Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘Don’t fret, I hate shopping malls. They’re so impersonal. I only want a few bits. There’s still a Woolies in Strouley, isn’t there?’

  ‘Woolies! Catch up! Where have you been?’

  As they pushed through the glass doors of the discount store, where Woolworths had once been, it was odd that the characteristic sweet, synthetic fragrance still lingered. Everywhere was bedecked with orange and black; witches, skeletons, and cobwebs festooned the entrance to the store.

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Halloween,’ Fran said. ‘Of course, it’s half term. Funny, for years I’ve thought of every festival in relation to the school timetable.’ She sighed and added sombrely, ‘I’ll probably lose my bearings entirely now Mel’s away.’

  ‘But when she’s back and goes off to university?’ It was a conversation they’d had before. Fran looked skyward as if doubtful of either statement. Dory tried to sound encouraging.

  ‘Don’t despair, she’ll come home. And she’ll have probably grown up a bit. Has she been in touch lately?’

  ‘She’s emailing and texting more often, and updating us via her Facebook. They’re in Phuket.’

  ‘It’s a tourist island, perhaps there’s better network and Wi-Fi coverage.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s certainly got more to tell us. She’s even been sending pictures and short video clips. Seems to be a lad she’s keen on.’

  ‘Why don’t you Skype? Then you could see her as you talk to her. Even check out the boyfriend.’

  ‘We haven’t got Skype.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She left in such a rush, and there was bad feeling, it didn’t even occur to us before … You know us and computers.’

  ‘It’s easy enough. I’ll set it up for you …’

  ‘I was so mad with her when she went,’ Fran interrupted, almost as if she’d not heard. ‘But I miss her like crazy? Can you believe it, I still well up whenever I find myself walking along the supermarket aisles where they sell the stuff I used to buy specially for her – crisps, pizzas, fizzy drinks.’

  Dory laughed. ‘Poor you. Still, she’ll be back before you know it. The time has flown for me, I can hardly believe it’s half term.’

  ‘Look, there’s the household section.’ Fran stopped and pulled a face. ‘Yuck. Those mugs are repellent. I told you we should have gone …’

  Dory laid a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. Half turned away from them, a man was studying the shelves of china.

  ‘Isn’t that Stefan Novak?’ The man, who’d picked up one of the ‘repellent’ mugs, had dark, slightly shaggy hair, which reached well beyond the collar of his rather worn, tan leather jacket. At the moment of recognition, Dory felt no inclination to attract his attention. She’d neither forgiven nor forgotten the way he’d spoken to her. The prospect of being forced into conversation with the man outside of the classroom did not appeal. Thankfully he didn’t appear to have heard her sister’s forceful condemnation of the merchandise he was considering.

  As he replaced one mug and picked up another with a red reduced sticker, he turned slightly. In profile, the close-cropped dark beard that defined his jawline, confirmed the identification. Recognising him now, and apparently unaffected by the constraint Dory felt, Fran called out a loud ‘Hello!’ He fully turned, his expression betraying that the coincidence was as unwelcome to him as it was to Dory. ‘Small world, isn’t it?’ Fran continued blithely. ‘I hope you’re not going to buy one of those repugnant mugs.’

  Dory flinched. Tact wasn’t one of Fran’s strong points. His eyes skittered past them as if debating the possibility of evasion and escape, then a constrained smile appeared and disappeared. He looked again at the mug, garishly decorated with flowery swirls, and inclined his head as if in agreement.

  ‘Paint factories and explosions spring to mind,’ he said. ‘But you should’ve seen the ones I threw away, um … it’s Francesca and Isa …?’

  ‘Fran and Dory,’ Dory said.

  ‘Ah yes, sorry, I’m not good with names. Well …’ Again the smile made a fleeting appearance, and his eyes slid away, back towards the rows of mugs. ‘There’s got to be something here that’s not embellished with flowers or cartoon animals. What’s this?’ He reached to the back of the shelf and withdrew a couple of plain mugs, one in a mustard yellow and one in hunting green. ‘These’ll do.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Fran said, stopping him from making his escape. ‘Are they earthenware or porcelain?’

