The Art School Dance (33 page)

‘
You
leave him alone!’ she said. ‘Haven’t you made him suffer
enough?’

‘
Me?’

‘
Yes.
You. If you hadn’t got him drunk he wouldn't have fallen into the
rose bushes on the lawn. Just look at the mess he’s made of his
face.’

‘
Rose
bushes?’ Ceri smiled at Ron. ‘That’s what gave you those scratches,
eh?’

‘
Yes!’
Joan insisted.

‘
And it
was me who got you drunk, Ron?’

‘
Or
perhaps it was the Principal, Mr Teacher,’ Ron now decided, his
embarrassment making the scars burn all the brighter. ‘Yes, now I
come to think of it, it was Mr Teacher.’

‘
Don’t
talk rot!’ scoffed Joan. ‘You drinking with the Principal?
Poppycock! It was these two and their mate. Aren’t they always the
ones? Now get out of here, the pair of you.’

‘
But we
came along here to do you a favour, sort of apologise for past
indiscretions,’ said Ceri.

‘
You’ve
come to do me a favour?’ Joan laughed. ‘I don’t believe that for
one minute. What favours are you in a position to do
me?’

‘
A gift,
a chicken,’ Ceri said, producing the bird from the bag with the
same flourish that a magician might produce a rabbit from a hat. He
gave Ron a cold hard look, warning him to hold his tongue, said, ‘A
friend from the market passed it on to me. It’s a fresh chicken
with all the bits intact, beak and feet and all. I know you don’t
like frozen stuff, so when the bird came my way I thought you’d be
the one to appreciate it.’

Joan was
naturally suspicious. ‘What’s it got?’ she asked.

‘
I told
you: head, beak, feet, the lot.’

‘
Diseases, I mean.’

‘
None. I
promise.’

‘
And
what do you think I’m going to do with just one chicken? It won’t
go far among a couple of hundred students.’

‘
You
could keep it for yourself,’ he suggested, ‘or perhaps put it to
one side for Teacher. You know how partial he is to a bit of
chicken.’

It was the
thought of treating Teacher, who she was very fond of despite his
eccentricities and occasional lapses, which finally persuaded Joan;
she accepted the bird as a gift, as a peace offering.

‘
See?
Every cloud has a silver lining,’ said Ceri to Griff, as they went
from the canteen to the basement. ‘Our peace made with Joan, and at
no cost to ourselves.’

*

McCready was
waiting with Rose at the rear of the college, by the sculpture
department.

He noticed
immediately that the bag which held the chicken was different.

‘
It’s
hessian on the outside and oilcloth inside,’ Ceri explained to him.
‘Hard wearing, waterproof, it’ll help preserve the body, keep away
the worms and maggots.’

‘
That’s
a nice thought,’ McCready smiled. ‘Thanks, Ceri. You too,
Griff.’

Griff coughed,
to hide his embarrassment; no matter how he might regard McCready
he still felt uneasy with the deception.

‘
No
problem, it’s the least we could do,’ said Ceri. ‘Right. Where are
we going to inter the bird?’

‘
I
thought over there,’ McCready said, pointing to a spot some fifty
yards away where the new ring road was under
construction.

‘
A good
idea, it’ll save us having to dig,’ said Ceri, leading the
way.

‘
And
there’ll be reinforced concrete when they’ve finished, a tomb as
solid as any in the Valley of Kings.’

Rose nodded
approvingly, envisaging the wonder and majesty of it all.

They walked
across the college car park, then a brief tract of wasteland to
where the construction work was in progress. Two labourers saw them
approach, but paid little attention.

‘
Do you
think you could explain to them?’ McCready said. ‘I don’t think I
could.’

‘
Oh,
come on!’ said Griff impatiently; he really couldn’t believe he was
going along with the charade.

‘
Please?’

Ceri dragged
Griff over to speak to the workmen, explained that their friend’s
chicken has just passed away and would they mind very much if he
dropped it into the hole they had excavated.

‘
You’re
having us on,’ said one.

