Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  Leo laughs. I don’t think he has the faintest idea what Filomena is up to, but he’s enjoying teasing me.

  “And, Bea, we could always ask Hero’s governess to give you some lessons,” he says. “If you would prefer.”

  Another pause. “Fine,” I grind out. “I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful!” Filomena is all smiles now, and she lifts her cup in a toast. “And we all wish you every success. To artistic endeavour!”

  “To artistic endeavour!” cry the table as one.

  As I reluctantly raise my glass, my eyes meet Ben’s in the candlelight and he smiles at me wryly.

  This is going to be interesting, I think, as I close my eyes and drink.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My lessons aren’t set to begin until next week, so I endeavour to make the most of it. I go on solitary rambles through the hills in the early mornings, returning dusty and delighted by what I’ve seen, ready to fall on my lunch and then tumble wearily back on to my bed as the hottest part of the day burns itself out.

  The heat is a shock to my system: the way it makes my body feel languorous and heavy; the way it takes charge, shaping my days like this. It’s like a living, breathing thing whose temperament needs to be considered at all times.

  I spend the afternoons reading my book under the shade of a particularly friendly ilex tree, or being driven by my uncle to the nearest village to wander through the market, marvelling at the dusty orange buildings jumbled together, at the produce laid out like gifts on display, dipping my fingers into sacks of almonds, cool as pebbles, or inhaling the scent of sharp, golden lemons.

  In the evenings we all come together again, and revel in the cooler temperatures, eating and drinking and listening to records on the gramophone. The ever-changing roster of artists moving through the villa is difficult to keep up with, but only Klaus, Ursula and Ben are staying in the grounds and it’s them who I gravitate towards.

  Like Ben’s painting, Klaus’s contain shapes and colours that are unlike anything I’ve seen before. They’re certainly a world away from the paintings we had in Langton Hall before they were all sold. Klaus and Ben’s work is abstract, they tell me – they’re interested in modernity, energy, movement. I don’t really understand the art they are creating, but I understand the restless feeling they describe.

  Ursula is a playwright and poet. She talks about a man called Brecht who seems to be something of a mentor to her. I have not heard of him, but when she mentions the man the others look almost reverent, and from the way they talk I gather this is a great honour. His name has a kind of solid weightiness about it.

  In their midst I feel my own ignorance about the arts very keenly and I listen, trying to take it in, enjoying as ever the experience of learning about something new. And I must admit this is a very different thing to learning from the books in Langton Hall’s draughty library. Aside from anything else, our library is hopelessly out of date (apart from my own interventions when it comes to the science books), and the ideas and opinions I hear around my uncle’s dinner table feel almost frighteningly new.

  “But why is it,” I ask them one night as we sit lingering over the remnants of another delicious meal, “that you’re painting like this, writing like this, now?”

  There’s a pause as they consider the question.

  “I suppose it’s partly because of the war,” Ben says, swirling his drink around in his glass, staring into it with a frown as though there’s an answer there. “Afterwards there was what they called the ‘return to order’, a sort of need for familiarity after all that trauma, all that…” He trails off uncomfortably. We’re all too young to remember much of the war, but still it hangs over us, over everyone.

  “Return to order,” I repeat thoughtfully.

  Ben nods. “So, more familiar, you know.” He places his glass down on the table and his hands move animatedly as he talks. “More objective, I suppose. Safer to keep things at a distance.”

  “But now” – Klaus picks up the thread of Ben’s conversation – “artists like Matisse and Picasso are embracing the abstract again. It’s as though there’s been a falling away of tradition, making space for something new and different, something vital, completely of this moment…”

  “Yes, yes,” Ben agrees. “Focussing on today, not shackled to the past.”

  “It’s like the metamorphosis of the mayfly,” I say thoughtfully. “They spend their whole lives in the water preparing for a single day of dancing in the sun.” Everyone looks at me with interest, so I expand. “The Latin name is Ephemeroptera,” I say. “It’s from the Greek, epi and hemera, meaning to live for a day.”

