The Art School Dance (55 page)

'Better go,'
he then said, suddenly alert. 'Nice to see you again, Virginia. And
don’t you forget. ‘Baudelaire’ in the three forty-five.'

Rather than go
to the door, however, to leave as he had said he must, Chuck went
to the far end of the bar; there he stood with his hands resting on
the counter, his eyes challenging the vacant space in front of him.
It was a monumental kind of pose which he often assumed, disturbed
only by the convulsive movements of his arms which from time to
time saluted someone he knew.

Baudelaire.
Three forty-five. Poet and champion of the Surrealists. Virginia
wondered if Pat Eddery knew this, or the owner or trainer. With
this inside information she just had to have a bet, so she finished
her drink and walked from the bar.

Chuck waved
his hands to acknowledge the departure. 'Don’t forget!' he shouted
after her. 'Baudelaire! Three forty-five!'

Virginia
recited the words to herself as she walked from the pub to the
betting shop, mouthed them silently as she printed them on the blue
slip.

How much?

To win or
each-way?

One pound each
way, she decided, and scribbled down the bet. After all, she was
not looking to make a fortune; a bet for her was nothing more than
an entertainment. But then again, why not a fortune? Or at least a
few pounds more than the handful she had at the moment. She tore up
the betting slip, found a clean one and printed out her
instructions -’BAUDELAIRE. 3-45 EPSOM. £10 WIN’- with all the
clarity and precision she could muster. It was indicative of her
optimism. She even did a doodle of a soft watch in the bottom
corner, in honour of the champion of the Surrealists.

Then she took
her place behind the regular punters. This was always the hardest
part for her, on the few occasions she gambled, standing in line
and unsure if she had filled out her slip correctly, worried lest
she should be corrected by the person behind the counter and
exposed for the novice that she was. Everything went smoothly,
though; the bet was accepted, the money taken and she was given her
receipt.

A loudspeaker
above her crackled and odds were quoted and flashed on a screen.
Starting prices were interrupted by a race commentary which was
delivered as a manic recitation; Virginia found it hard to follow,
there was time to kill before her own race, so she decided to leave
and call back later when everything had run its course.

It was on her
tour of the city shops, whiling away her time until after the three
forty-five, that Virginia discovered her mistake, in a favourite
bookshop where she found a paperback about the man himself,
Baudelaire.

'For me
Romanticism is the most recent, the latest expression of the
beautiful.'

'Sorry?'
someone said, and Virginia asked to be excused, explaining that she
had simply been reading aloud.

'Oh,' said the
person, and walked away.

Romanticism?

Virginia read
the sentence again.

But what about
Surrealism? Surely that had been Baudelaire’s pet. Or was she
getting confused, mistaking her dates and becoming a victim of her
fragile memory? As Baudelaire said, a few pages on, as though for
her benefit: 'I have memories more than if I were a thousand years
old’.'

'My problem
exactly,' Virginia agreed. 'Too many fucking memories and I can’t
cope with them all.'

She left the
bookshop and found a television showroom. There she wandered among
the various sets, waiting until no one was looking and then
switching one set over to its Teletext service. And the result of
the three forty-five? Baudelaire second!

Thanks to
Chuck Presley -gambler and now gobshite- Virginia’s funds were once
again wiped out. She shuffled from the showroom and stood on the
pavement, looking down into the gutter. There was nothing there
which could be used as currency. So what to do? The city was a
miserable place without any money. Looking at the clock of Saint
Luke’s Church she saw that it was almost five o’clock. Opening
time. She would go to the ‘Corkscrew’, see if any more drawings had
been sold; with her head optimistically bowed to where there might
lie a wallet or a stray ten pound note she went off in search of a
saviour.

*

Coral’s smile
was more like the sneer of an anti-Christ than a saviour when she
learned of the reason for the visit. No drawings had been sold for
days.

Virginia swore
and slumped on a stool.

'Perhaps
they’re overpriced,' Coral suggested.

'Isn’t that
just what I told that tit Gerald? He should have let me sell them
at my own price.'

'A pint
apiece?' Coral shook her head as she laughed. 'That really wasn’t
on, Virginia, and you know it.'

