Sarina looked at the woman on the panel due to speak next, but she was still busy making notes. She tried again to avoid any eye contact with the surly-looking man at the end of the table—and failing—Sarina looked around the massive wooden-floored hall. Apart from the lengthy table the four assessment staff sat behind, the room was empty. Empty except for one small girl feeling quite intimidated, sitting on her artist’s stool in front of an easel, way out in front of the table. Set up on the easel and scattered around its base, were various works of art. Hers.
She had spent the last thirty minutes showing her portfolio to the three women and one man, where she had been required to explain her intentions and expression; the style she chose and why, and where her motivation had come from. Sarina was used to showing her work to all and sundry at the prestigious London School of Art, but this panel was different.
She was gazing up at the high ceiling and noting the yellowing paint, when a cough caught her attention.
“Miss Metcalfe?” The surly man at the end raised an eyebrow at her and waited for her full attention. “When you are quite ready, Ms Charlton will begin.” He looked over at the woman who had been making notes, but was now ready and waiting for his cue.
“Thank you, Sir Drysdale.” The woman turned to face Sarina and gave her a broad grin. “As Sharon has already pointed out, your skills are advanced, even more so when your age—thirteen I believe—is taken into account. My job is to try to see where prospective students are on their own journey in life, and how that might impact on the young children they themselves will be teaching”—she looked squarely at Sarina with a quizzical expression—“yet you are still only a child yourself.”
When she’d been granted a special place at the coveted school, Sarina was well aware her age was unusual. So unusual in fact that, back in Chelton, Professor Harrison had asked for her to consider her adult friend, Rona, to accompany her as a mentor. Sarina had accepted, and had already been grateful for Rona’s wise words on many occasions during the term, even if at times her friend’s honest feedback had been tough to take. She’d struggled to come to terms with moving from a high school to the Art School’s mature environment. She pictured Rona: wheeling up and down the corridor outside the great hall, spinning her wheelchair around at each end while she waited for the outcome of Sarina’s assessment. She sighed. At least having Rona here meant her mother didn’t have to keep travelling to London and back.
Ms Charlton was speaking again. “Sarina, you do realise that this ambition of yours will place quite a degree of stress on you and your family. Can you tell me your thoughts about this?”
Sarina looked at the woman, aware the man at the end had now leaned forward. She refocused on the question. “Yes, Ms Charlton, I know it will be hard work. But I think that when young people like me learn to express their emotions through art, they learn how to treat each other better. I want to help stop kids bullying each other”—she felt her cheeks colour—“and I think I would be an even better teacher than an adult, because ... well ... they will relate to me.”
A low dry voice interjected. “Are you suggesting our teachers are not able to relate to children, Ms Metcalfe?”
Sarina swivelled on the stool to meet the surly man’s gaze. “No, Mr ... er ... Sir Drysdale.” She swallowed hard. “But I think I would be less intimidating.”
The three woman on the panel laughed, and exchanged knowing looks. But Sir-ly Drysdale kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Do you find me intimidating, Miss Metcalfe?”
“I ... ah ... um ...” Sarina looked down at her feet.
The spindly woman seated next to Sir Drysdale spoke for the first time. “You mustn’t mind our grumpy benefactor, Sarina.” She turned to the man beside her and laid a hand on his arm. “Now, now, John, this program might be your baby, but there’s no need to scare enthusiastic applicants away, just because they are young.”
The man grunted and removed the woman’s hand from his arm. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Edna. I’ve been doing this long enough to see what happens to those who come along prematurely,”— he gave Sarina a sharp look—“in fact I can tell you that precisely 11.8% of all successful applicants, no matter what their age, never make it past the first year. If Miss Metcalfe cannot take a modicum of discouragement ... then she is not for us.”
“Then let us all make up our own minds, John. We will hear out Sarina’s assessment, and I’ll request that you bite your tongue until we are finished. You will have the last word, as always.”
