The Art School Dance Page 7

  Stephen stopped, cast a downward glance at my scruffy jeans and scuffed shoes, said, ‘Be reasonable.’

  ‘Reasonable? Are you saying that it’s unreasonable to want to be with you?’

  ‘You don’t want me to be with you when you’re out with your art school friends.’

  ‘You don’t want to be there,’ I argued. ‘And you wouldn’t enjoy it if you were.’

  ‘Just as you wouldn’t have enjoyed our company just now. We were talking about work and I know how much that bores you.’

  ‘It doesn’t bore me.’

  ‘Liar. I can see it in your eyes every time I mention work.’

  ‘So why do you do it?’ I asked, beginning to lose my temper.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Bore me to fucking tears with all that bloody talk about the office every time we meet!’

  ‘I-’ he began, but no further words come, just a hurt expression and a pout of the lips, so I told him to sod off and stamped away.

  Chapter Seven

  At five-thirty in the morning Sleepers Hill was a different place, dark and silent and with an eerie frosting to the rooftops. I walked into town, so that the cold morning air could bring me fully awake, and I saw no more than a handful of people. The deserted streets and the lack of bustle gave the town a rather more dignified air than usual, a reminder to me that it was the people rather than the architecture which made it such a place to hate; in the peaceful state in which I found it, that morning, it was almost bearable.

  Since the argument with Stephen my days, too, had been peaceful, he’d made no attempt to make contact or to apologise, and neither had I. Indeed, there was a temptation to make more of the argument, to blow it out of all proportion simply for the sake of bringing about that final separation between us; I had my excuse and it would be foolish not to take advantage of it.

  For the moment, however, there were other things on my mind, I had the job to go to and it would keep me out of Stephen’s way.

  The sorting office I head for was close to the centre of town, just behind the railway station, a modern building which was squat and ugly and, at first glance, seemingly lacking in windows. A notice at the main gate directed all temporary workers to the supervisor’s office on the first floor, and there I found a queue of two or three dozen people, a mixture of students and older men, some young women too. As the queue edged forward the chap in front of me started to chat.

  ‘Sorting’s what you want in this weather,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘You might work your balls off at times but at least you’re indoors, warm and dry. There’s always overtime if you want it, too, at this time of year.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’ I assumed.

  ‘Off and on. I usually work Christmas, a few weeks in the summer.’

  He was in his late thirties, with a tang of last night’s beer on his breath, in need of a shave and not at all the type of person I'd like to see on my doorstep first thing in the morning. He popped a stump of a cigarette between his lips and struck a match.

  ‘No smoking in here,’ someone told him in passing.

  ‘Bastard,’ muttered the bloke, killing the fag-end and slipping it back into his pocket. ‘That’s one thing to be said for working outside, there’s no one watching over you. In here they’re on your back all the time. Still,’ he said stoically, ‘you takes your chances.’

  The queue moved steadily forward and people were sent to all corners of the building; as my mentor and I got closer I heard the supervisor saying ‘deliveries’, ‘sorting’, ‘parcels’ at regular intervals.

  ‘Balls to the parcels,’ said the old hand in front of me. ‘They stick you in a van with a regular and he lets you do all the work, all the humping and carrying and doing fuck all himself.’

  Perhaps the supervisor heard him, for this was what he was given –parcels- and then I was at the front of the queue. I handed the supervisor the card I’d been sent, he jotted down a few details, gave me an armband and then pointed me to his left.

  ‘Deliveries,’ he told me.

  I was sent to one man, passed on to another and then left with a third; this third was seated in front of a bank of pigeon-holes, flicking letters into them with the speed of a card sharp.

  Without looking up he mentioned a district on the edge of town, asked, ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Not too well,’ I admitted.

  ‘You catch a number twelve bus and get off at the ‘finger-post’. The route’s straightforward, the letters are packed in bundles and numbered so you just work your way through them in order and you can’t get lost. You ought to be back by lunchtime.’

  He showed me the bag which had already been packed; it was bulging with letters and small packets and weighed a ton. I thanked him, stupidly, and staggered out with the strap already cutting into my shoulder. Downstairs, as I got to the main gate, I saw the bloke from the queue sitting in the passenger seat of a van.

  ‘Fucking parcels,’ he cursed. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Deliveries,’ I answered.

  ‘I can see that. Where?’

  I told him the district, added, ‘It’s just by the ‘finger-post’.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said, and turned to the driver who had climbed in beside him. ‘We can give her a ride, can’t we?’

  ‘No problem,’ said the driver. ‘Get in girl.’

  I squeezed in with them and we were off through the town which was slowly coming awake. My advisor told me of the mixed blessings of the route I’d been given; there were no blocks of flats to tramp up and down, no rows of terraces which never seemed to end, and that much was in its favour; against, however, was the fact that with so many detached houses, cottages and the occasional farm the area could be pretty bleak at times, especially when the wind blew the rain down from the moors.

  We had driven downhill for a while, out of town, and now we climbed again, the houses thinned out and there was a little more space.

  ‘There is one thing,’ the driver said, when he stopped the van to let me off at the ‘finger-post’. ‘You stand a fair chance of some Christmas tips around here. There’s money on this side of town.’

  *

  It took me no more than a day or two before I was into the routine of things. As I’d been warned, there were mixed blessings about the route; granted it could be a bit bleak in places, but on the whole there was rather more walking than delivering, on sections of the route I had to go a couple of hundred yards or more to get from one address to the next, and this I quite liked; there was none of the monotony there might have been working nearer my own home, where there would be an incessant popping of letters into letter boxes, and it was really quite like going out for an early morning stroll at times. The walk was reasonably picturesque, too, when one considered that Sleepers Hill was so close by; I could see the town, a few miles down to the west, but looking eastwards was the start of the moors, topped with winter frost, and then the Pennines beyond; the way was nicely undulating, the view constantly changed, there were fields and woods I had forgotten existed after so much time spent in town.

  The walk took about two and a half hours, after which there was a forty minute bus ride back to the sorting office; getting the same lift out to the walk each morning saved me time, though, and I got back at a decent hour, was able to get some lunch before going out again with the afternoon delivery.

  A couple of nights I did some overtime, helping with the sorting, but on Thursday night I knew there was going to be a bit of a party to celebrate the end of term, so I made my excuses when asked if I could do a couple of hours more and hurried on to the ