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you. You ve been wonderful! Without you the rafters would have gone and there d be nothing left.
As it is, it s just a filthy mess to clean up and replace. I can handle that, no worries. So I owe you
one. A big one! I ll hang around till the cops come then pop over before heading off.
They looked unconvinced, but happier as they trudged back along the track to their place. They
had enough problems of their own without having to worry about mine. I made a start on the studio
while waiting for the police. Forty minutes later they pulled up, scratched their heads and looked
willing but pessimistic as they trotted out the inevitable questions. Had I left a fire going? Did I
usually leave the slow-burner dampened down for when I returned? Who had done the electrical
wiring? What sort of hot water system? Had I any enemies? Got into a fight recently? Jealous
workmates? Problems with neighbours? Ex-wives?
I wasn t much help and was careful not to mention Rory and Lida s contribution. They preferred
to remain unnoticed by authority, particularly since their permit to live in the caravan had long since
expired. I let the officers think it was I who had thrown all the water around. One name kept
hammering in my head, Patrick Fierney, but I wasn t going to drag Hank and Celia into this. All I
needed was police confirmation of the vandalism and damage so I could make an insurance claim.
After half an hour of note taking, poking around in the soot and spilled paint, and looking for tyre
marks on the bone-dry track, they completed their report and left, promising to ask everyone else on
the road if they had noticed anything unusual, and to contact me if they had any news. I thanked
them profusely.
As soon as they had gone I telephoned Patrick s office. His secretary informed me that he had
slipped out for a while. Could she take a message?
 Yes please. My name is Peter Corringe. I may have some business for Mr Fierney, I said
sweetly.  I am a painter of pictures. Arsonists have razed my house, and my studio has been trashed.
The police are on the ball and have a good lead. A local resident noticed a strange car drive up my
road. I will probably be needing advice from Mr Fierney about what my options are. Could you get
him to give me a call?
She said she would, murmured suitable condolences, and disconnected.
I replaced the receiver, fully intending to get stuck in to cleaning-up, but suddenly couldn t be
bothered. It was all too much. One day perhaps I would feel like doing it, but that day I sure as hell
didn t.
The weather was too perfect to spoil. A numbing depression dragged at my heart as I nailed up the
studio door with spare timber and locked the cottage - a useless precaution considering every
window was broken. After calling in to say cheerio to Rory and Lida, I lodged my claim with the
Insurance agent in Yandina, and set off for the coast.
The wagon s luxury no longer buoyed me; neither did the fatty takeaway I bought for lunch. I
couldn t face the gallery, so drove aimlessly, ending up outside the Alcona s. I needed company,
friendly company. Not solitary work or Frances s smug certainties. Mad opened the door
cautiously, then threw it wide in welcome. She was wearing a blue housecoat.
 My neighbours think I wear nothing but these things, she laughed.  They d be shocked if they
knew the truth.
I left the simplest of my cares in the wardrobe and joined Mad for a cup of tea, telling her my
place was in a bit of a mess and, as I didn t feel like cleaning up, had called in on the way back to
town. She led me downstairs to her studio where she was engaged on another series of drawings.
After her success with the portrait of Max, she wanted to get into figure drawing. A preliminary
study of Jeff looked promising. Her studio occupied one end of a large activities room directly
below the living area. Sliding doors opened onto the patio and pool; sunlight splashed into the work
area spreading warmth, peace and harmony.
 You re looking haggard, Peter. Go for a swim. It s cold, but it ll do you good.
It was even colder than the dam, but at least I didn t come out covered in flotsam. I collapsed onto
a towel in the sun.
 You re a bit older than Max, aren t you?
That hurt!  A year younger actually.
 Oh, sorry. It s probably just the light and the stress you ve been under lately.
 I feel old. Old and past it. What s the solution?
 No idea, but I ve discovered that when I don t know how to fix up what s wrong inside, it helps
to tidy up the outside. Then, when I look in the mirror I feel so perked up that my insides want to
catch up.
 Isn t that vanity?
 Only if you do it to impress others. When you do it for yourself, it s sensible.
 Not much I can do with my exterior.
 Would you trust me with a bit of panel-beating, polishing and minor detailing?
 Can you make me beautiful?
 Handsome, I can manage. Beauty comes from inside. You re already beautiful.
 Flattery will get you everywhere.
 There s nowhere I want to go.
 Bored?
 Contented.
 The phrase, a contented woman, is a contradiction.
 Like, a perfect man?
 Perhaps we are both unique and atypical of our gender.
 That s the only possibility.
 Well, Contented Woman, rejuvenate this Perfect Man.
And she did.
 Youths, she informed me, setting to work with electric hair clippers,  have short body-hair. As
men get older, body hair ceases to fall out, grows longer and covers a greater area, concealing
muscular structure and keeping the skin moist, favouring fungal rashes. Eventually, hair starts
sprouting in the oddest of places.
This was not a comforting lesson for a man rapidly approaching the end of his youth.
 Apart from his obvious fitness, she continued, enjoying my disquiet,  Brian s relatively youthful
appearance is in part due to these clippers.
She lapsed into the stillness of concentration - I into contemplating the dread prospect of old age.
Starting at my ankles and working up to the crown of my head, all hair was cropped to half a
centimetre. My almost shoulder-length tresses took some convincing, but they eventually joined the
impressive brown pile on the studio floor. The spacer was then removed and armpit hair was cut as
short as the clippers could manage, to eliminate the need for deodorants. Hairs hold body odours, I
was informed, before being advised never to shave off body hair with a blade razor, or use wax,
because that caused ingrown hairs and rashes. I nodded towards her baby-smooth crotch and raised
an eyebrow.
 Great isn t it? she laughed, lightly brushing the area with her fingertips.  Brian shouted me a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]