'It would do
me at the moment,' Virginia mourned, and Coral, moved by the
sorrowful countenance, poured her a glass of Red Stripe and placed
it on the bar.

'Here, have
this one on me.'

Virginia
cheered slightly, sipped at the drink and asked almost despairingly
if there was any possibility of Coral cashing her a cheque.

'Sure.'

'You can?'

'Of course. It
won’t bounce, will it?'

'No, I’m only
a couple of hundred pounds overdrawn,' said Virginia, and honesty
was proven to be the best policy; Coral laughed and asked how much
Virginia wanted.

'Thirty
pounds?' Virginia suggested.

'Is that all?'
said Coral, taking the money from the till. 'That won’t last you
long.'

'Just until
the bank opens tomorrow. It’ll do.'

Quietly
reminding herself that it would have to last a good deal longer,
Virginia pocketed the notes and listened as Coral said that she
could now use a favour in return.

Virginia
sensed a catch rather than a favour.

'Yes?'

'It’s really
more like a golden opportunity than a favour,' Coral expanded.
'There’s Trev and Tone, see-'

'Sound like a
comic double act.'

'Not all that
comic, but a double act is precisely what they are. Trev -Trevor-
won’t go anywhere without Tone-'

'Tony?'
Virginia guessed.

'Right.' Coral
hitched her shoulders, settling her breasts more comfortably in her
bra as she frowned. 'Bugger me if I can prise the two of them
apart. I’ve tried, but that faffing Trev always tags along.'

'When it’s
Tone that you want?'

Correct.

So a fourth
party was needed, to entertain Trev while Coral did her best with
the other.

'What’s this
Trev like?' Virginia asked.

'He’s...
cute... sort of compact.'

'A
midget?'

'No!'

'Are you being
honest with me, Coral? I mean, he’s not absolutely disgustingly
unpicturesque, is he?'

'No, I promise
you. He’s short, yes, but sweet.' Coral looked sincerely into
Virginia’s eyes, a hint of a plea shining in her own. 'Come on,
Virginia, one good turn deserves another. It’s only for one
night.'

'Give me
another drink, then, to steel myself. I’m warning you, though-'

'There’s no
need for warnings. Just trust me.'

As Coral
trusted Virginia, foolishly, blindly, ignorant of any
consequences.

Some time
later, seeing Coral’s eyes brighten and wrinkle into a smile,
Virginia looked over her shoulder at the two young men who entered.
'Bloody hell, Coral!' she gasped. 'If that one’s mine then he’s a
sodding dwarf!'

'Dainty,' said
Coral, still smiling as the two threaded their way towards the
bar.

'And look at
the teeth!' Virginia whispered.

'Did I tell
you he lisps as well?'

'That’s it.
I’m going.'

Coral grabbed
Virginia by the collar, making a tourniquet of the front of her
blouse. 'Do you want that cheque back? Do you want to forget about
favours, you bloody ingrate?'

Virginia was
held fast by Coral. It was only when the dwarfish creature with the
lisp smiled up at her that she was released.

'This is
Virginia,' said Coral.

'Virgin-ya?'
Trev smirked.

Virginia
looked down her nose at the young man beside her but said nothing,
aware of Coral’s threatening presence.

'Well!' Coral
rubbed her hands together in anticipation of the evening ahead.
'What about drinks?'

Two cans of
beer with whisky chasers.

Clasping her
hand over her heart, over the money which was in her breast pocket,
Virginia gazed absently up at the ceiling and hoped to hear the
cash register ring, praying that there would be no question of them
going Dutch.

It made no
sound.

'It’s alright,
Virginia, the drinks are on me tonight,' Coral told her.

Virginia
looked down to see a glass of wine -more ladylike than a can of
beer?- on the bar before her; both the men had drinks in their
hands. She relaxed with her Liebfraumilch, enjoyed it, not joining
in the conversation or giving Coral much support.

Her aloofness
soon peeved Coral.

'Jesus,
Virginia, you might be a little more sociable,' she said, when Trev
and Tone went to the toilets.

'It’s
difficult enough looking at the berk. You surely don’t expect me to
talk to him as well, do you?'

'For a thirty
pound favour I expect a lot more than that.'

'You’re asking
me to sell my body?'

