The Art School Dance Page 16

  ‘A few more of these and I’ll be seeing just fine,’ said Ceri, raising his glass. ‘It’s all in the mind, Teach. The senses are a shackle until they become fuzzed.’

  Teacher laughed approvingly. He had always had a fondness for the Welsh, drinking was an art in itself for them and young Ceri made a passable boozing partner. Of course the lad was only in his first year, he was some way short of graduating, but when the mood was on him he could match his elder pint for pint; give him the confidence that will came with being a final year student and he would be just fine. Only by that time Teacher might no longer be around, the acolyte might need to find himself another avatar.

  Ceri wetted his thumb and scrubbed away at his drawing, melting shadow into shadow, then folded the sketchpad shut and lay it on the table.

  ‘Fuck the figurative stuff,’ he sighed wearily. ‘It gives me a pain in the arse.’

  Teacher had seen the paintings Ceri favours, they sprawled across twenty foot canvasses in the studio, were executed with such vigour that they covered much of the floor and walls as well.

  ‘Still the abstract expressionist?’ he said. ‘Jackson Pollock rules, OK?’

  Ceri nodded gravely as he drained his glass. For him Jackson Pollock was king, a man’s artist, drinking hard and painting hard. He modelled himself on the American, right down to the tight white tee shirt and glowering brow, carried a tattered photograph of the artist around in his wallet which he consulted from time to time, standing in front of a mirror to copy the pose.

  ‘Why bother with the representation, then, if it pains you so much?’ Teacher asked. If he was not allowed to interfere in the normal course of the college, then he thought that the least he could do is take an extracurricular interest, so to speak, in the work of the students.

  Ceri frowned, his thick brows darkening his gaze. ‘It’s that toe-rag, Walter.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s pushing us all towards figurative work.’

  ‘And you pay heed to him?’ Teacher remarked, a little surprised that Walter Grundy could carry such clout. People rarely paid much notice to what Walter said.

  ‘It makes for a quiet life,’ said Ceri, with a sigh that stirred the Principal’s sympathies.

  ‘Another pint?’ he offered, shaking the last drops of beer into his whisky and emptying the glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ceri.

  ‘Good lad.’

  At the bar Teacher saw other students from the art school entering the pub. They hesitated between one room and the next, hovering in the doorway, then chose the other more comfortable room. Whether it was him they were avoiding, or the Welshman, he didn’t like to think. Perhaps they were worried that their Principal might be responsible for another bar-room brawl, as he had been some weeks before, when he had been miserably drunk rather than happily so.

  ‘So? Things are going well?’ he said to Ceri, when he returned with the drinks.

  ‘As well as they ever do, as well as they ever can do in this place,’ said Ceri, not committing himself. ‘On the one hand we’ve got Walter, doing his best to bring about a twentieth century renaissance of figurative painting, and on the other we’ve got Barney trying to do away with painting altogether, saying the idea is the thing, persuading us to spend so much time thinking about it that we’ll end up doing none at all.’ Looking despairingly at Teacher, he says, ‘This is an art school, for fuck’s sake, we’re supposed to paint. But there he is, senior lecturer in painting, telling us that painting is a redundant activity. I tell you, Teach, the place is fucking crazy.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? You're preaching to the converted there, Ceri lad.’

  *

  On returning to college Principal Teacher had a vision of a summer sky which was more brilliant than the one glimpsed briefly on his dash to the pub, he saw it as clear and crystal as a tropical sea into which he hurled himself, feeling the waves of brine like cotton wool plugging his ears to any intrusion. As deep as the blue was, so it towered an infinite distance above, sea and sky a universal colour, but there was no distance so great that his mind could not reach it.

  From this vague distance there came a faint insistent buzzing sound, like a swarm of summer insects to disturb him. It was Walter, even in his sleep he knew this, Walter Grundy expounding the virtues of the traditional ways of art, pleading for still-lifes and plaster casts to be brought back into the studios.

  His pleas were not directed at Teacher, Teacher hoped, for he no longer had any say in the way that courses were conducted.

