There is a feeling to be had when one lies back with head angled towards the sun, relishing the golden goodness of its warmth, and such was the effect that this particular room’s stained glass window had on Virginia. With a contented gaze she studied the pre-Raphaelite girl depicted on the glass, unsure if the strange raw umber instrument she held was a lute, a mandolin or a poorly drawn guitar. The light was bright, but not so strong as to hurt her eyes -she had no need to squint- and her attention alternated between the radiance of the glass and the deep wine of the wood panelling, her mind meandering from the manuscript at the border of the window to the ivy, from a curl in the girl’s brown hair to the words of the legend itself: MUSIC IS THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE OF MANKIND.
Subdued and anaesthetised, Virginia was lost somewhere between sense and nonsense, and in fitful periods of near consciousness she would realise that she had wandered from the window, that her attention had drifted to peripheral details such as a barmaid in the next room or the fireplace to her left. It was all a part of the process of relaxing, as near to meditation as she ever came.
As the evening progressed so the room filled with people. Cigarette smoke rose slowly as though to deny that it was lighter than air, and the colours of the window were reflected by the soft denim wisps, refracted by the dust and the motes which floated about the room. The dark brown of the walls changed to a vitreous blue-grey, so lacking in substance that she felt sure she could pass through them, out onto Hope Street.
Seeing Goomer enter, she chose a less spectacular exit from the room, joined him at the bar.
'You know, I think I’m in love with this sodding city,' she said, apropos of nothing, waving her arms to take everything for her own.
'I think you’re getting drunk again,' Goomer countered, lacking soul.
So unstable was Virginia’s mood that the remark immediately demolished her good humour. 'Why do people always have to think like that? And why do they always have to say it like that?' She looked at the faces which crowded the bar. 'People!' she spat. 'All pretence and bullshit! Just look at them! They have more poses than a nude descending a staircase!'
'What’s suddenly brought on this outburst?' asked Goomer.
'People!' she said again, feeling them crowding her.
'They all seem happy enough,' Goomer thought, his mood more mellow than hers and allowing no room for discrimination.
'They’re preposterous, ambitious, all clumping along like donkeys after rotting carrots.'
Goomer said that this was a little ungracious and she said that his remark was more than a little fatuous, a glib phrase dropped meaninglessly on the fence, neither here nor there, the sort of thing which might be said to appease a child.
'Well, your criticism is hardly a mature one,' Goomer responded.
'It’s childish?'
'Somewhat.'
'You know, Goomer, there have been times when I’d have smacked you in the mouth if you’d been a man.'
'A real man? A macho man?' Goomer laughed. 'And if I was, rather than a gentle man, you wouldn’t be standing now. I’d have flattened you already.'
As she scowled at him and moved closer, intending to make her next insult more telling, she found a third body in her way.
'Oh,' she said.
'That’s alright,' said the young man who had inserted himself between them, mistaking her surprise for an apology. 'But you weren’t fighting, were you?'
'No.'
'Ah, I’m so glad about that. Me and my ex were always fighting and it does no good, no good at all.'
Sage words.
Virginia and Goomer studied the chap, their difference of opinion already forgotten, and spoke of him as though he had already moved on to keep the peace elsewhere.
'He’s got no eyebrows,' Virginia pointed out to Goomer.
'He’s friendly enough, though,' Goomer replied.
'His lips look greasy, like he’s been sucking chicken skins,' Virginia observed.
'He’s beautifully slim.'
'Only a fraction over ten stone,' the intruder informed them both, sticking his thumbs inside the jeans he wore and running them around his waist, from front to back. 'I don’t eat meat, see. Or potatoes, either. Or spaghetti. Or anything else that’s bad.'
'What’s bad about meat?' Virginia wanted to know. 'Or spaghetti, for that matter?'
The youth grimaced, to show his disgust. Enough said about his diet.
'Would you like to see a photograph of my ex?' he asked.
In turn they looked at the black and white picture that he produced. Short hair and a determined jaw, as butch as Goomer would sometimes pretend to be; it was difficult to see how any relationship had come about, for the young man and his silver-bromide lover seemed somehow unsuited.
'Very nice,' said Goomer, using another of his famously fatuous comments which meant nothing.
'The trouble is she’s wicked, she used to hit me a lot. I haven’t seen her for ages.'
'Sad.'
Virginia and Goomer found deep sighs with which to comfort.
'So for the moment I’m living at the ‘Beaumaris’,' the chap continued. 'I know it’s not the best of places, but I keep my room clean, share with a bloke from London who won’t let the room get even half dirty.'
'Fortunate,' said Virginia, recalling that the only thing to recommend the ‘Beaumaris’ was that it had wall to wall floors and ceilings.
'A blessing,' Goomer added, then moved away from the bar. 'Just going for a pee, dear,' he said, sensing Virginia’s alarm at being left alone with the newcomer.
Suspiciously she watched him cross the room.
'Are you two married?'
'No,' she replied, and immediately knew that this was the wrong answer.
'Me, neither.'
'But I thought you said-'
'Me and the ex were never really married. We just lived together.'