Sarina caught the two other women suppress smiles at Edna’s scolding of Sir Drysdale. She sat up straight when Edna smiled and looked back at her.
“Sarina, I of course am in agreement with my two colleagues so far”—she glanced sideways at the man sitting back with his arms crossed—“it’s obvious you are an outstanding talent, or you would not be here in the first place. But I would caution you against taking on such responsibility too early. You’ve not even crossed into womanhood, and yet you want the weight of the world on your shoulders. You may not be aware of how much of a personal sacrifice this will be. Are you so certain of your path that you are willing to place your own artistic needs to one side?”
Sarina nodded. “Oh yes, Miss—”
“Edna Schmidt. But call me Edna. Please.”
Sarina blushed. “Um, thank you, ah, Edna.” She took a deep breath. “What I really want to do is share how I feel when I paint, and how much better I think the world will be for other kids like me when they feel that too. In Sir Drysdale’s academy I can continue my art, and at the same time help kids express themselves and stop the bullying”—she shrugged—“that’s truly all I want to do. And I’m sure my work stands for itself.” Her jaw tightened. “I know I will do a good job.”
Edna nodded. “Thank you, Sarina. And please excuse our esteemed scientist next to me. Some find him a little abrupt.”
Sarina didn’t know what to say, so she gave a brief smile. She turned to face Sir John Drysdale and felt her smile scuttle into the corner and hide. His brow furrowed over his craggy face, which emphasised his surliness.
He cleared his throat before beginning. “Miss Metcalfe. I appreciate your passion for your work, and your enthusiasm for my Young Creative Leaders program. I’m not an arty type like my colleagues here, therefore I must use a different, and more scientific evaluation process, the advantage of which is that I am not overawed by the prodigious nature of some applicants.”
Sarina had no idea what prodigious meant, but it didn’t sound good.
“I take many things into consideration—as I mentioned before, an application made prematurely is one element that concerns me—and I must rely on my colleagues to advise me on the creative aspects.” He peered at Sarina. “Clearly they are all quite taken by your abilities. So much so that perhaps they have missed some analysis of your developing persona. In my time as the senior science adviser to many boards and committees in this country, I have learned to judge people quickly, and to look beyond the words.”
Sarina gulped. What did he mean? What had she done? She squirmed a little on the stool, trying to feel bigger than an ant.
“Miss Metcalfe, this is what I observe, and it is the principal reason why I must deny your application”—the three women seated beside him gasped, and Edna Schmidt opened her mouth to speak, but Drysdale held up his hand—“no, Edna, let me have my say. This little girl, if she is sufficiently wise, will do well to think of this moment as being pivotal in her life. Miss Metcalfe, your work is impressive, of that there is no doubt. But even my tired old scientific eyes detect something missing from every piece you have showed us today. What I witness is great technical ability. You have learned from the past masters perhaps—and possibly through careful copying of various techniques, you have learned to reproduce art.” He paused. “But it is what is missing that concerns me, and it concerns me especially given your intention to work in programs such as mine.” He looked her in the eye and she swallow
ed again. “Your work all comes from here”—he pointed to his head—“and not from here”— he laid his hand over his heart.
“Your work lacks emotion, Miss Metcalfe. Worse still, I believe you lack emotion, and that there is something inside you not fully developed. Until you overcome this, I am afraid I am obliged to turn down your application—no matter how vocal my colleagues may be.” He waved his hand at the three women, all of whom looked fit to explode.
“And until you overcome this limitation, it is my observation that you will be forever held back in your artistic endeavours.” He stood. “Good day, Miss Metcalfe. I wish you well for the rest of your time at the school. I hope that this issue does not become your Achilles heel.” He nodded to the stunned women still seated alongside him, and walked out through a side door.
“Sarina—” The first woman to speak was Sharon English, who had already stood and was making her way across the floor to Sarina.
“No, it’s okay. I get it. He didn’t like me. I’ll ... I’ll ...” but the words wouldn’t come, only a flood of tears. Sarina tried to wipe her eyes to no avail and ran from the room.
