by Allan, Gilli
‘Happy New Year to you too, Mary. I’m fine, thanks, just been sleeping badly.’ Looking around, Dory hoped to see the boy. His demeanour would surely betray whether he’d had good or bad news. But his absence, combined with that of their teacher, was worrying.
Poor Dominic. He was so young, so talented. It would be tragic if he proved HIV positive. And yet it was always a tragedy, wasn’t it? If she didn’t lose sleep over the majority who passed through the clinic’s doors, some of them just as young and maybe just as talented, why was she so concerned now? What was special about this youth? He wasn’t a particular friend of hers. Whenever they’d talked, the subject had never strayed far beyond art. But at least Dom would now know what he faced. If positive, he’d have been told it wasn’t an immediate death sentence. There were successful retro-viral drug regimes that could keep him well for years.
‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ Mary persisted.
‘Seems a distant memory already.’
In the past, Dory and Malcolm had typically been houseguests at Sheepswick Rectory over Christmas, sharing a packed few days with Fran and the extended family. But now, Dory was single and living locally, Mel was away, and there were no parents to visit. Despite Fran’s dislike of any alteration to her established routines, this year, Christmas had to change.
Dory was due to arrive on Christmas morning, stop overnight, and return home on Boxing Day. Fran had tried to persuade her to commit to a longer stay. ‘Otherwise it’s going to be really quiet,’ she’d pleaded. Normally Dory would have given in. Anything for a quiet life. But more than anything, she didn’t want to have to put on a front. The prospect of lying on her own sofa in pyjamas, drinking wine and eating chocolates and watching her choice of soppy films was worth standing up to her sister for.
As usual, the rectory had looked lovely. Swags of ivy were pinned to the ancient beams. The ornaments on the tree were colour co-ordinated with the décor. On every surface were bowls of potpourri and scented candles. During the day, every variety of festive fare – sweets, nuts, and fruit – were on offer. Scheduled for the evening, Christmas dinner would be a replica of every other ever offered here. The table would glitter with crystal and candles. Luxury crackers would be beside each place setting and the traditional turkey, followed by a flaming pudding, was on the menu.
Yet despite the superficial similarity between this Christmas and the one before, and the one before that, the atmosphere had been odd. Maybe it’s because it’s just the three of us, Dory had thought. Or maybe it’s because I’m keeping secrets. Nothing she’d gleaned at the clinic could be divulged. Patient confidentiality was paramount. Kitesnest House was another subject she had no intention of raising. Already questioning her own sanity, she could do without the outraged nest of hornets between her and her sister that this confession would stir up. Anyway, why angst about something that was never going to happen?
By mid-afternoon, presents had been opened, the chosen drinks had been drunk, sausage rolls and mince pies had been eaten. After putting the turkey in the oven, Fran had then disappeared for several hours, leaving Dory alone with Peter. Candles flickered on the stone mantle. Logs crackled and flared in the fireplace beneath. The spicy, pomander fragrance of orange, clove, and cinnamon mixed with wood smoke and pine resin in a cocktail of seasonal aromas.
‘She’ll be in the study on the internet,’ Peter said in answer to Dory’s query.
‘The internet?’ Dory was surprised. ‘Seems odd to be going online on Christmas Day? She gave the impression she’s not very experienced.’
‘It’s a recent thing. Obviously, since Mel went off on her gap year, Fran’s started using it more. There’s email, and Mel’s Facebook thing, and it’s grown from there.’
‘Of course. She’ll be talking to Mel.’
Peter looked at his watch. ‘Not at this time. She may well have emailed us today, but I don’t expect there’ll be an ongoing conversation. The messages Fran shows me are usually relatively succinct. To be honest, I don’t think Fran really misses Mel. Not the way I do.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. She misses her terribly. She told me about breaking down in tears in Waitrose just after Mel left.’
‘She was beside herself then, but now …? She’s in this daze most of the time. I have no idea what’s going on in her head.’
‘So, what is she doing on the PC, do you think?’
‘I know what she says. Either her committee things, like Stop the Sheepswick Garden Grab!’
