The Art School Dance
Page 14
‘And doesn’t an artist need publicising, doesn’t he need promoting? Why else do they have agents?’ Paula reasoned.
‘Yes, an artist needs promoting. An artist also needs integrity. The sort of promotion you’re talking about is cheap.’
‘Ginny, love, I’ve been at the art school for five years now. I’ve seen good students fail and poor students succeed. We all accept that if your work is good then you should get a place on a degree course, but it doesn’t always work out like that. There’s luck involved, too. There’ll be off-days for the people who interview you, idiosyncrasies in their characters, downright eccentricities. Every advantage that comes your way you need to make use of.’
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘and that’s an end to it.’
*
No more was said about the matter of promoting my name, Paula made no further mention of it and life went on. The morning after Ben had broached the subject I saw him in the studio and he said nothing about his publicity drive, so I assumed that he had dismissed the idea of involving the national press. I went back to work without fuss or interruption, my painting and drawing progressed well because my life was once again becoming settled. The only hiccough came on Thursday, when I saw the weekly edition of the ‘Chronicle’; the letter from Stephen’s father was printed inside –he’s won a fiver for it, for ‘Letter of the Week’- and the story was expanded on the front page. When I went down to lunch in the canteen I got quite a few looks from people who had seen the article.
‘Fame so soon,’ Gus grinned. ‘You must live a blessed life, Ginny.’
‘It’s more damned than blessed at times,’ I grumbled.
‘But just look at all the good it’s going to do you. If you ask me, Ben has pulled off a master stroke here.’
‘It had nothing to do with Ben,’ I told him. ‘It was Stephen’s old man who sent the letter to the paper.’
‘That may well be, but it’s Ben who’s letting the story spread a little wider.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.
‘He’s passed the story onto the dailies, the tabloids, that’s what I’m talking about. I heard him on the phone, when I went to the office earlier.’
And if Gus had heard, then so had Paula. Why hadn’t she stopped him? She knew how I felt about the idea. I was so furious I didn’t know which way to turn, whether to Ben, to Paula, or even to Stephen’s father; someone was to blame, it seemed that people were messing me about so much and I wanted to hit back at them. Across the canteen I could see a trio of catering students looking my way and in the centre of the three was one who was grinning more wickedly than the rest, laughing over that week’s edition of the ‘Chronicle’. It was the same girl who’d tried to chat up Stephen, the one who had told him about Paula.
She was of a bigger build than me, and I had never been much of a fighter, but I was so pissed off with the way things were going that I walked over to the girl. She grinned at me, then at her mates, and I didn’t bother wasting any words but set about her with both hands, slapping her about the head, then picked up a tubular steel chair and clobbered her with that. The girl was flat on her back and her nose pumping blood before her two pals could jump up to help, laying into me with punches and kicks, and then it was like a bar-room brawl with Gus and Jeff joining in. I was bleeding and broken by the time I was dragged away but I had the satisfaction of seeing the other girl still on the floor, in an even worse state.
*
I must have looked a sight when I got back to the flat that night. I had been to hospital to have a cut treated over my eye and an X-ray to make sure nothing was broken, but just how bad I looked I could only guess, I hadn’t had the courage to look at myself in a mirror.
Paula hadn’t heard of what had happened, she reached out towards me but wasn’t sure if it was safe to touch. ‘What on earth-?’
‘I had a fight,’ I said, slumping onto the settee.
‘Who with?’
‘That cow of a catering student, the one who pointed you out to Stephen. She got what she deserves.’
‘And you?’ said Paula, sitting beside me, her eyes running over every inch of my beaten face.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I got what I deserve, too.’
As gently as Paula touched me, she still made me wince; my bottom lip was puffed out, I knew that at least one eye was black and there was a swelling above it that was held together by some dirty red sutures. My ribs hurt, too, and it was difficult to find a place where Paula could touch me.
‘Why didn’t you tell me what Ben was up to?’ I asked Paula. ‘Why didn’t you do something to stop him?’
‘What could I have done? I’m his secretary, he’s my boss, he gives the orders. Anyway, I thought it would all be for the best.’
I tried to laugh. ‘For the best? To leave me like this?’
‘Now be honest, Ginny, that’s more your fault than anyone else’s.’
I looked at Paula and I knew she’s right, I only had myself to blame; the smile I tried to give became another wince. Paula laughed in a soft sympathetic way, as if I deserved to be scolded but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Famished,’ I answered, remembering that my last meal, some hours before, had been strewn across the canteen floor. ‘I don’t know that I can open my mouth wide enough to get anything in, though.’
‘Some chicken soup, then? If you have trouble with it you can always suck it through a straw.’
I followed Paula through to the kitchen, where she set a pan on the cooker. ‘You’re not exactly showering me with sympathy, are you? I can still detect the smirk on your face.’
‘Well, it is a bit of a mess to get into,’ Paula said, and turned to give me the gentlest of pecks on my swollen lips. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘And sorry I couldn’t do anything about Ben.’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s done with now,’ I told her. ‘Anyhow, nothing might come of it. What interest is our poxy little college to a national newspaper?’
