II

      Hazel, to whom the flat in Islington belonged, was acknowledged by all to be particularly brilliant. She had that rare gift of knowing herself, so she could say marvellous things all the time that to her were flippant but to all others were defining boundaries, limiting the sprawling mass of the world into those ideas which were beautiful and all the rest, which weren't. If one was attentive one could find out quite remarkable things in asking her the simplest of questions.
      'Earl Grey or Lapsang Suchong?' offered Geoffery.
      'Coffee!' Hazel cried passionately, without hesitation.
      And from the uncompromising tone of her voice, and from the way her paisley patterned shawl of deep, dusty pink was slung about her shoulders, down onto which her unkempt and natural, dark ringlets fell in a wild tangle, and from the concentrated way that she stretched over her giant canvas from the top of the steel ladder in the living room, it was obvious to Geoffery that coffee is a far more seductive infusion than tea and that, also, Geoffery deduced further, it should ideally be served in the Morroccan style: black and sweet in a minute and beautiful, gold detailed cup on an ornate, silver tray. Geoffery did his best, compromising on the tray. Of course, Hazel herself would not demand to be so spoiled, but her own aesthetic quality of being suggested the idea. And Geoffery, and all others enchanted by her, would be very happy to oblige, if possible, and were inspired to discover what they might desire for themselves if only they too could follow their fancies to the point of expression.
      In Hazel they discovered a means of pursuing self-definition by paying attention to the details. Hazel was, one might even say, the centre of all their creativity. She was a muse to all of them as well as an artist in her own right. Her art confirmed their expectations of her. It was an expression very clearly her own.
      Her paintings were not exactly like paintings; they were highly decorative, like wallpaper, but they were so huge that they could cover a wall without repeating themselves. Drifting swans, globéd peonies, and the whispers of pale, dancing girls mingled in a jubilant expression of poecy, dream and romance. Muted grey-greens and pinks whirled in sensual whimsy to cast glimmering light over the elements of Hazel's soul. And once one knew just a little of Hazel one knew all about her. So harmonious a soul she was! Of course, she must prefer wild flowers to cut and handmade fabrics to anything else - silk, satin and lace; her furniture must be carved from dark wood and beautifully aged; waves of Debussy must always chime for ears and gold mirrors must fill that great hall of her heart. In Hazel they saw the possibility of abandonment and inner-wildness without the loss of purity: a true sun and moon child, mourning past beauty but chasing new rainbows on the horizon.
      Before there had been Hazel each artist was by her or himself but they had been drawn to her like moths to a lamp and now they were not individual artists, drifting along, but a collective of the same dreams and movement.
      After making coffee, Geoffery sat down happily in the middle of the floor and, drawing on large sheets of white paper, he set about designing 'bluebell skirts' of crushed blue-silk petals with lilac and white net underneath, flaring out at the bottom and, as he did so, he felt the presence of Hazel, with whom he was living as he sort gainful employment for himself, in every flick of his pen.
      Hazel, of course, did not perceive the effect that she had but she was happy, surrounded by her artisans, and she could feel their energy around her and running through her, feeding into her own work. Great canvases grew up around her without her barely having to think about how and when to create. It flowed from her. She wore flowers in her hair and threw parties and saw the future full of dreams coming true.
      Even so, her experience as 'arts co-ordinator' had not been very promising so far. She comforted herself that it was supporting the arts and, after all, it paid well. The trouble was she just couldn't see the value of the art that she was supposed to promote. Where was the self-expression except for the occasional, desperate splatter of blood across a canvas? 'What do you think?' asked Michael, the boy that was her superior whom she thought of as 'wet.' He held up an opaque rectangle of white glass for her to see. The word 'sensitive' was scrawled across the back in black marker pen but, of course, thought Hazel, you couldn't see that bit when it was hanging on the wall. Actually, when it was hanging on the white wall, you weren't really going to be able to see the rectangle.
      'Very poignant,' Hazel heard herself say. It seemed to her that these artists wanted to speak but could not form their ideas, so they shouted, incoherently. They were so unlike herself and her friends, not that she had been able to get an art dealer interested yet but she had not lost hope. She smiled inwardly, reflecting that, one day, she would get to choose what would go on the gallery walls.