  ‘Breasts and buttocks, that’s what it’s all about, if you can master breasts and buttocks then you’re on your way to becoming an artist.’

  Walter was boring, bloody boring, and his drone soporific enough to send Teacher into an even deeper sleep, if a sleep deeper than the present sleep was possible.

  ‘You’re wasting your breath, Walter-’

  This second voice was not so loud -loudness alone could not disturb the Principal’s slumber- was not even a slightly insistent whine which might simply have made his sleep fitful. No, the voice was that jangling mid-Atlantic twang which could only be Bobby Greenbaum’s. Teacher surfaced from whatever depths he had reached, for a moment was tempted to rouse himself for a glimpse of her cheerleader thighs, but sleep, however shallow it had become, was even sweeter than such a sight, so he forced himself to keep his eyelids closed.

  Bobby was no one’s favourite person; her company could be embarrassing, she was coarse in her ways, and there was something offensive about the way she plucked her jeans from her crotch while she spoke, as if she was sweating heavily down there. Teacher always did his best to avoid her, though he could sometimes excuse her crude behaviour as honest he could never quite feel comfortable with it; so, recognising the voice, he feigned the sleep which was now being denied him.

  ‘He’s not listening, he’s totally zonked,’ he heard her say, her words muffled as though her mouth was full of marshmallows.

  ‘I’ll get through to him,’ Walter believed. ‘Don’t you worry. He’s like a sponge, soaks everything up.’

  ‘Teacher’s whisky is all Teacher’s soaked up today. The man’s a veritable dipso.’

  Really?

  Walter continued to address himself to the dozing form of the Principal, undeterred by the lack of response to his exposition of the merits of life drawing; no reaction at all, he probably reasoned, was preferable to the customarily adverse reaction his views received.

  Moments of dozing, a dream, perhaps some conversation missed.

  Then Bobby asked, ‘How are things going in the studio, anyway?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Walter replied optimistically. ‘Ceri’s flinging paint about the place as usual. Griff’s making an effort -he’s got Pam with tits like barrage balloons, very monumental- and there are one or two others doing their best, painting like virgins who’ve never seen a naked woman before.’

  ‘Pam’s tits are that big?’

  ‘To believe Griff, they are. I promise you, if they get any bigger we’ll have to anchor his canvas to the floor.’

  As Teacher shifted in his sleep he made a mental note to see the painting, and the model too, to remind himself of how pneumatic Pam was. He had dallied with her once, after an end of term party, and the memory, though dim, was still there in the recesses of his mind.

  ‘And that’s it? That’s the sum total of the work being done?’

  There was the rustle of an ill-fitting jacket as Walter shrugged, said, ‘It's enough for the moment, more than we can usually hope for. Things have picked up of late.’

  ‘In the absence of Barney, you mean?’

  There is a brave huff -‘huh!’- as Walter said, ‘Barney? Who cares about him?’

  ‘I’m sure you do. What do you think he’s going to say, Walter, when he gets back from his paternity leave and sees what you’ve been up to?’

  ‘As if I give a damn,’ Walter grumbled, and Teacher could sense what courage it took to come out
with such a simple dismissal.

  The conversation droned on like the ebb and flow of a tide on a shale beach and Teacher slipped deeper into sleep, back to the past of some distant childhood holiday. He was on the shore, he was in the sea, he was happy until-

  ‘Mr Teacher! Mr Teacher!’

  He felt that he was drowning, sinking under crashing waves for the last time when someone grabbed him, shook him, dragged him to the surface and cried out his name in panic. As he was roused from his dreams he felt his clothes to be dry, knew that he was not drowning, blinked and grumbled and asked, ‘What the bloody hell is it?’

  ‘Mr Teacher! Mr Teacher!’

  Opening his eyes he saw Ron standing before him; Ron, the most -the only- enthusiastic cleaner in the college, supporting himself like a cripple, the handle of his broom tucked snugly into his armpit.

