhaps we'd better prop things against the wall after all.' He watches anxiously to see whether how his backtracking has gone down. To his relief, Mrs Parrish seems mollified. 
'There'll be plenty of room,' she assures him.
'At least it saves all the business of making sure they're straight.' 
'I'd like to hang these in the hall.' She holds up one of Mark's masks.
'In the hall. Right.' He looks with distaste on the dazzling reds and yellows. 
'So shall we do it now?' 
'I suppose we might as well,' he agrees.
'You could sound more enthusiastic.' 
'I am really,' he assures her. 
'This is all for your benefit.' 
He wishes that he could feel convinced. What price will Mrs Parrish exact when the exhibition is over? Picking up Mark's painting, he follows her meekly into the hall. 
*
As he leaves the house, Mackintosh feels content in the knowledge that he has done his duty. As he agreed with Mrs Parrish, the house looks different now the first of the paintings are hung. He did not mention that the smothering good taste has been banished, if only for a while, letting in a glimpse of artistic vigour. 
It is a cold morning, colder than of recent days. Pavements glitter with frost, forcing him to step warily to avoid slipping. Clouds of steam rise from his mouth, making him uncomfortably aware of how these days even a moderate walk makes him pant. He does mean to take more exercise, but the luxury of central heating makes him linger in his room in the mornings and when he is up and about, going to a pub holds greater appeal. His privileged life leaves him feeling guilty when he compares his situation with that of the editor. He cannot allow his old colleague to sleep outside, though he knows that if he offers the editor something better, there will be somebody else will claim the bench.
The first problem is where to look for somebody who has no home. One aspect of Islington which Mackintosh has always enjoyed, but which now becomes a handicap is the proliferation of public gardens. Many form the centres of squares, or the lopsided arrangements of terraces which are graced with the title of squares. Mackintosh begins his search on the northern fringes of the Pentonville Road, being unable to regard the area to the south of the main road as being part of Islington. Having explored Lonsdale, Barnsbury and Thornhill Squares without success, he feels at a loss. There are other squares further north, but he cannot imagine the editor straying into Canonbury, Instead he east, towards Islington High Street. There is no sign of the editor in Chapel Market, where their first encounter took place. The temptation is to call off the quest and to make for the nearest pub, but Mackintosh thinks of his former workmate shivering in a doorway and unable to afford a drink. The search must go on.
Mackintosh's favourite garden is the narrow strip between Colebrooke Row and Duncan Terrace. It is easy to imagine that the New River which once flowed there has only recently been drained and that the huge stones imported by some municipal landscaper were what was left on the river bed. The houses have a grace which reminds him of Bloomsbury. In summer, he enjoys sitting in the gardens, savouring scenes which Charles Lamb must have known. On a cold November day, the benches are empty. 
Mackintosh leaves this enclave of tranquillity with reluctance and moves northeast. The tourist trail of antique shops around Camden Passage is a place where begging can be profitable, though shop owners disapprove of the practice. His hunch looks set to be proved wrong, but at the end of the passage he spies the familiar figure, gaunt and bespectacled, sitting on the pavement near the Camden Arms and gazing into the distance. Mackintosh steals upon him. 
'We meet again.' 
The words stir the editor from his reverie. He looks up and beams. 'A friendly face in an alien world.' 
'You sound in need of a drink.' 
A rueful expression comes to the editor's face. 'You'll have to pay.' 
'No problem.'
'And I'm a bit of a mess.' The editor looks down at crumpled suit, stained with innumerable meals, and the greying shirt which must once have been white. 'They may not welcome my custom.' 
'We can give it a try.' 
'You don't think I smell too much?' 
'Not at all,' Mackintosh lies. 
'One of the hazards of living on the streets, I'm afraid.' 
Mackintosh shivers. 'Let's get inside.' 
The editor takes to the warmth of the pub with alacrity. Ignoring the stares of the bar staff, Mackintosh steers him to a window seat which gives a view of the triangle of grass hemmed in by railings which is Islington Green. When Mackintosh orders two pints of Guinness, nothing is said about his companion. 
'"Very civil of you, sir," as they used to say in the old films.' The editor licks his lips as he draws his mug closer. Mackintosh settles on the other side of the table and reflects anew on how far the editor has fallen—and on his own good luck. 
'Were you on your tour of the manor?' the editor's voice interrupts his musings. 
'Getting myself together for the day.' 
'Something I don't have to worry about.' 
'I was hoping I'd bump into you.' 
'Generally, people hope that they won't.' 
'I've been thinking about you.' 
'Sign of an impoverished spiritual life.' 
'Don't like the idea of you sleeping out now the weather's getting colder.' 
'Surprising how many people do it.' 
'I know.' Mackintosh shivers again, in spite of the warmth. 
'You get used to it. You have to.' 
'The survivors do.' 
'You come across images you're glad you didn't miss. Honestly. Like when I woke up in the gardens the other morning. I saw this dead sparrow lying nearby and I kept thinking about what I learned in nature study when I was a kid—how some birds go south to the sun. I suppose sparrows are too small for that. There's not all that much difference between them and us when you're scavenging in the same gardens.' 
'Haven't lost your photographer's eye, I'm glad to hear.' 
'You never do. You might lose your camera, but not your eye.' 
'Can you see yourself going back to it?' 
'Can I see myself affording another camera? Anyway, it would get nicked. When you're living rough, everything gets nicked.' 
'So you need somewhere to live first.' 
'That's about it.' 
'What happens when the really cold weather comes?' 
'You try the hostels. Trouble is they get full and they're pretty nasty places.' The editor shivers. 'Too much like prison.' 
'And if you can't get in?'
'You get cold. Hope you can find some more newspapers to wrap round your legs.'
'What did you do last night?' 
'Found a doorway. It was a very posh doorway. That's unusual. Upmarket doorways usually have grilles across them.' 
'I was wondering if I could get you into my place.' 
'Be grateful if you could, if it doesn't cause any problem.'
'My landlady might be the problem.' 
'Sound like a major problem. So how are we getting around it?' 
'By not telling her.' 
'Don't you think she might notice a stranger living in her house?' 
'Not if we're careful.' 
'Supposing we meet on the stairs?' 
'Say you're just visiting.' 
'At eight in the morning?' 
'An early visitor.' 
'She'd have heard me arrive in that case.' 
'Not if she was having a shower.' 
'Supposing she meets me when I'm coming out of the shower?' 
'I've got my own bathroom on the floor above hers. She never goes up there.' 
'Supposing she heard us talking?' 
'She wouldn't hear. My room's in the attic. Her room's on the first floor and there's another floor in between. That's where you'd sleep. You've got a choice of three bedrooms.' 
'She'll hear me moving about.' 
'Not if you avoid the room above hers.' 
'Supposing I cough or snore, or something?' 
'She'll think it's me. Quirk of the acoustics.' 
'I certainly like the idea of having a proper bed again ...' 
'And central heating.' 
'Will we get away with it?' 
'I'm sure we will.' 
'You don't you think it might be easier if we just asked her?' 
'Not really,' says Mackintosh, eyeing his companion's clothes. 
'I just thought it might avoid complications.' 
'It would cause more. Believe me.' 
'I appreciate this.'
'At worst you can only get thrown out.'
'The trouble is you get thrown out as well.' 
'The least of your worries,' Mackintosh assures him, wondering whether to confess that he might not be too dissatisfied if it did happen—so long as it is after the exhibition. 
'So how do we play it?' the editor queries. 
'If we fit you out in some clothes from Oxfam, you can come in as my guest, have a bath and forget to leave.' 
'You're sure she won't be listening at the door for me to go?' 
'She'll be out,' Mackintosh assures him. 
'You won't want me trailing round after you all the time. Supposing she comes snooping around when you're out one day and finds me there?'
'She doesn't check up on me.' 
The editor looks unconvinced. 
'She's not that sort,' Mackintosh insists with more confidence than he feels. 
'If you say so.' 
'It might be better to stay out during the day, to be on the safe side.' 
'I'd go along with that. I don't fancy having to explain myself to irate landladies.' 
'It should work out all right.' 
'And if I've got an address, I can start looking for a job.' 
Mackintosh does not reply. He is not sure whether the editor realises how the job market has changed since their days at Ecowatch. 
'I appreciate this,' the editor says. 'I'd ask you to shake hands, but you'd better wait till I've had a bath.'
'And if she asks any questions, you've had an exhibition of your own and you're advising me,' Mackintosh explains. 
'Ah—the famous exhibition.' 
'I don't want to be running courses for ever. They're a means to an end.' 
'Career strategy, eh?' 
'Something like that.' 
'Long while since I had a career to worry about. My only strategy was counting the days till I got out.' 
Mackintosh wonders whether he has done the right thing. Aside from the ever-present risk of Mrs Parrish finding out, he is not used to sharing his accommodation. Nor does he always want a drinking companion. But his conscience will not be clear unless he helps his old workmate. 
'Let's have another one,' he says, knowing that he should be attending to his workshops. Since the exhibition was mooted, he has devoted little time to advertising them. Even the prospect of attractive girls no longer holds the same attraction as of old. The trouble is that he never sees them again. The exception is Isobel. The memory of their encounter in Liverpool Road is still vivid enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Not one of his finest moments, he has to admit. With hindsight, he can see clearly how he should have handled the occasion, shifting the conversation towards her and her hopes. But that could be said of most events in his life. He often wonders how other people deal with hindsight. He is tempted to ask his companion, but the editor is eyeing the barmaid. Mackintosh knows better than to distract a man who is busy with his fantasies.
'What do you think of her?' the editor asks. 
'All right. Definitely all right.'
'We agree.'
'We've never really compared our views on women.' 
'What I find strange is how detached I've become. When you're an outsider, which I am, you look at women as though they're another species.'
'Didn't we always do that?'
'It's the interaction that's different. These days if they notice me, women think I'm subhuman. Mind you, a lot of men do as well.' 
'Narrow views on what's right. Narrow views equals narrow minds.' 
'A bath and a set of natty clothes and it's like waving a magic wand. I'll be one of the club again.' 
'Amazing,' Mackintosh agrees, remembering how his own life has changed since he became a guru.
'You know what gets to me? It's not the way people look through me. They hardly noticed me in the old days, which was often quite useful if I wanted to photograph them.' Suddenly the editor looks haggard. 'What really galls is the time I've lost when I could be producing more photographs.'
'I can understand that.'
'Living rough does give you an entirely different perspective on life. A real bottom up approach.' 
'Familiar phrase.'
The editor looks puzzled.
'From our Ecowatch days,' Mackintosh explains. 'Planning for the people, by the people. That was the catchphrase.'
'I don't remember it.'
'The director was always on about it. You missed his inspirational meetings.'
'I'm not sure he was thinking of people who live on the streets.'
