The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ I said, grateful for the ride. ‘I could do with a lift like this every day.’

  ‘Is that a definite booking then, love?’ Paula asked, turning slightly in her seat, speaking as she thought a cabbie might.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Would you like to book the car for the same time tomorrow?’

  ‘I only wish it was possible,’ I laughed, never imagining that the offer might have been serious.

  ‘Go and take your bag inside,’ Paula told me, with a sudden impatience which I failed to understand. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’

  ‘But there’s no need-’

  ‘Go on! Be quick!’

  I was out of the car before I could think of why Paula should want to wait. It was only as I walk up the stairs to the sorting room that I wondered if perhaps Paula was thinking of giving me a lift home. The idea disturbed me. I couldn’t have that, for God’s sake! After visiting her home I didn’t want Paula to see what my own was like and I desperately searched for some excuse to decline the favour.

  Outdoors, again, I saw that the car is still there. I opened the door, but didn’t get in.

  ‘Well, thanks for the lift. Now I think I’ll pop along the road for a drink,’ I said, before the offer of a lift could be made.

  ‘Exactly what I had in mind,’ said Paula. ‘Come on, hop back in.’

  ‘But where?’ I asked, looking at the clothes I was wearing and thinking how inappropriate they would be in any of the places Paula frequented. ‘I’m hardly dressed-’

  ‘You certainly aren’t naked,’ Paula interrupted. ‘They let you in the ‘Commercial’ dressed like that all the time. Come on, get in, it’s cold with that door open.’

  So I did as Paula said, remembering that she often went to the ‘Commercial’ when we had our college binges but still a little surprised that she should want to go there at any other time. She parked around the corner, in the nearest available space, and for the walk to the pub pulled her coat to her, hugging it close to her body. If it wasn’t been for the obvious expense of the coat, I thought, she could well have been a fellow art student, with her jeans and sweater and hair hanging loose. We went into the pub and I bought the drinks, able to do so without worry now that I was earning a little money; got myself a pint of bitter and Paula the lager she asked for.

  ‘The usual room?’ Paula supposed, and I agreed, thinking how it would be to walk in there and have Gus and the others –but especially Gus- wonder what the hell was going on.

  Gus and the others weren’t there, of course, term had finished and there was no one we know; the room was empty, in fact, we had our choice of seats, and we sat by the coal fire, inching our feet just close enough to warm our toes without scorching the soles of our shoes.

  ‘Nice, eh?’ said Paula.

  ‘Lovely,’ I agreed, then asked, ‘But why did we come here?’

  ‘For a drink, of course,’ Paula answered. ‘You said you were going for a drink in any case, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Why this place, though?’

  ‘Why not? You drink here a lot, don’t you? And I’ve been here often enough. I like the place.’

  ‘After college, yes, I’ve seen you often enough then,’ I said, but this wasn’t really the point I was trying to make and I struggled for the words to say what was on my mind. ‘What I’m saying is, well, you come here with Ben and the rest of us, but-’

  A patient smile played across Paula’s lips, perhaps slightly mocking, certainly amused. ‘You’ve seen the home I come from, that’s it, you’ve seen that and it’s got you thinking?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And perhaps it was what you might have called a ‘posh’ house when you were younger?’

  I still would call it a posh house, but for the moment only admitted that it was a smarter place than I had ever been in before.

  ‘A lot smarter.’

  ‘Let’s stick with posh,’ Paula said. ‘And is that perhaps how you see me? Posh?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘You fibber,’ she said, and started to laugh again. ‘You’re thinking I don’t belong in a scruffy place like this, you’re thinking I should be in smarter places like the golf club my father goes to, or perhaps the tennis club my mother visits, or the restaurants where they both dine out a couple of times a week.’

  I was concerned that I might have offended Paula, insulted her in some way, the words were fairly rattling off her tongue and her expression had become gravely serious.

  ‘I’m sorry if-’ I began.

  ‘You’re a bigot, Ginny, a narrow minded bigot,’ Paula said, but now the smile was returning as she slapped her hand on mine to shut me up, to insist that I listen. ‘Just because I dress up for college, which I’m expected to do except on Tuesday mornings, you shouldn’t think my clothes give you a clue to the person I am. Okay, my parents have money and enjoy spending it in fancy places. Sure, there are times when I might join them. I don’t have to go to the tennis club to enjoy myself, though, or the golf club. I can enjoy myself anywhere. It’s the company that’s important, not the surroundings. Can you see that?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I said, apparently not convincingly enough to satisfy her.

  ‘Ginny, love,’ she said, taking my hand and giving me a big sister sort of smile. ‘If you’re ever going to be an artist you really must try to be a little less narrow-minded.’

  Chapter Eight

  On Christmas Eve I had finished work by early afternoon and been paid off, had my presents bought and wrapped. When I left work I called for a pint at the ‘Commercial’ but there was no one there from the art school so I didn’t stay long. Town was already beginning to fill up with drunkards, there were arguments developing outside pubs and people staggering and reeling after only a couple of hours drinking; the typically festive scene offended me so I made for home where I could sit in front of the fire, watch television and have no part in the decadent business. When I got to the house there was the smell of turkey, sage, all the usual holiday fare; we had no Christmas tree, we no longer bothered, but there were a few token decorations, a string of Christmas cards above the mantelpiece and a crib in the front window.

