The Art School Dance (23 page)

‘
Look!’
he exclaimed, as Walter protested loudly, and showed that the sole
of the shoe was stained with red paint, then pointed to the
footprints which led back across the carpet to the door. ‘Mr
Grundy’s got paint all over the place up there, Mr Teacher! And
he’s trod it all the way down here!’

Walter angrily
snatched back his shoe.

‘
These
things happen in painting studios, Ron,’ said Teacher
philosophically, yawning and stretching. Accompanied by much
sighing of foam rubber and plastic he heaved his heavy frame into
an upright position. ‘If the mess is too much for you to clean up
then just let it dry and polish it.’

‘
But
it’s not fair!’ Ron whined. ‘It’s just not fair!’

‘
Life
rarely is, Ron. Sit yourself down and have a drink.’

In the
‘Campbell’, before leaving, Teacher had had the presence of mind to
replenish his hip flask; he took this from his pocket, had a swig,
then offered it to Ron.

‘
Well...’ Ron was uncertain, looking about him as if worried
that a superior might come in and catch him, forgetting for the
moment that in the hierarchy of the art school Teacher was just
about as superior as they come. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘
Come
on! Sit down!’

The words were
spoken fiercely enough to be an order, so Ron sat down, smiling
sheepishly on being invited to join such exalted company. When he
accepted the flask and drank, the fiery liquid making him cough and
splutter.

Teacher waited
for the spasms to settle, then asked amicably, ‘So, Ron, how are
things going? Apart from the mess Walter’s made of your floors,
that is.’

Walter
frowned, but said nothing, took the flask that was passed to him
and carefully wiped its mouth before chancing a taste.

‘
It
isn’t easy, you know,’ Ron confided.

Teacher was
understanding. ‘I’m sure it isn’t.’

‘
The job
has its difficulties. It was much easier when Mr Goode was around
to stop everyone painting.’

‘
Yes,
well Barney will be back in action in a week or so, Ron. He’ll soon
get things back to normal.’

‘
Over my
dead body,’ Walter muttered.

‘
Most
probably,’ Bobby chuckled delightedly in expectation. ‘Especially
when he finds out what you’ve been doing upstairs.’

Walter put on
that brave unafraid face which left everyone but Ron totally
unconvinced.

‘
That
would be nice,’ said Ron, then stopped and corrected himself. ‘Oh!
I’m sorry, Mr Grundy! I didn’t mean to wish any harm on you! I
didn’t mean it would be nice if... you know... I just meant...
well, if he stopped everyone painting again...’

‘
Do shut
up, Ron,’ Walter sighed.

‘
Now,
Walter,’ Teacher cautioned. ‘Ron is as much a member of staff as
you or I and he deserves to be heard.’

Ron smiled his
appreciation, warming to the Principal, realising that he was not
quite as unapproachable as he sometimes seemed. Gaining in courage,
he ventured to mention the chicken which McCready was rumoured to
keep in the studio; no one had seen the creature, but Ron had heard
it, and found its droppings, was quite certain that it exists.

‘
It
makes such a terrible mess up there,’ he complained.

‘
Well,
we’ll see what we can do about it,’ said Teacher, offering the
flask again and persuading Ron to take another drink. ‘Now is there
anything else I can help you with while you’re here? Is there
anything you need? How about one of those new-fangled floor
polishers I’ve seen over in the polytechnic?’

Ron shook his
head quite vigorously at the offer, trying to keep the flask to his
lips as he did so but spilling much precious whisky down his chin.
He didn’t hold with those contraptions, he said, dabbing at his
mouth with a duster; they just couldn’t be as kind to a floor as a
man with a mop.

‘
Then
how about some new mops? Or some brushes?’

‘
Brooms,’ the cleaner corrected.

‘
Sorry.
Brooms.’

‘
And if
it’s all the same to you, Mr Teacher, I’ll hang onto this one.’ Ron
hammered his broom against the floor like a symbol of office,
sending up a little cough of dust from the carpet. ‘It’s a good
one, is this one.’

