Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘Future generations with a nice view but nowhere to live. Do you not believe there’s a housing shortage? How the hell can first-time buyers get their foot on the housing ladder? Someone like Dom? The stock of social housing is shrinking. Can you imagine him ever being able to live somewhere half-decent unless new homes are being built?’

  ‘So you’re just being altruistic? Like a first-time buyer would ever be able to raise a mortgage on one of these. Have you seen the projected prices? Ha ha!’

  It was uncomfortable hearing his own name dragged into the row. Even more unsettling was the context. He’d known for a long time that Stefan eventually planned to sell this place. But that was when he’d been an occasional visitor. Things had changed since then; he’d come to regard Kitesnest as his home. It was ages since Stefan had mentioned selling up. If he thought about it at all, he assumed Stefan had changed his mind. But was that just wishful thinking? What would happen to him if …?

  ‘I won’t let you do it!’ Dom heard. ‘I’ll put preservation orders on all the trees. And there’s got to be wildlife that needs protecting. You told me there’s a colony of bats. Isn’t there a regulation that forbids interfering with bat roosts? If there’s a way of stopping this …’

  Chapter Forty-nine - Stefan

  Late afternoon sun reflected off her white shirt as Dory paused, one hand resting on the ancient wood of the wide-flung door. Momentarily dazzled – was it the sight of her or the sudden flare of light? – he saw her hesitation as a reproach. Even though he’d asked her here, she was guarded with him now.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said with an unsmiling nod. Using a decorator’s paintbrush, Stefan had been applying the final coat of the white silicone rubber, the one containing the thixotropic mixture, onto the bust. He painted the gloopy material onto the previous layer, turning the revolving stand every few minutes. He usually liked the background murmur of speech radio as he worked. He could tune his brain out to ignore, or tune it in to actively listen. But at this time in the early evening, the endless round of news, more news, and repeated news sometimes got through to him whether he wanted it to or not. It wasn’t as if any of the news was ever good.

  In the cool silence of the barn, all he heard was his own breathing, the intermittent drip of the tap, and the soft scrape of his feet as he shuffled from side to side. The noise of a car pulling up outside had been as disturbing as an alarm going off. From his vantage point, even though the doors stood open, he could neither see the car nor its driver. His instinct was to fling down the brush and check it was her, but he gritted his teeth and stayed where he was, painting on the viscous mixture.

  ‘I was pleased to come,’ she answered him, entering the barn.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ He tilted his head towards the back of the studio, where a few provisions had crept back since the big clear out. ‘There’s a kettle, but …’ He scratched his head. ‘Sorry.’ He really needed to get himself more organised. Grace’s death had relieved him of the responsibility of doing her shopping. The downside was that he frequently forgot to shop for himself. He and Dom were currently living on takeaways and stale cereal.

  ‘No coffee?’ she asked with a small smile. ‘It’s OK, I don’t want anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry for asking you to come here. I’d have come to you but, to coin a phrase, once I start I have to finish.’

  ‘Easy to drop off here on my way home from work. May I sit and watch you?’ She nodded at what he was doing. ‘Your father.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘I’ll make an intermediate plaster cast once the mould is finished.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then nothing. I’ll put him away with everything else I can’t afford to …’ He bit back the self-pitying bleat about his financial difficulties. After all, he had a way out now, didn’t he? Stefan looked up from layering on the silicone rubber.

  ‘So, how are you?’ he asked, when it seemed she had no comment to make on his storage policy.

  ‘I’m fine.’ They stared at one another for a moment. Stefan was momentarily lost in contemplation of her lovely face, her green gold eyes, her mouth …

  ‘So … what will be the next step for Ladislav Novak when you can afford it?’ she asked briskly, switching her gaze abruptly to the bust. ‘The lost-wax process, presumably?’

  ‘Well remembered.’ Having come to the end of the synthetic latex mixture, Stefan dropped the claggy paintbrush back into the emptied container. The slight chemical odour permeated the barn.

