“What’s wrong, James? I thought you liked me.” She bit her bottom lip as she lowered her eyes.
***
Miss Dearborn’s intimidation of me had begun three days before the school broke up. I was pleased to find out she was going home for the holidays. Her art class was our last lesson of the day. As the class filed out, she had called me back.
“Close the door, James.” She used her husky tone, the same one I had heard her using when speaking to the male teachers.
As I pushed the door closed, Jonesy the classroom bully and his pals lurked in the corridor. They stood snickering while sucking their forefingers and pointing at their crotch. A wave of nausea washed over me.
“Pay no attention to them, James. Come here. I have something to show you.”
I remained where I was by the door, torn between staying and disobeying her. I wanted to walk out, but the thought of dealing with Jonesy and his mates kept me from leaving. Outside the room I heard Master Elliott’s booming voice telling Jonesy and his pals to stop loitering and to return to their dormitory to prepare for mealtime.
I reached for the handle to leave when Miss Dearborn dropped a large book on her desk. The noise made me jump and I turned.
“James, please relax. You’re making me nervous.”
My brain stuttered. I cleared my throat ready to tell her about the rumours I had heard, when my satchel slipped from my shoulder and hitting the floor with an echoing thud robbing me of my confidence.
“Come here.” She drew the words out as she sat down behind her desk. “I want you to tell me how these paintings make you feel?”
I left my satchel where it fell.
“Come see, James. I’m sure you’ll like it.” Miss Dearborn pointed to the book.
The double-page spread showed photographs of Botticelli’s Venus stepping off her scalloped shell. Her hair swept across the two pages as it covered her modesty.
“No, James. Come round here.” She patted her side of the desk. “Then you’ll see it properly.” Miss Dearborn moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
I concentrated on the book as I moved round but I found myself staring down Miss Dearborn’s cleavage as she leant forward.
“James, what do you think of the painting?” She pushed her hair back from her face and pointed to the naked woman. “How does it make you feel inside?” She spoke in a breathless tone.
I had seen such paintings in books at home. Even father had a painting of mother in a similar sort of style hanging in the drawing room. A question that had always bothered me about Botticelli’s Venus, I decided to ask. “Wouldn’t she have been too heavy to float to shore on a shell, Miss?”
She laughed, making her big bosoms quiver. “Oh, James, you are such an innocent. She’s a goddess. Goddesses can do anything.”
Miss Dearborn brushed my cheek with her finger as her other hand squeezed my buttock. A whiff of her cheap perfume caught in my throat and my guts heaved. I turned away from her as a prickling sensation circled my legs and raced across my hands. “Please, Miss. I need to go.” I pulled away from her and backed towards the door.
“James, don’t be like that. I’m sorry I laughed.” She came towards me, hands outstretched, lips bright red.
My foot caught the strap of my satchel, nearly tripping me over. I snatched it up and dashed to the door, fumbling with the handle, unable to grasp it with my sweaty palms.
“Calm down you silly boy.”
I stepped away from the door, holding my satchel like a shield across my chest.
“Here, let me. There’s a knack to opening this door.”
Before she had opened it fully, I burst through the gap and, without looking back, I ran down the corridor, not stopping until I was outside. Once there I leant against a wall, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead, while drawing in deep gulps of fresh air trying to clear her perfume from my nose and throat.
“Hey Ravencroft, you old dog.”
The voice startled me, and I turned.
“Did Dearborn give you one of her after-class special tuitions?” Jonesy sniggered and nudged his second in command. “I thought she only liked to play with the big boys.” He continued while rubbing his crotch. “Maybe I should see if she could give me some extracurricular too. I’m sure my future girlfriends will appreciate how hard I studied at school.” Their roars of laughter followed me as I bolted, my cheeks flushed.
***
As we stood at the lake side, my anger and disgust rose at the sight of my ruined painting. Miss Dearborn showed no modesty, unlike Botticelli’s Venus. I bit my lip, trying to control my nausea at the sight of the hair between her legs and underarm and wished she would cover herself.
