11. A Model Copper (and a very long chapter)

Bill stood at the top of the broad steps, shuffled his feet and looked out morosely over the intersection of Swanston and Flinders Street. The musical cries of the newsboys rang out with a 'Heeearaald! Herald Final Extreea! Gettcha Heraaaald Fiiiiinal Extra!' He watched with interest as 'The Rock', that notoriously incorruptible Sargent, directed traffic through the intersection with a whistle and ballet-like motions with his hands. The man was a legend amongst coppers near and far; it was said he had never taken a bribe in his entire career nor pandered to whims of politicians or superintendents, which was why he had never been promoted past point duty. But that man 'owned' that intersection and neither pedestrian nor wheeled vehicle ever ignored his whistle or an instruction from his white gloved hands. Bill gave a sigh of admiration at the nobility of the man and envied him his simple dedication to a mundane task. Shuffling his feet once more Bill turned his attention to the City Hatters shop window and considered the offerings there. Should he invest in a new trilby? Or perhaps a fedora like Blakes'? Would Anne even notice if he did buy a new hat?

Bill sighed again. Digging into his jacket pocket he pulled out the yellow telegram and read the message for what must have been the hundredth time:

'Under the Clocks. 3.30 Tuesday. Important. Anne.'

Anne had been in the City for the past month teaching a summer workshop at The Victorian Artist Society – "The Vics". She was staying with a friend in Carlton and the last time Bill had called her she had seemed distant and preoccupied. Then, out of the blue, this telegram had arrived on his desk last Thursday. He had tried to call her, but the phone line was dead. He attempted to reach her through the Society, but they had refused to interrupt her classes and only promised to pass a message on. But Bill had not had any response, so he took a few day's annual leave and here he was, Tuesday at 3.25, waiting with his valise. Under the Clocks at Flinders Street Station.

'Bill? Bill Hobart?' a light baritone called out from the bottom of the steps. Bill turned and looked down at a dapper, handsome young man staring up at him, squinting into the sunshine. 'Bill Hobart?' he repeated.

Bill frowned, who was this man? How did he know Anne and where was she? He slowly descended the stairs and approached the stranger. The man watched Bill approach, a tentative smile on his face. He stuck his hand forward and Bill grasped it in a strong handshake.

'I'm Geoff. Geoff Grant,' said the young man. 'Anne sent me to meet you. She says to say sorry she couldn't be here but I'm to explain.'

Bill scowled, a surge of jealousy flaring. 'How do you know Anne, where is she?'

'Oh! Sorry. I'm Janes husband. Jane Grant? Anne's been staying with us. She said you knew?' Grant responded anxiously. Bill was formidable when he scowled.

Bill relaxed a bit, releasing Geoff from the handshake. 'Yes, yes of course, is Anne alright? Where is she?'

Geoff smiled. 'Anne's fine really, but she's had a bit of trouble in the class. They called her into a special meeting after class otherwise she would be here. I've got nothing on the easel today and she asked me to see to you and bring you back to Carlton to wait for her. What say we go have a beer at Y & J's first and I'll tell you what I know?'

Bill licked his lips. A cold one would go down right well after the train journey. He nodded his head to Geoff.

'Right? Come on, mate, it's just over the road', Geoff steered Bill to the intersection and they joined the crowd of pedestrians waiting to cross the busy street. The light changed to green and The Rock waved the crowd forward. As Bill and Geoff crossed the intersection, The Rock looked Bill in the eye and gave him a slight nod. Bill nodded back.

'You know him?' hissed Geoff in amazement as they reached the other side.

'No, not really,' responded Bill, 'I guess he just recognised another cop, that's all. Coppers get a sixth sense about that after a time.' Bill was secretly delighted to have been noticed.

Geoff was impressed.

….

It was cool and dark inside the Young and Jackson's saloon bar. The popular watering hole was busy, but not crowded. Once the office workers came off shift it would be packed with men trying to sink a couple of pots before their train or before time was called. Now in mid-afternoon it was a welcome oasis from the noise and dust of the city outside. Geoff and Bill leaned on the bar and contemplated the Queen of the Bar Room Wall. Geoff lifted his glass in silent toast to the nude painting and remarked, 'She's a daisy, ain't she Bill?'

Bill gazed in awe at the painting of Chloe by Lefebvre and agreed. 'Blake was rabbiting on about what a masterpiece she is, but this is the first time I've clocked her. She's not a bad sort. Not at all.' And he downed a mouthful of beer with that pronouncement.

Geoff chuckled at Bill's understatement. 'We'll make an art critic out of you yet, Bill! Anne's told me you have a distinctly singular taste in art.'

'I like her stuff well enough,' mumbled Bill, a bit embarrassed.

