Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘I suppose, like everything centrally funded, money without strings is a thing of the past.’

  The tutor raised his dark brown eyes to her face. For the second time a memory was stirred – another occasion, a long time ago – but then it was gone. Dory shook her head and smiled slightly, puzzled by this recurring sense of déjà vu. The faint trace of a smile answered hers.

  ‘Bloody government!’ She turned to see who had spoken. It was the man who had just come back from the Caribbean. ‘They already take enough in taxes. And what’ve we got to show for it?’ Tanned from his sailing trip, he was aged around fifty, Dory estimated, and wasn’t bad-looking in a stocky, broad-featured way. Light brown, wavy hair, shot through with grey, was receding at his temples. But what she really noticed were his clothes. His tan leather moccasins and light chinos might not have stood out in a crowd, but that shirt … Even from a distance she could see that it was well made and in an enviable fabric. It didn’t shout designer, it murmured discreetly.

  ‘Isn’t there supposed to be a push towards adult learning?’ he went on.

  ‘Exactly, Michael,’ Fran agreed. ‘It’s something they keep banging on about.’ Ah, Michael the millionaire, Dory thought.

  ‘That’s part of the problem,’ the tutor continued. ‘Adult learning is a high priority. But without the spurious …’ He looked back towards Fran for a prompt.

  ‘Spurious half-arsed qualification?’

  His eyes widened momentarily. ‘Without working towards a qualification of some sort, however half-arsed, I guess the class will lose its funding. A class of hobbyists cannot be supported.’

  ‘Hobbyists!’ Lennie exclaimed. ‘I’m a … a … professional. I’ve worked as a commercial artist all my life! It was bad enough when they removed the concession for the retired. We’re already paying hundreds of pounds a year for this class!’

  ‘The full unsubsidised cost would be …’ He shrugged. ‘Much more.’

  ‘Just because I’m not on benefits doesn’t mean I’m wealthy.’ Others voices joined in agreement with Lennie, the disgruntled rumble growing in volume. The tutor spread his hands in a placatory gesture.

  ‘Look, no one is going to throw you out or make you pay extra, but … I have to teach a structured course and prove it. The work needs to be kept, labelled, and dated so it can be related to the teaching scheme.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Fran expostulated. ‘I’ve been doing this for years. If I’d kept everything …!’

  Dory saw alarm in the tutor’s eyes. ‘On no account throw anything away! The work will be assessed at the end of the course. I will be judged as much as you, your progress and my teaching skills. And …’ A muscle pulled taut in his cheek as he scanned the room. ‘I need this job.’

  Just then, the door opened and the model came back into the classroom. Though not tall, there’d been a compelling impression of power and physicality when he was naked. Now, he seemed to have shrunk, as if his assurance had drained away as the shabby clothes went back on. His glance darted furtively from face to face. Dory caught the acrid scent of stale cigarettes; he must have been one of the huddle of smokers outside the main doors during break. He disappeared behind the dilapidated screen.

  Before coffee, Dory had felt trapped in an increasingly futile struggle. Coming back with fresh eyes, she was modestly pleased with her first effort. Despite the distraction of the staring model – not to mention his uncontrolled parts – she could now admit there was something about the process she’d masochistically enjoyed. What had Fran said? Despair and elation? Charged with the conviction that she could do better, Dory pulled the drawing off her cartridge pad.

  ‘Rachel Anderson? William Harper?’ the tutor called out. Slowly, he went through the register. Some appeared to see this as an added imposition, the bureaucratisation of what had been a fun event in their week. As each name was answered to, in a spectrum of tone that veered from gruff through waspish to ironic, the tutor looked up and studied the respondent.

  ‘Francesca Paige?’

  ‘Please, sir. Yes, sir. Present and correct, sir.’

  Dory saw how her sister met his gaze, with a challenging tilt to her chin. He looked back at his register, then up again.

  ‘Isadora Seymour?’

  Ignoring Fran’s snort, she said, ‘It’s a bit of a mouthful. Call me Dory.’