  The question seemed to faze him. ‘Um, does it matter? I’m not planning to ask the Queen round.’

  ‘It’s the thickness of the china between the lips,’ Fran explained with a slight pout. ‘I cannot drink tea out of anything but china.’ Stefan continued to look baffled. Fran shrugged and added, ‘But if it doesn’t matter to you …’

  ‘Well, no … I hardly drink tea.’ With a frown, he pinched the rim of the mug between thumb and forefinger, as if testing it. ‘But thanks for the advice, I’m sure these’ll be fine. Um, see you then, see you … next week.’ He didn’t wait for a response.

  ‘Looking forward to it. Bye,’ Dory said to his retreating figure, then shook her head at her sister. ‘Honestly, Fran. You’re so rude! You seemed determined to embarrass the man.’

  ‘I was just trying to prevent him from making a mistake. Men don’t think of things like that. Anyway, why are you bothered? He’s not your favourite person. Mind you …’ They watched him join the short queue for the till. ‘If you can get past what a bully he is, he’s actually quite tasty in an Aragorn-ish kind of way.’

  ‘In a what kind of way?’

  Fran regarded her sister pityingly. ‘Catch up. We saw the first Lord of the Rings film together, didn’t we? Legolas was always the best bit of eye candy, though.’

  Dory caught up. ‘More than a decade ago, Fran.’

  ‘Doesn’t alter the fact that you preferred Aragorn.’

  They’d argued like young schoolgirls over which character they most fancied. Fran had always gone for the boyish style of good looks. Recalling the odd pulse of recognition when she’d first met Stefan Novak, Dory wondered if the explanation was that banal. Had she simply been unconsciously reminded of a film character?

  ‘I think Teach has that same untamed quality. Mind you, I reckon he’d have bought those ghastly mugs if I hadn’t stopped him,’ Fran continued. ‘They wouldn’t have been in keeping with the swarthy, heroic image.’

  ‘What do you suggest he drinks his coffee out of? Hand-beaten pewter flagons? Something he’s carved from a tree root and bound with leather?’ The queue was shuffling forward slowly. As he took a pace nearer the checkout, their teacher glanced back at them with a frown. ‘Anyway, swarthy implies tanned. He’s actually got quite a creamy complexion.’

  Her sister made a juvenile cooing noise, as if the fact she’d noticed the man’s skin tone was somehow significant. Dory changed tack.

  ‘Poor man, he was probably looking for cheap and cheerful. I doubt he earns much as a part-time teacher. You coerced him into buying the most expensive mugs on the shelf.’

  ‘If he’s that easily swayed, he hasn’t got the strength of character of his doppelgänger, has he?’

  Dory had walked away along the aisle. As she turned to come back, she noticed her sister had become transfixed, staring again at the rows of unattractive mugs.

  ‘You know who would’ve loved these? Mum. She never went for subtle, did she, do you remember?’ Fran glanced round at Dory as if awaiting her agreement. ‘Anything bright and floral, or decorated with teddy bears or bunnies. Whenever we were out together she’d invariably pick out the frock or ornament that I disliked the most and say, “Ooh, look at this, dear. Isn’t it lovely?”’

  Dory adjusted the handle of her bag over her shoulder and walked slowly back along the aisle. Every time Fran mentioned their mother, Dory still experienced a clutch of guilt. Her sister had borne the responsibility of seeing her through her declining years. It was a burden Do
ry had been only too glad to avoid. She gave a rueful smile.

  ‘Good old Mum.’ She suppressed the urge to explain, to apologise. Fran had never complained about unfairness. ‘Makes you wonder who we inherited our remarkable good taste from. Dad, maybe? There’s nothing I want in here. Let’s look in that kitchen shop you were talking about.’

  Following her out of the swing doors and onto the street, Fran said, ‘Don’t forget estate agents.’

  They walked along arm in arm in the sun, and after a short silence, Fran spoke again. ‘Dory? Do you ever wonder how our lives would have turned out if we’d made one different decision way back?’

  ‘What? Like I’d studied art and you’d done science?’

  ‘Something like that. You could easily have done art if you’d wanted to, but there’s not much chance I’d have been able to hack it as a scientist. I’m thinking more of me being the career woman and you getting married, having kids?’

