by R. A. Spratt
The Headmaster hastily stepped between Mr Brecht and the microphone. ‘Yes, thank you. Such an insight into the artistic mind,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Well, with no further ado, I call upon the vice president of the school council, Dame Lynley Hasbeth, to do the honours and unveil our mural, designed by Lysander Brecht and completed by every single member of our student body. Dame Lynley …’
A thin, elderly woman in a beautiful grey silk dress and wearing diamond jewellery stepped forward, hung her clutch purse from her elbow and reached up to pull the cord controlling the curtain. The curtain didn’t move.
‘It’s stuck,’ said Dame Lynley.
‘Perhaps, Dame Lynley,’ said the Headmaster, beginning to look a little flustered, ‘perhaps if you pull harder?’
Dame Lynley reached up and yanked as hard as an elderly woman who doesn’t weigh much more than a dish rag could. The curtain swayed slightly but didn’t open.
‘Binky!’ snapped the Headmaster.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Binky. Being six foot five, he was easy to spot in the crowd.
‘Help Dame Lynley,’ ordered the Headmaster.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Binky. He jogged over to Dame Lynley. ‘Shall we pull it together, Your Highness?’
Dame Lynley, enjoying being spoken to by a very handsome athletic boy, grabbed the cord again. Binky reached up as high as he could and, using the strength of every muscle in his large body, wrenched the cord down. Dame Lynley, who had been standing too close, was knocked over by his bottom as he dropped into a squat. Binky, trying desperately hard not to step on an elderly woman he mistakenly believed was a member of the royal family, tripped over her and fell hard on his back. The curtain juddered for a moment, then completely fell away. And in that instant everyone totally forgot about the elderly woman who Binky may very well have crushed, as they stared at the profoundly confronting sight of the mural.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the Headmaster. ‘What have you done?!’
Mr Brecht burst out laughing. ‘Fabulous, isn’t she?’
The mural was a six metre by thirty metre painting of Mrs Cannon, entirely naked and reading a book. Her modesty was only protected by the discreet placement of the book and a coffee cup.
‘But that’s Mrs Cannon!’ exploded the Headmaster.
‘I look rather good, don’t I?’ said Mrs Cannon happily.
‘She’s completely naked!’ exclaimed the Head master.
‘I call it, “The Importance of Literacy”,’ said Mr Brecht.
‘It’s a nude painting of the English teacher!’ yelled the Headmaster.
‘What better way to encourage young boys to read,’ said Mr Brecht.
‘They’re not going to read!’ yelled the Headmaster. ‘They’re going to be too busy staring at the naked painting!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Brecht, ‘I am here to teach art appreciation.’
‘It’s not the art they’ll be appreciating!’ bellowed the Headmaster.
‘I like to think that Mrs Cannon raises teaching to an art form,’ said Mr Brecht.
‘So gallant,’ said Mrs Cannon, smiling at Mr Brecht.
‘And what is Mr Cannon going to think about all this?’ demanded the Headmaster, turning on Mrs Cannon. ‘Do you think he’s going to be happy about having a two-hundred-square-metre painting of his wife naked?’
‘Of course he is,’ said Mrs Cannon. ‘Who do you think took the photograph it was based on?’
The Headmaster clutched his head in frustration. ‘I shouldn’t be trying to improve morale at this school, I should be trying to improve mental health. You’re all bonkers!’
‘Your school has the world’s largest Lysander Brecht painting,’ said Friday, calling out from the front of the crowd. ‘It’s going to look impressive in the school prospectus.’
‘I can’t put a picture of Mrs Cannon in her birthday suit in the prospectus!’ wailed the Headmaster.
‘I’d be keen to see a copy if you did,’ said one billionaire.
‘Come along,’ said Mr Brecht, looking at his watch. ‘It’s time to start the art show. The international bidders will be waiting on the phones.’
‘I want to fire you,’ said the Headmaster.
‘My contract expires at midnight,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘You’d only be creating a lot of paperwork for yourself. Come on, let’s see if we can raise enough money for your pool.’
