Indelible

by Peter Helton

  Since I’d already been introduced to many of them, the majority of students turned expectantly towards me as I slipped inside. I told them to keep on working while I had a look around to see them individually and I would talk to them collectively once I had an idea what they were all doing.

  Looking at other people’s paintings and listening to their ideas sounds like a pleasant way to spend a day, but it is surprisingly hard work. These were students, not fellow artists, which meant that by extension all their problems now became my problems. The students who have the biggest problems are usually the ones who don’t know they have problems. This group was as mixed a bunch as you could wish for; male and female, British and overseas, enthusiastic and blasé, of average talent or superbly gifted, organized or sloppy, prolific or sleepy and various combinations of the above. I was glad to note that there was no ‘school of Batford House’, no house style that so often lays waste to students’ talents as they try to conform or please an admired tutor. I tried to remember the persona that Kroog had tried to build up for me; she had apparently spread rumours that I was a fierce critic and a slave driver possessed by a strict work ethic and would brook no nonsense when it came to handing in projects or essays, arriving late for tutorials or other slack behaviour. As I made my way around the studio I noticed that my arrival had indeed a certain electrifying effect on most students. One of the painters I recognized as the skinny bespectacled charcoal-obsessed draughtsman from the life-drawing session. He was in fact working on a painting of Petronela, posed nude in a drab and dimly lit environment. His name was Ben Creeling. Being useless at matching names to faces I drew a pair of spectacles next to his name on my list. Everything about Ben was dark, and that included his eyes and hair, his charcoal-rimmed fingernails and his painting. He was serious, humourless and apparently spent all his waking hours painting and drawing. He was also very good at it. ‘I am trying to strip away all that is incidental and unnecessary from my drawing and painting so I can reveal the truth about my subjects,’ he told me in an urgent voice while fiddling with a paper knife.

  Always having been nervous around people who proclaimed to have seen the truth while fingering knives, I managed to make him admit that it was a very subjective truth and might benefit from the odd reality check. What I didn’t tell him was that as far as I could see the truth about Petronela as he depicted it in his painting was that she was very bored with sitting on a hard chair.

  After chatting to a number of students about their painting, some good, some average, I found another painter who stood out, in more ways than one: Hiroshi Takeyama. I would have no problem matching his face to the name. Japanese, six foot tall and with a carefully groomed triangular beard and a long ponytail, he stood in front of his enigmatic painting like a magus and pointed his paintbrush at me like a wizard’s wand, perhaps hoping to make the intruder disappear. His painting was of a forest scene, eight foot tall and nearly as wide, and contained both vague mists and close details of forest flora – trees, leaves, roots. Hiroshi spoke good English with a pleasant accent and with a precision that was also present in some of his brushwork.

  ‘Where is this forest?’ I asked.

  ‘It is Summerlee Wood, right at the centre of it.’ He pointed his brush at the window in the direction of the trees. ‘I always work from real subjects.’

  ‘Did you paint this out there?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but I took these out there.’ He handed me a bulging sketchbook full of six by four photos of forest scenes, details of twigs, leaves and of forest floor. ‘I take reality and then improve on it in my painting,’ he said modestly.

  ‘And once you have done that we’ll see if we can improve your painting,’ I said mildly.

  When I had finished making my round of the studio I still had a small number of students to visit who were either painting en plein air (sometimes also called ‘outside’) or who had found nooks and crannies elsewhere in Batcombe House where they could avoid the distractions of a shared work space and perhaps hope to escape the attentions of one-eyed tutors, reputedly possessed of a fierce work ethic. I still knew my way around and had soon winkled out most of those in the house: in a small room near the print department on the first floor, under a skylight in the tiny library and other odd corners and one in a forgotten but bright bathroom on a landing.

  The last spot I visited was at the end of a rarely visited corridor where an oriel window with lead lights provided an interestingly lit work area for a girl with pale grey eyes, short hair dyed in red and gold stripes, and aggressive flowery perfume. She wore a boiler suit and walking boots and didn’t look up from her painting until I was close enough to decide that she had dowsed herself in jasmine.

  ‘You’re Mr Honeysett,’ she said. ‘I went to one of your shows.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Chris,’ I said.

  ‘I’m Phoebe.’

  I found her on my list: Phoebe Snow. I sketched a tiny oriol next to her name as a map reference.

  ‘I really like your work,’ she said. ‘I’m not just saying that.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m afraid I’ve gone figurative,’ I confessed.

  ‘Really?’ Her paintings were joyful and confused abstracts that tried to make up for what they lacked in structure by exuberance and brightness. A quick trawl through the painters whose work she rated, now that I had turned traitor, revealed that she was a great fan of Greg Landacker’s. She even had a couple of postcards of his paintings tacked to the wall.

  ‘Landacker will come and contribute a painting to the anniversary exhibition; I spoke to him yesterday,’ I confided, though didn’t mention that he gave me a black eye.

  ‘Brilliant. I know he used to teach here, shame he’s not any more,’ she said, pulling a sad face.

