Open Writing

The sound from the television set was scarcely audible, but that didn’t matter because the old lady watching it didn’t understand English. She was concentrating on the pictures for which she was doubtless inventing some kind of narration or dialogue in her head. She had been introduced to Alan as “Mamma”, at which point communication with him had come to an abrupt halt.

He suddenly became aware that a little girl was standing in a corner of the room staring at him with that steady gaze that some people find unnerving. Children in the western world are trained from an early age not to stare because it is rude. It is, on the other hand, quite natural.

Alan realised that he must have been busy with his thoughts about her mother not to have noticed her entry. He had no experience of dealing with small children but vaguely remembered someone saying that it pays to be friendly.

“Hello,” he said. “What’s your name ?”

She did not reply.

He sighed and hoped that she was not going to make life difficult. He had not known about her when he had first met her mother, the daughter of the old lady.Yana came from Macedonia. He had met her in the refectory of the further education college where he was studying IT and she was studying English. She was having some difficulty paying for her coffee. She had proffered a five-pound note, and the large girl from Trinidad at the till had asked her for 10p to help out with the change. Yana had been arguing that a cup of coffee did not cost five pounds 10p. He had taken over when the rapid and slurred Caribbean English of the cashier had made the situation even more complicated. They had sat together and had exchanged basic information before the start of classes.

He had appreciated that she was rather older than the rest of the class. He put her at 35 to 40. Normally Alan would not have been the least interested in any girl over twenty-six, but in Yana’s case age seemed unimportant. Since that first meeting he had often thought about her. There was no doubt about it: she was very attractive. She had long, curly black hair down to her shoulders. He had wanted to touch it there and then, in the refectory, but, unusually for him, he had felt shy.

“What’s your name ?”

The child had spoken. Alan wrenched his thoughts back to the small sitting- room of a council flat where he was sitting on a settee talking to a little girl, while her grandmother tried to make sense of flickering pictures on a screen.

“My name ?” he asked, adjusting to the present. “My name is Alan. What’s yours ?”

“Natasha.”

Alan knew that he ought to say “That’s a nice name”, but didn’t, because that would prolong what might develop into a conversation, which was not what he wanted at all. Yana would be joining them shortly. Then they would drop the child off at school and set off for the National Gallery.

Yana’s long dark hair was not her only or even major attractive feature. She had brown eyes, soft and innocent. A man could drown in those eyes, thought Alan.

“I want to play a game with you.”

It was Alan’s turn to stare at - what was her name - Natasha?

“You want to play a game with me?”

“Yes.”

Alan looked at his watch. Yana seemed to be taking an age.

“What game do you want to play?”

“I want to draw.”

“Drawing’s not a game. Anyway, I’m not very good at drawing.”

“It’s easy. Or you can crayon, if you like.”

He had not come here to draw, or even to crayon, but there seemed no way out.

“All right. Have you something to draw with? And on?”

He looked at the girl. She would be about five. That’s right. He remembered Yana telling him about her birthday and starting school. It looked as though they were going to have to do something together.

Natasha went to a chest of drawers alongside the television set and took out a large drawing pad and a transparent mini-attaché case containing crayons and pens covering, as far as Alan could see, every shade of colour known to man. She dragged out of a corner of the room a small red plastic table about a foot high and two tiny red plastic chairs.

“I am too big for the chairs now,” she said gravely.

Alan had not realised that children could be very grave, particularly when they were on their own or, at least, away from other children of the same age. His only adult experience of children had been that they were noisy, violent and messy creatures. Natasha didn’t seem to be any of these things.

She carefully explained how the drawing session was to be organised.

“We have to kneel down. I put all the crayons and pens on the table. You can draw what you want. Here is your sheet of paper. This is my sheet of paper. I draw what I want. You don’t have to tell me what you want to draw and I don’t have to tell you. Then you show me and I show you.”

He looked across at the old lady, but she was too absorbed to see him. Natasha was staring at him curiously.

“Don’t you know what to draw? she asked, adding helpfully “I’ve drawn the sky. You can draw the sky, if you like.”

Alan looked at her sheet of paper. Except for one corner it was covered in a dense red.

“What’s that ? he asked.

“The sky,” she said proudly.

“That can’t be the sky.”

“Why not ?”

“It’s red. The sky is blue.”

“This sky is red.”

“I’ve never seen a red sky like that.”

“That’s because it’s my sky.”

“What is going to go in that corner ?”

“The sun.”

“And what colour is that going to be ?”

“Yellow, silly. The sun is always yellow.”

Alan looked at her. She was smiling indulgently at his stupidity. He selected crayons and worked rapidly.

“That,” he said as he displayed the result, “is a real blue sky and a green sun.”

Natasha studied his picture.

“Is that your sun ?”

“Yes, “ said Alan. “That is my sun. And it is green.”

“It is very good,” said Natasha approvingly. She handed him a clean sheet of paper. “Now we have to draw a face.” Alan took the proffered sheet. Natasha was speaking again.

“You have to start like this,” she was saying. She drew a large egg on her sheet of paper and then took Alan’s sheet and did the same. At that moment her mother came into the room. She had spent some time on her toilet and Alan had to admit that the time had not been wasted. He scarcely recognised the student of English he had been treating to cups of coffee in the refectory of a local college of further education.

“Wow!” he said involuntarily, rising from his knees. “You look gorgeous!”

She smiled, pleased.

“Do you think this is all right for National Gallery? When I see you with tie, I know we have to look not like students.”

“Well,” said Alan, glad now that he had decided on a tie, “you’re right there. We certainly look ‘not like students’.”

Natasha was standing beside her mother and tugging gently at her dress. They exchanged a few words. She took her daughter by the hand and turned to Alan.

“Natasha says that she likes you very much and hopes that you can come again and play with her. I hope she has not worried you?”

“Not at all. I - er - hope that you will invite me again.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll have to get a wiggle on if we’re to drop her off at school in time.”

Yana looked puzzled.

“A wig lon ?”

“That just means we have to go quickly now.”

Natasha was already struggling into her coat. She skipped ahead of them to Alan’s car. He held the door open for the two of them to get in the back. Natasha smiled at him and said confidently.

“Next time I will show you how to draw a face.”

Alan took in the big smile.

“You know, Natasha, I would like that.”

He was surprised to realise that he meant it.