*
The following morning I felt like death, every part of me hurt, as if each muscle and limb had its own hangover, but I went into college all the same.
Before I could reach the studio, however, to be subjected to the taunts and jibes of my colleagues, I was once more summoned to Ben’s office. Paula gave me a sorry smile, to ease my aches, as I entered. Ben is not behind his desk this time, but standing to one side; in his place was a rather pompous looking man, by his dress and demeanour I could see how importantly he regarded himself, and I guessed immediately that I was not there to discuss the further promotion of my publicity campaign.
Ben introduced the man as the college principal, then proceeded to give a little homily, looking at me but addressing the visitor, talking about the work I had done so far in college and emphasising the promise I showed for the future. It was quite a flattering speech, he was much more complementary than he had ever been in the studio, and I might have been tempted to blush if it hadn’t been for the grave sobriety with which I was regarded. I had never seen the principal before, he was more concerned with the college proper, the new building by the park where the more sensible courses were housed. Art students were certainly alien creatures to him and he regarded me more as a waster and a scoundrel than the honest student I was. What it all boiled down to was that, despite Ben’s great oratory, I was to be expelled or sent down or whatever it was they did in a poxy little place like ‘Sleepers Hill Mining and Technical College’; he would not accept the kind of violence I had exhibited and said that there is no place for me in his tacky little institution.
And what about the bitch of a catering student who had been the cause of it all? I didn’t even bother to ask, but turned on my heels and left.
Ben followed, nodded to Paula, who already had her coat on, said, ‘Take the day off and go with her.’
And I, it seemed, was to take the next term and a half off.
‘What are they waiting for?’ I asked Paula, and in that same instant we both noticed the cameras and notebooks.
‘Reporters,’ Paula said, and we dodged back inside the building.
‘Bloody hell, Ben and his publicity,’ I cursed. ‘That’s all I need. Come on, we’ll nip out the back way.’
‘No,’ Paula said, ‘you sneak out the back and I’ll go down to them. They’re probably quizzing everyone that comes and goes. I’ll keep them occupied for a few minutes, then meet you back at the flat.’
Through the partly opened door I watched Paula go down the steps. Sure enough, she was stopped. I watched her respond to a question or two, then went out of the college by the rear exit. I cut down side streets and alleyways, made my way to the flat, but as I rounded the corner I saw another small crowd on the doorstep, more reporters.
I turned back and walked through the park, hid in pubs, killed some time in the quieter parts of town. In the pubs I went to I must have looked like a thug, my face bruised and bloody, and I could see that people really weren’t too keen to serve me so I just had the one drink in each and then moved on, slowly getting closer to home, that home I had grown up in rather than the new one I had found. I drank with old friends -they might have been Tina and Diane, I didn’t remember, their faces blurred as the night wore on- was invited to the Labour Club for a drink but turned that offer down, since there was a good chance that Stephen’s father might be there. The condition I was in I just couldn’t take another beating; it might have scarred me for life.
Being so close to home I decided to call there, to show a little consideration by telling the family of all that had happened and preparing them for the worst. It was a cold night, there was a frost on the pavement and the chill bit through my cuts and bruises; I ran as best I can, my sore ribs thumping, got to the door with teeth chattering and fingers fumbling for a key. But I no longer had a key, I remembered, I had surrendered it when I was disowned, so I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I tried again, and then again. There had to be someone in at that time of night, neither Gran nor my mother slept so soundly that they wouldn’t have heard me. I knock once more, then opened the letter box to shout through. There was a strange smell, the same smell there was when Gran switched on the grill but forgot to light the gas. I began to knock harder, frantically pounding on the door, and the noise brought out a neighbour. He, too, could smell gas. Together we threw ourselves at the door, then started smashing windows while yet another neighbour runs back indoors to call the emergency services.
Chapter Fourteen
The media had much more than they could ever have bargained for, more than Ben’s calls to them could have promised. Following the painting which had brought them –a minor controversy which might have passed unnoticed if there had been anything more newsworthy to report- there had been a fight which brought about the expulsion of the artist and a gas leak which had led to the deaths of two of her family. When these simple facts were juggled about there were any number of permutations open; the gas leak might have been accidental or it might not have, the deaths might have been brought about by some sense of shame in the antics of a wayward daughter, the fight could have been occasioned by her guilt at deserting her family for some sordid love affair, it could be that she was being punished for wanting something other than an ordinary life.
Paula was mentioned in the reports, Stephen as well, they were all tainted by the stories. As if it wasn’t enough that Gran and my mother were dead and I had been thrown out of college! Reporters called at the house and I chased them away; police called with a gas engineer and it was confirmed that the leak had been accidental, a faulty boiler; neighbours and relations came around and I had to suffer their condolences. I wasn't not sure what to do, I couldn’t recall my father’s death clearly enough to remember how we went about burying him, so for once I was grateful to Uncle Jack when he came around to take over and attend to the necessary details, to the undertaker and the priest, to the insurance policies and such things.
