Our Lady Of The Tufted Nethers

GH Dawson & Sons (Frame Makers). That was the arched inscription painted on the window in gold lettering with a 'conservation green' drop shadow. Except GH Dawson himself had long since retired. And there was some doubt as to whether Mr Dawson's sons had ever really been a part of the business.

'I think that Gerald had hoped that his boys would take up the trade,' Albert Tinker told me not long after I started working at Dawson's. 'But when his youngest boy followed the elder brother out the Australia, Gerald pretty much lost interest in the business. That's when I bought the place.'

'But you kept the name?'

'Oh, yes. I bought the business as a going concern. There was a sizable element of goodwill in the price. It wasn't in my interests to upset the existing customers.'

One of the existing customers that Albert would not have wanted to upset was Rogon Fine Art Restoration. If your family was fortunate enough to have been bequeathed a half-decent painting that had fallen on hard times, Charles Rogon and his team could, for a not inconsequential fee, make it look like it might be worth a million quid or more. And a big part of the value for many of the paintings was in the frame.

'There's a knack,' Albert said. 'The right frame goes a long way to suggesting the era that you would like the painting to suggest - even if it's not 100 percent true.'

I had been working at Dawson's for the best part of a year before I actually met anyone from Rogon's. When Rogon's wanted a frame made, re-made, or restored, they phoned and spoke to Albert, who put on a three-piece whistle and flute, and voyaged across to Knightsbridge in his antique Rolls Royce. And then, when the job was done, Albert again got himself suited and booted and delivered the finished frame by his own fair hand.

But then one day a woman phoned. She said that her name was Juanita. She said that she was calling from Rogons; that she had a frame that she wanted us to look at; and that she wanted to be sure that there would be 'someone appropriate' with whom she could discuss matters.

'Would you like someone to come and visit you?' I asked.

'No. No. I am happy to come to you. I just want to be sure that someone will be there.'

I assured her that either Albert or I would be available. 'When were you thinking of coming?'

'In approximately three-quarters of an hour,' she said.

Albert had gone to visit his brother, Sid, who lived up near Epping Forest. I looked at my watch and added three-quarters of an hour. No, Albert would be way past intelligent conversation. 'I shall look forward to welcoming you personally,' I said.

Juanita was a little younger than I had expected. She was also prettier - in a slightly stern way. And she was dressed in a smart black Armani-style suit suggesting that her role was front-of-house rather than back-room technician.

The painting (which she had brought to show us) was 'in the manner of Klimt'. 'It may even be by Klimt,' she said. 'Although I gather that it is not recorded in any of the known catalogues - so perhaps not.'

Klimt or in-the-manner-of-Klimt, the 1960s anodised aluminium frame which the painting was wearing was totally inappropriate. It was wrong in every sense. It would have to go. 'Do you have any thoughts?' I asked.

'Well ... something more in the style of the art nouveau?' she said, with just a hint of a question mark.

'Yes. I would have thought so,' I said. 'It may or may not be a true art nouveau work, but I'm sure that that is what the artist wanted us to believe.'

The painting was of a fair-skinned woman with red hair. She was naked - save for an elaborate jewelled headband and a jewelled - or perhaps enamelled - bracelet. But the thing that struck me immediately was her elegant shock of dark red pubic hair, not just the hair itself (although that was very nice), but also the way in which it had been rendered.

'What do we know?' I asked. 'Someone's great-grandmother?'

Juanita frowned. 'We know very little, I'm afraid,' she said.

'Pretty sexy though.'

Juanita smiled. 'Do you think so?'

'Do you not?' I said. 'Look at that body. Look at those limbs. Look at that hair - and I'm not talking about the hair on her head.'

She smiled. 'You men are strange,' she said. 'If a woman has hair, you want it gone. And, if she doesn't, you want it back.'

'Not me,' I said. 'Give me a patch of lady garden every time. How about you?

'How about me what?'

