Hawthorn and Child (16 page)

*

She and Stuart had sort-of-sex in his bedroom one Saturday afternoon. Everyone thought he was gay, and he never really cared one way or the other about that and never denied it or got angry or anything, so she had thought he was gay too. And he liked books and art, so … and he wore a scarf in a sort of gay way, and he was good friends with Byron, who was
actually
gay. But it turned out he wasn’t gay. Or wasn’t very gay anyway. He was a really good kisser. Kissing him was … really good. She talked to Beth about it, and she had wanted to describe what the kissing was like; and she wanted to tell her that kissing Stuart was
like being inside a Jackson Pollock painting.
She really wanted to say that. She was determined to say that. But when it came to it she just said that it was
really good
, and
bare sexy
. It made her think that maybe Beth and her weren’t as close as she thought. Because why else would she not say what she wanted to say? It was just stupid.

Stuart talked to her about art. She knew more than he did. He seemed interested in listening to her. He sent her an email saying he’d looked up Francis Bacon online and thought he was mad and brilliant. But she thought he was faking it a bit. And it was the first she’d heard from him since the sort-of-sex, and he didn’t mention that at all, or her really either, or mention anything about meeting up again outside school or whatever. He had film posters on his wall.
Watchmen
and
Superbad
, and an old
Finding Nemo
one that she thought was cute but which made him blush when she mentioned it.

When he took off his jeans she saw a big scar on his leg. Just above his knee, on the back of his leg. She wanted to know what it was, but she didn’t ask.

She read about horrible things in the newspapers. She read about fathers who killed their kids because they hated their ex-wives. They strangled them or poisoned them or drove them off a cliff. She read that stuff all the time. Just when she had forgotten about one case, a new one would turn up. Or she’d hear about them on the TV or the radio. Her mother always went dead quiet when stuff like that came on. And sometimes she’d mutter something. Something like
the poor things,
or
what a bastard.
And Cath would think about her father. About him slouched over his coffee without her. She could scare herself for a short while thinking like that. But not for very long. Her father was very gentle. Very kind. He had never smacked her, even when she was little and screamed all the time. Her mother had smacked her. He’d never even shouted at her. Or not that she could remember. Or not in a way that made her remember. He was always gentle. He would say nothing, just open his arms, and she would lie against him and he would wrap her up and she would stay like that for ages. That was when she was little. They hadn’t done that in a long time. But she would do that again without even thinking.

She wanted to ask him whether he had ever had a case like that. A father who kills his kids. Or anything like that. But he never told her any of the bad stuff. She knew he had to
investigate
all sort of things – murders and everything. She’d seen him on the news once. The London news. Detective Inspector Mark Rivers. It was weird, seeing his name like that. And him asking for witnesses after a boy was stabbed somewhere. He’d been really good. He talked about the boy like he’d known him, about his family and stuff. It was all good – the way people are after they’re dead. It had made her nearly cry, because she was proud of him she supposed. But he only ever told her about the funny stuff. Or he made it up.

– No, Dad, that’s Pollock.

– Watch your language.

She laughed.

– Pollock. Jackson Pollock. He does the ones with the paint all over the place all scrambled and splattered and stuff.

– Do you like them?

– Yeah.

– Not so much though?

– Well, I like them. They’re fun. I’d like to see them for real, because the paint is meant to be really thick and that would be amazing to see them up close. But they’re like …

– A mess.

– No. They’re like the idea of having an idea, instead of having an idea.

She laughed at herself. Her Dad made an
ooh
noise. They turned a corner.

– Is that art teacher of yours any good?

– Yeah, she’s OK.

– Are you smarter than her?

She laughed, thinking
yes!

– No.

– Have you told her you want to go to art college?

– I don’t know if I want to go to art college.

– Oh. I thought you did.

– Well I want to do art, but I don’t know if I want to go to art college or do art history. First.

– First?

– Maybe.

– Well. No hurry.

He pulled in to the kerb in front of the house. She leaned across and kissed him. She knew he wanted a hug. But it was awkward, hugging in the car, and she didn’t like it.

– Will you call me during the week?

– Yes.

– How’s your mother?

He always left it to the last minute. So that she could only say

– She’s fine.

– OK. I love you.

– I love you too.

– Speak soon.

He waited for her to get to the front door. As if something might happen to her between the car and the house. Then when she put her key in the lock he drove off, as if nothing could happen to her then until the next time.

*

She liked Tracey Emin, even though everyone else she knew didn’t like her, and some people seemed to hate her. She liked her voice best of all, and she loved to hear her talk. She saw her once, walking through Smithfield Market looking really hung over. She’d wanted to talk to her, but she’d been too shy, and her friend Michele didn’t know who she was and there was no one else to be excited with. She didn’t like Damien Hirst at all. She thought he was an idiot. And his work was ugly and full of boyish things, like he was a permanently horny boy trying to get some, and everyone was just embarrassed to have him around. She thought Sarah Lucas was like that too. But she didn’t say it. She just said that Lucas didn’t really move her. It was a way she had of dismissing something without sounding judgemental. She had learned it from a documentary about Francis Bacon. She couldn’t remember now whether it was Bacon who said it about some other artist, with a smirk on his face, or whether it was someone else who’d said it about Bacon. She liked Jake and Dinos Chapman. She liked the way they could make her feel a bit sick, but that she kept on peering at their models and their pictures anyway because all the detail had something in it that was important but it kept on shifting somewhere else, like when you have a floater in your eye. She liked Grayson Perry. She liked his voice too, and she liked hearing him talk about art, and she had some
podcasts
of a radio show he’d done. But she didn’t really know his art. She liked the way he shocked her mother whenever he turned up on the telly in one of his mad frocks. She’d been to the Turner Prize exhibition for the last three years. She had liked Zarina Bhimji most in 2007. In 2008 her favourite was either the photographer, or Goshka Macuga’s wooden things like people trees. In 2009 she hadn’t really liked any of them. They didn’t move her.

