Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2)

'Thursday!' said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. 'What use are you if you don't mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I'd be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!' he muttered, staring at the church door. 'It's Aubrey Jambe!'

And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon's croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

'I wonder if he's brought the chimp,' I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.

I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn't there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

'What does it say to you, Harry?'

'It says … nothing, Cords – but in a very different way. How much is it?'

Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

'It's called Beyond Satire and it's twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?'

'Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?'

I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.

'Miss Next!' said Stiggins as I approached. 'We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.' The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

'This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,' said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas 'What does it represent?'

'Is not obvious?' replied the Neanderthal.

'Of course!' said Harry, turning his head this way and that. 'It's daffodils, isn't it?'

'No.'

'A sunset?'

'No.'

'Field of barley?'

'No.'

'I give up.'

'Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh's Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.'

I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf's abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

'Can I have another guess?' he asked Zorf, who nodded.

He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

'It's a—'

'Hope,' said a voice close by. 'It's hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish – for children.'

Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

'Exactly what I was about to say,' said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

'The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,' said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. 'Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?'

This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men – including Zorf – raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf's paintings again.