‘It’s Disneyland,’ said Mitch Wilson.
‘It’s a Nintendo game,’ said Dennis Baldwin.
‘It’s a row of dolls houses seen through the infrared night scope of an F-111 fighter plane,’ said Rami Smith.
‘Blimey,’ said Eric Cox. ‘It’s this street. Why would you paint a street on a wall?’
Keith sighed.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t have to put up with this, he thought. Bet when the great painters of history were risking their lives up a ladder painting a mural they had armed guards to stop the general public making distracting comments.
‘Hey, Shipley,’ Eric Cox yelled, ‘you’ve got the colours all wrong.’
Keith tried to glare down at them, but seeing the ground so far away made him feel giddy and sick. He gripped the ladder tighter and concentrated on the Vivid Purple he was using for number 21’s windowsills.
‘Number 19 hasn’t got a green and pink front door,’ yelled Mitch Wilson.
‘Number 21 hasn’t got red and purple windows,’ yelled Dennis Baldwin.
‘They will have,’ said Rami Smith, ‘after the F-l11 fires its heat-seeking missiles and splatters the whole street with blood and guts.’
Keith sighed again.
‘Nice,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Very nice. That Custard Yellow on number 23’s front fence looks a treat. And that’s a knockout idea, giving number 25 Mediterranean Blue and Atlantic Green striped guttering.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
He didn’t look down, partly because he didn’t want to get giddy again and partly because he needed all his concentration for the Tropical Mango TV aerial he was giving number 27. TV aerials were always fiddly, even on a painting as huge as this one.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘don’t forget to use some Suntan Gold. I overordered on Suntan Gold and I want to try and shift it before stocktaking.’
‘Don’t worry Mr Dodd,’ said Keith, waving his brush, ‘I’ll be using plenty of Suntan Gold.’
‘Good one,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘I’m closing for lunch now. Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been up that ladder for hours. You must be exhausted.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Keith, hoping his aching arm didn’t drop off there and then in front of Mr Dodd. ‘I want to get this finished before dark.’
Keith almost had second thoughts as he heard Mr Dodd locking up the shop.
A fried egg sandwich would be nice.
But he gritted his teeth and carried on.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t knock off for lunch, he thought. Specially not when they’d almost got to the most important part of a picture.
He sent a message to his aching arms and his aching neck and his aching back and his aching legs.
Stop aching.
Then he finished number 27’s aerial, gave them a Tropical Mango front door, wiped some drips off number 23’s front fence, and touched up a couple of places he’d missed on the road.
And then it was time.
At last.
For the part he’d been waiting for.
Mum and Dad.
Suddenly he was so excited he hardly felt his aching bits at all as he climbed down the ladder to get the tin of Suntan Gold.
‘Mmmm,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Interesting.’
Keith waited anxiously for him to say more. Can’t be easy being an art teacher, thought Keith. You pop out for some groceries in the school holidays, come round a corner with your shopping bags, and there’s one of your pupils finishing off a twenty foot painting.
‘Title?’ asked Mr Browning.
‘Dazzle The Buggers,’ said Keith.
Mr Browning gave him a look, then crossed the road, stared at the mural from a distance and came back over.
‘Excellent use of colour,’ said Mr Browning.
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Mr Dodd actually chose the colours.’
‘And very good brushwork,’ continued Mr Browning, gazing up at the wall, ‘specially on the two people standing in the middle of the road in their underwear.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Actually they’re Swimming costumes.’
He watched proudly as Mr Browning studied Dad’s muscular Suntan Gold legs, non-saggy Suntan Gold lower buttocks, flat Suntan Gold stomach, broad Suntan Gold chest and smiling Suntan Gold face, and Mum’s cascading Goddess Blonde ringlets with Suntan Gold highlights, erect Suntan Gold shoulders, non-droopy Suntan Gold hips, smooth Suntan Gold legs and bunion-free Suntan Gold feet.
‘A superbly-balanced composition,’ said Mr Browning, ‘particularly the way the frying pan full of sausages in the man’s hand is exactly the same size as the Monopoly board under the woman’s arm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
‘Next term,’ said Mr Browning, ‘remind me to show you a book about the French artist Magritte. He did a lot of paintings like this.’
Keith opened his mouth to ask if Magritte had any luck saving his mum and dad’s lives.
Then he decided he’d rather not know.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Browning, ‘do your parents know you’ve done this?’
‘No,’ said Keith, ‘not yet.’
‘Amazing,’ said Mum.
‘Incredible,’ said Dad.
‘You did all this by yourself?’ said Mum.
Keith nodded.
He couldn’t understand why he was feeling so giddy.
He wasn’t up the ladder, he was standing on the pavement with Mum and Dad and Mr Dodd.
Then he realised he was holding his breath.
He took a lungful of air without taking his eyes off Mum and Dad, and his ears tingled, partly from the oxygen and partly from the excitement.
It was working.
Mum and Dad were fascinated by themselves as big tanned fit handsome happy people.
Mum’s shoulders were already looking straighter inside her parking inspector’s uniform, and Dad’s bottom, sticking out through the back of his cafe apron, was already looking firmer.
Keith could see the thoughts going through their minds.
Exercise, Dad was thinking. Hair transplant. Sun-tan lamp.
Perm, Mum was thinking. New swimsuit. Get my feet done.
‘Great houses,’ said Dad. ‘Who are those weird people?’
Keith looked over his shoulder.
There was no one there.
He realised Dad meant the people III the mural.
‘Those,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘are people who’ve discovered that repainting the house cuts down on maintenance so much they’re left with bags of time for a holiday in Spain. Isn’t that right, Keith?’
Suddenly Keith was having trouble breathing.
‘It’s a joke,’ said Mum. ‘Keith’s making fun of all those ads for cars and chocolate bars and perfume that are full of people the rest of us couldn’t ever possibly hope to look like. It’s very funny, Keith. I like it.’
Keith was suddenly feeling so giddy he had to hold on to a lamppost.
Why couldn’t they recognise themselves?
They weren’t that different in the mural.
Their faces were the same.
And their hands.
Plus they had their phone numbers written on their tummies in blockout cream.
Stay calm, he told himself.
All that’s happened is that Mum and Dad’s eyesight is going.
‘Lovely brushwork,’ said Dad, ‘but why didn’t you take it right into the corners?’ He pointed up at the brickwork still showing at the top corners of the wall.
Forget that idea, thought Keith miserably.
There couldn’t be anything wrong with Dad’s eyesight if he could see the tiny bits Keith hadn’t been able to reach without falling off the ladder and being killed.
‘That’s a very imaginative way of signing your painting, love,’ said Mum, pointing up at the tummies. ‘Putting your phone numbers instead of your name.’
Keith sent a frantic message to his tear ducts.
Stay closed.
‘I think it’s great,’ said Mum, ruffling his hair.
Keith noticed sadly that her shoulders weren’t that straight after all.
‘So do I,’ said Dad, his bottom wobbling inside his trousers while he shook Keith by the hand.
Keith took a deep breath and started clearing away the paint tins while Mr Dodd took Mum and Dad inside to show them a new paint for toilets that had a built-in air freshener.
Tragic, thought Keith.
They’re so used to being saggy and wobbly they can’t even recognise their real selves.
He took another deep breath.
It’ll be fine, he told himself.
As soon as passers-by start seeing the mural, Mum and Dad’s phones will be ringing hot with invitations to the pub and the pictures and they’ll have to start thinking about suntan lamps and hairdos then.
Keith looked up at the mural.
Mum and Dad’s Suntan Gold faces grinned down at him from the wall.
Good one, Keith said to them.
Think positive.