'Oh.'
He smiled -strangely, with no eyebrows to raise- and moved closer to Virginia.
Her nose twitched when she caught his aftershave.
'Something by Givenchy,' he told her, seeing her sniff the air.
'Really? I once knew a man-' she began, a memory being prompted by the fragrance, but an aromatic hand clamped to her mouth silenced her.
'Hush, don’t mention any others,' he said. He was far too close to her as he asked again, 'So you’re not married?'
'No, I’m not,' she admitted, shaking her head and causing his hand to fall away.
'You’re all alone? Without anyone?'
She nodded, gagging on a mouthful of beer as this stranger began to speak of an occasion when she might need someone, might need a shoulder to cry on, might need another body to sleep with when loneliness became too dark a night. It was difficult for her to escape, his limbs were spider-like about her, but she managed to twist her way free and heard his voice like a litany behind her, fading away as she leap-frogged her way to the door.
'I’ll wash your clothes, cook your meals, be there waiting for you...'
Goomer was outside, looking up at the sky and moving his lips slightly as if counting the stars.
'Thanks a bunch,' Virginia said, but he just smiled, his gaze still fixed on the heavens.
She stood beside him and waited for something to fall from the inky blue. If anything should come tumbling down then she would catch it and keep it; there just had to be a lucky one somewhere up there for her.
Chapter Five
The mirror before Virginia was an inconvenient height and she had to bow in genuflection as she brushed her hair. She was mindful not to count the falling strands and did not bother to sweep them away; they rested in a greasy pile on the dressing table, along with the dust and the used tissues and other miscellaneous items which paid tribute to her independence. This homage was reflected behind her and about her and within her disordered mind in a maelstrom of casual gestures, blouses and shirts gesticulating in haphazard fashion, like limp crucifixions, while other articles
traced her movements across the room.
She had to get out quickly, the place was choking her and she had an appointment; the note, delivered to her via Coral, was taped to the mirror.
‘CORKSCREW AT SEVEN. PARTY LATER. KEITH.’
She waved goodbye to the message, opened the window and unfurled the rope ladder. Carefully, still not fully trusting Gus’ expertise with knots, she eased herself over the window sill and down, eyes fixed on the brickwork before her to fight the vertigo. The exciting conviction that celibate weeks would end that night caused her to miss her footing once or twice, but she made it to the ground without mishap.
'Celibate weeks will end tonight!' she shouted, and crashed through the undergrowth, beating her way to the back gate.
Once out in the cobbled alley she was able to skip along more freely in keeping with her mood, turning right onto Hope Street for the promise the name offered. Her route took her by way of the ‘Cracke’, the ‘Phil’ and others. Just a half pint in each brought her close to an understanding of what joyous was. She went along Seel Street and into the ‘Marlborough’ to start on the pints; a game of backgammon with Peter would cover the first, the second she would pay for just to be polite, and then she would move on.
'Out trying to act like the men again?' said Peter, guessing at the force which fired Virginia’s good spirits.
'Partying tonight,' Virginia said, trying to do a dance at the bar and finding that she had forgotten how to. That was one overture she would have to forego, then, dancing with Keith; quiet words in a corner or a crudely direct assault on him would have to be her strategy, once at the party.
Luck was with Virginia and she won her first pint from Peter.
'As sure as omens is omens and the future’s in the stars tonight will be my lucky night,' she said, and though the landlord cautioned her against over-confidence she was undeterred. She played him for a second pint and won again.
'You’re going to cop it, you’ll get your come-uppance,' he warned her, petulantly zipping shut the backgammon case.
Virginia made a lecherous face. 'Groo! You can bet on that!' she said, and went from the pub, kicking tin cans down the street like a juvenile delinquent, all the way to the ‘Corkscrew’. There a twenty pound note from Gerald for more work sold only confirmed her belief that the night would be special. She waved the note about, demanding a drink.
'The work’s going quite well now,' Gerald remarked.
'Yes, not bad at all.'
'So how about doing some more? For me, this time. I’ll put them in my shop.'
Virginia made some non-committal noise, her attention divided between getting a drink and searching out Keith. Her back was turned to Gerald as she scanned the faces in the room.
Gerald nudged her, hard in the kidney. 'Well? What about it?'
'What about what?' she asked, trying to attract Josh who had just finished serving someone at the other end of the bar.
Gerald waited until she had a drink before her, then repeated his proposition.
'A commission, is it?' she said.
'That’s rather a grand word for what I had in mind. Designs for postcards would be a little more exact. Anything you like as long as it’s original.'
'Postcards? You mean you’d have me do work for folk to scribble over, for folk to slap their saliva-soaked stamps on?'
Virginia sounded genuinely insulted, as though she was no longer just a person who did Day-Glo posters for chippies and Chinese takeaways.
'You think it’s beneath you, do you?' said Gerald.
'Well-'
'You arrogant little cow! You jumped up little bitch! You’re an even bigger shit than I took you for!'
'Temper.'
'Toad!'
A chuckle of laughter caused them both to turn; the person so obviously amused by their argument was Keith.
