by Allan, Gilli
She hadn’t waited for an answer. He couldn’t have trusted himself to speak, afraid that he’d burst out laughing again and offend her.
As he and Dom set up the room for that morning’s life class, Stefan reflected that he was beginning to get more out of this teaching lark than he’d ever expected.
The print-makers were easily pleased. All they required was a theme, to be shown the various techniques, and given access to the tools with which to experiment. Any old combination of props from the corner of the classroom, plus a bottle and glass, or maybe a few bits of fruit arranged as a still life, satisfied the painters and drawers. They were flexible and willing to experiment with the different approaches he suggested. And his popularity had soared since he’d promised to take them outside after half term, weather permitting, to paint landscapes.
Even though attitudes on both sides had mellowed, Life remained his most problematic class. It was a notable moment when Rachel confessed that she’d become bored with Sandy teaching them again. Others, surprisingly, had agreed.
‘I began to worry you weren’t coming back,’ she said. ‘I was relieved when you did. Don’t get me wrong, Sandy is a lovely person. I really like her, but she doesn’t actually teach. She’s gives us no guidance, makes no suggestions, and simply swans about for three hours, complimenting us on whatever we’ve done … good or bad.’
His major headache was that the class required a model, and models were a rare species. Every week, organising someone to sit for them was a skin-of-the-teeth exercise. Frequently he went through the list with no success and then had to phone back all those without a cast-iron excuse, using all his diplomatic skills to wheedle a change of mind. To increase the list of available models, someone in the office had suggested advertising, but Stefan was wary, given his own experience a few years ago. The outcome of Dominic answering his advert had turned out well – they laughed about it now – but at the time there’d been confusion, misunderstanding, and embarrassment on both sides.
Gradually, the room filled as the students arrived, but the model was late. Maybe this was just as well.
‘The model is on his way,’ he said, once the majority had assembled and were looking at him expectantly. ‘He did assure me he was definitely coming. But perhaps I’d better mention that I’ve had to engage Dermot Brian. I know Dermot isn’t popular with some of you, but I was unable to secure anyone else. Even Tilly is otherwise engaged today.’
As expected, there were a few low-voiced grumbles, mostly about preferring female models to male. Stefan shrugged and, answering the specific complaint that no one articulated, said, ‘Sit behind him.’
The door opened and Dory came in. Her shoulder bag, the one she’d left in his workshop, was looped diagonally across her body and her art bag was in her hand. He told her the model would be Dermot and she nodded, then paused.
‘Sticks?’ Alongside the usual stacks of paper, he’d put out a tray of candles, a selection of coloured inks, and a box of twigs, which he’d collected from his garden the day before and dried out in the airing cupboard overnight. No one else had so far queried – or maybe even spotted –the materials provided.
He nodded, wondering, as he had so often in the weeks following the incident, how to smooth things over with her. To do so would require a lot of explaining. It was not that he couldn’t be bothered, but that he was unable to formulate an unarguable reason for doing so. Wasn’t it better to let sleeping dogs lie? He turned to the rest of the class, who were standing around chatting. The early summer sun streamed in through the tall windows.
‘May I have your attention? When Dermot arrives,’ he looked at his watch, ‘I want you to try a different approach. I’ve brought in a selection of twigs. They’re to be used like a pen, with the ink provided, to produce a linear drawing. Before anyone complains, I am asking you to use twigs because they will produce a less predictable mark. I want you to break through your inhibitions, loosen up.
‘I have also brought in candles to use as a resist, to indicate the areas of light on the figure. Use them as you would an oil pastel. The inks can be used as they are, or watered down as body colour and applied with a brush. Use no more than two colours, including black. You could even try using one colour at full strength for the line drawing then diluted to give form. Obviously you use the resist before the body colour. The ink won’t be absorbed where you’ve used the wax, so you’ll be left with those areas of light. OK? Does everyone understand?’ He looked around at the circle of faces. Most looked stunned.
