The Sister Swap

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Nobody panic, I’m here, I’m here!’

  A man in a bright orange raincoat, cord trousers tethered into beige corn dollies by bicycle clips, and neon green walking boots bounded into the room like a mini trainspotting tornado.

  ‘Oh god, not him again!’ muttered one of the women. ‘Any excuse to get his bloody clothes off! I thought we’d seen the last of his pecker at Easter – put me right off my pork pie, it did!’

  ‘Bloody exhibitionist,’ grumbled a man in a purple golf jumper.

  ‘Oh, come on, it was a hoot,’ declared Roger – the next model on the list Meg had found in Sarah’s kitchen drawer – and dashing to the back corner of the room. He pinged off his bicycle clips and shoved them in a Morrisons carrier bag. ‘A little streak can liven up the most tedious of cricket matches. Just ask Erica Roe.’

  ‘That was rugby,’ said Golf Jumper.

  ‘Same meat, different gravy,’ said Roger.

  The lady at the far right of the semicircle, a tiny creature dwarfed by her easel, who was peering at Roger from behind round glasses and still unpacking a large stripy plastic shopper with every art medium known to man: pastels, watercolours, charcoals and oils – she’s a professional, thought Meg – shook her head at him.

  ‘You know me, Mrs B., I love to go au naturel.’ Roger smirked, slipping off his orange coat and jettisoning it where it slunk against the Morrisons bag. ‘I can’t wait to get this bloody shirt off – look my buttons are popping!’ he announced proudly.

  ‘You have laid on a bit of timber,’ said Violet sitting to The Professional’s left. She looked highly amused above a spotty oilcloth apron and a jaunty scarf.

  ‘All bought and paid for,’ said Roger, patting his belly. ‘All bought and paid for. Now where do you want me?’ he asked, stripping his shirt off to reveal a hairless chest and an enormous beer belly, like a ready-to-crack egg. ‘Oh,’ he said, finally looking at Meg. ‘You’re not Sarah.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Meg paused to allow for any comments about how ‘lovely’ Sarah was; she didn’t dare tell them she was Sarah’s sister, to avoid any hooligan ones. ‘And, on the chair, there, please,’ she continued, pointing to a solitary chair facing the semicircle. ‘You can go in the back room and get changed,’ she added feebly, seeing as it was already almost too late. ‘I’ve brought a gown.’ She had, Sarah’s Big Bird. She held it out to him, but Roger waved his hand at it like a flapping sparrow.

  ‘Don’t worry about all that, missy, I’ll just disrobe here.’ And in one swift movement he dropped his trousers down to his ankles and stepped out of them, then bent forward to untie his walking boots and ease them off, giving everyone a lovely rear view of his Simpsons underpants – Bart’s grin stretched a little wider than usual.

  ‘I hate wearing kecks anyway,’ he said. ‘A man’s got to let things breathe.’ Quick as a flash, in front of a now stunned-into-silence audience, off came the underpants and there he was, in all his glory, backlit from the far windows in just his socks. ‘Michelangelo’s David eat your heart out,’ he said striding over to the chair, his bits dangling and swinging from side to side. And he plonked one foot up on the chair, leg bent at the knee, placed one hand on his thigh and the other on his hip, and made like a Greek warrior, without the spear. Or a very tiny, weeny spear.

  ‘Erm, actually, could you just sit on the chair,’ said Meg, blushing a furious shade of horrified. ‘You’ll get ever so tired, standing up like that. We’re here for two hours.’

  Roger plonked himself down on the chair, legs wide. Uh oh. Manspreading, thought Meg, with horror; she’d seen enough of that on the Tube. But at least those blokes had had their clothes on. Well, almost all of them.

  ‘I’ve seen more meat on the scrag ends left at the butcher’s on Friday night!’ remarked Violet to The Professional.

  ‘Quite,’ replied The Professional. ‘He’s no oil painting, is he?’ And they shared a whispered giggle.

  ‘Could you sit with your legs crossed?’ entreated Meg. Poor village artists, she thought, having to stare at that for two hours!

  ‘It won’t showcase my form,’ said Roger, looking highly disappointed. ‘Can I cross them at the ankle?’