'Yes, she's one talented lady,' mused Geoff. 'Which is why she doesn't need this sort of drama that's happening.'

Bill scowled at Geoff again. 'What drama? You mentioned trouble in the class, what's going on?'

'Thefts. She can tell you about it tonight. Nothing much valuable, except to an artist, but brushes are expensive, paints cost a pretty penny too. Things going missing in her class. It's been upsetting for her. And the Vic's is an important society, she can't afford to have her reputation tarnished with them, even if it isn't her fault.'

Bill looked askance at Geoff. 'What can I do? I'm a Ballarat copper, I don't know much of anything about how Art Society's run or classes or the like.'

'Bill, I think she just needs you here. Talk to her tonight, find out what's going on. You'll be staying at my place, right?'

Bill was nonplussed. He hadn't considered staying at the Grant's place, he expected to kip at the 'Y' if he needed to stay the night. 'Uh, thanks Geoff. But I don't want to put you out…'

'Phut. No trouble at all! We have artists' staying over all the time. Anne's already got the spare room…' Geoff gave Bill a bit of a side-eye considering; but seeing Bill's ear's starting to turn red and blush he continued on, 'But we have a day-bed in my studio that you can use. Smells a bit like turps in there, but I'm sure you'll cope.'

'You're an artist too?' Bill thought he should know a bit about his kindly host.

'Well, I work at it. Nowhere near as good or talented as Anne. But I make a reasonably good living as an illustrator for advertising, magazine covers and ads, billboards and the like.' Geoff modestly replied.

'Like Norman Rockwell?' Bill was impressed.

'Hah! I wish!' scoffed Geoff. 'But never say die I say. As long as there is bread on the table and beer in the fridge I'm happy.' Geoff glanced at his wristwatch. 'Say, drink up mate. We need to hop a tram and get home before Jane and Anne get back!'

….

Bill enjoyed the tram ride up Swanston street. A country boy at heart he still enjoyed the sights and sounds of the 'big smoke'. They got off at Elgin street and walked a short distance turning into a side street lined with dilapidated Victorian terrace houses. The houses were in a sad shape, missing pieces of decorative iron lacework, sagging verandas, broken or boarded up windows and peeling paint. Mangy cats prowled the area. Scruffy children with solemn eyes watched the men walk up the street. Geoff lead Bill up the front veranda steps of number 16 and inserted a key into the front door. Swinging the door open with a flourish Geoff beckoned Bill inside with a 'Tah Dah!'

Bill stepped inside the dingy hallway and looked about. It smelled of dust, turpentine and faintly of cabbage.

'Tain't much, but it's home. Well, for the time being anyway. This entire block is slated for demolition. Part of the big slum clearance act. But until then, the rent is cheap, and the location is great.' Commented Geoff as he led Bill down the hallway to the kitchen in the back.

'That's my studio, drop your gear in there,' gestured Geoff as they walked past the first room. Bill peered inside the doorway to see a large, high ceiling room cluttered with easels, boxes and all types of paint paraphernalia. In the corner was a large day bed that Bill assumed was where he would sleep, and he dropped his valise onto it.

'This is the guest room, Anne's in here,' Geoff pointed to the closed door next down the hall.

At the end of the hall was a staircase that travelled up and back to a landing at the front of the house. 'Our room is upstairs,' mentioned Geoff. The hallway opened into a large kitchen area that housed a laminated dining table with 6 plastic chairs, an overstuffed couch and a small black and white television set in the corner.

'We use the kitchen as our living room mostly. The second bedroom upstairs is unliveable, horrendous mould, so the front room down here became my studio. The bath and toilet are out the back if you need them. The phone's dead though, they cut us off last month. Care for a cuppa?' Geoff waved a kettle about enticingly. Bill nodded.

The kettle was just beginning to sing on the kitchen range when the front door opened, and a female's voice sang out down the hall, 'Geoff! Are you home!'

'In the kitchen, love!' Geoff called back. Bill watched as an attractive, short, plump woman with twinkling eyes and a merry smile bounced into the room. She came around to Geoff and embraced him enthusiastically. He bent down and kissed the woman with gusto. Coming up for air, he grinned and turned to Bill and introduced his wife, 'Bill, this is me missus, Jane. Jane, this is Bill. That copper what Anne keeps talking about down from Ballarat.'

Jane looked Bill up and down considering, decided she liked what she saw and gave him a big smile. 'Welcome Bill! Pleased ta' meetcha' at last. Heard a lot about youse! Anne's just behind me, she stopped at the shops ta pick up some things fer tea.' As she said this they heard the front door open and footsteps coming down the hall.