  ‘Finished at last?’ my mother asked, as I entered the living room. She was beginning to wind down, most of the work was done, the house had been cleaned from top to bottom and most of the food was prepared.

  ‘Yes, thank goodness.’

  ‘You sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. You must be tired.’

  It was the same reception my father used to get, when he came home from work. I passed the rest of the afternoon watching television, those programmes put on to keep the children distracted as Christmas Day drew closer, and Gran joined me, chuckling like someone in second childhood at the cartoon antics on the screen. She seemed like an infant and I could forgive her all her crabbiness, for a day or two at least; she was the one who enjoyed Christmas most of all, though for a moment or two on the day itself there would probably be a touch of sadness in her eyes as she remembered all those who weren’t there to share the holiday with her. My mother, too, would have a pensive spell, would perhaps go up to her bedroom and shed a tear or two, recalling Christmases she had spent with my father. It occurred to me that once the childhood excitement had gone there was a little too much sadness about the season.

  After tea I slipped down to the off-licence to get a few bottles of beer –all mother had in is sherry, port and a half bottle of rum- and when I returned Stephen was sitting in the living room. He’d brought presents for us all.

  ‘Isn’t this nice of Stephen?’ said Gran, who had her present in her lap. She kept playing with the wrapping, squeezing the parcel to see how soft it was, searching for the shape of whatever was inside as if impatient to open it.

  Stephen passed me my present.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said; the parcel was soft, probably a sweater or a blouse. ‘I don’t suppose I can open it now, can I?’
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br />   ‘Tomorrow after mass, as usual,’ my mother said.

  I would go to mass on Christmas morning, it was the only time I ever gave in to my mother and Gran, just to pacify them.

  Mother gave me a cold meaningful stare some moments later, her eyes flitting quickly from me to Stephen and back again as if in some secret semaphore.

  Gran wasn’t that discreet, said gruffly, ‘Well I hope you’ve got something for Stephen, Ginny.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ I glared at her, though for a while after our argument I’d thought twice about buying him anything at all, especially since I’d seen the argument as a convenient excuse for breaking our relationship. A certain degree of kindness was called for at Christmas, though, and I’d finally fought against the impulse and bought him something, reasoning that our separation could at least be amicable.

  ‘Well don’t just sit there acting wooden,’ Gran told me. ‘Go and get his present.’

  I went up to my bedroom, came back with Stephen’s gift; it was small, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, and Gran snorted with derision when she saw it.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Beautiful things come in small packages,’ I told her indignantly.

  ‘Thanks, Ginny,’ said Stephen, accepting the gift, and said to Gran, ‘I’m sure it’s lovely.’

  ‘Huh! She’s been working all the hours God sends and that’s the best that she can do!’

  Mother ‘shushed’ the old bag before I could say anything and the four of us sat for a while, Stephen and I a little uncomfortable in each other’s company. Gran asked how his parents were, and various aunts and uncles she knew, one of those conversation I always found difficult to suffer, meaningless, a waste of breath. Eventually Gran said she was going to take a nap before midnight mass and went up to her room, leaving just the three of us. After we’d stared silently at the television for some minutes mother suggested that Stephen and I go out for a drink, reminded us that it was Christmas Eve and we should enjoy ourselves.

  ‘How about it?’ I asked Stephen, not really minding if we went out or not but feeling a little awkward just sitting there in near silence.

  ‘Yes, I’d love to,’ he said.

  He helped me on with my coat and when he'd wished my mother a ‘Merry Christmas’ for tomorrow we left.

  *

  On the doorstep I asked Stephen if there’s any particular place he’d like to go.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ he said, ‘though I wouldn’t want to go to the Labour Club. Mum and Dad will be there and you know how crowded it gets on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Town will be just the same. People were brawling and throwing up this afternoon, so you can imagine what it’ll be like by now.’

  We agreed to stay local, then, and as we walked along the street Stephen linked his arm through mine; it was a feeling I had forgotten, that sense of possessing and being possessed, and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not.

  The pub we went to was crowded and we were greeted like a couple, as if we had always been together and always would be; there were old school friends we had both grown up with and Stephen paused to chat with a few while I squeezed through to the bar.

  ‘Lager?’ the landlord asked me.

  ‘And a bitter.’

  ‘I’ve not seen the two of you together for a while,’ he commented, as he pulled the drinks. ‘I thought maybe you’d split up.’

  The way everyone concerned themselves in everyone else’s business! It wasn’t out of true concern, though. They were just nosy, as Paula had said.

  ‘We’re still good friends and you can quote me on that,’ I said humourlessly, as I paid for the drinks and took them from the bar.

  Stephen had got himself involved with company while I was being served, was standing with a small crowd in a corner of the lounge; I knew the people he was with, but didn’t really want to join them. I had no choice, though, went across, and with the group being wholly working courting couples the talk was predictable, clothes and careers and hopes for the future; this was the way the maturing youths of Sleepers Hill always were. It took a while before courtesy obliged anyone to include me in the conversation, and then the only topic people could think of was my life as an art student, as if being an art student in that town was akin to being a sideshow attraction at a fair, a bearded lady or a creature with two heads.

