The Art School Dance (20 page)

And what about
the bitch of a catering student who had been the cause of it all? I
didn’t even bother to ask, but turned on my heels and left.

Ben followed,
nodded to Paula, who already had her coat on, said, ‘Take the day
off and go with her.’

And I, it
seemed, was to take the next term and a half off.

We went
directly downstairs, I didn’t even bother going to the studio to
collect my things, and as we stepped through the main door I saw on
the pavement, at the foot of the steps, a small crowd of half a
dozen people or so.

‘
What
are they waiting for?’ I asked Paula, and in that same instant we
both noticed the cameras and notebooks.

‘
Reporters,’ Paula said, and we dodged back inside the
building.

‘
Bloody
hell, Ben and his publicity,’ I cursed. ‘That’s all I need. Come
on, we’ll nip out the back way.’

‘
No,’
Paula said, ‘you sneak out the back and I’ll go down to them.
They’re probably quizzing everyone that comes and goes. I’ll keep
them occupied for a few minutes, then meet you back at the
flat.’

Through the
partly opened door I watched Paula go down the steps. Sure enough,
she was stopped. I watched her respond to a question or two, then
went out of the college by the rear exit. I cut down side streets
and alleyways, made my way to the flat, but as I rounded the corner
I saw another small crowd on the doorstep, more reporters.

I turned back
and walked through the park, hid in pubs, killed some time in the
quieter parts of town. In the pubs I went to I must have looked
like a thug, my face bruised and bloody, and I could see that
people really weren’t too keen to serve me so I just had the one
drink in each and then moved on, slowly getting closer to home,
that home I had grown up in rather than the new one I had found. I
drank with old friends -they might have been Tina and Diane, I
didn’t remember, their faces blurred as the night wore on- was
invited to the Labour Club for a drink but turned that offer down,
since there was a good chance that Stephen’s father might be there.
The condition I was in I just couldn’t take another beating; it
might have scarred me for life.

Being so close
to home I decided to call there, to show a little consideration by
telling the family of all that had happened and preparing them for
the worst. It was a cold night, there was a frost on the pavement
and the chill bit through my cuts and bruises; I ran as best I can,
my sore ribs thumping, got to the door with teeth chattering and
fingers fumbling for a key. But I no longer had a key, I
remembered, I had surrendered it when I was disowned, so I knocked
on the door. There was no answer. I tried again, and then again.
There had to be someone in at that time of night, neither Gran nor
my mother slept so soundly that they wouldn’t have heard me. I
knock once more, then opened the letter box to shout through. There
was a strange smell, the same smell there was when Gran switched on
the grill but forgot to light the gas. I began to knock harder,
frantically pounding on the door, and the noise brought out a
neighbour. He, too, could smell gas. Together we threw ourselves at
the door, then started smashing windows while yet another neighbour
runs back indoors to call the emergency services.

Chapter Fourteen

The media had
much more than they could ever have bargained for, more than Ben’s
calls to them could have promised. Following the painting which had
brought them –a minor controversy which might have passed unnoticed
if there had been anything more newsworthy to report- there had
been a fight which brought about the expulsion of the artist and a
gas leak which had led to the deaths of two of her family. When
these simple facts were juggled about there were any number of
permutations open; the gas leak might have been accidental or it
might not have, the deaths might have been brought about by some
sense of shame in the antics of a wayward daughter, the fight could
have been occasioned by her guilt at deserting her family for some
sordid love affair, it could be that she was being punished for
wanting something other than an ordinary life.

Paula was
mentioned in the reports, Stephen as well, they were all tainted by
the stories. As if it wasn’t enough that Gran and my mother were
dead and I had been thrown out of college! Reporters called at the
house and I chased them away; police called with a gas engineer and
it was confirmed that the leak had been accidental, a faulty
boiler; neighbours and relations came around and I had to suffer
their condolences. I wasn't not sure what to do, I couldn’t recall
my father’s death clearly enough to remember how we went about
burying him, so for once I was grateful to Uncle Jack when he came
around to take over and attend to the necessary details, to the
undertaker and the priest, to the insurance policies and such
things.

‘
It was
your father’s house, then your mother’s. Now it passes on to you,’
he told me, as we sat in the living room, in the very chairs where
Gran and my mother had died. ‘What will you do with it? Sell
it?’

‘
I don’t
know. Perhaps.’

‘
You’re
still going away to college?’ he asked.

‘
I don’t
know yet.’

He nodded.
‘It’s hard to think straight under the circumstances.’

We were silent
for a moment, then he said, ‘Your mother told me you’d already left
home.’

‘
Sort
of.’

‘
To live
with a woman, of all people.’

‘
Yes.’

‘
You
hurt her, you know,’ he told me needlessly.

‘
I never
meant to.’

‘
No, I’m
sure you didn’t. She was a good woman, your mother. I was always
telling your father he’d found a jewel in her.’

‘
Yes.’

‘
The old
woman could be a bit of a battle-axe at times,’ he remembered
fondly. ‘But still, it’s a shame to see her go.’

‘
Yes.’

Perhaps my
reluctance to talk began to unnerve him, for eventually he got up
and pulled on his coat. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Are you coming,
Ginny?’

‘
Where?’

‘
You
don’t want to stay here on your own, surely? I thought you could
come and stay with us for a few days, until after the funeral at
least.’

‘
It’s
kind of you to offer,’ I said, my thanks sincere. ‘But no, I’ll
stay here.’

‘
There’s
no gas, though.’

‘
I don’t
need any.’

‘
You’ll
need to eat.’

‘
I’ll go
to the chip shop.’

My uncle
looked at me for a moment, and there was a trace of concern which I
had never noticed before; or perhaps he was offended that I’d
refused his offer.