‘It was your father’s house, then your mother’s. Now it passes on to you,’ he told me, as we sat in the living room, in the very chairs where Gran and my mother had died. ‘What will you do with it? Sell it?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’
‘You’re still going away to college?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet.’
He nodded. ‘It’s hard to think straight under the circumstances.’
We were silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Your mother told me you’d already left home.’
‘Sort of.’
‘To live with a woman, of all people.’
‘Yes.’
‘You hurt her, you know,’ he told me needlessly.
‘I never meant to.’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t. She was a good woman, your mother. I was always telling your father he’d found a jewel in her.’
‘Yes.’
‘The old woman could be a bit of a battle-axe at times,’ he remembered fondly. ‘But still, it’s a shame to see her go.’
‘Yes.’
Perhaps my reluctance to talk began to unnerve him, for eventually he got up and pulled on his coat. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Are you coming, Ginny?’
‘Where?’
‘You don’t want to stay here on your own, surely? I thought you could come and stay with us for a few days, until after the funeral at least.’
‘It’s kind of you to offer,’ I said, my thanks sincere. ‘But no, I’ll stay here.’
‘There’s no gas, though.’
‘I don’t need any.’
‘You’ll need to eat.’
‘I’ll go to the chip shop.’
My uncle looked at me for a moment, and there was a trace of concern which I had never noticed before; or perhaps he was offended that I’d refused his offer.
Finally he said, ‘Very well then, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ I told him.
‘Okay. I’ll call back tomorrow to see everything’s fine.’
When he was gone I had the evening to myself, there were no more callers, and I gave an awkward chuckle when it occurred to me that the house was as quiet as the grave. There was no drink in the house other than what was left over from Christmas, so I had a few glasses of sherry and then went up to my room. I found the bed unmade. There were no sheets or blankets, no pillows. The room was almost bare, in fact, the posters had been taken down from the walls and all my things packed into cardboard boxes. Even as I felt a tear fall I had to curse aloud. Those women had really wanted me out of the house, hadn’t they? My mother had really wanted to erase her own daughter from her memory.
*
I was asleep in the chair in the living room when there was a knock on the door the following morning. I swore because I didn’t want to wake up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I went to the door and saw Father Macdermot, the parish priest.
He came in uninvited, went directly through to the living room.
‘A tragedy,’ he said gravely, when I joined him.
‘It is,’ I agreed.
‘Two such blessed women,’ he sighed, his head bowed. He was getting on in years, in any other line of business he would have been retired long ago, and his voice kept breaking as he spoke. ‘The comfort is that God takes those he loves.’
It seemed a trite comment to make, but again I agreed. ‘Yes.’
‘They have gone to a better place.’
On this score I would willingly concur. ‘Better than Sleepers Hill, you mean? Yes, isn’t anywhere better than this miserable place?’
He sensed an anger in my voice, looked up, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Virginia?’
‘I hate the place,’ I told him.
; ‘You’re understandably distraught, you’re troubled by grief,’ he said. ‘And though this isn’t the time to mention it, I have to admit that I’m worried by the change which has come over you.’
‘You?’ I was surprised that he could have noticed any change in me, for he hadn’t seen me since my father’s funeral. ‘You think I’ve changed?’
‘I know you’ve changed. Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been aware of it, your mother has confessed everything to me.’
‘How do you mean, confessed everything?’
‘If you like, let’s say that she confessed your sins.’
‘No, I bloody well don’t like!’ I said, finding the idea quite repulsive. Sarcastically I asked, ‘And do I get absolution by proxy as well?’
‘You know I can’t give absolution without your own act of contrition.’
‘Well in no way am I contrite about anything that’s happened.’
‘Not even the death of your own mother?’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘But you made her suffer. Every Thursday night in confession she poured out her worries to me, all concerning you, from that very day you stopped attending mass to your final sin of living with that woman.’
I seethed with anger but had to contain it, there were still some vestiges of that faith I once had and a respect for the cloth prevented me from speaking my mind to the priest.
‘Will you join me in a prayer, Virginia, for their souls and for yours?’ he asked, but I stood there silent, steadfast; he went from the room, putting on the black beret he always wore. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he told me. ‘The requiem is at eleven on Thursday.’
*
The arrangements for the funeral had been made by my uncle, and I couldn’t say that I liked them. I couldn’t argue with the requiem mass, it was what Gran and my mother would have wanted, but to have their bodies brought to the house the afternoon before and have them lie overnight sent a shiver through my soul. The tradition of having a buffet after the service was also something which I found repugnant, but this was what Uncle Jack had arranged, and in a private room at the ‘Bellingham’ no less, a choice which I found ironic. Don’t worry about the cost, he told me, he would cover this until the insurance policies were settled, but it was not the expense which I objected to, but the sheer ghoulishness of the affair.