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Not Near London
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chin in her palm, elbow
on the armrest. In the seat
immediately in front of her
there’s a girl posing in the
same way. The seat-back
hides everything but the
edge of the girl’s profile.
The coastlineof her profile,
to use Malcolm’s term.
Suzie hears her drawing
tutor’s soft Cornish voice
again in class: ‘See that
profile as the coastline
of somewhere foreign,’
he would say. ‘All you’re
doing is mapping it. No
Rembrandts, please. No
interior life. Just shape
and
gravity
.’
Interior life. Malcolm
Harmer’s hand on her
thigh, creeping up like a
heavy spider. Still life. Life
class. The occasional crab
or fox skull or resident jug
to draw… in exactly, let’s
see, guys, two minutes!
Ten seconds! A legendary
tutor, aren’t we lucky?
Smash and grab. ‘All I want
to know is whether your
muff down there is also
pre-Raphaelite red, Lady
Lilith.’
Oh, it is, Sir Malcolm.
Sketched, she was, then
thrown away.
The girl in front has not
yet noticed her. It would
make a good image if
she’d had her Canon. Two
girls on a train, complete
strangers, posed a few
inches from each other
like copycats, like twins,
one pasty-skinned, one
dark, different chins on
their different palms,
separated by a grey seat-
back edged by the hot red
of the padding, the train
whirling on through the
snowy fields.
She can’t get Jasper to
look without breaking her
pose. She can nudge him,
but he wouldn’t know