The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  'But that was me!' Virginia protested. 'You conned me!'

  'Just as I warned you I would,' Coral smiled.

  *

  Virginia was found, it was inevitable, that anonymous disembodied voice which others had described called out to her from the other side of the door at an unearthly hour, accompanied by a heavy salvo of knocks.

  The voice was unfamiliar. It was also officious and she wondered if it might be a bailiff, as she wearily vacated her bed. But what if it was? There was nothing in the flat worth repossessing.

  'Coming!' she answered, opened the door and came face to face with a uniformed policeman. She was not yet awake enough to recall what she might be guilty of, and all she could do was blink as the policeman stepped uninvited into the room.

  'Sorry to wake you so early, Miss, only you're a difficult person to catch.'

  Catch? As criminals are caught?

  'Yes, well I do get about quite a bit,' said Virginia. Then she nervously added, 'I'm not a v-v-vagrant, though.'

  'A w-w-wanderer?' the policeman smiled. 'Del Shannon, was it? Or Dion?' he tried to remember, and sang a snatch of the song.

  The policeman was old enough to remember the lyrics and jovial enough to attempt the song. His broad smile and easy manner unnerved Virginia, who suspected that she might still be dreaming. She pinched herself, then cried out with pain.

  'Ow!'

  'Yes?' said the policeman.

  'How can I help you?'

  The policeman searched through the pockets of his uniform, during which time Virginia, remembering that she wore only a short nightie, was able to pull a bathrobe around her.

  'Ah, here we are,' said the policeman, producing an envelope. 'I called to give you this.' He handed over the envelope, explained, 'We don't like posting to this neighbourhood, prefer to deliver things by hand. Mail keeps going missing, or so residents claim.'

  Virginia examined the envelope, front and back.

  'It's a summons, a motoring offence, I believe,' the policeman went on, still smiling, still friendly; he might have been doing Virginia a favour by delivering it.

  He waited, but Virginia did not open the envelope, simply said, 'Thanks.'

  'That's okay, no trouble.' The policeman looked around the room, saw the photographs and drawings of Josh taped to the wall above the bed and took a stride towards them. 'Very nice, very nice indeed,' he said. 'You're an artist, are you?'

  'I am.'

  'And would this be your bloke?'

  'He is,' said Virginia proudly.

  'Mm, a good looking chap,' the policeman responded, as suspiciously as if he was regarding incriminating evidence. 'Anyway, must be off,' he said, turning and offering a joke of a salute as he walked to the door, the raised finger seeming so sarcastic, under the circumstances, that Virginia shook two of her own at the retreating back.

  She closed the door after him and sat on the edge of the bed.

  'Summons' sounded like a singular thing, but when she ripped open the envelope sheets of material came unfolding out. She had enough there for a full morning's reading and the room was cold, so she decided that she would look through the pages outdoors, in the hope that the sunshine might make the contents a little more cheerful. Through the opened window she took deep breaths of fresh air to steady herself, then clambered down the rope ladder and fought her way through the overgrown garden.

  The sky was clear, the river sparkled in the distance and she decided that she would wait until she saw the first good looking man of the day before she looked at the summons again. It seemed that handsome men were in unusually short supply that morning, she was at the top of Bold Street, on the edge of the city centre, before she encountered a creature of any charm at all and was able to look once more at her summons. Walking leisurely, jarring people, she unfolded the sheets of paper and read of her crimes, was reminded that on the 'blah-blah' day of the 'blah-blah' month, in the 'blah-blah' district of the city, she had been apprehended on suspicion of 'such-and-such'.

  And of 'such-and-such' and 'such-and-such'.

  The accusations ran like a song, the stilted constabulary lyrics a mesmerising rhyme which was repeated almost exactly on each page. The only variations were those inserted into the appropriate spaces on the typewritten sheets, accounts of each separate transgression, and the cumulative effect was to make her feel giddy, forcing her to break into a skipping dance as she sang each sheet to herself. It might have been a letter of commendation that she held, rather than a condemnation of her behaviour, and to add a final touch of poignancy to the song cycle she noticed that the last of her supposed offences had taken place on Penny Lane.