Rachel said, ‘What fun, I love drawing with twigs.’
‘If anyone fancies being adventurous, try using the wax first. You’ll be drawing blind because wax is virtually invisible. It only emerges after the ink is applied.’ He wondered how many would actually take the challenge. Maybe Rachel, and Dom too. Would Dory? Stefan looked towards Dory’s sister, Fran, expecting her to pipe up with some objection. He couldn’t be sure she was even listening, instead she was fiddling with the polished stone beads of her necklace. Her eyes were fixed on something outside the window. The door opened and Dermot came in. He muttered something about the bus.
‘No problem,’ Stefan said, though the man was more than ten minutes late. ‘All right, everyone? Any questions?’
Fran seemed to wake up then, and joined the rush for twigs. There was laughter and a bit of jostling – everyone seemed intent on finding the least blunt, split, or knobbly example. Dory went the other way and put her art bag down by a chair. Apparently aware that he was watching her, she met his look.
‘I’ve never drawn with a twig before. I’ve no idea what type to look for,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to choose from those that are left.’
Stefan nodded. ‘Good plan.’
Soon, the temporary mêlée had subsided and everyone was back. Dermot had stripped off and was sitting on a chair. Stefan asked him to lower his head.
The room became quiet. Stefan picked up his teaching file and took out the register. While he marked it, he looked at each individual. Despite the sticky start, each of them had grown on him – each had something to commend them. Even those who gave him the most hassle – he looked up at Fran and then across to Michael – often amused him. Everyone here was bright and interested and involved with what they did. How could he maintain his resentment against people who were so keen on art? Disagreement was healthy.
He’d long since realised that his real resentment was with being forced into this position. He’d never wanted to teach – had felt no vocation to do so – and his initial experience, particularly with this class, had been like banging his head against a brick wall. Now, he had to acknowledge a growing sense of achievement, particularly where Dom was concerned. The boy was well on his way to gaining the credits he needed. An interview had been scheduled between him and the head of the art department in the main college to evaluate his suitability for acceptance onto the Access Course in September. Stefan had been supervising the content of the portfolio he would take along, and coaching him on his interview technique. Specifically, he’d persuaded Dom to say, ‘Yes, of course’, if asked whether he intended to take some GCSEs.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll have a couple of years to get them. Though if your portfolio’s good enough, they may even give you a special dispensation and let you join a degree course without the mandatory exam passes. But you might prefer to go the vocational route. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.’ Still all in black, the inevitable band logo – today it was DoomSword – on the chest of his short-sleeved T- shirt, the boy’s expression was intent and concentrated. Using a candle like a crayon, he was scribbling hard. After a moment, he stopped the frantic rubbing and stared at the paper with a frown, almost as if he couldn’t believe any wax had been deposited.
Despite his progress on this course, Stefan was concerned about him. He’d become increasingly withdrawn and appeared to have lost weight recently. He spent hours in his room painting Warhammer miniatures, which Stefan could
not help but consider a waste of his time and talent. Otherwise, he was preoccupied and quiet. There hadn’t been much joking and laughter in recent weeks. Of course, he hadn’t been back to the STI clinic for the retest. If his vanishing act at the turn of the year had involved a return to his old habits, then it was still too soon to get a definitive result anyway. Dom refused even to talk about it.
His gaze turned to Dory. She was frowning slightly, her mouth in a pout of concentration. Everyone else in the room had changed to their summer wardrobes, mainly characterised by pastel colours and open necks. She was dressed in khaki cotton combats and a baggy T-shirt in a dark olive green. He liked Dory. He even found her attractive, more so than her sister – the bossy one, he recalled her saying – whose good looks were more self-conscious. But so what? He’d no intention of doing anything about it. So why did it matter what she thought? Why did he still feel an urge to explain himself? As she applied wax to her drawing, yellow, gold, and orange bangles clacked together on her wrist. He turned away with a slight smile.