Bill stood up nervously. He felt awkward and unsure in this situation. Then, his Anne, stood at the kitchen doorway with a bag of groceries in her arms. She saw him standing there and gave him a smile meant for him and him alone. His heart sung, and he grinned back at her somewhat foolishly. 'Hey Anne. I've come.'

Anne put her bag on the kitchen table, strode across the kitchen floor and took both of Bill's hands in hers. She leaned forward and gave his lips a swift kiss. 'Thank you, Bill. I am so glad you came.' Bill's ears turned pink with pleasure.

'Right then,' announce Jane. 'That's sorted! What's for tea Anne?'

Anne laughed. 'How does a spag bol sound tonight?' She asked Jane but looked at Bill.

'Bewdy!' replied Jane. And Bill smiled his approval as well.

…..

It was all very different and unusual for Bill. The bohemian lifestyle of the Grant's was something Bill had never experienced before, but it was welcoming and friendly and he enjoyed every moment of the evening. He helped chop vegetables for Jane, washed out the old jam jars to be used as wine glasses, laid down a bit of yesterday's newspaper on the table as a tablecloth. The spaghetti was dished up out of the pot into second-hand cracked bowls from the op-shop and the rich sauce was ladled on top. The irrepressible Jane grated parmesan cheese everywhere. Geoff poured their 'glasses' full to the brim with a rough red wine he had bought from the local Italian greengrocer who made it on the sly. After eating their fill, they shared a block of Cadbury's Dairy Milk for desert and Geoff and Bill were ordered to do the washing up.

'We ladies did all the hard work feeding youse lazy blokes, now you do your part!' Jane declared. The men happily complied.

Meal eaten, dishes washed dried and put away, (Bill had noticed that for all its run-down state, Jane kept a spotlessly clean kitchen) they took their jam jars full of wine and settled down on the couch. Bill sat quite close to Anne, their knees touching. Jane took the far end of the couch and Greg sat in one of the kitchen chairs.

'Right,' announced Geoff. 'Anne, you need to talk to Bill here and tell him what's up.'

'Anne?' asked Bill looked at her with concern.

Anne looked at Bill a little fearfully. 'I need your help Bill. I need to ask you to do something for me, and well, you might find it a bit embarrassing.'

'Anne, you know I'd do anything for you, short of murder!' declared Bill. 'But tell me first, what is this all about?'

Anne sighed. 'You know how excited I was to be offered a workshop at the Victorian Artist's Society?'

Bill nodded. 'Yeah, you told me only the best was ever asked. And that Tom Robert's had worked and taught there, and it was a real honour to follow in his footsteps.'

'And it is too! Almost every famous Australian artist since the early days had their start there – you're another one Anne!' Declared Jane from her corner of the couch.

'Yes, its' pretty special,' agreed Anne. 'But you know, some people don't really like the idea of a woman artist. Much less one that 'presumes' to teach. As if a woman could never know as much as a man!' Anne was indigent.

'Some people are just plain ignorant. How can anyone look at your work and not think you are as good as, no, even better than most male artists? And I say that as a male artist!' Geoff stoutly supported Anne.

'Thanks Geoff, but Bill, there are people who have been making trouble. I don't know who, one of the men in the class maybe. But someone has been pilfering from my students. Expensive camel hair brushes and tubes of paints have gone missing. Bags have been rifled and money stolen. And worse of all, turps was thrown over a nearly completed work, totally ruining it! Complaints have been made to the Board saying I shouldn't be teaching if I can't control the class!' Anne was on the verge of tears. 'It's difficult enough being accepted as a woman artist, but when this goes on it is just soul destroying! They told me in the meeting tonight that if I didn't sort it out they wouldn't be able to ask me back to teach ever again!'

Bill put his arm around Anne and drew her close. She buried her face in his shoulder. 'No one has seen anything? You haven't suspected anyone in the class?' He felt her shake her head no.

'Tell me, love. Tell me what I can do. What on earth can I do to help?' Bill pleaded.

Anne looked up at him. 'I need you in the class Bill. I need you to watch. I can't watch and teach at the same time. I need you to try and work out who is doing this. I need your copper's eyes and instinct.'

'But Anne, love, I'm not an artist, I haven't the faintest idea about it. I couldn't sit there at an easel and pretend to paint!' protested Bill.

Anne hesitated slightly. 'Not as a student Bill. I need you as an artist's model.'

Bill drew back, stunned. 'Whaaa…? You want me to parade around in my birthday suit? Like that lady hanging in the bar?'

Jane giggled, and Geoff smirked slightly. 'No! No Bill!' protested Anne. 'Not a life model, a portrait model!

'Well, I guess that is better,' said Bill somewhat mollified. 'But I'm no Cary Grant, Anne. And I'm not too sure I'd like people staring at me like that. Why on earth would you want to paint my portrait?'