  Thus put firmly in my place, I decided I had seen enough of students for one day. There was still one exhibitor to find, the ex-tutor and sculptor Rachel Eade. I had googled her and found very little – a few things shown at art centres around the country, though nothing current or recent.

  Kroog and I arrived at the same time in the refectory and shared a table again. ‘She’s on the list?’ she asked when I mentioned where I was going next. Kroog was so unbelieving, she demanded to see it. ‘Rachel Eade taught here when I was in hospital having this and that removed and as I convalesced I had to watch helplessly from my window as she filled the heads of my students with rubbish. I can’t believe John wanted her to show here,’ she fumed.

  I gathered that Eade came from a rival school of sculptural thought. ‘She’s there in black and white,’ I insisted.

  Kroog grunted dismissively. ‘Let’s hope she’s too busy dreaming up conceptual crap to attend. What did you think of the current crop of painters?’

  ‘I haven’t seen all of them yet but mostly above average, with a few exceptions.’

  ‘Did you meet Roshi?’

  ‘Hiroshi? Japanese?’

  ‘The others call him Roshi, for short. He’s one to watch, I think, in more ways than one. The other one with real talent is Ben Something-or-other. He’s quite obsessive though and needs to loosen up. Paul worried about him. The last thing we want is another student having a breakdown.’

  ‘Yes, not exactly a barrel of laughs, but he has talent.’

  ‘Never stops drawing. Last year he used enough charcoal to roast an ox over. Probably needs a girlfriend.’

  The refectory had filled up with students and tutors. Behind Kroog I could see that Claire, the admin secretary, and Catherine Stott were sharing a small table. Dan, the ceramics tutor, was sitting dustily at a table by himself, attacking a huge pile of spaghetti and meatballs. I had plumped for the same and was still twirling the thick spaghetti round the sauce when Anne Birtwhistle came in. At the counter she piled her plate full of salad and quiche, then stood for a moment, looking for a place to sit down. ‘Don’t look now,’ I warned Kroog. ‘Bean Counter at three o’clock.’ Dan had noticed and was making inviting gestures at the chair opposit
e him but Anne pretended not to see. There were a few seats left at larger tables that were taken up by students but none of it seemed to appeal and she carried her plate out of the door and up the stairs. ‘Panic over, she’s taken her food upstairs.’

  ‘Phew,’ said Kroog. ‘That woman makes me feel young. I’m scared I might throw the cruet set at her head. She’s in a right tizz about John’s funeral.’

  ‘It can be a difficult time, of course, arranging a loved one’s funeral.’

  ‘Loved one? Anne didn’t care much for her father and vice versa. I cared for John. It isn’t that at all. John gave very clear instructions as to the disposal of his body and if she wants to inherit she’ll have to abide by his wishes. He’s to be cremated. Within a week his ashes are to be scattered in Fiddler’s Pond during a party.’

  ‘What’s so odious about it?’

  Kroog gave a gap-toothed cackle. ‘It’s fancy dress and torchlight. All who attend have to dress as famous artists or artworks.’

  ‘Excellent. You can come as yourself.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Honeypot. Can you spare a meatball, do you think?’ she asked, fork in hand.

  SEVEN

  There was no need to ask Tim for help this time. Rachel Eade, the last exhibitor on my list – or rather the last one I looked up – had not moved at all. She still lived in Limpley Stoke, an affluent village south-east of Bath. I found her place easily. It was one of the newer, larger houses, with a double garage and a brand-new Mini Countryman in sensible black and white parked in front of it. There had been a phone number on my list for Eade but I wanted to have a chance to stoke up my prejudices before first impressions got in the way. There was not much of a front garden, just a couple of stone planters full of bright annuals, a foot scraper in the shape of a hedgehog and a door knocker in the shape of a lion. Rebel country this wasn’t. Whatever kind of sculpture Rachel Eade was making, she wasn’t making it here.

  The woman who opened the door was tall, slim and had very short, very blonde hair. Early forties, in a simple knee-length black dress and strappy sandals. She was also in a bit of a hurry and still fastening a silver watch to her wrist as she frowned at me.

  ‘Rachel Eade?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I’m Chris Honeysett. I work at BAA in Batcombe.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said, to rhyme with ‘more fool you’. ‘Come in, close the door. And what do you want with me? I must warn you, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’ She looked at her watch. ‘No, I tell a lie. I’m actually late already.’

  I followed her into the sitting room – tastefully modern but straight from the catalogue – where she started rummaging through a large cream handbag and began throwing things into a smaller black one. ‘We are organizing an anniversary exhibition, thirty years, which the now-late John Birtwhistle had planned. It’s still going ahead and you are one of the artists who he wanted to invite to exhibit.’ I then had much the same conversation I had had with the others. All but Landacker were surprised to be invited to return to the old school and, like the others, she hesitated.

  ‘I’m a sculptor,’ she said. ‘I’m an installation artist.’ She checked her watch again, sighed, then motioned me to sit down and did the same.

  ‘Showing anywhere at the moment?’ I asked unkindly.

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘But you’re working on something.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Where’s your studio?’

