A BATH for all SEASONS
Everyone thought of her as the village eccentric, but reclusive Dodie Fisher was hiding an extraordinary secret
Iwant,’ she said, ‘a claw-foot bath in front of the window. It’s always been my dream. to lie in the bath with a glass of wine looking out to the fields and hills. Can you imagine how wonderful that would be? Whatever the season?’ she smiled brightly and Dave tried not to look too startled. this wasn’t the job he’d been expecting at all when Dodie Fisher phoned him. He’d assumed it would be some rather boring issue with an antiquated heating system that would end with him having to break the news that she needed a new boiler.
Instead, Dodie Fisher had taken him by surprise and revealed her lifelong ambition for a bathtub in her bedroom. He had to admit it was a very nice room, with a huge sash window that looked over the rolling somerset countryside as the afternoon sun streamed in.
‘Well,’ he said, rubbing at his beard. ‘I can certainly do you a quote. and we need to make sure it can take the weight.’ He pressed his foot against the floor, uncertain. ‘It might be quite pricey.’
‘oh, there’s no need to worry. No expense spared.’
‘and you’ll have to get rid of the furniture and get the carpet up.’
the room was stuffed with ugly brown chests of drawers and wardrobes of the kind cluttering up junk shops and auction rooms. ‘Consider it done.’ she beamed at him, and Dave felt disconcerted, though not unpleasantly so.
Dodie Fisher lived in what was arguably the nicest house on the village green, but it was common knowledge that it was falling down around her ears. she’d inherited laburnum House from her parents and had lived there for as long as anyone could remember. Reclusive and rather shy, she was famous for her endearing pet portraits. Nearly everyone in little Whittington had one of them on their wall, for it was a village of dog lovers, and a Dodie Fisher painting made a perfect Christmas or birthday present. Dave had commissioned one for his own wife, Gill, for her 40th. the portrait of Minnie, her Dalmatian, hung over the fireplace in their kitchen/dining room. Dave sometimes thought that Gill loved Minnie more than she loved him.
What he wasn’t sure of, though, was whether her pet portraits meant Dodie could afford her fantasy. People so often underestimated the price of what they had in their heads. He didn’t want to offend her, but this could run into several thousand pounds, depending on what kind of bath she chose. then there were the taps. a decent set of taps could be eye-watering. as for the pipework…
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Dodie. ‘you’re wondering if I can afford it.’
she looked at him, her periwinkle blue eyes twinkling.
she was wearing a faded shirt dress, several strings of amber beads, clumpy old boots and her hair was hidden under one of her trademark hats – felt or fur in winter, straw in summer. Dave wondered fleetingly if perhaps once she had been rather beautiful. He couldn’t put an age on her, but he thought about 50. Why did she hide herself away? ‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.’
‘the thing is,’ said Dodie. ‘I’m doing rather well.’ she looked mischievous. ‘I’ve discovered a niche. Even more profitable than dogs. Do you want to see?’
Dave decided he did. It was the end of the day, and he had started to dread going home. Gill was usually halfway down a bottle of sauvignon blanc by the time he got in, and it made her belligerent.
‘Why not?’ he said.
Dodie led him upstairs to her studio, her boots clumping on the wooden stairs, then threw open the door to an attic room filled with light. and dozens of paintings.
Dave’s eyes widened in shock. Dodie laughed at the expression on his face.
‘I know. aren’t they naughty?’ she said gleefully. ‘but people pay a fortune for them. I sell them online. I got that It chap in the village to do me a website. I can’t paint them fast enough.’
Dave didn’t know what to say at first. He was shocked, and intrigued, and bemused, and delighted. He’d never taken any notice of Dodie’s pet portraits. He didn’t really understand the need for a painting of your dog or cat – while they were alive, you had them to look at, and if they died, you moved on.
but these – he could see the point of these straight away. the paintings were exquisite, erotic even, though not vulgar in any way. but more than anything they were real. they made his throat ache with longing. He wanted someone to look at him the way the woman in the nearest painting was looking at her lover.
He felt a little bit flustered. He grinned at Dodie.
‘you’re a dark horse.’ she shrugged. ‘I’ve waited a long time to be a success. I was never going to be famous painting dogs.’ she put a finger to her lips. ‘you’re not to tell anyone, though. Not yet. I know I can trust you.’
‘of course,’ said Dave, miming zipping his mouth up. He was tickled by the whole thing. Good on her, he thought. ‘I’ll get a price to you by the end of the week,’ he said, then laughed, shaking his head. ‘It’s not what I was expecting, I must say.’
Dodie touched his arm, looking straight into his eyes.
Now he was up close, her gaze was rather compelling. For a moment, he was hypnotised.