'He really doesn't know, does he?' chuckled Geoff. 'You mate, are possibly one of the best faces I have seen in a long time. Cary Grant is a wuss. You're not bad looking, but best of all your face has character!'

'And the money's real good too,' put in Jane. 'Not as good as 'life', mind you. But easy cash for sitting on your tosh all day doing nuthin'. That's how I met Anne and Geoff ya' know? I were their life model!' Jane struck a pose on the couch, flinging her hand above her head and thrusting out her hips.

'And an irresistible morsel you were, too!' Grinned Geoff at her.

Jane batted her eyelashes back at him with a 'G'won!'

Bill looked askance at the three staring back at him hopefully.

'Please Bill, please. All you need to do is sit still. Sit and watch,' pleaded Anne.

Bill slowly nodded his head in agreement, wondering exactly what the heck he was letting himself in for.

…

Later that night, as he sat on the day bed in Geoff's studio he was still wondering, when there was a soft knock at the door.

'Come in,' he responded. And Anne opened the door and stepped inside carrying a bundle of sheets, blankets and a pillow in her arms.

'I've just brought some bedding for you. That old day bed is pretty lumpy, but I'll try and make it as comfortable for you as possible.'

Bill stood up, 'Let me help,' he offered. Between them the proceeded to make the bed up. Neither spoke a word and there was an uncomfortable tension in the air. Bill wondered if he and Anne would ever share a bed, and Anne was wondering if Bill would ever ask. When they had finished, they both stood there staring at each other awkwardly.

It was Anne who spoke first, breaking the tension. 'I'm sorry Bill. I think I owe you an apology.'

Bill looked at her and started to speak, 'No, Anne…'

'Yes,' broke in Anne. 'Yes, I do. I deliberately didn't answer your calls! I couldn't ask you over the phone to do this. But I knew you would never refuse if I asked you in person. I mislead you and now I have forced you into something that you would never, ever consider doing if I hadn't coerced you into it!'

'Anne!' protested Bill. 'Please, sit.' He sat on the end of the bed and patted the space next to him encouragingly. 'Listen to me, please.'

Anne slowly came over and sat down next to Bill. He reached over and took her hand. 'Anne, I know I'm not easy to talk to sometimes.' He sighed. 'I get awkward and nervous. And I close-up. People think I'm angry all the time, I know, they get frightened of me. But Anne, not you too, please. Please don't be frightened of me. You can talk to me about anything, anytime.

Anne looked at Bill with compassion and reached her hand up to stroke his face. 'You, dear, sweet man. I have never been frightened of you Bill. You're a bit rough and ready sometimes,' she chuckled, 'but you are my darling bulldog Bill.'

Bill's heart caught with joy, and he reached up and put his hand over hers and leaned in and kissed her deeply. Anne smiled against his lips, and gently pulled away. She continued to stroke his cheek, feeling the rough stubble of his 5 o'clock shadow.

'You know, you are going to be a wonderful portrait model.' Anne looked at his face critically. She ran her hand over his strong jaw, admired his large nose with its slight cleft at the tip and gazed into his beautiful blue-grey eyes.

Bill smiled unsurely back at her. 'But Anne, I don't know what the heck I'm supposed to do!'

Anne chuckled again. 'Well, you sit on a large comfortable chair on a podium for 20 minutes without moving. You stare at a spot on the wall. And 10 aspiring artists look at you and try to capture your essence on a piece of paper or canvas. Then you have a 10-minute break. After a cup of tea, you return to the same spot and do it all over again. And you earn 2 pounds an hour doing it!'

'2 pound an hour! You're kidding!' exclaimed Bill.

'Yes, its' good money. Lots of art students do it to support themselves. But its' not regular work. That's partly why the Grant's struggle so much. Geoff doesn't get nearly enough advertising work and Jane only models a couple of times a week, if that.' Anne arose from the bed. 'Bill, I'd best be off to sleep.'

Bill hung onto her hand, reluctant to let her leave. He looked up at her with hungry eyes. 'Anne…' he hesitated. 'Stay.'

She looked down at him, leaned over and kissed his forehead. 'I'm tired Bill and we have an early morning start.' Bill swallowed his disappointment, but hope flared as she continued, 'This…this is too important and special to me for this place' and she gestured to the grungy studio '…when I'm home in Ballarat again…' she smiled her promise and left the room.

…..

The next morning Bill and Anne stood on the opposite side of the street facing the Society building. The grand St. Patrick's cathedral stood at their backs, and the merry ding of tram bells sounded from Exhibition street. Bill looked at the wonderful Romanesque façade of the building in front of him.