“James, you do like girls, don’t you?” She reached for my hand.
“Yes, I do.” I stepped out of her reach.
“That’s good. But I’m not talking about liking them in the way one likes a sister or a mother.”
“My mother?”
She shook her head and then ran the tip of her tongue around her full lips. “You do understand the word fuck, James?”
I gasped. I hated the sound of the word. Too often the boys in my dormitory used the word. Once the lights were out, they would sit in a semi-circle around a pile of the mucky magazines with their cocks in hand. After perusing the photographs of naked bodies of men and women performing sex acts, they took it in turns to describe their fantasies in fine details to each other while they wanked. With the covers over my head, I would try to sleep, but they were still too close and heard everything they were saying and doing. It disgusted me. I saw no beauty in their kind of magazines.
Father preached that beauty was in the eye of the beholder and, to me, art was about purity and beauty. Women exposing their hidden places for men to lust after was neither art nor beautiful. Sex outside of marriage was nothing but lust. A man’s duty was to love a woman not just for her physical beauty, but also for what was within her heart and soul. “That’s where her real beauty lies, James,” he said.
“Where’s the man I saw you with yesterday?” I hoped to bring her to her senses so she would leave me alone.
“You naughty boy.” She giggled and waved her finger at me. “Were you watching us?’ She leaned against the smooth bark of a nearby beech tree, tilted her head, and parted her legs slightly as though offering herself to me. I scanned the lake, but there was no sign of movement anywhere.
“James, I’m all on my own. His stupid wife wouldn’t let him come out to play. But then I’ve found you. We can have fun instead.”
The bile in my gut rose. I backed further from her, conscious of her nearness.
“Oh no you don’t!” Her hand shot out and caught the tail of my shirt.” What’s making you so nervous? You know me, James.”
My brain screamed, telling me to run.
She held on tight to my shirt, like a cat playing with a mouse. “I’m so hungry for your touch.” She sighed, her hot breath caressing my face along with the stench of decay and muddy lake water that clung to her. I knew what she wanted of me after witnessing her adulterous behaviour yesterday. I jerked her towards me while guiding her back towards the water’s edge.
“Oh yes, touch me, James! Hold me tight.”
In one sharp movement she tore my shirt open and began kissing my neck. As she did so, her hand slid over the waistband of my shorts. As her fingers tightened around my cock, my anger exploded as my body betrayed me. I threw myself forward as Miss Dearborn clung to me. A loud splash rang in my ears followed by a sudden coldness that engulfed us. In the depths of the dark water, Miss Dearborn frantically thrashed about beneath me. Just as my lungs felt as if they were about to explode, the heaviness around my waist released, allowing me to break free of the darkness
***
“I’m so glad you made it back in time for lunch, Ravencroft,” the master said with a smirk as I entered the dining room. “How are you getting on with that painting of yours?”
> “Fine, sir,” I said as Mrs Elliott placed a plate of cold ham on the table as the rest of the boys tucked into their food.
“Help yourself to salad and new potatoes, James.” She paused before me; a concerned look flittered across her face. “Are you okay?’ she asked, reaching out and touched my forehead.
I flinched.
“I hope you haven’t got a touch of sunstroke. You do feel a bit warm and your hair’s damp.”
“I washed my hands and face before coming to eat.” I heaped piles of the buttery new potatoes on my plate. I had disposed of my ripped shirt and had washed the smell of the lake from me before changing my clothes.
After dinner, I headed back to my dormitory to set to work on repairing the damage to my painting. During the rest of the holiday, I avoided the lake, choosing to use the sketches I had created to complete the painting.
By the time the school reconvened, Miss Dearborn hadn’t shown any sign of returning from her Wales holiday. The school engaged a new male art teacher. By the end of the autumn term, news reached our schoolboys’ ears that Ophelia, in the shape of Miss Dearborn, had been found floating in the lake.
