The Art School Dance (19 page)

And she did,
by the time I reached college the next morning I was feeling more
optimistic about the future. Dangerously optimistic, it proved. My
buoyant mood was soon dipping again.

Chapter Thirteen

Just as I was
telling Gus and Jeff about being disowned by my family -and
receiving their congratulations on what they believed to be a
considerable stroke of luck- Paula popped her head around the door
of the studio to let me know that Ben wanted to see me.

‘
What’s
it about?’ I asked, as I walked along to the office with
her.

Paula
shrugged. ‘I know as much as you. He just told me to get my
girlfriend along to the office snappy. I think it’s alright,
though, he seems to be in a good mood.’

I passed
through Paula’s office and into Ben’s inner sanctum. He was behind
his desk and looking as uncomfortable as ever, never quite at ease
unless he was in the studio with a brush or pencil in his hand.

‘
Sit
down, Ginny,’ he said, and despite what Paula had told me of his
mood he sounded portentously officious. I sat facing him, wondering
what was going on. He looked at a letter he held in his hand, waved
it at me and said, ‘I’ve received a complaint.’

‘
About
me?’ I asked.

‘
This is
it, the letter, with copies sent to the local rag, the governors of
the college and any other narrow-minded pillocks who might care to
take notice.’

‘
Is it
about me?’ I asked again.

‘
Yes,
indirectly, or why else would you be sitting there? Indirectly,
it’s about you; more particularly it’s about that portrait you put
in the exhibition for open day.’

‘
The
portrait of Stephen? And the letter’s from his father?’ I
guessed.

‘
Right.’

‘
Well I
didn’t put the portrait in the exhibition, did I? You did, against
my better judgement,’ I reminded Ben. ‘I had a nasty feeling about
that picture all along, I told you not to include it but you
wouldn’t listen, so if anyone’s to blame for the upset it’s
you.’

‘
Whoever, whatever, I’m not blaming you so you can shut up.’
He regarded the letter again. ‘This man is complaining about the
type of work we encourage here, he calls it permissive, and a few
other long words he can’t spell correctly. All in all the letter is
a very nasty piece of business.’

‘
Like I
said, you can’t blame me.’

‘
And
like I said, I’m not.’

‘
You
just wouldn’t listen.’

‘
And
you’re not bloody well listening!’ he said, thumping his fist on
the desk. ‘I’ve not brought you here to take the blame for
anything, you’re not here to be hauled over the coals.’ He smiled,
then, disconcertingly. ‘In fact, Ginny, you’re here to be
congratulated.’

I didn’t quite
follow. ‘Congratulated? For what?’

‘
For the
notoriety you’re about to achieve,’ Ben said. ‘For the attention
you’ve attracted.’

‘
Attention? Oh yes, there’s that alright,’ I laughed.
‘There’ll certainly be plenty of attention when that letter’s
printed in this week’s ‘Chronicle’.’

‘
But
don’t you realise, you little tit, that there’s nothing better for
the arts than a bit of controversy? Think of any great artist and
at some time he’s been troubled by controversy.’ Ben was beaming
with delight, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘And you can sod the
‘Sleeper's Hill Chronicle’, too. We’ll let this slip to the
dailies. I can just see the headlines: community divided over
painting, art school has town in uproar, Sleeper’s Hill shaken
awake by controversial portrait. Don’t worry, Ginny, you’ll get all
the credit, but this is going to do us all a world of
good.’

‘
I’d
rather I didn’t get any credit at all, Ben,’ I said.

‘
Why
not? Get your name in the papers and every art school in the
country is going to recognise it as soon as your application for a
place drops through their letter box. You’ll be going along for
interview with a reputation, you’ll be known. Making yourself known
is half the battle when you’re applying for a place on a degree
course. You’ve got to make an impression so you’re sure you’re
remembered.’

‘
No,
Ben, I’d rather it didn’t happen like that,’ I said. ‘That portrait
has caused enough trouble already.’