'Looks pretty amazing, Anne!' he commented.

'Wait until you see inside!' Anne grabbed his hand and heedless of traffic they dodged across the road. They mounted the 6 broad bluestone steps in front of the building and she pushed open the large glass door. Stepping inside to the foyer area Bill stopped and gaped at the beautiful Victorian style decor. Windows featured hand coloured lead lighting panels. The foyer had a high ceiling decorated with an explosion of gilded mouldings of fruits and flowers. Large white painted gallery rooms fed off to the right and left. In front of him rose a magnificent double width staircase with mahogany hand rails that gave access to the major gallery spaces upstairs. The entire area was lit by a sparkling chandelier dripping with crystals.

'Pretty special place, eh, Bill?' asked Anne. Bill nodded in agreement and looked around admiringly.

'Morning Anne,' said the young woman coming out of one of the offices behind the front desk on the left side of the foyer.

'Good morning Chris!' responded Anne. 'How are you? Oh, this is Bill, he is going to be our portrait model today.' Anne gently propelled Bill towards the desk.

Chris greeted Bill with a smile and gave him a 'how do?' Then turning back to Anne, she grinned and said 'A male model Anne? That's going to be a challenge for some of those blokes!'

'Good!' Anne declared with a toss of her head. 'They need a bit of stirring up, that lot of stick-in-the-muds.'

'You don't think you are sticking your neck out a bit, I mean, considering….?' Asked Chris.

'May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb!' stated Anne stoutly. 'Anyway, I'll let you know how we go. I need to get Bill settled.' Anne put her arm through Bill's and lead him across the foyer and around the staircase.

'The studio is behind the staircase, and here, through the kitchen, at the side door,' Pulling out a key from her handbag, Anne unlocked the studio door, stepped inside and turned on the lights.

Bill entered a large room, fully the width of the building, half as wide as it was long. The floor was plain wooden boards spattered with multicolour dots of years of spilled paint. Shelves around the long ends of the room were crammed with a clutter of props; brass plates, crystal bowls, jars, vases filled with paper flowers, plaster busts of Roman heads, a human skull, a half-sized medical skeleton, a broken fiddle, an old drum, and even a dull and blunt old cavalry sword. The racks and slots along one wall was filled with drying oil paintings. Slabs of clay were resting under damp cloths. Prints and posters of famous artworks were thumb tacked to the walls in every available space. Large heavy easels stood in a semi-circle in front of a low podium on which stood a wicker work planters chair. Behind the podium was a curtain of heavy dark green velvet. The room smelled heavily of dust, charcoal, oil paint and turps.

'Here is your change room Bill. You can leave your jacket here.' Anne lead him to a small curtained off area in the far corner of the long room. Bill followed her into the little alcove, took his jacket off and neatly folded it over the chair left there.

'And maybe take your tie off?' suggested Anne with a cock of her head. Bill did so.

'And...' Anne reached up and undid the top button of his shirt, 'maybe a little more casual look?'

Bill looked down at Anne, then reached up and undid a second button. 'Like this?' he grinned at her.

She smiled back at him, delighted that he seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. 'Perfect!'

From the other side of the curtain they heard the scuffling sounds of people arriving for class. Bill nodded to Anne, and they both moved back into the main section of the studio. A mixed group of students were arriving and beginning to set up at each easel. Bill counted 7 men and 3 women in the group. Anne lead Bill up to the podium, placed a red cushion on the seat of the planter's chair and gestured for him to be seated. Turning, she faced the group of students and waited while they settled down. Then, with a sharp clap of her hands, she brought them all to her attention and began to speak,

'Good morning all! Good to see you all back. As you are aware, all this week we have been working on the human form, primarily full body life work. I'd like you all to meet Bill, he is our model for todays' sessions,' Anne gestured to Bill behind her and he gave the class a brief nod, 'Today you are all going to try your hand at a bit of portraiture work…' There was an audible groan from a weedy young man on the left.

'Yes Paul? You have a problem with this?' asked Anne sternly.

'I thought we were doing nudes all week, female nudes. Not portraits of some old bloke,' whined Paul.

'Really Paul, I am surprised at you! Portraiture is one of the main disciplines in art, of the human form. Every artist should learn to be competent in producing a basic likeness of a head. Not everything revolves around the naked female.' Anne sniffed.

Paul just sneered and mumbled under his breath.

Anne resumed, 'You will begin today with a charcoal study on paper of Bill. We will have 2x 20-minute poses for you to familiarise yourself with his features. Then you will begin your oil study on canvas based on your observations. You will have another 2 x 20-minute poses and then we will break for lunch. After lunch you will resume and hopefully complete a full oil study by the end of the day. Right? Any questions? No? Please set up while I get Bill settled and we can commence.'