  ‘Having a child wasn’t number one on my list of priorities.’ Why did this subject keep cropping up? ‘You were the one who always wanted children.’

  ‘But that’s what I mean, I wanted loads of kids. Saw myself as the earth mother type, painting watercolours in the garden while my tots played around my feet. The reality made me reassess. A difficult pregnancy followed by a demanding child made me suddenly face up to the fact I wasn’t really cut out for the mothering game.’

  ‘Mel had a fabulous childhood, you couldn’t have done more.’

  ‘I’m not saying that I was a bad mother, but one child was enough for me. And as for art, that was a joke too. It was the idea of art I liked, but when it came to it there was always a book I wanted to read, or a programme I wanted to watch more. Recently I’ve begun to wonder what my life might have been.’

  Dory wondered where all this had come from. Was it Melanie going away, Peter’s early retirement from full-time work? Perhaps it was losing their mother last year? It was most probably a mixture all three.

  ‘You’re talking like your life is over, but you’re only –’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘I’m only a few years younger and I’m looking forward to a completely new phase in my life. Perhaps you should give yourself a project.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I don’t know, redesign your garden?’

  ‘Oh, pur-lease! Peter’s talking about putting in brassicas now he “has the time”! All he needs to complete the picture is a pipe and carpet slippers!’

  ‘Growing your own veg is becoming quite trendy, but OK, not your idea of fun. How about getting a job?’

  Fran’s expression of horror told Dory what she thought about that. ‘Like I’ve got any kind of qualification or experience.’ They continued their stroll up the pedestrianised high street, stopping now and then to look in the shop windows.

  ‘Dory, do you remember Dan Brown?’

  Bemused, Dory thought for a moment. ‘The only Dan Brown that springs to mind is that author who wrote The Da Vinci Code. Load of old nonsense if you ask me, and not even well written.’

  ‘No, no, no! When I was at college, a friend of mine … a boyfriend. It was before I met Peter. I was really cut up about it when we split. You must remember. The boy at life class, Dominic, reminds me of him. Dan had that same pale, slightly undernourished look. And long, dark hair. Mum hated him. Called him a hippy.’

  ‘Any man with hair over his collar was a hippy to Mum. Sorry, the name doesn’t mean anything to me. Was I already in London? I certainly don’t recall any boyfriend of yours Mum was particularly opposed to.’ Like the remark about her lack of taste, Fran had been reviving memories of their mother on a regular basis. She may never have overtly complained, but perhaps this was her way of underlining the fact that she had been there for their mother while Dory had not. But there was nothing she could have done to alter the situation. Fran lived nearby. She’d been in London.

  Dory noticed her sister had become untypically straight-faced. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips compressed. She was obviously still grieving. I mustn’t apportion motives because I feel guilty, Dory told herself.

  ‘You all right?’ she enquired. Her sister gave her arm an answering squeeze. Was this reason enough to make the move permanent – the fact that Fran so blatantly wanted her here? Time and effort could then be devoted to their adult relationship. As well as being sisters, they could become close friends.

  ‘I just wondered if you remembered, that’s all. I’ve been thinking about the past a lot,’ Fran said. ‘It’s kind of scary …’

  ‘That’s natural. Now Mum’s gone, we’re the grown-ups in the family. I know I wasn’t here for her. I appreciate you had the bulk of the caring, but it wasn’t deliberate – it was just geography and the way things turned out. Please don’t think I don’t care as much as you, I’ve gone through a mourning period just like you have. Grief stirs up all sorts of things … guilt and regret. And …’ Even as she spoke the trite words, Dory acknowledged that she didn’t really regret the fact that it had been Fran, not her, who’d borne the weight of the responsibility. Dory glanced into her sister’s solemn face and gave her arm another squeeze, ‘… and unfinished business you thought was dealt with and long forgotten.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Fran said quietly.

  Chapter Eleven - Stefan

  With each descending rattle of the venetian blinds, the room grew darker. After drawing down the final blind and snapping shut the louvres, he turned and regarded the circle of faces. Despite the gloom, he could see their expressions; most looked blank, a couple looked annoyed. Only Rachel, Dominic, and the woman with the ridiculous name – the one he’d put his foot in it with – looked interested and expectant.