  ‘But not very well understood,’ she qualified.

  ‘You should watch the process from beginning to end one day.’

  ‘I’d really like that.’

  ‘For the uninitiated, the foundry is quite exciting. Heat. Fire. The clash of metal. Molten bronze. Sweat. Men being manly! But I didn’t ask you here to talk about the lost-wax process, Dory. I wanted to clear the air. There are three more classes till the end of term and I didn’t want there to be an atmosphere between us.’

  ‘I was glad to come. I want to apologise.’ Momentarily unwilling to meet his eyes, it seemed she preferred to look at the silicone-coated bust. ‘How long will that take to dry?’

  ‘Not long. But there’s another process before it’s finished. I’ll be covering it in a topcoat of glass fibre and resin. That’s the hard outer skin, the layer which holds the mould firm.’ Stefan wiped his hands on the old towel. ‘Dory, we seem to have been here before. What have you done to apologise for?’ He sat down, desperate to understand, but scared of saying the wrong thing. She looked at her hands. Several tense moments elapsed before her eyes reconnected with his.

  She cleared her throat. ‘What you plan to do with Kitesnest House is nothing to do with me, is it? I had no right to speak to you like that, as if I should have been consulted. But … an estate? All those houses. It was such a shock!’

  Did she not realise that her reaction had been a shock to him too? He’d wanted her to be as thrilled by the news as he was. Her vehement repudiation had stung. His anger had sprung from surprise and deep disappointment.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper.’ He drew his hand over his face while he considered what to say next. ‘It was stupid, clumsy of me to tell you about it like that … Look, let’s get outside. I’ve been cooped up in here all afternoon.’

  They walked in silence for a while, up the first incline where she’d slipped, back in December. He noticed her glance down at the ground, as if looking for that smooth-edged ridge of rock. Then she looked up. He followed her gaze to the jigsaw of overlapping greens and golds and shards of blue overhead. She took a long breath.

  He considered looping his arm around her shoulders, but instead he plunged his hands deep into his jean pockets. Keep things business-like, he thought. Try to explain. He cleared his throat.

  ‘The estate agent called me on Friday afternoon. I was down at Wyvern Mill, working on some maquettes for that competition you mentioned. A sculpture that celebrates Painchester Docks. It’s a bit of a poser. I’ve become quite an expert on the docks’ history, but … How to depict the import trade in corn, timber, and guano?’

  ‘Guano? It has enough of its own, doesn’t it, with all the seagulls and pigeons?’

  ‘And then there’s its more recent notoriety for drug-dealing and prostitution. Any ideas welcome.’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I’m not an artist.’

  He smiled at her briefly before reverting to the original subject. ‘The call came totally out of the blue. The house hasn’t even been on the market since Christmas. But when they told me how much they’re prepared to offer …! Maybe you’re right.’ He glanced towards her. She was staring ahead now. He noted the depth of her eyelids, the cleft beneath her full bottom lip, the rounded contour of her chin. ‘The idea of all that money turned my head, sent me a bit crazy. I completely lost sight of how you were likely to respond.’ The fragrant breeze stirred softly, warmly against his bare forearms. He heard the pla
intive, keening cry of a buzzard. Twigs snapped underfoot. ‘Though I can’t think why I expected you to welcome the news. I know how attached you are to this place.’

  Her head dipped forward as if in acknowledgement. ‘And the more I get to know it, the stronger I feel. But perhaps I’ve had my head in the clouds too. I can imagine how tempted you must be.’ She glanced sideways at him and bit her lip. ‘I won’t do anything to try and block the sale. Have you accepted the offer yet?’

  Stefan shook his head. ‘It’s still sinking in. Oddly, the first thing I did after the phone call was to pick up the bust of my father and bring it back here. I hardly know why.’

  ‘Because the barn is a wonderful space to work in. You know it is. It’s where you’re most comfortable, most inspired.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘And then on Sunday I turned up.’

