Life Class (30 page)

Outside, in the chill sunshine, he paced up and down while the phone rang. It went to voicemail. He rang again. A smile still hovered on his face; he was confident it would be answered eventually. The third time he dialled, it was picked up.

‘Yoh …?’ came the sleep-thickened voice on the other end. Stefan could hear the rustle of a duvet.

‘Dom, it’s me. Did I wake you? Sorry.’

Another croak.

‘Dom, answer me something. Do you feel exploited?’

‘Whaaa? Umph … d’you say exploit …?’

‘Yes. It’s been suggested to me that I exploit you.’

There was a grunt, which became an odd wheezy, snuffling sound, then a creak. Stefan could imagine the scene. Often enough he’d witnessed the boy emerging blearily out of sleep. He’d push himself up – the dragon tattoo, vivid against his pale flesh, curving down from shoulder to elbow – then flop back.

‘Nah. Other way round, mate!’ Now it was evident that Dom was laughing.

‘That’s what
I
thought,’ Stefan smiled, unconcerned that he was the butt of the joke. It was good to hear Dom laugh these days. ‘You can go back to sleep now. Though it is the afternoon.’

‘S’all righ’, I’m awake now!’ His voice still had a laugh in it. ‘Who said it?’

‘Not important. See you later.’ He clicked the red button on the phone and pocketed it. Talking to the lad prompted the thought that had grown increasingly troubling since his return at New Year. What would happen to Dom if he sold up? A sudden rusty squeal interrupted the thought. He turned to see Dory coming back through the gate. Her short, ashy-blonde hair was tousled and standing on end as if she’d been running her fingers through it. Her wide, hazel eyes were bright and glittery.

‘I’ve left my bag behind.’ She said it calmly, but a tell-tale flush rose into her face. She wasn’t wearing a trace of make-up, he now noticed.

‘I only just spotted it. I was …’ He stepped out of her way as she marched past him and into the workshop, emerging seconds later with the bag over her shoulder.

‘My keys and mobile are inside,’ she said, like an explanation was required, as if it were understood she’d have been happier to abandon the bag had it contained nothing useful. Head held high, she began to walk away, but abruptly stopped and turned.

‘By the way, if you decide you want one, I could design a website for you. I mean … no cost to you other than the domain name.’

She hadn’t waited for an answer. He couldn’t have trusted himself to speak, afraid that he’d burst out laughing again and offend her.

As he and Dom set up the room for that morning’s life class, Stefan reflected that he was beginning to get more out of this teaching lark than he’d ever expected.

The print-makers were easily pleased. All they required was a theme, to be shown the various techniques, and given access to the tools with which to experiment. Any old combination of props from the corner of the classroom, plus a bottle and glass, or maybe a few bits of fruit arranged as a still life, satisfied the painters and drawers. They were flexible and willing to experiment with the different approaches he suggested. And his popularity had soared since he’d promised to take them outside after half term, weather permitting, to paint landscapes.

Even though attitudes on both sides had mellowed, Life remained his most problematic class. It was a notable moment when Rachel confessed that she’d become bored with Sandy teaching them again. Others, surprisingly, had agreed.

‘I began to worry you weren’t coming back,’ she said. ‘I was relieved when you did. Don’t get me wrong, Sandy is a lovely person. I really like her, but she doesn’t actually teach. She’s gives us no guidance, makes no suggestions, and simply swans about for three hours, complimenting us on whatever we’ve done … good or bad.’

His major headache was that the class required a model, and models were a rare species. Every week, organising someone to sit for them was a skin-of-the-teeth exercise. Frequently he went through the list with no success and then had to phone back all those without a cast-iron excuse, using all his diplomatic skills to wheedle a change of mind. To increase the list of available models, someone in the office had suggested advertising, but Stefan was wary, given his own experience a few years ago. The outcome of Dominic answering his advert had turned out well – they laughed about it now – but at the time there’d been confusion, misunderstanding, and embarrassment on both sides.

Gradually, the room filled as the students arrived, but the model was late. Maybe this was just as well.