  ‘How are we supposed to draw in this light?’ the other blonde, Francesca, asked. They were obviously friends, but the one who’d spoken was the more obviously good-looking, and she knew it. ‘I can hardly see my board,’ she added. It was the kind of exaggerated grumble which characterised this class and drove him mad.

  ‘I didn’t close the blinds on a whim. The purpose will be self-evident when the … when Tilly is ready.’ He glanced towards the model, who’d not bothered to retreat behind the screen to strip off. Layers of clothing – several T-shirts, an elasticated skirt, underwear, leggings, and socks – were thrown into a heap on the floor. Naked, she sauntered over to the chair in the centre of the shadowy room. In her hand was the chunky, patterned cardigan she’d been wearing as a top layer. She flung it over the chair before sitting down. Stefan switched on the high-powered lamp next to her. The room’s outer perimeter instantly darkened and in the brilliant central pool her body became a gleaming landscape of light and shadow.

  ‘Whoooh!’ she giggled. ‘I’ve never been spotlit before!’

  Stefan adjusted the direction of the beam. ‘You OK with that? It’s not too hot on your skin?’ At her assurance, he continued to address the rest of the class. ‘By shutting out the daylight, the effect of the light is magnified. Look how the contours are dramatised. Up till now you have concentrated too much on the model as a person, and not enough on the model as a series of shapes in a context. The psychology of perception tells us that we see what we expect to see. We have preconceived ideas about the appearance of things. As we all know …’ he looked around at them again, eyebrows raised, ‘appearances can be deceptive.’ Was he getting through to any of these people? No one argued with him, which made a change, but some feedback would at least be an indication they were actually listening. He turned and spoke to Tilly. Between them they agreed on a pose.

  They were into the second half of the term, but Stefan had yet to feel that anyone, with a couple of exceptions, was willing to learn. Admittedly, there’d been a misunderstanding. Most of the students had not gone through the formal enrolment procedure in September; they’d signed up through the previous teacher at the end of the summer term, in the mistaken belief that their life class was carrying on unchanged. In the in
tervening months, the provision of adult education had been restructured. Now, although not specifically for beginners, the Friday-morning class had become a focused course designed to get anyone without formal qualifications onto the access year of full-time art college. Sandira Benjamin had resigned, unwilling to be “put through hoops” in order to achieve the Further Adult Education Teaching Certificate which had become a requirement to teach the new curriculum.

  It was one thing to teach a bunch of middle-class, middle-aged, middle-Englanders who wanted to achieve what the course offered. Whatever their previous history, at least they would be receptive. Instead, what he had here was a class of self-satisfied dilettantes who already considered themselves accomplished artists. They didn’t want teaching. They wanted congratulations. But no one knew it all. Any artist, however experienced, should be open to learning.

  Even if they weren’t bothered, he was working towards acquiring the teaching qualification that his predecessor had refused to try for. If he didn’t achieve it, his job, like hers, would be on the line. He saw no alternative but to teach the course he’d been employed to teach. But most of them seemed to regard his determination as some kind of affront. They were above being told what to do and how to do it, and weren’t interested in trying new approaches and different media. All they wanted was a large light studio, a guaranteed nude model to draw or paint, and someone to oversee the process like their old tutor, whose notion of teaching was to give the class free reign to do as they liked, invariably finding something to praise in everyone’s work.

  If praise is what they expect from me, Stefan thought, it’ll be a long wait. Apart from Dominic, of course. Dom was a special case; he needed all the encouragement he could get. As for the rest of them … Stefan had no intention of praising anyone till he saw a real attempt by that individual to break out of their comfort zone.

  ‘Life drawing isn’t an end in itself,’ he said now, his gaze shifting from face to face. ‘It’s just a tool to help you see. The end product is not important. It’s the process which is important.’ He heard some sotto voce grumbling, but ignored it. ‘If you’re here to produce nice artwork to impress friends and neighbours, you’re in the wrong class. That attitude will only inhibit you. By abandoning your ambition to produce something frameable, you may actually end up doing better work.