‘
There’s
nothing you need, then?’

Ron shook his
head again. This time, as unaccustomed to alcohol as he was, his
action made him sway dizzily. Using his broom as a crutch once more
he got carefully to his feet, took a cautious step back.

‘
Oh Ron,
before you go-’

‘
Yes, Mr
Teacher?’

‘
You
could leave the flask with me, there’s a good chap.’

*

‘Now that
you’ve settled Ron’s grievances-’ Bobby began, when the cleaner had
left.

It could have
been hours later, or minutes.

‘
-there
are just one or two things-’

Teacher jumped
to his feet. ‘Sorry, Bobby. Gotta go.’

Enough was
enough for one day.

‘
But
Teach-!’

Teacher ran
from the common room and along the corridor as her voice cried
after him. Barging into his outer office, hearing the echoes
chasing him and seeing that his secretary had returned, he said,
‘I’m not in, I’m not available. Not to Bobby. Not to anyone. Say
I’ve been taken suddenly ill.’

‘
And
what is it that ails you?’ smiled the young woman at the
desk.

‘
Anything contagious,’ he told her, running through to his
inner office.

Locking the
door after him, he crouched there and listened, heard Bobby ask to
see him.

‘
He
isn’t available, he’s been taken ill,’ he heard his secretary say,
but his smile of approval was short lived.

‘
So
suddenly? Really?’

A pause, then,
‘Well no, not really. He’s just in one of his moods and he’s locked
himself in there.’

The cow!

Bobby laughed
and approached the door. ‘Come on, Teach! Open up!’

Never, he
vowed.

But Bobby was
fit enough to break the door down, she was a robust young woman
with a sturdy frame and perfectly capped teeth which could just as
easily chew their way through the wood as they could dazzle with
their pure white brilliance. Better to run for it, he decided,
rather than stand his ground. He crossed the room and slid his legs
over the edge of the open window, then dropped to the grass below.
Above him the college towered five floors high, below was the
basement which buried itself into the ground; there had to be
somewhere to hide.

Quickly,
before Bobby’s head can appear at the window, he sprinted around to
the rear of the building and re-entered through the doors of the
sculpture department. It would be dark enough in there to hide,
there was Jim Heap’s office, the perfect place; the sculpture tutor
had used it as a pied-a-terre for the past three years and lauded
its privacy, so it could surely provide sanctuary for his
Principal.

‘
He’s
out,’ said Rose, the only student in the place, as Teacher reached
the door to the office.

Damn! Jim
spent much of each day and all of each night in that office, he had
made it as comfortable as any bed-sit, and now, just when he was
needed most, he was out sunning his pallid complexion, blinking in
the unaccustomed light of day. Teacher cursed and kicked the door,
then walked over to Rose.

Rose Turner, a
strange young woman with a predilection for the morbid, was seated
like some insane savant at a wake, all in black, a felt cloche hat
with a veil peeled back from her face, brightly lit by an
Anglepoise lamp which picked her out amid the general gloom of the
studio. The table before her was littered with printed circuits,
dull copper coloured cards scattered in haphazard fashion like a
discarded poker hand; to each of these in turn she was in the
process of soldering a rainbow of coloured wires, but she paused to
smile a greeting at him, not minding his company for she could be
sure that he had not come to discuss her work. Reaching across the
table she opened a small black purse, took out two cigarettes.

‘
Want
one?’ she offered, holding them out. She wore fingerless black lace
gloves, scarred and spoiled, like her red lacquered nails, by drops
of burning solder.

‘
Thanks,’ he said, accepting a cigarette and a light. He let
smoke gush from his lips in a heavy sigh, added, ‘What I could
really use, though, is a drink. I don’t suppose you’ve got anything
down here?’

Rose shook her
head. ‘Jim’s probably got a bottle of something in his bed-sit, but
it’s locked.’

Teacher nodded
and looked around the studio, still empty but for himself and Rose.
‘What about the storeroom?’ he asked.

‘
He left
that unlocked in case I need anything. You won’t find any booze in
there, though, not unless you’re into varnish stripper or neat
alcohol.’