She burst out of the double doors and almost tripped over Rona, who was wheeling back and forth.
“Sarina! What on earth happened? What’s the matter?” Rona’s blurry face looked up at Sarina.
“That man! He’s a bully himself. What does he mean, I lack emotion? What does he think this is?” She pointed to her streaming eyes.
Rona offered a tissue. “Sit down, Sarina. Now tell me all about it. What man, and what’s this about lacking emotion?”
Sarina took a seat on the bench next to Rona, and blubbering her way through, Sarina told her about the assessment.
“He’s not even an artist—he admitted that himself! So what right does he have to criticise me?”
Rona spoke softly. “Actually, from what you are telling me, it wasn’t just your art he was criticising, but something much more personal.”
Sarina sniffled. “What do you mean?”
Rona reached forward, put her fingers under Sarina’s chin and lifted it. “He believes you have something inside you that is yearning to develop. Maybe something you have overlooked—or that you are too young to see.”
Sarina pushed Rona’s hand away. “I thought you were my friend! Don’t tell me you agree with that bully?” She burst into tears and ran down the corridor, stopping once to turn back. “I’ll show him. Whatever he thinks is wrong with me—I’ll show him there’s nothing wrong! Doesn’t he have any idea what I’ve had to go through to get here?” She turned again and ran around the corner of the corridor.
~~~
After some time spent in the bathroom to calm herself down, she emerged from the building with dry, but red-rimmed eyes. Rona waited for her.
“I’m sorry, Rona. That was horrible—what I said—I didn’t mean—”
“You were angry.” Rona smiled and took Sarina’s hand. “And anger is always a good opportunity to learn something, isn’t it?”
Sarina looked down at Rona’s legs in the wheelchair—both missing from just below the knee—and stuck her lower lip out. “Sorry again. My stupid problems are nothing compared to yours.”
“Problems?” Rona scoffed. “I don’t have problems.” She looked up at Sarina and smiled. “But I used to be awfully angry about what happened. I suggest we use this as an opportunity to plan some mind-expanding activities—to take your mind off things for a while. You have a week off now, don’t you?”
Sarina nodded.
“Good. Then I have an idea. I’ll treat you to a hot chocolate”—she pointed across the road to their favourite café—“and we’ll have a chat. Then we can call your mum.” Rona waggled her eyebrows up and down conspiratorially. “I have an idea.”
Sarina laughed, and started to push Rona along to the crossing. She didn’t notice the man in the shadows leaning against the wall of the building, who folded away his newspaper, then fell in behind them some distance back.
~ 2 ~
The Photo
The café buzzed with conversation, funky music and the sound of a busy coffee machine. Sarina sniffed the air as they threaded Rona’s chair through the throng to a table. “Can you smell that, Rona?”
Rona nodded and wheeled herself into the table. “Smells like a good mix of coffee and chocolate to me. Here”—she held out a ten-pound note—“it’s on me, as promised. Get whatever you like.”
“What will you have?”
“Chamomile tea for me, thanks. Too much caffeine and I start to get itchy feet.”
Sarina started. “But you don’t have any ... oh. I see what you mean.”
Rona grinned at her. “Well don’t just stand there.”
Sarina laughed, and walked to the busy counter.
Some minutes later, after the drinks had arrived Rona broke the silence. “Tell me about this Sir John Drysdale. What exactly did he say?”
Sarina grimaced and put down her hot chocolate. “He’s a bully. I can’t believe he is the founder of a program that teaches kids how to get on with each other and stamp out bullying.”
“Calling him a bully is a pretty strong accusation. Why do you say that?”
“He knew that I could cope with the work—and all the others had obviously agreed I was suitable. He just wanted to have his power over someone younger than him. Him and his silly self-important science. I’ll show him though, I’ll—”
“Yes, but what did he say, Sarina?”