'Are you hair or bare?'

'I don't think that's anyone's business but mine,' Juanita said. 'Anyway, we are here to talk about a suitable frame for this painting.'

'We are indeed,' I confirmed. And I picked up the picture, held it at arm's length, and tried to picture it on a wall. 'Well, it's not a large painting,' I said. 'But I think that it could carry quite a generous frame. Dark. Organic. Deep reddish brown and deep blue, with shabby chic flecks of gold leaf to give it the impression of age. And I think a plain fillet, perhaps picking out one of the pale colours in the lady's headband, just to separate the painting from the frame.'

I grabbed a scrap of deep red-coloured mat board and rubbed, scrubbed, and smeared it with a stick of grey-blue oil pastel until it suggested barely-discernible organic swirls. Then I lightly speckled it with flecks of gold paint. After that, a quick blast with the hot-air gun, and I was ready to cut a straight edge and hold it up beside Our Lady of the Tufted Nethers. 'There. What do you think?'

Juanita shook her head.

'Oh? You don't like it?'

'I like it a lot,' she said. 'I'm just amazed at how you were able to do all that in just a couple of minutes.'

'I must be having a good day,' I told her. 'Sometimes it takes me half an hour or more.'

Before Juanita took the painting away again, I photographed it and then gently removed it from its existing frame and traced the outline of the stretcher onto a clean sheet of paper. I knew from experience that stretchers are not always as square as they might at first seem to be.

'I suppose that you would like a price,' I said.

'Yes please.'

'I'll work something out and email it across in the morning,' I said. 'Oh, and if you change your mind - you know, hair or bare - I'd still be interested to know.'

'Dream on,' she said.

Funnily enough, that night I did dream on.

I was in what was evidently an artist's studio with a man who may well have been Gustav Klimt. He was wearing one of those neck-to-toe smocks that Klimt seemed to favour. In fact, he looked a bit like a monk who was wearing a cassock that was a size or two too big for him. And he had that puzzled look that Klimt often has in photographs.

'I gather that you need some frames,' I said. 'For some pictures.'

He nodded. 'Ja. This is correct.' And he took me into another room where there were about 30 ink and watercolour studies of thatched snatches laid out on a long table.

'Very nice,' I said. 'Except these look more like Egon Schiele's work.'

'Egon Schiele? Yes ... well ... Egon Schiele is my supermarket brand. For the mass market,' the man who may have been Gustav Klimt said.

The studies were very good. Very well observed. And very well painted. And, to me at least, they were all very erotic. 'Are these all different women?' I asked.

'I think so,' he said. 'I tend not to fuck the same model more than once. Although I occasionally go back for seconds.'

'What about Juanita?' I said.

He frowned. 'Juanita? Is she a redhead?'

'No. She has dark hair. Dark brown. Well ... the hair on her head is dark brown. Almost black. Glossy. I'm not sure about down below.'

'No. I don't remember,' he said.

And then I woke up.

The first thing that I did when I got into the frame shop the following morning was to work out a price for Juanita's frame. It was not cheap - but then things of real quality seldom are. An hour or so later, I got an email back saying: 'Thank you. Please proceed.' And there was a jpeg file attached.

I almost didn't open the jpeg. I had already photographed the painting. But then, for some reason, I 'clicked' on it. It wasn't the painting. It was a selfie - at least I assumed that it was a selfie. And I assumed that it was the answer to my earlier question.

It was very nice. In my fantasy coffee table book, 'Notable Lady Gardens of the Southeast', it would have warranted a page all to itself. The hair was dark, almost black, like the hair on Juanita's head. And while it was abundant, it was by no means unruly. It had probably been trimmed along the edges. Certainly the labia seemed to have been clipped in the manner of a much-loved box hedge. And, from the photograph, I got the impression that the hair was silky. I think that Gustav Klimt (and/or Egon Schiele) would have approved.

By the time that Albert arrived, I had already started under-staining a couple of lengths of broad moulding.

