The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  'You’ve come up with a solution?' Virginia guessed.

  Goomer nodded, still smiling. 'A rope ladder.'

  'A rope ladder?'

  'A rope ladder. You can slip in and out without anyone noticing, down the back of the house, through the garden and into the alley.'

  'Right, first thing tomorrow I’ll nip into town and get one,' she said sarcastically. 'Are they expensive? Do they sell them at Argos?'

  The sarcasm noted, Goomer dismissed it with a shake of his head and knelt down among the drawings she had done. He blew the dust off them, portraits of Charlie Parker, Fats Waller, Dizzy Gillespie, Mezz Mezzrow, Jack Teagarden.

  'Well done,' he congratulated her. 'I said you’d cope.' Then, getting to his feet, he said, 'Come on.'

  'Where?' Virginia asked, but did not really mind where; the dust was developing into a cough in her throat and she was happy to leave the room.

  As they walked along the corridor and down the stairs she was sure that doors opened and closed behind them, that people were watching. Yes, Goomer was right, a rope ladder would be just what she needed; if she could scuttle past the neighbours’ windows they would be too startled to be inquisitive.

  She gave the front door a good hard slam as they left the house, to let everyone know that she had gone, and went with Goomer, by the side of the cathedral where the sunlight flickered through the agitated green of the trees.

  Goomer slipped his arm through hers. 'Right, imagine New Brighton,' he told her.

  'Okay,' she agreed, closing her eyes and relying on him to guide her.

  'So what do you see?'

  'The Irish Sea.'

  'Closer.'

  'The beach.'

  'Closer still.'

  'The sea wall.''

  'Good. Now what do you see on that sea wall?'

  She thought for a moment. 'Seats?'

  'And-?'

  'Seagull droppings'

  'And-?'

  'A lifebelt.'

  'Exactly. And beneath that lifebelt are the first dozen rungs of your rope ladder.'

  Though Goomer nudged her and brought her back from the sea to the city streets she could still picture the scene; in a red frame, below a white lifebelt, was a short rope ladder, its wooden rungs bleached by the sun and the brine. At high tide, in times of distress, it could be flung over the wall to help those in difficulty.

  'I couldn’t take that, Goomer. It might save a life if there’s a storm.'

  'And if there’s a fire in the flat it might save yours. Right?'

  Goomer’s sense of logic was so simple that it was convincing, Virginia’s sense of right and wrong so fuzzy that she was persuaded.

  'Right.'

  In the late afternoon they strolled the city, enjoying the clement weather, and Virginia found herself sharing the contentment of the people she saw, or faking a contentment for those who seemed less than happy, craved after the bodies of the men -and women- who appealed to her and looked forward to hotter summer days, to the warm nights which would fire her fancy more than spring ever could, when the still air would be a skin which touched hers and the earth would be a creature to be loved, to bear her body as she lay down to dream. Such pyrotechnic fantasies accompanied her as she went with Goomer along narrow cobbled streets, warehouses climbing on either side of them making the sky a narrow blue ribbon above.

  *

  The drawings were finished and dusted and Virginia took them across the city. They were probably quite passable things, acceptable to most people, but she had her doubts about them; after all, she was no artist, she did Day-Glo posters for chippies and Chinese takeaways. To allay her fears over how well they might be received she stopped for a drink on the way to the ‘Corkscrew’, hid herself in an alcove at the rear of the ‘Why Not?’, surrounded by half-timbered walls and nicotine-brown plasterwork.

  This was the City side of the city, peopled by office girls and grey-suited men with attaché cases, and she was wary of it. People here always seemed to speak in whispers, of the secrets and scandals that were their business, and females would walk across the room as though stepping on eggshells, toes down first and heels following, softly but shakily.