On the Tuesday after the Saturday when they’d had sort-of-sex and Stuart had sent her an email about Bacon, and a couple of texts about nothing, he came up to her in a corridor in school and, blushing very red, asked her did she want to go for a coffee after school, just the two of them. She didn’t know why he was blushing. Well, she did, and she thought it was funny, but it made her blush as well. The two of them just standing there going red. She rushed out a
Yeah, OK, see you after,
as casually as she could and walked off. It was completely stupid. They’d had about six million conversations in the school corridors before.

One time in the café two men came in and sort of stood there looking at her dad. He stared back at them.

– What.

It was the same voice he used on the phone.

– Sorry to interrupt, sir.

The one talking was a really good-looking black man with dark framed glasses and hair shaved close to his head. He was wearing a dark grey suit, with a black v-neck jumper under the jacket and his tie done up. He looked really interesting. The other one was a white guy with a funny face. Like he was peeking through a keyhole. Or maybe it was normal. He had a stupid smile and was carrying a big envelope and he was looking at her. He was wearing a neat suit too, but he looked more like he was going for a job interview. They didn’t look like police.

– What.

– Need you to have a look at a couple of things, the black one said. Somewhat urgent.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at Cath and nodded.

– I’m very sorry to bother you.

She smiled and felt herself blush.

Her dad went outside with them. She watched through the window. The three of them hunched over the envelope, and stuff was pulled out of it, and her dad peered at it. She thought maybe it was photographs. She couldn’t see. Her dad made a call on his phone. The black guy made one on his. The white guy came back in and bought himself a bottle of water.

– Sorry about this, he said.

– That’s OK.

– He’ll be back in a minute.

He seemed nice. But he looked sad. She thought that he just had one of those sad faces. And red eyes. She wanted to ask him things. About her dad. What’s he like to work with? Is he tough? Does he beat people up? Is he racist? Does he swear all the time? Is he good at being a detective? Is he clever? Is he sexist? Does he have a girlfriend? Do you do cases where fathers kill their kids? What does he think about them? But she couldn’t form any sort of question at all before he had gone back outside. The two men walked to a car and drove away and her father came back in and patted her shoulder and apologized.

– That’s the first time I’ve ever met anyone you work with.

– No it’s not. Is it?

– Yeah. You’re very rude to them.

He laughed.

– I am not.

– You didn’t say anything to them. Just
what
. You should have asked them to sit down.

– They should have called me.

– They seemed really nice. You should have introduced me.

He smiled at her as he sipped his coffee.

– They are not nice. Really. And anyway, one of them is married and the other is gay and they’re both old enough to be your father. And if your mother and I agree on anything then we agree that you should never, ever, ever, get involved with a policeman.

They went up towards Muswell Hill to a place Stuart knew where there’d be no one from the school. He bought her a strawberry tea and got himself a cappuccino. He talked about music and kept on wiping his lips. He was into all these bands that she had never heard of. She thought he was trying to match her art talk. Trying to balance it. That was OK. He said he’d send her a playlist and they talked for a while about the best ways of sharing files, and about the computers they had and about stuff on Facebook, and she was sure they’d had all these conversation a dozen times before. It was like he’d forgotten that he’d known her for about two years. On and off.

They walked down the hill and he held her hand for a while. When they got to a bus stop that was good for her, he kissed her again, and it was great. He leaned against her and she could feel his body warm against her and she liked it and she thought about his scar. When the bus came he smiled at her like he was shy again, and she liked that too, and he said ‘See ya, gorgeous’ in a stupid voice and they both laughed, and they were laughing at themselves, at how stupid they were being and that it was all right to be stupid, it was fun. On the bus she dozed and held her phone in her hand and leaned her head against the window.

She didn’t know what to do about Rothko. She didn’t
understand
Rothko. Everything about Rothko made her want to like him. All the things people who liked him said and wrote made her want to like him. They talked about warmth and love and comfort and feelings like religious feelings. She
wondered
about herself, about what was wrong with her that she couldn’t feel those things. Or not feel them when she looked at Rothko. She had been, twice, to the Rothko room in the Tate. And her dad had taken her to the big exhibition of lots of his stuff. But she didn’t get it. Soft focus blocks of dusty colour. One of them had made her think of sunsets on
summer
holidays in Cornwall, so she liked that one, a bit. But Rothko. He did not move her.

Whenever her father took her to one of the Tates, or to the National Gallery or something, she could sense his boredom make his back straighten and his eyes water. She would forget he was there sometimes and then turn to find him looking at his phone, or looking at a woman, or yawning. She’d laugh at him and they’d go for a coffee and he’d get her something in the shop. Some postcards usually, or a book. She didn’t like him spending much. She didn’t know why. He wasn’t hard up.

Her mother was jealous of these trips. She didn’t want to be, and she battled with herself to cover it up, but you could feel it, in the kitchen. It was like she was plugged in to
something
.

She started going to museums and galleries with Stuart. They went to the Whitechapel Gallery together – the first time she’d been. They had to stand on the tube and he held her hand. She liked when they had to let go for some reason and then she’d wait to see how long it took him to reach out for her again. Sometimes it wasn’t quick enough and she grabbed his hand, and she liked that she felt able to do that, and liked that it made him smile. She liked the fact that they were turning into a really annoying couple who held hands all the time and that their other friends, if they knew, would dedicate their lives to taking the piss.