The Art School Dance (12 page)

The
conversation became more than I could bear.

‘
You
wouldn’t like to lend her to me, would you, Stevie?’ Barbara asked,
and turned her simpering smile on me. ‘Would you paint me,
Ginny?’

If I did it
would be no oil painting; a coat of whitewash is what the girl
needed.

‘
No, she
wouldn't,’ said Stephen firmly.

‘
Barbara
just likes the idea of stripping off in front of a people,’ said
her friend. ‘You do that, don’t you, Ginny? You paint women with no
clothes on.’

‘
Not me,
it’s the women who are naked,’ I said, but the joke went way above
her head.

‘
She has
to do, it’s a part of the course,’ said Stephen, excusing my
licentiousness.

‘
And has
she painted you like that?’

‘
No!’

‘
I’ll
bet!’

On the surface
Stephen was indignant, but inwardly I think he enjoyed every minute
of the discussion; though he denied posing naked for me he would
like his friends to think that he had, it carries with it as much
kudos as the losing of one’s virginity. When the other couples
announced that they were moving on, into town, Stephen was almost
tempted to accept their offer that we join them, but I reminded him
of how crowded the town pubs would be, suggested that it would be
nicer just to have a quiet drink in the local. What persuaded him
to stay, I think, were the disappointed expressions on the faces of
Barbara and her companions, a suggestion that it was my company
they wanted rather than his. He took my hand, then, to say that I
belonged to him, and told them that we would stay.

Squeezed into
a corner seat, there was enough noise about us to give us some
privacy, we had become a little more comfortable with each other
and Stephen was in a contented mood.

‘
I’m
sorry about the argument we had,’ he said.

‘
Me,
too.’

‘
It was
all my fault.’

‘
No, I
understand how you felt.’

‘
Let’s
both forgive and forget, eh?’ he said, and kissed me on the mouth
in a less inhibited way than he usually did when we were in public,
not minding who might see; his lips were soft, his tongue flicked
forward, it was more than just a dutiful peck. The blast from the
jukebox by the bar became muted and the grumble of voices around us
a vague murmur.

‘
Do you
want to stay?’ he whispered in my ear.

‘
Stay?’

‘
Here.
We could go home instead, if you like. Mum and Dad won’t be back
until late, they’ll go on to midnight mass after the
club.’

At that moment
I saw Stephen in comparison with the other young men, in comparison
with the boyfriends of Barbara and her friends, and they all seemed
ordinary when set against him.

We drank up
and left, hurried arm in arm to his house and forgot about coffee
for once. It was was Christmas, we helped ourselves from his
parents’ bottles of spirits, listened to smoochy music which
prompted him to remember the two of us dancing close together and
falling in love.

That love was
still there, he told me, his mouth slavering across mine, never
still, skipping like an insect across the surface of a stagnant
pond, and he told me he loved me so frequently that I wanted to ask
why we couldn’t go to his bedroom. We had time enough, we could
have done, but I was weak and he was wicked, more wicked than one
would think an office clerk ever could be. He eased open my jeans
and I lost the will or the energy to crawl for his bedroom, I tried
to undo his shirt and tie but his fingers wrapped around mine and
held my hand to his swollen groin. Somehow my hand was held there
even when his fingers released it, held as if paralysed, and he
peeled back my trousers and drew me to him.

‘
You
still love me, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘
Yes, of
course,’ I had to say.

‘
I’m so
lucky to have you,’ he whispered, holding me close as if he would
always refuse to let me go. ‘People are envious of me, you saw that
tonight, they make me see how lucky I am.’

Yes, there
were people who might envy him, who might make him proud of me, but
their envy or admiration meant nothing to me. I knew that in the
company of his colleagues from work, those people who were becoming
more and more a part of his life, he would never feel quite that
same pride in me.