  “Ephemeral,” Ursula’s smoky voice joins in. “Something fleeting.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  I have always dismissed painting and writing as being quite frivolous compared to the thrill of scientific discovery, which could change lives. But somehow, listening to these people talk with passion and excitement, I wonder whether I have been missing out on something after all.

  “I never expected that I could find art so interesting,” I say.

  “There’s not much in this world that is more of interest if you ask me.” Ben lounges back in his chair with an air of satisfied certainty.

  “Well, science,” I point out.

  “Science?” Ben’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. “Cold, impersonal, fact gathering.” His tone is dismissive.

  “Biology is the study of life.” I lean forward, gripping the arms of my chair. “It’s about finding our place in the universe, unravelling the mysteries of nature. How could something so intricate and beautiful possibly be cold?” I ask. “Science examines what it means to be alive.”

  For a moment my words hang in the air, and Ursula exhales a slow stream of cigarette smoke, a glimmer of something that looks like respect in her eyes.

  I’m surprised by her response, by them all – how curious they are and the attentive way that they listen. In England my scientific interest is treated as something unsuitable, unfeminine, to be squashed down and kept private, not shared or debated. Here it feels, suddenly, as though my knowledge is valued. It leaves me feeling a little giddy.

  The conversation moves on, but I glance up and catch Ben still staring at me as though I’m a crossword puzzle he can’t quite crack.

  The following morning, Filomena awakens me with a surprise. She arrives at my bedroom door, a wide straw hat on her head, dragging a large trunk behind her.

  “What’s this?” I ask, stepping back to let her in. She dumps the trunk on the bed without ceremony.

  “Leo was in town yesterday and he picked up these things for you. I gave him a list and told him where to go and who to speak to – he seems to have done quite well.”

  I move forward and open the trunk. Inside is a jumble of clothes, a riot of bright colours and textures.

  “These are all for me?” I reach out to run a piece of material between my fingers. It is red and silky, as cool as water against my skin.

  “Of course.” Filomena rummages around. “Ah, here. I think you will like these.”

  “Trousers!” I exclaim in delight.

  I’ve never been allowed to wear trousers before; despite my protests to the contrary, Mother has always regarded them as something worn by fast women. In fact, I have come to realize, all my clothing is quite old-fashioned and more suited to a girl of twelve than one of seventeen. This has become increasingly apparent as I have seen Filomena and Ursula – and even Hero – dressed in outfits that make mine look frumpy and out of place.

  I never gave what I wore much thought before. I dressed as all the women I knew dressed – with a sort of shabby respectability. The other women here at the villa dress for pleasure. Their clothes are practical: they keep them cool in the heat, but they’re also daring, modern, pretty.

  I take the trousers from Filomena. They are made of light linen, wide legged and high waisted. Filomena pulls out another pair, made of a soft, dark-g
reen material.

  “These are much more practical for you, Bea,” she says. “It is quite wonderful, the way you run around.” I feel my heart squeeze at that. The way I run around has always been a problem in the past, not something to be encouraged. Not something to buy appropriate clothing for. It’s a small thing but it feels important, as though my clothes must fit me rather than the other way around.

  There are several other pairs of trousers in the trunk, along with two bathing suits, and a selection of collared shirts with short sleeves. My clothes from England are all drab pastels – pale, insipid blues, pinks and lilacs – even more faded with age. The clothes on the bed in front of me are like jewels – emerald, garnet, amethyst.

  Encouraged by Filomena I try things on, a little shyly at first, but soon I’m spinning around, enjoying the way the silk feels on my skin, the freedom the trousers offer. I stick my hands in the pockets and regard myself in the mirror. I look so grown up, so different. So free. Somehow the simple cut of the clothing fits me better than any dress ever has.

