Schooling (5 page)

15

Well, that didn’t go over very well did it?

Startled, she drops her book. It stays there, splayed unnaturally on the ground between them.

Fancied a constitutional? Out wandering the night in the hopes of resolution? Control a Paul Gredville, that the idea? Not what I’d call the plan of a genius . . . Owen stoops for the book, hands it back . . . You don’t really think things out, do you?

How does he know.

Catrine Evans . . . amused . . . But I admire ambitious failure. She blinks. He’s still there. The gap between the teeth, toothpick he chews, way he brings up his hand to blow on his wrist.

Scars. Itch sometimes. Do you find that? Scars tingle? Don’t have any.

Ah. No scars. Interesting.

Slowly, she reaches out. They both watch as her finger lightly grazes his arm. Leather’s cold.

Can I help you?

Do you even exist?

That’s not very polite . . . Owen moves to go . . . I mean, I could ask you the same question.

16

Comprehension last. Madame Araigny knits through the test. The French have Noël. They love to eat Chestnuts. The word for Hubris? Maneuver? Next door, Betts teaches English, his voice sloshes through the classroom wall, a correcting tempest.
Our revels, revels do you hear,
now are ended
. The word for Legume.
These our actors, as I foretold you
were all spirits
. The word for Pays. Frisson is a thrill, a shudder.
Are
melted into air
. The radiator begins to hiss. All bent in study. Questions like Where Was Your Brother Yesterday? There is only one answer, At The Football Match. Askew. Squalor. The Bertillions cluster around the Christmas tree, congratulating each other on A Joyeux Noël. Brickie pulls off his Sweater, blue. This schoolboy here has two Arms and two Legs. In the Summer he will attend the Seaside there will he find Shells, there he likes to eat Mussels. Find a Seahorse! Locate the Ocean! Describe how the smell struck us as we came down the hill toward the dock. The Bertillions notice that Papa is missing. Ou est Papa? In the basement assembling an airplane for Pierre? Sniffing glue? Troubadour. Through the wall Betts
Lucy Trimball, for God’s
sake, the stress never falls on NOT
. Word for Could Have Taken. Conditional. The salt air used to strike us when we lived in America. Vanessa looks at the clock. Nessa will wear a pretty dress by the Christmas tree and Dance by the Fire for Mummy. Mummy loves Nessa’s pretty dress for she sewed it herself. Vanessa chews her pencap Uncle Ian will come home for Christmas back from the RAF he will Waltz there will be Chestnuts. The future of To Spend as in You will spend Christmas dinner snubbing lemon chiffon. Outside the window, a boy’s head bobs by, he’s wishing he’d been born to the Bertillions with their perfect past and isosceles Christmas tree I wanted better things for you my brother how did it come to this the drugs the wrenched ending to our football matches when did you begin with the anarchy and hair dye how stupid I was never to have noticed. The boy begins to run, late or cold. The word for Hegemony, purple and mimeographed. For Time, Licorice. Madame Araigny glances up from her knitting. Quickly back to the test, Will Spend. Desk gouged with scars, initials. A badly drawn heart. An oval with aspirations. Word for Garden, a hostage of weeds. He made toast for her. Araigny’s head comes up, the knitting goes down, Time Is Up. Fini. A wild guess at Insight.
Insignes?
No, failed again.

17

Past Shaftesbury Ave Father spins the combination with one finger tells the cabbie not to take a right can’t he see the traffic situation why shouldn’t you be educated during school holidays which was not directed at the driver. A different aspect of your education. Certainly record shops are not aspect of any education I’ve heard of. Didn’t we have a lovely supper last night didn’t I tell you the stories you love including the ever popular Hamey Eats The Bird the famous How I Did Not Marry Miranda Watson the Barrister’s Daughter for I sensed your mother lurked in the world now with all that including the first chicken I haven’t scorched along with some very nice fresh vegetables from your good self you will still insist on pressing your face against that dirty window. No offense my friend to the cab driver. Aren’t you lucky to see the finest museums in the world at such a young age.

