We’ve travelled out to Esher today. Surrey always feels like the richest county in England. Slightly more than an illusion as you drive around all the expensive property. The tree-shaded, leafy greens at the centre of so many of these small, exclusive villages … We're on the outskirts of Esher. Scott has made sure the Prop was reconnoitred and hasn’t been smashed recently by any other sales teams or religious sects. The crew have been suitably fed, watered, encouraged, and dropped-off amid promising properties.
Scott sits in the Cortina. Smokes a spliff. Starts reading the Albert Camus classic The Plague, all over again. He won’t read any other writers while he is wrestling with Children of the Empire. He finds that if he starts reading a novel by, say, Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs or Ken Kesey, he ends up trying to write like them. Fatal. You’re dead before you’ve even started. Whereas reading a translator’s copy of The Plague, doesn’t really imprint itself style-wise … All these thoughts to delay getting out of the car. Some beautiful, choice property staring straight ahead at Scott right now. Approaching seven-thirty. Don’t leave it too late. Timing is key, they’ve all arrived home from work, had their evening meal. Some may be going out to sports clubs, dances, evening classes, Church gatherings, the pub, bingo. You have to catch them while you can. No good sitting here daydreaming. Pretending to write Children of the Empire in your head. It takes a sheer force of will to get out of the car. Go to the boot of the Cortina and take out your red and black-edged art folder with the small, coloured picture of Marilyn Monroe stuck on it, to show that it’s yours.
Patting the bonnet of the Cortina as you slowly pass and saying ‘Paris Green’ for a hundredth time in a week for good luck … Speed up. The name of this street is Swallowfield Drive. These houses look like the builders only completed the construction say six months ago. A lovely location. Secluded. Open fields across the way …
Walking down a freshly paved pathway, slightly pink paving slabs. Pressing the doorbell, a small child peering at Scott from the side of a curtain. Startled by the loud, ringing sound of chimes. Wait. Don’t press again so quickly. Don’t want to annoy the householders before you’ve had a chance to introduce yourself … Eventually a plumpish woman in her late thirties - short, brown hair, defensive expression - answers the door …
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, my name’s Scott. I’m an artist from ...’
‘No, thank you.’ ... The snap and thud of the door being shut bites back any further words …
The small child is still watching cautiously, hanging onto the edge of a deep-red curtain. The child is now being pulled away by an invisible hand, and the curtains in the room are being pulled across. It’s only twenty-five to eight and won’t get dark out here in Esher for at least another hour. Smartly strolling down another pathway. Rejection can have the effect of making Scott redouble his efforts. Not to be denied. These paving slabs are tinted blue. Are all the young neighbours along Swallowfield Drive showing off to one another? Keeping up with the ‘Kingsley-Smythes’ ... This yellow doorbell is going ding-dong, ding-dong. Waiting for a while. No-one to be seen. No children, animals, or car parked by the garage or on the road … Ding-dong, ding-dong … Still nothing. I mean, just how long do you give people? A person could be on the toilet, in a bath, taking an important telephone call. A couple could be making love in the bedroom. They may be out in the back garden pruning a hedge and planting afresh. Once more for luck and ding-dong, ding-dong …
Giving up. Nobody at home. Sometimes, of course, people are at home and just keep quiet until you finally go away. Hence Scott’s persistence. It’s not just sales’ folk they are avoiding. Could be neighbours they can’t stand. Though of course they would know them by sight. But if they showed themselves that would give the game away. Evening tax collectors on overtime tracking down persistent tax-dodging miscreants. A debt-collecting agency. An unwanted relative who you just know is on the scrounge. The eternal Jehovah Witnesses. The local cricket club secretary collecting unpaid subscriptions … When you're stood on a doorstep on your own, all of these thoughts can flash through your mind. It takes up the time. Odd moments of shredded time that never reappear. We fill them up to cover a sudden void. An unexplained moment. A blank that is incomprehensible …
Scott can’t resist. Quickly glancing over his left shoulder as he re-enters Swallowfield Drive to see if anybody has appeared at any of the windows in the houses he’s just rung. Nothing. Sometimes yes, a head will be visible and spring back out of sight when you swing around. Guilty as seen. No point in ever going back and ringing the doorbell again. Rattling the letterbox or banging on the front door with your fist. They are never going to buy, even if you force them to show themselves …
It’s a desperate occupation compounded by loneliness. No-one, nothing. But heh, that isn’t quite true. The next driveway has a beautiful tortoiseshell cat sat perched on the front gate. Stopping to stroke it for a second. It doesn’t bite or scratch. Purrs. Scott has grown to love cats. They are your only friends out here on the streets. Something alive, warm, cuddly, you can touch and stroke. Makes you almost feel wanted again …
This pathway hasn’t joined in the fun. Simply has white paving slabs. The doorbell is just an ordinary ringtone, and no furtive creatures are peering through windows and watching you. The tortoiseshell cat has followed Scott up the pathway and is rubbing up against his left leg as an attractive, blonde-haired lady answers the door with a smile. Bends straight down and scoops up the cat with another smile.
