Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [144]
“Did you do it often?”
“Quite often. You took it badly. We had to give you cold baths to stop your hysterics.”
This struck Thaw as an odd way to treat a small child. He hid his embarrassment by saying heartily, “I’m sure I deserved it.”
On Saturday morning he waited for Marjory in Central Station, for she had agreed to lunch with him, then help clean the studio. He felt lively and excited though he knew she was coming because he had asked for help, not pleasure. This would be their first time alone in a private place, and if they ever considered marriage her work in the studio would give him a notion of her domestic stamina. She was an hour and five minutes late and he could not look at her grimly, for the nearly hopeless wait gave her the appearance of a splendid surprise. She explained that she had worked hard the night before, her mother thought it best not to wake her, and the alarm clock had failed to ring. The waitress serving them in the restaurant they visited was June Haig.
“It’s a while since I saw you, June,” he said while Marjory considered the menu.
“Hello, Duncan. And er you still et the ert school?” she said, tapping her ruby underlip with a pencil end. She spoke drawlingly, for her accent had turned Anglo-Scottish.
“I’ve been twice jilted by that girl,” said Thaw when June left with the order.
“When was that, Duncan?” said Marjory, looking interested.
“I’ll tell you one day. It’s a sordid wee story,” said Thaw jovially. He enjoyed a vision of himself as a worldly man who could joke about being jilted by a waitress. While they ate Marjory looked up once or twice and saw his face intent on hers and smiled a small strained smile. He remembered when that smile had seemed ugly. Now it seemed lovely, and he was sure that after twelve years the wrinkle it caused would seem lovely too.
“Duncan,” said Marjory, “you won’t mind if I … well, I may have to leave you early this afternoon.”
After a pause Thaw said dryly, “If that’s so it can’t be helped.” “Well anyway, we’ll see,” said Marjory vaguely.
The studio was a long whitewashed attic. Two windows allowed a view of trees, paths and lawns sloping up to the mansions of Park Terrace. A gas cooker, table, sofa and some chairs stood round a fireplace at one end. The other end was filled by a canvas stretched on the wall which bore the first strokes of a bigger version of the Blackhill locks landscape. The middle of the floor held the grime and rubbish which comes when a few young men use a room carelessly. Among it were easels, Thaw’s bedding and a heavy old sideboard loaded with paint material. There was a figurine of a dancing faun on the mantelpiece and several sentences drawn on the sloping ceiling.
IF MORE THAN 5% OF THE PEOPLE LIKE A PAINTING THEN BURN IT FOR IT MUST BE BAD
James McNeil Whistler
I DO NOT PRETEND TO UNDERSTAND ART BUT I BELIEVE MOST SO-CALLED MODERN ART IS THE WORK OF LAZY, HALF-BAKED PEOPLE
President Truman
GOING DOWN TO HELL IS EASY: THE GLOOMY DOOR IS OPEN NIGHT AND DAY. TURNING AROUND AND GETTING BACK TO SUNLIGHT IS TASK, THE HARD THING
Vergil
HUMANITY SETS ITSELF NO PROBLEM WHICH CANNOT EVENTUALLY BE SOLVED
Marx
Thaw lit the fire, folded back the carpet, swept the floor, carried boxes of rubbish down to the midden, shook mats out of the window and washed the panes. Marjory cleaned the rusty stove, then washed pans and utensils and scrubbed the floor. It was six o’clock when they finished. The room looked wonderfully neat and clean.
“Wash yourself and we’ll have tea,” said Thaw. He brought parcels out of a cupboard. “Chops,” he said. “Onions. Cakes. Bread. Real butter. Jam.”
“Oh, Duncan! How lovely! But … Mummy expects me for tea….”
“Run down to the phone box at the corner and tell her you’re having it here. Here’s three pennies for the call.”
When Marjory returned the meal was almost ready. They ate hungrily and washed up, then Marjory sat on the sofa by the fire. Thaw occasionally went to the other end of the room and returned with folders. He opened them and spread the contents on the rug at her feet: paintings, drawings