  ‘I don’t have a studio as such at the moment. My work is always very site-specific. I prefer to work at the location, let it tell me what the place wants …’

  Stuff, apparently, was what most places wanted. I had seen pictures. Drifts of leaves in corners, scribbles on walls, found objects scattered on the floors. I wondered who bought it. ‘Here’s your chance. The date hasn’t been set but the condition is that it is a piece done specifically for the exhibition, with accompanying sketchbook.’

  ‘Why not? I’m in. Send me the details. And now I really have to go.’ She grabbed her bag and walked me to the door in haste.

  ‘Oh, just one more thing,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to do it outside.’

  John Birtwhistle was quietly cremated on a Monday, at Haycombe crematorium, a ‘close family only’ occasion, which probably meant just Anne, unless her wayward brother Henry had put in an appearance. The scattering of the ashes, as stipulated in John’s will, was to take place within a week and was planned for Saturday evening. As John had undoubtedly expected, students were spending less time thinking of the loss of their elderly tutor and more about ‘what to go as’ – work of art or artist, contemporary or classical?

  The exhibition was to open three weeks later. ‘That’s not very long for new work to be created,’ I suggested to Anne. ‘Some painters, like Landacker, might take far longer to produce an image.’

  ‘Rubbish. I’ve seen pictures of his stuff and if it takes more than an afternoon I’d be very much surprised. Tell them all to get on with it or I’ll cancel,’ she said and clacked irritably upstairs to her father’s rooms where she had been staying since her arrival.

  I left messages on Rachel Eade’s and Dawn Fowling’s answer phones but Hufnagel and Landacker would have to be told in person, one because he was too posh to give out his number to a mortal like me, the other because he was too poor to afford a working phone. I decided to get Landacker out of the way first. He had managed some kind of apology for the welcome he had given me but we hadn’t exactly parted bosom buddies and I found him just a little self-obsessed.

  I squashed my car into the shade of the hedgerow opposite The Old Forge. It was another warm day and the weather was set fair until the end of the week. The Old Forge was at the edge of the village and standing in the lane I noticed how quiet it was; all I could hear was the purling of the stream and a few birds. I also noticed that Landacker had had another unwelcome visitor. The broad gate had been mutilated at the side of the lock so that it would no longer close properly and someone had deeply scored the wood with a tag of some kind, in the shape of two triangles facing each other: I>
  I needed no reminder beyond my eye patch of how my unannounced visit had been received the last time so I had every intention of making myself heard before entering studio or house. Like a good detective I laid a hand on the car’s bonnet to feel if it had been used recently – it was cold to the touch. The door to the studio had been repaired with a new shiny lock and a new tinted window that did not allow me to see inside.

  It probably did not allow anyone to see much looking out either, because while my fist was still raised to knock at the door it opened and Landacker came out, obviously unaware of me, because seeing me made him jump. ‘It’s you again!’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I was about to knock.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He was wearing what I imagined was his painting gear: paint-smeared black t-shirt, designer jeans and Nikes. He awkwardly pulled the door shut behind himself.

  ‘The date for the exhibition. Three weeks on Monday.’

  ‘Three weeks. Righty-ho.’ He didn’t move. Neither did I but no invitation to come into the house or studio was forthcoming.

  ‘John’s body was cremated but there is a scattering-of-the-ashes party at the college early Saturday evening. John left strict instructions.’

  ‘Eccentric even beyond death.’

  ‘Yes. Everyone’s to dress as a famous artist from history or a famous work of art. And his ashes are going in the pond.’

  ‘And why not.’

 
‘Your gate. I don’t remember it looking like that last time I was here.’

  ‘Bloody vandals.’

  ‘They managed to force the lock. Did you have another break-in?’

  ‘No, that’s all they did.’

  I was going to ask him if it didn’t worry him but I could already that see Landacker looked worried. ‘And I don’t suppose you called the police about this either?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it. But anyone can get over the wall anyway; it’s only eight foot high in most places.’

  ‘Yes, but they can’t drive away your car unless the gate is open.’

  ‘Damn. I hadn’t even thought about the car.’

  It seemed like Landacker was quite prepared to keep us standing on his drive so I said my farewell and left him to ponder his incomplete security. As I drove back towards Bath I came to think about the security at Mill House. It didn’t take me long. We didn’t have any.

  Visiting Kurt Hufnagel at his honeysuckled shambles was to be my next good deed of the day and involved a stopover at the supermarket. It was partly the thought of his poor life model having to subsist on cut-price teabag tea and lumpy milk in dusty cups, but mainly the thought of having to sit down to another cup of it myself that made me do it.

  When I let the DS roll to a stop outside Honeysuckle House it looked exactly the same. A pair of crows waited until I had pushed open the creaking gate before they abandoned their attack on the festering rubbish bags and lazily flapped away to wait on the roof of the garage until I had carried my shopping to the back door. No loud music this time but I could hear intermittent banging from somewhere inside. I did some myself, loudly, on the door and when I got no response I tried the door handle. This time the door was locked. Only after some more knocking did I finally hear movement on the other side.

  Hufnagel opened the door a crack and peered through it. He was holding a claw hammer. ‘It’s you.’