  Oh, those blue suburban skies! Such poetry!

  'Virginia!'

  The soles of her shoes slapped noisily on the pavement as she came to a halt. She was halfway down Bold Street, outside Gerald's art shop, and he was standing in front of her, barring her way and looking concerned.

  Virginia smiled when she recognised him, said, 'Good morning, Gerald.'

  'What's wrong with you?' he asked. 'You're not drunk before breakfast again, are you?'

  'No, I'm not. I've been summonsed,' she said, staggering a little as she shook her head but recovering herself to tell him that on the 'blah-blah' day of the 'blah-blah' month, in the 'blah-blah' district of the city she was accused of 'such-and-such'.'

  Gerald pulled her roughly into the shop. 'What is all this 'blah-blah, blah-blah' nonsense?' he demanded.

  'It's just like a song when you read it,' she said. 'Here, you try.'

  Gerald took the summons from her and led her through the shop, down to the basement and into the low-ceilinged workshop. There he forced a cup of coffee on her, then glanced through the accusations which the police had levelled.

  They were all unjustified, Virginia insisted, every single one of them.

  'Drunken driving-' Gerald began.

  'I failed a poxy breath test, that's all.'

  '-driving with undue care and attention-'

  'That's a lie.'

  '-with no current driving licence-'

  'I've misplaced it.'

  '-and going through lights on red.'

  'That red is a pigment of their imagination,' Virginia joked cleverly.

  Gerald handed back the summons. 'They'll crucify you.'

  'Mind you, I'm not sure if they have any imagination.'

  'Virginia!' Gerald snapped, his working day always too busy for him to exercise much imagination. 'This lot is going to cost you a fortune!'

  Virginia shrugged. 'I'll start a counter-action against the police. I'll sue them, take them to the cleaners. After all, what price can you put on the night of unbridled ecstasy they deprived me of?'

  'A night of ecstasy with who?'

  'Keith,' Virginia said, when she was able to remember his name; glad that she was able to remember, she repeated the name. 'Keith.'

  'That person?'

  'Yes, and what a person. If only I could find him again. I don't even know where he lives, though. What can I do?'

  As Virginia sighed, Gerald huffed and swept from the basement, too disgusted with her to beg her leave. She tried to follow but found the stairs too steep, prompting her to wonder if she might indeed have been drinking before breakfast. Tripping back down the two steps she had managed to climb she spent the rest of the morning drinking Gerald's coffee and appreciating his etchings and Russell Flint prints.

  The Russell Flints weren't bad at a second glance, quite nice in fact. She also noticed that they were rather pricey.

  *

  'Someone's looking for you.'

  Virginia gave a weary sigh. 'I know. You told me and I've seen him. It was a policeman.'

  'No it wasn't,' said Goomer.

  'Dark uniform? Shiny buttons?'

  'I know what a policeman looks like, thank you. And he wasn't a plain clothes man, either. Not even Clouseau could come up with a disguise like his.'

  'Who was he, then?' asked Virginia.
>
  'I don't know, even though I saw him this time.' Goomer described the visitor. 'He was in his mid fifties I'd guess, dressed in a loud check suit that George Melly might wear, spoke in a soft voice. The sort of bloke I'd imagine Gerald married to, if Gerald was a woman.'

  Virginia was confused, in the dim light of the hallway she could not tell if Goomer was being truthful or not.

  'I need to think,' she said. 'Can I come in for coffee?'

  'No,' Goomer replied.

  'Why not?'

  'Dean's here.'

  'So?'

  'So you're always being nasty to him.'

  'I promise not to be,' she said. 'Please, Goomer. I've nothing to make a drink with in my place. I've sold the cooker and the electric kettle.'

  'The cooker wasn't yours to sell.'

  'I know. Still... please?'

  Goomer turned, went into his room, left the door open for her to follow.

  'It's Virginia,' he warned Dean.

  Dean was squatting on the mattress, reading; he wore a baggy tee shirt which just about covered his underpants.