‘You’d better come in, Benji! ... Sorry, not you. I’m talking to my cat.’ She smiles again.
‘I guessed as much. Otherwise, I would want to know why I can’t have a coat of many colours as well as Joseph!’ She really laughs this time … You'll have to be quick.
‘I’m an artist. I’m ...’
‘I can see that. You’re trying to sell your work ... Well, you’d better come in.’ Benji has jumped out from her arms and shot into the house. Scott following the attractive lady into the house. You have to feed off what you see and what occurs … The hallway is quite bare. Scott guesses they haven’t lived here that long. A lovely plush-looking, chocolate-brown carpet with the pile still high and not yet crushed under foot. Looks like an expensive Axminster.
Ushered into the lounge where a large-screened colour television is loudly proclaiming a news flash - a man Scott judges to be late-twenties, sat hunched forward on a black leather sofa staring hard at the blaring television set.
‘Latest news, just in from Washington D.C. - Lieutenant Calley, recently found guilty by court martial of murder in Vietnam, was released today from close confinement by direct order of President Nixon, following a public protest at the verdict ...’
‘Oh, turn it off, Peter! I can’t stand seeing any more about Vietnam! It just gets worse. Seems to go on and on forever ...’
She turns neatly in her flat-heeled white shoes. Looks straight at Scott with unflinching blue eyes.
‘You said you were an artist, but you didn’t mention your name.’
‘Scott. I’m called Scott.’ Benji the tortoiseshell cat has followed Scott into the room and is standing right by him.
‘Well, this is my husband, Peter, the goggle-eyed one, and I’m Wendy.’
‘Just how many husbands have you got!?’ She giggles. Even Peter laughs. Straight away you know that these folks are smart and intelligent. In their late twenties and on the up. They’ve turned the television set off, which is a godsend.
Scott sits down on a black leather chair opposite Peter and Wendy. Benjie has taken up residence on the windowsill. No net curtains. Only one house opposite across Swallowfield Drive has a clear view in. These people, Peter and Wendy, must be relaxed and confident. Nothing to hide … Leather always looks great yet is so uncomfortable. Cold. Creases easily … Putting the art folder down his book drops from Scott’s blue velvet jacket onto the thick, cornflower blue carpet. Wendy gets up off the sofa, comes over, and picks the book up from beside Scott’s brown brogue shoes.
‘You’re reading The Plague ... You’ve read Albert Camus, haven’t you Peter?‘
‘Only L’Etranger‘, declares Peter.
‘We’re hoping to go to the cinema in Esher on Friday to see Death in Venice,” ... I read a review in the Sunday Times that said it’s really about the composer Mahler refusing to leave Venice at the outbreak of a plague, for the love of a young boy.‘
She’s very attractive, yet somehow not sexy or sensual …
‘I love Luchino Visconti. My favourite is The Leopard ... but Death in Venice is meant to be Dirk Bogarde’s best film.‘
‘I’ve never seen The Leopard. Maybe they’ll show it on television soon ...‘ Peter’s joining in. Good sign.
‘I haven’t got a television.’
‘You must be one of the few people in the country without one’, rejoins Wendy.
‘I never had one as a child. My father wouldn’t have a television set in the house. Said it stopped people from learning and doing things together. Disrupted family life and ruined the family sitting down to eat together. The family that eats together stays together.’
‘But you must have missed out on so much that was happening when you were a schoolchild?’
