15. THE VERY RUDE ETCHING

We have now reached the weeks before the second world war, and the arrogant youngest son of the Squire thinks that his social position makes him impervious to everything

It was Wednesday afternoon.

On Wednesdays the Swanspottle village store had always closed for the half day. In the olden days it had given Old Aunty Emmett time to make sure everything was, as she called it, shipshape and Bristol fashion, by which she meant in proper order and dusted so that everything shone. Ursula had continued with the same early closing day but used it for visiting her mother who lived a short walk from the shop. She did her polishing in the evenings when the shop was shut.

It was a balmy afternoon as she strolled along and she didn’t see the figure lurking not so far from the Spandex home.

“Well, well, well,” came a voice out of the blue. It may have been out of the blue and the speaker lurking out of sight, but she knew who had uttered that triplet of words. The voice was unmistakeable. It was Charles Snootnose, and it was he who was lurking.

“What do you want,” she asked, biting back the near-automatic sir that was a distasteful product of social conditioning. After all, the Snootnoses were an important family and convention suggested they deserved the deferential sir, yet there was nothing about Charles Snootnose that deserved anything but contempt..

“I just happened to be going your way,” he said, “wondering about you hanging a few etchings in your little shop. I’ve got some corkers, but I wouldn’t let you have those. They’re too special for village morons who wouldn’t understand. But do you know Jane Smith? The youngest of the Smith girls, and pretty as a peach?”

“I know most people,” replied Ursula, deliberately sounding bored and non-committal.

“She’s got a corking pair of … I won’t tell you what...” he murmured, moving too close to her for comfort. His breath smelt of liquor and at noon that kind of odour was far from pleasant.

“Aren’t you a bit too old for that kind of thing?” she asked pointedly. After all, she was coming up to being twenty by then, and he was probably almost a decade older than her.

“Daddy says a man never grows too old to appreciate beauty,” he grinned, “pater still appreciates a nice bit of skirt. He’ll tell you if you ask him. Have you seen Angela, his chauffeur? Mummy hates her! But she’s a looker, and I know daddy’s had her...”

“Why, so you talk about it?” asked Ursula.

“Angela tells me things when the old man’s away. She tells me all sorts of things he wouldn’t like me to know! But then she would, wouldn’t she? I’ve done etchings of her that even pater doesn’t know about, intimate etchings, interesting etchings. I’ll show you if you like. And Jane Smith. I paid her ten bob to pose, and she was worth every penny.”

“You’re disgusting,” Ursula told him.

“Look at this, then...” and Charles unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket and smoothed it with both hands against his chest as though it was a promissory note worth a fortune. Then, with care, he held it in front of her so that she had to pause in her walk and look at it.

It was a line drawing of a naked woman and Ursula thought that it looked nothing like anybody she had ever seen, and she’d seen almost everyone in the village when they called in at the shop. But the shocking thing was that the woman was sitting provocatively with her legs apart facing the artist and the expression on her face, although not skilfully captured, was unmistakably one of almost greedy desire.

“Do you like it?” he asked, “good, isn’t it?”

“Who’s it meant to be?” she asked.

“Can’t you tell? But then, I don’t suppose you know Jane Smith. She’s got what it takes, though...”

“It’s nothing like her,” snapped Ursula. “I know Jane all right, and that face is nothing like her face.”

“It wasn’t the face I was concentrating on,” sneered Charles, “I’m going to be a famous artist one day and my etchings are going to sell for more money than you could ever dream of. And, if you like, I’ll do one of you … the curve of your naked body, the rise and fall of your bosom, your legs...”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” snapped Ursula, “it’s disgusting!” and she thrust the paper back at Charles Snootnose, making sure it became creased as she did so.

“It’s a woman’s image, and women aren’t disgusting,” replied Charles, angrily. “You’re not disgusting! Or maybe you are. Maybe poverty has made you ashamed of your body! Well, Jane’s got ten bob she wouldn’t have had if she hadn’t posed for this, and what’s more I gave her another little treat before she got dressed when I’d finished the drawing, and she liked that even more than the money! And you could have an extra little treat, too, if you played your cards right. I know you’re gagging for it...”

Ursula had started walking faster and fortunately wasn’t far from the Spandex home.

“My solicitor said the police have got their eyes on you,” she spat at him, “he said they might prosecute you under obscenity laws … and also prosecute anyone stupid enough to let you take advantage of them. I’d better tell Jane Smith to look out for a blue helmet outside her door any day now, though your picture is so unlike her she’d probably get away with it by pleading ignorance.”

He grabbed her by one shoulder and shook her hard, and she cried out involuntarily just as Bert Spandex was closing his front door and returning to the farm where he worked.

“Hey, you!” he shouted, and both Charles and Ursula looked in his direction.

“Dad!” shouted Ursula, “the man’s a maniac!”

“I wouldn’t touch a scrubber like the little shopkeeper,” shouted Charles, “not for a million quid, so don’t go thinking I would! And the last thing I’d do was make an artistic etching of her, she’s far too ugly for that!”

“I think I’ll have a word with Constable Plodnose,” grated Bert Spandex as he reached his daughter and the offensive son of the Squire. “It’s about time you were sorted out for good an’ all! The things I’ve heard about you would make a saint blush!”

“Of all the … do you know who I am?” demanded Charles Snootnose, “because if you don’t I’d go to the Chief Constable and find out, if you dared!”

“I know who you are all right,” Bert told him, “I know full well, and let me tell you this: there’s a war coming, we all know that, and I’ve got a feeling in my bones that when all’s done and dusted and times are right again your sort will be put in their place!”

“War! There won’t be no war! Chamberlain’s seen Hitler, and he’s been promised peace!” laughed the Squire’s son. “So you be careful, old man, who you mouth your threats at. You be really careful because my old man knows everyone who really matters, and that includes the magistrates and judges as well as your daft old Constable Plodnose! And it’s who you know that matters on this world, not who you can’t ever know because you’re scum! Ask Mr Chamberlain about that!”

“Get inside, Ursula,” said a shaking Bert Spandex, “your mothers got some Shepherd’s Pie for you.”

“And Cookie’s got me Caviare,” grinned Charles, “with champers to wash it down with...”

“Then bog off and swill it all down,” grated Bert, “before the bombs start falling...”

© Peter Rogerson 24.07.18