Life Class (6 page)

Today, as she opened the door, he was taken aback. Her hair hung down to her waist. From the roots, the first four inches were snowy white. The remaining hair that straggled down, over the stained pink coverall she habitually wore, was a curious carmine red colour. Usually piled in an elaborate confection of loops and rolls, then held in place by a scarf, her hairstyle had always amused him, but he’d never have guessed it was so long. She obviously hadn’t dyed it for months. Was the fact she’d not bothered to pin it up this morning into its usual ‘war years’ style a bad sign?

‘You are later than I was expecting, Mr Novak,’ she said, her tone querulous.

‘I did tell you I wouldn’t be able to get your shopping first thing. I’ve been teaching an art class all morning.’ He no longer reminded her to call him by his given name. It was as if, since he’d come back, she saw him as a different person.

‘I thought your teaching job was on Monday?’

‘I did tell you, Grace. I’m doing three mornings; Monday, Tuesday,
and
Friday.’

‘Every week?’

‘Yes. It’s a permanent job,’ he said, crossing his fingers.

‘But you will still be able to get my shopping?’

‘Yes, Grace, but you might have to wait …’

She seemed suddenly to realise she was being ungracious. ‘I am so grateful to you, Mr Novak, you are so kind to me. What would I do without you? I could not manage it myself. You
did
get my ciggies?’

‘Of course.’

‘I have not been feeling at all well.’

‘Have you called the doctor? If you need to go …’

‘Oh no, oh no. No doctors!’

It was a familiar exchange. As she pushed the correct money into his hand, her long, curved, yellow fingernails scraped his palm and he was relieved to escape.

Standing on the forecourt, and confronted by the facade of his house again, he recalled the comment of the estate agent who’d valued the house. ’
You don’t need to persuade the world and his wife that this is a desirable property. You only need one buyer to fall in love with it.’
Then the man had turned, flinging his arm out. ‘
And that vista is enough to clinch the deal.’

Having grown up here, the outlook had become commonplace. Stefan looked through the frame of branches at the bottom of his sloping front garden, across to the opposite side of the valley. Here, clustered roofs were set amongst trees. Lit by the sun, the church tower formed a luminous imprint against the steep emerald slopes behind the hamlet. A view is a view is a view, he thought. And however pretty, was it sufficient incentive to blind a prospective buyer to the shortcomings of the house?

All Stefan knew for sure was that the once-white stucco was dingy and crumbling in places, the sash windows were probably rotting. The decorative ironwork, which supported the balcony and ornamented the veranda beneath, was rusted. At least the building wasn’t listed. It would be expensive enough to refurbish the place but a requirement to replicate the original features would be prohibitive. The wilderness in which it was set, once his personal wild wood, hardly deserved the label ‘garden’. To suit modern tastes it needed more than a makeover. It needed a team of lumberjacks and navvies with heavy-duty machinery to clear the woodland. Even then it would be necessary to bring in tons of topsoil before decking and pergolas, lawns and flowerbeds, water features, and a gazebo could even be considered. Even if the prospect of all that work didn’t put off prospective purchasers, there was Grace’s partial ruin next door to scupper the deal. He would be imprisoned here forever as it crumbled round his ears.

The barn was the only part of the stones and mortar he liked. He opened one of the massive double doors and chaos greeted him. It’s superficial, he thought. I’ve reached that stage where it looks far worse than it did when I started. Looking up, away from the mess, the squares of golden green patterned light in the high-pitched loft reminded him of the Russian vine and wild clematis, which had grown so quickly, diffusing the daylight through the skylight windows. He’d meant to cut it back, but along with so much else in his life, he’d never got around to it.

The floor crunched under his feet. It had been boarded maybe as much as a century ago, and now, where they were visible, the boards had faded to grey, and were pitted and stained with age. But the old wooden floor was mostly obscured beneath a gritty detritus. Fragments of silicone rubber, resin, armature wire clippings, solder, clay, and plaster dust mixed with the leaves blown in through the open door and the mud and gravel from unwiped shoes. To cross the room he had to weave his way between plastic drums and cardboard cartons that cluttered the floor. The drums contained the sculpting materials he had bought in bulk. The cartons bulged with bottles, boxes, and tubs, sheaves of grubbily thumbed papers, soldering equipment, and coils of armature wire. Leaning against the near wall was a roll of glass-fibre matting, and polythene-bagged pillows of clay were piled up beside a chest-high metal sculpting stand.