‘
No
we’re not,’ Ceri assured him. ‘He was very fond of it,
see.’

‘
A
chicken?’

‘
Yes,
and he can’t just dump it in a dustbin. There’s nowhere else he can
bury it, not around here.’

The two
workmen looked uncertainly at each other, then the spokesman said,
‘Let’s have a look in the sack first. It might be a bomb or
something. There’s lots of folk against this ring road being built,
you know.’

‘
Oh, I
don’t know if we can do that,’ said Griff, knowing what the sack
contained, but Ceri nodded, went to McCready and returned with the
sack.

‘
But
that’s a fucking-’

‘
Fucking
fine specimen,’ said Ceri loudly, drowning out the workman’s voice
as they looked into the sack to see a stuffed velvet rabbit where
the chicken should have been. ‘You can see that, can’t you?’ he
urged.

‘
It’s a
fucking toy,’ the workman muttered to his mate, dipping his hand
into the sack. ‘And stuffed with scrap iron, by the feel of
it.’

‘
Yes,
but he doesn’t need to know that, does he?’ Ceri whispered. ‘Just
humour him, eh? It can’t do any harm.’

The workmen
conferred, finally agreed. Ceri knotted the neck of the sack,
called McCready over and handed it to him. ‘Go ahead,’ he told him.
‘They’ve said it’s okay.’

McCready
thanked the confused men, walked to the hole they had dug and lay
down on the ground with his hand holding the sack over the
edge.

‘
McCready? What the hell are you doing?’ Griff asked, his
embarrassment beginning to mount.

‘
We
don’t want it to fall further than it has to, do we? I can’t just
chuck it in.’

‘
But the
bloody thing’s dead!’

‘
Still-’
said McCready, and let the sack fall; it hit the bottom of the hole
with a soft thud, he stood and whispered in Griff’s ear.

‘
For
fuck’s sake!’ Griff responded, to the hushed request.

‘
Please?’ McCready pleaded.

Blushing,
Griff turned to the workmen, coughed to clear his throat. ‘Er,
sorry to trouble you again but do you think you could give him a
moment alone with his thoughts?’

He smiled
apologetically, turned to Ceri and Rose and shrugged
helplessly.

‘
Fucking
nutters,’ one workman grumbled to the other.

‘
Art
students, are they?’

‘
From
that place over the way?’

But they
retired a reverent number of yards and McCready was left at the
makeshift graveside with his fellow mourners.

‘
Do you
want to say a few words, Mac?’ Rose suggested.

Ceri winked at
Griff; Griff glowered at Rose, thinking that the whole affair had
already gone far enough.

McCready
thought long and hard, then said in a choking voice, ‘Roost in
peace, old friend.’

Rose let out a
sob which sounded rehearsed, clutched a black lace handkerchief to
her face as McCready turned and walked away, back towards
college.

‘
Is he
taking the piss out of us?’ Griff asked Ceri, following. 'Please
tell me he's just taking the piss out of us.'

‘
Either
that or he’s flipped completely. Your guess is as good as
mine.’

‘
I think
it was quite moving, really quite a touching ceremony,’ said Rose,
but is ignored.

As they passed
the two workmen one of them surreptitiously held out a cupped hand,
as if expecting a gratuity.

‘
Piss
off,’ McCready told him. ‘It was only a chicken, not a close
relative.’

He’s
definitely flipped, thought Griff, as the workman called after
them, ‘No it wasn’t! It was a fluffy fucking toy, you fucking
freak!’

‘
Maybe,’
said McCready, ‘but it was a friend to me as well.’

*

From my bearing
as I crossed the common room towards them, and the way I slumped in
my seat, emotionally drained, Griff and Ceri could guess that I had
been with McCready.

‘
How’s
he bearing up?’ Ceri asked me.

‘
Deep in
mourning. He’s talking about having a mass said for the
bird.’

‘
Very
touching. There aren’t many people who can feel that deeply about a
chicken. So what’s he doing now? Going over to the ‘Evening
Telegraph’ to see about an obituary?’

