Free Starting Over by Sue Moorcroft Page B

Ratty’s soft dog, was snapping at flies and panting revolting hot slobber. Before Tess could retreat she was surrounded by people flopping down onto the grass, delighted that the day’s work was done, the sun was out and the beer was cold.
    And nobody mentioned it, nobody blamed her that her body was treacherous over its simple functions and she’d, humiliatingly, needed help. Except Ratty, rolling over to inspect the sheet of Nigels, enquired, matter-of-factly, ‘Better now?’
    On a fresh, scalding flush, she mumbled, ‘Yes. Um, thanks … sorry for, y’know …’
    He pulled a strand of her hair. ‘Don’t worry about it. We both survived.’
    And that was all.
    Tess could relax. She realised she kind of … trusted Ratty.
    The children did, too, she thought, leaning back on her elbows to watch Toby and his friends examining the tattoos on Ratty’s arms. He shrugged off his shirt to display a tattoo that was new to her on his left shoulder blade, a car wheel. Angel would probably be able to tell her it had five-spoke alloys and a low profile tyre, or some other apparently desirable attribute. Fine dark hair covered his chest in flat whorls. Ratty never sweetened his voice for the children or crouched to their level but it was always him they selected to unknot string, make repairs or replace batteries.
    McLaren opened a brown eye occasionally to flick a glance at the children capering round and round him and Ratty, who was by now comparing how-not-to-get-along-with-your-parents stories with Angel, or, in Angel’s case, parents-in-law. Bickering over the rules of the game, the children collapsed to loll in Ratty’s shade. Slowly, Tess pulled her pad close.
    Her pencil hovered, and then began. Children. Childish movement, head-heavy proportion, every line a soft curve. Sketches, rough and feathery, began to appear for one of the final illustrations to complete The Dragons of Diggleditch ; the childish nymphs of Diggleditch Forest frolicking unaware under the ominous and baleful gaze of Farny, half lizard, half man.
    Each small head she haloed in wispy curls, eyes almond, ears pointed prettily. Small bodies naked but for artful leaf arrangements.
    Farny, Farny, Farny. Lizard below the waist, man above, reptilian features. He had to look as if he was capable of turning nasty in an instant. She said, ‘I need a man’s body.’ And looked at Ratty.
    Breaking from his conversation, his brows up, he spread his arms hospitably. ‘Be gentle with me.’
    They all laughed, of course they laughed, at her blush and his leer. But she was alight. Now she knew exactly how the elusive illustration would go.
    ‘Would you sit? Just a sketch?’ Dancing with impatience she dragged a stubby stepladder from the shed. ‘Can you just ...?’ She patted the top and Ratty climbed, slowly. ‘On the very top, one foot here ... one there.’ Stood back.
    ‘Just wriggle back a bit ... each foot up a rung higher ...’ With quick movements she arranged him, elbows on thighs, hands hanging, back curved. ‘Look down at the children.’ She dropped to the grass, shooed everyone else away, sharpened her pencil with a sharpener from her pocket, started rapid work.
    After a few minutes Ratty sighed. ‘Pete, pass me my beer.’
    Tess glanced. ‘Not just now.’
    ‘My backside’s numb,’ he mentioned, ‘and my back aches.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, just hang on in.’ She kept him half an hour, closed her pad, sighed, ‘Wooh!’ And, ‘Thanks.’
    He landed crouched on the grass beside her like an animal, reopened the pad and flipped through to the page of baby nymphs dancing, skipping, adorable and elfin, seemingly unaware of, looming above them, the predatory presence of Farny. It’d worked really well, viewing her models from the level of the shortest, looking up at her baddie.
    The stepladder became a rock. Lizard legs bent the wrong way at the knee, clawed feet turning in to clutch the crevices, flesh scaled. Torso – Ratty’s own