Bucket Nut

by Liza Cody

  The tiger leered at me but he didn’t say anything.

  Then I remembered the artist dwerb. He thought I was ‘perfect’.

  The tiger leered some more.

  ‘Screw you,’ I said.

  Three bolas, a tiger and no tin opener. That tin opener was still a very sore point. I couldn’t believe I had been so careless and it scared me. I wasn’t fit to live out any more. I had lost condition. I had lost my smarts.

  The artist’s catalogue had worked its way to the bottom of the bag along with the solicitor’s letter.

  An Exhibition of Sculpture by Dave de Lysle. He had written his phone number under his name. Thoughtful chap.

  I patted my pockets for money. Then I heaved the bag on my back and trekked off down to Knightsbridge tube station for a phone.

  Chapter 19

  I never saw anything like it in my life. The man must’ve been rolling in money. He had a whole house to himself and the ground floor was what he called his studio. It was filthy – all white dust and smeary stuff. Things which looked like people were all wrapped up in wet cloth and polythene so that you couldn’t see more than ghostly shapes. I only caught a quick shufti through a glass door because he took me straight upstairs.

  Upstairs was better – more like a proper flat with tables and chairs and things. But you’d think that a bloke who could afford a house to himself could afford new furniture. Everything looked really old. I’d bet my Ma’s sofa was newer than his, and hers was second-hand.

  But it was big, really big, and I was a bit gob-struck, partly by the size, and partly because there was so much to look at. There was stuff everywhere – little models of people, drawings, paintings, bits of people – arms and legs and hands. There were things on the walls, things on the floor, things on shelves and tables. Bits of stone, bits of wood. Rugs on the walls instead of on the floor.

  I tell you, the man was a lunatic – everything was arse-end up.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘It’s very nice of you to come.’

  Even that was arse-end up. I burst in on him at almost ten o’clock at night and he says, how nice. Also he looked so pillocky. His hair was sticking up like a day-old chick and he was wearing corduroy strides. Corduroy, for Gawd’s sake!

  ‘Have a drink,’ he said, waving a bottle.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. He wasn’t going to get me drunk in that room – no chance!

  ‘What then?’ he said.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I said. That sounded safe enough. ‘Got anything to eat?’

  Just then a woman came in. She was wearing what looked like a duvet cover and she seemed surprised to see me.

  ‘This is Eva,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Eva,’ she said.

  ‘Eva, this is Wendy.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘I think Eva could do with a cup of tea and something to eat,’ he said.

  ‘Could she?’ Wendy said, and sat down in one of the old armchairs.

  I grinned. This was more like it. Dave de Lysle stood there like a carrot, looking at her. She was looking at my kit bag. She caught on quicker than he did. It would be hard not to.

  ‘Don’t move, I’ll get it,’ he said. And he left the room looking bewildered.

  She didn’t move. She just looked at me with expressionless brown eyes.

  After a while she said, ‘Isn’t it a bit late to come visiting?’

  ‘I’m not visiting,’ I said. ‘Got a business proposition.’

  I turned my back on her and pretended to look at some things on the table.

  She said, ‘Isn’t it a bit late for business propositions?’

  I didn’t answer. I was looking at the drawing book he had out on the table. He had done a drawing of Wendy. You could see it was her by the long neck and the piled-up dark hair, but in the picture she looked younger and more peaceful. I picked up the book and turned round.

  ‘This you?’ I said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How many years ago did he do it?’

  She showed me her teeth. ‘Tonight, actually,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I looked at the drawing and looked at her. He hadn’t caught the acid in her, that was for sure.

  She wasn’t as old as him, but she was thirty-five if she was a day. He had made her look like a girl.

  ‘Pretty,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘The picture,’ I said.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she snapped.

  I grinned again and turned away.

  Dave de Lysle came in with a tray. He cleared a space on the table and put it down. There was a pot of tea, milk and sugar, and there were a couple of doorstep sandwiches with ham and tomato hanging out along the sides. Tomatoes at this time of year – I ask you!

  ‘There,’ he said in a jolly voice, ‘that should keep the wolf from the door.’

  ‘Eva has a business proposition,’ Wendy said. She sounded like she was warning him.

  I picked up my kit bag. It was a risk, but well worth taking.

  I said, ‘I shouldn’t have come. Your friend says it’s too late. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘For goodness sake!’ he said. ‘Sit down and eat up. It isn’t late. Stay as long as you like.’

  ‘Ta,’ I said. But I was looking at Wendy and she was looking at me. It had really hurt to turn my back on those sandwiches and she knew it.

  I sat down and he poured me a cup of tea while I started in on the food.

  ‘Great,’ I said with my mouth full. ‘Thanks.’

  He looked pleased. Poor wilf, I bet that Wendy ran rings round him in her spare time. I felt quite sorry for him, but not sorry enough to leave him to a good night’s kip with his lady-friend.

  You see, Dave de Lysle’s place was safe. Nobody would come looking for me there – not even the polizei. No one on earth would think I’d fetch up in a place like this. I was amazed myself.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ Wendy said, yawning to prove it.