Drab tea in a shop around the corner from the museum. Four spoons of sugar and often fried bread, yes she has acquired a taste for it. Then up the front steps, hello to the ticket-taker. Through to the second gallery to her favorite painting. A mountain scene, two girls, their Alpine guide. On loan from America. A wattled man, the docent, has a tour group gathered in front of it.

Sensual, self-aware, do you see . . . the guide points . . . As if the figures know they are creations. What a tense scene. Follow the gaze from child to man. And these two figures over here who point to something unseen. Our gaze lingers because we are directed to ponder mysteries.

A man in the tour ponders the mysteries of time.

Any questions?

Yes there are questions, not just Sophie’s when she brought Catrine out to the fields of sleeping cows one day after English. After Betts teaching Metaphor. Do you want to sit on the cows? Sophie said. They don’t mind. Certainly there are questions. The cows turned once, slowly.

Moving on, my sheep . . . the docent leads his group to Fruit with Fishhead.

Sophie would just stare. You will just stare won’t you? A question. Sophie drummed her leather shoes against the cow’s massive side. Tattooed the poor cow with its own family. Said Hereford sighed.

An ocean. Turner. Tell me Catrine, Sophie said, Catrine Catrine. Finally she answered, It’s like. But then stopped, stumped for analogy. The cow’s ears cut her view into three pieces. Indescribable. That’s no answer, Sophie shook her head slowly saying in rhythm to her heels against the cowside. No answer at all. Which was true enough.

Here’s a painting children love.

A farm, haystacks. In the week before Christmas, Father took her roaming. Scouring the countryside for a house halfway between Chittock Leigh and London. The scenes were identical, eager owner restraining a retriever, issuing practiced belches of delight at the pargeting or stained glass, relating the exciting history of Catholics hidden in the larder. O ye ancient trellis, thy comely mantel. In London they were still eating off a table mapped with the Bosporus, the Nile or whichever geography Father wanted over supper that night, his chicken, her vegetables, their rivers. The brick wall her bedroom gave aspect on was undoubtedly the Great Wall of China or a metaphor. Father had never gone to university so all cracks are rivers to be learned and every cumulus holds a continent.

One night, a pub. Two eaved rooms, a toilet down the hall. They left their bags, the night was thick with fog or was it rain, symbolic weather of some kind. Went downstairs for stew. The bartender’s wife set down two plates, then went back to leaning against the bar, watching as they picked around gristle, carefully extracting half-done potatoes. Father saying Be Discreet for Heaven’s Sake with his napkin at his lips. When the woman came for their plates, he asked about the town, the environs, the house down the hill. Behind him, two darts players laughed at Father’s accent. Or were they laughing from the game, yes, one had nearly pierced his mate’s nose with an errant dart.

She went up for her shandy, his Guinness, gauging the brims not to spill on the way back through the crowd. Knowing Father watched. She was no omniscient, but she knew what he was thinking. She sat down, wiped her hands. Picked up a beermat to examine the image of a milkmaid. The town clock tolled eight, nine. They were strangers. Father drew an X in the foam to see if his beer was well drawn. You used to like to do that, he said, draw an X for me. She waited. She watched a man in a rugby shirt try to fix his glasses.

You seem all grown up to me . . . Father looked where she did, at the man . . . In only ten weeks.

I’m the same.

You’ve gotten so quiet.

I’m the same.

Rabbiting away, a great flood of details. In the old days. Couldn’t stop you. What are you saving up for?

Nothing, Father please.

We’ll tell our Monstead stories. How about when Treat bolted for Corby looking for adventure. Or, day before Annual Dinner when your Mr. Stokes stole a Christmas pudding from the kitchens. Then there was Peterson who swung through a hatch on a rope that couldn’t support his weight. Ended up, all the boys thought me an idiot.

When it was her turn she made up a story about Brickie’s mother putting her head in the oven which was supposed to be funny but turned out squalid. Afterwards, in the boxy room upstairs, she listened to the darts players who would not be quelled at half-past but bullied the owner until nearly one.