His father had only just died when he’d got Murrells to value the house. Somewhere on the table, deep in that pile of letters, magazines, and brochures, was the estate agent’s estimate. It was over a year old. What had impelled him to start clearing out the barn now? He had found new premises to use as a studio down at Wyvern Mill, but he’d yet to sign the rental agreement or put this house on the market. He was doing everything arse about face. Was he procrastinating because he was still unsure it was the right thing to do? One thing was certain – he didn’t need this yellowing pile of old newspapers. They were tumbled into the sack, along with a collection of dusty, cobwebbed pinecones, pieces of bark, and seed heads. Only the ornamentally twisted branch was retained. He put it back on the shelf amongst the collection of ‘found objects’ he’d decided to keep.

He grabbed the spider plant. Here was something he
could
chuck out. But though its leaves were yellowed and drooping, its hold on life was just strong enough to have thrown out a couple of hopeful babies. It went into the sack after the other junk. A few seconds later, he retrieved it. It had slid from its pot, the earth so hard and dry it retained its flowerpot shape. He broke off the new plants before consigning the rest, finally, to the rubbish sack.

Irritated by his inability to be ruthless, Stefan picked his way over to the sink, where three mugs stood upside down on the draining board. When he tried to turn them over, they stuck to the stained aluminium surface. He slid the blade of a clay-smeared knife under the rim and popped one off, filling it with water from the tap. Why was he doing this? There was very little chance he would remember to pot up the two baby spider plants, let alone remember to look after them. As he dropped them into the mug of water, he imagined himself coming across them at some time in the future. The water would have dried out, the plants become wizened and papery.

Here too, on the work surface, was the dented and clay-daubed kettle, an empty coffee jar, and a half-full milk bottle, its contents yellow and solidifying. He gave the bottle a squeamish poke before unplugging the kettle and pouring out a dribble of water and a lot of lime scale flakes. He threw it into the sack, following it up with the jar.

He weighed the two remaining mugs in his hands. Both were chipped and stained, their glaze crazed, but only one followed the other items into the rubbish sack with a satisfying smash. The one with the Spurs FC logo was replaced on the draining board. It had been his father’s. But he wasn’t being sentimental; the old bugger didn’t deserve to be remembered fondly. Spurs had been his team too, supported throughout his boyhood, and he’d need at least one mug at the new studio.

Stefan looked towards the only piece of work-in-progress in the barn. It was set on a short sculpting stand and covered by thick, smeary plastic. He dragged his eyes away and instead reflected on the battered mahogany plans-chest that the swathed sculpture stood on. There wouldn’t be room for it at the new studio. And it was still in the lap of the gods whether he’d be able to find a buyer for this house, let alone find a new place with enough space to take such a bulky piece of furniture.

Whatever he decided, he would have to find the time to go through its contents – the hundreds of youthful drawings and sketchbooks from art school days, and the more recent work done in New York, at the Graduate School of Figurative Art. Perhaps now was the moment to tap into his ruthless streak and throw it all away? He didn’t need any of it.

It was the process of drawing that was valuable, not the final result. How often did he go back through any of this old stuff and look at it? If he was planning a new piece he would start from scratch, wouldn’t he? Hire the model, set up the pose, and go through the lengthy yet deeply rewarding process of examining the structure of the body from every angle.

The surface of the table was still littered with circulars, art magazines, and mail, both opened and unopened. The junk mail was swept into a sack. Letters he still had to make decisions about he piled up on top of a ring binder, already thickly stuffed with dog-eared pages. The magazines he pushed to one side, making a mental note to go through them and cut out items that might be of use, but then he changed his mind again and scooped them into the sack as well. All that remained on the table was his toolbox and a completed sculpture. The winged figure of a young man, arms outstretched, seemed about to take flight.

Chapter Eight - Fran

Knowing her life class friends were trying out the new bistro in Strouley, she had brought Dory to the Old Sheep Shearer.

‘I’m happy to skip the usual Friday lunch date; I wanted time alone with you,’ Fran said. ‘But it’s busy, isn’t it? We’ll be lucky to hear ourselves think.’