‘My first lover always said to me,’ she said, ‘never be what people expect. I’ve always tried to live by that rule.’ >>
‘He wanted someone to look at him the way the woman in the nearest painting was looking at her lover’
Two months and a lot of banging and dust later, she took the lid off a bottle of frangipani bath oil and poured a steady stream of it into the water. Here it was, her dream: a cast iron bath painted in a dusty shade of blue, in the middle of her bedroom. Around it the bare elm floorboards were gleaming with wax. A huge bed covered in a satin eiderdown was pushed against the far wall. No other furniture. That was it. This room was for bathing and sleeping only. She didn’t even have curtains, for no one could see in, and she wanted to be able to see out whatever time it was, whether it was a pearl grey dawn, a dappled summer afternoon or a starlit night.
She slid into the bath and stretched out with a sigh. She could see for miles: the soft countryside spread out in an ever-changing panorama of trees and hills and fields and stone walls as the early evening sun set in a glory of coral and crimson. She imagined the same scene smothered with blossom, dusted with frost, hidden under the snow. This is where I belong, she thought. The real me. I shall stay here.
She could, of course, have bought a new house with her new-found wealth, but she loved Laburnum House. She was looking forward to giving it the attention it needed. And she loved Little Whittington. She loved everyone in it, even the busybodies – but especially the people she had come to think of as the good eggs, like Phil and Dave, who had helped her without question and been so kind. It was going to be strange, showing them the real her.
All her life in Little Whittington, she had been Dodie Fisher the eccentric recluse. It was so much easier that way. People didn’t ask questions or expect things on a day-to-day basis, so she could just get on with her life. And a lot of the time, her life had been tough, particularly when she had little money. When the house was cold because she couldn’t afford to crank up the heating, when she was living on boiled eggs and porridge.
Of course, she lived for her ‘adventures’ – the times when she escaped to another city, for inspiration and amorous encounters with her lovers, old and new. She saved her painting money scrupulously so she could have at least one adventure a year. And every time she went away, she chose to be someone different.
In Paris she was DoDo, the French slang for ‘sleep’ – all silk kimonos and fishnets and flicky eyeliner.
In New York, she was Dee, sleek-haired and sharp-suited and gimlet-eyed. In Berlin, she was DF, dressed all in black. In Italy, Dora. Golden Dora. Now, with the success of her new enterprise, the press were closing in and her true identity would soon be revealed. Everyone wanted to know who this mystery painter was, who reflected people’s fantasies back at them on canvas.
The price of her work was rising every day. She couldn’t keep up with the commissions. Her life would not be her own unless she took control. And so it was time for the real her to be revealed. Her true self. Dorinda. Dorinda Fisher.
And in Dorinda Fisher were fragments of all the other identities she had created.
Not that Dodie Fisher had been a fake – she had been an authentic side to her personality, and the one she had found easiest to live with on a daily basis. She was going to miss her, she thought. But it would be nice not to be cold, or hungry, or worried about paying the gas bill, like Dodie had been.
She had taken all of Dodie’s faded old clothes and packed them away: all the hats she had hidden behind, and the boots she had run away in. Dodie had looked after her well in those lean, dark times. All painters had periods of gloom, she knew. You had to suffer to create something worthwhile. And by being Dodie, she had never felt guilty for wallowing, or bothered anyone with her introspection.
Tonight, she was heading to the pub to introduce herself. Most of the village would be in there, on a Friday evening in late summer, sipping on a cider or a gin and tonic or a pint of local bitter. And tonight, she wasn’t going to be wearing a disguise. She rough-dried her hair and it fell to her shoulders, ash-blonde with a few streaks of telltale grey. She put on faded jeans, a green silk shirt, brown suede ankle boots and silver earrings.
She stood at the window. Night had fallen by now, and she could see herself in the bowed glass. There were a few fine wrinkles around her eyes, but she wasn’t holding up too badly. She applied a coat of mascara and dotted some gloss onto her lips, then surveyed her reflection. This was a critical moment. She had to be happy with the persona she had chosen.
This was, after all, who she was going to stick with forever. Fame meant that you could no longer hide. Yes, she thought. That’s me. Just a normal, nearly-50-year-old woman. Quite attractive. Someone who could pull it out of the bag when she needed to, but wasn’t obsessed with her appearance. Someone with a little talent and a lot of imagination who had spent her life dreaming. And now those dreams had come true. She’d taken a risk, though. And she’d worked hard. Harder than hard. Years of freezing in her attic, the chilblains pinching at her fingers as she drew. This wasn’t overnight success. This was a lifetime of dedication. She hoped people would understand.
She smiled as she thought of the faces in the pub as she walked in. She remembered those words of her first lover: never be what people expect. She would still have the capacity to surprise, she hoped. But she didn’t have to hide behind Dodie any more.
‘Hello, Dorinda,’ she whispered, and her new self smiled back. She thought they were going to get on famously.
‘Never be what people expect. I’ve always tried to live by that rule’