Sarina stopped and closed her eyes. The scene flooded back and her cheeks reddened as she remembered his words. “He said, ‘Your work lacks emotion, Miss Metcalfe. Worse still, I believe you lack emotion, and that there is something inside you not fully developed.’ Stupid man. What did he mean by that?” She opened her eyes and looked at Rona.
Rona didn’t return her gaze though, and looked uncomfortable.
“What? You don’t actually agree with him, do you?”
Rona shook her head. “No. Well not exactly. But I do think for your art to mature, you should explore more of yourself.”
“You don’t think travelling between worlds through wormholes and fighting a stupid bird-like monster, or getting locked up by the police on terrorism charges is enough life experience for a thirteen-year old?” Sarina’s eyes blazed.
Rona sighed. “I don’t deny you’ve been through a lot. More than almost any kid your age. Even I can see you have grown as a result, just in the short time I’ve known you. But we all have our path and things to learn.” She contemplated her legs for a while, then looked back up at Sarina. “Whatever happens to us along the way, we must find our way forward again.”
“Now you’re sounding like your own brochure,” Sarina said, remembering when she’d first met Rona in her art shop.
Rona ignored the comment, and leaned forward. “This Drysdale has given you an opportunity to look inside yourself, and find the true artist within. Someone who can resist being pushed around and emotionally influence others. Even if she’s only thirteen.”
Sarina slumped back in the chair. “Fine for you to say. I have no idea what to do with that.”
Her mentor’s eyes twinkled. “We could start by examining some family history.”
Sarina’s eyes widened. “No! You don’t mean my—”
“Great-aunts? Yes, why not? Sounds fascinating to me. Didn’t you say they’d both gone mad and lived most of their lives in an institution? I can’t think of a more interesting subject in one’s own genealogy waiting to be plucked like a juicy fruit.” Rona lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “Think of the crazy inspiration we might find!”
Sarina laughed. “Okay, okay. Is that what you meant when you said you had an idea? Shall we call Mum? She’d want to come, I think.”
Rona nodded. “Yes, just the three of us. Take a break and learn something about your past.”
“What if ...” she faltered. “What if I find out that Drysdale is right—that I c
an’t express emotion in my art? That I’ll never be able to teach kids to express themselves.” Her face dropped.
“Pah!” Rona shook her head and gave Sarina a playful smile. “Keep up with the negativity and it will be me locking you up in an institution!”
Sarina slapped Rona’s arm. “Did Professor Harrison know about your evil traits when he asked you to be my mentor?”
Rona laughed. “Come on—let’s get moving and organise this trip.” She wheeled herself backwards and bumped into a man at the table behind them, who was reading a newspaper. She mumbled an apology and laughed. The man narrowed his eyes at her and raised his paper. Rona looked back at Sarina and mouthed a surprised “Oooh!” Sarina giggled, and they wound their way back out and onto the street.
“We could use the phone in the school?” Sarina said.
Rona nodded. “Excellent idea—unless you’re afraid of bumping into Sir Bully.”
Sarina pulled a face—then twisted around to look down at the ground, then back at the café.
“What is it? You’re not really worried about him?”
“No.” She shook her head and rummaged in her bag. “I’ve lost my notebook. I had it at the café, I’m sure. Wait here, I’ll run back.” She started off, then turned as she ran and shouted over her shoulder. “Maybe our friendly newspaper man found it!”
Breathless, she ran into the café and up to their table. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. The man had disappeared. And so had her notebook.
~~~
Lena sat on her bed and looked again at the photos on the old mobile phone Professor Harrison had given her.
One image had been driving her crazy—a wide-eyed, snarling man, caught in the ghost-like glare of the camera flash. Behind him were grey shapes, hard to see against the black forest backdrop. Men fighting.
She had no idea where the photo was taken, nor who the men were.
The Dreamer Chronicles Trilogy Boxed Set Vol I - III: A Sci-Fi Parallel Universe Adventure (The Dreamer Chronicles - Science Fiction For Kids And Adults) Page 67