  ‘You,’ he groaned. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘It’s Mr Grundy, he’s wet the floor-!’ Ron began, but this was not what he wanted to say, the words came out in a babble, so he tried again: ‘I mean his students-! His models-! The Welsh boy’s-!’

  What the cleaner really meant to say was that two tramps Ceri had brought in off the street as models had urinated on the staircase outside the painting studio. He was too flustered to be coherent, though, too offended by the act he had witnessed to be explicit. In a flurry of agitation he looked around him, then made a sudden grab for Walter Grundy’s leg and pulled off one of the leather moccasins the lecturer wore.

  ‘Look!’ he exclaimed, as Walter protested loudly, and showed that the sole of the shoe was stained with red paint, then pointed to the footprints which led back across the carpet to the door. ‘Mr Grundy’s got paint all over the place up there, Mr Teacher! And he’s trod it all the way down here!’

  Walter angrily snatched back his shoe.

  ‘These things happen in painting studios, Ron,’ said Teacher philosophically, yawning and stretching. Accompanied by much sighing of foam rubber and plastic he heaved his heavy frame into an upright position. ‘If the mess is too much for you to clean up then just let it dry and polish it.’

  ‘But it’s not fair!’ Ron whined. ‘It’s just not fair!’

  ‘Life rarely is, Ron. Sit yourself down and have a drink.’

  In the ‘Campbell’, before leaving, Teacher had had the presence of mind to replenish his hip flask; he took this from his pocket, had a swig, then offered it to Ron.

  ‘Well...’ Ron was uncertain, looking about him as if worried that a superior might come in and catch him, forgetting for the moment that in the hierarchy of the art school Teacher was just about as superior as they come. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Come on! Sit down!’

  The words were spoken fiercely enough to be an order, so Ron sat down, smiling sheepishly on being invited to join such exalted company. When he accepted the flask and drank, the fiery liquid making him cough and splutter.

  Teacher waited for the spasms to settle, then asked amicably, ‘So, Ron, how are things going? Apart from the mess Walter’s made of your floors, that is.’

  Walter frowned, but said nothing, took the flask that was passed to him and carefully wiped its mouth before chancing a taste.

  ‘It isn’t easy, you know,’ Ron confided.

  Teacher was understanding. ‘I’m sure it isn’t.’

  ‘The job has its difficulties. It was much easier when Mr Goode was around to stop everyone painting.’

  ‘Yes, well Barney will be back in action in a week or so, Ron. He’ll soon get things back to normal.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Walter muttered.

  ‘Most probably,’ Bobby chuckled delightedly in expectation. ‘Especially when he finds out what you’ve been doing upstairs.’

  Walter put on that brave unafraid face which left everyone but Ron totally unconvinced.

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Ron, then stopped and corrected himself. ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Mr Grundy! I didn’t mean to wish any harm on you! I didn’t mean it would be nice if... you know... I just meant... well, if he stopped everyone painting again...’

  ‘Do shut up, Ron,’ Walter sighed.

  ‘Now, Walter,’ Teacher cautioned. ‘Ron is as much a member of staff as you or I and he deserves to be heard.’

  Ron smiled his appreciation, warming to the Principal, realising that he was not quite as unapproachable as he sometimes seemed. Gaining in courage, he ventured to mention the chicken which McCready was rumoured to keep in the studio; no one had seen the creature, but Ron had heard it, and found its droppings, was quite certain that it exists.

  ‘It makes such a terrible mess up there,’ he complained.

  ‘Well, we’ll see what we can do about it,’ said Teacher, offering the flask again and persuading Ron to take another drink. ‘Now is there anything else I can help you with while you’re here? Is there anything you need? How about one of those new-fangled floor polishers I’ve seen over in the polytechnic?’

  Ron shook his head quite vigorously at the offer, trying to keep the flask to his lips as he did so but spilling much precious whisky down his chin. He didn’t hold with those contraptions, he said, dabbing at his mouth with a duster; they just couldn’t be as kind to a floor as a man with a mop.

  ‘Then how about some new mops? Or some brushes?’

  ‘Brooms,’ the cleaner corrected.