‘On Christmas Day?’
‘Or she’ll be researching the family tree.’
‘Really? Which side of the family? Shall I go and see?’
‘If you do, she’ll jump out of her skin like you’ve burst a balloon behind her.’ Peter poured another inch of Scotch into his tumbler. ‘Don’t ask for details, she doesn’t talk to me about it. I can’t understand what’s so absorbing that she’s willing to sit there all day long.’ A log settled, and a sudden loud crack made Jimbo – or was it Nelson – jump several feet away from the grate with an offended yip. The other dog, half stupefied by the heat, simply raised his head and gazed, first at the fire and then at his brother in sleepy perplexity. Peter chuckled, though his eyes remained unamused. ‘She always seems to be on the bloody thing. She’s even talking about getting Skype. How much would that cost? Would it be worth it?’
‘You can download it for free and the additional webcam is peanuts. Who’s she planning to video call? Mel, I presume?’
‘So far we’ve been relying on texts and email. I suppose it would be good to be able to hear and see each other. But I’ve no idea if Mel would be able to access it on her mobile … smart … Blackberry thingy. Anyway, she’ll be home soon. I don’t know …’ He breathed deeply and gazed into his crystal tumbler. Then he looked up. ‘I don’t recognise my wife any more, Dory.’
A seed of foreboding took root. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Before I stepped down from Halston & Paige, do you remember she lost all that weight?’
‘But that was a positive thing, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course. She seemed transformed. I was pleased for her because she was so pleased with herself.’
‘I remember. Her self-esteem went sky high. It was great to see.’
Peter looked doubtful. ‘Maybe, but suddenly she was buying all these young fashions, almost as if she wanted to be seen more as Mel’s contemporary than her mother. She was using more make-up, had a new hairdo, you know, loads of different coloured stripes. Costs an arm and a leg to maintain. Seventy quid a time.’
‘But a hairdo, Peter?’ Dory was puzzled – by most people’s standards the Paiges were well off. ‘That’s what they cost.’
‘She’d been happy with herself as she was, wasn’t bothered about fashion or being a bit plump. She had her own style.’
‘Maybe she was bothered but kept it to herself? Overweight women often dress in a certain way,’ Dory said. ‘It’s a disguise. But once she’d lost the weight she wanted to show off her new figure. Just from the health point of view, it’s beneficial to have lost a few stone, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not so much the cost, or the weight loss, or the clothes. It’s …’ Peter looked away and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s the reasons behind it that trouble me. When I took early retirement, foolishly, perhaps, I imagined she’d be happy. I am still working, but much less, and I can pick and choose the jobs I take on. I was looking forward to having more time together. But instead of enjoying this new situation, planning what we can do together and taking pleasure in a more relaxed way of life, she seems to hate it.’
Dory was not entirely surprised that the reality of his semi-retirement had proved less enjoyable for her sister than Peter had expected. In her view, Fran had always lived a relaxed life. Relaxed to the point of indolent. Having her husband at home had made it less relaxed – it had been a disruption to her routine. But perhaps it was what his retirement signified that had prove
d to be more difficult for Fran to accept. She’d lost the weight at least a year before the subject was even raised. Her mother had died. Her daughter was still a schoolgirl then, her husband, a partner in a successful local accountancy firm, with a very good income. All at once she’d seen herself in a new light; she was young, affluent, and attractive, a woman in her prime, with life still ahead of her full of fun and potential. But it didn’t last. Until then, the difference in their ages hadn’t been an issue. Peter was fit, good looking, and young for his age. Suddenly, he was at home the entire time, talking about growing vegetables and receiving Saga magazine. Her daughter had flown the nest. And she was looking at the big Four-O.
‘We bought you the art equipment as a Christmas present because Fran says you’ve become really keen,’ Peter went on. ‘You’re even doing it at home as a hobby.’
‘Yes. It’s enthralling. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realise how exciting it is to draw and paint. At the moment I can think of nothing I’d rather do with my free time.’
‘You see, Fran could do that. But apart from going to the life class on a Friday morning, she spends all her time either out buying herself more clothes, getting toned in the gym, or shut in the study with the computer. I don’t understand it, Dory.’
