He wanted to give me private lessons and not charge for them or nothing, but my mum wouldn’t let me. Steve Hunter used to have a laugh about that, saying I’d make someone a lovely wife one day, until I got fed up with it and hit him, and after that he never said nothing about me no more. Art was the only thing I could do at school, that and cookery. He works at the University, teaching people about paintings. It doesn’t matter what they say about me, just as long as they’re nice to Larry. That’s what all his mates at college say, only they say it fancy, like “Well, quite clearly it’s not his brains Lawrence goes for,” and “God, when is he going to tire of slumming it with this moron?” I just smile at them, ’cause they’re his mates, and it’s all right. For Anna, who helped me carry this story to term and bring it, red-faced and howling, into the world and for Shelley, who taught it its first words and smacked its bottom when it was naughty.
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