  He studied her for a moment. Following Fran’s example, she returned his dark-eyed scrutiny, taking note of his lanky frame and the dark, short-cropped beard that gave a hard edge to his lean face. Where had that sense of familiarity come from? If they had ever met before today, she felt sure she’d have remembered him.

  ‘That’s it, then. I’ve already got you down …’ he added, with a nod towards the youth.

  ‘Not fair,’ Fran said. ‘We’ve all answered to our names! We need to learn the new names too.’ Everyone’s eyes turned to the black-clad youth. Ebony hair draped forward, curtaining his pale face. His reed-thin legs were so snugly encased in denim, Dory wondered how he managed to get his jeans on and off over his feet.

  ‘Dom?’ The boy raised his head at the tutor’s prompt.

  ‘Dominic Barnes.’ His voice was cracked and husky.

  ‘And you are?’ Michael asked the tutor. Everyone looked at the man in front of them.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m new to this.’ And you’re not enjoying it, Dory thought. ‘My name is Stefan.’

  ‘What? Sorry? Steven, did you say?’ Lennie demanded, leaning forward slightly.

  ‘Stefan!’ It was Michael who corrected the pronunciation, but as if suspecting it was an affectation.

  ‘Call me Steven if you like.’ He slapped the register shut and laid it down. ‘Call me anything. I really don’t care.’

  ‘OK, Teach,’ Fran said.

  Dermot emerged from behind the screen wearing nothing but his anorak.

  ‘I’ve glanced at some of your work,’ the tutor said. ‘A few of you were getting a touch over-analytical before break.’

  ‘But you asked for accuracy,’ Dory blurted, surprising herself. His eyes flicked straight to her, but there was no change in his expression. He continued, addressing the whole class.

  ‘A bit inhibited. Forget line. There are no lines in nature.’ There was a murmur of dissent. Stefan looked around the room, eyes narrowing. ‘To free you up, keep you on your toes, we’ll have a series of shorter poses. Use charcoal. Don’t waste time changing paper. Group the drawings on one sheet. Overlap if necessary. I want you to see and respond … fast. Too much thinking gets in the way.’ Another unintelligible grumble. ‘You shouldn’t be aiming for works of art to hang on the wall.’

  Dermot removed his anorak and took up a pose that stretched and twisted his body. This time, thankfully, his head was bowed.

  ‘Good,’ Stefan said, flipping the switch on the heater. It hiccupped, then started up with a clackety rattle and several missed beats, before settling to its wheezy whir. He began to walk around the room, looking at everyone’s work. When he reached Dory, he looked first at the pencil drawing she’d thrown down.

  ‘No.’ Frowning, he picked it up. ‘You’ve not looked at the whole. You’ve allowed yourself to get carried away by detail. I told you not to get bogged down.’ His voice was edged with irritated censure. ‘Before anything else, you should look at the figure in its totality … for the lines of balance and strength, where the weight is distributed, the relationships. What kind of pencil were you using?’

  Surprised by his hectoring tone, yet still half in awe, Dory went to close the lid of the newly bought pencil set to read the manufacturer’s name.

  ‘Not who made it! What grade is it? How soft or hard? You’re not doing geometry! Use a 3B or softer for life drawing, not this wishy-washy thing. And look at this.’ He flicked the back of his hand dismissively towards the drawing. ‘You’re trying to draw Dermot’s features before you’ve even got the overall proportions right.’

  Oth
ers had paused in their work and looked. This was an adult class. Even if she’d just produced the worst drawing in the world, and with the wrong grade pencil, it was not the tutor’s role to single her out and tell her off in front of everyone as if she were a naughty child. His job was to give guidance and encouragement.

  ‘I’m not defending my drawing. I daresay it’s rubbish. But surely, you can’t ignore the face? Aren’t its shapes as important as any other?’

  ‘There’s a difference between this cartoon you’ve drawn, and observing the shape of the skull and the overlying forms which make up the features of the face!’

  ‘I hadn’t finished …’ Unable to explain to why she’d been stopped from studying the face more closely, the criticism stung.