Without their teacher they stood round in the art room, talking desultorily. Even Tilly had arrived more or less on time. There were several absentees. According to Rachel, who knew his wife, Michael had spent Christmas with his family at their house in Italy, but had then set off for the Andes with a coterie of like-minded friends to do a spot of recreational mountaineering. Dominic’s absence was not remarked upon; his attendance had always been patchy, particularly at the start of the course back in September. And no one knew why the tutor hadn’t turned up for the first life class of the year.
Dory volunteered nothing. Though she couldn’t quell her uneasy speculations, it was almost a relief that both Dom and Stefan were absent on the first day of term. However professionally she’d decided to behave, her inside knowledge would be in the room with them from now on. And on top of that, to add baggage to the unacknowledged elephant, was her insultingly low offer for Stefan’s house.
Time ticked on. The start of the lesson had come and gone. The door swung open and a college employee came in. She glanced distractedly at the piece of paper she gripped. Her short hair, a toxic orange colour at the start of the autumn term and now a dusty brown, pointed in every direction. Her rumpled, mismatched clothes were either an ‘arty’ statement or an indication of her habitually harassed condition.
‘Life class?’ Eyes that were messily smudged with too much kohl peered at them through Harry Potter glasses, as if she’d expected them to look different. At someone’s assent, she continued: ‘I’m sorry. Mr Novak is unable to come in today.’
‘It’s not the flu, is it?’ Mary asked.
The woman shrugged. ‘He’s not been in all week. But “personal reasons” is the only information we have. Anyway, we’re trying to find a replacement tutor for you. In the meantime …’ She looked around, trying to identify the likely candidate. ‘Have you got a model?’
‘Yep, I’m here,’ Tilly said. ‘I’m happy to get started if the class agrees how they want me.’ Had he been there, Michael would doubtless have made an inappropriate comment at this point.
The decision to dispense with the usual short poses – or any of the other ‘arty-farty’ exercises Stefan put them through – was quickly reached. But it took another fifteen minutes for the majority to decide upon a long pose. At easels, Rachel and Bill had organised themselves with oil paints, palettes, and white spirit. On a donkey, Liz had opened her box of pastels. Lennie arranged his felt pens beside him. Fran had started to draw with pencil. Silence fell.
If only she had a tried and tested formula she could sink into. Instead, her mind was as blank as the paper in front of her. She glanced down at her new equipment-packed art bag, hoping for inspiration. None came.
Minutes later, rummaging around in the storeroom, her Christmas Day conversation with her brother-in-law came back to her. Dory was very fond of Peter. He was laid-back, good-natured, and generous. Maybe just a little too indulgent towards his wife? Worryingly, the outward, easy-going persona seemed a thinning veneer, hiding a more troubled soul. She’d no solutions for him. People changed – Fran enjoyed surfing the web and buying clothes these days. What else could she offer as explanation? But Peter’s concern about her sister had laid yet another layer of disquiet over her mood. Forget it for a few hours. Get on with what you’re here for.
‘You’ve been gone ages. What are you looking for?’ The door swung gently closed behind Fran.
‘I thought I might use chalk on black paper.’
‘You’re so contrary. It’s typical of you to decide to use the two materials we didn’t put in your Christmas present!’
‘Don’t be so touchy! It was a wonderful present. You couldn’t have possibly provided me with the full range of materials available. Just look at this room. It’s an Aladdin’s cave in here. Look at these different types of paper. It’s only a small selection that Stefan gets out each week.’
‘Talking of the martinet.’ Fran eyes widened, ‘I wonder what’s happened.’
‘Whatever it is, he’s left his homework behind. This is his.’ Dory held up a folder she’d found. ‘It’s his file of notes for …’ Opening it, she read out, ‘Further Adult Education Teaching Certificate. That’s the qualification he needs so he can continue to teach this OCN course we’re on.’
‘You may be on it,’ Fran said, mutinously. ‘I’m not.’ Her expression softened. ‘You and the divine Dominic, of course.’