  She sat as apart from the other customers as was possible, her drink before her and her drawings neatly parcelled by her side, and she winced as she watched one woman make her way across the floor, towards the bar from which souvenir key-rings hung like a natural growth, mementoes of places visited or people met. Thinking that her own memories would be like a waste-basket of pages torn from a calendar, she wondered where were the people she used to love, the ones who had been naturally and effortlessly beautiful. They had been attractive in the mornings, men unshaven or women without make-up, and comfortable in any kind of dress. Now she was lost among the secretary birds who preened themselves and left lipstick kisses on glasses and cigarette ends, stockinged legs hissing as they crossed thighs sounding like fingernails scratching down a childhood blackboard, and the men with careers who stood at the bar rather than sat, fearful of creasing their suits. Of course they were sometimes beautiful, sometimes handsome, but always like porcelain, a little too perfect to touch, as though they might break or become grubby. And how costly their coiffures looked, allowing for no self expression, not permitting fingers to run through the strands in sensitive love-making gestures.

  Virginia scowled and downed her drink.

  Despite the shot of alcohol indecision still dogged her steps, even the few she had to take from the pub to the ‘Corkscrew’ around the corner, and she wondered if her drawings were worth showing to anyone. She felt them under her arm and tucked them closer, like treasures, as though she might actually refuse to let them be seen.

  The wine-bar was quiet, just a few scattered diners in the bistro twirling spaghetti around their forks, and at the bar she found Coral in the company of a dapper middle aged man. The Hawaiian shirt he wore loose at the waist did nothing to disguise the generous spread of his build and the smile he offered could not hide the fact that the creases on his face were permanent.

  'This is Gerald,' said Coral. 'He has an art shop on Bold Street. He’s going to help us.'

  The man greeted the parcel rather than Virginia. 'These are the drawings?' he supposed, taking the parcel from her and ripping open the brown paper. Her work was randomly scattered across the seats which lined the wall, and, with a finger to his lips, Gerald considered it, occasionally stabbing at individual pieces. 'Brash,' he said, pointing to one, and then, 'Frenetic.'

  With a ‘ho hum’ sigh Coral drifted along the bar, emptying ashtrays and wiping down the surface with a wet cloth.

  'Yes!' said Gerald, suddenly attacking the work, rearranging the pieces like a lonely old man playing solitaire. 'Yes! I really do think so!'

  Virginia admired his enthusiasm but could not honestly share it; she joined Coral at the far end of the bar.

  'Is he alright?' she asked.

  'Gerald? Sound as a pound. Leave him to it, he knows what he’s doing,' Coral reassured her. 'He’ll have the drawings up in no time.'

  'And are they alright, the things I’ve done?'

  'Fine, Virginia, just fine.'

  'Marvellous,' was Gerald’s opinion, when all the work was hung. 'Don’t you think so, Coral?'

  Coral did not know much about art -she was quite honest in admitting as much, and not ashamed to coin the old adage- but she did know what she liked, and there was not a single spot of damp or flaking plaster to be seen. Yes, in her opinion the display was excellent.

  'And now the prices,' said Gerald, for all the work was to be offered for sale.

  Virginia insisted that the sums had to be reasonable, enough to pay for a night’s drinking perhaps, and she followed Gerald about the room as he tried to estimate the worth of each piece, deducting pounds from every figure he quoted.

  'You really should charge more,' he maintained. 'Shouldn’t she, Coral?'

  Coral ho-hummed, Gerald protested that the work was be
ing undervalued, but Virginia was insistent, happy with whatever she might get, knowing that even at a fiver each she would make a profit.

  'You’re a stupid young woman,' said Gerald, but the prices remained and the list was completed.

  This done, they emerged from the bar into the afternoon sunlight, blinking in the glare while Coral locked the doors behind them. Then they followed her across the city streets, understanding her need to have a drink elsewhere after serving others in her own bar for the past four hours. As they passed shop windows where their reflections shimmered, their shadows before them making a mockery of their figures, Gerald waved darling greetings to people he knew, their number so considerable that the thirsty Coral had to continually hurry him on.

  At last they stopped just opposite his art shop, at the door of a club on Bold Street. Coral pressed the bell and the three of them gazed in at the empty ground floor, Gerald using Coral’s bulk to shield him from the view of the staff in his shop. They waited until they were recognised on the television monitor upstairs, until the door clicked and unlocked, then climbed the stairs to the bar where Gerald again threw out more friendly hellos.