'What's this?' he said.

'Rogon's. They need a new frame for a Klimt. Well ... a possible Klimt anyway.'

Albert frowned. 'Oh? Did you go over there without me?'

'No. Juanita came to visit us.'

'Juanita?' He frowned again. 'Do I know Juanita?'

'Youngish,' I said. 'Slim. Dark hair.'

And then Albert spotted the printed version of the jpeg that Juanita had sent me still sitting in the printer's out-tray. 'And what's this?' he asked.

'Oh, that? Umm ... Juanita. At least I think it is. It could, of course, be someone else. Although, if it is someone else, I'm not sure why Juanita sent it.'

Albert wasn't often speechless.

It took the best part of three days to build up the layers that would give the moulding for the 'in the manner of Klimt' painting's frame its character and depth of colour. But it was worth it. Even Albert thought so. 'Did you remember to take a tracing?' he asked.

'I did.'

Albert nodded and looked at his watch. 'Oh well ... maybe leave it overnight. To harden. And then assemble it in the morning. I'll bring the Roller in.'

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I think that I must have had Juanita on my mind. 'Are you sure that you don't know Juanita?' I asked the man in the neck-to-toe artist's smock.

'Juanita?'

And then we were back in the room with all the thatched snatches. 'Dark hair,' I said.

'Not violet?' And he picked up a watercolour that I hadn't noticed on my previous visit. 'Just imagine,' he said, 'parting that with your tongue. Just imagine parting it with the head of your stiff cock.'

'Is that Juanita?' I asked.

He frowned - as he often did. 'Juanita? Umm ... no. I don't think so,' he said. And then we were walking up the driveway of a minor schloss, the red gravel (the colour of the pubic hair of the woman in the 'perhaps Klimt' painting) crunching beneath our feet. 'I'll have to leave you here,' he said. 'It's Wednesday. I need to go and fuck the countess.'

'Oh? Do you fuck the countess every Wednesday?' I asked.

'Only when there's an R in the month,' he said.

When I got into the workshop the next morning, I made a cup of coffee, and then cut four slightly over-length lengths of the hand-coloured frame moulding ready for finishing on the Morso guillotine. Albert arrived half an hour later, dressed in his Sunday best. 'What time shall I tell them?' he asked.

'This should take me about half an hour,' I said. 'Why don't you send Juanita a note suggesting that you will deliver the frame somewhere about eleven?'

'I'll give her a call,' Albert said.

'I think she prefers email.'

'Harrumph,' Albert said.

'It's OK. I've put her in the directory. Just type Juanita.'

For a man who is so clever with his hands, Albert is hopeless on a keyboard. But after about 15 minutes, and a good deal more huffing, he was finally pressing Send. Juanita replied almost immediately.

'OK?'

Albert frowned. 'She wants to come here,' he said.

'Oh, well ... save you a trip.'

'But I brought the Roller in and everything,' Albert said. 'We'll have to tidy this place.'

'Oh, I think she knows what a framer's workshop looks like,' I said. 'She has been here once before, remember. Maybe we'll put out a clean dust sheet.'

I finished assembling the frame shortly before 10:30, and Juanita arrived with the painting just after eleven. I went out the front to greet her.

'Juanita. Nice to see you. Again.' And I may have smiled. 'Have you met Albert?'

'I don't think that I have had that pleasure,' she said. 'How do you do, Mr Tinker?'

For a moment or two, I could see that how Albert 'did' was to turn grumpy. 'You know that I could have brought the frame over to you,' he said.

Juanita winked at him. 'Thank you, Mr Tinker. But I do like an excuse to get away from the store from time to time,' she said. 'Just don't tell Charles. It can be our secret.'

Albert frowned and shook his head slightly. But I could see that Juanita was already working her magic on him.

'Gosh, this has cleaned up well,' I said, as she unwrapped Our Lady of the Tufted Nethers.

