Claudette’s house was a cottage, not a semi like the other houses that her Gran cleaned, or a brick terrace like the one she lived in with her grandparents, but a real cottage, built of stone in a little village caught between the city and the moors where, if you stood at the front gate and looked into the distance, you could just make out the motorway that snaked across the Pennines.
They caught two buses to get there. As Angela grew older she would sometimes wonder why her Gran went to all that effort twice a week, when she could have easily got another cleaning job locally. She loved going there too, but she hated the journey. She’d asked her gran once, while they stood waiting in the cold for the second bus,
‘Gran, do we have to go today.’
She’d put her arm round Angela’s shoulder and hugged her into the warmth of her old grey coat with its smell of cabbage and fried food.
‘What questions you ask, child.’
Angela asked again, once they were safely seated on the bus, ‘Do you like going to see her, Gran?’
‘Yes, I do. She’s very special, our Claudette. She’s not like the others; she treats me like a person.’
Her gran had been visiting Claudette since long before Angela was born. She didn’t take Angela with her until she was nearly five. Before that, she left Angela with Mrs. Ramsbottom who had lived next door. Angela hated going there and begged her gran to take her with her to Claudette’s. Eventually, she relented. At least she wouldn’t have to owe Mrs Ramsbottom any more favours. The first time she went to Claudette’s, Angela skipped down the road past Mrs. Ramsbottom’s house. She was free at last of old dog smells, patterns, the wallpaper, carpets, curtains, even the woman herself. Once she broke a vase and there were harsh words. Afterwards Mrs Ramsbottom tried to engage her in conversation, but Angela remained silent; it was her only armour against this woman and her ridicule.
‘What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?’ She would pinch Angela’s cheek hard and laugh.
Her gran would have been horrified if it had ever occurred to her that by taking Angela to Claudette’s house, she was leading her granddaughter down the same path as her mother and into a world of images and colour.
At first Angela was frightened of the old French lady, who must have been of similar age to her gran. There was a peculiar musty smell about her, like the scent of damp cellars. She always wore black; even her stockings were black. Wisps of wiry hair protruded from her chin and when she spoke, Angela at first found her difficult to understand and could only nod in answer to her questions. While her gran cleaned, the old woman followed her from room to room, engaging her in her low, heavily-accented voice. Angela would be seated in a worn armchair, with her crayons and pad, trying to avoid the horsehair that poked through the bald patches and scratched at her bare legs. She remembers vividly the first time she went. She sat the whole time copying a picture hung on the wall. It was of a man with a funny hat. Claudette had come to stand behind her, and then she had called her gran.
‘Elsie? Come here quickly. Have you seen this?’ She took the pad from Angela and showed it to her gran. ‘You never told me she could draw.’
Her gran had shrugged it off, ‘Oh, she’s always drawing.’
Claudette asked her if she could keep the drawing. Angela thought it strange as she already had the original, but she gave it to her. The next time she went it was framed and hanging on the wall beside its bigger brother. It was the first drawing she ever had on show.
The cottage was over three hundred years old so the walls were very thick. Next to the chair where Angela sat, a small window was tunnelled out of the stone. A fish tank containing hundreds of tiny, silver-bellied guppies filtered the light from the window. The flash of their bellies captured that light and illuminated the whole space. It made Angela feel that she herself was inside the tank. She drew many pictures of it over the years. When she was about ten, Claudette asked if she could keep the fish drawing she had done that day. Without telling her, Claudette entered it in a National Competition. It won first prize. She could have gone to London to collect it but instead she received a certificate through the post and a cheque for twenty pounds.
One day when they visited there was a book on the chair arm and, as Angela sat down, she accidentally knocked it onto her lap. She opened the book carefully and started to turn the pages from back to front. It was an art book. All the drawings were in fierce, black, charcoal lines. Gypsy people; old men with hooked noses and rings in their ears, laughing women with large calves and thick forearms, urchin children with bare feet and shaven heads.
The next time Angela visited, she plucked up the courage to ask Claudette, ‘May I please look at the book of Gypsy people?’
The old woman had seemed surprised, and then slightly irritated.
Her Gran scolded, ‘Don’t go pestering Madame Mason, Angela. What have I told you about behaving yourself.’
Claudette pulled the book from the shelf. ‘No, no, no. Perhaps it is good she is interested.’
Whenever Angela visited after that, she waited until her Gran and Claudette had left the room and then she would pull the book out herself. Occasionally, Claudette would catch her with it, but she would only smile conspiratorially and shake her head. One day, while Angela was looking at the photo of the artist, a man with thick, black-rimmed spectacles and white sprouting hair, she noticed that under the photo was some writing, most of which she couldn’t make out except for the name - Claudette.
‘Excuse me, Madame Mason. What does this say?’
Claudette took the book from her and put it back in the shelf. She pulled out a bigger book of coloured drawings.
‘I think it is time you look at a different book, don’t you?’
‘Excuse me, Madame. Is this by the same artist?’
Claudette laughed, ‘No, child. This artist is called Degas. When you get tired of this book I shall choose another for you.’
Over the years, Angela studied all the art books on Claudette’s shelves, but always the book of Gypsy people was her favourite. When she began to study art seriously, she found she had a penchant for charcoal, smudging life into her models with the hard, brittle stick and the soft pad of her finger.