Anne turned to Bill and out of sight of the class she rolled her eyes at him. Mounting the podium, she gently positioned his arms, so the elbows were resting comfortably on the arm rests and his hands were crossed over his lap. She placed her hand under his chin and lifted and turned his head slightly. 'Now Bill,' she said softly so the class could not hear, 'find a spot on the wall and look at it. Got it?' Bill grunted. 'That is your spot. Look at that spot, remember it, watch it and try to move as little as possible. I'll set the timer for 20 minutes, when it rings don't move until I say, alright?' he grunted again. 'Right Bill,' she gently smoothed a wayward hair back into position. 'Thank you,' she breathed into his ear. Then standing erect again she turned to the class, grabbed the kitchen timer left on the podium, set it for 20 minutes and announced, 'Class! Begin!'

…

Bill's first 20-minute sitting was one of the most difficult things he had ever attempted in his life. After the first 5 minutes his nose began to itch, and he wanted to scratch, but couldn't move. Then into the 10-minute mark his tummy rumbled. Audibly. One of the female artists giggled at the sound and he found it hard to hold in his smile. At the 15-minute mark that spot on the wall began to blur and lose focus. His eyes watered and he had to blink several times much to the disgust of the whiney Paul. Bill began to think that this was the longest 20 minutes of his life and it would never end when the timer buzzed making him jump slightly. 'Who would have thought it was so hard to just sit?' he thought to himself. He was just about to move, when he remembered Anne said to stay still. He rolled his eyes over to where she was helping a student and caught her glance.

'Just a sec Bill… hold it… right, you see Kevin, see how the line of his nose angles just slightly?' She made a quick mark on Kevin's paper and the man nodded. Anne dusted her hands and came over to Bill with a piece of white chalk in her hand. 'I'm just going to mark your spot Bill, then you can get up and stretch. You did great!' she leaned forward and outlined the position of his feet on the floor, the line where his arms rested, and the edges of his head on the back of the chair. 'There, now you can get up and move about for 10 minutes or so. You can grab a biscuit and cup of tea from the kitchen if you like. And have a look at what everyone has done, why don't you?'

Bill stood up and stretched, his back cracking. He ambled off the podium and wandered out to the kitchen, casting quick glances at the drawings as he went. He found the biscuit barrel and grabbed a couple of butternut snaps to stop his stomach making noises but ignored the tea for the time being. He didn't want to be caught short in the middle of the next pose! He wandered back into the studio and looked at a few of the charcoal drawings. It was a very odd experience seeing his face reflected to him. Some of the drawings were better than others, but, he considered, they were only the first attempts. He was standing in front of one work that seemed to portray him as a dark and moody figure.

'Like it?' said a male voice next to him. Bill turned to see a tall, young man with and earnest expression standing next to him.

Bill assumed it was the artist and didn't want to offend, so he replied, 'Yes. I think so, the likeness is good. But you have made me seem so grim. Do I really look that grim to you?'

The young man smiled wanly. 'Well, not really. But that is exactly what I was trying to show. A deep and underlying sadness. Don't worry, its' just a drawing, probably more about me than you.'

Bill was uncomfortable. He knew he was grim looking, but sad? Just then the timer dinged announcing the end of the break. He walked back to the podium and carefully sat down again, aligning his feet and arms to the chalk markings. Anne came over and adjusted his head angle and he focused once more on the spot. She set the timer and the next pose began.

…

Now that he knew what to expect, Bill was able to relax and settle into the pose. In a way, he mused, it wasn't much different than being on a stake-out. Except on a stake-out he could scratch his nose. But now he began to observe the room and its' occupants more closely. He discovered that he could see quite a lot in his peripheral vision. As well, he found he could shoot the occasional darting glance around the room and no one seemed to mind. The students were focused on getting the proportions and shape of his face correct, they were concentrating on him as an object and their attention was entirely analytical, he was a subject, not a person.

As he watched them all over the morning sessions and he began to form opinions of the characters around him. There were the two 'arty' type men, dressed in black with beatnik beards. They were trying to make a 'statement' with their art, not portray his character. When he had looked at their drawings he didn't understand what he saw, the drawings looked like nothing human. The sad man was just that, sad. He seemed to take no joy in his art at all. At the next break Bill found out his name was Peter and it was his brushes that had been stolen. There was an intelligent looking girl who peered at him near sightedly and drew with earnest attention. The giggling girl seemed to giggle at everything, when she dropped her charcoal, when she sneezed from the dust, at Anne's comments. A bit silly, that one, thought Bill. There was whiney Paul who never listened to a word Anne said and did whatever he wanted then complained when it didn't work. And a quiet girl who plodded on and never asked questions. Her name was Mary and it was her handbag that hand been opened, and 2 pounds stolen from it. Mary sat next to Kevin, who was a solicitor and only doing the class for a summer holiday. Then there was a short, round man with a ridiculous moustache, but he was a dab hand with paint and his work was exquisite. His name was Carlos and it was his painting that had been destroyed with turpentine. Finally, there was a mouse of a man called Rupert, who said little and painted with a desperate fury. His colours were wild and bizarre and somehow worked. He was working with all new colours today as his original set had been stolen.

