37 292
Not Near London
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the weather. England’s
flat and under a shroud.
Jasper’s main riff is the
four elements. Earth, air,
water, fire. It is his whole
philosophy, when it comes
to understanding people.
And
drawing
them.
Drawing her.
A few months ago, when
she was posing naked on
his sofa made out of boxes,
he told her that she was
three-quarters water and
one quarter earth, so she
replied, ‘That’s literally
mud.’
His red, white and black
pastels were beating away
on the paper the other side
of the easel,
These New
Puritans
banging out from
his silly little speakers.
‘Wrong. It’s a river bed.
Water flowing over a river
bed. You’re at ease with
yourself, like a really calm
river.’
‘I was born in the fens,’ she
laughed, because you have
to laugh at a statement like
that. ‘A marsh girl. Burgh
le Marsh was just up the
road from our bungalow.’
She liked to remind him
of her authentic origins in
Lincolnshire, the Land that
Time Forgot, with Mum
struggling to bring the kids
up on her own after Dad
died. ‘A real yellowbelly.
A slub girl. That’s what we
fenlanders call mud. Slub.
Among other nice names.’
Jasper, in his best public-
school-twat voice, said, ‘I
was raised in Rutland.’ He
wasn’t really self-mocking,
he was showing off. No
one can help what they’re
born into.
‘Slub’s a good word.
Onomatopeoic,’
she
pointed out, hoping he
would take an interest. He
did. The electric heater
was on but she was slightly