Finally he
said, ‘Very well then, if you’re sure.’

‘
I’m
sure,’ I told him.

‘
Okay.
I’ll call back tomorrow to see everything’s fine.’

When he was
gone I had the evening to myself, there were no more callers, and I
gave an awkward chuckle when it occurred to me that the house was
as quiet as the grave. There was no drink in the house other than
what was left over from Christmas, so I had a few glasses of sherry
and then went up to my room. I found the bed unmade. There were no
sheets or blankets, no pillows. The room was almost bare, in fact,
the posters had been taken down from the walls and all my things
packed into cardboard boxes. Even as I felt a tear fall I had to
curse aloud. Those women had really wanted me out of the house,
hadn’t they? My mother had really wanted to erase her own daughter
from her memory.

*

I was asleep in
the chair in the living room when there was a knock on the door the
following morning. I swore because I didn’t want to wake up, rubbed
the sleep from my eyes as I went to the door and saw Father
Macdermot, the parish priest.

He came in
uninvited, went directly through to the living room.

‘
A
tragedy,’ he said gravely, when I joined him.

‘
It is,’
I agreed.

‘
Two
such blessed women,’ he sighed, his head bowed. He was getting on
in years, in any other line of business he would have been retired
long ago, and his voice kept breaking as he spoke. ‘The comfort is
that God takes those he loves.’

It seemed a
trite comment to make, but again I agreed. ‘Yes.’

‘
They
have gone to a better place.’

On this score
I would willingly concur. ‘Better than Sleepers Hill, you mean?
Yes, isn’t anywhere better than this miserable place?’

He sensed an
anger in my voice, looked up, a frown creasing his brow.
‘Virginia?’

‘
I hate
the place,’ I told him.

‘
You’re
understandably distraught, you’re troubled by grief,’ he said. ‘And
though this isn’t the time to mention it, I have to admit that I’m
worried by the change which has come over you.’

‘
You?’ I
was surprised that he could have noticed any change in me, for he
hadn’t seen me since my father’s funeral. ‘You think I’ve
changed?’

‘
I
know
you’ve
changed. Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been aware of it, your mother has
confessed everything to me.’

‘
How do
you mean, confessed everything?’

‘
If you
like, let’s say that she confessed your sins.’

‘
No, I
bloody well don’t like!’ I said, finding the idea quite repulsive.
Sarcastically I asked, ‘And do I get absolution by proxy as
well?’

‘
You
know I can’t give absolution without your own act of
contrition.’

‘
Well in
no way am I contrite about anything that’s happened.’

‘
Not
even the death of your own mother?’

‘
I
didn’t kill her.’

‘
But you
made her suffer. Every Thursday night in confession she poured out
her worries to me, all concerning you, from that very day you
stopped attending mass to your final sin of living with that
woman.’

I seethed with
anger but had to contain it, there were still some vestiges of that
faith I once had and a respect for the cloth prevented me from
speaking my mind to the priest.

‘
Will
you join me in a prayer, Virginia, for their souls and for yours?’
he asked, but I stood there silent, steadfast; he went from the
room, putting on the black beret he always wore. ‘I’ll pray for
you,’ he told me. ‘The requiem is at eleven on
Thursday.’

*

The
arrangements for the funeral had been made by my uncle, and I
couldn’t say that I liked them. I couldn’t argue with the requiem
mass, it was what Gran and my mother would have wanted, but to have
their bodies brought to the house the afternoon before and have
them lie overnight sent a shiver through my soul. The tradition of
having a buffet after the service was also something which I found
repugnant, but this was what Uncle Jack had arranged, and in a
private room at the ‘Bellingham’ no less, a choice which I found
ironic. Don’t worry about the cost, he told me, he would cover this
until the insurance policies were settled, but it was not the
expense which I objected to, but the sheer ghoulishness of the
affair.

The bodies
were brought home, though, whether I liked it or not, and laid out
in the front room which had been especially prepared by Doreen. The
curtains were drawn shut, of course, and there were plenty of
flowers, swathes of white linen and lace and two candles burning in
front of a picture of the Sacred Heart. The coffins took up much of
the room, and even with the lids on they frightened me. It was not
a pleasant feeling, and certainly not one to which I was
accustomed, sharing a house with the dead. I got little sleep that
night, never once stirred from the living room where I kept the
lights burning and the fire roaring. It was not the moment of my
own death, but nonetheless whole portions of my life passed before
me that night, episodes from the eighteen years I had spent in that
house; I had thought that it was an unhappy life, thought this was
why I wanted to get away, but I saw that there had been many happy
times and the memory of them brought a few smiles.

But no tears,
I noted. I didn’t regret the passing of the happy times, nor even
the passing of Gran and my mother; time passes, there was no
escaping the fact, and so do people. Why mourn? It was all very
well to remember the past, but even more important to look forward
to the future.

*

Uncle Jack is
the first to arrive on the morning of the funeral, closely followed
by Doreen. She fussed about me, said it was a pity I couldn’t have
found time to visit a hairdresser, and she unearthed a dark skirt
which I hadn’t worn for years, insisted that I should wear it along
with my black Marks and Sparks overcoat. I couldn’t protest, I even
agreed to wear a frothy white blouse that Doreen had bought just
for the occasion. For a moment my aunt was pleased with the way I
looked, with the transformation for which she took the credit, but
then she remarked that it was a pity my mother couldn’t see me
looking so smart, remembered why we were there in our best bib and
tucker and started to cry.

Many more
tears followed, predictably, it seemed that every other person who
arrived during the next forty-five minutes was crying. The mourners
covered generations and there were many I hadn’t seen since the
last funeral; some remarked on how I’d grown, others stared in
embarrassment at the spiky blonde hair which they were seeing for
the first time.