The Mezzotint Chapter 2 - Hope

Most people walk through doors - few have the doors melt around them.  The latter are proprietors of bodies that simply diffuse the banality they encounter, as an obligation, in order to concentrate the viewer’s attention on their quintessence alone.   

Hope Lincoln was such a being.  In her mid-twenties but exuding a child-like quality which was frustratingly difficult to define.  She was handsome rather than stunning, after all a flawless face is rarely the façade of a candid personality.  Her winsomeness too, was immediate and seemed to radiate from the shimmer of her eyes to the pronounced but attractiveness of her gait.  She was slim but not tall and wore a red and white checked shirt atop a cappuccino skirt, beneath which two lithe legs stretched and slipped into two white sandals.  Her auburn hair, with flashes of scarlet, bobbed like a string-less marionette along the sweet curve of her shoulders.    She had uttered not one word as she walked into the art class and yet she was there as surely as if a royal bugler had trumpeted her arrival.     

Creest was the last person in the room to see her and reacted only after seeing each of his pupils in turn, cease sketching to gaze or gape at something behind him.  When finally he reciprocated, his reaction was immediate, as if Leonardo himself had walked in with La Giaconda in tow.  Her introduction was entirely different, given in the most casual manner, as if she had arrived for a dental appointment.  He saw, immediately, that there was a knowing maturity seeped into her eyes and yet she evoked a childish quality, but he knew not from where.

“Professor Creest?” – Creest nodded – All he could muster, finding his tongue suddenly as arid as a Nomad’s sandal.    “Miss Hope Lincoln” She offered her hand.  He took it, sensing that contrary to the desert in his mouth, his palms were a rainforest; she, in an effort to avoid embarrassing Creest, awaited an opportune and discreet moment and then wiped her own hand on the back of her dress.  

“I’ve just moved into the area and would like to join your group” Then acknowledging the others with a nod of her head, she continued: “You don’t mind do you?  I imagine a modest set like this can become quite cosy” The five gentlemen amongst the amateurs were most welcoming, whilst the eight ladies, the widow White included, were a little recalcitrant at first.

  It was the widow that fired the first shot.  “Are you sure?  You do seem a little young for us.  Elizabeth, here, is our youngest, and she’s 49” 

“48, Dorothy dear!” Elizabeth corrected her and then after a consideration added: “I think a transfusion of youth might just freshen some of us up and…do call me Lizzie, Miss Lincoln!” 

This brief interchange over, Creest finally found his voice.  “Mrs White, when you first approached me to organize this class there was, I believe, no stipulation given that reaching a certain, shall we say, stage of maturity was a prerequisite for membership” Turning back toward Miss Lincoln he smiled and said, “You are very welcome.  Would you like to take a seat?”

Miss Lincoln was apologetic, “I won’t, not today, if you don’t mind, I’ve still a lot to unpack, but I’d love to start next week”  

“Of course” Creest confirmed, “We start around ten but we’re not at school so, you know” he was aware that his cheeks were simmering like hot soup and that his discomfiture was obvious to everyone in the room.       

“I’ll walk you out if I may” he offered in a rather obvious attempt to conceal his embarrassment.  Understanding, she consented, waved a munificent goodbye to the class and strode confidently outside followed by an almost shuffling Creest.   In the corridor she swung around again to face the professor.   The power of her self-assurance rocked him back on his heels as if it required delineation between its source and whatever moved toward it.  Creest’s mind had already transported its thoughts to seven days hence, anticipating that first inevitable touch that dared contravene her impervious shield and relishing those on-going obligatory moments of close contact between teacher and pupil.

“They look delightful” Hope proclaimed as if judging a floral display at a summer gala. 

“Are they?” he replied. 

“Your art class professor”

“Oh them” his reaction already tinged with how unimportant they all were at this moment. “Yes, they are a lovely crowd”

“I’m sure I’ll blend in” she said, with a delicate upward curvature on the right side of her mouth.   Creest noticed it at once.  It was both mischievous and sensuous.

“Do you paint at all?” Creest suddenly remembered what they were both here for.

“A little: some street scenes from the city; when I had time”

“You took lessons?”

“Some evening classes; the tutor did commend one of my drawings.  He could see something there, he told me.  With the move to the country I just thought…well I expect it’s an old cliché…”

“It is, but as with all clichés there’s a basis of truth there.  Where would the great painters be without the countryside?  No ‘Flatford Mill’, no ‘Starry Night, no Monet’s lilies.

“That sort of genius may take some time professor”

“You’ll find that time ambles around Greeven”

“Yes, and time for me to amble too”

“Would you like some help moving your stuff?”

“Most of it’s done, but there is an old piano I need shifting.  I had it in the front room but it’s a little small.  I think between us we may get it in the back.  Perhaps Friday night; I could fix some dinner as a reward”

Creest could feel himself reddening again.  “That would be most welcome”

“Six…six-thirty; okay?”

“Yes, fine.  I’ll be there…where?”

“Oh, of course; the Old School House”

She moved away, graceful but satiated as if she’d already eaten.

Creest told himself later that his emotional response had been elicited through his years of appreciating the great beauty he saw in art as well as in nature, but his intellect knew a lie when it sensed it.  For the first time in over 40 years Creest had fallen head over heels in love and with a woman 40 years younger.