  ‘Sorry. Brooms.’

  ‘And if it’s all the same to you, Mr Teacher, I’ll hang onto this one.’ Ron hammered his broom against the floor like a symbol of office, sending up a little cough of dust from the carpet. ‘It’s a good one, is this one.’

  ‘There’s nothing you need, then?’

  Ron shook his head again. This time, as unaccustomed to alcohol as he was, his action made him sway dizzily. Using his broom as a crutch once more he got carefully to his feet, took a cautious step back.

  ‘Oh Ron, before you go-’

  ‘Yes, Mr Teacher?’

  ‘You could leave the flask with me, there’s a good chap.’

  *

  ‘Now that you’ve settled Ron’s grievances-’ Bobby began, when the cleaner had left.

  It could have been hours later, or minutes.

  ‘-there are just one or two things-’

  Teacher jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry, Bobby. Gotta go.’

  Enough was enough for one day.

  ‘But Teach-!’

  Teacher ran from the common room and along the corridor as her voice cried after him. Barging into his outer office, hearing the echoes chasing him and seeing that his secretary had returned, he said, ‘I’m not in, I’m not available. Not to Bobby. Not to anyone. Say I’ve been taken suddenly ill.’

  ‘And what is it that ails you?’ smiled the young woman at the desk.

  ‘Anything contagious,’ he told her, running through to his inner office.

  Locking the door after him, he crouched there and listened, heard Bobby ask to see him.

  ‘He isn’t available, he’s been taken ill,’ he heard his secretary say, but his smile of approval was short lived.

  ‘So suddenly? Really?’

  A pause, then, ‘Well no, not really. He’s just in one of his moods and he’s locked himself in there.’

  The cow!

  Bobby laughed and approached the door. ‘Come on, Teach! Open up!’

  Never, he vowed.

  But Bobby was fit enough to break the door down, she was a robust young woman with a sturdy frame and perfectly capped teeth which could just as easily chew their way through the wood as they could dazzle with their pure white brilliance. Better to run for it, he decided, rather than stand his ground. He crossed the room and slid his legs over the edge of the open window, then dropped to the grass below. Above him the college towered five floors high, below was the basement which buried itself into the ground; there had to be somewhere to hide.

  Quickly, before Bobby’s head can appear at the window, he sprinted around to the rear of the buildi
ng and re-entered through the doors of the sculpture department. It would be dark enough in there to hide, there was Jim Heap’s office, the perfect place; the sculpture tutor had used it as a pied-a-terre for the past three years and lauded its privacy, so it could surely provide sanctuary for his Principal.

  ‘He’s out,’ said Rose, the only student in the place, as Teacher reached the door to the office.

  Damn! Jim spent much of each day and all of each night in that office, he had made it as comfortable as any bed-sit, and now, just when he was needed most, he was out sunning his pallid complexion, blinking in the unaccustomed light of day. Teacher cursed and kicked the door, then walked over to Rose.

  Rose Turner, a strange young woman with a predilection for the morbid, was seated like some insane savant at a wake, all in black, a felt cloche hat with a veil peeled back from her face, brightly lit by an Anglepoise lamp which picked her out amid the general gloom of the studio. The table before her was littered with printed circuits, dull copper coloured cards scattered in haphazard fashion like a discarded poker hand; to each of these in turn she was in the process of soldering a rainbow of coloured wires, but she paused to smile a greeting at him, not minding his company for she could be sure that he had not come to discuss her work. Reaching across the table she opened a small black purse, took out two cigarettes.

  ‘Want one?’ she offered, holding them out. She wore fingerless black lace gloves, scarred and spoiled, like her red lacquered nails, by drops of burning solder.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting a cigarette and a light. He let smoke gush from his lips in a heavy sigh, added, ‘What I could really use, though, is a drink. I don’t suppose you’ve got anything down here?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Jim’s probably got a bottle of something in his bed-sit, but it’s locked.’

  Teacher nodded and looked around the studio, still empty but for himself and Rose. ‘What about the storeroom?’ he asked.