Oh, you’re remembering it all wrong, the guide glares. For God’s sake, it was never like that.

Why, Father, was another question driving to the final houses on Christmas Eve. Called away from mince pies, the owners guarded their doorways, refusing anecdotes. Why, she asked again on the way to the restaurant, Father, if we have the money, can’t we go back?

They arrived.

Back to America, Father?

Abstraction can increase impact . . . the guide presents a scene . . . Though one mustn’t see abstraction where there is in fact flesh.

A restaurant for Christmas dinner, distorted, abstract. A Savoy or An Emerald. Lost gentility of some kind. Where the lamplight was orange, silver burnished. Unevenly, the strings struck up ’Tis the Season and when the prawns arrived, went Dashing Through the Snow. Sunk low in the red leather banquette, lemon chiffon uneaten before her, she watched elderly couples glide across the parquet. Dances with diagrams. Father ordered port and after a few sips, spirited a bewigged woman around the floor. The apologetic husband tripped on his shoes, she averred discreetly from the man’s breath. After a polite while, she excused herself for a powder, leaving Father to foxtrot or jitterbug or lindy.

The eye craves analogies, it’s human nature.

Unseen on her return, she leaned against the banquette, hungry for analogy, reviewing the scene around the table. Well it seemed a festive occasion for all. The wife in her slipped wig, Father showing the man her new camera. The man concentrated on the dials, How will your girl ever learn to use it?

She’s clever for her age, like I was, Father told him. The wife righted her wig lazily, But a sullen girl, isn’t she? Somewhat sullen?

Catrine coughed. Sullenly. They turned.

Moving on then . . . the docent looks at a boy crouched examining the floor, elbows between knees . . . In your own time, Junior.

On the drive home Father turned down the radio, You had no business disappearing like that. None at all. I couldn’t think where you’d gone.

Come on, darling . . . the mother extends a hand . . . You’ll like the ships.

A different kind of Christmas doesn’t seem so long ago . . . she told the dash, touched it, there it was, an oil still life knocked askew by a tree branch . . . Christmas in America.

Father kept his eyes on the dark road where it unlashed before them. Well. The night went on. Now we’re in London.

His answer to many questions. In London, Father eats his toast standing as he calls down the corridor, Get a move on,
Cahhtreen
. From swirled blankets she answers, Please let me sleep. I’ll take a tube to the museum this afternoon, while having no intention of taking the tube to anywhere but sleep. Father comes to the door then, triangle in hand. I don’t know what you get up to all day, but I can at least rest easy you’ve had an educated morning. Henceforth taxi, briefcase, combination, art because she is a lucky girl, and then the long wait for Father, home at six balancing a tin of something to cook as he shuts the door behind him. To his knowledge, she has never been to the quay, Shepherd’s Bush or crossed the bridge on foot. When she said she had seen Lawrence of Arabia at the cinema in Notting Hill, Father said, What, old Larry again? then stopped spooning out rice. Gripping her arms, he sat her down on the plastic chair. Did anyone speak to you because if they did or if they do again I want you to scream your bloody head off. Did they? Yes, she said, yes someone did speak to me, Father, I didn’t know I was supposed to scream. Father went very still. Tell me, he said. Tell me. Well, she said and maybe it wasn’t so funny, A lady carrying a tray asked wouldn’t I like a Cornetto. Father’s face took on a look but then he laughed and laughed. You had me there, he said, spooning rice again. You had me. No, don’t scream at the concessions. Then he passed her a plate devoid of vegetables, You can look after yourself, I never doubted it.

Cemetery. Unhappy farmer in an overcoat, face covered in boils. Girl with a parasol turning turning.

She seems happy . . . a man in a rumpled suit quickly next to her, cigarette behind his ear . . . Doesn’t she? Full of life, this one.

Oh yes. The gallery is empty, Junior and his tour have sailed away. Yes, a cough. She does. She does. New habit that, repeating. From Sophie or.

Dearie me . . . the man glances toward the muffled noise of the tour in the next gallery . . . You’ve lost your group.

