Writing About Art

Art
At least Jane’s lurid paintings were not visible from the entrance hall of their sheltered accommodation. Alice’s new neighbour was a keen artist and on Friday Rob the handyman had hung 4 of Jane’s blurred pictures of holiday views on the upstairs landing she shared with Alice. She favoured bright colours which stood out against the magnolia walls
Other residents had used the lift to come up and view them. Over sherry before Sunday lunch, favourite paintings were a talking point. It was pleasant and Jane let her glass be refilled more than once.
She awoke refreshed by her afternoon nap and went to double check if, even after alcohol, the new paintings were as hideous as she had first thought. They were.
She had not seen her friend Mary for ages. To clear her head, Alice decided to walk to Mary’s and invite her to come up and look at the art works, for a laugh. It was dark early in the winter and Alice dressed warmly in her winter coat.
She turned a few corners to get to Mary’s. The street lighting made the door look a different colour. Cold air nipped at Alice’s neck and she wished she had worn a hat and scarf. No one answered the doorbell. The brass letterbox chilled her fingers when she rattled it. Still no one came to the door. She wondered what to do. She was not sure if she had turned right or left to get here. She was tired and wondered how she would get home.
There was nothing for it but to ask for directions. At the fourth house she rang and rang the bell until a dishevelled man opened the door wearing pyjamas.
“Where do you live?” he asked. She remembered it was Palm Tree Sheltered Accommodation. He looked in the phone book. Palm Tree had 8 different residences in the city. She did not know which one.
He gave up and rang some girls who drove her home. Alice hoped to slip in quietly, using her key. She did not want to be told off. Surely she could visit friends when she liked.
Before she put the key in the lock, Maggie, the night worker, opened the door and hugged her. That was a relief. She could wind Maggie round her little finger so it was going to be OK.
Unfortunately the girls followed her inside. Their jaunty police hats would take some explaining. Definitely time to turn on the charm. It always worked.
“Have I been very naughty?” Alice asked, adding in a sad voice, “Mary wouldn’t let me in.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Maggie said. “Maybe you had the wrong house anyway and the people there thought you were a big burly burglar?”
The police women laughed.
This still might go the wrong way. Jenny, Alice’s daughter, would be very cross if she found out about this. Now was the time to play her trump card. “I’m 87, you know,” she said to the police women.
Her voice trembled a little as she asked Maggie “You won’t tell Jenny, will you?“
“Not tonight,“ said Maggie. “Let’s get back to your flat.”
They passed along the landing to Alice’s door, by Jane's blurry landscapes.
“Those paintings are ugly.” Alice said defiantly.
Maggie laughed. “I think so too, but let’s keep it our secret.”