Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [162]
“Why?”
“He put a lot of hard work into that wall. He was proud of it.”
“No wonder. It was beautiful. I was only able to think of this better idea because he carried out my first one so well. And a quarter of his water will still be visible when the fire, clouds and rock are painted in. I’ll go down and explain.”
But when Thaw got down Mr. Rennie had left, and he didn’t return. After that the other helpers stopped coming. Thaw missed them, for he liked working with people and enjoyed chatting over tea and sandwiches. But the main areas had been filled so he could now starting changing and refining by himself.
Each morning his palette, cleaned and laid out with new paint, looked prettier than any picture. While climbing to the platform he almost regretted that these tear-shaped pats of intense colour (Naples and marigold yellow, Indian red and crimson lake, emerald green and the two blues) could not be spread on the walls in their tropical vividness. To show distance and weight they had to be mixed with each other and white, black or umber. Yet it was magical that pig bristles fastened to a stick, spreading oily brown mud on a pale grey surface, could make a line of hills appear against a dawn sky. As he applied the paint his mind became a mere link between hand, colour, eye and ceiling. On descending to see the work from the church floor he had sometimes moments of selfish excitement, but his mind was sick of domineering over something as ramshackle as himself and glad to climb up again to where sight, thought, limbs, paint, feelings and brushes were a kit of tools the picture needed to complete itself. When busiest in this pure kind of work he was often visited by bizarre sexual fantasies. He got rid of them by quickly masturbating a few times, which left him free for a couple of days afterward.
When he paused to listen the usual sounds were from traffic outside and the clicklick … clicklick of the clock in the tower. Sometimes steps resounded from a warren of meeting rooms, kitchens and corridors at the back of the building and around noon on weekdays came a muffled clangour from a hall used as a dining centre by a local school. The only regular visitor was the old minister, who came in the evening after seeing people in his vestry. He sat so still in the front pew, staring so quiet and open-mouthed at the ceiling, that he was usually forgotten until Thaw, finding some flaw in a cloud, wave, or animal, yelled, “That’s not how you should be!” then looked down and added, “I’m sorry,” but the minister only smiled and nodded. One evening when Thaw descended to wash brushes he said, “You won’t have it finished for the Watch Night service, will you?”
“I’m sorry. Probably not.”
“Oh, that’s a pity. You see, people are starting to complain. When do you think it will be finished?”
Thaw winced and said, “When will the Presbytery need to see it?”
“June, I suppose, at the latest. But surely you can finish before then? How about Easter Sunday? That gives you at least four extra months.”
Thaw said cautiously, “Oh, I’ll probably have it done by then.”
“Now is that a promise? Can I tell the kirk session that?”
“Yes. A promise,” said Thaw gloomily.
Shortly before Christmas he was eating lunch at the communion table when a middle-aged lady came in. Her hair was a cloud of angry grey curls. She wore a white smock, and stared at him, glanced once at the mural and stared back. He hurried over saying “Mrs. Coulter!”
“Well, Duncan?”
“What are you doing here? Are you working on the school dinners?”
“It brings in the pennies.”
“How are you? How’s Robert?”
“Not bad, I suppose. Of course, he’s not very pleased with you. You could at least have come to the wedding.”
“Robert married? I never knew.