to me at one time. I would look at them every night you were away. They must be somewhere in all this mess. Perhaps, if I had been a normal boy, I would have had a treasure chest of some kind. A tobacco tin bound up in rubber bands and tape, which I buried in the garden, like those time capsules they have on TV, for other kids to find and wonder at. Perhaps, if I had been a normal boy, I would understand more about the contents of this room than a shabby pack of cheap Tarot cards.
I haven’t even found the beds yet.
I enclose a letter for Freya.
Daniel
P.S. Thank you for the present. I’m still not sure what to make of it. I’ve hung it over my bed until I decide.
20th November
The Studio
Dear Freya –
Thank you for your letter. And I must apologise for mine. You must be sick of comments like this, but – for me, in my head – you will always be that little girl who scratched at the door of my sick room in Corsica, ready to play and always asking for another game. But now I must think of you as an elegant young lady of fifteen. This makes me feel about a hundred years old.
I’m more than happy to be an excuse for you to use your written English – which is excellent, by the way. This is another thing I can’t imagine: you and your mother chatting away in French. She was always hopeless at languages at school. Believe me, I’ve seen the reports.
Your grandad is doing fine. I’m sure your mum will explain better than I can, but he’s not up to writing just yet. I did read him your letter and I’m sure he was as pleased as me to hear all your news, especially about your art lessons. We’d love to hear some more and I’m sure that a picture or two would really brighten up the house, if you feel like sharing. It can be pretty lonely here, with just your grandad and Tatty for company, but we’re all getting on all right.
Hope to hear from you again soon,
Uncle Dan
23rd November
The Studio
Dear Alice –
Usually when people meet me it’s my father they want to know about. Not you, my darling; you didn’t even make the connection, did you? And now I refuse to sit here and write another letter about the great men in my life, Aubrey Tolburgh and Michael Laird. It was the women who were important. For me at least.
When I was a child, they came through the studio one by one, only occasionally in groups, rows of limbs and breasts and arses. Quite an education. I watched them as they posed and during their breaks. Some bound themselves up in robes; some paraded naked, stretching out cramps and scratching at pubic hair and armpits. Carols, Karens, Susans, Jennifers and Janes; even a Gertrude and a Heidi. Some were kind to me. Some I loved.
Katie. She was a delicate thing, with scuffed knees and long dark marks on her forearms and thighs. She said she bruised like soft fruit; that it was nothing to worry about. She was so slight that my father had to force her into complicated and painful poses to get some sense of undulation.
‘What do you think of when you’re posing, Katie?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a long concentration. I think about everything and nothing. Mostly just try and forget about the pain. Sing songs in my head. Make lists of what I have to do.’
‘I think about the ways I’ll put your father to death if he doesn’t give me the break he promised.’ That was anotherone. There was a group of girls gathered round the kitchen table with cups of tea and cigarettes. They laughed at the other girl’s comment, but I wanted to hear more from Katie. I wanted to hear the right answer to my question: that, when she modelled, she thought of me.
Katie was one of the first girls he submerged. This was before Sarah arrived and the pool was dug; Katie had to make do with the downstairs bath and Dad hanging over the shower rail. Her dark hair was so thin you could see segments of white scalp between the wet locks. That night, I lay in the same bath, the tack tack of my fist familiar
I haven’t even found the beds yet.
I enclose a letter for Freya.
Daniel
P.S. Thank you for the present. I’m still not sure what to make of it. I’ve hung it over my bed until I decide.
20th November
The Studio
Dear Freya –
Thank you for your letter. And I must apologise for mine. You must be sick of comments like this, but – for me, in my head – you will always be that little girl who scratched at the door of my sick room in Corsica, ready to play and always asking for another game. But now I must think of you as an elegant young lady of fifteen. This makes me feel about a hundred years old.
I’m more than happy to be an excuse for you to use your written English – which is excellent, by the way. This is another thing I can’t imagine: you and your mother chatting away in French. She was always hopeless at languages at school. Believe me, I’ve seen the reports.
Your grandad is doing fine. I’m sure your mum will explain better than I can, but he’s not up to writing just yet. I did read him your letter and I’m sure he was as pleased as me to hear all your news, especially about your art lessons. We’d love to hear some more and I’m sure that a picture or two would really brighten up the house, if you feel like sharing. It can be pretty lonely here, with just your grandad and Tatty for company, but we’re all getting on all right.
Hope to hear from you again soon,
Uncle Dan
23rd November
The Studio
Dear Alice –
Usually when people meet me it’s my father they want to know about. Not you, my darling; you didn’t even make the connection, did you? And now I refuse to sit here and write another letter about the great men in my life, Aubrey Tolburgh and Michael Laird. It was the women who were important. For me at least.
When I was a child, they came through the studio one by one, only occasionally in groups, rows of limbs and breasts and arses. Quite an education. I watched them as they posed and during their breaks. Some bound themselves up in robes; some paraded naked, stretching out cramps and scratching at pubic hair and armpits. Carols, Karens, Susans, Jennifers and Janes; even a Gertrude and a Heidi. Some were kind to me. Some I loved.
Katie. She was a delicate thing, with scuffed knees and long dark marks on her forearms and thighs. She said she bruised like soft fruit; that it was nothing to worry about. She was so slight that my father had to force her into complicated and painful poses to get some sense of undulation.
‘What do you think of when you’re posing, Katie?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a long concentration. I think about everything and nothing. Mostly just try and forget about the pain. Sing songs in my head. Make lists of what I have to do.’
‘I think about the ways I’ll put your father to death if he doesn’t give me the break he promised.’ That was anotherone. There was a group of girls gathered round the kitchen table with cups of tea and cigarettes. They laughed at the other girl’s comment, but I wanted to hear more from Katie. I wanted to hear the right answer to my question: that, when she modelled, she thought of me.
Katie was one of the first girls he submerged. This was before Sarah arrived and the pool was dug; Katie had to make do with the downstairs bath and Dad hanging over the shower rail. Her dark hair was so thin you could see segments of white scalp between the wet locks. That night, I lay in the same bath, the tack tack of my fist familiar
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