  I carried on munching. Even if she got me out, she wasn’t going to stop me enjoying those sarnies.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what you came for,’ she said. ‘Then we can all go to bed at a reasonable hour.’

  ‘Not you,’ I said. ‘Him.’

  ‘Oh-oh,’ she said. ‘Private business. Why didn’t you say? I’d have toddled off long ago.’ She made ‘private business’ sound very rude. She was really getting up my nose.

  ‘Please, Wendy,’ the poor dweeg said, ‘it’s not like that.’

  ‘Not like what?’ She flapped her eyelids. ‘Oh, not like that. Good heavens, David, I never thought it was.’

  She looked at me and laughed. I could feel myself getting all knotted up.

  That’s the trouble with these superior women with superior educations – they’re ever so sorry for things like crippled babies and dead seals but they don’t give a toss for real live people when they turn up on their own doorsteps needing a place to doss and a bite to eat. I wanted to bop her on her snooty little nose and toss her out of the window just to show her what real life was like. But I had to mind my manners.

  I finished the last sandwich and said, ‘That was great, Mr de Lysle. I was really hungry.’

  It was true and it didn’t hurt to say so.

  ‘Have some more tea,’ he said all warm and beaming. He poured the tea and I stirred in three spoons of sugar to show how hungry I’d been.

  ‘How about a slice of cake? Wendy, isn’t there some … no, it’s all right, I’ll get it.’ He bustled out again.

  Wendy sat watching me. It isn’t very comfortable when people just sit and watch you eat.

  Dave came back with a huge chunk of something fruity and I got my laughing-gear to work on it.

  Wendy said, ‘Well, I can see this is going to go on for some time. Maybe I’d better wander off home.’

  She didn’t live there. That perked me up no end.

  ‘Wendy, please!’ Dave de Lysle said. ‘This is the first wee
kend we’ve had in months.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I thought you had forgotten.’

  ‘It’s just …’ He stopped and she didn’t help him. They both looked at me.

  I was going to tell them I had a business proposition again, in case they’d forgotten. But my mouth was too full of cake. Cake and ‘proposition’ don’t go well together – not in a poncy big house they don’t. I chewed as fast as I could and tried to wash it down with more tea.

  Dave de Lysle said, ‘I met Eva at Bermuda Smith’s club. You remember, the club where we heard that good jazz. The other end of Ladbroke Grove.’

  ‘I remember a club where you got up and played your saxophone and I couldn’t get you to come down and go home.’

  ‘That’s the place,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s closed now. I don’t know for how long. There was an amazing scene there – a police raid, and in the middle of that someone started throwing tear gas.’

  ‘Tear gas?’ she said, startled. ‘David, you should be more careful. Why do you go to those places? You are an Academician, you have a reputation. Why take these risks? If you want jazz, why not go to Ronnie Scott’s?’

  ‘I do go to Ronnie’s,’ he said defensively. ‘But I also like to hear less established music.’

  ‘You mean they won’t let you sit in with the band at Ronnie’s,’ she said.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘No, it isn’t just that. I want to go places where the people aren’t just like me. I get tired of people just like me.’

  ‘And me?’ she said, with that touch of acid.

  ‘Of course not.’

  It suddenly occurred to me that they were having a fight. Only it wasn’t the kind of fight I knew anything about. They didn’t shout, they didn’t throw stuff, they didn’t beat up on each other. But it was a fight just the same. I was really interested.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that is precisely what you are saying,’ she said. ‘You want to go to places where you risk police raids and tear gas. Places where I feel uncomfortable. You want to meet people I feel uncomfortable with. There are very few times when I can get away and we can be together and you risk those too.’

  ‘Those times would not be so few and far between if you would only make up your mind about that husband …’

  ‘David!’ she said quickly.

  They both glanced at me, but I was pouring more tea as if it was all way over my head.

  ‘Meanwhile, there is my work,’ David de Lysle said quite loudly to cover up his slip about the husband. ‘The Canadian job. Remember? I need models.’

  ‘Oh yes, you do need models.’ She sounded so sarky I was surprised he didn’t wallop her.

  ‘Yes I do,’ he said. ‘I showed you the drawings and maquette of the javelin thrower, didn’t I?’

  ‘At some length,’ she said.

  ‘Well I found him while I was looking for Eva. He is a light middleweight wrestler.’

  ‘I suppose she’s a wrestler too.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I am, actually.’

  That shut her up. She looked totally blown.

  ‘She’s perfect,’ Dave de Lysle said. It was the second time he’d said that but I still couldn’t get used to the idea.

  I must have smirked or something because all of a sudden she stood up and said, ‘Well if she’s perfect I must be in the wrong place. I must really be in the way.’ And she stormed out of the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ Dave de Lysle said to me. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’ And he rushed out after her. Which was a pity. I wanted to see how he was going to get out of that one.

  I tiptoed over to the door and put my ear against it but I couldn’t hear anything much. People with superior educations seem to fight in whispers which is no bleeding fun at all.

  I went over to the big old settee and sat down.

  So, the artist dweeg and Wendy long-neck were up to a little back-seat leg-over. That was nice to know. Maybe they weren’t so superior after all. It made me feel a bit less knotted.