Though he had noticed the way Fran stared at Dominic, until Dory’s revelation he’d not wondered why. Admittedly, Dom was a good-looking boy, but it was a scenario Stefan would never have suspected. Since the revelation about the boy’s sexuality – or maybe it was the implication that he put it around a bit – Fran’s fascination seemed to have waned dramatically. Along with her infatuation, she seemed to have abandoned her self-appointed role as shop steward, becoming markedly less vocal and confrontational. Had she finally accepted his method of teaching, or was there another reason? She seemed less relaxed, and even with the heavy make-up, her face was drawn and shadowed. Why speculate if it made his life easier?
Chapter Thirty-one - Fran
‘I no where u live.’ Recalling the final email from db sparked yet another shiver to zip down Fran’s spine. It was months now since he’d sent the link to that sick website, but the correspondence had continued. Every email she received applied another twist to her tension. But the last to come through, at two this morning, was the killer. Her agitation was now at breaking point. What did he mean? How could he know where she lived? But if he did? If somehow he’d found out …? What was he planning?
For months, Fran had been trying to convince him to stop sending the pictures. She wasn’t interested. She’d said it over and over again. Fantasy was fantasy and that was where it should stay. And in any case, her fantasies definitely did not extend in the direction of S&M.
‘U don’t know till u try.’
‘I don’t want to try.’
‘Don’t believe u!’ he’d responded. There’d been a delay and then an attachment came through with the next email.
‘Look at u … naughty girl! Ever done anything so thrilling? Imagine it!’
It had taken several seconds to comprehend. In itself, the image was disgusting, but there was something additionally odd about it – the head not quite the right size or angle. She felt sick and numb. The woman in the scene was her. He had photoshopped the picture she’d sent him in the early days of their correspondence and superimposed it, not totally successfully, onto the body of the woman involved in the act. Before she’d gathered her wits sufficiently to think how to respond, another message came through.
‘Admit u want 2 meet. U no u want 2 join in!’
He was wrong. The very idea appalled her. And yet, even sitting here in the life class, struggling with this bloody twig, she could sense the tell-tale dampening at her crotch. Yes, she was horrified by the bombardment of sexual imagery and explicit messages, but it had been a fascinated, thrilling horror, otherwise why did she keep reading his emails and looking at the images? She knew she shouldn’t reply. He had won every time he prompted a response. But she was irresistibly impelled to deny, to repudiate, to rebut.
‘Leave me alone. Stop emailing me with this rubbish! I am NOT interested.’
‘Its what u dont do, not what u do, that u regret. Times running out!’
‘What on earth do you mean – time’s running out?’
‘I no where you live’, was the final message, received in the early hours of the morning.
Her skin crawled. Her stomach churned sickly. The whole thing was her own bloody fault. But accepting her share of the blame didn’t help. Concentrate on what you’re here to do, she told herself. Peering at the sheet of cartridge taped to the board in front of her, she found it hard to make out where she’d used the resistant wax on the paper. With all this other stuff going on in her head, did she even care?
Fran had hoped that the lesson this morning would distract her from the ideas db had fed into her mind. Wishful thinking. They’d become pervasive, occupying her thoughts and even her dreams. She’d even begun to make excuses to avoid intimacy with her husband. Poor Peter, he had no idea that her explosive orgasms had been heightened by the repellent fantasies that were now automatically triggered in her mind as soon as they began the preamble to making love. She’d rather not have sex than be aroused by someone else’s obsessions. It felt dirty.
The magenta ink dribbled, splattered, then abruptly dried, sucked up into the dry wood. She pressed harder, as if the twig was a pencil or a felt tip pen, and pressure could improve the mark. It splayed and broke, leaving a dirty, splintery gouge in the surface of the paper.
She glanced at Dory. Was celibacy the answer? Turning your back on your sexual self? She’d always believed that it was a healthy sex life that kept wrinkles at bay, put a spark in your eye and a spring in your step. Look at nuns. Dried up little husks. But Dory looked great on abstinence. She’d lost the weight she put on when she was unwell. Her short, ashy-blonde hair, which she wore these days in a slightly punkish style, was thick and glossy. How did her skin look so good, her eyes so bright? Trust her to buck the trend and blossom where anyone else would start to wither and fade. She didn’t seem to be suffering from abstinence.