Chapter 19
The Art Show
When Friday walked into the school hall she did not expect to be impressed, but she was. Mr Brecht’s overblown budget had obviously extended to art show decorations as well. The whole room, which was the size of a basketball court plus bleachers, had been swathed in white sheeting. Partitions had been set up at carefully arranged ‘random’ angles to display the work.
Objectively, as she glanced about the room, Friday had to concede that the art works were rather good. Highcrest Academy wasn’t renowned for its arts program, and she had certainly seen no evidence of artistic excellence from the student body before, but Mr Brecht’s visceral teaching style seemed to have had an effect. As a whole, the student body of Highcrest was marginally less terrible than they had been before Mr Brecht arrived.
The parents and guests were in high spirits, having been titillated by the enormous nude painting spread across the school’s main classroom block. Champagne was being handed around. There was a frisson of excitement in the air.
Mr Hambling, the drama teacher, stepped for ward to take the microphone. Mr Hambling was a former Shakespearean actor who had trodden the boards at Stratford-Upon-Avon and Broadway. Admittedly, he had never made it much beyond playing Spear Holder Number Two or Third Soothsayer from the Left, but in his time in the theatre he had learned to speak very loudly and dramatically. There really was no need to amplify the sound of his voice, but he enjoyed using a microphone as it allowed him even greater range for being melodramatic.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests and students, we are gathered here today for one purpose,’ declared Mr Hambling. He looked about the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘To make a vast amount of money for this school!’
Everyone clapped and cheered. They really were in a good mood, the champagne apparently having disconnected the part of their brains that made them realise they were the ones who were going to be separated from this vast amount of money.
‘We are going to auction off the three finest paintings from each year,’ said Mr Hambling. ‘We will begin with year 7. The first item for sale today is a watercolour by Jessica Bastionne titled “Swamp Frog”.’
Binky stepped forward with the picture and placed it on an easel next to Mr Hambling. It was actually a lovely painting. The frog looked almost majestic as it sat proudly on a rock, glistening in the sun, its jowls swollen like a proud leader. Friday pondered that she could see how the fairytales of frogs turning into princes had originated. For a slimy, mud-dwelling amphibian, this frog looked like it had a tremendous sense of self-importance.
‘Who will start the bidding?’ asked Mr Hambling.
Everyone turned to look at Mr and Mrs Bastionne, Jessica’s parents. If there was any parent who might feel uninclined to give more money to the school, Mr and Mrs Bastionne would be prime candidates. Just the previous term Jessica had been violently ill after eating contaminated beef stroganoff. The Headmaster had only managed to avoid a lawsuit against the school by promising to ‘review’ Jessica’s history mark, which basically meant he had allowed her to pass modern history even though she had studied the subject for a while and still misspelled ‘Hitler’ as ‘Hilter’.
‘Who will start me off with a bid for this fine watercolour of a wide-mouthed brown frog?’ asked Mr Hambling. ‘It would be a delight to display in any home. In the lavatory, perhaps.’
Mr Bastionne put his hand up. ‘$50,’ he said proudly. Jessica squealed and clapped, and rushed over to kiss her father on the cheek.
‘$50 for the frog, do I have any other b
ids?’ asked Mr Hambling. ‘Will anybody give me sixty? Going once … going twice … going …’
‘$100!’
Everyone spun around. At the back of the hall was a trestle table with five old-fashioned, corded telephones set out in a row. A member of the teaching staff was manning each phone. Mr Davies had the handset to his ear. He held a paddle in his hand and called out again. ‘$100!’
‘Are they taking phone bids?’ Friday whispered to Melanie.
‘Of course, so many of the parents are overseas,’ said Melanie.
‘On holidays?’ asked Friday.
‘Some, yes,’ said Melanie, ‘but a lot are just tax exiles.’
‘But who other than Jessica’s own parents would want to buy her painting?’ asked Friday.
‘One of her grandparents, perhaps,’ suggested Melanie. ‘Or someone who really likes frogs.’