  ‘At this stage the positioning of eyes, mouth, ears are only relevant in relation to finding the set of the head on the shoulders … its angle and tilt. I’m surprised by this, it’s such an elementary mistake.’

  ‘Why on earth shouldn’t I make an elementary mistake?’

  ‘You claim to have done this class for years. Have you learnt nothing?’

  ‘I’m claiming no such thing! This is my first figure drawing since Year Eleven at school. I’m one of the newcomers!’

  They stared at one another for a few frozen seconds. Briefly she wondered again where that odd frisson of recognition had come from. All she felt now was irritated resentment. He looked away to the charcoal drawing on her board.

  ‘Better.’ His tone was grudging. ‘But too linear. You’re not drawing a map of England. It’s not necessary to indicate every minor road. You just need the essential routes. Remember, it’s only the way that light hits a form that gives it shape and volume. Exaggerate. Be bold. Investigate the properties of the medium. Use your charcoal on its side. That piece is far too spindly.’ Stefan ignored her clean, scarcely ruffled box of fine charcoal wands and fetched a stubby chunk of charcoal. ‘Like this … and this …’

  In only a few fluent strokes of the charcoal, a thumbnail figure appeared in the top corner of Dory’s drawing. On the defensive, and primed to argue, the ground was abruptly cut from under her feet. The difference in approach needed no further explanation. His facility with just a few marks defused her indignation.

  ‘I see. Thanks,’ was all she could manage as he moved away. Although he spoke quietly to others as he progressed around the room, Dory thought she could detect a more conciliatory and constructive approach than he’d used with her.

  At the end of the session, the tutor left the room quickly. Dermot vanished behind the screen. People stepped back from their easels, others stood up and began to move around the room.

  ‘Phew.’ Joyce stretched her arms above her head then relaxed. The neat Mrs Shopping Basket image – tabby curls and twin set – was defused by the black smear of charcoal across her plump cheek. ‘That was a tough work out.’

  ‘Compared to the gentle skip around the garden that was Sandy’s approach?’ Bill enquired. ‘Perhaps we needed to be put through our paces. Things had been getting a little too cosy.’

  ‘You couldn’t call this bloke cosy! My drawings are worse today than they’ve been in a long time.’ Michael spoke as if it were the new man’s fault.

  Dory moved to the teacher’s easel and was joined by her sister. There was only one sheet taped to the board, and it was covered in a thicket of heavy strokes crisscrossing the area. It was almost as if the forms – one pose overlapping another – had been excavated from this dark tangle, chipped away, and revealed with rubber and white chalk. A scratchy, metallic buzz, like a wire brush against stone, seemed the natural accompaniment to the jagged image. It grew louder and Dory looked around for its source. Dominic, plugged into an iPhone, had walked up beside them and was studying the tutor’s drawing. The way his hair was drawn back by the headset revealed the further rings, studs, and metal cuffs adorning his ears. It was pointless to say anything to him. He wouldn’t hear, and seemed oblivious to them anyway. But if they could clearly hear the jangling rasp of music, how loud was it inside his head?

  ‘So …’ Looking back at the tutor’s drawing, Dory’s eye was drawn into its tangle of lines as if it had depth, as if the figures were emerging from a knotted web of barbed wire. ‘You’re the expert, what do you think?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ Fran said.

  ‘Pretty?’ Dory turned, only to discover her sister’s eyes were following the boy as he moved away. ‘What? Even with all the metal face furniture?’

  ‘I think it’s rather sexy.’

  ‘Fran!’ Dory shook her head, half-amused, half-outraged. ‘He’s a child! And none too clean at that! I’d want a thorough health check before …’

  ‘Before what? For God’s sake! You take everything far too seriously. Your job has given you a warped view of life.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Chapter Seven - Stefan

  At least going to the supermarket straight afterwards had temporarily suspended reflection on his first lesson. His purchases slumped in a plastic carrier on the passenger seat next to him. The familiar route home along the valley offered no distractions.