*

I felt like a
hypocrite when I went to church the following morning, not because
of the fornication of the night before but simply because of the
fact that I was there, in the church. I could no longer believe in
the rigmarole I witnessed on the altar and felt guilty that I
should be there for any reason other than true faith. I tried to
excuse myself by saying that I was there to please Gran and my
mother, that pleasing people was a Christian act, but there was
still a nagging insistence that I would do better to be true to
myself, even if it meant upsetting others. If everyone was true to
themselves there would be a lot less pain in the world, of this I
felt sure.

Mass finished
and we filed out of the church, but in the porch and on the steps
there were people to offer the season’s greetings to, so many Gran
knew that it was a while before we got back home. Once there, and
before my mother made breakfast, we opened our presents in
accordance with custom; from my mother I got a dress I would
probably never wear, underwear off Gran, and a sweater, as I
guessed, from Stephen. The sweater wasn’t too bad, though, all
black, very beatnik, very early-Beatles.

Gran and my
mother were predictably happy with their gifts –slippers and
scarves and the usual things they expected- and we sat down to a
jolly Christmas breakfast, a big fry-up with dollops of sauce.
Inevitably, though, there came that miserable spell when we
remembered the people we missed; it came in the afternoon, just
after Christmas dinner. My mother had made the mistake of buying a
turkey that was too big, as if there was still a man of the house
to feed, and the error only occurred to her when she remembered
that he wasn’t there to carve the bird; I saw her mood change as we
got to the Christmas pudding and immediately we’d finished both she
and Gran disappeared, claiming that they needed to lie down to
digest all they’d eaten. I did the washing up, then, switched on
the television, and that was all that Christmas would be for me, a
full stomach and mindless hours spent watching old films.

*

We never had
visitors on Christmas Day itself, everyone stayed with their
families, even when those families had all but died out, so that
night it was just the three of us in front of the television again.
I drank a few of the bottles I’d bought and we had turkey
sandwiches and Christmas cake for supper. Well before eleven
o’clock we were all dead beat and in our beds.

Boxing Day was
the day when people called round, and it was always a trial for me.
In the past we would make the rounds of aunts and uncles, but with
Gran getting on in years, and my mother widowed, the uncles and
aunts now came to us. It was a wearying day, though the two women
enjoyed it. The older folk talked to me about my future and
remarked on how I’d grown, trying not to show their displeasure or
disappointment at the way I was turning out, while the younger
brats of cousins were a little more open, saying I looked funny,
like a bloke, with my short hair. I wanted to kick them as they
dashed about the house with their noisy presents, toy guns that
sparked and rattled and dolls that cried and wet their nappies.
Everyone drank sherry or port in the front room, the best room,
which has been cleaned and polished especially for the occasion,
and the only exception is Uncle Jack who drank the half bottle of
rum which my mother had got especially for him.

Jack was the
most prosperous of the relations, only a butcher but lucky to have
made a bit of money at it; he’d got himself a nice car, a
semi-detached with gardens front and back, and though mother had
been getting her Christmas meat off him for years he still charged
her full whack, never once saving her a penny.

‘
All the
best!’ he said, filling the doorway as he entered, all hale and
hearty and full of bonhomie. There was something a little false
about the greeting, he always struck me as being so bombastic;
though he pretended not to, he was forever judging people by what
they earned and what they had, despite growing up in a terraced
house just like ours he regarded his present comfortable home as a
sign of his worth rather than an indication of his good
fortune.

‘
Merry
Christmas, Jack,’ my mother greeted him, as he led his wife into
the front room. ‘And you too, Doreen.’

Doreen was a
primary school teacher and Jack regarded her in much the same way
that he regarded his home and his car, as something earned, a
symbol of his exalted status; teachers were well respected in
Sleepers Hill, much as university professors might be in a more
civilised place.

Kisses were
exchanged all around, then Jack took my hand, gave it a
squeeze.

‘
And how
are you, Ginny?’ he asked.

‘
Fine,’
I answered.

‘
And the
art studies? They’re going well?’

‘
Yes,
thanks.’