'I’m asking
you to be nice to the chap.' Coral winked, her lashes a little
thicker with mascara than usual, her eyes a little darker and lips
a little redder. 'In any way you like, Virginia. Just keep him out
of my way.'

'Which chap is
that?' asked Trev, back from the gents with his hair slicked
back.

'Which chap is
what?' Coral said, stuck for an answer which would not cause
offence.

'Just some old
inebriate who’s always coming down here, shouting his mouth off and
scaring the customers,' said Virginia.

As if a lisp
was a sign of gullibility Trev said, 'Ah.'

Coral’s
relieved smile acknowledged that some of the thirty pound favour
had been repaid; then a quick jerk of the head in Trev’s direction
reminded Virginia of her further duties.

Virginia
turned and smiled down at him.

'It’s a posh
sort of name, Virginia,' Trev remarked.

'A bit of a
mouthful,' thought Tone, who was obviously more comfortable with
single syllable words.

'I’ll call you
Ginny,' Trev decided.

'Over my dead
body,' Virginia grumbled softly.

'If you want
it that way,' Coral hissed in her ear.

'What are you
two whispering about now?' Trev wanted to know.

'Nothing
important. You can call me Ginny.'

Like a pet who
had just been favoured Trev wormed closer. Itching to move away,
Virginia was saved by Tone who inserted his body between theirs, so
solid and erect. He was a big man, but not too big for Coral to
handle. She was sizing him up already, looking for weaknesses she
might be able to exploit and pushing drinks across the bar to him.
The drinks seemed to be having little effect on the stalwart
constitution, however, though Virginia for her part began to feel
pleasantly free of cares as the evening wore on. She looked again
at Trev. Stretch his legs some eighteen inches or so, maybe tap his
teeth back into place and persuade him not to speak unless spoken
to and he would not be completely unattractive. get him sat down,
she decided, and that would compensate for his lack of height. Her
knees were getting a little weak, in any case, and she could do
with a rest.

'Do we have to
stand at the bar all night?' she asked Coral.

Coral agreed,
left Josh to mind the bar and pointed the group to a vacant corner.
As Tone was about to sit beside Trev she managed to insinuate her
bulk between them, shuffling them apart. Alternating male and
female around the table was always the best way.

'Well,' she
said, then left the single word hanging in the smoky air, as
expressive as any of her miscellaneous murmurs.

'Well,'
Virginia echoed.

'Two wells
make a river and your big head makes it bigger and your big toe
makes four more,' sang Trev with a drunken laugh.

The company
looked at him, Coral and Virginia open-mouthed, Tone frowning.

'I think we’d
better go,' said Tone. 'You’ve had enough, you’re pissed
already.'

'It’s a poem,
a rhyme we used to say at school.'

Tone was
bundling cigarettes and matches into his pockets. 'Come on, Trev,
let’s get off.'

'Aw!'

'Don’t be
silly, the night hasn’t started yet,' said Coral. 'I’ll tell you
what, we’ll take a walk around the corner to a place I know. The
fresh air will do us all good.'

'Bed would be
better for him, the piss-pot,' said Tone, glaring at his mate.

Yes indeed,
but perhaps later. For the time being another drink or two was what
was needed, and Coral urged them to their feet, up the stairs and
outdoors.

'We’ll go to
the ‘Metro’,' she said, leading them around one corner, then
another, into darker narrower streets. 'The boss is a friend of
mine.'

They were
welcomed and admitted free of charge into the basement club which
was decorated with posters for Ricard and Gauloise and Parisian
attractions.

'A nice place,
eh?' said Coral, her buxom chest swelling with pride at the
celebrity reception her group had been afforded.

'I don’t think
much of the music,' Tone replied, his frown now directed at the
group who hunched beneath the low ceiling of the stage, unable to
do much other than nod their heads and make ham-fisted gestures
against the strings of their guitars.

Coral tried to
tell him what the music was but her words were lost as a deafening
crescendo brought the tune without a tune to an end.

'What did she
say the song was?' Trev asked, and Virginia bent her head close to
his to tell him. With her eyes closed and a not unsophisticated
aftershave wafting over her she could almost imagine that she was
with someone else. She stayed in this position, head on his
shoulder, nearly slumbering.