‘
Don’t
be silly, we’ll all benefit when your photograph’s slapped across
the front pages. Now,’ he said, taking me by the chin and turning
my head, ‘which is your best side?’

The man just
wouldn’t listen. I told him one last time to forget the idea, then
left. In the outer office Paula gave me an anxious look, having
heard Ben’s voice raised and wanting to know what it was all
about.

I told her
later, after college.

‘
He’s
right, you know,’ she said. ‘With publicity like that you can’t
lose.’

‘
I know
he’s right, and I know I can’t lose, but I’d rather not win in the
way he’s suggesting. I’d prefer to get onto a degree course because
my work is good, not because I’ve had my name in the
paper.’

‘
But
your work
is
good.’

‘
I know
it is.’

‘
So why
not help things along by taking a reputation with you, as well as
some competent paintings?’

‘
They’re
more than competent.’

‘
Yes, of
course, so there’ll be no cause for guilt when you’re accepted,
you’ll know that you got there on the merit of your
work.’

‘
No. I
would have got there because of the publicity,’ I argued
obstinately.

‘
And
doesn’t an artist need publicising, doesn’t he need promoting? Why
else do they have agents?’ Paula reasoned.

‘
Yes, an
artist needs promoting. An artist also needs integrity. The sort of
promotion you’re talking about is cheap.’

‘
Ginny,
love, I’ve been at the art school for five years now. I’ve seen
good students fail and poor students succeed. We all accept that if
your work is good then you should get a place on a degree course,
but it doesn’t always work out like that. There’s luck involved,
too. There’ll be off-days for the people who interview you,
idiosyncrasies in their characters, downright eccentricities. Every
advantage that comes your way you need to make use of.’

‘
No,’ I
said firmly, ‘and that’s an end to it.’

*

No more was
said about the matter of promoting my name, Paula made no further
mention of it and life went on. The morning after Ben had broached
the subject I saw him in the studio and he said nothing about his
publicity drive, so I assumed that he had dismissed the idea of
involving the national press. I went back to work without fuss or
interruption, my painting and drawing progressed well because my
life was once again becoming settled. The only hiccough came on
Thursday, when I saw the weekly edition of the ‘Chronicle’; the
letter from Stephen’s father was printed inside –he’s won a fiver
for it, for ‘Letter of the Week’- and the story was expanded on the
front page. When I went down to lunch in the canteen I got quite a
few looks from people who had seen the article.

‘
Fame so
soon,’ Gus grinned. ‘You must live a blessed life,
Ginny.’

‘
It’s
more damned than blessed at times,’ I grumbled.

‘
But
just look at all the good it’s going to do you. If you ask me, Ben
has pulled off a master stroke here.’

‘
It had
nothing to do with Ben,’ I told him. ‘It was Stephen’s old man who
sent the letter to the paper.’

‘
That
may well be, but it’s Ben who’s letting the story spread a little
wider.’

‘
What
are you talking about?’ I asked.

‘
He’s
passed the story onto the dailies, the tabloids, that’s what I’m
talking about. I heard him on the phone, when I went to the office
earlier.’

And if Gus had
heard, then so had Paula. Why hadn’t she stopped him? She knew how
I felt about the idea. I was so furious I didn’t know which way to
turn, whether to Ben, to Paula, or even to Stephen’s father;
someone was to blame, it seemed that people were messing me about
so much and I wanted to hit back at them. Across the canteen I
could see a trio of catering students looking my way and in the
centre of the three was one who was grinning more wickedly than the
rest, laughing over that week’s edition of the ‘Chronicle’. It was
the same girl who’d tried to chat up Stephen, the one who had told
him about Paula.

She was of a
bigger build than me, and I had never been much of a fighter, but I
was so pissed off with the way things were going that I walked over
to the girl. She grinned at me, then at her mates, and I didn’t
bother wasting any words but set about her with both hands,
slapping her about the head, then picked up a tubular steel chair
and clobbered her with that. The girl was flat on her back and her
nose pumping blood before her two pals could jump up to help,
laying into me with punches and kicks, and then it was like a
bar-room brawl with Gus and Jeff joining in. I was bleeding and
broken by the time I was dragged away but I had the satisfaction of
seeing the other girl still on the floor, in an even worse
state.