'More sort of the people you met in Hampstead restaurants. That was Ecowatch territory.' 
'Good days though.'
'Good days,' the editor agrees.
They settle into their drinks, lost in memories. 
'I suppose we ought to get to the house while the good lady is out,' Mackintosh decides when his glass is nearly empty. 'Sort out some clothes for you on the way.'
'Pity I'm not a standard size.'
'We'll manage.'
'I haven't got any money, you know. I hate to keep mentioning money.'
'No problem.'
'I don't know what to say.'
'Say we've got time for another pint.'
*
'She looked a bit askance,' the editor admits, resplendent in his new clothes.
'Very genteel, these charity shop women,' Mackintosh explains. 'The middle class doing their good works.'
'I think she was afraid I'd donate my other clothes.'
'Brought face to face with how the other half lives.'
'She was even more afraid I'd try something on and then put it back.'
'You look quite the intellectual now.'
'Once I've had a bath and a shave I'll look the part even better.'
'If Mrs Parrish is there and I have to introduce you, I'll say you're someone I used to work with that I bumped into.'
'And the beauty is it's true. It's all true.'
As they enter the Cloudsley Square, Mackintosh looks for Mrs Parrish's car. To his relief, it is not there. 
'The sylvan groves of Islington,' the editor murmurs. 'You have done well for yourself.'
'Purely temporary,' Mackintosh assures him.
'If I'd got my foot in a door around here, I wouldn't take it out again.'
'Sometimes you find you have to.' 
As they draw level with Mrs Parrish's house, Mackintosh scans the kitchen and living-room windows. There is no indication that his landlady is home.
'Looks as if we're okay,' he murmurs. 
'So no explanations are going to be needed.'
'Not for the moment.'
Mackintosh opens the front door. As he surmises, Mrs Parrish is out, though this does not stop the pair from making as little noise as possible as they scuttle to the top of the house. 
'I'm too old for cloak and dagger stuff,' Mackintosh complains, sinking onto the bed. He is panting. 
'Would it be better if I sneaked a bath and left?'
'Not after all this.' 
'I don't want to land you with extra problems.'
'It's the afternoon melancholy setting in,' Mackintosh assures him. 'We'll see it through.'
'Where's the bathroom? I think a cleanup is the priority.'
'Next landing down and at the back. While you're sorting yourself out, I'll organise some food.'
'Have I ended up in heaven?' 
'Just well-heeled Islington.'
When he is alone again, Mackintosh remains on the bed, looking at the sloping ceiling. He is not sure whether he is doing the right thing, but his course is set. His conscience has been satisfied and an immediate confrontation with Mrs Parrish has been avoided, though it will surely come. He just hopes that it can be postponed until after the exhibition.
*
'Mackintosh,' Mrs Parrish calls. 'Are you there?'
 Yes,' Mackintosh calls from his bed.
'Can you come down a moment, please.'
'Coming,' he calls back self-consciously, trying to divine his landlady's mood. He descends the stairs. The editor has had a large tin of beans on toast and is ensconced in one of the spare bedrooms. Mackintosh hopes that he will hear the voices and stay there. 
Mrs Parrish is at the bottom of the stairs. This time she does not smile. 
'You said you were going to get the rest of these pictures hung today.'
'I was. Then something else came up.'
'I've been lobbying hard for you. I really think you could do your share.'
'I met an old friend who's been having a difficult time. I had to help him.'
Mrs Parrish looks unconvinced.
'He hasn't eaten for days,' Mackintosh remonstrates. 'I couldn't leave him.'
'Everything looks exactly the same as when I left you this morning.'
'I started, then I found it was a two-man job.'
'They're not heavy.'
'They're not heavy, but you need a second person to stand back and make sure that  they're in the right place and they're straight.' 
Mrs Parrish still looks unconvinced.
'Now my friend can help, we'll get everything done in no time,' he assures her. 
'I hope you will, because there's somebody from the press coming.'
'Already?'
'It's not long to the exhibition, you know.' She watches him. Her expression has not softened. 'You did get the press invitations out, didn't you?'
He hesitates.
'Mackintosh—didn't you?'
'Most of them,' he lies. 
'They should all have been out a week ago!'
'There were problems.'
'The problem is we're not going to be ready on time.' 
'I'm sorry you feel that.'
'You do want this exhibition to be a success, don't you?'
'Of course.'
'Then I wish you'd take more interest.' 
He wants to say that creating the exhibits was quite an important share, but it is clear from Mrs Parrish's face that this is not the moment for clever answers. 
'Everything's going to be sorted out tomorrow,' he assures her. 
'I just hope it is.'
'Somebody from the press, you said?'
'She wants to interview you. This is something I arranged through personal contacts.' 
'When's it going to be?' 
'We can't do anything until you put the pictures up,' Mrs Parrish snaps, heading towards the basement stairs. This time she does not invite Mackintosh to join her. He retreats upstairs. On the second floor landing, he coughs. The door of the spare bedroom opens cautiously. The editor looks almost his old self now that he is washed and shaved. 
'First hurdle over,' Mackintosh whispers. 'Let's make a break for it.' 
'Dodge the searchlights.'
'Keep well away from the watchtowers.'
As Mackintosh leads the way downstairs, memories of surreptitious departures from other lodgings come back. These days, he worries that he might have a heart attack when his heart thumps so ferociously. Behind him pads the editor: Mackintosh is thankful that his fellow conspirator chose trainers in the Oxfam shop rather than leather shoes which make every footfall reverberate through the house. The tricky stage is getting outside. The editor sidles down the far side of the steps, out of sight of the basement window, while Mackintosh stages an ostentatious departure, pausing on the steps to fumble with his keys. As he saunters past the basement window, he glimpses Mrs Parrish preparing a salad and reflects that in other circumstances he might have shared it with her.
'Is it going to be like that every time?' the editor asks, catching him up further along the road. 
'You're helping me with the hanging tomorrow, so there won't be a problem. I said I'd be getting somebody else in.'
'Who or what are we hanging?'
Mackintosh explains. 
'Should take us most of the day,' he sums up. 'And then I've got to sort out a list of press contacts. You could help there.'
'I've long since lost my contacts. Anyway, I never had any in the art field.'
'I was thinking of a session in the library addressing envelopes.'
'I could manage that.' The editor sniffs the evening air. 'It's amazing how a wash and a set of clean clothes makes you feel a different man.'
'I thought you had a spring in your step,' says Mackintosh, feeling a glow of satisfaction at his good turn.
'All I need now is a camera. I really feel lost without one.' 
'Perhaps if we can find a second-hand one.' 
'Be great if we could. I want to see whether I approach things differently now.'
'I'd say you almost certainly do,' says Mackintosh authoritatively.
'It's going to be interesting. Mind you, I haven't got any facilities for printing and enlarging. That's just as important as the shooting.' 
'Some of the adult and further education colleges provide them. You could try getting in there.'
'Don't think they'd have me as a teacher—not with my record.'
'You could be a pupil again. At least it gives you an entrée.' 
'It's an idea. Give me somebody to toss ideas around with. That's something else you miss when you're on the streets. You're on your own, or you're with people who are too far gone to discuss anything.'
'A phase that's behind you,' says Mackintosh, hoping that it is true and that he will not be facing a similar fate. He would not bet on his prospects if Mrs Parrish discovers that the editor is living in her house. 
'Let's have a drink to celebrate,' says the editor, and Mackintosh does not argue.

chapter seven

'Well, well,' says Mrs Parrish, gazing approvingly at the transformation of her hall and staircase. She wraps her dressing-gown more securely around her. 'I didn't expect you to start this early.'
'You wanted it done, so we thought we'd make an early start,' says Mackintosh, feeling justifiably virtuous.
'I must say I'm impressed.' 
'This is Derek, the friend I was telling you about.'
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' says Mrs Parrish, shaking the editor's hand. Mackintosh feels relieved that his efforts to rehabilitate his companion have paid off. A couple of day's earlier, she would never have greeted Derek, let alone touch him.
'Delighted to meet you,' says the editor. 'I've heard so much about you.'
Mackintosh cringes.
'I never heard about you till yesterday,' Mrs Parrish confesses. 
'We've been out of touch for years,' the editor explains. 'We met up quite by chance.'
'It must have been a surprise for you.'
'You don't know how much I owe him.'
'You'll have to tell me all about it,' Mrs Parrish encourages as Mackintosh tries to look modest.
'There's not much to tell.'
'I'm sure there is, but I mustn't hold up the good work.' 
As she returns to the basement kitchen, the two men exchange glances. They do not speak until the sounds of breakfast radio drift up the stairs. 
'She seems nice enough,' the editor says in a low voice. 
'She's very kind,' Mackintosh agrees guardedly. 
'But.'
'But she can be stifling.' 
'Said with feeling. Perhaps you're out of touch with living with a woman.'
'I've never been in touch.'
'Mind you, who am I to talk?'
'Have you ever tried it?'
'Many years ago.'
'And what happened?'
The editor shivers. 'Not an experience I'd repeat in a hurry. Not as bad as prison, but got near to it on occasions.'
'Obviously not one of the high points of your life.'
'I've had plenty of chance to think about it: what went wrong, what I did wrong. Can't say all the fault was on her side. I suppose with somebody else, things might have been different.'
'You don't sound convinced.'
'Probably repeat the same old mistakes if I did it again. Still, you live in hope—particularly when you haven't got anything else going for you.'
'Things can only get better.' 
'Let's hope. It's all thanks to you, of course.'
Mackintosh assumes his modest expression. 
'I know you're wary,' says the editor, 'but you're getting your slippers warmed.' 
'I suppose so.'
'She might have motives you don't want to think about, but she arranged all this. Give her credit.' 
Mackintosh looks around at their handiwork. Mrs Parrish's prints from the staircase are stacked in one corner. Hanging in pride of place are two of Mark's masks, overpowering the early Victorian elegance of the hall with their size and brightness. The effect is incongruous. It crosses Mackintosh's mind that Tamsin's drawings would create a better first impression—as might his own house-backs. He dare not ask what his companion thinks. Instead he says, 'I suppose we ought to get on with the upstairs rooms.' 
'Whatever you say, boss.'
They go into the living room for the paintings.
'There's money here,' the editor murmurs, looking around appreciatively.
'Have you only just worked that out?'
'I like that.' The editor peers at Maria's sketch of the street sweeper in pride of place over the fireplace. 'Is that one of yours?'
Mackintosh wonders whether to confess—and decides that, for the moment, the best course is to remain silent. He waits to see how his own paintings, still stacked around the walls, go down with the editor; disappointingly, the editor makes no comment when he looks through the piles. 
'We'd better get something up,' Mackintosh says abruptly.
'Right. What goes where?'
'I think the house-backs on the landing. And we're banned from putting up any more hooks or using the picture rail.'
'Right you are. You've already sorted this room out, have you?' 