  Meg had to repress an almighty shudder. ‘Er no, a normal cross, please. Some of the class might find it too difficult to draw too many … elements,’ she said. She dared to look over at Olivia, who was averting her eyes behind an old Hannah Montana pencil case.

  Roger looked unimpressed. He crossed his legs – there was an almost audible sigh of relief in the room – and folded his arms grumpily. ‘Are you an art teacher?’ he asked. Now, there was a question. She knew Sarah wasn’t, strictly speaking, but Sarah did do art at A level and was pretty damn good at it. Meg had trouble with an eyeliner flick. But, she decided to blag. How difficult could it be, really? All she had to do was nod and make comment on other people’s drawings.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m a graduate from St Martin’s college. Fine art.’ Meg had only heard of it because of the Pulp song, ‘Common People’. ‘OK, everyone,’ she continued, lightly clapping her hands, ‘in whatever medium you choose, make a start on capturing Roger in all his … ahem, unique stature. Focus on the perspective, the shape of the muscles. The texture of the skin. The shadows, the play of light, the difference in shade and tone.’ Oh, this was a doddle. Just spout a load of arty nonsense. She might even wear a beret next week. ‘And, off you go!’

  She started pacing around. ‘He’s got rather sturdy, stocky limbs, hasn’t he?’ she commented to the first artist on her pacing. ‘Make sure you pay attention to how the light catches the hairs of his arms. It’s ever so … interesting.’ The woman was using charcoal and her style was not subtle; it consisted of shading areas heavily in black and then using a rubber to try to rub them out. She already had black all over her hands and some on her face; another twenty minutes and she’d look like she’d been down a coal bunker.

  ‘Very … atmospheric,’ encouraged Meg, moving on. ‘Yes, that’s it, that’s lovely,’ she remarked to Golf Jumper. ‘You have a very light touch … you’ve really captured the … er … contour of the thigh there …’

  ‘Can I take a break?’ piped up Roger.

  ‘What?’ said Meg. ‘You’ve only been sitting there for five minutes! Your break’s not for an hour.’

  ‘My joints are aching, and I’m a bit peckish. I’ve got a Twix in my lunch box; can I go and fetch it?’

  ‘OK,’ sighed Meg. ‘If you must.’

  Roger eschewed the gown once more and strode – appendage swinging from side to side like a cheery pendulum – to the back of the room, where he pulled a blue square lunch box from the Morrisons bag. He plumped back down on the chair and proceeded to eat it noisily while the waiting artists tutted. When he’d finished, he marched back to the centre of the room, that pendulum still keeping time.

  ‘I’m ready again, ladies, and Terry.’

  Terry, the man in the golf jumper, gave a giant harrumph and picked up his pencil. Meg restarted her pacing. She was good at pacing, she decided. She reached The Professional, who was doing a light watercolour wash in the background.

  ‘I was at St Martins, in the Seventies. I don’t suppose Dick Thompson was still there, when you were, was he?’ she asked.

  ‘No, he’s retired,’ Meg lied. ‘I heard all about him, though. Legendary. His use of colour … his play of erm … light …’

  ‘What are you talking about? Dick Thompson was the registrar!’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Meg quickly. ‘I must have him confused with someone else. I was so busy studying all the time. Learning my craft.’

  ‘What’s your favourite medium?’ pressed the woman.

  ‘Watercolour,’ replied Meg. ‘The subtlety—’

  ‘I prefer Sarah,’ piped up Roger. ‘She’s more laid-back.’

  Meg decided to ignore this somewhat surprising comment. ‘Right! How are we all getting on?’ She checked her watch, clapped her hands again and spoke in
a loud, teachery voice. ‘Let’s take the scheduled break, shall we? Roger?’

  ‘You betcha,’ he said. Meg tried to hand him Big Bird again, but he stood up and gave an almighty full body stretch; his fingers laced together and projected to the ceiling.

  ‘Please put the robe on,’ she said sternly.

  ‘OK,’ Roger said grumpily, but he put it over his shoulders only, like a boxer. The artists were also stretching, and chattering, some unwrapping cling-filmed parcels of biscuits, others opening Thermos flasks of tea. They were all resolutely not looking at Roger, who was standing with his legs firmly planted in a determined tripod stance and munching on some egg and cress sandwiches.

