Page 2 of Old Girls Go Greek
‘In which case, I don’t believe a word she says,’ I murmured, and next to me, Anita giggled.
‘—and I run this group and also one in Begley Mortimer and one in Begley Moor. If you have any friends over this side of the river who want to join us, we’re a bit down on numbers at the moment which is why some of the other Begleys have joined us for the time being – and I know you want to get started unleashing all those lovely, flowing, creative juices?—’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some tissues in my bag if things get messy,’ Anita muttered back, and I stifled a snort of laughter.
‘—so I thought we would start by very quickly introducing ourselves so that the new people know who is who. Would someone like to start us off?’
‘I’m Dennis Kitteridge from Lower Begley Farmhouse,’ Arran-sweater man said, taking the initiative, ‘and I’m delighted to see I’m still the only rooster in this henhouse of lovely ladies?—’
‘I think he means cock,’ Anita whispered, and this time I did laugh and had to pretend I was sneezing.
‘I used to paint a lot as a child; that was before I went into finance. I got a Blue Peter badge for a painting I did of John Noakes and Shep. My wife says my paintings are as good as anything you see on that BBC programme. In fact, I’ve applied three times, but I never seem to get asked – not even as a wild-card entry.’
Cassandra gave a wide-eyed slightly mad smile. ‘Marvellous, welcome back Dennis, and who’s next?’
Cassandra went quickly round the circle, introducing Maureen, who used to be a nurse, Irene, who was a retired dentist, Beryl, who had worked for the governmentbut if I told you more I’d have to kill you, Gwen, who seemed very flustered by the question and didn’t quite know what she had done, Polly, who had worked on the delicatessen counter in the local supermarketdoingcheese, and Janet, who had been a hairdresser. Anita had been an accountant and I had been a school secretary.
‘Excellent, now we are all friends, let’s get started. There is tea and coffee and biscuits in the kitchen for anyone of course, and I have some vegan rice cakes if anyone wants one.’
‘Pass,’ I murmured.
‘Won’t fight you for those,’ Anita agreed. ‘Give me a Tunnocks Tea Cake any time.’
Cassandra had brought along a bunch of sunflowers from the local supermarket, which she unwrapped, dumped in a milk jug and put in the middle of our circle on a table.
‘And remember, there is no such thing as bad painting,’ Cassandra added confidently. ‘Just remember to think about those marvellous elements. Shape, Form, Texture, Space, Value, Colour, and Line. Those are the magic ingredients. The shape of these flowers. The space they occupy. The vibrant colours of nature.’
After a bit more chatter and Gwen fretting in case anyone wanted tea already or should we wait, we finally got down to some painting.
I stared at the blank paper in front of me and wondered where to start. Eventually I did a few hesitant pencil strokes and then rubbed them out again. I looked around, worried in case anyone had seen the depth of my inability.
Next to me I could see Anita was already splashing watercolours onto her paper with some abandon.
‘Last term I tried Realism; this time I’ve decided to be an Impressionist,’ she said in answer to my enquiring look. ‘I’m doing my impression of those flowers, focusing on – what did she say? – colour and shape.’
‘Those flowers are yellow,’ I said, a bit confused.
‘They are blue and red to me; I refuse to be hidebound by convention. I think I’ll put my new dog in there too. You must have heard him barking at the squirrels in your oak tree? Bonzo’s only a pup. He loves a squirrel.’
The morning passed quite peacefully and Cassandra wandered around behind us murmuring comments and encouragement.
‘Lovely shape, Irene. Gwen, you could use a bit more of the space, don’t you think? Rather than squeeze everything up into a corner? You don’t have to be afraid of the paper. It’s your friend. Yes, Dennis, I can see where you are going with this, and daring use of – shall I say – an almost architectural approach. Anita, very bold use of form. Beryl, excellent as always. Meg, let your brush lead you onwards. Those flowers are happy, aren’t they? Paint them with joy. Daphne, splendid execution of the jug.’
I did my best and halfway through when we were allowed a ten-minute break for coffee, we sneaked glances at our classmates’ paintings. They were all very different, and sitting on the other side of me, Beryl’s was by far the most accomplished.
I stopped to admire it.
‘Gosh, this is absolutely brilliant,’ I said.
Beryl, who looked about my age and was swathed in a jumble of brightly coloured scarves and sweaters, smiled modestly.
‘I haven’t painted for ages. I’m enjoying this. I wish I’d started up again years ago. My last husband used to say I should stick to walls and skirting boards. But what did he know? He couldn’t sign a Christmas card without expecting a Nobel prize for literature.’
‘Do you ever sell them?’ I asked. ‘That’s really gorgeous.’
Beryl tilted her head at her painting and smiled. ‘Actually, when I was short of cash I used to work as a life model in Paris back in the seventies. Now, if times get hard, I’m thinking of selling off my old nudes. Ten quid to get one, twenty quid not to get one.’
‘I think my dog should be bigger,’ Anita said, flicking her paintbrush carelessly at the canvas. ‘Perhaps I will give him a ball too. And Bonzo is growing a sort of doggy moustache. I’ll add that.’