They all looked at Bill with dispassionate eyes as they painted and drew his portrait, not realising that he was sizing them up and judging each of them in turn.

Sitting there and silently watching them all, Bill also began to realise what an excellent teacher Anne was. She encouraged and suggested when needed. She listened and didn't judge but worked with each artist to help them achieve their vision. Frankly Bill didn't understand how anyone had the patience to work with some of them. But she treated each artist with respect and critiqued their work fairly and without malice.

As the morning wore on, Bill had begun to develop a deep and personal relationship with that spot on the wall. His back began to ache. So, when the timer rang on the last session and Anne told everyone to break for lunch he gave a sigh of relief. The students dispersed for lunch to return at 1.30 for the final 3 sessions of the day. Bill stood up and stretched, easing his stiffening back.

Anne looked over at him and asked, 'You okay Bill?'

'Ohhhh, bit stiff!' he moaned.

'Yes, it's actually hard work, posing like that. Most people don't realise.' She commented. 'Do you think you will last the afternoon?'

'No fear,' replied Bill. 'Not much worse than sitting all night in a divvy van on a stake-out! But I could do with a walk to stretch my legs.'

'Yes, I've brought our lunch. We can go eat in the grounds of St. Pat's across the road and maybe have a walk around the block. Just let me get my things.' And she bustled about collecting the bag containing their cut lunch while Bill went and put his jacket and tie back on. They left the studio together, Anne closing and locking the door securely behind them.

'You always lock up for lunch?' asked Bill

Anne looked guilty. 'No, I didn't at first. But we came back last Monday after lunch to find Carlos' painting had been destroyed. I've locked it every day since, but that hasn't stopped the thefts.'

'Were things stolen at lunch-time?'

'Not too sure, people didn't notice that the items were missing until later in the afternoon or even the next day. So, I don't know when they were taken, the room has been locked ever since then.' Anne said.

They strolled out of the building, Anne telling Chris on the desk that they were just going out for lunch for a ½ hour or so. When they had left the building he asked Anne, 'Is Chris there all lunch-time? Does she watch who comes and goes?'

'Well she tries,' replied Anne. 'But she is the only one rostered on in the summer, so if she gets a phone call in the other office she must take it, so anyone could come in or out. It's her job on the line too, the Board said!'

'Hardly seems fair.' Commented Bill as they crossed the busy road and entered the gardens of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

'No.' Agreed Anne. They found a free bench under a lilac bush and Anne handed Bill a packet of wax wrapped sandwiches. 'Cheese and pickle okay with you?' she asked.

'Perfect.' Said Bill happily, his stomach rumbling again in anticipation. He unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. From their seat on the bench they could see the front of the Society building. As he watched and chewed he thought about all the students in the class he had met and how they had reacted to Anne as their teacher.

As if reading his thoughts Anne asked, 'What do you think of the them all?'

'Those two beatnik types don't seem to listen to what you say much.' He remarked.

Anne just laughed. 'Oh! Those two. They are both perfectly capable artists and can draw beautifully when they want to. They are just experimenting around with some new abstract ideas. I don't think they really know what they are doing. They'll figure it out eventually.'

'Hmmm,' mused Bill. 'And that girl? Does she ever stop giggling? Is it an act?'

'Sally?' replied Anne, 'She could do so well, she has real talent, but she just flits about and doesn't take anything seriously. Pity, if she would just settle down… but no, I can't see her having the strength of character to commit such malicious acts.'

'What about that Peter? Is he just depressed, or what?'

Anne looked a bit concerned. 'I'm not sure what the story is there. I heard a rumour that he had lost a family member recently, but I don't know. He doesn't seem to be enjoying class much, but he does such wonderful work! He couldn't be our suspect, remember, he was a victim!'

'Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone did something like that to throw the suspicion off from themselves. But no, I agree with you Anne.' Bill hesitated, the ploughed ahead. 'Anne, there is really only one person in that class I can see who's an issue, and that is Paul.'

'Oh Bill, no! He's disrespectful true, but his father is on the Board! I can't accuse him!' protested Anne.

Bill paused, he was watching the front of the Society building with interest. 'Really, Anne? Look over there, who is that?'