‘The model is on his way,’ he said, once the majority had assembled and were looking at him expectantly. ‘He did assure me he was definitely coming. But perhaps I’d better mention that I’ve had to engage Dermot Brian. I know Dermot isn’t popular with some of you, but I was unable to secure anyone else. Even Tilly is otherwise engaged today.’

As expected, there were a few low-voiced grumbles, mostly about preferring female models to male. Stefan shrugged and, answering the specific complaint that no one articulated, said, ‘Sit behind him.’

The door opened and Dory came in. Her shoulder bag, the one she’d left in his workshop, was looped diagonally across her body and her art bag was in her hand. He told her the model would be Dermot and she nodded, then paused.

‘Sticks?’ Alongside the usual stacks of paper, he’d put out a tray of candles, a selection of coloured inks, and a box of twigs, which he’d collected from his garden the day before and dried out in the airing cupboard overnight. No one else had so far queried – or maybe even spotted –the materials provided.

He nodded, wondering, as he had so often in the weeks following the incident, how to smooth things over with her. To do so would require a lot of explaining. It was not that he couldn’t be bothered, but that he was unable to formulate an unarguable reason for doing so. Wasn’t it better to let sleeping dogs lie? He turned to the rest of the class, who were standing around chatting. The early summer sun streamed in through the tall windows.

‘May I have your attention? When Dermot arrives,’ he looked at his watch, ‘I want you to try a different approach. I’ve brought in a selection of twigs. They’re to be used like a pen, with the ink provided, to produce a linear drawing. Before anyone complains, I am asking you to use twigs because they will produce a less predictable mark. I want you to break through your inhibitions, loosen up.

‘I have also brought in candles to use as a resist, to indicate the areas of light on the figure. Use them as you would an oil pastel. The inks can be used as they are, or watered down as body colour and applied with a brush. Use no more than two colours,
including
black. You could even try using one colour at full strength for the line drawing then diluted to give form. Obviously you use the resist
before
the body colour. The ink won’t be absorbed where you’ve used the wax, so you’ll be left with those areas of light. OK? Does everyone understand?’ He looked around at the circle of faces. Most looked stunned.

Rachel said, ‘What fun, I love drawing with twigs.’

‘If anyone fancies being adventurous, try using the wax first. You’ll be drawing blind because wax is virtually invisible. It only emerges after the ink is applied.’ He wondered how many would actually take the challenge. Maybe Rachel, and Dom too. Would Dory? Stefan looked towards Dory’s sister, Fran, expecting her to pipe up with some objection. He couldn’t be sure she was even listening, instead she was fiddling with the polished stone beads of her necklace. Her eyes were fixed on something outside the window. The door opened and Dermot came in. He muttered something about the bus.

‘No problem,’ Stefan said, though the man was more than ten minutes late. ‘All right, everyone? Any questions?’

Fran seemed to wake up then, and joined the rush for twigs. There was laughter and a bit of jostling – everyone seemed intent on finding the least blunt, split, or knobbly example. Dory went the other way and put her art bag down by a chair. Apparently aware that he was watching her, she met his look.

‘I’ve never drawn with a twig before. I’ve no idea what type to look for,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to choose from those that are left.’

Stefan nodded. ‘Good plan.’

Soon, the temporary mêlée had subsided and everyone was back. Dermot had stripped off and was sitting on a chair. Stefan asked him to lower his head.

The room became quiet. Stefan picked up his teaching file and took out the register. While he marked it, he looked at each individual. Despite the sticky start, each of them had grown on him – each had something to commend them. Even those who gave him the most hassle – he looked up at Fran and then across to Michael – often amused him. Everyone here was bright and interested and involved with what they did. How could he maintain his resentment against people who were so keen on art? Disagreement was healthy.