I’m alone.

Ah . . . the man moves to the next painting . . . You’re American. Aust
ril
ian . . . yes, Sydney or Melbourne. Perth perhaps.

Course they don’t much like Americans here. Not to worry, you’ll blend in soon enough. Pick up the slang, enunciate your
r
’s. I was a boy in Tanzania for two years. You learn to cultivate other voices.

I like my—

Oh, God . . . the man dips his face sharply.

What’s the matter? Is there something in your eye?

The man stands before Giotto, cradling his head . . . Ten in the morning, what on earth am I doing?

Looting her pockets for a handkerchief she’s never carried. But the man has already appropriated his sleeve in a way that piggies his nose. Vaguely, she returns to the bench but does not sit. An ocean reaches up to the horizon, flat, grey. Analogy for what it’s like as seen above.

Sorry . . . he sniffs . . . Not doing so well.

When the man glances up at her, she considers a painting over his shoulder.

Minerva . . . he wipes his eyes . . . Beaut-Beauty.

Beauty’s ugly.

Oh no no. It’s all in the look . . . the man blinks, sniffs, draws nearer the painting . . . You see the way she regards this soldier. Spirit, the eyes you see. And the soldier. The soldier too seems. Very. Happy . . . the man twitches as if to free his malaise but instead shakes free his cigarette which shoots across the gallery to land at her feet.

What about you? . . . he goes to pick it up . . . You. Happy?

Behind him, the ocean remains unmoved, grey. Above, a speck dot of white, a sail perhaps, difficult to see or is it imagine. Is it imagine when viewing those small dots of color or something you should know.

You don’t seem particularly overjoyed.

Minutes until lights out. At the noise, she stopped brushing, hand stilled on the toothbrush. Turned slowly. Maggone stood in the middle of the washroom, hands clasped behind her back. She wanted a word. Silently, the two of them waited for Maggot to find it. A clatter from dorm two. Zuzz of fluorescents. She wouldn’t move though the toothpaste stung. Maggot unspooled her antennae to feel out the situation. We mustn’t welter in misfortune, Evans. Sometimes life does not offer us epic proportions. Tapping it out—

Sometimes you simply have to make do.

What an odd thing to say . . . the man sits beside her on the bench. Deliberately he places the cigarette between them . . . I had a piece of land near Scotland, a cabin for drawing. When it burned to the ground, I stopped, telegram in hand, on my way out the door and I thought, life will forever disappoint. I can’t tell you what happy means per se, simply that there are moments when you face yourself and say, I am or No, I am not. Or even, I am destined to remain.

Is that why you’re crying, because of Scotland?

Dear me no that happened four years ago. There are other things, adult things.

Are you a politician?

No, not that adult.

They sit for a moment in silence, contemplating the ocean. Abruptly, the man speaks . . . You have your whole life, the marvelous hope of ignorant youth.

Ignorant?

No lines on your face, no worries. Too young for regret. Nothing weighing you, a clean conscience.

Little did he know. A hill, a tire, two girls out of control. A man soaring into the ether. Malice sir I have seen malice for ten.

I regret things.

The man pauses, searching . . . I have—disappointed my wife. A different guide, a woman with frosted hair, a hipsway, leads a small group into the gallery. Art lovers cluster on folding stools, ready for culture.

The guide opens a book . . . Before we begin. Some perspective on the nude.

That’s what I needed . . . the man picks up his cigarette. Everyone regrets things.

For example?

I killed a man.

The man collects himself. Well it was plausible. True. Who could survive a fall like that. It was a fact. Indisputable. Hadn’t she seen the telltale bleeding. It was difficult from the top of that hill but she was sure there was blood all the same.

Right . . . the man breaks the silence . . . Make do, you say. I shall remember that. Have a safe trip back to Sydney.

Perth. It’s Perth.

The more easily distracted members of the nude group watch the man shamble past. Guide intoning The Nude. The ocean is flat, one sail, one gull. She could be from Perth. Only the female nude aspires to beauty.