  How nice to be so intimate, thought Virginia, without so much as a hint of a self-conscious flush to the cheeks.

  She took a drink and was introduced to Gerald’s friends as Virginia, an artist, not denying the description but not sure if it was accurate; she still thought of herself as someone who did Day-Glo posters for chippies and Chinese takeaways.

  *

  When Gerald left for his shop and Coral for her bar Virginia stepped around the corner for one more drink or two. There were plenty of places en route back to the ‘Corkscrew’ and she chose the ‘Marlborough’.

  'Watch out, Peter,' she warned the landlord as she entered, 'the man from the water board’s round the corner, coming to test the ale.'

  'Do I take it you want serving?'

  'Yes, please. A pint of titter.'

  'Then a little less sarcasm, if you don’t mind.'

  Virginia took the glass which was served her, poked at buttons on the juke box to deafen out any thoughts which might try to crowd her mind, then returned smiling to the bar.

  'You look pleased with yourself,' Peter remarked. 'Come into some money, have you?'

  'Ah, if only...'

  'You haven’t.' This was a statement of fact, not a question. 'Then I’ve got some work for you if you need cash. Posters, Saturday night is doubles night, cheap spirits. You know the thing.'

  Virginia sniffed derisively at the offer. 'And how might Leonardo have reacted if you’d asked him to do something like that?'

  'Eh?'

  'Don’t you realise, Peter, that I’m capable of better things than adverts for cheap whisky or chicken chop suey? My art is sacred, it can’t be prostituted.'

  'So you don’t want to do it?'

  'I’ll think about it,' said Virginia, cautious enough to keep her options open, and turned from Peter to survey the room, her elbows resting on the bar behind her. There were no other customers as yet, but those who might come would be ones who were expected. There was a homely comfort about the ‘Marlborough’, despite its proximity to the city centre, and Virginia would have liked a pair of slippers behind the bar, on the shelf where others kept their favourite pint pots and tankards; this would have made her comfort complete.

  When Goomer arrived, one of those expected customers, he bought her a fresh drink and asked how the work was.

  'It’s up on the walls and it looks remarkably good.'

  'There you are then, Virginia, always have faith in the faith others have in you.' He stepped back a pace as if to appraise her, not noticing the tiredness her drinking had brought on. 'I must say you’re looking well on your success. It’s just what you needed, inspiration rather than fornication.'

  'Yes, and I can just see myself trying to screw a life-size, two-dimensional, acrylic on canvas nude. All the artistry in the world won’t help me there.'

  'How can you be so crude?' Goomer asked, but Virginia was not listening, she was applying herself to the problem.

  'Mind you, I suppose I could add a touch of ‘bas relief’ to the painting, perhaps have a kapok filled protrusion where the willy should be. That would be a nice bit of invention, eh?'

  'A nasty bit of perversion, more like.'

  Goomer led the way from the pub to the street and the beauty of the early evening seemed sullied by Virginia’s base thoughts, shop window dummies appeared to cringe in fear of being assaulted by her. She was prevented from any such bestial impulses, however, by Goomer’s tight grip on her arm, and they reached the ‘Corkscrew’ without incident. There Goomer saw Virginia’s work and Virginia saw hair so golden that it might have been used in commercials to sell the sun and the sea and holidays in the tropics.

  'Stephen!' she cried, taking Goomer’s hand from her arm and crossing to where two young men were seated. There was a bottle of wine on the table between them so she found an empty glass and helped herself, smiled at the younger of the two and said, 'How are you?'

  'All the better for being rid of you,' said Stephen acidly and introduced her to the person beside him. 'Keith, this is Virginia,' he said, his smile becoming more of a bitter sneer, as if the wine -or the past- was a sour taste in his mouth. 'If she tells you that your hair is like a television commercial, that it could sell the sun, then just ignore her.'

  In actual fact the one named Keith had hair with curls like burnished copper and Virginia could not think what it might be used to sell.

