Moroccan Traffic Read Free Page A

right,’ said Sir Robert.
    Working late, I had said. Mr. Johnson didn’t bother to look at me, and I didn’t look at Sir Robert. I got out, fast, for the coffee.
    Although I brought him a cup, Mr. Johnson refused again. I thought he wouldn’t care for me to work while he painted, but he simply hooked out a chair by his easel and I sat down with a notebook. The Chairman talked, had a break, and then talked again. Only during the final half-hour did Mr. Johnson make a suggestion. ‘Now I have a touch to do to the mouth. All right, Sir Robert? Miss Helmann?’ And Sir Robert smiled and stopped speaking, while Mr. Johnson took up the running.
    Chatting was, I suppose, part of his job, and he knew Sir Robert’s interests by this time. He knew a surprising amount about cricket and racing, and had quite a stock of anecdotes about acquaintances from Sir Robert’s various quangos. He knew about Charity’s passion for paintings and horses. I supposed he knew what to expect if and when he ever met Lady Kingsley.
    At the end, he put down his palette, threw his fistful of brushes on the trolley and stepped back, his eyes on the canvas. He said, ‘Well, that’s about it. Two-thirds done: the right stage to leave off, although I must say I’m sorry. It’s really coming along.’ He stood absently folding a rag.
    I sat where I was, watching the Chairman’s smile fade. He said, ‘Leave it? Until when?’
    The bifocal glasses turned. ‘Where are we? Spring . . . summer. . . Resume in September, perhaps?’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sir Robert gently. He rose in the controlled way he has, put one hand in his pocket and strolled towards Mr. Johnson. He said, ‘We discussed the possibility of an interruption; I remember that very well. But not, my dear chap, what the shop floor might describe as a walkout. You are proposing a gap of seven months without warning? A little steep, wouldn’t you say?’
    Johnson frowned. ‘Disappointing, of course. But there it is.’ He shook his head, tossing tubes into his box. ‘These things happen.’
    ‘Not in my Boardroom, as a rule,’ Sir Robert said. I had heard him say it before, with the same look on his face, and the same pleasant tone in his voice. He continued, ‘I have a feeling you want to go on with this as much as I do. There’s a way around everything. What can I do to help matters?’
    ‘Paint six portraits?’ said Johnson, with all the indifferent charm of a Customs officer. He unscrewed a final tin and soaking a cloth, used it to banish the paint from his fingers. Then he looked up, perhaps struck by the silence.
    He said, ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten. This is the risk you accepted. I have a client who reserved the right, long ago, to make his own priority appointment. He rang me last night and made it.’
    ‘For tomorrow?’ said Sir Robert. He sat down in a chair and leaned back. ‘For every day this week and next? I thought a professional spaced out his sittings.’
    ‘For March,’ said Johnson. ‘And I have three other commissions to finish beforehand. You, and those who booked later than you will, sadly, have to wait till September. But in time for next year’s Academy, certainly.’
    He had laid hands on the easel and was turning it thoughtfully. The blue daylight of London glittered on the wet picture, and Sir Robert’s eyes fastened upon it. He rose without shifting his gaze, and thrust a hand, as before in his pocket. His own face looked back as if from a mirror, full of a vigour so piercing that flesh and blood seemed to spring from the canvas. The fit, heavy body. The amused, clean-shaven face with years of explosive living caught in every line. It was two-thirds done, as Johnson had said. A third was only blocked in.
    ‘But of course,’ Johnson said, ‘if art and trade can’t agree, don’t let’s quarrel. Take back your fee and I’ll scrap it. You will, after all, have wasted as much time on the thing as I have.’
    Sir Robert’s hand hung