A Thing of Blood by Robert Gott Page A

Gretel isn’t the most reliable girl in the world.’
    As soon as I’d said this, I realised I was quoting Paul Clutterbuck.
    ‘But she sent me instead.’
    Mr Wilks sighed. ‘Well, you’d better come up and get ready.’
    He stood back and looked me up and down.
    ‘You’ve got a broken arm. I suppose that might be quite interesting. You’re not fat, which is a pity. It would be so much easier for them if you were fat.’
    I thought it strange that he hadn’t formally introduced himself, and he hadn’t yet asked my name. I followed him up the stairs and into the room from which he had emerged. There were eight ladies there, each seated behind an easel and each wearing the loose clothing of the amateur artist. One of them had tied a scarf around her head in what I presume she thought approximated fascinating bohemianism. It was evident from the perfume that hung in the air and from the various pieces of jewellery I glimpsed that none of these women was so poor or unconnected that they would need to consider the grim possibility of taking on a war job.
    ‘Our model has done a bunk,’ Mr Wilks said. There was a collective groan. ‘She has, however, done us the courtesy of sending a replacement. It wasn’t what we were hoping for, but what is art without sacrifice, struggle, and disappointment? I’m sure Mr … I’m sorry,’ he said, turning to me, ‘What is your name?’
    ‘Power,’ I said. ‘William Power.’
    ‘I’m sure Mr William Power will provide us with enough dramatic poses to get our creative juices flowing. If you would like to step behind that screen, Mr Power, and prepare yourself, we will begin.’
    It was with some relief that I now understood the nature of Gretel’s work here. These ladies were gathered for a weekly drawing class, for which Mr Wilks no doubt overcharged them. It was almost quaint. They had obviously progressed from the tedium of still lifes to the discipline of the figure. Whatever costumes were waiting for me behind the Japanese screen would have been chosen with a female model in mind, but I knew I could adjust them into something resembling a toga or a tunic. I imagined that the standard modelling outfit for a woman was a shapeless but diaphanous bolt of cloth designed to be wrapped about the body in simulation of a figure on a frieze somewhere. I would have to make do, and think of this as a performance piece with gestures, but no words. When I ducked behind the screen, there was nothing there but a chair. I poked my head around and said, ‘There’s just a chair here.’
    ‘Do you need a second chair?’ Mr Wilks asked.
    ‘Well, no, but the … the costumes. There’s no costume.’
    ‘Why would you need a costume, Mr Power? You have done this sort of work before, haven’t you?’
    ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I thought Gretel mentioned a costume, that’s all.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘We did that once early on with Gretel, but we draw the body now. You can’t draw the clothed figure properly unless you know how the body is moving beneath. As I’m sure you are aware.’
    My eyes circuited the room. The eight ladies, the oldest of whom looked to be approaching sixty, and the youngest barely in her twenties, were watching me expectantly, but not lewdly. They each had the carefully studied look of the professional artist, even though they probably were no more than bored socialites indulging in a daring hobby.
    ‘Are there any particular poses you would like me to strike?’ I asked Mr Wilks.
    ‘We’ll decide as we go along. If you could get ready now please,’ he said, a little testily.
    I began undressing and draping my clothes over the chair. I took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen.
    ‘I wonder if you would mind taking your socks off, Mr Power. They are distracting and we need to see your feet.’
    I peeled off my socks and stood before the half-circle of easels, physically naked, but mentally armed.
    ‘The first pose will be ten