SHE'S A GREAT GIRL, VERA

New Zealand Listener, Volume 11, Issue 267, 4 August 1944, Page 12

SHE'S A GREAT GIRL, VERA

(Written for "The Listener"

by

L.W.

T.

REALLY wanted to go to the football, but, as Vera pointed out, we had gone to the football last Saturday. So I said all right, I'd go to the Society of Arts Exhibition, but only if she got me home by 4 o’clock in time to hear the football from Eden Park. Not that I really cared about hearing the football, but I feel there should be a time limit to these educational bouts. On the way down to the Art Gallery I tried to sidetrack Vera into a matinee, but she said that only pre-adults went to that kind of picture on a Saturday afternoon, and anyway, what about the football? So I followed her meekly enough. The place was almost deserted-it was fairly early in the afternoon-and about the only other people there, apart from the man selling catalogues, were a couple of prize gallery exhibits, The man had a sparse beard, falling into two halves down the middle, and wore a wine-red corded velveteen coat and trousers to match, The woman sported navy slacks with a white pin stripe, rimless pince-nez and a thick plait of golden hair coronet-wise round her head. "Good God!" I said. "What's the matter?" asked Vera, irritably. % "Those people," I said. "I told you that only queer types go to art exhibitions, and especially on a Saturday afternoon, when there are so many better things to do." "Well, if it’s any consolation to you," said Vera acidly, "no one could possibly mistake you for a queer type-you looix too disgustingly normal." ‘I patted my well-worn tweeds and hand-knitted tie affectionately. "Would you," I asked her, "have gone out with me if I had been wearing a false’ beard and one of those hats flat on top?" "Certainly not, but you're not an. artist. If you’re an artist you’re allowed to look like an artist. You’re a football fan and you look exactly like one." ." I said. It isn’t often I end on top in an argument with Vera, BY ee * E began at Number One. If I’ve got to see an art exhibition, I like to do it properly. And actually this one wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it might be. There were a lot of water colours to begin with, things like Lake Wanaka on a Dull Day, and By George, they looked exactly like Lake Wanaka on a dull day. Not that I’ve seen it that way. The I was there it was beautifully fine. But I mean none of these things like a chest-of-drawers with the things spilling out, three skeletons, and’ a broken-down alarm clock, and when you look at the catalogue, ,you find it’s -ealled "The Soul’s Awakening." And there was one called "High Tide at the Waikato Heads." I liked it. I come from near there, and I ought to know.

I called to Vera. "Look," I said. "High tide at the Waikato Heads. It couldn’t be anything else. It’s just as if I were standing there myself." "Oh, Morris," said Vera. "Don’t be so damning!" And giggled. There are times when I don’t understand Vera. We were up to about 40 (Evening, Hick’s Bay) when I noticed that the young man in corduroy, who had been at about 50 when we started at one, and who should therefore by rights have been somewhere near 100, had moved back, and was standing directly behind us. Vera was muttering something about Filthy Brushwork and Why Didn’t He Take His Camera Instead, thought I didn’t see quite why, though, of course, I don’t know anything about Art. Anyway, I happened to catch a glimpse of thé man’s face. lt was a bright posterpink, and his lips were moving. glanced at my catalogue. A dreadful suspicion seized me. "Quick," I said to Vera, and clutched her by the arm. "We simply must see this ‘Pensioner with the Purple Glove.’ " I whisked her across the room. "Why, in Heaven’s name?" gasped Vera, somewhat breathless. "You were the one who wanted to do everything scientifically." "Don’t you see," I explained, with careful patience. "He must be Charles ‘Stamford. And you were being disgustingly rude about his pictures." "Well, they deserved it," pronounced Vera, no whit taken aback. She’s a great girl, Vera. In her position I’d have been no end embarrassed. "Well, I suppose I can say what I like here. Now that-she pointed to an innocent opus entitled "Bird Songs at Eventide"-‘"is a daub. Nothing but a daub." I cast a hurried glance over my shoulder, The Man in Red was the width of the room away, discussing something with his wife. Or was it his wife? Anyway, they both seemed to be casting meaning glances in our direction, Fortunately, the gallery was filling up. % a * WE got past the 200’s without mishap. Then Vera fetched up in front of a still life with apples and a pitcher of water. "T like that," she said. "It has a sort of rhythm." "Nonsense," I said. "Nobody could have rhythm and own a tablecloth like that. It’s inconsistent." There was a worried cough from behind me. I half-turned. It was the Man in Red, looking pinker than ever. No one should wear red in the circumstances. Even I, inartistic as I am, know that. I jerked Vera on 50 places. This time it was the Flower Designs. (continued on next page} +

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"Then he can’t be Charles Stamford," said Vera. "That wasn’t a Charles Stamford. He hasn’t any oils in the show." I flipped back the pages of the catalogue. "Then he must have been Eric Coates-Forbes. There was an Eric Coates-Forbes right next to that Evening at Hick’s Bay. And there’s another right next to that still life." "Look for the initials on his suitcase," suggested Vera. I glanced furtively round the room. Once again he had retired to a corner with his companion and was casting meaningful glances in our direction. There wasn’t a suitcase in sight. "Well," said Vera, "we should be safe enough here. Nothing but Olive Bowes-Digbys and Geraldine Gerthwins and Alison Whittiers for miles around. He can’t very well be any of those. "Why not?" I asked. "Look at George Eliot." "Where?" said Vera. Beautiful, but dumb. Even Vera, great girl though she is. * * * HEN I had a sudden inspiration. Yes, Vera was beautiful, I hadn’t really given the matter much thought before, not being a husband or a fiancé but only a cousin. But even from the cousinly viewpoint she looked attractive. She was wearing a sort of cross between a frock and a costume in a middling shade of blue, and one of those small hats with a veil. Provocative, they call them in the fashion journals. It was obvious that this man in red had been trying to strike up an acquaintance. And him with a wife of his own, or was she a wife? Anyway, you never can . tell with these artistic blokes. "Vera," I said, firmly, "we’re going home." "Nonsense, Morris," said Vera, and moved on to the next group of paintings. And then I understood, "Vera," I gasped; "your skirt!" Vera’s back should have presented an expanse of unbroken blue, But her skitt had somehow been looped in to the waistband so that a considerable area of pink slip was revealed. Vera felt gingerly. For the first time I saw het appear a shade discomfited. She gave a jerk. Nothing happened, "Hell!" she said. "It must be hooked somewhere, Quick, into this little bay." She jerked me round the corner. There were footsteps behind us. I tried to look undisturbed, It was the Man in Red, his face pinker than ever, his Adam’s Apple working prominently. "I beg your pardon, Madam. Your skirt." Vera stood, back to the wall. She gazed with wide-eyed sweetness upon him. "Thank ‘you so much," she said, "but I always wear it this way. It’s more comfortable. You. see, it’s rather tight." She’s a great girl, Vera. The prize exhibits were still casting meaningful glances at us as we passed them on the way out. I overheard the man in red muttering to his wife (or was it his wife?) something about the queer types one meets at art exhibitions. We got home just in time for the -football.