‘I don’t know about that, Wendy. You get to hear and understand. It’s like information and knowledge are in the very air, and you just automatically pick it up without truly realizing it. For instance, I knew that Clint Eastwood was Rowdy Yates in Rawhide about nineteen-sixty. I’d never seen the show and I’d never heard of Clint Eastwood before. I didn’t consciously track it down. Many things like that. Anyway, I would never have learnt to play the violin like Paganini would I, with that black box in the corner of the room drawing me in!‘
‘What sort of music do you play?’ smiles Wendy.
‘I don’t. I just made it up.’ It’s a gamble. But most things are. They both laugh gently together. It worked. Ice truly broken. Refusing the obligatory proffered cup of tea and declining Peter’s suggestion of something stronger. Scott now has their complete and utter attention. Feels the entire room. Aware of everything in it. A moment in time. The unseen particles of air. The light starting to slowly fade through the lounge windows as the first evening shadows appear. Slightly nervous which is a good sign. Hence the dropped book.
‘I live with a group of other young artists. We have a place in West London. I met a couple of them one morning trying to sell their paintings by the railings along Green Park.’
‘We’ve been there and looked’ supports Wendy. She wants Scott to succeed.
‘The others were friends of friends. We just happened to meet, the way that you do. We decided that we just weren’t getting anywhere. Nobody would buy our paintings, drawings or sculptures. Not even small, out of the way Galleries. Couldn’t find any art agents to take an interest. A couple of us started experimenting using acrylic. Painting on velvet. Special resin to back the velvet onto the framed board. The idea is to try and produce a three-dimensional effect. The velvet is a very interesting material to use. Look, I’ll show you what I mean.’
Don’t try and be too clever. You’ll only get caught out and have to cover up. Keep it simple. Explanations at a minimum. Make sure you keep your hand nails short. People do slyly look at your hands and make judgements. As Scott takes the coloured bands off the corners of his red and black-edged art folder, a purple button comes off his maroon flowered shirt and falls in between the paintings. Sure that Wendy noticed. She seems to see everything. Friendly yet very observant.
‘This painting I call The Audience”. Propping the painting up in front of the television. It virtually covers the set. Wendy and Peter are used to looking in this direction … the audience stare hard at ‘The Audience’ as Scott explains the red eyes all glowing in the dark. The artist looks on stage staring out. Afraid maybe. A little fear is good. Causes a rush of adrenalin. Just like Scott right now. You go into overdrive and find yourself saying things you never knew. Making the humorous connections unintentionally and they laugh. Don’t stray too far from the point of the sale. You can just as easily talk yourself out of a sale.
Peter and Wendy don’t appear that taken by The Audience, but they seem to like The Mask of Apollo immediately when Scott brings it forth. The loose purple button pops out with it as if Apollo is amused at this display. Mustn’t sit rigidly in one place. The double sale has the advantage of allowing you an obvious excuse to move around. Impress your physical presence on the room in the most natural way possible … Scott resting The Mask of Apollo over by Benji, who’s now snoozing in that cat way, curled up like a tortoiseshell ball of fluff … A dark mahogany table between Scott’s leather chair and the television set props up The Audience of glowing red eyes. The Mask of Apollo looks on mysteriously, leaning against a white vase. A sale shouldn’t take that long, but like everything else in life, it can vary with the people. So far tonight Scott’s been lucky. No children on display. No telephone calls. No neighbours suddenly appearing on the doorstep. Peter hasn’t jumped up from the leather sofa declaring he’d completely forgotten he has to go and see George.
They’re interesting paintings. ‘Can we see some more?’ smiles Wendy. Sure fire buying-signal. She must be the one with artistic leanings … Scott getting up and putting The Audience and The Mask of Apollo back in the art folder. He realizes as he’s doing it, that compared to Peter and Wendy, he must seem like a colour fashion photo plate. Peter is wearing a white shirt, grey flannel trousers and black shoes. Wendy has on a green jumper, navy-checked skirt and those white, flat-heeled shoes … It’s still quite cold. They don’t have the central heating on. By comparison, Scott is sporting long, blonde hair touching the short, blue velvet jacket. A maroon-flowered shirt and blue jeans. Brown brogue shoes and belt, and a tan watchstrap.
Deftly bringing out another velvet, Wendy’s gold cross around her neck has just been caught by one of today’s last rays of sunlight shafting through the window above sleeping Benjie’s head.