  ‘And then you turned up. It felt like the final proof that my run of bad luck had turned. Everything had begun to change for me. Even then, I couldn’t quite believe it until Monday morning, when I received confirmation of the offer. Subject, of course, to the probate of Grace’s will. When I came upstairs with the tea and toast, I was holding a promise of more money than I’d ever dreamed off. It felt like I’d won the lottery. You were in my bed, the future was secure, and there was no more need to worry.’

  Dory nodded but said nothing as they continued to pace slowly up the hill. With a sudden clatter, a bird flew up through the branches. She watched its upward progress. Stefan ignored the wood pigeon, but looked at Dory. Her eyes were misted.

  ‘The trouble is, I entirely understand. It’s just my own selfish …’ Her voice failed. He saw her throat move as she swallowed. ‘Have you ever imagined your sculptures in amongst the trees here?’ she asked after a pause. ‘They’d look wonderful, wouldn’t they?’

  They had reached the clearing. She was right, of course. Growing up here he’d taken the place for granted. And more recently, his perceptions were skewed by his poor relationship with his father. Now he looked around at the glade – silvery smooth beech trunks, like pillars supporting the vaulted roof of leaf cover, the sunlight splashing through in random puddles onto the ground. This was where, years before, a gang of girls had invaded his space. He remembered Dory quite clearly. Younger than the others, her fair hair tied up in bunches. He’d liked her best even then. She’d been serious, interested in the skull he’d found. The others were loud and cocky.

  ‘You’ve always wanted to be an artist,’ she said. ‘Your dedication is formidable. This isn’t special pleading but … do you not think that too much money might dissipate your ambition?’

  ‘You think it’s better for artists to starve in garrets?’ he queried. ‘And as it’s commonly known we’re particularly prone to dissipation.’

  She rewarded him with her first smile. ‘There may be a grain of truth in the saying that the best art comes out of struggle. Can you think of any notable Russian authors since the end of the Cold War?’

  ‘No, but then I’m not a literary expert.’ He scuffed his feet in the leaf mould as they walked, wondering, abstractedly, if he’d turn over another skull. ‘You say it’s not special pleading, but I know you’d rather I didn’t sell the house at all.’

  ‘And it’s none of my business, is it?’ she said. ‘But for a while I’d allowed myself to believe, to dream, that I actually had a stake in this place, that I could influence its future.’

  Stefan breathed in. They were within sight of the fence now and the sunlit common beyond.

  She continued, ‘Last year, before I moved back here, I stood up there with Fran, on the edge of the hill. We were recalling that day we trespassed. The house is completely invisible from the common, did you know? You’d think a bit of roof or a chimney pot would stick up. Maybe it does, but we couldn’t see it. The idea that all those trees, and even the house itself, will be razed to the ground, replaced by a sprawling, bog-standard red-roofed housing estate …’ She leant against the silver green palings of the fence and looked up at the sky, where the buzzard now circled slowly. Her mouth clamped, her chin puckered. ‘… It’s unbearable.’

  Stefan had once asked Dory what being in love meant. She’d not given him a definition, but said he’d know if he were. If knowing it was the only criterion, he hadn’t been in love with Chrissie. But now …?

  The surge of emotion was almost irresistible. He dragged his hands from his pockets, but fought against the desire to throw his arms around her, to push her up against a tree trunk and kiss her – to do more than kiss her. He wanted to bring a smile to her face, to tell her it was all right – that he’d changed his mind – but he did none of these things. His hands clenched into fists.

  It wasn’t true that he’d changed his mind. He couldn’t give up his plans just to make her happy. And he had no latitude, no room for manoeuvre. He was under the pressure of a deadline. It wasn’t an open-ended offer. There was a limited time to consider the deal. Unless he made up his mind soon, it would be withdrawn.

  Instead of confessing he’d fallen in love with her, he said, ‘I don’t know what else to do, Dory.’

