⚪ Splodge — part one

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Tony France came looking for me in the garden maze where I was pruning the hedges. “You can leave that for now,” he said. “Mr. Davidson has a special job for you.”

“What’s he got in mind?” I asked.

“I’ll let him explain.”

I followed Tony into the house and up the marble staircase.

We waited on the second-floor landing for Mr. Davidson to join us. He led the way into a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. Tiffany lamps in each corner cast diffused light. The Bocote floor was burnished to a rich, brown sheen. In front of one set of shelves stood a four-sided structure with a zig-zag arrangement, like an expanded concertina. Four grey plastered surfaces, nine-feet high and fifteen-feet wide, each with a six-inch wooden skirting board. Three plastic tubs stacked to one side of the structure bore labels that read Brilliant White.

Mr. Davidson pointed to the tubs. “You have been provided with six gallons of paint. Three coats will be required.” He adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke suit. “I want the final effect to capture the whiteness I witnessed following a heavy snowfall in Quebec in January 1981. You will receive credit for any paint you do not use. That credit is, of course, predicated on your achieving the requisite whiteness of the Quebec snow.” He paused, hands clasped behind his back. “On no account are you to get any paint on the wooden border or on the floor. No dripping is permitted. You will not be given any cloth or tissue. If you attempt to cover up mistakes there will be grave consequences.” He pursed his lips. “Joe Spain certainly regrets his carelessness.”

Muffled buzzing came from Mr. Davidson’s pocket. He took out his phone and checked the screen. “I have a meeting. Tony can cover the logistics.” He exited the room, every inch the autocrat used to getting his way.

I waited until he was definitely gone. “What did he mean about Joe Spain?”

“Joe Spain won’t be painting anything for some time.” Tony nodded his head slowly, eyebrows raised, making it clear he had nothing more to say on the subject.

“What’s the reason for the painting?” I asked. “What was all that stuff about Quebec snow?”

“Don’t ask me. I just work for the man.”

“Is it a test?”

“Who knows?” Tony puffed out his cheeks. “If it is, you’d better pass.”

Up close, all manner of dimples, ridges, edges, and corners covered the four surfaces. “How am I to know if I’ve got the right color?”

Tony shrugged. “Use your imagination. The boss suggested three coats of paint, and he should know.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to lock you in for the night.”

He showed me a small adjoining room. It contained a cot with a Hessian cover, a wooden chair, and a chamber pot—no lights.

“Someone will be back at eight with your breakfast. Probably me or Ivan. Get a good night’s sleep; you’ve a lot of painting ahead of you. One coat per day. Not as easy as you might think. Mr. Davidson will check the final result on Friday.” He leaned a little closer. “I remember Joe Spain’s first night. He was cocksure. Painting a wall was a piece of piss, I remember him saying. He’s not saying that now.”

Tony locked the door. His footsteps faded, and an eerie stillness pervaded the enclosed space, inky black apart from a grey line where a gap under the door seeped pale light from the outer room. I lay on the cot and didn’t sleep.

The following morning, Ivan Israel unlocked the door. I sat up and checked my watch: nearly ten o’clock.

“I know I’m late, Taffy,” Ivan said, putting a tray on the ground. “Better dig in. You’ve got to finish the first coat by five o’clock. Mr. Davidson’s instructions.” He stepped back out of the room.

I found Ivan off-hand to the point of hostility. Tall and paunchy with a precarious comb-over and perpetual sneer, he always gave the impression I’d somehow wronged him. Nonetheless, I needed no encouragement to dig in. A top-notch breakfast, but I expected nothing less from Mr. Davidson. Blueberry porridge, crispy bacon, waffles and maple syrup, eggs benedict, freshly-squeezed orange juice, and a carafe of Colombian roast.

Ivan reappeared in the doorway. “This is a one-brush job,” he announced. He handed me the brush, large and unwieldy with thick bristles. I turned it in my hand and saw white stains on the handle, dried paint at the base of the bristles.

“Is this what—”

“Same brush Joe Spain used,” Ivan interrupted. “I hope you do a better job than him.”

I thought about the wooden border and Mr. Davidson’s warning about mistakes. “Do you have a second—”

“One-brush job. Mr. Davidson’s instructions. You better crack on, Taffy. No time to waste.” Ivan turned away but called over his shoulder, “Someone will bring you lunch at one o’clock.”

I stood before the structure. The dimples and depressions I’d noticed the day before appeared arbitrary. A series of intricate rucks reminded me of an animal’s backbone. The light from the lamps threw complex shadows that caused the undulations and hollows to shift position. Hardly the best light for painting. Mr. Davidson was testing me and, as Tony said, I’d better pass the test.