Dory sighed. Her sister’s regression into second teenagehood was becoming seriously wearing, particularly given what she now knew about the young man.
‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be reading those!’ Fran said, in an abrupt return to big sister bossy mode. ‘They’re his private papers.’
‘It’s not a personal diary or anything,’ Dory objected. ‘All that’s in here are the FAETC notes, his lesson plans, and the register.’
‘Funny that he should have left it here since last term? You’d have thought he’d need it over the Christmas break. It shouldn’t have been a problem to have popped back for it, even if it meant getting the janitor to open up.’
‘Perhaps he’s had other things on his mind.’
‘Those personal reasons that caused today’s absence, perhaps?’ Fran mused. A sliver of ice snaked its way down between Dory’s shoulder blades. It was the inference she had been trying to avoid all morning. Maybe it wasn’t just Dominic’s plight, but the connection between him and the art teacher that was really bothering her. Recalling Stefan’s response to her query about a Mrs Novak – ‘No wife, nor is there ever likely to be’ – she disguised her shiver with a shrug.
‘Who knows? Death in the family?’
Fran either didn’t hear or ignored her sister’s speculation. ‘Did you say register? That shouldn’t be here. The registers are part of the college’s admin. Give it here,’ Fran said, snatching the folder from Dory’s hand. ‘I’d like to have a look.’
To Dory, the register was the least interesting part of the folder’s contents. ‘Why?’
‘I want to look at the beautiful boy’s name.’
Shut up, Dory thought, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling.
‘As I can’t ogle the flesh and blood.’
Give me strength, Dory silently implored, her teeth clenched.
‘Ooh! Just the word flesh in connection with him makes me go all funny.’
A growing turbulence had begun to buzz inside Dory’s head.
‘During that anatomy lesson before Christmas, he was looking at that skeleton. D’you remember, it was called Oscar?’ Fran was shuffling through the file of papers as she spoke. ‘Dom was wearing one of those heavy metal sweatshirts. It had a Celtic-style logo on the chest.’
With wil
lpower, Dory might just hold back the building wave of exasperation.
‘I asked him about it later. Turns out it was a band’s name, but completely indecipherable. Enslaved, I think. Ever heard of them? I hadn’t. Anyway, I noticed Dom reach up to the skull.’
Dory’s tussle with her temper was failing. She dug her nails into her palms.
‘Honestly, would you believe he patted Oscar on the head?’ Fran smiled at the memory ‘Ah, Bless. So sweet. Like he was saying hello. And his shirt rode up and I could see this tantalising wedge of alabaster skin. Hang on?’ Now she frowned. ‘His name’s not on any of these registers. Why not?’
Dory hardly heard her sister’s last remark. All remnants of self-control fell before the roll and crash of anger.
‘For God’s sake, Fran!’ she spat out. ‘Grow up!’
‘Oh, you are such a tight arse! I’m joking, all right?’
‘No! Not all right! I’m bored to death with this juvenile fixation of yours!’ Her voice was hoarse from the tussle to keep herself from yelling. ‘I don’t actually care if this is all a joke, if it is all just play-acting. Why do you do it? It’s been a nauseating display! And I’m bloody sick of it!’
‘Bit of an overreaction,’ Fran said, squaring her shoulders huffily.
‘Maybe. But I’m the one you expect to listen to all this gooey, ridiculous rubbish and to nod and agree as if you’re talking sense. It’s embarrassing. I’ve reached the end of my tether. You’re mooning over a boy even Mel would think twice about.’
‘So?’
‘You’re not bothered that Dom is younger than your own daughter?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘What about the fact he’s …’
‘He’s what? What?’ she repeated crossly. ‘How come you’ve got some kind of hotline to secret information?’
‘How do you think? Where do I work? He’s not interested in women, young or, for God sake, more than twice his age!’ Cool air brushed Dory’s cheek. The light changed. ‘Unless you’re …’ Dory paused, suddenly stumped for a gay icon. ‘Shirley bloody Bassey! Dom’s gay!’ A cold silence followed. She saw the focus of Fran’s wide eyes move to a spot over her shoulder. Dory turned.