He’d long since realised that his real resentment was with being forced into this position. He’d never wanted to teach – had felt no vocation to do so – and his initial experience, particularly with this class, had been like banging his head against a brick wall. Now, he had to acknowledge a growing sense of achievement, particularly where Dom was concerned. The boy was well on his way to gaining the credits he needed. An interview had been scheduled between him and the head of the art department in the main college to evaluate his suitability for acceptance onto the Access Course in September. Stefan had been supervising the content of the portfolio he would take along, and coaching him on his interview technique. Specifically, he’d persuaded Dom to say, ‘Yes, of course’, if asked whether he intended to take some GCSEs.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll have a couple of years to get them. Though if your portfolio’s good enough, they may even give you a special dispensation and let you join a degree course without the mandatory exam passes. But you might prefer to go the vocational route. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.’ Still all in black, the inevitable band logo – today it was DoomSword – on the chest of his short-sleeved T- shirt, the boy’s expression was intent and concentrated. Using a candle like a crayon, he was scribbling hard. After a moment, he stopped the frantic rubbing and stared at the paper with a frown, almost as if he couldn’t believe any wax had been deposited.

Despite his progress on this course, Stefan was concerned about him. He’d become increasingly withdrawn and appeared to have lost weight recently. He spent hours in his room painting Warhammer miniatures, which Stefan could not help but consider a waste of his time and talent. Otherwise, he was preoccupied and quiet. There hadn’t been much joking and laughter in recent weeks. Of course, he hadn’t been back to the STI clinic for the retest. If his vanishing act at the turn of the year had involved a return to his old habits, then it was still too soon to get a definitive result anyway. Dom refused even to talk about it.

His gaze turned to Dory. She was frowning slightly, her mouth in a pout of concentration. Everyone else in the room had changed to their summer wardrobes, mainly characterised by pastel colours and open necks. She was dressed in khaki cotton combats and a baggy T-shirt in a dark olive green. He liked Dory. He even found her attractive, more so than her sister – the bossy one, he recalled her saying – whose good looks were more self-conscious. But so what? He’d no intention of doing anything about it. So why did it matter what she thought? Why did he still feel an urge to explain himself? As she applied wax to her drawing, yellow, gold, and orange bangles clacked together on her wrist. He turned away with a slight smile.

Though he had noticed the way Fran stared at Dominic, until Dory’s revelation he’d not wondered why. Admittedly, Dom was a good-looking boy, but it was a scenario Stefan would never have suspected. Since the revelation about the boy’s sexuality – or maybe it was the implication that he
put it around a bit –
Fran’s fascination seemed to have waned dramatically. Along with her infatuation, she seemed to have abandoned her self-appointed role as shop steward, becoming markedly less vocal and confrontational. Had she finally accepted his method of teaching, or was there another reason? She seemed less relaxed, and even with the heavy make-up, her face was drawn and shadowed. Why speculate if it made his life easier?

Chapter Thirty-one - Fran

‘I no where u live.’ Recalling the final email from db sparked yet another shiver to zip down Fran’s spine. It was months now since he’d sent the link to that sick website, but the correspondence had continued. Every email she received applied another twist to her tension. But the last to come through, at two this morning, was the killer. Her agitation was now at breaking point. What did he mean? How could he know where she lived? But if he did? If somehow he’d found out …? What was he planning?

For months, Fran had been trying to convince him to stop sending the pictures. She wasn’t interested. She’d said it over and over again. Fantasy was fantasy and that was where it should stay. And in any case, her fantasies definitely
did not
extend in the direction of S&M.

‘U don’t know till u try.’

‘I don’t want to try.’

‘Don’t believe u!’ he’d responded. There’d been a delay and then an attachment came through with the next email.

‘Look at u … naughty girl! Ever done anything so thrilling? Imagine it!’

It had taken several seconds to comprehend. In itself, the image was disgusting, but there was something additionally odd about it – the head not quite the right size or angle. She felt sick and numb. The woman in the scene was
her.
He had photoshopped the picture she’d sent him in the early days of their correspondence and superimposed it, not totally successfully, onto the body of the woman involved in the act. Before she’d gathered her wits sufficiently to think how to respond, another message came through.

‘Admit u want 2 meet. U no u want 2 join in!’

He was wrong. The very idea appalled her. And yet, even sitting here in the life class, struggling with this bloody twig, she could sense the tell-tale dampening at her crotch. Yes, she was horrified by the bombardment of sexual imagery and explicit messages, but it had been a fascinated, thrilling horror, otherwise why did she keep reading his emails and looking at the images? She knew she shouldn’t reply. He had won every time he prompted a response. But she was irresistibly impelled to deny, to repudiate, to rebut.