I lifted the top tub, my arms wobbling with the effort, and lugged it over to the structure. Ivan provided no tools other than the brush, so I had nothing to lever the lid from the tub. A hard plastic sheath ran around the rim that had to be removed before the lid could be released. I pulled and twisted, cut my fingers on the hard plastic, and finally ripped it from the tub. Using the key to my flat, I pried open the lid bit by bit until it popped.

My hands throbbed, fingernails broken, cuts stinging. I tore the hem of my shirt and wrapped the cloth around the cuts. The paint looked thick and yellowish—certainly not brilliant white. I tried stirring with the brush handle, but it made no difference. Five hours to go and I hadn’t applied a single drop of paint.

By the time Hugh Peru showed up, I managed to cover the upper half of one surface. To reach the top, I stood on the chair from my room. Getting up and down from the chair, I worried about dripping paint on the floor and cupped my hand under the brush. The paint missed depressions in the surface. I poked the white tip of the bristles into the hollows, but the brush wasn’t up to the job. The lighting was inadequate and misleading.

“Something smells good.” Hugh held up a dome-covered platter. “Better eat while it’s hot.”

Unlike Ivan Israel, Hugh Peru was invariably cheery. A small man in his mid-thirties with curly black hair and an enormous moustache, he could have stepped out of a Velasquez painting. 

He handed me the platter and moved to examine the wall. “You’ve made real progress.”

“It’s hopeless,” I said. “The paint isn’t going on properly.”

Hugh shook his head. “The first coat always looks like that. You’re too much of a perfectionist. I’ll leave you to eat in peace.”

I lifted the dome and the warm waft of flavors got my digestive juices flowing. Venison steak in a red wine sauce, garlic mash, and white asparagus tips. A glass of wine to wash it down, and cheesecake for dessert. Mr. Davidson didn’t skimp when it came to food. I refused to linger over the meal—no time for such luxury. By the time Hugh returned, I had resumed painting.

“How was lunch?” he asked.

“Tasty.” I held out the brush. “How am I supposed to avoid getting paint on the wood with this?”

Hugh grimaced. “Very difficult. I suppose you need to be extra careful. We don’t want a repeat of the Joe Spain incident.”

“There must be a second brush I can use—a smaller one to do along the border.”

“Afraid not. Instructions from Mr. Davidson. A one-brush job, that’s what he said. You’ll work it out.” He patted my shoulder. “Better get a move on. You have to be finished by five. Ivan will be here to shut up shop.” He dawdled in the doorway. “You’ll get it done. I’ve every confidence in you. You’re nothing like Joe Spain.”

I picked up the pace, moving down the first surface to within three inches of the wooden border. Any closer and I risked getting paint on the wood. I needed a smaller brush. Using my key, I hacked off enough bristles to fashion a precision brush. I should’ve kept the knife from lunch—it would’ve come in handy to cut the bristles and to open the other tubs. No doubt Mr. Davidson wouldn’t have permitted it.

I removed a shoelace, tied it around the bristles to bind them together, then got down on my knees. Slowly—painstakingly—I moved the bristles from left to right, covering the area above the wooden strip. It worked. Starting at an angle of forty-five degrees, the tip just above the border, I let the paint grip, and then drew the bristles away from the wooden edge. I followed this with a horizontal alignment and a smooth motion to the right. Inching along, knees rubbing against the hard ground, my breathing synchronized with my hand movements. Nothing existed but the wooden strip. I kept going, all the way to the end of the fourth surface.

I eased myself off the ground. Ten minutes to four and I had the better part of three surfaces to complete. I attacked the paint, shoved the big brush into the tub, pulled it out, paused, and painted; up-stroke, down-stroke, to the right, up and down, a check to fill dimples, pressing the tip into corners, another press and twist. Back into the tub, careful not to drip. I persevered: mechanical, indefatigable, a painting machine. When the tub became light enough to lift, I carried it with me, minimizing the chances of spillage and working much quicker. I brushed and dipped and probed and squeezed until I completed the final section.

Ivan arrived at five o’clock. I hid the makeshift bristle brush in my pocket.

He walked from one end of the structure to the other. “Looks like you got it finished after all, Taffy. Very messy though.” He hunkered down and inspected the border. “Better hope you don’t slip-up. Mr. Davidson will be here on Friday with special lamps to check for mistakes.”

I said nothing, too exhausted to speak or think. Ivan checked the tub of paint.

“There’s still a lot left; you might have stinted on the paint. Right, put the lid back on and I’ll lock up.” He picked up the brush. “What were you doing, Taffy? Painting or scrubbing the walls? I’ll have this cleaned so it’s ready for you in the morning.”

He locked the door behind me. I lay on the cot, curled into a ball, and fell asleep.

TO BE CONTINUED