  ‘I believe there might be another way,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve been thinking about little else. It may all be a pipe dream, but will you listen?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You could do so much with this house and its land.’ As she spoke, she turned around, looking back the way they’d come. ‘Independent art classes and workshops are becoming more and more sought after because of the squeeze on local authority provision. Painting, sculpture, life, whatever, could be run from the barn without you having to follow an imposed curriculum.’ She looked towards him with a tentative smile. ‘There may even be grants and funding you could apply for, to help with set-up costs. But in the current climate that’s probably a long shot. The house, particularly the front, is airy and spacious and without all that dark panelling it would be wonderfully light. The three front rooms could be used as a gallery, a permanent exhibition of your own work, or temporary exhibitions of other artists’.’

  ‘What …?’ He could hardly take all this in, but Dory was on a roll.

  ‘For a price of course! You could even do art holidays. The house is plenty big enough for paying guests. The front bedrooms could be made en-suite, and there’s space in the loft for further rooms. Activity holidays are a growth industry. And this is a tourist area.’

  ‘I’m not …’ He felt inadequate, overwhelmed. Everything she’d said hinged on him being capable of taking on such a project. He’d no faith in his ability to do so. ‘How could I even begin to do any of this, Dory? All I know, all I am, is a sculptor.’

  ‘You speak as if you’re one-dimensional.’ She gripped his hand. ‘No one knows who or what they are before they test themselves. You’re not just defined by your art! You’ve carved out a role as a teacher, as a proxy father. Neither was part of your ambition. In fact, you once deliberately turned away from a chance of parenthood.’ Stefan closed his eyes at the familiar pang of guilt. ‘You were forced into both roles by happenstance. And look how successful you’ve been,’ she continued.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Ask Dom. You should feel proud of him, proud of what you’ve achieved together. As for teaching, you should hear the complimentary way the others in the class talk about you these days. I know I’ll never be as good at art as Fran and Rachel and some of the others …’

  ‘You came to it fresh with none of their preconceptions. Being receptive and willing to learn is precious.’

  ‘Coming to your class hasn’t just inspired me, it’s completely changed my life.’

  ‘The change is your own.’

  ‘Maybe, but you were the facilitator.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all I am. I’d never be able to run the kind of business you describe. I’ve no expertise. Just filling in my tax return tests me to the limit!’

  ‘But that is where my talents real
ly do lie. I have enthusiasm and energy and a business brain. I know how to do marketing and promotion. I can do business plans, spread sheets, and, by the way, tax returns. But most of all, I have ideas. I sure as hell can set up and run an arts centre.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Dory …?’

  ‘Have you ever been to Barbara Hepworth’s sculpture garden in St Ives?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ He hated to pull the rug – it would be so easy to allow himself to be carried away by her infectious passion. But they would be fooling themselves.

  ‘That’s a tiny space,’ she continued, blithely unaware of the fatal flaw in the plan. ‘Think how much space you have here. Not a sculpture garden, a sculpture park! And you could rent out pitches to other sculptors. It could become a real local tourist attraction. And that’s apart from everything I’ve already suggested about promotion and a website.’

  ‘But the money, Dory?’ he said, interrupting her more forcefully. ‘Everything you suggest, it may all be theoretically possible, but it needs investment. I can’t do anything without money.’ He had armoured himself to witness her face fall. Instead, mystifyingly, she smiled.

  ‘Money. Right. How about I buy Grace’s cottage and land? We’d need to negotiate a fair price. I can’t offer you anything like the megabucks already on the table. But that would give you two, maybe three hundred thousand immediately.’

  ‘Grace’s house is a total wreck.’

  ‘I wouldn’t move in as it is. I can wait till it’s renovated. I’ve got money, Stefan. Enough to buy and refurbish the cottage and plenty spare to …’

  ‘I understand what you’re suggesting, I’d just never considered …’

  ‘You thought it was all or nothing? Think about it. What do you need? Enough money to cast a number of your sculptures. And the rest to start renovating and refurbishing your house. It badly needs it, Stefan.’

  ‘Is it feasible?’