‘What?’
‘You’re just . . .’ He was still holding on to my hand. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want this man to let go.
Outside, it began to rain. I turned my head, distracted by the rush of water beyond the door, cascading down onto the grey pavement. Lawrie leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I turned back and he kissed me again, and it felt good, so we stood for some minutes, kissing in the reception of the Skelton.
I broke away. ‘You’ll get me sacked.’
‘All right. Can’t have that.’
He moved back to his chair, grinning like an idiot. The rain was thrumming heavily now, but this was English rain, not Trini rain. Back home, aerial waterfalls fell from the breaking sky, week on week of tropical downpour, forests doused so green they were almost black, the neon signs out, escarpments churned to mud, torch ginger flowers so red, like a man’s blood had coloured the petals – and all of us, standing under awnings or hiding in houses till it was safe once more to walk the shining asphalt road. We used to say ‘it rainin’ ’ as an excuse for being late, and everyone would always understand.
‘What?’ Lawrie said. ‘Why are you smiling?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’
There was a rapping noise at the door. Quick was peering through the glass, under the brim of a wide black umbrella. ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘She early.’
I ran to the door and unlocked it, thanking God she hadn’t seen us kissing. Quick stepped inside, and I thought her face looked thinner. She removed her coat and brushed off her umbrella. ‘August,’ she muttered.
She looked up and saw Lawrie. ‘Who are you?’ she said, wary as a cat.
‘This is – Mr Scott,’ I said, surprised at her bluntness. ‘He’d like to speak to someone about his painting. Mr Scott, this is Miss Quick.’
‘Mr Scott?’ she repeated. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
‘Hullo,’ Lawrie said, jumping to his feet. ‘Wondered if I’ve got an heirloom or a piece of junk.’ He put out his hand and Quick, as if resisting a great magnet, lifted her own to meet it. I saw her flinch, though Lawrie noticed nothing.
She smiled faintly. ‘I hope, for your sake, Mr Scott, it’s the former.’
‘Me too.’
‘May I see it?’
Lawrie went to the counter and began unwrapping the paper. Quick stayed where she was by the door, fingers gripping the top of her umbrella. She kept staring at him. Rain had soaked her coat but she didn’t take it off. Lawrie swung the painting up, holding it against his body for me and Quick to see. ‘Here it is,’ he said.
Quick stood for four or five seconds, eyes transfixed on the canvas, the golden lion, the girls, the landscape spiralling out behind. The umbrella slid out of her grasp and bumped to the floor. ‘Quick?’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
She looked at me, abruptly turned on her heel and walked out of the front door. ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Lawrie, peering over the top of the painting.
Quick was walking rapidly away along the square, her head bowed, oblivious to the rain soaking her. As I reached for my own coat, Edmund Reede appeared and removed his dripping trilby.
He looked down at me. ‘Miss – Baston, is it?’
‘Bastien.’
‘Where are you running off to?’
‘To see Miss Quick. She’s – forgotten her umbrella.’
‘We were supposed to be having a meeting.’ He turned to where Lawrie was now sitting again, the painting on his knees, hastily covered in the brown paper. ‘And who’s this?’
‘Mr Scott has a painting,’ I said.
‘I can see that. Isn’t this all rather a flurry for eight fifteen in the morning? Where’s Miss Rudge?’
‘I’m on the early shift, Mr Reede. Mr Scott came today because he was hoping someone would take a look at his painting. It was his mother’s – her favourite . . .’ I trailed off, desperate to follow Quick and see if she was all right.
Reede removed his wet overcoat with slow deliberation, as if I had placed the burden of the world on his shoulders. He was a tall, broad man and he filled the space with his fine tailoring and thatch of white hair, his woody aftershave. ‘Have you made an appointment?’ he asked Lawrie, his small blue eyes glinting with impatience.
‘No, sir.’
‘We’re not a drop--in centre, you know. This isn’t really how it’s done.’
Lawrie stiffened, the brown paper rustling over his painting. ‘I know that.’
‘Well, perhaps you don’t. Have Miss Bastien make an appointment for you some time next week. I have no time today.’ He turned to look back through the door where Quick had fled. ‘Why the hell did Marjorie just run off like that?’ he said. I’d never seen Reede look worried before. As he turned back, Lawrie stood up, half the brown paper falling to the floor. Reede stopped in his tracks, his gaze on the revealed half of the painting, the golden lion.
‘Is that yours?’ he asked Lawrie.
Lawrie lowered his eyes and gathered up the paper in his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said defensively. ‘Well – my mother’s. Now it’s mine.’ Reede stepped towards it, but Lawrie moved away, putting his hand out. ‘Hold on. You said you didn’t have time. You said next week. Although by then,’ he added, ‘I may have taken it elsewhere.’
‘Ah,’ said Reede. He put his hands up. ‘I just want to take a closer look. Please,’ he added, which seemed to cost him a great effort.
‘Why? A minute ago you couldn’t give a damn.’