  Filomena pulls the hat off her head and plonks it on mine, laughing at my broad, unstoppable grin. “You like it all then, Bea?”

  “I love it,” I say truthfully. “For the first time in my life, I feel like me. Does that make sense?” I shake my head. “I never thought that clothes could do that. It’s like magic.”

  “I think so,” Filomena agrees seriously. She glances over me with a critical eye. “It is unusual, these trousers and shirts, but I thought they would work for you, and I was right. You look more of a woman in these masculine clothes.” She grins, a wicked grin that makes us into conspirators. “You will turn a few heads, I think,” she says and I flush. “Now that I have finished being the fairy godmother, I must go back to work. If I am in the studio then the muse knows where to find me.”

  “Well, the muse can find me at the pool. Now that I finally have a bathing suit I can’t wait to swim.”

  “If you are going to go, you’d better go now,” Filomena says brightly. “You’ve got an art lesson this afternoon, remember.” She smiles at the reluctant frown on my face. “Oh yes. How do you say? Time to pay the piper.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After a glorious swim I return to my room to find a note pinned to my door.

  On the terrace at 3.

  is all it says in an untidy scrawl.

  For some reason, I feel odd about spending time alone with Ben; there’s the tiniest nervous flutter in my stomach. Why? I wonder if I would feel the same if Klaus was giving me lessons. I test the thought a little, but no, that doesn’t seem alarming. Certainly not stomach fluttering at any rate.

  This is unusual and not precisely welcome. As always, what I need, I decide, is facts, data, information. I have not had a lot of exposure to young men. I will observe Ben closely and try to normalize my response to him. I will be polite, pleasant. I will treat him with cool detachment, as an interesting specimen in a jar.

  I wash and change into my new linen trousers and a crisp white shirt with short sleeves. I tuck the shirt into my waistband and turn to look at myself in the mirror, my eyes widening at the unfamiliar sight. I lift one leg and then the other, and I tuck my hands into the pockets. (Pockets! What a delight.) The trousers are light and soft against my legs and the way they let me move around is genuinely thrilling.

  I have to admit that Filomena’s taste has proved to be spot on. The white shirt lies open at my throat and my slightly sunburned skin loses some of its pinkness, turning more of a tawny gold against the cotton. Instead of looking as though I have been squeezed inside my clothes like an overstuffed sausage, this outfit fits my curves; the masculine cut even emphasizes them in a way that surprises me and leaves me a little bashful. I pull my dark curls into a long braid and reach for the wide-brimmed straw hat to complete my ensemble. I stare at a reflection that is both myself, and, at the same time, someone else – a girl who’s off to have an adventure.

  At ten to three I am sitting out on the terrace, nursing a cup of tea. I take a sip and wince, realizing that I’ve let it go cold. I think it’s the first time since I arrived here that I’ve had to be anywhere at a specific time. Still, I have put the time to good use, eating at least four of the crumbly almond-scented biscuits that Rosa left out for us.

  “Oh, there you are.” It’s Ben, and the impatience in his voice implies that he has been searching for me for hours rather than finding me waiting at the exact time and place he told me to. I notice his eyes widen as he takes in my new outfit.

  “Here I am.” I smile encouragingly.

  For a moment neither of us says anything. Ben is looking at me with a slight frown.

  “Shall we go?” I ask finally.

  “Fine,” Ben says. “I’ve set up in the gardens; follow me.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” I might be laying it on a bit thick now, and certainly the look Ben gives me as we walk along is not friendly.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Is that something that would make you anxious?” I ask, interested. I wish I had brought a notepad and pen with me to record this sort of information.

  Ben comes to a stop and gives me a stern look. “What game are you playing now, Beatrice?”

  “No game,” I say. “I’m just being pleasant.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “Perhaps you could try it,” I am unable to resist muttering under my breath. I know that Ben is as reluctant as I am to do these foolish lessons, but I think he could be a bit more gracious about it.