'Toad?' he said, looking from Gerald to Virginia. 'How quaint. And if I kiss her will she turn into a beautiful princess?'
Virginia’s introduction of Keith to Gerald was wasted; Gerald walked off, his stride deliberately dignified.
'He’s a funny one. Who is he?' asked Keith.
'A sort of patron. He helped set up the exhibition.'
'A bit of a battle-axe, is he?'
'No, not really,' said Virginia, and she found herself apologising for Gerald. As she listed his redeeming traits she distractedly took in Keith’s beauty, the clear eyes which gazed directly into hers, the copper curls which were lit from behind and shone like a halo, the lips which pursed as though perpetually amused.
Keith cocked his head to one side and grinned. 'Are you going to talk about him all night or do you think you might let me buy you a drink.'
Virginia apologised, again. She had lost herself in her appreciation of the man before her, her words had bubbled out in an almost meaningless stream. She had to keep control.
Equilibrium! O.K.?
When Keith had bought the drinks she went with him to where his party was gathering. Stephen was there -he almost smiled a greeting before he remembered who she was- but the other faces were all new to her, mainly social workers she learned, like Keith himself. Their conversation soon proved tiring, they could talk about little else but work, they were as bad as schoolteachers. Virginia moved into an arrogant overdrive, barely disguising the condescension she felt towards the group.
'Virginia’s going to do a painting for my living room,' Keith said at one point, to bring her into the conversation.
'So you’re an artist, are you?' someone asked.
Or a person who does Day-Glo posters for chippies and Chinese takeaways?
'Yes, I’m an artist,' she said without hesitation.
'Fancy. It must be rewarding, to be able to do what you like.'
'Rewarding? Not a bit of it. It’s agonising. It’s a commitment one has, an obligation, not a thing to be enjoyed.'
Her description of the artist as a martyr was not suffered for long, various secondary discussions began, small groups talking among themselves. She and Keith were not directly included in any of these enclaves and to make their isolation more complete she shifted in her seat, turning her back on everyone else to face Keith.
'Your manners haven’t changed,' said Stephen, pointedly excluding her from the invitation when he asked Keith what he would like to drink.
'He doesn’t like you,' Keith confided, when Stephen had gone to the bar. 'He told me not to trust you.'
'So why did you ask me along tonight?'
Keith laughed. 'A warning like that is sure to excite curiosity. Anyway, you might be a lot of things but I don’t think you’re a thief.'
'He called me a thief?'
She was tempted to clasp her hands to her breast and cry ‘injustice’, but this seemed a little too melodramatic, so she settled for a hurt and astonished look, subdued enough to seem sincere.
'Not in so many words,' said Keith. 'He just hinted that some of his things went missing at the same time that you moved out of his flat.'
'Poor Stephen, he was always losing things. You must have noticed how forgetful he can be.'
Keith nodded. 'Just what I said to him, that he’d probably mislaid things, but he wouldn’t have it, he insisted that you took what you could and ran.'
Stephen returned from the bar and they were silent for a moment as he placed Keith’s drink on the table; when he was back in his place, out of earshot, Virginia moved her mouth close to Keith’s ear to whisper.
'Actually I didn’t run. I was chased. He threw me out.'
'Actually I know that,' said Keith, in the same hushed voice. 'I was being discreet by not mentioning it.'
'But did he tell you why?' said Virginia. Stephen most probably had, but she had to get in there with her own version. 'Did he tell you it was because I...' She paused, then shook her head sadly. 'No, forget it, it doesn’t matter.'
'What?'
'Nothing.'
Keith placed his hand on hers. It was soft but firm, comforting
, with nails neatly clipped. 'He said it was because you were impossible to live with. I know that much.'
Virginia smiled, her eyes turning away to gaze into a dim distance. 'Then let’s just leave it at that.'
'But it wasn’t just that, was it?' Keith suspected. His hand squeezed hers insistently. 'There’s something more, there’s some other reason, isn’t there?'
Perhaps.
Most probably.
But Virginia was too noble to say any more, the memory of it all was too painful, and as she went to the toilets she saw Keith’s eyes on Stephen, worried, curious, mistrustful.
Serve the bastard right, laughed Virginia silently, for daring to turf her so ceremoniously out of his bed.
*
By closing time Virginia and Keith were all that was left of his party, the others already having gone on to the house; it was Stephen who had started the exodus, soon after ten, made uncomfortable by the frequent suspicious glances which were cast his way. With room to move, as more people left, Virginia and Keith contrived to draw closer, almost into each other’s laps; she tried to find words to describe his hair, while he traced a fingernail across the palm of her hand.
'Alright! Everybody out! All ashore that’s going ashore!' Coral walked around the room, collecting glasses and urging people to leave. 'Come on, Virginia, drink up and get out so I can get out and drink.'
'Do you want to hang on for another?' Virginia asked Keith. 'Coral won’t mind.'
He shook his head. 'No, I think I’d better get back to the house and play the genial host. The sooner I’ve fulfilled my duties to the other guests...'
The Art School Dance Page 37
