35

“Lift not the painted veil . . .”

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Sonnet”

Having the twins here has shifted the atmosphere and changed the feel of my home. Their presence has forced Tom and me to sweep our differences out of sight, at least for the moment, and during the week when he’s away I now find I’m seldom alone.

Occasionally they’ll borrow my car and go off somewhere together but mainly they’re here. They’ll tire of Facebook, or reading, or daytime TV and come flitting through the orchard like sunlight to watch me work. At first I found it distracting. I could feel them hovering, their eyes following my every brushstroke. Mostly though, I’ve been glad to have them around. They’ve made me less nervous, less afraid.

Things that would have troubled me and preyed on my mind, I’ve instead been able to rationalize and set aside. For instance, there was a man in the lane the other day, just standing there for a moment looking straight at my studio. The hood on his sweatshirt was up and shading his face from view. I think it could’ve been Joe. I went to raise my hand in greeting but before I could he’d gone, vanished into thin air or so it seemed. Once this would’ve sent me scurrying back to the house awash with fear. Now I was able to dismiss it as no more than a curious walker and carry on with my work, the twins a comforting presence at my side.

I’ve given them canvases to try out their talents and to my delight have found a real difference between them. One that’s stayed hidden beneath their uniformity for twenty years. Amy, bless her, has no eye for color, no sense of shape or perspective. Zoe certainly has. She has a raw talent that’s showing its face, primitive and unformed but there nonetheless. I like the idea that my sister has talent. The idea that just maybe mine came from my father, and not from my mother as all have assumed—her in particular. I’ve always been irritated that she who showed so little interest claimed my talent for her own. The only time I’ve ever heard pride in her voice is over “my daughter, the artist, but of course she gets it from me.” Perhaps not, Mother, perhaps not.

This newly discovered skill has brought disharmony. There’s an unheard-of spark of discord crackling between the mirror images. Zoe wants to sit in on my art class, Amy does not, so tonight Zoe alone has joined my little group.

We meet every week in the hall of the primary school. It’s parquet floored and plimsoll scented and warmed by fat Victorian radiators, rounded and smoothed by their decades of paint. It’s high ceilinged and brightly lit so suits us well.

My class is a disparate bunch of mixed ages and varying abilities. There’s Moira, mild and midfifties who has diligently completed “beginners” and is now earnestly plodding her way with me. She’s a diligent worker but her pictures are wooden. Although I’d never, ever tell her that. She tries so hard.

Then there’s John, Mr. “I’ve sold a few.” In his forties and a triumph of arrogance over ability if ever there was one. If I’m honest I don’t much warm to John. He argues with me about technique, all pinch-faced and insistent. Once I’d have told him exactly how it was but I’m a good polite girl now. I gently explain why he’s wrong, as he invariably is, and then I ignore him.

Walter is eighty-five and mainly here for the company. He’s painted all his life and I imagine the walls of his home alive with flowers and landscapes; row upon row of trees like cabbages, with the greens used straight from the tube. Walter is a nice man, soft and plump like a jolly Santa, chattering away.

Unlike the mannered Laurence who’s long-fingered and effete. He’s all chichi cravats and long dark coats of studied elegance. Moira watches him with moist-eyed longing—she’s a divorcee I suspect. I find him sinister. He’s dark and vampiric, as is his art.

Then there’s the lovely Daniel. Daniel’s a bit of an enigma and difficult to age. At least in his midthirties I’d have to say, maybe more. Smooth-skinned and crop-haired, he’s an attractive man. Mr. Trendy but Understated. He’s very earnest about his work and I feel his dark eyes following my every move, him hanging on every word. He has some talent but he’s another one who needs to loosen up a bit, his art is too tight and feels repressed.

My husband and wife team are Colin and Lorna. Matching jumpers, forty going on sixty, they want to set up an eBay shop and leave the “rat race.” I want to tell them it’s not that easy, darlings, so don’t give up the day jobs just yet.

Lastly there’s Mark, my favorite. A nice, unassuming man, from Seattle I think he said, with real talent. He’s told me he wanted to study art but his parents pushed him into engineering. A real shame as I think he could’ve made it, and with the wind behind him he just still might.

And tonight of course there’s Zoe.

This is my little group and I’ve grown rather fond of them in the short time we’ve been together. Contrary to Tom’s prediction I haven’t found it particularly stressful or too difficult. Yes, there’ve been occasions when I’ve lost my way or stumbled over my words but somehow it doesn’t seem to matter. There’s a joy in sharing something I love and my class are slightly in awe of me. To them I’m the real deal so they don’t care if I’m slightly odd; my flakiness adds to the illusion of artiness.