  “Here we are,” he says, rather unnecessarily, as we arrive in a small, shaded part of the garden where two easels have been set up. We’re in a paved area lined with trees, and the easels face back towards the house. There’s a charming view of the villa, its walls glowing rosily, almost pink under the sun. The tumbling red bougainvillea on the pergola is just visible to one side and splashes of green and yellow from the gardens complete the image. It already looks like a painting.

  “So,” I say, moving to stand in front of one of the canvasses, “how exactly does this work?”

  “Well, with painting the general aim is to get the paint on the canvas.”

  He has set up a small table between the easels which holds pallets, small tubes of paints, brushes and jam jars full of water.

  “Let’s just see what we’re working with, shall we? We can start with a landscape. Choose something to use as a subject and begin with that.”

  “Right,” I say. The canvas looks very big and very white all of a sudden. “Right.” I pull back my shoulders and pick up a brush, dipping it carefully in the red paint and assessing the scene. The house, the pergola and the flowers. I can see them all with my eyes. How hard can it be to communicate this vision to my hand?

  Ben watches me begin, then goes to his own easel and starts work. Unfortunately, while Ben is soon absorbed, I am not doing terribly well. I can certainly see the view in front of me and I can sort of see the different lines and shapes that make it up, but something gets very lost in translation as I try to recreate those lines and shapes in my painting. There’s a sort of squashed orange cube on my canvas where the house should be and it’s hovering somewhere above the ground. When I try and fill that in it looks even more wrong. I push my hair out of my eyes and realize I have smeared paint on my face.

  After a while – how long I’m not sure, but it feels like hours – Ben stops working with a murmur of something that sounds like pleasure. He drops his brush into the jar of water and it makes a ringing noise as it bounces from side to side. Ben rolls his shoulders and stretches, blinking as though he has just woken up.

  “Well.” He turns to me. “How have you been getting on?” His voice is happier, more relaxed now.

  “It’s not exactly what I had in mind,” I mutter, and I can feel myself growing hot with mortification as he comes to stand behind me. The painting on my easel is absolutely horrible, and it’s still the best I could do. Being
terrible at something in front of him makes me feel vulnerable and I think that if he makes fun of me now I won’t be able to forgive him.

  “You’ve got the perspective wrong.” Ben’s voice comes from behind me. Much to my relief, he doesn’t sound mocking. His voice is measured and he’s standing so close that I can feel the heat from his body on my back. “You need to shorten that line there.” He leans forward, pointing at one of my wobbly orange lines and his arm brushes mine. “And this is closer, you see? So you need to lengthen it.” He takes the brush from my hand and makes some quick alterations. It’s still a terrible mess, but at least that one corner looks better.

  I sigh. “You make that look easy. Why couldn’t I see it?”

  “You’ll get there. It takes practice.”

  “Which I definitely need,” I say glumly.

  “Mmmm,” Ben murmurs, surprisingly diplomatic for once. “It can’t hurt. Now, you try with this corner here.”

  Trying to remember his advice I make some awkward alterations. It’s better, but not right.

  “Almost,” he says, and again he points to the different lines, helping me to see the changes that need making.

  A lock of my hair comes loose again, and I swipe irritably at it with paint-stained fingers.

  “Here,” he says. “Let me get that for you.”

  As though it’s happening in slow motion, I feel his fingers as they skim lightly across my forehead, and then down the side of my neck, and it is as if a trail of sparks follows the path they take, my skin crackling under his touch. My mouth goes dry and my mind empties as I stare up at him, for once lost for words.

  Ben’s own pupils are wide and he holds my gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. “You’re getting paint all over yourself,” he says finally, taking my hand in his own and holding it up in front of me so that I can see.

  “Oh,” I manage, staring at my hand as though I’ve never seen it before, completely thrown by my reaction to his touch. His fingers are wrapped around my wrist, his grip gentle, his hands warm.