Okay.

Feigning an
interest in the various works in progress, Principal Teacher
strolled nonchalantly around the studio, puffing on his cigarette,
running his fingers over the polished buttocks of a wood carving,
pricking them on the pointed breast of a metal torso, taking a
roundabout route to the storeroom. Rose returned to her work, but
was soon distracted by the hammering of a heavy duty drill, looked
up to see the Principal on his knees, drilling holes in the door to
Jim Heap’s room.

‘
Teach!
What the fuck-!’

‘
Shut up
and keep a watch out!’ he told her.

Wavering in
the centre of the studio, between Teacher in one corner and the
main door opposite, wondering whether to intervene or not, Rose’s
hesitancy allowed Teacher time to pepper the wood around the lock
with holes.

‘
Easy,’
he grinned, setting down the drill and picking up a hammer. ‘Now,
all we need do is-’

With one blow
he sent the lock, along with a sizeable chunk of wood, crashing
into the office. As soon as the door fell open, however, alarm
bells start ringing, so loud that they would have to be heard
throughout the five floors of the building.

‘
Oh
shit!’ said Rose.

Quite, thought
Teacher, of much the same opinion, but being older and wiser he
remained calm enough to dart into the office, upturn the furniture
and come out with a bottle of vodka.

‘
It
isn’t the water of life but it’ll have to do,’ he said, striding
briskly across the studio.

‘
Hey!
Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ Rose demanded, grabbing
him by the arm

‘
Out.’

‘
And
leave me to take the blame? Oh no you’re not! You’re staying here
to explain!’

‘
Get
off!’ said Teacher, trying to shake the girl away, but she held
fast, fixed herself to him like a limpet. He had never known a
woman to be so clinging, not since his brief dalliance with Pam, so
he picked her up and carried her to the door. Hearing shouts and
footsteps coming towards them, he then turned on his heels and went
back across the room, bruising his shins and ankles on the creative
debris which litters the floor. He reached the huge sliding doors
which offered the only other escape, dropped Rose to the floor and
tugged at the handles.

‘
Oh my
goodness! Oh!’ he heard Ron crying, from the other side.

‘
Oh
merde
! Not him!’
Teacher turned away, eyes darting anxiously, wondering, ‘Where
now?’

‘
In
here,’ said Rose, spinning him and pushing him, nudging him
forwards so that everything was suddenly dark, soft,
quiet.

Teacher picked
himself up -he felt sure that he did!- and put his feet down -’my
feet are down’, he told himself- but there was no sensation, he
felt nothing. He reached out his hands before him but there was
nothing to touch, he stamped his feet both left and right but felt
nothing underfoot. Nothing could be heard and no matter how many
times he blinked his eyes the world became no brighter.

‘
Where
the fuck are we?’ he asked.

‘
In my
black box,’ Rose told him with a breathless enthusiasm, a heavy
exhalation, as of a last breath. ‘It’s padded, soundproof,
lightproof. It’s all about sensory deprivation. Should I tell you
about it? It’s like being in the afterlife, like living in a
dream.’

‘
I think
I already am,’ said Teacher. And then, more softly, ‘I bloody well
hope I am. Give me dreams any day. I’ve had enough of
reality.’

Chapter One

Mother was dead
but I shed no tears. Rather I was angry because she had left me,
deprived me of this pivotal moment in my life. In her absence I had
to imagine it, picture how it should have been.

‘
Well,
Virginia, good luck,’ she would have -should have- said, as we
faced each other like bookends with nothing between us, awkwardly
silent until that moment. Nose to nose in the small room which was
to be my student accommodation, the gap which separated us would
seem greater than generations, cardboard boxes littering the floor
crowding us closer together, giving us no room to manoeuvre, making
it difficult for each to avoid the other’s gaze. The sense of
confrontation would be made more pronounced by our similar height
and build, as alike as mother and daughter could be, age our only
difference, thinning and greying the hair of one while the other’s
was still luxuriant, giving one face a creased experience while the
other was still brightly hopeful.