It’s slightly harder with Zoe here. I find performing in front of someone I know makes me feel vulnerable. It’s as if she’ll know if I’m nervous or if I make a mistake and will judge me more harshly. Foolish, I know.

I’ve got them working on light, shade and tone and have set up a still life. It’s an old teaching technique; I’ve painted the objects with white emulsion and have set them against a white backdrop, lit from the side. They’re to produce a single-color study using the shifts in light and tone to create a three-dimensional image. Textbook stuff and not the most exciting but these are things they need to understand, regardless of style and technique.

I watch them as they work. Moira’s tongue is out again, her concentration almost tangible as she tightly and carefully dabs. Her brow furrows with the effort.

Walter is working and chatting to Daniel. I can’t hear the words but his lips are moving, and I can see it’s distracting. Daniel’s too polite, too reserved to say anything.

Laurence has stopped working and is watching Zoe from under hooded lids. Hmm, time for me to move among them to see how they’re doing and offer advice. I enjoy this bit. There’s the surprise of unexpected work well done or the satisfaction at seeing real improvement.

Most have done a reasonable approximation of what I’d asked, apart from Walter who’s rather missed the point and produced a two-dimensional picture in black and white.

I walk behind Laurence’s easel and am surprised to see he’s abandoned the exercise I gave them and has instead done an alla prima picture of Zoe. It disturbs me; her skin is too pale and her hair is a bright yellow-gold cloud of wild brush strokes, fluttered with leaves. He’s painted her eyes closed and has somehow managed to make her appear not asleep but dead. He turns and smiles at me and I notice his teeth are snow white and even, his eyeteeth long and sharp.

“What do you think?” he says, “Pity I’m no good at eyes.”

His picture has unnerved me. Why has he painted her like that, with those pale perfect features devoid of life?

I raise my voice slightly. “Leave her alone, she’s my sister.”

Two spots of pink appear on his cheeks and he says, rather shocked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset anyone. It’s just a sketch, that’s all. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”

I go to snatch the picture from his easel, but he grabs my wrist. His long fingers dig into the skin.

It’s my turn to be shocked and I say, more loudly than I intended, “What the hell do you think you’re doing. Let go, you’re hurting me.”

He releases my hand as though it’s burned him and for a moment our eyes meet. For a split second I glimpse a look of real menace, which is quickly replaced with an expression of confusion and embarrassment. It’s so fleeting that I wonder if I imagined it. I notice the others have stopped working and Daniel is watching us, poised as though to intervene. Zoe appears at my side and I realize I’m shaking.

“Hey, Izzy, it’s okay. I don’t mind—really.”

She smiles at Laurence, defusing the moment, and says, “I like it actually, it’s kind of weird. Can I have it?”

He smiles back, his discomfiture fading as he unclips the sheet of paper. He hands it to her with a theatrical flourish.

“Course you can, here. I’m glad someone likes it.”

I can feel the eyes of the class on me and manage to squeeze out a smile too. “I’m sorry Laurence, I just get a bit big sisterish and overprotective sometimes. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

“And I’m sorry I grabbed you,” he says. “It was just kind of instinctive. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Once everyone’s settled back down Mark comes over to check I’m okay.

He speaks quietly so the others can’t hear, “Hey, let me have a look at that,” and takes my wrist in his hand, gently rubbing at the two red marks from Laurence’s fingers. “You’ll have a bruise there tomorrow,” he says and looks so concerned that I feel the prickle of stupid tears.

The class is over. We’ve cleared away but a few of them are lingering behind, chatting. Zoe comes over to me and I can see from her face that she wants something.

“Izzy, they’re going to the pub for a quick drink. I know we’ve got to get back, but can we go—please?”

I have no real reason to say no and I feel I need to make amends for earlier. I’m sure I embarrassed her, so I agree to go, and our little band sets off for The Swan. John’s disappeared, Walter doesn’t like pubs, and Lorna and Colin had to get home for the dogs, so there’s Moira, Laurence, Daniel, Mark, Zoe and me. I’m kind of glad Laurence has decided to come as I feel bad about leaping down his throat like I did. I wouldn’t want it to damage the harmony of the group. I hope he stays away from Zoe though, he’s much too old for her and there’s something that feels out of kilter about him.

I don’t think I really need to worry as I notice Zoe’s walking with Daniel, his dark head bent to her blonde. Moira’s finally got close to Laurence—no accounting for taste—and I’m left to walk with Mark, which pleases us both. I tuck my arm through his and we walk in companionable silence to The Swan. He’s such a genuinely warm man.