Two portraits

Everything in TOTS belongs to Will Shakespeare, and a great deal to Sally Wainwright. Together with enormous thanks to Shirley and Rufus, whom I see and hear as I write these stories.

I saw the BBCTV programme with David Dimbleby about the National Gallery which included a bit about portraits and wondered about portraits of Petruchio and Kate. I came up with this little piece.

And just for fun, I have put with it the uber romantic song "Portrait of My love" sung by the lovely, lovely Matt Monro

.

There could never be a portrait of my love

For nobody could paint a dream.
You will never see a portrait of my love,

For miracles are never seen.

Anyone who sees her

Soon forgets the Mona Lisa.

It would take, I know, a Michael Angelo,

And he would need the glow of dawn

That paints the sky above

To try and paint a portrait of my love.

Yes, he would need the glow of dawn

That paints the sky above

To try and paint a portrait of my love.

.

I have given this an M rating because of a bit of swearing and a couple of four letter words.

TOTS

TWO PORTRAITS

We had asked them down to Hazlington; Mummy and Harry, Bianca and Lucentio, Tim and Caroline. I was always surprised how well they all got on.

We had lunch and went for a wall. We talked about how the renovation of the house was coming on. Before he had inherited it, my love had thought he didn't care about the house but had discovered he did. He loved it very much and in the few years we had been married I found I loved it too. I loved the soft faded rose red of the brickwork. The uneven levels, the satiny feel of the beams, the out-of -true walls, the deep glowing lustre of the panelling and floors that was due to age and wear.

I loved to come home to feel the house wrap her arms around us.

So we were renovating it slowly, carefully. Cleaning where needed: renewing only where absolutely necessary. We didn't want it to look "New"; we wanted it to look its age.

The study was the latest thing we had had done. How to clean the dirt of nearly 400 years without spoiling the sheen of the beautiful Jacobean panelling.

When we got back, we put the babies (ours and Tim's) down for their nap, then went into the study for them to see it.

My love always called it 'my old man's study ', just as he called the library 'Grandpa's'.

After thinking about it and moving furniture around, we had put everything back to where it was originally. After all sixteen generations before us, had found that it was the right place for it.

As they admired it, Caroline said,

"Who's the young Cavalier?"

This was a life size portrait of a young lad, maybe 15, with long black curls reaching over his shoulder. He was half sitting on the small table that still stood here in the study; he was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and faded blue jeans badly ripped showing his knees, battered trainers. His green eyes were smouldering through his long lashes and his mouth pouted sulkily.

"Is that you?"

"Mmm"

"And your father wanted you painted like that?" Mummy said.

"Well he didn't have much choice! ... I didn't want to have it done. I remember the rows we had for months before.' You will have your portrait painted, no I won't ...Yes you will and... get your bloody hair cut!'

I thought that if I didn't get it cut, I wouldn't have to sit ...and then it was ' you will wear your suit and tie'

This went on and on until the time came. I'd kept out of the old man's way for days before so he wouldn't see I hadn't had it cut.

When the artist arrived, my old man called me and I eventually came down like that."

He gurgled with amusement.

"God, was he furious!' Did I know how much this was costing him?

'I said I didn't ask to have it done. Get changed: he would cut my hair himself: he would smack me around the ear: this was costing him a fucking fortune: get upstairs and change or he would give me a bloody good hiding. I said, make me, and stood up to him, I think it was then he realised that I was practically as tall as he was and he would look a bit of a fool trying to make me do anything ... anyway he had never laid a hand on me in my life.

"I can fake it if you want." the painter bloke said.

"No " my old man said "Paint the little bugger as he is "

They all laughed.

Personally I love it, have loved it from the first time I saw it. I have always thought his dad must have loved it too. He had hung it facing his desk so he saw it every time he looked up, and that's where we had put it back

"Weren't you having your picture painted, Katherine?" Harry asked.

"She has to have one done for the staircase at No. 10 "Tim joined in.

My husband cackled.

"Yes," he said."Not this one though."

"Perhaps it could be copied"

He snorted.

"Is it finished?" Mummy asked.

I said nothing.

"Yep," he said looking at me.

I studiously avoided his glance.

"Do you want to see it?" he asked. "It's upstairs"

"NO"

"Why not Katherine?"

"Oh come Katherine! It can't be that bad. He is one of the best portraitists around."

"NO"

But they all ignored me.

They would.

"It's in our bedroom" my hateful tormenting pig of a husband said as he led them upstairs.

I trooped after them counting the number of agonising ways I could kill him!

No! Killing is too good for him.

I could rip his guts out, I would circumcise him with that rusty old blunt pruning knife we had found in the shrubbery, I was going to stamp all over his balls in my new red stilettos, I would tear every hair out of his head, make a cushion out of them and then shove it where the sun don't shine.

He was going to suffer.

I leant against the doorframe not looking at them.

And there facing each other across the room.

The beautiful notorious Arabella, 8th Countess of Charlbury, smiled mockingly at the maybe soon to be equally notorious, Katherine, 16th Countess of Charlbury.

There was silence!

"Katherine!" Mummy said in a shocked voice. "Did you pose like that?"

"OF COURSE, I DIDN'T!" I shrieked.

The silence continued.

The greeneyed sadist leaned against the wall and tried to hide his smirk.

"Isn't that your Stella McCartney?" Bianca asked.

I ignored her.

"What difference does that make?" Mummy said "It's a bit ..."

"The point being, Mummy, that dress is not cut like that. And her hair, Katherine would never wear her hair like that."

The dress was, is, a very pretty floaty white and peach dress with a little scooped neck. And although I had worn my hair loose, it had been caught back with a hair slide. Not...not...not like that.

They studied it again.

My hair was tousled over my face and one shoulder. The dress was hanging off the other shoulder exposing a large expanse of my bosom with more than a suggestion of nipples showing through the fine silk. My mouth was partly open in a definite M, very red and looking bruised and swollen.

I looked like a Restoration slut.

"Did you say anything to him, the painter chappie?"

"I screamed a bit."

"Hahah" said my tormentor.

"Wanted to put my foot through it, threatened to hit him with it."

Caroline said to my husband "What about you? Did you say anything?"

"OH YES, ask him what he said" I exclaimed furiously.

"I asked him why he painted Kate like that when she hadn't sat like it. He said, " and my husband mimicked the artist's French accent;

"he said ' Sat is 'ow I see her, Milor. Sooo sexy, she 'as such beautiful boosooms ' and he jiggled his hands. 'She is ver' arousing to a man, but I do not have to tell you zat. You are 'er 'usband. You must know zis ... You unnerstan milor? It ees 'ow I see 'er. I see through to 'er inner self an' I paint what I see there. When I look at 'er, zis is 'ow I see 'er. You are a man of the world Milor. You unnerstan zees tings, Milor '.

I said,'Oh, Milor understands, Milor understands only too well. And if Milor finds you looking at her inner self again, I will punch your fucking lights out. '..."

A stunned silence.

"You omitted to say you had he pinned against the wall by the throat" I pointed out caustically,

They all stared at him openmouthed for a moment, then turned back to study my portrait again.

"It's very lovely," said Tim to my amazement.

"It's nothing like her" said Mummy outraged, and Harry said "No, nothing. She looks like a promiscuous trollop after a particularly rampageous night."

"On the contrary" said my grinning beast of a husband.

Then he smiled at me, the little private smile that tells me he loves me as much I love him.

"On the contrary, that's exactly how she looks, every morning."

.

If you are wondering what Kate's Portrait may have looked like

Think of this Restoration slut!

The Portrait of Nell Gwynne, National Gallery, LONDON