On the foldout table beside Fran was her equipment – paintbrushes, a jam jar of water, the candle, the broken twig, and a palette. Two of the palette’s dishes were filled – one with the full-strength magenta ink and one with the diluted mixture. Irritably, she swapped her twig and, looking at her drawing, aimed her paintbrush at the palette. In one confident stroke, she’d ruined everything she’d so far done. A vibrant swathe of undiluted ink was swiped across the figure. It was small comfort that, as promised, the ink bobbled and retreated where the wax had been applied.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ she muttered under her breath. She’d meant to build up the drawing with pale watery washes until she knew for certain where to put the deepest colour, but in a moment of inattention she’d dunked her brush in the wrong dish. With a sigh of defeat, she plunged the paintbrush back into the full-strength ink. In for a penny, in for a pound.
At coffee, Michael was in brash, provocative mode.
‘Apart from having to draw him with a fucking twig, the model had at least two strikes against him before we even started,’ he said. ‘First, he’s a he, and I’m sorry, I just don’t enjoy drawing men. And second, he’s a bloody Mick!’
‘How do you mean?’ Lennie looked perplexed. ‘You don’t like being in the same room with someone else called Michael?’
‘Keep up, chum,’ Michael muttered with a sigh. ‘No, he’s a Dermot, isn’t he? Dermot bloody Brian! Bloody Irish, must be. There’s more of them over here … complaining … than actually live there! He’s probably bloody IRA!’ Michael chuckled at his own outrageousness. There were a few answering titters around the table. Rachel raised her eyebrows in disapproval, but it was an amused disapproval. Lennie continued to look mystified.
‘Probably a bloody shirt-lifter as well.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Michael!’
‘Don’t think he is,’ Dory offered.
‘What? You must have noticed that he depilates and oils himself,’ Michael insisted, as if it were his veracity being questioned. ‘No way he’s that smooth and shiny naturally! Got to be a narcissistic arse-
bandit … straight from Poof Central!’
‘You’re incorrigible.’ Rachel’s reproval was delivered with an indulgent smile.
‘I say!’ Bill added. ‘Not very politically correct!’
Unabashed, Michael’s amusement erupted as a hooting laugh. ‘Anyway, poofy Irishman apart …’, he turned away and rummaged in the leather satchel he’d brought to the canteen with him, ‘we’ve spent all of the last ten years, since we moved in, renovating the house. So, before I bring the earth-movers in and start on the garden, who’s coming to this?’ He started handing out invitations to Combeside Manor Open Garden. ‘Free parking, but £5 at the gate. In aid of charity … Marlpit Hospice. There’s a map of how to get to Combeside on the back.’ Rachel looked aghast.
‘Earth-movers? What are you talking about? Your garden is lovely.’ She hesitated. ‘Lovely. It’s so idiosyncratic.’
Michael chuckled. ‘Mad is the word I’d probably use. You and the wife are the only two people I know who wouldn’t change it.’
‘But the planting, the flowers and shrubs …? The different areas?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m mainly concentrating on the hard landscaping, the terraces, and the statuary. I won’t be ripping out the walled gardens.’
‘Oh, you’re so lucky.’
‘Luck has nothing to do with it.’
Rachel sighed. ‘We all know your theories on making your own luck. I can’t be bothered to argue with you about it. When’s the open day? Oh, good. Midsummer, when those banks of oriental poppies and peonies are out. Oh, and the lavender. I love that cloud of misty blue, edging the paved avenue down to the fountain. It’s just stunning!’
‘The fountain’s top of my list for renovation. It’s so damaged, would you know what it’s supposed to represent without being told?’
The conversation moved on. Dory leant forward. ‘You all right, Fran?’