  Meg went to the kitchen and pretended to busy herself with wiping the sink down with a wad of paper towels. She was scared to get into any more unnecessary conversation with the artists, in case she got found out. Why had she blagged? She liked being in control, she supposed; it was what she was used to. She hovered in there until ten minutes had passed and it was time for the second half of the session. Roger resumed the position.

  ‘OK,’ said Meg, ‘one hour to go – let’s try to get finished portraits, shall we? Something to show the families. Your left arm’s not in quite the same position, Roger,’ she added. ‘And your head was tilted more to the right.’

  Roger looked cross.

  ‘Can you move your left foot?’

  ‘So demanding,’ muttered Roger, and, surprisingly, again, ‘Sarah was never bossy like this.’

  Eventually a peaceful kind of ennui settled onto the room. There was just the low flitting of pencil on cartridge paper, the scratching of charcoals, the soft noise of people rubbing out and then blowing the tiny fragments of rubber off their pages and onto the floor. The odd, discreet slurp from a Thermos.

  Ten minutes to go, thought Meg. Ten more bloody minutes. She checked her watch again and as she looked up was surprised by a kind of galloping noise, like a hundred horses had just entered the room, plus a rushing noise and a whooshing sensation. Faces looked startled, brushes were dropped; water jars were secured with trembling hands. Oh my good god, bounding into the room, like a canine charge of the Light Brigade – on acid – was Garfield, and he was on a joyful mission of total destruction: up to one easel and then another, his enormous tail sweeping jam jars and paint brushes and palettes to the floor; licking one face, before moving on to the next. Then he headed straight for Roger, leaping up like a praying mantis and knocking him off his chair and clean to the floor. There was a tumble of silky grey fur, paws, beer belly, teeth (hard to distinguish whose were whose, to be honest) and Roger’s wedding tackle, which looked like it didn’t take too kindly to being besieged. Garfield was victorious. He was pinning Roger to the ground and licking his face as though it were the last Scooby snack in Sainsbury’s.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ A new voice was in the room and Meg tore her eyes from the spectacle before her and looked to the doorway. It was Jamie, standing there in his vet’s uniform – a green one – with a real actual stethoscope round his neck. Quite a sexy look, thought Meg, but she didn’t have time to think about that. She had to look concerned and help a distressed and naked Roger.

  Jamie beat her to it. ‘Here Garfield, here, boy!’ Jamie called. He whistled, and Garfield yanked his head away from Roger’s face and stared at his master, dumbfounded to be interrupted when he was enjoying himself so much. Jamie whistled again, and the Great Dane sprang to his feet and lolloped over, like butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘Naughty boy,’ scolded Jamie. ‘What a bloody mess you’ve made. What on earth happened, Mum?’

  ‘He must have broken free of his lead,’ said Violet, coming to pat Garfield on the head. ‘You naughty boy.’ Her voice was stern, but her eyes were dancing with merriment. ‘Still, no harm done. We can clear up here in a jiffy.’

  ‘There were only ten more minutes anyway,’ said Meg.

  ‘I’ve paid for two hours and I would like the full two hours,’ said The Professional.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Terry. ‘It won’t take a minute to gather up all our supplies. What do you say, Miss, can we finish the session as booked?’

  ‘OK,’ said Meg. Her pupils hurried to pick everything up off the floor, re-straighten their easels and mop up the spilt water with tissues, while Meg ran to get a cloth from the kitchen. God, she hoped news of this debacle would never get back to laid-back, non-bossy Sarah, as she ran water onto a rag. As she dashed back out again, Jamie was leaning against the doorframe.

  ‘What are you up to?’ he asked. She was aware both of her very un-art teacher tight jeans and what Violet had said about her being his type. It certainly didn’t seem that way now as he was giving her a very disapproving look. She ran over to one of the easels and started mopping up a blue-tinged spillage.

  ‘Attempting to run Sarah’s life drawing class,’ interjected The Professional. ‘This lady studied at St Martin’s college.’

  ‘Did she now?’ nodded Jamie, amused. ‘That’s impressive. How brilliant of you to come and share your knowledge with everyone.’ He was mocking her, but Meg felt indignant – he didn’t know what she did; as far as he knew she could be an experienced and well-respected art teacher!

  ‘I thought I would bring my skills and expertise to the village,’ she said haughtily. ‘Almost as a duty, an act of community service if you will.’ She’d show him, smug git! Just because he had studied for twenty-five years or whatever it was to become a vet! She worked in London. She was brilliant.