'Mrs Parrish has.' Mackintosh hands his colleague one of the house-backs. 'As a matter of interest, try putting this up over the fireplace.'
The editor takes down Maria's drawing and positions Mackintosh's painting in its place. 'How's that?' 
'More to the left. That's better.'
They both stand back to study the painting. Mackintosh knows that beside the fluency of Maria's street-sweeper, it is clumsy and over-worked.
'What do you think?' he ventures.
'Don't like it so much as the other one.' The editor gestures to Maria's sketch.
'They need massing,' Mackintosh declares.
'How do we do that without more hooks?'
'Put another one on the floor underneath it, leaning against the wall.' 
The editor obliges. They look again.
'I don't know whether that helps,' the editor confesses.
'I think it does. Put two on the other side of the fireplace.'
Two more of the house-backs are taken from the pile.
'You do a lot of these, don't you?'
'Comes of moving about a lot. I do one everywhere I stay.'
They are studying the result when Mrs Parrish brings them mugs of tea.
'I thought you could do with these as you're working so hard.'
'Very welcome,' says Mackintosh, taking his mug. The editor murmurs his thanks and steps back respectfully.
Mrs Parrish catches sight of the house-backs and frowns. 'I thought we'd already hung this room.' 
'We were trying out ideas,' says Mackintosh.
'We decided those house-backs were too depressing for in here.'
'They're not staying.' 
'That's all right.'  There is an awkward silence. 'I know I mentioned this before, but you're not putting any more hooks in the walls, are you?' 
'No. No hooks.'
'I really don't want to have to redecorate the whole place when this is over.'
'It'll be as good as new. I promise.'
Mrs Parrish looks mollified. 
'And the press invitations are going out today.' 
'And you will have all the hanging finished by tonight, won't you?'
'No problem.'
Mrs Parrish smiles. 'I know I keep nagging you, but I want this to be a real success.'
'We all do,' says Mackintosh.
'Have you had any breakfast, you two?' She looks from one to the other.
'Not really,' the editor confesses, making Mackintosh feel aggrieved that his cornflakes were so little appreciated.
'Would you like me to cook you something?'
The editor beams. 'That would be kind of you.'
'It's the least I can do. Then you can tell me about yourself.' 
Mackintosh stifles a groan.
'Do you want breakfast?' she asks, looking at him. 
'Very kind,' he agrees, summoning a smile.
'It'll be about ten minutes. I'll call you when it's ready.'
The two men watch her leaving the room. They hear her going downstairs. 
'Great,' says Mackintosh. 
The editor looks contrite. 'I thought I'd better keep in with her.'
'Now you'll have to make up a story about where you've been since Ecowatch.'
'Couldn't I tell her the truth?'
'I don't know how she'd take it.'
'She seems open-minded.'
'Your history might be a step too far.' 
'I could say I've been travelling.'
'Then she'll want to know where.'
'Or writing.'
'She'll want to know what.'
A silence comes between them. 
'Let's get on with this,' says Mackintosh, putting down his mug. 
*
'You can have more if you want,' says Mrs Parrish, sitting opposite her guests. She holds a mug of tea.
'It's very kind of you,' says the editor between mouthfuls of egg, bacon and fried bread.
'I don't think you've been eating properly.'
'I've had a few problems,' the editor admits.
'What sort of problems?'
The editor hesitates.
'If you'd rather not talk about it,' she says quickly. 
'Not really.'
'I don't want to force you.' 
Mackintosh toys with his food. It is the first time that he has been offered breakfast by Mrs Parrish. He feels that he ought to do justice to the occasion, but his appetite has deserted him. 
'How did you come to know each other?' she asks. 
'We used to work together,' the editor explains. 'It was years ago.'
'It must have been a surprise for you, meeting up again.'
'That's an understatement.' 
'Where was it you met?' 
'In the market.'
'You live around here, do you?'
'Sort of. You haven't got any more bacon, have you?'
'I thought I'd better do some extra with two hungry men in the house.' 
While Mrs Parrish is at the cooker, Mackintosh glares at his companion. The editor affects not to notice.
'I'm sure you can eat another piece of fried bread,' says Mrs Parrish, bringing the plate back to the table. 'It'll only go to waste otherwise.' 
The editor beams.
'It's good of you to help getting everything ready,' says Mrs Parrish.
'I've got nothing else on,' the editor tells her between mouthfuls. 
'You're interested in art, are you?'
'Sort of.'
'Sort of,' she repeats. 'What's that mean?'
'I'm a photographer.'
'A photographer! How very interesting. What do you photograph?'
'Anything that interests me—people, buildings ...'
'How fascinating. I'd love to see some of your work.'
'So would I.'
'I don't understand.' 
'It all got destroyed, unfortunately.'
Mrs Parrish's face clouds. 'That must have been terrible. What was it—a fire?'
'Got it in one,' Mackintosh interrupts.
'Even lost my camera and all my darkroom equipment,' says the editor, which Mackintosh feels is piling on the bathos.
'At least the insurance money should help you to get started again.'
'It wasn't insured, unfortunately.'
Mackintosh sees his landlady's look of horror and reflects that in her world, everything is insured. 
'Perhaps if this exhibition goes well, we could hold another one for your work,' she suggests.
'I haven't got anything to exhibit,' the editor points out.
'When you get another camera, I mean.' 
'That's the trouble—I can't afford one. I've lost my job.'
'That's terrible. I'm so sorry.' 
'Mackintosh has been marvellous, putting me on my feet again.' 
'I'm glad to hear it.' 
'And you're being good to me.' 
'All I've done is give you a breakfast.'
'I suppose we ought to be getting back to work,' Mackintosh interrupts.
'Your friend hasn't finished his breakfast yet,' Mrs Parrish scolds. She turns back to the editor. 'Do you want any more?' 
'I'd better not, thank you. That was lovely.'
'I've got some more eggs, if you want them. They're free range.' 
The editor declines, smiling.
'When you've got some photographs, I'd love to see them.' 
'That's only going to happen if I can get hold of a camera.'
'I'm sure somebody I know must have a camera you could use.' 
'If you do find anybody with a single lens reflex.' 
'We really ought to be pressing on,' Mackintosh urges, rising. 'I've got to be going out soon.'
'Fine by me,' the editor agrees, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
'I'm sorry I can't provide you with lunch,' says Mrs Parrish.
'I'm sure we'll manage,' Mackintosh assures her, heading for the door.
The two men go upstairs to the living room. 
'You were laying it on a bit thick,' Mackintosh complains when they are out of earshot.
'She was interested.'
'You mean you were trying to get a camera out of it.'
'I'm sorry if I trod on your toes.'
'Let's get this finished.'
'I'm really not sure those house-backs go with the drawings, you know.' 
'Not so good, you mean?'
'They're a different style and they're too large. Everything looks out of balance.'
'We'll put the sketches back. That's what everybody seems to want.' 
'I don't mind.' 
'The house-backs can go upstairs.' 
'If you hang paintings in all the bedrooms, won't your landlady want to look at them?'
'Probably.' 
'What about me?'
'So long as the bed doesn't look as if anyone's slept in it and you don't come back till late, you should be all right.'
'You're sure you don't mind me staying here?' 
Mackintosh hesitates. He does not want to consign his old colleague to a park bench again, but the encounter with Mrs Parrish has raised doubts about the wisdom of his beneficence. 'It can't be permanent,' he says at last.
'If I could use this address till I get fixed up with a job.'
Mackintosh is tempted to say that the editor should have dropped Mrs Parrish a few hints about that while he was at it, but he contents himself with saying, 'Let's take these up.'
'Right, boss.'
Mackintosh feels that fate is conspiring against him once more. 
They hang paintings on the staircase, on the first floor landing and in the adjoining rear bedroom.
'Do we go in Mrs Parrish's bedroom?' the editor asks.
'Better not,' Mackintosh decides. 'Anyway, the pubs are open.'
*
It is a day well spent, even if the atmosphere remains strained. During the long lunch break, Mackintosh buys drinks for his fellow worker. 
'I'm sorry if I've upset things,' says the editor for the third time.
'It's done now.'
'You're not happy about it, though, are you?'
'A bit miffed,' Mackintosh has to agree.
'That wasn't what I intended, believe me. I just thought I ought to get on her side.'
'You did that all right.'
'It's not going to affect the exhibition, is it?'
'Not directly,' Mackintosh concedes.
'There you are then.' 
Mackintosh wants to say that events after the exhibition are of more concern to him. Any chance of having Mrs Parrish further his own career with be jeopardised if she turns her crusading skill towards the editor. But he remains silent. The editor's voice interrupts his thoughts.
'I hate to ask, especially now you're pissed off with me, but I'm going to need some more shirts. We only bought the one.'
Mackintosh looks up.
'If I keep on wearing this one, it's going to stink,' the editor points out.
Mackintosh reflects that he has given himself the task of feeding, clothing and housing his erstwhile colleague for the foreseeable future. Perhaps their meeting was not so fortuitous as it at first seemed.
After three pints, they go back to the house to finish work. With Mrs Parrish out, there is no excuse to stop for tea. 
'My floor next,' says the editor.
Mackintosh does not bother to point out that it is not really his companion's floor. 
There are few picture hooks in the spare bedrooms, meaning that most paintings have to be propped against the walls. Mackintosh ensures that the paintings on the walls are his own. All of Tamsin's works he puts in one room. Being surrounded by them makes him feel closer to her. He wishes they could go in his own room, so that he could wake up to be reminded of her. The editor offers no remark about them.
'You'd better get yourself a few shirts before the shops close,' Mackintosh reminds him. 'I'll finish off here.'
'Good thinking. There's just the old money business ...'
Mackintosh produces a five-pound note from his wallet. 
'When I'm working, I'll pay you back,' the editor assures him.
Mackintosh keeps his doubts to himself. 'I'd keep out the way now,' he advises. 'She'll be home soon.'
'So do you want to meet up later?'
'Supposing we make it the same pub? Say at ten.'
'Right. I'll see you later.' The editor hesitates. 'And thanks again. I know I keep saying that, but I do mean it.'
Mackintosh nods. He waits for the editor to leave. When the front door is closed, he savours the silence. For a while the house is his own. He tells himself that gurus should be magnanimous towards those less fortunate than themselves. But even gurus need the freedom to please themselves.
The pleasure of being along in the house soon palls. By the time Mrs Parrish returns at half past six, Mackintosh is fretting at missing the early evening lull in the pub. He knows that he should welcome any opportunity to paint, but with so much happening in his life, he cannot settle.
'Is this how it's going to look?' his landlady enquires when they greet each other in the living room.
'Yes.'
'It's more cluttered than I thought it would be with all these paintings around the walls.' 
'You did say you wanted the place to look well filled.'
'It's certainly that.' 