  ‘Ginny’s done my portrait, you know,’ Stephen said proudly, hugging me to his side. ‘All her tutors say that it’s a marvellous piece of work.’

  ‘That must be lovely, to have your portrait done. You could be famous forever, like the Mona Lisa.’

  This was Barbara, whose smile was not so much enigmatic as stark, in the way that it was painted on her face; she always had worn too much make-up and still hadn’t learnt the subtleties of its application. There were great gobs of lipstick on her pouting mouth.

  ‘It’s so romantic,’ said another, whose name escaped me. ‘The best Alan can do-’ She nudged the chap beside her. ‘-is send me a musical Valentine card.’

  They both said how much they envy Stephen and he hugged me closer all the time, kept gazing fondly into my eyes; for the first time since I started at the art school he saw me as an asset rather than an oddity, a girlfriend to be treasured rather than ashamed of. It had never occurred to him that other people might be envious and he revelled in this, saw that it was my talent as much as my appearance which made me unique.

  The conversation became more than I could bear.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to lend her to me, would you, Stevie?’ Barbara asked, and turned her simpering smile on me. ‘Would you paint me, Ginny?’

  If I did it would be no oil painting; a coat of whitewash is what the girl needed.

  ‘No, she wouldn't,’ said Stephen firmly.

  ‘Barbara just likes the idea of stripping off in front of a people,’ said her friend. ‘You do that, don’t you, Ginny? You paint women with no clothes on.’

  ‘Not me, it’s the women who are naked,’ I said, but the joke went way above her head.

  ‘She has to do, it’s a part of the course,’ said Stephen, excusing my licentiousness.

  ‘And has she painted you like that?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ll bet!’

  On the surface Stephen was indignant, but inwardly I think he enjoyed every minute of the discussion; though he denied posing naked for me he would like his friends to think that he had, it carries with it as much kudos as the losing of one’s virginity. When the other couples announced that they were moving on, into town, Stephen was almost tempted to accept their offer that we join them, but I reminded him of how crowded the town pubs would be, suggested that it would be nicer just to have a quiet drink in the local. What persuaded him to stay, I think, were the disappointed expressions on the faces of Barbara and her companions, a suggestion that it was my company they wanted rather than his. He took my hand, then, to say that I belonged to him, and told them that we would stay.

  Squeezed into a corner seat, there was enough noise about us to give us some privacy, we had become a little more comfortable with each other and Stephen was in a contented mood.

  ‘I’m sorry about the argument we had,’ he said.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘It was all my fault.’

  ‘No, I understand how you felt.’

  ‘Let’s both forgive and forget, eh?’ he said, and kissed me on the mouth in a less inhibited way than he usually did when we were in public, not minding who might see; his lips were soft, his tongue flicked forward, it was more than just a dutiful peck. The blast from the jukebox by the bar became muted and the grumble of voices around us a vague murmur.

  ‘Do you want to stay?’ he whispered in my ear.

  ‘Stay?’

  ‘Here. We could go home instead, if you like. Mum and Dad won’t be back until late, they’ll go on to midnight mass after the club.’

  At that moment I saw Stephen in comparison with the other young men, in
comparison with the boyfriends of Barbara and her friends, and they all seemed ordinary when set against him.

  We drank up and left, hurried arm in arm to his house and forgot about coffee for once. It was was Christmas, we helped ourselves from his parents’ bottles of spirits, listened to smoochy music which prompted him to remember the two of us dancing close together and falling in love.

  That love was still there, he told me, his mouth slavering across mine, never still, skipping like an insect across the surface of a stagnant pond, and he told me he loved me so frequently that I wanted to ask why we couldn’t go to his bedroom. We had time enough, we could have done, but I was weak and he was wicked, more wicked than one would think an office clerk ever could be. He eased open my jeans and I lost the will or the energy to crawl for his bedroom, I tried to undo his shirt and tie but his fingers wrapped around mine and held my hand to his swollen groin. Somehow my hand was held there even when his fingers released it, held as if paralysed, and he peeled back my trousers and drew me to him.

  ‘You still love me, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I had to say.

  ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ he whispered, holding me close as if he would always refuse to let me go. ‘People are envious of me, you saw that tonight, they make me see how lucky I am.’

  Yes, there were people who might envy him, who might make him proud of me, but their envy or admiration meant nothing to me. I knew that in the company of his colleagues from work, those people who were becoming more and more a part of his life, he would never feel quite that same pride in me.

  *

  I felt like a hypocrite when I went to church the following morning, not because of the fornication of the night before but simply because of the fact that I was there, in the church. I could no longer believe in the rigmarole I witnessed on the altar and felt guilty that I should be there for any reason other than true faith. I tried to excuse myself by saying that I was there to please Gran and my mother, that pleasing people was a Christian act, but there was still a nagging insistence that I would do better to be true to myself, even if it meant upsetting others. If everyone was true to themselves there would be a lot less pain in the world, of this I felt sure.