Open Writing

One evening, after a play-reading at the youth club, we were loafing around drinking hot chocolate. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Miss Fountain looking intently at me. She smiled and beckoned me over.

I had always liked her in the way I'd admired Miss Bryson, knowing, without being told that she liked me in return. Although she was much older and cleverer than I was she felt more like a friend than my principal.

Smiling, she said, "Betty, I'd like to paint your portrait - if I may. Would you like that?"

Would I like it, of course I would love it. I'd never been so flattered in all my life. Betty Skinner, all the way from scruffy old Fothergill Street having my picture painted and by my boss too! Miss Fountain must have guessed how delighted I was by the look on my face.

"Well, that's alright then. Come round to my place on Saturday morning and we'll make a start getting you onto canvas."

I knew Miss Fountain lived with her friend in an apartment in one of the large old houses in the best part of Warrington. The rooms were simply furnished but had style. There was a floral arrangement and polished wooden flooring. Her friend, whose name I cannot for the life of me remember, was away that week-end, attending a conference in London.

Ivory had me sit in various positions and finally took up her palette and brushes and commenced painting. I felt nervous, twitchy I suppose; I was a young girl unsure of herself and anxious that I didn't come out looking like a gargoyle. Although people at work flattered me I was very insecure and lacking in confidence, particularly about my appearance.

Ivory told me that I resembled a Burne-Jones girl. She took an art book from the bookcase and showed me some of Burne-Jones's paintings. They were pictures of tall, willowy, dark haired beauties. I was quite sure I didn't resemble any of these glorious creatures in any way.

At the end of the day she allowed me to look at the unfinished painting. I suppose I was flattered, although I didn't really think this elegant creation looked at all like me. Then we ate. Something simple, chicken salad, I think, followed by fresh fruit.

I'd had an interesting day. I felt tired, I didn't know why. I shouldn't have - sitting about posing wasn't exactly arduous.

"Will you be able to come tomorrow - won't your parents mind?"

"Oh they won't mind, they won't even notice I'm not there."

"I can't believe that."

"It's true though, sad but true." I laughed. Perhaps then she would realise it was a joke.

"Till tomorrow then."

I walked slowly home. It had been an unusual day. Ivory had talked a lot, partly, I think, to put me at my ease. She had been in Spain in the civil war, and had painted in Italy and Yugoslavia. I wasn't in this woman's league. I felt a mere child in her company, but comfortable too. It was eminently satisfying to listen to someone so erudite and intelligent, and I looked forward eagerly to returning the next morning.

Before Ivory began painting she asked me if I liked music. I assured her that I loved music and travelled most Saturday evenings in the winter to Liverpool to the Liverpool Phil concerts and was a fan of Sir Malcolm Sargent. Ivory played some recordings of violin music, which I found particularly poignant. One of which was ‘Songs My Mother Taught me’, a favourite of mine.

When we stopped at lunchtime, I looked at the painting. It was, I thought very flattering. I liked the girl I saw and wondered if I really looked like her.

"Well, what do you think? Do you like it?

"I'd like to think I looked like that."

Miss Fountain stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder. "You do. One never sees oneself as others do." Then she turned me around, facing her and put her arms around me and kissed me.

I was so shocked that I pushed her away hard with both hands. She staggered, looking very surprised. Then I went over to the settee and picked up my cardigan and put it on.

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

"So am I. Sorry I mean. I thought you understood."

She wasn't smiling any more. She looked stricken and I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. All I knew was that I must get away from this elegant room and this woman who had been so pleasant to me, because what she offered was something I didn't want.