  She switched a hurt expression to Stephen, said, 'That’s cruel.'

  'But a fair warning.'

  Fair enough. The man was still a bastard and she could not understand how she had ever found him attractive, let alone devoted a full four months of her life to him.

  'So tell me, where are you living now?' she asked, adding untruthfully, 'I tried to find you.'

  'With Keith, in his house. You might say that he’s my landlord.'

  Indeed? A single man with a house, a single man with money. She looked at Keith, at the copper curls which were like a gilt frame about his face; he shone, he was beautiful, like an archangel.

  Stephen cut short her obvious appreciation of his friend by asking what she was doing in the ‘Corkscrew’, apart from getting drunk.

  'Hoping to see people buying my drawings,' she answered.

  'These are yours?'

  The two young men looked around at the work on display.

  'All mine and all for sale,' she said proudly, but neither of them opened their wallets. In the absence of their cash she had to settle instead for their admiration.

  'So you’re an artist?' said Keith.

  She was not yet sure that she was, or that she wanted to be, but Keith seemed happy to believe that she was and she made no attempt to correct him.

  If she was an artist, then Keith thought she might be able to help him.

  'If I can,' she said eagerly, leaning forward to listen, to look into his eyes.

  'I have an empty wall in the lounge at home,' he explained, 'and it really needs filling.' He turned to Stephen. 'You know the one I mean?'

  Stephen nodded.

  'So what have you got in mind?' asked Virginia, and when he told her a splodgy flower was what he was thinking of she should have walked away. What kind of man would want a ‘splodgy’ flower on his wall? Having decided that Keith was handsome, though, she stayed and listened as he described the room, painted in tasteful browns and creams, with its coffee coloured settee and the bottle garden on a table by the window.

  Virginia cleverly suggested that it might be better if she saw the room for herself before starting on any specific piece of work.

  'Of course,' Keith agreed. 'In fact we’ll be having a party at the house soon, so you could come along then. Couldn’t she, Stephen?'

  Stephen -proving himself the rat she had always suspected him to be- showed little enthusiasm for the idea, but the house was Keith’s
and so was the party. She was invited.

  'Now, how about a drink?' she asked, thinking that one was needed to cement what might be a wonderful new friendship.

  'We’re going,' said Stephen, rather too abruptly to be polite, and got to his feet.

  'Oh, do you have to?'

  Virginia directed her question to Keith, taller by the side of Stephen, more imposing and altogether more pleasant. He smiled apologetically as he endorsed what Stephen had said, that they really had to be going.

  'Well,' said Virginia. 'Until the party, then.'

  'Until the party,' Keith accepted. 'We’ll let you know when and where.'

  Once they had gone Virginia returned to Goomer, who had positioned himself in a corner, strategically placed, able to notice anyone showing an interest in the drawings.

  'Who was that you were talking to?' he asked her.

  'An old friend.'

  'There were two of them. Who was the other?'

  'A stranger,' she answered, sitting down beside him. 'But not for long, I hope.'

  Goomer gave her a look of disappointment and disgust. 'Not letting your itchy genitalia get the better of you again, are you?'

  Virginia tried not to. She dampened her desire with glasses of wine while Goomer took charge of the evening’s business, replenishing her glass when necessary and collecting money for any drawings sold. He and Coral spoke with interested customers, of whom there were surprisingly many, pointed to Virginia -’that’s the artist’- then took the cash and deducted their own percentages. Each piece sold was marked with a red sticker, to be collected when the exhibition had run its course, which was how Gerald said the professionals did things.

  'How much have I made?' Virginia asked, when the hands on the clock behind the bar crept on towards ten o’clock.

  Goomer told her, quoted a sum which he agreed was not bad, not bad at all.

  'Then enough and to hell with it! Let’s get rid of the rest for a pint apiece!' said Virginia generously.

  Goomer was delighted with this bountifulness. 'That’s the spirit, Virginia! Art for the people, not the elite!' he congratulated her, going off to conduct more business at the new cut-price.