'And we couldn't put them on the walls if we can't have any more hooks.'
'You said at first you weren't sure whether you had enough paintings.'
'There turned out to be more than I expected.'  
'I can see that.'
'We've put them in all the rooms except the kitchen, bathrooms, my room and your bedroom—we didn't like to go in there.'
Mrs Parrish nods understandingly. 
'So now we're ready for the off,' Mackintosh finishes. 
'It's not what I expected, somehow.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I suppose it's too late to change anything.'
'We can move paintings around. Those masks in the hall, for example.'
'No. I think having them there is a good idea. They're very striking.' 
'And you wanted these drawings to be in here.'
'We need to keep them in a prominent place—they're so good. It's just some of the others in here that I'm worried about. Couldn't you put them somewhere else?'
'Not really.'
'I don't see why.'
'Because there isn't any room.'
'Not even in the bedrooms?'
'No.'
'Do you mind if I have a look?' 
'It's your house.' 
Mrs Parrish does not answer, which makes Mackintosh wonder whether he has said the wrong thing. He follows her to the first floor. Mrs Parrish leads the way into the rear bedroom. 
'I think you should have put that one on the wall.' She points to Mark's canvas of curled leaves. 'I like that one.' 
'It's a question of getting the balance right.'
'I should have thought it was more important to get the painting right.'
They go up another floor. On the way they pass two more of Mackintosh's house-backs. Mrs Parrish makes no comment. She opens the door of the bedroom containing Tamsin's drawings. It is the room which the editor used.
'A different style,' says Mackintosh to preempt discussion. 'I thought I'd keep them all together.'
'They're very delicate. Almost feminine.'
He wonders whether she guesses.
'You ought to do more like this. I'm sure it's what people want.'
'But it's not what I want.'
'You've got to think of your audience.' 
'I'm not a performance artist.'
'Is your friend here?'
'No.' Warily. Although the bed is tidy, he suspects that she can smell the editor's presence. He sniffs cautiously.
'I wanted to thank him for all his hard work,' Mrs Parrish is saying.
'He had something else on. I'll pass on your thanks when I see him.'
'He's a good friend to you. Make sure you don't lose contact with him again.'
Mackintosh suppresses a smile.
'I've been quite busy on your behalf,' Mrs Parrish continues. 'You remember I mentioned an interview?'
Mackintosh remembers.
'A reporter from the Evening Standard is coming to write a piece on the exhibition.'
'A critic, you mean?'
'No, a reporter. She's the daughter of a friend of mine.'
'Ah.'
'You could sound more enthusiastic. This is going to be wonderful publicity.'
'I'm sure it will,' Mackintosh agrees, stifling a groan. All he wants is get out of the house and enjoy a drink. 
'She's coming tomorrow—' 
'Tomorrow!'
'You don't seem to realise how little time there is. We need to get the public interested.'
'What time?' 
'At twelve.'
A second day of having his lunchtime drinking disrupted. 
'I thought you'd be pleased.'
'I am.' 
'You don't show it. Did you make out a press list?'
'I haven't had time. I thought it was more important to get the paintings hung.'
'It is important, but so is the press list.'
'I'll do it first thing tomorrow,' Mackintosh promises.
'Couldn't you do it tonight?'
'Unfortunately not. Other commitments.' 
'You do want this exhibition to be a success, don't you?'
'Of course I do.' 
'I wonder sometimes.'
'I've got a meeting about setting up a course. In fact I'm late already,' Mackintosh explains, glancing at his watch. He edges towards the door, avoiding Mrs Parrish's glare. 'Still, we're getting there, aren't we?'
Mrs Parrish looks unconvinced.
'Sorry I've got to rush off ...' 
Once on the landing, he allows himself a sigh before scuttling upstairs to get his coat. He hears his landlady going into her own bedroom. Fortunately, the door is closed when he passes it on his way downstairs. His final departure from Cloudsley Square is coming ever closer.

chapter eight

Mackintosh manages a visit to the pub before his interview is due. A whisky helps to steady his nerves. He reflects on how tranquil life used to be before he sought fame as an artist. There is something to be said for languishing in obscurity, as others must have discovered. He wonders how many of them have to earn a living as gurus. Not that his guru days will last much longer unless he devotes more attention to publicising his courses than of late.
'You look thoughtful,' says Irene, leaning forward on the bar. Usually her cleavage is a matter of abiding interest to Mackintosh; on this occasion, he cannot summon much enthusiasm.
'Mmm.' 
'Something on your mind?'
When he does not respond, she wanders to the other end of the bar, which makes him feel annoyed with himself for missing an opportunity to know her better. But the coming interview preys on his mind. He cannot put off deciding what he should say to the reporter. A career in town planning hardly seems a fitting background for a neglected artist. Something with an element of struggle is called for. 
And then there is the problem of what to do about the editor. The heady bonhomie of their first encounter together has not been recaptured. Instead, the costs have come to assume increasing importance. It is not that Mackintosh minds paying for a suit of clothes—the experience of being a benefactor is both new and interesting—but paying the editor's living expenses is destined to be a financial burden with no prospect of an end. For somebody used to living frugally, it is alarming to have a dependant thrust upon him. And sooner or later, Mrs Parrish will discover her subtenant. Then Mackintosh's own days in her house will be numbered. Not that the prospect is too alarming—a change is overdue—but he would like a say in his destiny. 
There is time for a second pint of Guinness—and an extra half for luck—though Mackintosh suspects that his luck might be running out. Outside, the weather seems colder. He has visions of sleeping on a bench in one of the gardens where so recently he looked for the editor. Around him, his paintings will be arrayed in plastic bin liners. Thus is a guru fallen.
He lets himself into the house quietly, hoping that he might sneak up to his room to compose himself for his ordeal. The living-room door is open. He hears Mrs Parrish saying 'Here he is.'
Mackintosh assumes his guru's smile of infinite wisdom and peace with the world as he enters the room. At his landlady's side is a girl who looks young enough to be at school. A bearded man with a camera hanging from a strap around his neck is studying Maria's drawings. 
'This is Mackintosh,' Mrs Parrish announces. 
Mackintosh nods in acknowledgement.
'And this is Ruth,' his landlady continues, touching the girl's arm. 'I told you about her.'
Ruth is shapely, with a mischievous grin and a mass of tousled black hair surrounding her elfin face. Her dark eyes seem to glow. Mackintosh wishes that he knew more girls like Ruth. It passes through his mind to invite her to one of his workshops.
'Hi there,' she says with a seductively husky voice which makes him wonder whether she is already a seasoned smoker. 'Do you want me to call you Mackintosh?'
'Everybody else does.'
'How about in the article?'
'The same. Why not?'
Mrs Parrish looks on like a fond aunt. 
'Couldn't make me a cup of tea, could you?' he asks, hoping to get her out of the way. He cannot remember what he has told her about himself, but he does not want her contradicting him.
'I thought we could all have one after the interview.' 
Ruth explains, 'What we'd like is to get the photograph out of the way first so Peter can get on his way.' 
'Won't take a minute,' the bearded man assures them, springing into action.  
'I hoped your friend the editor was going to be here,' Mrs Parrish says. 'He could have talked to Peter.'
'He had other things on,' Mackintosh lies.
'Back towards the fireplace,' says Peter, peering though the viewfinder. 'That's it.'
The photographs are taken before Mackintosh realises what is happening. It is a long time since anybody has pointed a camera at him. The experience is strangely disconcerting. He makes a mute appeal to Mrs Parrish, but all she does is to smile back.
'All over,' says Peter, 'Didn't hurt, did it?'
Mackintosh grunts, remembering how the dentist used the same words. And that was a lie.
'I'll see myself out,' says Peter, heading towards the door. 'See you later, Ruth.'
'He's got another job to go to,' Ruth explains at the front door bangs. 
'Let's all sit down,' says Mrs Parrish.
Mackintosh finds himself sitting on the settee beside his landlady. Ruth is facing them, recorder at the ready. As she presses the button to begin recording, he wonders how long the tape will last.
'Tell me, Mackintosh,' Ruth begins, 'How long have you been painting?'
'Twenty years, thirty years.' His voice sounds strained. He notices that Mrs Parrish is smiling encouragingly again. He is afraid that she will hold his hand.
'That's a long time.'
'A long time,' he agrees.
'Where did you train?'
'I didn't go to art school. I trained with some well-known painters.'
'Who, exactly?'
He knows that he is involved too deeply to back out. There is a sense of elation in leaving the facts behind and launching himself into the unknown. He looks to the ceiling for inspiration as he answers, 'Oh—people like Bacon, Weight ...' He cannot resist glancing at Ruth to see her response. She looks impressed.
'That must have been a good training.'
'Very thorough.'
'What was Bacon like as a teacher?' 
'Brilliant painter, but more interested in his own work, unfortunately. Teaching wasn't his forte.'
'Who do you think influenced you most?'
'Nobody in particular.' 
The expressions on the faces of his audience betray the crassness of his words. 
'After a while, you develop your own style,' he explains. 'If the influences don't meld together, you're not finding your own voice.'
'And you've found yours?'
'Yes.'
'How would you describe it?'
He gives an expansive gesture. 'Take a look around.'
Ruth looks. Her expression hardly betrays overwhelming excitement. He wonders whether the chance will come to invite her out. 
'They look quite varied,' she decides. 
'Your style evolves. That's how it should be.' 
Ruth looks puzzled. 
'New experiences shape you,' he explains. 'You strike out in new directions.'
'What experiences have been formative, would you say?'
'They might not be important in themselves—somebody you happen to meet in a pub—but they resonate. That's the key—resonance.' He likes that word. Ruth seems impressed by it, too. 
'So it's people you meet who are important rather than any particular artistic movement?'
'People and events. Even looking at a building you haven't seen before—that can be enough. Like the series of house-backs. Each one represents the view from a room where I've lived. Even if I'm only there a few weeks, I paint the view from the window.' 
His listeners take in the paintings of house-backs propped around the walls.
'You must have moved about quite a lot,' Ruth observes.
'Quite a lot.'
'Have you painted the view from here?' Mrs Parrish wants to know.
'Er, not yet. I've been too busy organising the exhibition.'
'I'd like to see it when it's done.'
'And you will.' 
'So these works come from different points in your career?' Ruth interrupts.
'Yes.'
'Is that why there are several distinct styles? These house-backs are totally different from the drawings.' 
'I like to try out ideas.'
'And that wasn't a style you pursued?' She indicates Maria's drawing of a road sweeper.
Mackintosh examines the drawing critically. 'It's interesting, but I'm not sure it's something I'd want to repeat. It's a dead end.'
'I like it,' Mrs Parrish says loyally.
Mackintosh shrugs. 'There we are. Everybody's response is different.'
'So where do you think your style's going at the moment?'
'Everything's being simplified.'