'Soot,' Juanita said. 'Well ... that's what Moira says. She thinks that it had probably spent a few years hanging in a room with a rather inefficient open fireplace.'

'The ... umm ... jewel in the crown, so to speak, is even brighter now,' I said.

Albert frowned again. 'Crown? I think it's just a headband, isn't it?' But Juanita knew what I was talking about.

'Well ... would you like to do the honours, Albert?' I said.

'Oh. Yes. Of course.' And he put on a pair of white gloves; picked up the painting; turned it over; and gently - very gently - lowered it into the frame which was already lying, face down, on the dust sheet-covered bench. It fitted perfectly. And then, showman that he was, Albert flipped the painting and frame for Juanita's inspection.

'Oh, yes. Perfect. Perfect. I think that the owners will be very pleased,' she said.

I think that even Albert was a little surprised. Not that it had worked. But that it had worked so well.

'Well ... if you are happy,' Albert said, 'I could drive you - and the painting - back to Knightsbridge.'

'That's very kind of you, Mr Tinker,' Juanita said. And she glanced at the ceiling. 'But I'll tell you what,' she said,' it would be very helpful if you could take the painting back over to Knightsbridge. I have something that I would like to do on this side of town. I hope that wouldn't be too much of an imposition.'

'No, no,' Albert said. 'Whatever ...' And he flapped his hands as though he was making pizza.

I got the point gun, fixed the frame in place, and then covered the gap line with brown paper tape. It was then just a matter of wrapping the newly framed painting in a layer of tissue paper and two layers of bubble wrap.

'Are you sure that you don't need a lift?' Albert said.

'No, no. I'm fine,' Juanita said. 'But thank you.'

Albert gathered up the bubble-wrapped painting and headed for the door. 'It has been a pleasure, Miss Juanita,' he said.

'It has indeed,' Juanita said. 'And I am sure that it will be again, Mr Tinker.'

The moment that the security lock clicked - with Albert on the other side of the door - Juanita backed up against the workbench, hoisted her black Armani skirt, and lowered her knickers. 'Well, come on,' she said. 'It's not going to lick itself.'

I didn't need a second invitation. I crouched in front of her and, as Gustave Klimt (or someone closely resembling Gustav Klimt) had suggested, I used my tongue to part her divine thatch and explore her cuntal valley. And, judging from the noises Juanita started to make, I must have been doing something right.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.'

But, after a few minutes, while Juanita was still saying yes, my knees were starting to say no. 'I think that we may need to rearrange things a little,' I said. I lowered her knickers all the way to her ankles and freed one foot. Then I eased her up onto the workbench and spread her thighs. 'There. That's better.' And I was back on the case, my tongue having barely missed a lick.

Another five minutes or so, and Juanita was squealing and giggling and apparently having trouble deciding which way was up. 'Oh, yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Yes. Oh, yes!' I wasn't sure what the question was, but the answer was either yes or no; and, on the balance of probability, I decided that the answer was probably yes. 'Oh, god, yes.'

Once she had caught her breath again, I turned her over so that she was face down, and pulled her slightly closer to the edge of the workbench. Perhaps appropriately for a frame maker's workshop, the scene before me was as pretty as a picture: Juanita's glossy almost-black shoulder-length hair against the clean white dust sheet; the straight hem of her half-hoisted tailored skirt contrasting against her pale, naked, arse; and her dark-haired puffy pudendum peeping from between the tops of her pale, milky thighs.

Had I not been in such a hurry, I might have taken a photograph. But I didn't. I freed my ever-hardening cock and lined it up for an exploratory plunge. 'Oh, yes,' Juanita said as the head of my hard cock slipped into her hot, wet hole. 'Oh, god, that feels so good.' And I had to agree with her: it did.

There would be another day, another time, another place when we would fuck for what seemed like forever. But that first time ... well, let's just say that we both reached the finishing line in rather less that two shakes of a lamb's tail. Oh, well.