  'Hello Virginia,' he greeted her cheerily. 'How's things?'

  'Miserable. Confusing.'

  'Ignore her,' said Goomer, boiling the kettle and spooning coffee into mugs, wearing his most disapproving expression. 'She's just feeling sorry for herself.'

  'Haven't I got reason to?' she sulked.

  'You've only yourself to blame.'

  She turned to Dean, who gave her a sympathetic smile, told him that someone was looking for her.

  'I know.'

  'And it isn't a policeman.'

  'No.'

  'I hate it. I feel like a fugitive, like everyone is against me.'

  'If you were nicer to people,' said Goomer, handing her a hot mug which scalded her fingers. 'If you weren't so self-centred and selfish, then people might love you a bit more.'

  'It's not love I'm after,' she said.

  'No.' Goomer sat on the mattress with Dean. 'Perhaps if that was all you asked of people then you might be a little luckier.'

  From Dean, each time she looked at him, she sensed an unspoken sympathy, but from Goomer she received only insult and criticism. And each time she looked at Dean she felt Goomer shooting daggers at her, as if it was his boyfriend's tempting thighs which drew her gaze, rather than his subdued compassion. When her coffee was finished, and realising that she would come no closer to learning who was looking for her, Virginia rose to leave.

  Dean bade her 'goodbye' as cheerily as he had greeted her, but from Goomer she got only an undisguised 'good riddance'.

  On the street she regarded everyone with suspicion, even those pious people walking to the cathedral for a midday service, and the cultured crowds who were making for a lunchtime concert in the Bluecoat Chambers. Worried by the looks which she suspected were directed at her, she joined the flow of the latter, went with them into the walled courtyard of the arts centre and found a place on a bench which faced the sun.

  Two young men with classical guitars clutched to their chests like suckling infants began to strum and tune, then broke into music as the crowd hushed. To Virginia, suffering a manic confusion, the tunes they produced were too melodic and precise. How could there be anything melodic in a world where each morning jangled with cacophony? How could anything be precisely ordered in a world where confusion was heaped upon confusion?

  Even before the first break for polite applause she was on her feet and looking for a way out. As she stood her foot caught a discarded beer can -it wasn't hers, she hadn't put it there she wanted to tell the crowd around her- and sent it clattering across the paved yard. Hostile glances followed her as she went to the door to the gallery. She found her way blocked by a standing crowd, turned and passed before the musicians to leave by way of the studios and craft centre. She wanted to leave with a curse for the people who glowered, but she was too sober. Her exit took her to the alley at the rear, away from the city centre, pointing the way to the 'Marlborough'.

  It seemed like a good idea to go there, but proved not to be.

  'Someone's looking for you,' Peter told her as soon as she entered the bar.

  Virginia groaned. 'I know. A soft spoken bloke in a loud check suit.'

  'No.'

  'A policeman, then?' Surely it had to be the policeman she had already seen. 'Dark uniform? Shiny buttons?'

  'Wrong again,' said Peter, with that smile he usually reserved for a victory at backgammon.

  'For Christ's sake, Peter, give me a drink before you tell me anymore.'

  Virginia's hands were shaking as she paid her money and took her drink, her throat was so constricted that she could barely swallow a drop of beer. A policeman had been looking for her, and had found her... fine. An older gent of the type that Gerald might marry if Gerald was a woman was also in pursuit... a little confusing. But a third person added to the hunt... that was downright worrying.

  'Someone's looking for me, then,' she said, when she had choked down half a pint of beer. 'Who?'

  'I don't know,' said Peter.

  'But you saw him?'

  'Her.'

  'Her?'

  'Yes. Her. She came in about this time yesterday.'

  Virginia looked at the clock over the bar; it was a few minutes before one.

  'Then describe her, quick,' she said. She wanted to know what the person looked like, and then be away in case this person should call again at the same time today.

  'Youngish, a fit looking piece. Sort of sporty, athletic, shortish blonde hair, you know how I mean, short enough to be manageable when she has a shower after squash.'