'Can we see that in the house-backs? I mean can you show us the most recent one?'
He points to one of the murkier examples. 'There are more upstairs.'
'And how does it differ from that one, say?' she points to another of the house-backs.
'In the most recent one, I've concentrated on essentials.'
Ruth looks unconvinced, but she does not press the point. Mackintosh relaxes. 
'Can we go back to your early days?' she continues. 'So you studied with several famous artists ...'
He is not sure whether she believes him.
'... Did you have an ordinary job?'
'An ordinary job?'
'You know.' 
'I had to pay the bills, of course, and yes, I took whatever I could get—labouring, office work—'
'And he was a lecturer,' Mrs Parrish interrupts. 'In town planning.'
'Do you feel bitter at the lack of acknowledgement?'
'No.'
'Never?'
'I don't court popularity.'
'So why have you decided to hold an exhibition at this particular moment?'
'Mrs Parrish helped me there.' 
Ruth turns her recorder towards Mrs Parrish.
'You're Mackintosh's partner—'
'His landlady,' Mrs Parish corrects. 
'Sorry, his landlady. What gave you the idea for the exhibition?'
'It just came to me.'
'In a moment of inspiration,' Mackintosh adds.
'And you felt his work should be better known?' Ruth asks Mrs Parrish. 
' I suppose I wanted to feel that I was helping his career.' 
'Was there any work in particular that appealed to you?'
'Not really.' Mrs Parrish hesitates. 'I hadn't seen all that much of it when I suggested the idea.' 
'And now you've got some of the paintings displayed, what's your opinion?'
'They're all on display,' Mackintosh corrects, but the two women ignore him.
'I don't understand them all,' Mrs Parrish confesses. 
Ruth moves the recorder towards Mackintosh again. 'Perhaps you can talk us through one or two of your works.'
'I don't think they should need explaining. Paintings are like music—beyond words.' He gazes at the house-backs and tries to think of something meaningful to say. 'You should be able to gain your own impressions of them. They're places that have meant something to me and that's what I've tried to convey.'
'I wasn't thinking of the house-backs particularly.'
'Which ones then?'
'You don't have any portraits in oils, I notice.'
'I've always preferred places.' 
'That's interesting. Do you mean you prefer drawing places, or do places mean more to you than people?'
Mackintosh can see problems ahead. He answers firmly, 'I prefer drawing scenes—street scenes.' 
'Any reason for that?'
'Not really.' 
'Most artists seem to prefer people.' 
'Stubbs didn't. He preferred horses.'
'It's just that to me, the sketch of the street sweeper seems the most striking work here. I wondered why you didn't pursue that line.'
'You have to follow your interests.'
'What about the masks I noticed in the hall? Is there some story to them?'
'We all have phases when we hide behind masks.'
'They're totally different from this.' Ruth points to Maria's drawing. 
'You're looking for a consistency which doesn't exist.' When Mackintosh sees that Ruth is unconvinced, he explains, 'That's the problem with talking about style. You're looking for some notion of unity that embraces all the work. Life's not like that.'
His audience looks bemused. 
'You haven't said anything about your other work,' Mrs Parrish interrupts. She turns to the reporter to explain, 'He runs courses in spiritual development.' 
'That's nothing to do with art,' Mackintosh says quickly.
Ruth perks up, thrusting the recorder closer. 'So you don't feel that the two activities are in any way related?' 
'No.'
'They're both a yearning for a different way of looking at things, surely?'
Mackintosh concedes the point.
'But they're not connected in your life?'
'No.'
'Have you studied oriental art?'
'Not formally.'
'I thought Eastern philosophy might be a link between them.'
'It's a time problem.' 
Ruth's brow wrinkles delightfully. 'I'm not with you.'
'I haven't had time to explore oriental art as thoroughly as I'd like. There's enough going on in Western art.'
Ruth is nodding. 'So you're able to compartmentalise your life? That's interesting.'
'We all do.'
'I don't know about that. It seems to go against an all-embracing notion like spirituality, surely.' 
'Compartmentalising is a way of coping,' Mackintosh declares, wondering how to bring the interview to an abrupt conclusion without upsetting Mrs Parrish. At that moment, the most desirable thing in the world is retiring to a pub for the afternoon, away from the questioning. He tries unsuccessfully to see how much unused tape is left in  Ruth's recorder.  
'How about your personal life?' she asks.
'My personal life is my painting.'
'What I meant was have you been married? Do you have a partner?'
'The answer in both cases is no. I told you. My personal life is my painting.'
'What are your other interests?'
'I haven't got any.'
She looks disbelieving. 'So it's painting, painting, painting.'
'All the way. Painting and drawing.'
'Don't you read or go to the theatre?'
'No.'
'Isn't that limiting?'
'It's always nice to have a wider range of influences. And I can read.' As Ruth smiles, he explains, 'As I said, it's a matter of what you can squeeze into twenty-four hours. The older you get, the more you want to make the best use of time.' 
'You certainly seem to have squeezed in a lot of painting. Are there any works you'd like to talk about especially?'
'I thought we'd talked about them already.'
'Only in general terms.'
'I want them to speak for themselves.'
'You said the places you've painted are those that have meant something to you. You wouldn't like to talk about any of your works with that in mind?'
'No. They speak for themselves.'
'What about the sketch of the street sweeper? That intrigues me.' 
'You see things and you want to draw them. That's the great thing about London: there's always something to draw.'
'Are you from London?'
'Londoner born and bred.' 
'Which part?' 
'Crouch End.' 
He wonders why he bothers to lie. What is wrong with coming from St Albans?
'And London is a great influence on you?'
'Most certainly.'
'Any particular aspect?'
He considers her question. He paints London scenes because he cannot think of anything else to paint, but that seems an unsatisfactory answer. 'The alienation,' he declares.
'You find it a rich seam to explore?'
'It's frightening and it's fascinating. Endlessly fascinating.'
'Do you feel alienated yourself?'
'Doesn't everybody in a big city? I think he symbolises it.' Mackintosh gestures towards Maria's drawing of a road sweeper. 
'It is very evocative,' breathes Mrs Parrish, after a respectful pause.
'Will you be available to answer questions during the exhibition?' Ruth asks Mackintosh. 
'Some of the time. Only some of the time. It's a question of commitments ...'
The tape recorder is switched off. Mackintosh relaxes. 
'That's great,' Ruth says. 'Thanks.'
'When does it appear in the paper?' Mrs Parrish wants to know.
'It depends what other copy they get. Anything topical like a political scandal gets priority.'
'But it will be before the exhibition?'
'Of course.'
Mrs Parrish nods, satisfied.
'If you don't want me any more, I'll pop out for a while,' Mackintosh murmurs, getting up.
'I thought you were going to have a cup of tea?' Mrs Parrish says.
'I've got an appointment—going through proofs of leaflets for the course. It slipped my memory until just now.' 
'I hoped you'd show Ruth around the exhibition.' 
The idea appeals to him, though not if Mrs Parrish is going to be present. He hesitates.
'But if you've got an appointment, I suppose you must go,' Mrs Parrish continues. 
'I hope the exhibition goes well,' Ruth says, getting up. 'I'll try to get along to it.'
'Everybody's welcome. Absolutely everybody.'
'I'm so pleased to meet you,' she says as they shake hands. Mackintosh is conscious that another opportunity has slipped through his fingers.
'Right, I'll leave you to it, ladies,' he announces, retreating to the door. He tries to avoid Mrs Parrish's eye. Her expression is frosty. 'Back to work then.'
And then he can escape. No more commitments to worry about until he has to smuggle the editor into the house again. The editor has become his albatross. But that problem is hours away.
*
However much Mackintosh wants to paint, the pub always holds more immediate pleasures. On this occasion, the risk of going back to the house and facing Mrs Parrish's reproaches is an added incentive for not straying from the bar. Nor has the interview put him in the right frame of mind for creative work. Over his first pint of Guinness, he goes over his answers. In general, his estimation is that he fielded Ruth's questions well. He was lucky: a more experienced reporter might have been more probing.
What he needs is something to take his mind off the interview. He casts around for somebody to talk to. Irene is not on duty. The barman looks too efficient to engage in conversation. Among the clutch of seasoned drinkers who make the pub their own in the afternoon, the slumped posture of the only other person at the bar betrays that he is too far gone to appreciate stimulating conversation. To approach one of the four men who sit alone at the tables would be a breach of etiquette. Instead, Mackintosh studies their speed of drinking and their remaining amounts of beer and tries to judge who will come to the bar first. His guess is the nondescript man in his sixties, who might be a widower, or who has recently retired from a clerical job and is finding life at home oppressive. Though the white shirt is immaculate, the Harris tweed jacket is shabby. Such are the problems of making ends meet while trying to remain respectable on a small pension, Mackintosh reflects, aware that his own pension will be even smaller. The prospect makes him shudder. 
His guess about coming to the bar is proved right. The nicotine stains on the man's fingers betray that the pension has to stretch beyond drinking. 
'Can I get you one?' Mackintosh offers, putting down the glass which he has hastily drained.
'It's all right—'
'I insist. I've just had a bit of luck. Won a bit, so I might as well share it.'
'Just a half then. Thank you.'
'What are you on?'
'Bitter, please.'
Mackintosh orders a pint. Halves always seem more suited to women, except that when a pub is crowded, he sometimes buys an extra half to top of a pint. 
'It's kind of you,' says his guest when the drinks are on the counter and paid for.
'Share my good fortune. Cheers.'
Their glasses touch.
'Ted's the name,' says Mackintosh.
'Charlie.'
'Retired are you?' Mackintosh probes as his companion sips the beer.
'Five years ago.'
'Civil Service was it?'
'Local authority.'
'Surprising how it catches up with you. One day you're learning the ropes and dreaming of all the things you're going to do. Then you're getting your retirement present and you still haven't done them.'
'You're retired as well, are you?'
'I begged to be allowed to stay on, but no. Got to make room for younger men.'
'That's the way it is now.'
'Mind you, mine was a special job.' Mackintosh motions Charlie to come closer. 'Intelligence. Can't say too much.'
Charlie nods as one who understands these things. 
'They entrust you with all their secrets and afterwards you're supposed to forget everything. Crazy, isn't it?'
'Crazy.' 
'You gain all that experience ...'
'Experience doesn't count for anything these days.'
'You never spoke a truer word.' 
They draw back to drink reflectively.
'I ended up trading secrets,' Mackintosh admits. 
'I wouldn't have done that.'
'To make ends meet I didn't have any choice.'
'Not endangering state security—I wouldn't have done that.'
'Nothing important. Size of the Chancellor's socks—that sort of thing.' 
'Still, you never know what another power can make of it.'
'Sabotage the sock factories, you mean?'
Charlie does not smile. 'You could let something important slip.'
