back to attend to the wailing baby… and with a thud the ball hit the woman in red squarely in the back.
Oh dear. Even from this distance Tony saw the paintbrush go splat against the painting and fly out of the woman’s hand. The boy, realizing he could be in trouble, abruptly stopped running and looked scared.
But when the woman turned to identify the culprit, she broke into a wonderful smile and bent to retrieve the ball from its position under her folding chair. Beckoning the boy over, she handed the ball back to him then rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as together they discussed the painting. Within seconds the boy was giggling and gazing up at her as if she were his favorite teacher.
As Tony sat and watched them, a gray cloud passed over and the temperature dropped. A couple of minutes later, the first drops of rain began to fall. The teenager called to the boy and he ran back to her with his ball, stopping to wave at the woman in red before they disappeared back over the hill. The woman waved and called out, ‘Bye, darling.’
The shower grew heavier as the cloud moved overhead. The woman had already flipped the easel over to protect her painting from the rain. But she wasn’t packing up her things or running for cover. Getting to his feet, Tony headed for the shelter of an oak tree. As he passed her, he said, ‘Would you like a hand with your things?’
‘No thank you, darling, it’s fine. This rain isn’t going to last long.’
Her voice was beautiful, velvety, and lilting. Tony said, ‘You’re going to get wet.’
Her smile broadened, lighting up her face. Running her hand over her bare arm, she replied easily, ‘No worries, I’m waterproof.’
She was soon proved right; within five minutes the cloud had passed over, the rain had stopped, and the sun was back out. Everyone who had taken shelter re-emerged onto the hill. As soon as the woman in red had tilted her easel back into position and opened the lid on her paintbox, Tony made his way over.
Up close, her close-cropped dark hair glittered with water. At a guess, she was in her late forties, but her good Afro-Caribbean bone structure and unlined complexion made it difficult to tell for sure. She was wearing no makeup. Her eyes were an amazing color, the light golden brown of maple syrup.
Not that she’d actually turned to look at him yet. All her attention was currently concentrated on the painting in front of her. Or, more likely, on the crimson splat courtesy of the ball landing in the small of her back.
The rest of the painting was a joy, executed with verve and style, depicting not just the wider view over London but the individual stories of the various characters spread across the hill. Tony smiled, spotting the ancient t’ai chi enthusiasts, the jogger, and the Rollerblader with his excitable Labrador, the pair of them colliding as the dog’s extendable lead wrapped itself around one of the ornamental lamp posts along the path.
‘Did he ruin it?’
‘The little boy? Bless him, he was almost in tears.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I told him it didn’t matter a jot, and that it might even make the painting better.’ Taking out a pencil, she deftly sketched around the splat for a minute or two. Then she sat back. ‘There, see? How about that?’
Tony leaned closer. In the lower left quadrant of the painting, a plump lady had materialized, sitting in front of an easel. She was gazing in dismay at her own painting, which now sported the red splodge, whilst overhead a guilty-looking seagull flew past clutching a tipped-up pot of paint.
‘Clever.’ There was something about the painting that just drew you in. Utterly drawn, Tony said, ‘Do you sell your work?’
‘Sometimes. Why, are you interested?’
‘Could be. I like a picture that tells a story. How much?’
‘One hundred and fifty pounds.’
Tony nodded. ‘I’d like to buy it.’
‘Really? That’s very sweet of you.’ Smiling, she continued adding detail. ‘In that case, you don’t have to buy it. You may have the painting.’
‘What does that mean?’ He was taken aback.
‘Tell me, have you ever been given a present you didn’t like?’
Tony hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t it? But have you ever given someone else a present and known for sure that they absolutely loved it?’