‘Perhaps we should have got here earlier,’ Dory said. ‘We were last to leave.’

‘Apart from Teach. And how could you forget the beautiful boy?’

‘I didn’t notice he was still there. By the way, I’ve a bone to pick with you; I could have done without you enrolling me as Isadora!’

‘It’s your name.’

‘A name I never use!’

‘That’s why I did it. It was a laugh. There’s a table.’ They were now in possession of a glass of Pinot Grigio each. ‘I’m a sucker for those pale, poetic looks.’

‘You old romantic!’ Dory had to raise her voice above the clamour of conversation as they weaved their way through. ‘He may not be particularly pale. It’s the contrast with his hair. There’s no way that colour’s natural.’

There was a reason this table was the only one free. Fran had to hold her bag up and pull in her stomach to squeeze through the gap between it and the pillar.

‘The colour may be enhanced, but his hair is definitely dark. Didn’t you notice his eyebrows and long, sooty lashes? Why
do
boys always have the best eyelashes? And how about those ultramarine eyes? Anyway, what’s wrong with dyeing your hair?’

‘Did I say there was anything wrong with it?’

Having sat down, Fran pushed her hand into her own hair and pouted. ‘Have you noticed
I’m
going lighter?’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Dory said, a wry twist to her mouth.

Fran laughed, amused and at the same time reminded of the silvery strands mixed in amongst the natural blonde of her sister’s hair. ‘Very good! I must try and remember that one.’ She handed the menu to Dory. ‘I’m going back to food combining. I’ll have the pine nut and basil pasta. You don’t think I’ve put on weight, do you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I was in M&S buying undies, and every bra I tried on gave me fat armpits!’

Dory laughed. ‘Try a different shop. They don’t give you much room in here, do they?’ Fran noticed her wince as she adjusted her chair.

‘The more tables they can pack in, the more profit they make. Are you all right?’

‘Just a bit creaky. In future I’m making sure I get to class early. I refuse to perch on one of those bloody donkey things. It’s like some kind of medieval torture! Do you think I’d be allowed to sit at a table?’

‘
Allowed?
That just about says it all. So you
are
coming back then?’

‘I’m not giving up after only one lesson.’

‘Wouldn’t blame you. Talk about a bully. I almost came over to sort him out.’

‘I can stand up for myself, Fran. If anyone bothered me, it was the model …’ Dory bent towards her and with lowered voice, explained the problems she’d experienced during the session. ‘Just trying to draw the human figure was hard enough. You know how long it is since I’ve done any art. And I’ve
never
drawn a nude. But to have to draw a stark naked man, in a fluctuating state of arousal, who stared at me the whole time with that smug expression on his face, well …’ Her sister smiled ruefully, then shook her head. ‘It was more than I’d bargained for. I’m just glad you were there.’

Fran was miffed. ‘But I didn’t see it.’

‘Honestly!’ Dory stressed.

‘It’s not that I doubt you. I’m jealous. It’s never happened to me. And I’ve been doing life drawing for … forever. Granted we don’t have male models that often, and this one’s new to me. But …’ She was exaggerating her indignation but still felt the unfairness. ‘Damn! Missed my first boner! Mind you, from my vantage point, I did have an excellent view of his rather tight buns. D’you think he had the hots for you?’

‘More likely he’s a weirdo. He was watching my eyes. When he saw me looking in that direction … lift off.’

‘I suppose life modelling
can
attract people with an exhibitionist streak.’

‘Brilliant. You inveigle me into joining this class, now you tell me the models are all pervy!’

‘Oddballs …’

‘I didn’t measure them.’

‘Ho ho. Are the exception. Usually they’re people who want flexible -’

‘In more ways than one!’

‘Behave yourself! Part-time work. Typically women, often arty types who want to fit work round other commitments. And they’re women who’re comfortable with their own bodies. You can’t have hang-ups about your sagging belly, cellulite, or yellow toenails if you do life modelling. You’d have to pay me a million … in advance!’ Fran looked towards the kitchen door. Waitresses weaved their way back and forth between the full tables. The sisters had given their order and waited for their lunch to arrive. ‘The food shouldn’t take too long. Who cares? We’ve got all afternoon. Weirdo model apart, how did you enjoy your first class?’