  It was warm. The food felt nice and heavy in my belly. The cushions were soft.

  I heard a swoosh of wind and rain on the windowpane. But it was behind thick velvet curtains, and it seemed a long way away. I wasn’t out in it so it didn’t matter.

  ‘Rain on somebody else,’ I said to myself.

  The next thing I knew there was music playing. I opened my eyes.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Dave de Lysle said.

  I couldn’t see him. He was somewhere off to the side.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m drawing.’

  I closed my eyes and drifted away again. But I didn’t quite go back to sleep.

  And then I thought, he’s drawing me. But he hasn’t paid. And my eyes popped open again.

  ‘You haven’t paid,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Hold on a minute.’

  Well, he had a whole house to himself. Money wouldn’t mean much.

  I sat up.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, but he kept on drawing.

  It was like stealing really – him drawing me without my say-so, and me asleep and all.

  ‘That’s stealing,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ He looked sort of vague and blurry.

  ‘You said you’d pay. Where’s the money?’

  He stopped drawing and stared at me. It was like he was coming back into the room.

  He said, ‘But I gave you a ham sandwich.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘You did. I asked for it and you gave it me. Thanks very much. I didn’t pinch it off you while you were asleep.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’ He began to laugh.

  ‘Funny, am I?’ I got to my feet.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Not funny. Logical.’

  ‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘Logical.’ It was a funny word and I started to laugh too.

  ‘What’s the music?’ I asked.

  ‘Miles Davis. You said you had a business proposition. Let’s hear it.’

  A business proposition? I did say that, didn’t I? I rubbed my eyes. I felt a bit strange and tired.

  ‘Well, it’s like this,’ I began. But I didn’t know how to go on because it seemed too complicated to explain to a stranger. So I opened the kit bag and fished the solicitor’s letter out for him to see.

  ‘It’s about my sister,’ I explained. ‘They talk about a child. She’s my sister, Simone.’

  He frowned while he was reading.

  ‘But this was written years ago,’ he said when he finished.

  ‘Yeah, but I only just got hold of it. My Ma kept it.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I want to find my sister. See, I always thought, you know, she’d get in touch. I always thought one day she’d just come back. But she ain’t. And I thought maybe I’d better go looking.’

  He looked at me and then he read the letter again.

  I said, ‘I can’t talk to solicitor people, can I? Well, I can talk to them but I won’t get piss-pudding out of them. People like that don’t like people like me.’

  ‘You want me to talk to the solicitors?’

  ‘Yeah.’ You had to explain everything to this geezer.

  He seemed to be reading the letter all over again.

  I said, ‘I mean, you’re a really well-spoken bloke.’ I thought he needed some encouragement.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. But he sounded like he was thinking of something else.

  ‘Did they adopt her in the end?’ he asked. ‘These people she was fostered to, the Redmans?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. And I suddenly felt very choked. ‘Nobody told me nothing.’

  ‘So she might be Simone Wylie or she might be Simone Redman.’

  ‘She wouldn’t change her name,’ I said, narked. ‘Look, all you got to do is talk to the fucking solicitors and get the fucking foster-parents’ address off of them. Then I can go round there and sort it out.’

  ‘Mmm,’
he said. And do you know, he sounded just like Goldie when he said it.

  I snatched the letter out of his hand. ‘If you don’t want to, open your mouth and say so,’ I said. ‘Just don’t piss me around. It’s only a bleeding telephone call.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll do it,’ he said.

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Of course. But it might be a little more complicated than you think and I can’t promise to get the information you want.’

  ‘But you’ll try?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Swear?’

  ‘I swear,’ he said, really serious.

  ‘All right then.’ I gave him back the letter. ‘You can start drawing your picture again.’

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘You’ll model for me if I phone the solicitor?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. He wasn’t very quick, was he?

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now,’ I said. ‘What’re you waiting for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘What have you got on under your sweatshirt?’

  ‘Another sweartshirt and a couple of T-shirts and a singlet.’

  ‘Good grief,’ he said.

  ‘Cold night,’ I explained. He really was a bit slow.

  ‘Strip down to the singlet,’ he said. ‘You’ll be warm enough in here.’

  ‘You ain’t going to do anything rude?’

  ‘Rude?’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t do anything rude. But it’s you I want to draw, not your laundry.’

  So I stripped down to the singlet. And I took off my shoes and socks and track bottoms and leggings. But I kept my knickers on. I mean, how much is one bleeding telephone call worth? I ask you.

  ‘Just stand,’ he said. ‘Weight on both legs. Let your arms hang.’

  So I stood. I stood for over an hour. I stood facing him. I stood sideways on to him. I stood with my back to him. And let me tell you, posing for an artist sucks. Being stared at ain’t my idea of a fun Friday night out, and my legs started aching after only ten minutes. I never would’ve thought standing still could be so tiring – but it is. And if you know an artist-dweeg who wants to do drawings of you, take my advice and tell him to cock off. It’s a totally pillocky occupation, believe me.

  When I was practically ready to tip over he suddenly said, ‘Okay, take five. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Would I? I didn’t know whether to kiss him or throttle him. I was that boneless.