'The cold war's over. Russia's our ally again. What harm's it going to do? I mean you must have accumulated a few secrets in your time.'
'I wouldn't give them away.'
'Which department were you in, Charlie? Don't mind if I call you Charlie, do you?''
'Rates. In the days when we had rates.'
'That was proper way to do things.'
'That's what I think.'
'You must have known lots of addresses that certain people would be interested in. Addresses that politicians would like to keep to themselves.'
'One or two.'
'Don't suppose you remember them?'
'No, and I wouldn't tell you. Excuse me and thank you for the drink.' Charlie puts down his half-finished pint and heads for the door, leaving Mackintosh wishing that he had kept the conversation general till Charlie's round. 
*
When Mackintosh meets the editor, the latter enters the pub warily, as though he is not reconciled to being respectable. 
'Went the day well?' the editor asks.
'Interview was so-so. How about you?'
'Haven't done much.'
'Days aren't for doing—they're for experiencing,' Mackintosh declares. 'What are you having?'
'Lager.'
Mackintosh orders, getting himself another pint though the one before him is barely touched. 
'Hate to ask you ...' begins the editor before Mackintosh has put his wallet away. 
'No need to say it. Can't be without a drinking voucher.' Mackintosh passes him a note.
'I don't know how I'll ever repay you.' 
'For old times. What we do for old times.'
'Lot of murky water under the bridge since then.'
'Always look for the clear water.' Mackintosh puts up a finger. 'Do you realise we're coming up to make or break day for me?'
'Which do you think it's going to be?'
'Ah.' 
'For your sake, I hope it's make rather than break.'
'You know what? I've got to the point where I don't care. Isn't that a terrible state to be in?'
'Terrible,' the editor agrees.
'I think: do I want to make it? Would I rather keep my head down and get on with my work in my own way without all the celebrity stuff?'
'And would you?'
'Dunno. Wouldn't have to give any more courses if I could sell some paintings.'
'And that's what you want?'
'Do you know why I do it? Because they pay me. That's the only reason.' 
'That's a good reason. Better than having everything fall apart.'
'Not in my hands to decide what happens. Like if madam catches us coming in tonight. That's every down the tubes.'
'We shall be careful.'
'Good thinking.'
'And there's no hurry.'
'Time for a pint or two before we test our mettle,' Mackintosh agrees.
*
It is nearly midnight when the two men walk unsteadily back to Cloudsley Square. Breath steams from their nostrils. The pavements are shiny with frost. The editor has his hands in his pockets.
'This is when you need a coat,' says Mackintosh.
'I had one. You made me put it in the bin.'
'That wasn't a coat: that was a rag—and a particularly disgusting one at that.'
'It was all I had.'
'We shall pay another visit to the tailors tomorrow and get you kitted out.'
'You're very good to me.' 
'Old friends,' Mackintosh declares. He looks about conspiratorially and mutters, 'This is where we have to be careful.'
'Enemy country,' the editor agrees.  
'Land of the bourgeoisie.'
'Let's see what your landlady's doing.'
'Hopefully she's in bed.'
'And may she stay there.'
They approach the house in relative silence. The only light visible is that from the hall. Mackintosh has trouble unlocking the door. 'Always a bit stiff,' he explains. 
'They can be. I know they can be.'
'Ssh.'
'Sorry.' 
Mackintosh takes care to deadlock the door after him. Mrs Parrish is strict about that. The house is in silence. He puts his finger to his lips as the ascent begins. On the first floor, Mrs Parrish's door does not open. On the second floor, he feels jubilant, shaking the editor's hand and offering a whispered farewell before ascending to his attic room. There, he falls onto the bed, feeling that the world is not such a bad place.

chapter nine

Mackintosh stirs. There is a banging. It takes a moment to realise that somebody is knocking on his door. 
'What is it?'
'Can I have a word, please?' Mrs Parrish calls. 
'Give me a minute.'
'Now, please.' 
'All right. Coming.'
He pulls himself off the bed. He still wears his clothes from the previous evening.
'I went to Hoover the carpets in the spare bedrooms,' Mrs Parrish begins as he opens the door. He has not seen her that angry before.
'Ah.'
'Why didn't you tell me your friend was staying here?'
'I would have done, but it was all last minute stuff. He missed his train.'
'That wasn't the impression I got.'
'It's all been a bit confused,' Mackintosh mutters.
'All the things I've done for you and you go behind my back.' 
'I never meant it like that.'
'How could you?'
He stares at the floor, not answering. His thoughts drift back to an occasion when he was standing before his secondary school headmaster after being discovered smoking: the same mixture of shame combined with annoyance at being found out was present.
'And then you lie to me,' Mrs Parrish reproaches him. 
'It wasn't really a lie.'
'Now of all times.' 
'Bit unfortunate,' he has to agree.
'I'm in two minds whether to cancel the whole thing.'
He wants to say that her attitude is typical of those with power: taking away the underlings' treats when it suits them. But this is not the moment to espouse socialist sentiments. Instead, he hangs his head and looks remorseful.
'I don't know who was more embarrassed when I walked into the spare bedroom and found your friend there.'
'I should have told you. I'm sorry.'
'I've a right to know who's staying in my own house.' 
'Of course you have and I'm truly sorry.'
'We'll have to talk about this later. I've got a lot to do before the caterers come.'
'I suppose we'd better get ready,' he agrees, relaxing. The exhibition is not threatened.
'Will you hurry up, please. We've got less than two hours before the opening.'
'Two hours. Right. Just a quick shower and I'll be ready. Don't worry about that.'
'And if you're looking for your friend, he's having breakfast with me,' Mrs Parrish adds as she leaves. Never having had breakfast with his landlady, Mackintosh feels put out that the editor has been granted the privilege after one night and in such inauspicious circumstances. Not that Mackintosh usually eats breakfast, but he would have welcomed the offer.
As Mrs Parrish goes downstairs, he retreats to his bed. He lies with his eyes closed, collecting his thoughts. His stay in Cloudsley Square is coming to an abrupt conclusion; such is the cost of extending a helping hand to a colleague. The only question is whether he emulates the editor in looking for a park bench that is free, or whether he can do better for himself. He tells himself that as a successful guru, his prospects should be better than those of a convicted pornographer. 
Neither a shower nor a cup of coffee improves Mackintosh's spirits. If anything, his apprehension increases, knotting his stomach as he ventures downstairs, past his own paintings and those of the students. Mark's masks leer at him. He curls his upper lip in retaliation. 
In the basement, there is a smell of bacon and eggs. Mrs Parrish busies herself at the cooker. The editor sips tea as he leans back in his chair. Mackintosh is tempted to be sarcastic about this scene of cosy domesticity, but diplomacy dictates an emollient approach. 
'Are you sure all your paintings are in the right place? Mrs Parrish asks, not looking at him.
'I think so,' Mackintosh answers cautiously.
'Derek was wondering whether the house-backs should be in a less prominent position.'
'I don't consider the floor is a prominent position.'
'They are in the living room.'
'They're central to the exhibition,' Mackintosh declares, glaring at the editor. 
'You don't think something brighter might be better?' the editor suggests.
'No. We can't start changing things around with less than two hours to go.'
'It was just a suggestion,' Mrs Parrish intervenes. 'If you don't like it, we can leave things as they are.' 
'That's what we'll do.' 
'What's essential is that all the rooms are clean and tidy,' Mrs Parrish presses on before the silence takes hold. 'I hoped my cleaning lady would be able to come in, but unfortunately her husband's ill. And we'll need to put signs on the doors of the bathrooms and the rooms that are private. Can you do that, Mackintosh?' 
'Certainly.'
'And don't pin them on, please. I don't want holes in the paintwork.''
'Right.'
Mrs Parrish scoops more eggs and bacon on to the editor's plate.
'That's very kind of you,' the editor responds with what Mackintosh regards as an obsequious tone.
'Do you think you'll want any more?'
'This is fine for me, thanks.' 
Their hostess turns off the cooker 'I'll get the cleaning finished, then I'll have to get dressed. Can I rely on you two to get everything washed up and put away?'
'Of course you can,' Mackintosh says emphatically. 
'I just hope so,' she retorts. 
The two men watch her leaving the kitchen. Her steps clatter angrily on the stone stairs. When she reaches the hall overhead, they look at each other.
'Back to the park,' says the editor.
'You're all right. You're in her good books. She's never cooked breakfast for me.'
'I don't know whether her goodwill extends to having me as a lodger.'
'Well I won't be here, will I?'
'Has she told you that?'
'It's what she means. She's going to talk to me after the exhibition. And she's not pleased.'
'You might get away with a telling off.'
'I should be so lucky.' 
'The exhibition's going ahead, isn't it?'
'Apparently.'
'So she's not too mad at you. And if it takes off, you'll be made, so you can afford to find somewhere else.' 
'And if it doesn't, I'll be on the skids.'
'Be positive,' the editor urges.
'Easy to say.'
'Two days ago, it was you saying it.'
'Circumstances alter cases. Who first said that?'
'Sounds like a lawyer.'
Mackintosh stares out the barred window. 'I've got forebodings about today.'
'Hasn't started too well, it must be conceded.'
'And how's it going to finish?'
'Don't ask—just wait with resignation.' 
*
Over the ensuing hour, Mackintosh contrives to keep out of Mrs Parrish's way as much as possible. With the washing up done, the kitchen is made pristine, bathrooms are labelled and carpets are vacuum cleaned, as far as the paintings stacked around the skirtings will allow. When caterers arrive to set up trestle tables in the living room, Mackintosh's apprehension at the enormity of which he is doing increases, overshadowing his rift with Mrs Parrish. He contemplates slipping out for a drink before the critics arrive, but he knows that this will not go down well with his landlady.
'Are you hanging around for events to unfold?' he asks the editor as the two men watch caterers arranging trays of food on the tables.
'Up to you, really,' the editor responds. 
'Or are you after the food?'
'That is a consideration. Do you mind?'
'By all means stay. Then we can get thrown out together.'
'Or I can bask in your reflected glory.' 
'Less likely.'
'How many people are you expecting?'
'They're supposed to be catering for fifty. 
'Looks more like a hundred and fifty.'
Mackintosh tries not to think about the cost. 
'What's it feel like to have a one-man show?' the editor asks.
'You sound like a journalist.'
'Sorry.'
'Ask me a year ago and I'd have said it was the pinnacle of achievement. Now, it seems more like a high wire act.' 
'First night nerves.'
'Are we ready?' Mrs Parrish asks, appearing in the doorway in a dress which Mackintosh has not seen before.
Muttered agreement from the two men. Mackintosh knows that he has missed the opportunity to compliment her.
'Didn't any of your work survive the fire?' she presses the editor.
'Nothing at all, I'm afraid.'
'If this is a success, you should think about a photography exhibition.'
'I think that's going to be a long way ahead.'
 We could hold it here again.'