‘$100,’ said Mr Hambling, enjoying the drama of the situation. ‘Do I hear two hundred?’ He looked meaningfully at Mr Bastionne.
Mr Bastionne scowled. His wife tapped him hard on the arm. He begrudgingly held his paddle aloft and called out, ‘$150.’
Mr Hambling smiled and was about to call for any more bids when Mr Davies again called out from the back of the room. ‘$500.’
There was a gasp of astonishment from the crowd. It was a good painting of a frog, but it wasn’t that good.
‘Wow,’ said Melanie. ‘My grandfather is a billionaire, but I don’t think even he would pay $500 for a picture I did.’
‘$500,’ said Mr Hambling. ‘Do I have any further bids?’
Everyone looked at Mr Bastionne. Even his wife scowled now. Mr Bastionne turned to Jessica. ‘Would you forgive me if I didn’t buy your painting?’
‘No,’ said Jessica.
‘What if I paid you $250 to forgive me?’ asked Mr Bastionne.
‘Oh, Daddy!’ exclaimed Jessica. ‘I love you so much.’
Mr Bastionne took out his wallet and started counting cash out to his daughter.
Mr Hambling picked up his gavel and slammed it on the rostrum. ‘Sold to the telephone bidder for $500.’
Binky removed the painting and brought over the next item.
‘Next, we have a painting by one of our high-profile students, Ian Wainscott,’ said Mr Hambling.
The painting was put on the easel and revealed. It was a large canvas depicting a vase full of flowers, but it was the angriest representation of flowers that Friday had ever seen.
‘How does he get a jug full of flowers to look so cross?’ asked Melanie.
‘I think the liberal use of red and the violently abrupt brushstrokes have most of the effect,’ said Friday.
‘If you squint at it, the dahlias on the left look like his father’s face,’ said Melanie.
‘Who will start the bidding for this … provocative work?’ asked Mr Hambling.
Everyone looked about. Ian’s parents weren’t there.
‘His father must still be in the Cayman Islands,’ said Melanie.
‘He could be living in a house across the street and he still wouldn’t bother to come,’ said Friday.
Suddenly the back door of the hall burst open. A large, scruffy man wearing a crumpled hat stumbled into the hall, bumping into the trestle table with phones.
‘Uncle Bernie!’ exclaimed Friday.
‘Is that Ian Wainscott’s picture?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Hambling, who was enjoying himself. They were only up to the second item in the auction, and this evening was already proving to be more dramatic than the bloodiest rendition of Macbeth.
‘I bid $100!’ called Uncle Bernie.
Everyone clapped. There wasn’t a person in the room who would have taken the painting unless they had been paid $100 and been allowed to hang it facing the wall.
‘Do I have any other bids?’ asked Mr Hambling.
Everyone looked at the phone bank. Mr Davies shook his head.
‘Sold to the scruffy man in the grey fedora,’ said Mr Hambling.
Uncle Bernie spotted Friday in the crowd and went over to join her and Melanie.
‘That was very kind of you, Uncle Bernie,’ said Friday. ‘Unless you like abstract impressionist art on the theme of anger, then your motives would be purely selfish.’
‘Helena is away on a permaculture workshop,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘and when I realised Ian had a piece in the auction I couldn’t let it go unbid for.’
‘You’re not my father.’
They turned to see Ian standing right behind Uncle Bernie. His fists were clenched like he wanted to hit him. But that would have been silly. Uncle Bernie was six foot two, so only a couple of inches taller than Ian, but he was almost as wide as he was tall, and even though there was a lot of fat on him there was a lot of muscle under the fat, which was left over from his days as a former professional ice-hockey player.
‘I know,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It’s not for you to buy my painting,’ said Ian.
‘Your mum would want me to,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Really?’ said Ian. ‘Did she even know about this art show?’
‘I don’t know what she did or didn’t know,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘She’s at a retreat where they don’t have phone service.’
‘Did she ever mention the art show to you, or that she wanted you to buy my painting?’ asked Ian.
‘Not as such,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But it is spring. There’s a lot going on in her garden right now.’