  ‘Highly charitable.’ Jamie nodded. God knows how, but he knows I’m blagging, she thought.

  ‘You’re lucky I don’t sue,’ mumbled Roger. He had picked himself up now and was dusting down the front of his body with his hands. He wiped a length of drool off his left thigh with one of Charcoal Lady’s tissues. He looked like he wasn’t planning on sitting back down again; he looked like he might walk, stark bollock naked, and still with a bit of Garfield drool on his right calf, right on out of there. The artists had pencils and brushes poised, though, for their last ten minutes. Meg didn’t think they would let him go quietly.

  ‘Would you like an extra fiver?’ offered Meg.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Roger sat back down again but didn’t cross his legs this time, as an obvious protest. The artists would have to freestyle it and remember the pose he was in before – nobody had time to add three whole new bits and pieces now.

  An air of calm descended. Surely no more blagging or winging it was required in these dying minutes? Meg felt Jamie’s stare on her. He looked amused … expectant. His face seemed to be willing her to be an art teacher and do and say art-teachery things. Oh flip.

  ‘Good, good, yes that’s great,’ she said, resuming her pacing. ‘You’ve done that leg really well, Terry. Fabulous.’ Terry beamed at her from above his golf jumper. ‘Look at the form of the tibula mandela and the line of the fibulous dorsal muscle.’ Terry beamed more broadly, and Meg hoped Jamie was impressed.

  There was a low chuckle from the back of the room. ‘The tibula mandela, hey? That’s a new one on me. Whereabouts actually is that?’ Oh god, Jamie was a vet and knew about anatomy and stuff, didn’t he? He was rumbling her in disastrous fashion.

  ‘Er … above the elbow,’ Meg said.

  ‘And would you care to describe the position of the fibulous dorsal muscle?’

  ‘Oh, stop showing off, Jamie!’ said his mother. ‘Artists use different terms when it comes to parts of the body, isn’t that right, Megan?’

  Megan? Meg hadn’t been called that since her mother was alive. It made her feel funny. She also hoped no one would click she was Sarah’s wayward sister. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Specialist art terms.’ So there!, she wanted to add.

  Jamie didn’t look convinced, but Meg didn’t care. She just wanted him to bugger off, actually. He’d seen the Garfield Show; he could take the damn dog home. Why was he still there?

  Jamie didn’t say anything else. He just – very ann
oyingly – sat at the back of the hall, holding Garfield on a lead until the class was finished.

  ‘Thank you very much, Roger,’ said Meg finally, ‘that’s the end of the session.’

  ‘Just need to pack the old todger away,’ trumpeted Roger merrily, standing up and swinging it in Meg’s direction. ‘I think it’s had quite enough of an airing for one day.’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ said Meg. ‘I’d really be rather happy never to see it again.’

  ‘Don’t ever come to the cricket then,’ mumbled Violet.

  ‘Are you almost ready to go, Mum?’ Jamie was there, standing next to her. Nice shoes, Meg thought, and he smelled nice too. What a shame he didn’t fancy her, she commiserated with herself again. What a shame he utterly despised her. Never mind, there must be some other good-looking men in this village? Maybe.

  ‘Will there be another class next week?’ asked Charcoal Lady.

  ‘Yes …’ echoed Jamie. He was finding it hard to hide a smirk now, Meg could tell. ‘Will there?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Meg, starting to stack up chairs. A one-time blag was enough, she thought. Unlike Roger, she didn’t enjoy being exposed.

  ‘Are you free tomorrow morning, Meg?’ Violet asked as she, Jamie, and Garfield made for the door.

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ said Meg, pretending to think about it. Of course she was bloody free! She had entirely nothing to do for the rest of the week, and the weekend … and next week. For two whole bloody months. She risked a glance at Jamie and he looked mildly horrified – did he think his mother was setting them up?

  ‘Come for tea, at mine,’ said Violet. ‘I’m at Lavender Cottage, just past the green.’

  Meg looked blank – she didn’t remember seeing it.

  ‘Go past the pub, heading this way. There’s a little lane, just past the phone box. The Shambles, it’s called. I’m down there, on the left, can’t miss it. Eleven o’clock?’