‘I refer to this painting with my friends as George Harrison, Jesus Christ or Charles Manson.‘ They stare. Scott’s never tried this before. Why not. You have to be brave to sell, and take chances.
‘Secretly I call it the Sacred and the Profane. Whenever I take it out, I immediately give it one of those three titles depending on the people present, but nobody ever buys it. I could reproduce it ten times over, and all the copies would be stacked together collecting dust in my room - that passes for a studio. But with you two though, I feel I can take a chance and be more open.‘
‘Go on,’ encourages Wendy.
‘Well, the sacred is obviously Jesus Christ, and the profane Charles Manson.’
‘What does that make George Harrison then?’ Peter joins in … They've hunched slightly and are staring at the picture as if it might unexpectedly produce a miracle or stab them violently to death …
‘George Harrison is a little bit of both. Didn’t John Lennon state unwisely that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ? Middle America pronounced them the Angels of Satan and thousands burnt their records and memorabilia. Charles Manson thought The Beatles were talking directly to him. Instructing him with the song Helter Skelter. Launching the Manson family on a killing spree, commandeering their songs in celebration.‘
‘Was that Charles Manson really wicked or simply high on drugs, deranged and psychotic?’ asks Peter in earnest. Wendy shudders and her right hand starts playing with her gold cross.
‘Maybe he was all of those things and more. He was a small time, petty thief from a broken home. In and out of gaol in nineteen-fifties America. Then, WHAM!’ Scott claps his hands for effect, which startles Benji awake. The ball of fur springs down from the windowsill and comes over to have a look at this painting.
‘He’s the leader of a family of mainly young women in California living on a ranch. Girls from fifteen to thirty on dope and LSD and all under the hypnotic spell of Charlie Manson who they treat as some quasi-religious figure. Over twenty of them at one time, and some young dudes as well. They'll do whatever he wants, steal, cheat, lie, kill, fornicate, renounce America. Forecasting a day of reckoning and the end of the supremacy of the white race ...’
‘Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea, Scott?’ ... Wendy’s way of changing the subject.
‘But, of course, I meant this figure to be whoever you want him to be. For me, it felt like Jesus Christ. Not very fashionable today. Some of my fellow painters are into magic in our little artists’ commune. But I couldn’t live like that, Wendy. The whole of one’s life governed every day by superstition and fear. Some religions seem to operate in the same way, but I’ve always found the written teachings of Jesus Christ, as proclaimed in the four Gospels, to be very often at odds and completely different to organized religions and society. If he was active and around again today, they would crucify him yet again to keep him quiet. Big business only standing in for the Money Changers in the Temple in Jerusalem.’
Wendy is beaming. Peter is starting to look resigned. Scott is on a roll, he whisks out The Peasant Girl. She has the slight look of a Vermeer painting about her. For no real reason she seems to chime with tonight's Jesus Christ vibe. Scott has a horrible intuition he’ll end up hanging on the wall in the spare bedroom … Wendy could be a young Galilean girl drawn to the teachings of Jesus, or a fallen young creature who has been cleansed and set free by the word … If it had been Charles Manson, she would be an acid head preparing to commit murder, mayhem and butchery in an unwashed state. For George Harrison, she would be a young fan or groupie along for the ride, and very excited to be in the presence of her idol … The same is true for all three, which is why they fit together so well.
‘We don’t wish to see any more. I like these two, Jesus Christ and The Girl … What do you think, Peter?’
‘If you like them we’ll buy them, but where can we hang them?’ Breaking one of the self-imposed laws of selling, Scott accepts Wendy’s proffered cup of tea. She seems desperate to give him something … Of course, this delays the whole process. Destroys that fast exit strategy. That fight to contain the exaltation and the relief. Mustn’t go dancing down the street and yodelling in cowboy-style celebration. People will get the wrong idea.
The paintings rest quietly, half-angled towards one another … Have to shift the energy and focus of this quite bare room of cream-painted walls, away from them. Get the people to talk about themselves. Ask direct questions. Start with the most obvious.
‘What do you do for a living, Peter?’ He shifts around on the black leather sofa, now looking away from Jesus.
‘I’m an accountant with a firm of estate agents in Esher.’