  There was no one of the description Peter gave to be seen prowling the side streets and back alleys which Virginia took from the 'Marlborough', nor anyone of that description to be seen in the 'Corkscrew' when Coral told her, with a delighted smile, that there was someone looking for her.

  'Youngish, fit looking woman, sort of sporty,' Virginia said, repeating the description Peter had given her.

  'No.'

  Virginia thumped the bar so hard that she felt her knuckles crunch against each other, wailed loudly enough to startle the diners at the far end of the room.

  He was a policeman, then? Or a George Melly lookalike?

  'No,' Coral grinned.

  'What did he look like, then?' Virginia begged.

  'He?'

  'It was a woman?'

  'Both. One of each.'

  'Please, Coral, stop the torment and tell me! Put me out of my misery!'

  'A merciful death, is that what you want? Yes, you might prefer that, because one of them, the male of the species, is Gerald. He reckons you've stolen a print from his shop.'

  'Me?'

  'No use trying to deny it, Virginia. Gerald's got a photographic memory, his mind is like a catalogue and he knows there's a print missing.'

  Right, Gerald was after her. There was one devil that she knew. And the other? A Mafia hit-man? A member of the Spanish Inquisition? Simon Wiesenthal?

  'It's your landlady,' Coral told her.

  'Her?' said Virginia. 'How did she know to find me here?'

  'Gerald told her. That's how spiteful he is. He was looking for you at your flat, found the landlady aggrieved about what you've done to her property and shopped you.'

  Virginia sobbed, she wanted a shoulder to cry on and looked around the bar, asked, 'Where's Josh today?'

  Josh would comfort her, in his company she would forget her confusion.

  'He's finished,' said Coral.

  'Finished? But he was only due to start a half hour ago.'

  'I mean finished as in finished, stopped work, taken early retirement.'

  'But why?'

  It seemed that Coral was considering an answer, she 'ho-hummed' and scratched her head, but then customers began to demand her services and she was distracted.

  Inadvisedly Virginia wandered off, not waiting for an explanation._

  Chapter Eleven

  When
Virginia left the wine-bar she went to the post office, to the row of telephones there to call Josh. It would be safe to do so, the wife he was so unhappy with would be at work. There was no answer. She tried again an hour later, and at frequent intervals throughout the afternoon, but each time without any luck.

  Where was he, if not at work and not at home?

  Virginia made her last call at a few minutes to five, again in vain. It would be risky to try again, if she did find Josh at home after five there was also the danger that his wife might be there. There was nothing to do, then, but return to the ‘Corkscrew’ and demand an explanation from Coral.

  She was mumbling and cursing, asking why life had to be so riddled with problems, her head sunk on her chest as she trudged down the steps into the bar.

  'You’d better run, Virginia!' Coral cried out.

  Virginia looked up as she stepped from the last stair.

  'RUN, I SAID!'

  There was a blur of a figure hurrying from the far end of the room, a sweeping arm sent glasses crashing angrily from the bar and Virginia turned to leap back up the stairs. At the top she pulled the door shut behind her to give her precious seconds to effect an escape.

  From who?

  Sod the whys and wherefores! Virginia sensed a life -hers!- in danger, there was the sharp metallic taste of panic in her mouth, and she sprinted across the road without regard for the traffic. She dashed down the first alley, Matthew Street, where the sculpture of ‘FOUR LADS WHO SHOOK THE WORLD’ looked down impassively at her, switched directions once more, then again, sprinting along Stanley Street where the sculpture of Eleanor Rigby sat looking lost and forlorn.

  Jesus! Bloody Beatles everywhere! And how could a person feel lonely when there was someone chasing behind with murder in mind? Easy, perhaps, if that fugitive felt that there was not a soul in the world to protect her!

  Virginia thought of doubling back to the ‘Corkscrew’ and hiding behind Coral, whose bulk might offer some protection, but she had zig-zagged in the panic of her flight that she was disorientated, uncertain of the safest way back. Her heart pounded, her body poured with sweat and she was gasping for breath. Now, just moving at a trot, she saw a public house ahead, noisy and crowded. She needed to rest, she needed the security of a throng milling about her, so she entered.