Anne looked across the road where to her surprize she saw Paul creeping up the front steps of the building then peering cautiously through the glass front door. Looking once over his shoulder, he slipped into the building.

Bill grabbed Anne's hand and rising he pulled her up quickly from the bench. Holding tight to her hand, he moved rapidly through the garden. Dodging traffic again, they raced across the road and ran up the steps. Entering the building, they noticed that Chris was not at the desk and they heard her talking on the phone in the inner office. Bill motioned Anne to be quiet, and they crept silently past the unoccupied front desk and down around the staircase. Pausing at the kitchen door, Bill peered around the corner to see the studio door wide open. With a hand gesture he indicated Anne should wait, and he moved quietly and rapidly into the room.

Bending over Peter's gear, Paul was sorting through brushes and paints, picking and choosing what he wanted.

'Miss something last time, did you?' asked Bill quietly.

Paul spin around in shock, dropping the paints and brushes he had been holding. 'Whaaa? What are you doing creeping up on me? HOW DARE YOU!' he shrieked.

'Paul!' Anne's shocked voice came from the doorway. 'What are you doing?'

'You! It's your fault! You shouldn't be here…Women artists!' he sneered at Anne in disgust.

'Anne,' said Bill, 'go tell Chris to ring the police.' Anne darted off to the phone.

Paul looked around in panic for a way out, there was only the one entrance to the studio. He made a desperate bolt for the door hoping to slip by Bill. But Bill had been a cop too many years to let that get past him. He reached out and grabbed Paul by the collar as Paul tried to rush by. Holding on tight he gave the man a bit of a shake and lifted him by the collar until Paul was forced to stand on his toes to stay upright.

'Let go of me! You animal! My father is on the Board! He won't let you get away with treating me like this!' Paul squirmed in Bill's grasp.

'Shaddup. You little worm.' Bill gave him another shake. 'You're lucky I don't thump you one. Make you see in primary colours that would.'

…

The police arrived shortly and took Paul into custody charging him with theft and malicious mischief. Bill gave his statement, and the police searched Paul's bag and found items that were identified as belonging to Peter and Rupert. They also found a duplicate key to the studio in his pocket that he had apparently 'borrowed' from his father. Pauls' father was contacted and because of his son's actions he promptly tended his resignation from the Society and the Board.

The afternoon's class resumed eventually, but they only were able to fit in another 2 sessions that day. It took the other students some time to calm down but several managed to complete some quite respectable studies of Bill. Even he was impressed with what they created.

Later that night at the Grant's place Bill and Anne told the story to an astonished Geoff and Jane.

'The President of the Committee actually came down and apologised to me and Chris!' exclaimed Anne. 'And they offered me another workshop next school holidays!'

'But why did Paul do it? What was he thinking?' asked Geoff.

'Seems that young Paul has a grudge against women artists – he lost out on a major prize last year coming second to a woman. He enjoyed causing the women the class distress by his petty thefts. And he was petty and jealous of anyone showing more talent than he had. So, he destroyed Carlos' work and stole from Peter, so he couldn't paint.' Bill had spoken with the police before they took Paul away.

'What a tosser.' Declared Jane.

'Yes' agreed Bill. 'And Geoff, this is for you and Jane,' Bill handed over the 10 pounds note he had earned for the days' modelling.

'No Bill!' protested Geoff. 'We can't accept that!'

'I'm not allowed to earn any income while on leave, so I'm donating this in support of the Arts.' And he placed the note on the table and put the sugar bowl on top of it.

'Well, if you put it that way,' said Geoff considering, 'we accept. The rents due next week.' He and Jane both grinned at Bill.

'Sooo, Bill?' asked Jane 'Whaddya think of your first-time modelling?'

Bill looked at Jane soberly. 'Don't think I'll give up my day job just yet.' Then he grinned and they all laughed with him.

'But you know Bill,' said Anne. 'I think I'd like to enter the Archibald next year. I'll need someone to sit for me…'

'Can I take my clothes off for you?' asked Bill wickedly.

Anne blushed, and the others laughed.

…

This story touches on a lot of places and memories of my city of Melbourne I remember from early 70's. The Herald newsboys are no more, neither is the Herald evening paper. But the City Hatter's is still there as well as Young and Jacksons and the beautiful Chloe. People meet 'under the clocks' even today and brave police do point duty on Flinders and Swanston Street intersection. Large swathes of workers cottages and Victorian terraces were demolished in Carlton the late 60's and early 70's and replaced with ugly tower blocks. The 'Vic's' is still a vibrant society of talented artists. If you are interested learning more about the Victorian Artists Society of Victoria visit their website: .au/

Wild

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