happened as he’d left Czechoslovakia. It was all gone. Forget it. Concentrate on this.
Become the perfect Englishman .
John Andrews, who’d taken him in when he’d arrived in ’sixty-eight, had advised him to become a teacher. ‘They always need good language teachers over here,’
he’d said. ‘They’re bloody useless at speaking other people’s languages. I’d go for German if I were you, Charlie.’ Karel – Charlie – spoke the
language fluently; it was his mother’s language, though she hadn’t spoken it for years. Earlier on, before they’d driven him off to the uranium mine, his father had taught him
English, too, shutting the windows so that no passers-by could overhear.
‘I never think I end up teaching German,’ he told John.
‘I never thought I’d end up teaching German . . .’ he corrected him. ‘Art is all well and good but you can always do that kind of thing in your spare
time.’
Something deep inside Karel rebelled at that but he’d quashed the sentiment. ‘I know you know best. I do as you say.’ Besides, he had no real wish to take up the brush again.
Karel Stastny, artist, would metamorphose into Charles Statton, teacher.
As he’d watched the assistant put the paints, white spirit and brushes into the paper bag Karel had felt the old pull. He almost wished that Susan wasn’t going to be in the house on
his return and that he could be alone with the blank wall: a silent, uncritical, welcoming repository. But of course he needed Susan as his model. He’d already painted the mural in his mind.
He’d place her in front of the house and the oaks.
Susan met him on the steps. She wore navy overalls, rolled up at the legs. ‘I’ve already sanded the wall,’ she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘I filled in the holes
with plaster, too. We’ll be able to put the white coat on.’
She’d done a good job. When they’d painted the wall its white undercoat was as smooth as the sides of one of those wedding cakes the English liked. Even the obscene images seemed to
have faded. They cooked omelettes in the kitchen while they waited for the paint to dry. Susan changed back into the velvet dress and he drew half a dozen sketches of her sitting outside on one of
the stone lions beside the door.
‘I look like Britannia,’ she said, peeping over his shoulder at the pad. ‘All I need is a helmet.’ She pushed her damp fringe off her forehead. ‘Won’t you get
some sleep now? I could make up a bed for you.’ A pause. ‘Or you could share with me?’ She let the question unfold in a way that seemed quite natural. He hadn’t slept with
her before. His skin prickled in anticipation.
‘I’d like to sleep with you,’ he said in his blunt, central-European manner. His body throbbed at the thought of her slender form next to his. ‘I’ll come up
soon.’ He ran his finger down her soft cheek. She smelled of warm, clean girl. The other one had smelled of something more dangerous: bubbling sugar, or spice. ‘I just want to finish
the plan for tomorrow.’
A note of doubt flashed over her face, gone almost before he could register it. She didn’t find him attractive. No, it wasn’t that. She was wondering why this mural was so important
when the whole house needed attention. And if they were serious about turning it into a school they needed to be talking about teaching staff, equipment, books. How to explain to her why the
painting mattered?
‘I feel it’s like, what’s the word? An emblem. A symbol of a new start.’
Something seemed to shift in her expression. She nodded. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Charlie.’
Charlie . He heard the other girl’s mocking laugh. You’re not Charlie. You’re still Karel. And you’ll never be an Englishman .’
To drive her away he went back to the kitchen and found the remains of the Chianti they’d drunk with the omelettes. The wall was nearly dry now, the last remaining streaks growing thinner
by the
Become the perfect Englishman .
John Andrews, who’d taken him in when he’d arrived in ’sixty-eight, had advised him to become a teacher. ‘They always need good language teachers over here,’
he’d said. ‘They’re bloody useless at speaking other people’s languages. I’d go for German if I were you, Charlie.’ Karel – Charlie – spoke the
language fluently; it was his mother’s language, though she hadn’t spoken it for years. Earlier on, before they’d driven him off to the uranium mine, his father had taught him
English, too, shutting the windows so that no passers-by could overhear.
‘I never think I end up teaching German,’ he told John.
‘I never thought I’d end up teaching German . . .’ he corrected him. ‘Art is all well and good but you can always do that kind of thing in your spare
time.’
Something deep inside Karel rebelled at that but he’d quashed the sentiment. ‘I know you know best. I do as you say.’ Besides, he had no real wish to take up the brush again.
Karel Stastny, artist, would metamorphose into Charles Statton, teacher.
As he’d watched the assistant put the paints, white spirit and brushes into the paper bag Karel had felt the old pull. He almost wished that Susan wasn’t going to be in the house on
his return and that he could be alone with the blank wall: a silent, uncritical, welcoming repository. But of course he needed Susan as his model. He’d already painted the mural in his mind.
He’d place her in front of the house and the oaks.
Susan met him on the steps. She wore navy overalls, rolled up at the legs. ‘I’ve already sanded the wall,’ she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘I filled in the holes
with plaster, too. We’ll be able to put the white coat on.’
She’d done a good job. When they’d painted the wall its white undercoat was as smooth as the sides of one of those wedding cakes the English liked. Even the obscene images seemed to
have faded. They cooked omelettes in the kitchen while they waited for the paint to dry. Susan changed back into the velvet dress and he drew half a dozen sketches of her sitting outside on one of
the stone lions beside the door.
‘I look like Britannia,’ she said, peeping over his shoulder at the pad. ‘All I need is a helmet.’ She pushed her damp fringe off her forehead. ‘Won’t you get
some sleep now? I could make up a bed for you.’ A pause. ‘Or you could share with me?’ She let the question unfold in a way that seemed quite natural. He hadn’t slept with
her before. His skin prickled in anticipation.
‘I’d like to sleep with you,’ he said in his blunt, central-European manner. His body throbbed at the thought of her slender form next to his. ‘I’ll come up
soon.’ He ran his finger down her soft cheek. She smelled of warm, clean girl. The other one had smelled of something more dangerous: bubbling sugar, or spice. ‘I just want to finish
the plan for tomorrow.’
A note of doubt flashed over her face, gone almost before he could register it. She didn’t find him attractive. No, it wasn’t that. She was wondering why this mural was so important
when the whole house needed attention. And if they were serious about turning it into a school they needed to be talking about teaching staff, equipment, books. How to explain to her why the
painting mattered?
‘I feel it’s like, what’s the word? An emblem. A symbol of a new start.’
Something seemed to shift in her expression. She nodded. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Charlie.’
Charlie . He heard the other girl’s mocking laugh. You’re not Charlie. You’re still Karel. And you’ll never be an Englishman .’
To drive her away he went back to the kitchen and found the remains of the Chianti they’d drunk with the omelettes. The wall was nearly dry now, the last remaining streaks growing thinner
by the
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