Schmincke

Part 1

As Meredith Pryce opened her eyes she saw only colours at first; then some gradations of light. She thought she must have been dreaming about a painting. As she focused, she realised that she wasn't at home or at her sister's place. Something was on her arm; a tube, with a needle port taped into her left hand, the clear liquid inside containing a faint pink streak; blood. Her right arm felt heavy, too; it was wrapped in something.

Then the shock of recalling the people who attacked her came flooding back. With it came the memory of the pain in her wrist as one person grabbed at her arm, pulling her bag from her side. After that, the long legs in jeans running away, her last image before her head hit the low wall she had just been sitting on. Meredith shuddered at the thought. One minute she was sketching; now she was in hospital. I should have stayed home in Wales, she said to herself.

A voice in Welsh, a woman's voice she did not recognize, said softly, "Take it easy, Miss Pryce."

There was sharp pain on the right side of her head as she moved slightly on the pillow. She ignored the advice, as she generally ignored all advice, and sat up - or tried to. She fell back, but could now see the girl in uniform. She was far too young to be a policewoman, Meredith thought, assessing her; dark blonde hair and a sensible, serious face; one worth painting.

"Where am I?"

"You are in King's College Hospital. I am Constable Sayer, with the Metropolitan Police, stationed near here. We were waiting for you to regain consciousness. A nurse will be here in a moment."

More alert now, Meredith murmured, "You speak Welsh."

Catrin Sayer said, "Yes, I am from Pontypridd."

With that accent you aren't from Chelsea, Meredith thought; you're a valley girl chasing the bright lights of London and a uniform. Then she realised she hadn't just thought it, she had spoken it aloud.

The slight was ignored by the younger woman. "I told your sister I would call her when you woke up. She has just left for a bite to eat."

Meredith closed her eyes, only vaguely following the calls that Sayer made to several people on her mobile. She sounded even more valley Welsh in English.

Pryce asked, "So why are you here; to question me? It was so fast, I don't - ."

"No, another officer will do that," interjected Catrin. "You were partly-conscious on admission, but murmuring phrases in Welsh. An orderly spotted it. He said it wasn't a foreign language, it was Welsh. You had no identification on you; it must have been in your bag, we thought. So they sent me along."

"What's foreign around here is the English they speak; 'Brixtonese', I call it," the older woman opined crabbily.

Her sister's right, thought Catrin. She works hard at being a cantankerous old bat.

"And my bag?" Pryce demanded querulously.

"It hasn't been recovered yet; we only have the sketchbook you were using. It's muddy, but I have been cleaning it up. It's not evidence; a witness said she saw you drop the book. Your sister thought it might be a comfort when you woke up." She added, "You are a good artist."

Meredith's face showed her dismay at the loss of her bag. "I should say thank you, I know, but what goes through my mind is always the same thing when people say that about my sketches. How can you know, I think? They are rough sketches in the book; ideas, half-formed."

Her tone was dismissive, rude, she knew. "I am not good at the social graces. Ask my sister."

Catrin swallowed her first response yet again and said, "I have been talking with her." Her tone implied she had already been told quite a bit about Meredith Pryce. She deliberately switched to English. "You are a good artist because first, your sketchbook shows it; accurate, confident lines; good perspective on each drawing and detailed notes on colour choices in preparation for paintings based on them. From the names, I see you use German paints; Schmincke."

"So," said Meredith, now focusing on the woman, "you are an artist as well as a police officer, but I bet I know which one pays the bills. What medium?"

"I design and decorate ceramics. I studied at Aberystwyth University. The potter I work with trained at CSAD, as did you. Your sister told me. So that is the second clue that you are a good artist; you trained in Wales." CSAD was the Cardiff School of Art & Design. The humour in the police officer's voice made the older woman smile briefly.

"I will be going now, Miss Pryce. A Sergeant Caldwell will be in to speak to you very shortly. I have told the station you are awake and your sister is on her way. Get well soon. Goodbye now."

As she left, Catrin heard the woman call out imperiously, "Come back some time and talk about art." Then Pryce added, as an afterthought, "Please. I will be bored here."

Sayer kept on walking. Talk to your sister and her family, she thought, that's why you are visiting London; not to sketch areas of Brixton you don't know, getting mugged.