  The college’s autumn term had started in the middle of the week. If his Monday and Tuesday lessons proved as difficult as the one he’d just taught, he was in trouble. He’d allowed his irritation to flare at totally the wrong target. Though he couldn’t remember the woman’s name, he recalled her face, and the shocked surprise in her wide, hazel eyes. A flush of shame washed through him.

  The car ahead stopped dead. Stefan slammed on the brakes. He jolted forwards with the abrupt halt. There was a thump and clatter next to him.

  ‘Fuck!’ He’d braked in time, but the carrier bag next to him lay flattened on the passenger seat, its contents shot forward into the foot well. As his heartbeat steadied he saw the winking indicator of the car in front. Had he simply not noticed it, or had it only just been switched on?

  Overtaking the congestion at the entrance to the Old Sheep Shearer, he was able to see its cause. The stationary car had been baulked from turning into the pub by another vehicle doing a U-turn in the entrance to the full car park. If the driver and his passengers wanted lunch, they’d have to park in the road or find a less popular venue. The pang of hunger that followed this random thought reminded Stefan that he too needed to eat. He determined to clear his mind of thoughts about the life class. They were dangerous while driving.

  A quarter of a mile beyond the pub, he turned off the main road into the lane that led up to the common. The road was winding, and halfway up the hill it snaked sharply left. On the right was the wide opening to a driveway. There were two gates accessed by this turning; only one of them stood open. He drove in through a tunnel of overarching trees.

  When they’d first bought the house, his parents had had its long driveway and the immediate surroundings surfaced with tarmac, leaving only a relatively small apron of sloping grass in front. Lack of lawn and flowerbeds were no drawback for a growing boy. There were acres of wooded hillside behind the house, with trees to climb, camps to make, and trails to follow. And the tarmac had proved a brilliant surface for biking and skateboarding. Now, driving slowly along the pot-holed drive, he viewed the tarmac as a deterrent. It was ugly and municipal, but even if a prospective purchaser loved it, it was in desperate need of resurfacing.

  As the house came into sight, a familiar sense of oppression gripped him. He no longer questioned his conviction that Kitesnest House was an obstacle to moving on in his life. But who’d want it? Its size was neither fish nor fowl. And most discouraging of all to potential buyers, the house wasn’t truly detached. Adjoining it was another property – a small, dilapidated cottage with a corrugated iron roof.

  It took several minutes to collect his shopping from the floor of the car and several more, biting back his impatience, to check the items. Each shopping list was more illegible than the one before. It was a good job her requirements were so predictably repetitive; habit made it easier to
decode the quavery scrawl. A few moments’ care now was preferable to a box of cod fillets gently defrosting under the passenger seat. He stepped over the flattened palings of the fence that had once divided the two front gardens. His stomach was clenching queasily even before he arrived at her doorstep. Better for him to conduct their business there, but Grace always needed to search for her purse, and even in the summer, would ask him to come in and close the door ‘against the draught’. Once inside he preferred to take no more than a single pace into her kitchen. There was always a pan of milk simmering on the blackened hob, and the constant smell of sour, scalded milk, mildew, rotting food, and other, underlying odours best not to speculate on.

  Today, as she opened the door, he was taken aback. Her hair hung down to her waist. From the roots, the first four inches were snowy white. The remaining hair that straggled down, over the stained pink coverall she habitually wore, was a curious carmine red colour. Usually piled in an elaborate confection of loops and rolls, then held in place by a scarf, her hairstyle had always amused him, but he’d never have guessed it was so long. She obviously hadn’t dyed it for months. Was the fact she’d not bothered to pin it up this morning into its usual ‘war years’ style a bad sign?

  ‘You are later than I was expecting, Mr Novak,’ she said, her tone querulous.

  ‘I did tell you I wouldn’t be able to get your shopping first thing. I’ve been teaching an art class all morning.’ He no longer reminded her to call him by his given name. It was as if, since he’d come back, she saw him as a different person.

  ‘I thought your teaching job was on Monday?’

  ‘I did tell you, Grace. I’m doing three mornings; Monday, Tuesday, and Friday.’

  ‘Every week?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a permanent job,’ he said, crossing his fingers.

  ‘But you will still be able to get my shopping?’