Ned (8)

An hour later Robert stood back and admired his handy-work. He’d constructed a number of small huts beyond which lay an island, complete with a broch-like tower. It was an eerie landscape, simultaneously primeval and futuristic, and Robert tried to imagine the downtrodden individuals who lived there. Then he remembered that Marshall had mentioned some objects stored in the cupboards. After scraping the hardened clay from between his fingertips he opened the cupboard doors. Each one housed boxes of figures – everything from airfix soldiers, cowboys and Indians, tacky flamenco dancers, and primitive priapic carvings to tiny brass sculptures and a whole array of those grotesque fantasy figures he’d occasionally glimpsed in the window of his local toy shop. There were so many that he spent over half an hour - or 25 quid - choosing the inhabitants of his strange, clay world. Gradually, as each figure assumed its place, a story began to unfold.

   Robert peopled the tiny huts with a troll-like army who were the subjects of the anonymous figure ensconced in the tower. Manning the perimeter was an enamel girl wearing a bikini, a Mickey Mouse, and a bride and groom – refugees from the summit of a wedding cake who both looked bored to death. Robert gave each of these tiny figures a plastic machine gun and further enhanced the quality of the environment with a few palm trees, a crashed helicopter, and a number of toy cars – some upturned – that littered the sea front like something out of a Godard movie. Just as he was applying the finishing touches – four watchtowers, a rectangular wooden station building (culled from a Hornby train set, Robert suspected) and a privet hedge, behind which a princess was coupling with one of the troll soldiers – Marshall, right on cue, entered.

   ‘Looks like we’re doing well, laddie.’

   ‘We’re doing fine’ Robert answered, intrigued by the sudden use of the plural.

   Marshall placed a supermarket carrier on his desk. As he did so Robert heard the familiar, comforting clink of alcoholic refreshment.

   ‘I’m replenishing stocks’ Marshall said, producing three bottles of red wine and a bottle of scotch. ‘But we can have a wee dram together. I like to celebrate when a client comes of age and finishes the clay exercise. You’ll join me, I take it ?’

   Robert nodded.

   The analyst poured two generous whiskeys while Robert scrubbed himself down. Then, having covered the miniature world with his plastic apron (Marshall’s idea) and accepted his drink, Robert unveiled his creation.

   ‘Oh yes….’ said Marshall. ‘Oh yes!’

   He walked round the table examining the clay world’s contours from all angles, rather like a golfer preparing for a tricky putt.

   ‘Oh yes….’

   Robert had, of course, started to wonder whether the Scotsman was taking the piss. ‘Marks out of ten ?’ he jocularly asked in order to relieve the solemn tone of the proceedings, but this was greeted with a cursory ‘Shhhhh!’ as Marshall’s ample frame knelt and twisted itself. But when, after  downing his scotch, the doctor produced a Polaroid camera and started taking photographs, Robert began to protest.

   ‘Aren’t you taking all this a little too seriously ?’

   Robert said this as a photo began squeezing itself through the Polaroid’s aperture. Marshall, in an effort to dry the print even quicker, began waving it gracefully above his head.

   ‘I photograph ‘em all’ he said gingerly. ‘I’ve got photographs dating back twenty years. This model making method was developed by a Swiss psychotherapist back in the early sixties, only she preferred to use sand.

   ‘And now I suppose you’re going to tell me what it all means.’

   ‘Not necessarily.’

   ‘Then what’s the point ?’

   ‘The point is that you draw your own conclusions. Make your own assumptions.’

   Having gathered further photograph evidence of Robert’s creation Marshall poured more drinks. ‘Although…..’

   Robert, impatient, said ‘Yes ? Yes ?’

   ‘Although if pressed, and using all of my professional judgement, I’d say that the tower represents your wee dickie and it’s under siege by barbarians. Cheers!’