‘That must have helped you when it came to buying this house.’. Peter hesitates. Direct questions can quickly make people uncomfortable …
‘Well, put it this way, it didn’t prove a hindrance.’ They both smile openly. Some slight sign of gratitude is called for, Wendy has re-entered the room carrying a tray with teacups and a pot. She puts it down on the chocolate-brown carpet between Peter and Scott and goes back over to the door and switches on the light. A lemon-coloured lampshade beneath the white ceiling. The sudden burst of electric light that makes Scott realize how the time has flown. It’s getting dark already and approaching nine o’ clock. Second rule gone to pot: Don't spend too much time with the punters.
‘As you can see, Scott, we are still awaiting a delivery of some chairs and tables. It’s all taken so long, hasn’t it Peter?’ This is Wendy making an uneccessary apology. The English disease that still plagues the Children of the Empire. Sorry. It’s as if we are apologizing for breathing as more land is taken and repossessed. Peter stands up, nearly treading on the teacups.
‘I’d better go and get my cheque book, I suppose.’ Scott halts him in his tracks.
‘I’m afraid no bank will give me or my fellow artists an account. We are not deemed good risks. So, I would really like cash if you don’t mind.’
‘I have some. I’ll go and get it. You can be surrogate mother, Peter, and pour the tea.’ A very classy lady this one. Peter pulls a face but stays to pour out the tea all the same. Drinking tea. An awkward silence. Want to get away. Wendy saves the day.
‘I do hope this is alright. We said fifteen pounds for the pair, didn’t we?’ The men both nod.
‘Well, I’ve found some one pound and ten-shilling notes. They’re still legal tender, aren’t they? I’m never sure with this confounded decimalization.’
‘That’s perfectly fine.’ interjects Scott. ‘I think it's still acceptable currency until the end of the year.’
Time to go. Been paid. Peter motions goodbye. Moves Jesus Christ from in front of the black television set with its stand, and places him up against a wall. The screen is back on … Wendy follows Scott out into the hallway and Benji tags along.
‘He’s taken a liking to you. It was because of Benji that I let you in. He usually completely ignores strangers.’
‘Benji must have artistic leanings.’ She laughs with that attractive smile of hers one more time.
Out in the night air with the art folder bulging under the left arm. Elated and trying hard not to show it, Scott senses Wendy’s eyes on him in the gloom of Swallowfield Drive. Benjie skips past, if cats can skip, and jumps up on the gatepost for one last stroke. A six-pound and fifty-pence profit, plus three-and-a-half valuable points. But it’s now past nine o’ clock. Don’t want to knock on any more houses tonight. There are other lights on in Swallowfield Drive but the energy has gone for this evening. Could have got into three houses and sold, say, five paintings in the time it took at Wendy and Peter’s.
Fuck! Scott’s left his copy of The Plague behind. The worst thing possible. Never go back. You’ve had your moment. Made the sale, entertained. Now the moment is over. They will never see you again. They may already regret the purchase. Exchanged words and chewed you over good and proper. The moment you reappear, breaking the spell … Wendy has found the dog-eared copy and is waiting for Scott, of course. Nothing for it. Go and get it … Returning with a sinking heart. Like visiting the scene of a past crime … The door is opened before Scott gets a chance to press the bell. Benjie is nowhere to be seen. Wendy looks straight at Scott. Not a flicker.
‘I believe this is what you’ve come back for.’ Hands Scott the book, and he feels like he’s suddenly developed the plague, a satisfying irony. She nods goodbye and closes the door on their lives. That’s exactly what happens. You trespass on the moment outside the time it's allotted. Broken the magic spell that you wove so well. That shredded moment available to you with Wendy and Peter has been fractured.
Scott wanders back down Swallowfield Drive towards the waiting Cortina, which looks colourless in the dark. Few street lights. Right on the very edge of Esher. All pleasure at the sale evaporated. Haunted by shredded time. Must improve. Quicken actions. Got too caught up with trying to be too clever. Very taken with Wendy, who is an attractive, smart lady. A secretary for an insurance company, she said. That can happen. People can waylay you through their charm and intelligence … Well, what the hell? We aim to please Louise … A while later Scott realizes he never picked up the purple shirt button that came off. Still sat on the chocolate-brown carpet, or in the corner of the black leather chair. Can you imagine going back a second time? The pain would be too much to bear. They say you leave a little bit of yourself behind every time you sell somebody; well, in the case of Wendy and Peter at Swallowfield Drive in Esher, Scott has left a purple shirt button behind. Selah …