I’m surprised at how often drink occurs in my narration. One Monday evening after my return from Covent Garden I was unwinding with my feet on the table and a glass of Australian Chardonnay in my hand when Roswell turned up. ‘You’re looking at a rejectee,’ he said, and showed me a card from the R. Albert Streeter Museum. It said simply that his entry had not been accepted for the exhibition and gave the hours when it could be collected.
‘I suppose I’m out of touch with the art world,’ I said. ‘I was sure it would be accepted.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve done my part — that thing’s finished now and I can move on to the next thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘I don’t know yet: whatever it happens to be.’
He certainly seemed happier than he’d been when we entered the piece in the competition. We went to his place after we’d eaten; he took me up to the studio, produced a large cartridge-paper drawing pad and a stick of conté sanguine, and asked me to disrobe.
‘What have you got in mind?’ I said.
‘Short poses,’ said Roswell. ‘You can undress behind the screen and there’s a clean robe for you to put on in the rest periods.’
‘Very professional!’
‘I have to keep my mind on my work.’
‘Sketches for a Boadicea, are these?’
‘Don’t make fun of yourself — you’re not a small woman, but you’re a beauty.’
‘I don’t think I’ve been called that before.’
‘Get used to it. Having seen you naked, I want to draw you, just for the pleasure of doing it.’
‘I can deny you nothing,’ I said, and retired behind the screen to get naked. When I reappeared I saw that Roswell had moved a Lloyd Loom chair to the centre of the room and placed a couple of pillows on it. The drawing pad was on an easel facing it. He arranged me on the chair, humming a little to himself, then stepped back and looked at me purposefully. I felt my nipples stiffen and reminded myself to think pure thoughts. My left arm was at an angle that allowed me to see the bat tattoo on my shoulder and I smiled, fancying that Roswell’s bat was talking to mine.
The conté crayon rasped on the paper as his hand moved quickly. He finished the sketch, tore it off the pad, laid it on the floor, and began another. He was looking different from how I’d seen him before — more like a person to be reckoned with. Each pose lasted only five minutes, and after twenty minutes Roswell called a rest period. I modestly put on my robe and went to look at the sketches that were lying on the floor. I was surprised at how good they were, how authoritative: with a few strokes he’d caught the gesture of each pose and the gesture contained the whole body. ‘I didn’t know you could draw like this,’ I said.
‘I didn’t either,’ he said. ‘Best not to talk about it or it might go away.’
The next poses were standing, then he put a blanket and cushions on the floor and drew me lying down or half reclining. Altogether we worked for about an hour with a rest after the second twenty minutes. At the end of the hour he said, ‘Thank you, Sarah,’ and hugged me and kissed me. All of the sketches were good; they were fierce with life, and I marvelled at their having come from looking at me.
The next day Roswell phoned Nigel and that afternoon we went to Hoxton to collect The One for the Many. Traffic around the museum was heavy but not gridlocked. Rejected entries and their owners cluttered the pavement waiting to be picked up while newer rejectees swarmed into the museum. Nigel dropped us off and we went inside with our dolly, brown paper, and twine. The rejected entries were ticketed with red cards. ‘Nice touch, that,’ said Roswell.
When we found the crash-dummy crucifixion there was a small crowd around it that included the Hibernian man and the scripture-quoting one from our first visit. There was a babble of voices from those gathered around The One for the Many. ‘I saw it,’ said someone. ‘I saw a tear rolling down his face.’
‘From what?’ said a sceptic. ‘He’s got no eyes to cry with.’
‘Let’s not be blocking traffic here,’ said the Hibernian. ‘Them tears is condensation from the skylight — you get that with changes of temperature.’
‘O ye of little faith!’ said the scriptural one. ‘I’ve already moved it to a different position and a new tear rolled down his face.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the Hibernian. ‘Jesus wouldn’t waste a tear on this lot. Let’s keep moving, folks — people are here to collect their entries.’
‘Excuse us, please,’ said Roswell, elbowing his way through. ‘This one’s mine.’
‘He’s not just yours,’ said a woman with bulging eyes. ‘He’s the one for the many, he crashed for our sins.’
‘Do me a favour,’ said Roswell, as a nearby camera flashed.
‘Move it again,’ said a man, ‘and let’s see if there’s a new tear.’ He grabbed Roswell’s arm.
‘You want something to cry about?’ said Roswell.
‘None of that here,’ said the Hibernian. ‘Take it outside.’ He cleared a space for Roswell who took the figure from the cross and dismantled it.
‘God sees what you do,’ said the bulging-eyed woman.
‘Right,’ said Roswell. ‘He’s got his eye on you too.’ We loaded the disassembled figure on the dolly and covered it with brown paper. Then Roswell gathered up the timbers of the cross and the easel and we made our way to the exit. Nigel and the van appeared shortly and we loaded up and headed for Kempson Road. Roswell and I sat there shaking our heads over the scene in the museum.
‘Jesus wept,’ I said.
‘Them tears was condensation,’ said Roswell. ‘Although that competition was enough to make a dummy weep. I’m glad it’s behind us.’
‘Me too,’ I said, and squeezed his hand.
We found a parking space in Kempson Road and Roswell shouldered his cross (in pieces) and the easel up to the studio while I followed with the head and torso of The One for the Many and Nigel was behind me with the limbs and dolly. Roswell paid Nigel and there we were then, purged?
‘What now?’ I said.
‘It’s almost drinks time but not quite,’ said Roswell. If I’d just met him at that moment I’d never have thought of him as a failed person. He removed the chromium crown of thorns from the head, put it in a vice, and crushed it, then he clamped the torso in a larger wooden bench vice, plugged in a power saw, and started cutting. The action and whine of the saw and the smell of the sawdust made it very much a man thing, and I could see that he was feeling good about it. I was feeling good too. When Roswell finished with the torso and head he cut up the limbs, then the cross. It took rather a long time but I sat there patiently, dying for a drink.
When The One for the Many was reduced to firewood Roswell fetched the firewood basket from the living room and loaded it up, then we carried it down between us. It was the right evening for a fire and the wood burned fiercely with blue flames and the sweetish smell of the glue and varnish. ‘OK, guv, what are we drinking?’ I said as I settled myself on the couch.
‘Champagne to start with,’ said Roswell. ‘There may be some in the fridge.’
‘What’re we celebrating?’
‘Feeling good. Is that reason enough?’
‘Always.’ Just then the doorbell rang.
‘I’m not expecting anyone,’ said Roswell, and went to answer it. I heard voices and after a while he came back, shaking his head. ‘That was a reporter from the Evening Standard,’ he said. ‘He was at the museum this afternoon and wanted to talk to me about the weeping Jesus. I told him it was condensation and then he wanted a closer look at the piece. I told him that wasn’t possible and got rid of him.’