He tried to
strike up some conversation on matters aesthetic, feeling that he
was qualified to do so because he had a Tretchikoff in his sitting
room and a print of ‘The Haywain’ in his dining room; he inevitably
had advice to offer on my further education, again speaking with
authority since he had just sent his eldest daughter to teacher
training college. I was patient enough to respond politely,
Christmas was the only time I saw him and it was the least I could
do, but inwardly I was wishing he'd wander off and speak to the
others, leave me in peace.

As my patience
began to wear thin -I got the impression that he felt obliged to
speak to me, acting in loco parentis now that my father was no
longer there- I had to admit to some relief when Stephen came
around to the house.

‘
This is
Stephen,’ my mother introduced him to the visitors. ‘Ginny’s
boyfriend.’

‘
Ah!’
said Jack, with a smirk which I didn’t much like. ‘Well I hope
you’ve got a lucrative career planned for yourself, Stephen. You’re
going to need one if you’ve got yourself involved with an
artist.’

Stephen
smiled, says, ‘I work in finance.’

‘
Useful!’ Jack laughed. ‘Very useful!’

The talk
dragged on, Jack joked about calling for a loan to expand his
business, then boastfully admitted that he didn’t really need one,
that business was going quite well, thank you very much. Time and
again he dropped vaguely disguised hints about how comfortably off
he was. As if it wasn’t enough that we had to hear all this -as if
we might not believe him unless he continually reminded us- he
suggested that we all might visit him at home to see for ourselves;
this was not said in so many words, of course, what he offered us
was an invitation to a party he was giving on New Year’s Eve, but
the intention was there, a desire to stuff down our throats just
how grand he had become.

‘
You’ll
come, of course?’ he said to Gran and my mother. ‘I’ll send a taxi
round for you. And you too, Ginny. Bring your boyfriend along, why
don’t you?’

‘
Well
actually,’ said Stephen, as I was desperately thinking of excuses
to decline the invitation, ‘New Year’s Eve was one of the reasons I
called.’

‘
Yes?’ I
said.

‘
The
firm’s holding its dinner dance that night. I really can’t get out
of it, so I thought I ought to tell you before you made other
plans.’

Whether he was
able to invite me along or not, he was tactful enough not to do so,
perhaps understanding how some of my more sarcastic relations might
react to the idea of my dining and dancing in an evening dress.

I shrugged.
‘Never mind. I hadn’t arranged anything.’

‘
You’ll
still be welcome at our place,’ Jack told me. ‘Come along with your
Mum and Gran.’

‘
I
might,’ I lied.

Doreen asked
Stephen where the dinner dance was to be held, nodded approvingly
when she was told, said, ‘It’s a lovely place, you’ll enjoy it. We
go there quite often, don’t we, Jack?’

The
posers.

When my duty
had been done, when I’d suffered enough of the inane talk and
Stephen had patiently listened to Doreen’s advice about what he
should wear, the two of us sidled off to the other room.

Alone, Stephen
drew me into his arms.

‘
Thanks
for the present,’ he said. ‘It’s great, classy stuff.’

‘
I'm
just sorry it couldn’t have been more,’ I said modestly.

‘
But
Calvin Klein aftershave! It must have cost the earth! I’ll treasure
it, Ginny, I’ll only ever wear it for you!’

Yes? Well if
he kept to his word he must have the bottle still, it might never
run dry.’

Chapter Nine

If Christmas
had been its usual self, becoming ever more miserable and
depressing, like a party balloon deflating, then I could only think
that the heralding of another new year would be so bad as to make
me downright suicidal. Stephen had been brave enough to invite me
along to his dinner dance, but was obviously sure that I would
never accept; the offer of a taxi ride to Jack’s party was still
there, but there was no chance of me accepting that, either. With
the people from the art school scattered all over Sleepers Hill and
district the chances of bumping into any of them was remote, so I
was resigned to seeing in the new year alone. I stocked up with a
few more bottles of beer, watched television for a while, then
switched on the record player before the customary Hogmanay drivel
came on the screen.