‘Typical,’ spat out Ian. He turned and stormed away.
‘It’s so unfair that boys aren’t allowed to cry publicly,’ said Melanie. ‘I really do think it would do him good to have a sob.’
‘But it wouldn’t do his image any good,’ said Friday. ‘And I think he’s more concerned with his image than his mental health.’
‘The next item in our catalogue is a beauty,’ said Mr Hambling. ‘It would look lovely on the wall of your living room or your dining room, hanging over you as you eat.’
Binky brought the next painting over to the easel.
‘It’s by our very own in-house busybody, Friday Barnes,’ said Mr Hambling.
The crowd muttered. Friday had developed quite a reputation. She had been responsible for either getting many of the students out of trouble or into trouble, so the parents knew exactly who she was.
Binky unveiled the painting. It was a large oil painting of a football match.
‘You painted football?’ asked Melanie.
‘This work is called “Exercise in Futility”,’ continued Mr Hambling.
‘I find football poignant in its pointless, exhausting brutality,’ said Friday.
‘It’s a really pretty picture,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘You’ve captured a beautiful scene: the late afternoon sun and the rolling expanse of the school grounds. It’s lovely.’
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘I’m still not very good at the expressive elements of art. I can depict what something looks like, but I struggle to get the sense of contempt I have for it into my work.’
‘Who will start the bidding?’ asked Mr Hambling.
‘$100,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘Thanks, Uncle Bernie,’ said Friday, ‘but you don’t have to. I know how much insurance investigators earn. And you did just buy Ian’s painting.’
‘I can afford another hundred dollars,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘One hundred and fifty!’
They turned to see Mr Fontana holding up his paddle. He smiled at Friday. ‘You can’t play sport, Barnes, but that’s a great picture of my team playing rugby.’
Uncle Bernie swallowed hard. He looked down at his own paddle. Friday took hold of his hand. ‘Don’t do it,’ said Friday. ‘I’ll paint you anything you want for free.’
‘You really won’t mind?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
‘If you paid hundreds of dollars for that,’ said Friday, ‘I’d be upset worrying how you’re going to afford to pay for all the ho
me-delivered pizza you must secretly order when Mrs Wainscott goes to sleep at night.’
‘How did you know?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
‘Because I know you,’ said Friday. ‘And because you have a perfectly round stain the exact size and colour of a slice of pepperoni on your shirt.’
‘$200!’
Everyone turned. It was Mr Davies with a phone bidder again.
Mr Fontana defiantly held up his paddle again. ‘$300,’ he declared.
‘Do we have a further bid from our phone bidder?’ asked Mr Hambling.
Mr Davies was listening on the phone. He had a look of confusion on his face. ‘Are you sure?’ he was heard to say. Even though he was speaking softly, everyone could hear because the room had fallen silent. Mr Davies looked up. ‘$5000.’
Everyone burst into applause.
‘How generous!’ exclaimed Mr Hambling. ‘Someone must really want Highcrest Academy to have its own pool.’
‘$6000!’ called Mr Fontana.
‘What’s he doing!’ exclaimed Friday.
‘He can afford it with all those high-priced tango lessons,’ said Melanie.
Everyone was looking at Mr Davies on the telephone again. He was nodding as he listened. He looked up and called out, ‘$20,000!’
Everyone was stunned.
‘Mr Fontana, any further bids?’ asked Mr Hambling.
Mr Fontana shook his head.
‘Sold to the bidder on the telephone!’ declared Mr Hambling as he cracked his gavel on the lectern.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Friday.
‘I always thought you’d end up having a career in law enforcement,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But if you’re that talented, maybe you should consider becoming an artist instead.’
‘No way!’ said Friday. ‘I don’t care how good I am at painting. I like puzzles. I know some people enjoy creative expression, but I don’t get it at all.’
And so, as the evening continued, many paintings went for what you would expect – one or two hundred dollars, paid for by a relative. Maybe five hundred, if the relative was showing off. But about a quarter of the paintings went for exorbitant prices and all to telephone bidders.