'I haven't even got a camera,' the editor objects, looking bemused. 
'We'd have to find you a camera first, of course.'
'A good camera and all the darkroom equipment come quite expensive.'
'I'm sure we can find a way around that.'
'It's a marvellous idea,' says the editor. 
'How long would it take you to have enough photographs ready?'
'At least six months.'
'I've never been to a photographic exhibition.'
'You ought to visit the Photographers' Gallery near Leicester Square.'
'Perhaps you'd like to take me.' 
'Let's see how today goes,' Mackintosh interrupts.
'Don't you think you ought to change?' Mrs Parrish asks.
'I think it might be better to look casual.'
'You can be casual without being dirty and untidy.' 
Mackintosh hangs his head.
'And I hope you haven't forgotten that I want to talk to you when this is over?'
He murmurs that he has not. He suspects that Mrs Parrish has more to say, but he seizes the excuse to escape to his room. To appease her, he changes into his only suit. He has not worn it for two years. To his surprise, it still fits.
The doorbell rings as he comes downstairs. He heads for the front door before anybody else can answer it. 
'Are you press?' he asks the middle-aged lady with the extravagant hat who is waiting on the step.
'Certainly not.'
'Press only today, I'm afraid.'
'I don't know who you are, but I'm a friend of Joan Parrish. Stand aside, please.'
Mackintosh is pushed aside as the visitor sweeps into the hall and heads for the living room. As he closes the front door, he hears her saying, 'Joan! How lovely to see you.'
'Paula! I'm so glad you made it,' comes Mrs Parrish's voice. 'You're the first here.' 
'Is this the artist?' 
Mackintosh ventures into the living room to find the visitor looking the editor up and down. 
'It's the one who let you in,' Mrs Parrish explains. 'Mackintosh—this is Paula Crompton.' 
The visitor peers around the room, not acknowledging him. 'Are these all his?' 
'Yes.'
'Some of them are a bit muddy for my taste. I like the drawings better.' She goes closer to Maria's sketch of a road sweeper. ' How much is this one?'
'Here's the catalogue,' Mackintosh says. 
'How much?' she repeats, ignoring the stapled sheets which he holds out. 
He hunts through the list. 
'Don't you know how much your own works are?' Paula Crompton exclaims.'I thought you'd have all the prices on the tip of your tongue if you want to sell them.'
'I wanted to make sure. It's seventy pounds.'
'I do like that.' 
'There are plenty more upstairs,' Mrs Parrish tells her.
'It's a bigger exhibition than I was expecting,' says Paula as she goes out to the hall.
'Paula's one of my oldest friends,' Mrs Parrish whispers to the two men. 
Mackintosh can resist no longer. He goes to the table and picks up a glass. Without being asked, the waitress fills it with red wine. She smiles at him. He smiles back. He finds an unexpected attraction in young waitresses who wear black dresses and white aprons. And this one is pretty. It crosses his mind that if he approached her in the right way, she might become a model for a series of fantasy paintings— 
The doorbell rings again. 
'I'll go,' says the editor.
'Mackintosh,' Mrs Parrish calls. 'Come here.' 
Meekly he takes his place at her side. 
'The drinks are meant for the critics.' 
'I thought it would help me to relax.'
'You could have pressed your suit.'
'I don't wear it very often.'
'I can see that.'
The editor ushers in another well-dressed woman of uncertain age whom Mrs Parrish welcomes effusively. 
'This is Eileen,' Mrs Parrish introduces her when the embraces are over.
'And which of you two men is the artist?' Eileen wants to know.
'Me,' Mackintosh confesses.
'Joan's told me all about you.'
Mackintosh wonders what she has heard.
'And this is Mackintosh's friend, Derek, who's a talented photographer,' Mrs Parrish continues.
'How interesting.' Eileen shakes the editor's hand—a privilege which Mackintosh is not accorded.
'We're thinking about an exhibition of his work next,' his hostess continues.
'Everything's very organised, I must say.'
'Have a look round. There are plenty of paintings upstairs. You'll find Paula there.'
'I must say hello to her. I haven't seen her for absolutely ages.' Eileen heads for the door, ignoring the catalogue which Mackintosh holds out. He gazes after her, bemused.
'We should see the critics soon,' the editor says to nobody in particular.
Mackintosh drains his glass and lets the waitress refill it.
'Can you wait until the others are here, please?' Mrs Parrish reproves him.
'Getting a bit nervous.'
'You'll be getting a bit drunk if you go on like that.'
Mackintosh looks at the waitress longingly. She smiles back as the doorbell rings once more. 
'I'll go,' he says, taking his drink with him. This time he crosses his fingers as he hurries into the hall.
The tiny woman peering up at him from the doorstep clutches her bag to her chest as though afraid that he is about to steal it.
'Mrs Parrish—she said I could come.'
'For the preview.'
'That's right—the preview.'
Mackintosh opens the door wider. The visitor sidles in, keeping as far from him as possible. Even when they are on the same level, she is very small.
'Mrs Parrish is in there,' he tells her, indicating the open living-room door.
'Thank you. Yes, thank you.' The visitor scuttles into the room. Mackintosh drains his glass before following. 
'Dora!' comes Mrs Parrish's voice. 
'It's good of you to invite me, Joan. I'm so sorry I'm late. I had to wait for the man who was servicing the central heating and then—' 
'Eleven is when the preview started. There's no set time for coming.' 
'That's all right then. I was afraid everybody else was going to be here.' 
'Do you want to take your coat off?'
'No. No thank you.' Dora pulls the coat more tightly about her. 
'The paintings are on this floor and in the bedrooms.'
'I don't know whether I can buy anything.'
'You don't have to.'
'I can just look round?'
'Of course.'
'Thank you.' She nods vigorously. 'Thank you very much.'
'You'll find Paula and Eileen upstairs.'
'If I go upstairs, then, shall I?'
'If you want to.' 
'Yes. Thank you.' 
Mackintosh does not give her a catalogue. 
'She had a breakdown when her husband left her,' Mrs Parrish whispers as Dora disappears up the stairs. 'We encourage her to get out.'
Mackintosh nods sympathetically. 
'She's getting over it,' Mrs Parrish adds.
'I'm glad,' says Mackintosh, looking longingly at the waitress. 
The next two callers are more of Mrs Parrish's friends. While she talks to them in the hall, Mackintosh takes the opportunity to refill his glass. The editor is already hovering by the trays of food. Mackintosh glances at his watch.

'What is the time?' the editor asks. 
'Half past eleven.'
'Still quite early.' 
'If the critics don't come soon, I'll be too pissed to talk to them.' 
'Have something to eat. There's plenty going.' By way of encouragement. the editor helps himself to a chicken leg.
'Wasn't a cooked breakfast enough for you?' 
'While the chance is here.'
'It won't be happening again—unless she organises a photography exhibition for you.'
'Unlikely, considering I haven't got any photographs.' 
With Eileen and Dora in trail, Paula sweeps into the room. Mackintosh switches on his smile.
'I had a look around upstairs,' Paula announces, peering at the house-backs again with evident distaste. 'The drawings still seem better than the paintings.' 
'Some of the portraits are very good,' Eileen adds. 
'The expert speaks,' Mackintosh murmurs.
'Joan,' Paula is calling. 'Joan.'
'I'm here,' Mrs Parrish announces from the doorway.
'I'll have this one.' Paul points to Maria's sketch of a road sweeper.
'Mackintosh can reserve it for you.'
Mackintosh raises his glass, not heeding Mrs Parrish's glare. Paula regards him disdainfully.
'Do help yourselves to drink,' Mrs Parrish invites her guests. 
'I can't have alcohol,' Dora flutters.
'There's orange juice,' Paula points out. 
'That should be all right, shouldn't it? Thank you.'
Mackintosh helps himself to a slice of quiche as Mrs Parrish advances on him. 
'Go and talk to Paula and the others,' she urges in a low voice.
'They're not critics, are they?'
'They are buying.'
'I thought this preview was for the benefit of critics.'
'Critics and friends.'
Mackintosh tries to think of a suitable retort, but Mrs Parrish is already going back to her friends. He casts despairing eyes at the editor.
'Think you'd better circulate,' the editor advises. 
'You'll back me up, won't you?'
They join Mrs Parrish's friends. 
'Good spread,' Mackintosh says to the assembled company. 
'How long have you been painting?' Paula demands. 
'Years.'
'Professionally, I mean.'
'Semi-professionally.'
'You ought to concentrate on the drawings. They're the best things here.' 
'You have to extend yourself.'
'Try things out by all means, but you don't have to exhibit them.'
'Viewers have to extend themselves as well.'
'It comes down to what you like, and I don't like some of these.'
'Let's see what the critics think, shall we?'
'I thought they were going to be here.' 

'You did send the invitations to the critics, I suppose?' Mrs Parrish interrupts.
'Of course.'
'Then why aren't they here?' 
'They never turn up the moment a preview opens.'
'They're coming.'
On cue, the doorbell rings. Mackintosh's spirits rise. He watches Mrs Parrish going into the hall to open the front door.
'Take those,' Paula continues, pointing a sandwich at one of the house-backs. They're not to my taste—too muddy.'
'That's the way things look.'
'Houses don't look anything like that to me.' 
But Mackintosh is not paying attention. He can hear voices from the hall. One female voice sounds familiar. The quiche turns to slime in his mouth. The knot in his stomach is pulled tighter. The four students troop into the room behind Mrs Parrish. His only consolation is seeing Tamsin again. She is at the back of the group. When he smiles, she does not smile back.
Maria looks impressive when she is angry. She thrusts the copy of the Evening Standard in front of Mackintosh. 
'Is it out already?' He raises his eyebrows and focuses on Ruth's article. 
'We saw the photograph.' 
It is a good likeness. Mackintosh considers that he looks every inch the world-weary artist. And visible over his right shoulder in the photograph is Maria's drawing of a road sweeper.
'It says here that this is an exhibition of your work,' she challenges, the paper quivering before his eyes. 
'That's journalists for you.' He is conscious that Mrs Parrish's friends have stopped talking to watch the exchange.
'You mean it isn't true?' Mrs Parrish intervenes.
'My work and other people's. That's what I meant.' 
'You never said that.'
'But you agree this is mine?' Maria waves at the drawing over the fireplace.
'Of course.'
'There's nothing about other artists in the catalogue,' Paula says tartly.
'It can look that way,' Mackintosh agrees, noticing Mark pick up a catalogue.
'When I told you I was buying it, you never said it wasn't yours.' 
'You took our work and passed it off as yours,' Mark intervenes. 
'I'd hardly do that—'
'You have. There's nothing about us in here.' Mark holds up the catalogue. 
'I wanted to keep things simple.'
'Which of the paintings in here are yours?' Mrs Parrish wants to know.