***
The sound of chattering voices drew me back from the past. I checked my watch - it was one in the morning and the exhibition was over. In mid-stretch, as I tried to free the knot in my back and get the circulation going in my legs, I heard the sound of heels coming in my direction.
The time had come.
Emily passed, unaware of my presence, head bent while searching in her shoulder bag. I counted to ten then followed a safe distance behind. My shoes made no sound, unlike hers.
My shadow raced ahead. Every time we passed under a solitary streetlamp; my shadow brushed against hers on the ground. Emily seemed unconcerned by the darkness of the alley. My hands trembled as I counted down the seconds. Any further along the path and there were too many windows. I lifted the chloroform pad from its container in my pocket as my shadow rose up from the ground. Just as the last lamp came into view, Emily sensed a shift in the atmosphere and turned. I grabbed her, smothering her mouth. As the darkness descended on her, her strength wilted and I dragged her back to where my car waited in the shadows.
Holding her against me, I briefly struggled with the boot to get it open and then lifted her in. A quick check in case she’d lost a shoe, before hurrying back to where she’d dropped her bag. As I closed the boot a pair of golden eyes watched me from the top of an overflowing dustbin. Emily’s cat snarled at me as I jumped into my car and reversed out from the garage.
“Farewell, Millais,” I said, thankful he was the only one watching. Once clear of the city, I checked on Emily making sure she was still out cold, before heading home.
Chapter Ten
Stone Angels
The Fourth Painting
1966
I clutched a well-earned glass of whiskey to my chest and studied the third completed stone angel painting. Out of the three I had done so far, this one was the largest.
The painting depicted the evening sun bursting through dark clouds, casting a fading golden light across the rooftops. The main subject, a kneeling angel, was caught in the rays of the sun, while silhouetted behind her stood two other stone angels. The kneeling angel rested her chin on her hands, which covered the mouthpiece of a lowered trumpet, as though defeated by humanity’s lack of response to her trumpeted warning. Below on the busy streets the preoccupied masses scurried about unaware of the angels watching over them.
It had taken me twelve months to capture Emily’s quiet beauty, but it had been worth it. The freshness of her face radiated her beauty within the rosebud softness of her cheeks and her delicate pink lips. Emily immortalised everything I had admired in the Pre-Raphaelite models. Investing so much in one painting was a big gamble, but I felt the outcome had been worth it.
Her petite build was a disadvantage not for me, but for her. I had hoped she would’ve lasted as long as my other two muses. To create my best, everything needed to be perfectly still, especially my muse. The slightest movement would distract me, but the sounds of the birds outside, the steady ticking of a clock, and her rhythmic breathing cast a spell over me as I slipped into my creative flow. The weight of the brush in my hand helped to focus me. Only when exhaustion no longer allowed me to stand or paint did I rest. That’s when I felt my mother’s presence the strongest and most powerful.
As a child the only time my mother and I had spent together was with me on the other side of a door. I would press my eye against her studio keyhole and watch her standing before her easel. The power of her concentration radiated from her as she stood in a fine red cotton dress that hung in folds around her bare feet. The movement of her dress mirrored every sweep of her brush across the white canvas. The bright light of her studio highlighted the muscles in her back as she worked. That’s when I was at one with her. I imagined holding her brush in my hand, feeling its weight and warmth where she had held it. I wanted to hold her palette while she worked and imagined her telling me in her sweet honey-soft voice what colours to mix for her. I longed to see her eyes shining with happiness when I got the right combination of colours. But instead, all I could do was crouch at the keyhole and watch until my tired eye forced me to leave, or I heard someone coming up the stairs.
The night I arrived home with Emily, my head buzzed with ideas making me want to get started right away. I fetched a fresh chloroform pad ready in case, but I wanted to delay using it. It wasn’t a good idea to give her another dose so soon after the first lot.