I smiled,
could understand how some people lacked my patience with McCready.
‘No. He went off to see Ron, to tell him the news and apologise for
the mess the bird used to make.’

‘
Ron?’

‘
Oh
oh!’

Ceri and Griff
jumped to their feet, exchanging anxious looks.

‘
What is
it? What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘
I think
you’d better come,’ Griff told me, already running towards the
lift.

We could hear
Ron’s cries as we get out on the fifth floor, hysterical screams of
terror.

‘
Let go!
Get him off me! The boy’s gone crazy!’

‘
What on
earth’s happening?’ I asked.

‘
Please!
Help!’ Ron’s yelling.

As we entered
the studio McCready had the unfortunate cleaner at the narrow
window, his head already outside to give him a view of the five
floors to the ground which had him panic-stricken.

‘
It’s
been ‘take this down’ and ‘take that down’ and ‘the Principal’s
going to hear about this’ all the fucking time!’ McCready was
saying, pushing at Ron’s legs so that his trousers were bunched
around his knees. ‘Well I’ve had enough! Killing my chicken is the
last thing you’ll ever do!’

‘
But I
didn’t!’ Ron cried, as Griff, Ceri and I ran across to the
window.

‘
Liar!
You hated her!’

‘
McCready! For God’s sake!’ I said, tugging at his arm while
Ceri and Griff pulled at his waist.

It was
fortunate that the window was too narrow for Ron’s body to fit
through. Only his ears were damaged, bruised blue blotches
appearing on the bright red membranes where they had chafed against
the frame, although there was also a suggestion of shock in the
tone of voice and the manner in which his body was twitching.

‘
Let him
be! He’ll go into cardiac arrest!’ said Ceri, managing to break
McCready’s grip. He and Griff pulled him to the other side of the
studio, where I tried my best to calm him.

‘
That
little bastard killed my chicken,’ McCready snarled, his chest
heaving, as Ron gingerly extricated himself from the window. ‘It’s
written all over his face and I hope he rots in hell!’

On all fours,
like something feral, Ron scampered across the floor, put a safe
distance between himself and McCready before getting to his
feet.

‘
You’re
for it this time, McCready!’ he said, shaking his fist, trembling
more with fear than rage. ‘Really for it. The-’

‘
If he
says it one more time I’ll throttle the fucker!’ McCready
threatened, straining against the arms which held him. ‘I swear it!
If he says the Principal’s going to hear about this I’ll kill
him!’

Ron took a
little hop backwards, then another, felt behind him for the door
which was his escape from the studio, then said, ‘But he will! The
Principal’s really going to hear about this! You’ve gone too far
this time, McCready!’

Chapter
Six

Barney had
heard that the studio was being turned into a menagerie; he had to
get back there, had to make his presence felt and was working late
towards this end.

It was close
to midnight, his wife Julia had to protest, she called out from the
bedroom, ‘Barney! Do you intend hammering away at that computer all
night?’

The artist was
one who employed reason to contain emotion, so Barney would insist,
one who tempered expression with the careful exercise of logic;
Barney trained young people to be artists, he knew what he was
talking about and dared anyone to challenge him. The one problem as
far as his wife was concerned was that reason seemed to have gained
the upper hand, and once reason was taken to excess it became
unreasonable. It was unreasonable of Barney to work at such a late
hour, unfortunate that his work, fired by reason, was no longer the
quiet whisper of sable against canvas but the annoying rattle of
fingers on computer keys. Unfortunate, was it? No! It was bloody
inconsiderate! And since the baby had come he would insist on
having his study upstairs, in one of the spare rooms, arguing that
he needed to be away from her cries during the daytime. What he
failed to appreciate, though, was that he then became instrumental
in causing their daughter’s cries when he felt the need to work at
night.

‘
Please!’ Julia begged, but if sleep was her concern then
she would have been wise to remain silent, for her loud
protestations, answered by a louder reply from her husband, were
enough to wake the baby; in a room between the bedroom and the
study a tiny tummy heaved and Dee joined in the argument, perhaps
not as raucous as the two adults but just as insistent.