'All of these.' Mackintosh gestures to the house-backs.
'Daubs!' says Paula. 
'I'd hardly say that.'
'I would,' Maria agrees.
'Oh dear,' says Dora, kneading the handle of her bag. 
'I'm only sorry there's been a misunderstanding,' Mackintosh announces, not daring to look at Tamsin.
'Misunderstanding?' Paula snorts. 'Sounds more like fraud to me.'
'I wouldn't call it fraud exactly.'
'I would.'
'I think we'd better call a halt to this event,' Mrs Parrish announces. 'The critics are obviously not coming, which is probably a good thing in the circumstances.' She turns to Mackintosh. 'I think you'd better leave.' 
'What about my things?'
'You can collect them later. Then I don't want to see you in my house again.'
'Right. If that's how you feel.'  Mackintosh sidles to the door.
'I'd get the police, Joan,' Paula advises. 'He's obviously a confidence trickster.'
'I just don't want any more fuss and upset.' Mrs Parrish's voice is unsteady. 'I'm sorry I invited you here. All of you, I'm sorry.' 
'He'll go on to prey upon some other unsuspecting woman if you don't deal with him now,' comes Paula's voice, but Mackintosh is already in the hall. He lets himself out of the house quietly. Turning his back on the windows which overlook the pavement, he walks away as rapidly as his dignity will allow. When the editor calls after him, he pretends not to hear. The cries soon cease. The lack of pounding footsteps disappoints him. It makes his relationship with his old colleague seem ephemeral. 
The idea occurs to him as he looks at the church. It is hardly a plan—more a measure of his desperation—but he cannot let Tamsin slip out of his life without at least a token struggle. He crosses the road and goes into the gardens. Nobody else is there in the middle of a grey, November morning. He selects a place among the bushes, from where he can watch the house. As he waits, the events of the morning replay themselves in his mind with unnerving clarity. He feels no surprise. Somehow, he always expected things to go wrong, though he would have preferred the preview to pass off successfully first. As to the future, that is something not to be contemplated until he has had another drink. A problem which must be faced is where to spend the night. He shivers. The prospect of knocking at Mrs Parrish's door is not something which he relishes, but he needs to retrieve his clothes and his paintings. It is some consolation that he still has his key—if she does not change the locks. He imagines creeping into the house to collect his possessions when she is not there, so that all explanations and apologies can be avoided. The chance of her going out while so much is happening seems remote. The safest option is to ask the editor to pack his belongings. Mackintosh knows that they will be seeing each other again. It will be ironic if his former workmate takes over the attic room, while he is condemned to sleeping in the gardens. 
Mackintosh shivers. Tentacles of undergrowth clutch at his clothes like dank fingers. He brushes a spider's web from before his face. At any moment he expects a tap on the shoulder as a prelude to being asked by a policeman what he is doing there, but nothing happens. 
Ten minutes pass with no sign of activity from across the road. It is enough time for the absurdity of his position to become apparent. What can he say to Tamsin which will atone for his actions? And what is going on inside the house? He fantasises about continuing with the exhibition as though nothing had happened. Would anybody dare to confront him? Unfortunately the answer is yes. Paula and Maria would not be faced down, even if the others are reticent.
Dora is first to appear. She walks from the house with short, nervous steps, still clutching her coat around her, both hands on her bag. Mackintosh smiles. He can imagine both the editor and the students taking the opportunity to eat as much as they can, while Mrs Parrish's friends find excuses for leaving. What he hopes is that Tamsin will be alone, but he knows that this is a forlorn hope. The students came together and they will leave together. 
His forebodings prove justified. Though the four young people are together, as least they head in his direction. Maria is doing most of the talking. Mackintosh is unable to hear what she is saying, or to quell the old fantasies as he watches. Tamsin is silent. As the students draw level with him on the opposite pavement, it is hard to believe that she is unaware of his presence. He imagines her as his model. One reason why he does not  paint portraits is because nobody sits for him. 
Mackintosh's courage almost fails, but he knows that this will be his last opportunity. When the students have passed, he leaves his hiding place, not heeding the branches which draw him back, leaving their green trails on his clothes. Once out of the gardens he crosses the road, walking rapidly to catch up with his quarry, hoping that the palpitations afflicting him are not the precursor of a heart attack. 
'Hello, folks.'
The students stop walking. 
'The great artist,' Maria announces. 'Or should I say the great con artist?' 
'I wasn't trying to con anybody!'
'Just passing off our work as something you'd done.' 
'No!'
'How can you deny it?' 
'It wasn't like that at all. I want you to believe me. And you've got all your works framed.'
'Big deal.' 
'You're still students and you've got your work in an exhibition. Isn't that something?'
'And they're in your name,' Steve points out.
'If I'd said you were students, you wouldn't have been exhibited.'
'Balls,' says Maria.
Mackintosh faces Tamsin. 'What do you think?'
Tamsin hesitates before saying, 'I think you were cheating us.'
'That's not true.' 
'You were going to pocket the money,' Mark interrupts. 
'No.'
'That's what it looks like.'
'And now you're trying to talk your way out of it,' Maria accuses him. 
Mackintosh watches Tamsin's face, hoping to glimpse some understanding. He confesses, 'I wanted to see you.'
The other three students stare at him. Tamsin looks uncomfortable and will not catch his eye. He finds her unease heart-wrenching.
'You're off your trolley,' Mark tells him. 'Why don't you get lost?'
Mackintosh still keeps his eyes on Tamsin. 'What about you? What do you say?'
'I'd like you to go away.'
'That's not true.'
'She's told you,' Steve coming closer. 'Why don't you fuck off?' 
'I could help your career,' Mackintosh insists, steadfastly gazing at Tamsin. Her face is reddening.
'Don't be silly,' Maria says. There is uncertainty in her voice, which gives him hope that he is winning the students over. 
'I'm not.'
'Apart from being a trickster, you're a has-been.'
Mackintosh revises his opinion about winning her over. She will never be on his side. He retorts, 'I'm not talking to you.'
'Go away, please,' Tamsin implores, looking at him directly for the first time since his confession. The knot in his stomach tightens again. His breathing loses its rhythm.
'If you're sure that's what you want.'
'Yes.'
There should be a thousand things to say, a thousand ways of making Tamsin change her mind, but he cannot think of them. All he can do is to stare, knowing that he is seeing her for the last time.
'Let's get out of here,' Maria implores the others. 
The four students walk away. Mackintosh remains still, entranced by the tilting of Tamsin's buttocks with each step until she turns the corner and is out of sight. He breathes deeply. No illusions now. This is his new life beginning. It will be a lonely life. He thinks fondly of the editor, and of Mrs Parrish who tried to help him. He will paint a lot and he will probably drink too much. Little different from his old life, except that he cannot summon any desire to continue giving courses on personal development, however well they pay. But things might change, he tells himself. Things might change. For now, a drink is enough. He will spend the afternoon drinking. There is nothing else to do. 
*
The group of punters looks smaller than usual. Mackintosh is not too disappointed: he does not feel able to face a large number of people. None of the faces is familiar. He puts his hands together and assumes his beatific expression. 
'Welcome to you all. My name is Devana.'  
Muttered responses.
'What I'd like first is for you to arrange yourself in a circle, so we can focus our energies on the centre. The circle is nature's strongest form.'
The inevitable shuffling. Mackintosh smiles, sphinx-like. The afternoon should have been devoted to looking for new lodgings, but dulling the trauma of the morning was a more pressing need. He managed that effectively. 
'This evening's class is devoted to relaxation—something a lot of people cannot achieve these days, these frenzied, frenetic days.' The familiar words are already slipping from his memory. Like an eel. A good metaphor that. Not that he has ever grasped an eel, but everybody knows what it feels like ... 
The punters wait expectantly. 
'Names,' Mackintosh announces. 'Let's know each other's names and a bit about each other. If we go round the circle.' He points to the nearest woman. 
'My name's Jean. I'm secretary to the director of a major company. I'm particularly interested in yoga and oriental philosophy.'
Mackintosh stares, trying to remember where he has seen her before.
'Susan. I'm a housewife and like Jean I'm interested in yoga ...'
This should have been his last relaxation class. The art buyers of London, if not of the world, should have been besieging him.
'I'm Keith. I'm a computer programmer ...'
There is always a computer programmer. Mackintosh groans—and then realises from the startled faces that he is groaning out loud. If only he had not given the interview to Ruth—or been photographed beside Maria's drawing. A slip in his planning ... except that he cannot remember what he was supposed to plan. He smiles at the assembled company. The voices are soporific. He knows that he ought to be memorising the punters' names, but no reasonable person can expect too much of him after what has happened. 
'Harry. I've retired from the police. I've always had trouble relaxing ...'
Mackintosh remembers his last encounter with the police. Perhaps it was with Harry. Not a serious encounter. He was harassed and moved on merely because he had trouble moving his legs. If the policeman had left him, he would have found his way home eventually ...  
'My name is Emelda. I'm a secretary. I'm another one who has trouble relaxing ...' 
Nice name, Emelda. He makes an effort to focus on the speaker. Too old for his taste. All the participants seem to be over forty. That is old enough to have learned the art of relaxing without any help from him. He should not have to tell them the obvious, but at least they seem willing to pay for it. Their voices are so monotonous that he closes his eyes ... 
When he opens them, the room is empty. He blinks. The room is still empty. If aliens have taken his class, the puzzle is why he has been spared. And the coldness numbs him. There should be no coldness in a centrally-heated studio. 
Standing proves not to be a good idea. Something has happened to his head. The  world spins. He groans and sits down again. The taste in his mouth reminds him of the last time he was sick. Fragmentary memories of the preview come unbidden. For a moment he wonders whether this is his retribution. Satyrs like Maria and Mrs Parrish will appear to taunt him ... But nothing happens. He pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch—and glances again. Three twenty-seven. Something must be wrong. The time cannot be three twenty-seven. He risks the spinning again as he turns his head to check the clock. Three thirty. 
The next stage has to be attempted, whatever the cost. He steels himself to get up from the chair. It is a simple action, yet it takes so much effort and has such a profound effect on his perception that he has to lean on the chair for several minutes when it is done. Walking is worse: there is nothing to hold. His head pulses as he battles with the swing doors. Once through them, he shuffles to the main entrance. The doors to the street are open. Beyond them is darkness. Nothing moves. Even the background rumble of traffic is muted. 
He bolts the doors, thankful that the place has not been ransacked. At least the final opportunity to sleep indoors without having to pay can be savoured—even if the heating has switched itself off. 
There will be no more classes—that is clear. A chapter in his life closes. It was a profitable chapter, with occasional moments of pleasure when a beautiful girl attended. For this reason if for no other, he would not have missed it. As he heads for his chair, he experiences a sense of ecstasy. No more punters. No more Mrs Parrish. He is free.

END