The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 17

  McBride woke early, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, dug in his hold all for the floppy straw panama. He assembled his art gear. Next, he put the kettle on and made strong tea. A bowl of oranges sat on the dresser in the kitchen. Local produce, presumably. He picked one up and started skinning it, just as Dusty Miller walked in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He was already dressed.

  “Lack of sleep?” said MacBride.

  “Kept listening for a forced entry. I did sleep, but kept waking. There’s a lot of animal noises. There was something running round the roof. After a lot of investigation found it was a monkey. Slept better after that.”

  “You’ve been too long as a senior officer. Forgetting what it’s like on the front line.”

  Miller said a rude word, and went across to pour himself a cup of tea.

  “I need more than tea and an orange for breakfast”

  “If we go down to the restaurant, the morning will have gone before we even get served.”

  “There’s a café as well, I saw it on the way back last night. We could give it a try. If not buy something from the shop.”

  It was only seven o’clock, and the café was quite empty. They were served immediately. They both had bacon and egg, toast and coffee. Dusty leaned back in his chair, drinking his third cup of coffee.

  “You won’t be pissed off if I don’t watch you painting, will you? I thought I might have a couple of hours’ swimming. I need the exercise.”

  “Suits me. We could meet up for lunch, if you like. About one o’clock.”

  “Sure. Back at the bungalow.” They both got up and left the café.

  The information leaflet said that many animals passed along the track on the perimeter to the camp. It could be a good place to start. Tomorrow he would walk down to the dam. He had his camera with him and the instant back to produce paper prints. A couple of shots when an animal appeared, and he could compose the painting when they had passed by. Meantime, when he had his paints and palette ready, he clipped a fresh sheet of paper to his board, took out a pencil, and had his first good look at the scenery. He moved his rig along, then looked again. He moved sideways without his easel, seeking the perfect view. After a while he moved back to where he had left the easel, deciding that was the spot to paint.

  He was lost in sketching out the composition, and didn’t hear her walk up to him. It wasn’t until he stood back to assess how it looked on paper, that she spoke. He turned at the sound of her voice. She was standing on his left, just back a pace from him, so that she wouldn’t obstruct his view.

  “Hello. I hope you don’t mind me watching you painting?”

  If he had a pound for every time he heard that phrase, he would be even richer. The girl was stunningly beautiful. Brunette, but her hair was tinged with auburn. She was slightly tanned, stood only six inches shorter than McBride, so that made her a tall girl. Aged perhaps early thirties, willowy, not a pound of surplus weight. Full lips, and white teeth, a grin that was infectious. McBride fell in love again.

  “How could I resist a pretty English girl? At least you sound English. Are you?”

  “Yes, from Lincolnshire. You are John McBride, aren’t you? I recognize you from photographs.”

  “Yes. Are you a painter?”

  “Amateur. I belong a local art group, but I’m not very good, I’m afraid. At the moment I paint in watercolour, but I’m thinking of trying pastels. One of our members is quite good at pastels.”

  Whilst McBride was chatting, he was continuing to draw, and now he had the scene sketched in pencil. He picked up a number 16 brush, and dipped it into his water jar, transferring water to the palette, then mixing paint for the sky. Cobalt blue, just the one colour to be laid on the paper directly. He had a nice thick mixture, and dipped his brush into the liquid, transferring the paint along the top of the paper very quickly. Because the board was at a fairly steep angle, the paint pooled along the bottom of the stripe. Quickly McBride added more clean water to the palette, so diluting the paint. Then he filled the brush with this diluted mixture and trailed his brush lower down, picking up the surplus paint from the first stripe. When he reached the other side of the painting, the girl could see that the join was invisible, but that the sky was getting lighter the lower it got. McBride had stopped talking, concentrating on getting the sky to merge, each time diluting the paint on the palette, so once he reached the horizon, the colour was about fifty percent lighter than at the top of his painting.

  He sighed and laid the brush down, taking a break from the concentration. At the same time several impala were coming across the grassland, approaching the campsite perimeter. They were grazing, so their progress was slow. McBride started shooting off pictures with his camera. Fast but very selective, choosing good composition.

  “There’s never a dull moment, eh?” commented the girl. “You really earn your money the hard way.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” joked McBride. “It’s not as hard as it looks. And if I make a mess of this painting, I’ve got plenty more paper with me. Although, over the years, I get less paintings I throw away.” He looked at the girl. “It’s the first ten years that are the worst.” He smiled to show that he was joking. “What’s your name?”

  “Belinda”.

  “You can call me John. Surely you haven’t come alone? Is your husband out on safari today?”

  “I don’t have a husband any more. He was playing away from home, so I changed the locks, and threw his clothes out in the road. Anyway that’s another story. I was coming on holiday with a friend, but she had an accident in her car and broke her leg. Only a couple of days ago, so I decided to come anyway. I’ve only just arrived. Last night actually.” She stopped speaking to listen to a buzzing noise from the camera. McBride began to tear off the prints as they emerged from the attachment.

  “It’s only another version of a polaroid camera. Remember them? No, perhaps you won’t.”

  “Course I do! Mind you, I was only a kid. My dad had one..”

  McBride was clipping the prints to the top of his painting. He examined them carefully. Just three of them that looked at first sight to be the same. But there were differences that had been deliberately captured on film. He picked up his brush, mixed ultramarine and burnt umber. Dipped his brush in the mixture, made a few strokes on the painting, and the far off hills appeared below the skyline on the board in front of him.

  McBride picked up his pencil, and carefully drew several impala grazing in the foreground, one of which had raised his head to scan the area. Ready to give a warning. Twenty minutes later, after a lot of concentrated effort, McBride again put down the brush, and stretched.

  “Looks good to me,” said Belinda. “May I have a closer peek?”

  McBride stepped back. “Of course. Though it needs some final touches. Maybe another twenty minutes. Then I can sign it off.”

  “I really wish that I could paint like that. Then I would never use anything but watercolour.”

  “Paint for ten, twenty years and you would be really good. That is what it is about. Same as for golfers. Practice makes perfect, if you have a talent for it, of course.”

  McBride rested for five or ten minutes, looking at the scene in front of him. Then he picked a smaller brush, mixed some more paint, painted trunks and branches of the stunted trees amongst the grass. More paint mixing, then adding greens, light and dark to the trees, with swift brush strokes. Finally he mixed cadmium red to the cobalt blue he had started with, and used the dark colour to add shadows of the trees and animals. He looked at his watch.

  “I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock,” he said. “I’ll be here again this afternoon.” He looked at Belinda, who was now one of a group of onlookers.

  “I may drop by,” she said, smiling at him.

  Dusty Miller was already at the bungalow. A cooking smell came from the kitchen when McBride came through the door. Dusty looked out of the kitchen, frying pan in his hand.


  “Venison steak okay for lunch?” he said.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Down at the store. Together with some vegetables. Did you not know I like cooking?”

  “You’re full of surprises, Dusty. I’ll sit down at the table if you’re ready.”

  “Coming up now. Did you see Markham while you were painting?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “There were a few people swimming, but he wasn’t one of them.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t take the bait because he didn’t see the publicity about me painting down here. It was quite low key, and I suppose he has got other things to do. I’m sorry about it. It doesn’t matter, because I’m at work, and earning a living. But it has potentially life threatening effects in the future. Such as when an assassin creeps up when I’m not expecting it.”

  “Hey, this is day one, John. Give it time. Worry on the day we leave.”

  Miller brought the food through from the kitchen, already plated.