As I lifted the boot its dull light caused Emily to stir. She moaned and turned her head in my direction and stretched her arms and legs though her eyes remained closed. I was pleased to find the chloroform still subdued her. She slumped against me as I carried her into the house and up the first flight of stairs to the lift.
Once chained to the cot, I left her sleeping while I prepared my studio and myself to begin work. I took a hot shower; the water soothed my aching muscles and calmed me. After a change of clothes and a quick bite to eat, I set a tea tray with a pot of tea, milk and a packet of chocolate biscuits. On entering the studio, I heard knocking coming from the adjacent room and set the tray down. I poured some of the tea into a plastic beaker, adding plenty of milk and sugar. I switched on the light and found Emily sitting up, blinking rapidly.
“Where am I?” Her voice was groggy.
“Safe. Here. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.” I set the beaker and plate of biscuits down on the table next to her.
“Better.” She lifted a hand, making the chain rattle. “My head hurts. Where am I?” She repeated as her hand dropped back on the bed.
“You’re safe.” I sat beside her, my eyes meeting her questioning gaze.
“Hmm—could I have a drink? I’m very thirsty.”
I lifted the beaker placing its spout to her mouth, pleased that she seemed relaxed. She reached for it. “Thank you,” she said after taking a sip of the sweetened tea. “Why am I here?”
“I need you.”
“Hmm.” She let out a long sigh and blinked, her pupils large and dilated “The tea’s nice. Very sweet. I’m sleepy.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Sleepy. Tea sweet.”
“Yes, I know. Thought it might help you.”
“Help me?” she mumbled, collapsing sideways awkwardly.
“Here let me help you.” I covered her with a blanket.
“Thank you,” she muttered, “All seems so real.”
“Real?”
“I’ll wake up soon… in… own bed.” Emily closed her eyes, her chest heaving as her lips parted, trying to draw in air.
Two hours later I returned to wake her. She was lying on her side, sleeping peacefully. I sat down on a low stool and began to draw her fine features while I waited for her to wake. The easier option would’ve been to take a series of photographs, but they wouldn’t allow me to make an in-depth study of my subject. To understand the joy
s of still life I needed to draw and paint from real life. In a series of quick pencil sketches, I drew her parted lips as she sucked in air, her closed eyes with their delicate eyelashes and the shape of her jawline, nose, and cheeks. Sheet after sheet drifted to the floor as my pencil skimmed across the page.
“Where am I?” The strength in her voice filled the room.
I looked up. “It’s all right you’re safe.”
“You! You were in the gallery.” The chains on her wrists rattled as she swung her legs off the bed and tried to stand. “Oh—my head.” Emily flopped back onto the bed, holding her head in both hands. “Why am I chained? Why am I here—?”
“Emily, please. You’re quite safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She tugged hard on one chain and then tried the other. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Please let me go.”
“The restraints are only to stop you from hurting yourself.”
“What do you want?”
I gathered up my drawings and walked through to my studio. When I returned she was still sitting on the edge of the cot, but now hugged herself the best she could as the chains restricted her.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“I need you. I’m an artist and you are my muse. Now relax.”
“Relax? You chained me like an animal! And ask me to relax!”
I grabbed her hair at the back of her head and pressed a pad to her face, muffling her cry of shock. She kicked and lashed out with her nails, but I forced her back on the bed. Once the chloroform took hold, I quickly removed the chains and her clothes leaving her undergarments. I slipped the harness over her head and fixed it around her curvy body before adjusting the shoulder straps. I dressed Emily in a white silk dress and then wheeled her in the cot through to my studio. I turned her onto her stomach and fastened her arms and legs onto a framework. Once I’d hoisted her off the floor, I repositioned her as I needed, before raising her to the ceiling.
With rapid brush strokes I filled the canvas with broad lines before adding in the details of the sun bursting through dark clouds, while creating a silhouette for the two angels standing behind the main subject.
Stone Angels Page 9