*

I must have
looked a sight when I got back to the flat that night. I had been
to hospital to have a cut treated over my eye and an X-ray to make
sure nothing was broken, but just how bad I looked I could only
guess, I hadn’t had the courage to look at myself in a mirror.

Paula hadn’t
heard of what had happened, she reached out towards me but wasn’t
sure if it was safe to touch. ‘What on earth-?’

‘
I had a
fight,’ I said, slumping onto the settee.

‘
Who
with?’

‘
That
cow of a catering student, the one who pointed you out to Stephen.
She got what she deserves.’

‘
And
you?’ said Paula, sitting beside me, her eyes running over every
inch of my beaten face.

‘
I don’t
know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I got what I deserve, too.’

As gently as
Paula touched me, she still made me wince; my bottom lip was puffed
out, I knew that at least one eye was black and there was a
swelling above it that was held together by some dirty red sutures.
My ribs hurt, too, and it was difficult to find a place where Paula
could touch me.

‘
Why
didn’t you tell me what Ben was up to?’ I asked Paula. ‘Why didn’t
you do something to stop him?’

‘
What
could I have done? I’m his secretary, he’s my boss, he gives the
orders. Anyway, I thought it would all be for the best.’

I tried to
laugh. ‘For the best? To leave me like this?’

‘
Now be
honest, Ginny, that’s more your fault than anyone
else’s.’

I looked at
Paula and I knew she’s right, I only had myself to blame; the smile
I tried to give became another wince. Paula laughed in a soft
sympathetic way, as if I deserved to be scolded but she couldn’t
bring herself to do it.

‘
Are you
hungry?’ she asked.

‘
Famished,’ I answered, remembering that my last meal, some
hours before, had been strewn across the canteen floor. ‘I don’t
know that I can open my mouth wide enough to get anything in,
though.’

‘
Some
chicken soup, then? If you have trouble with it you can always suck
it through a straw.’

I followed
Paula through to the kitchen, where she set a pan on the cooker.
‘You’re not exactly showering me with sympathy, are you? I can
still detect the smirk on your face.’

‘
Well,
it is a bit of a mess to get into,’ Paula said, and turned to give
me the gentlest of pecks on my swollen lips. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘And sorry I couldn’t do anything about Ben.’

‘
It
doesn’t matter, it’s done with now,’ I told her. ‘Anyhow, nothing
might come of it. What interest is our poxy little college to a
national newspaper?’

*

The following
morning I felt like death, every part of me hurt, as if each muscle
and limb had its own hangover, but I went into college all the
same.

Before I could
reach the studio, however, to be subjected to the taunts and jibes
of my colleagues, I was once more summoned to Ben’s office. Paula
gave me a sorry smile, to ease my aches, as I entered. Ben is not
behind his desk this time, but standing to one side; in his place
was a rather pompous looking man, by his dress and demeanour I
could see how importantly he regarded himself, and I guessed
immediately that I was not there to discuss the further promotion
of my publicity campaign.

Ben introduced
the man as the college principal, then proceeded to give a little
homily, looking at me but addressing the visitor, talking about the
work I had done so far in college and emphasising the promise I
showed for the future. It was quite a flattering speech, he was
much more complementary than he had ever been in the studio, and I
might have been tempted to blush if it hadn’t been for the grave
sobriety with which I was regarded. I had never seen the principal
before, he was more concerned with the college proper, the new
building by the park where the more sensible courses were housed.
Art students were certainly alien creatures to him and he regarded
me more as a waster and a scoundrel than the honest student I was.
What it all boiled down to was that, despite Ben’s great oratory, I
was to be expelled or sent down or whatever it was they did in a
poxy little place like ‘Sleepers Hill Mining and Technical
College’; he would not accept the kind of violence I had exhibited
and said that there is no place for me in his tacky little
institution.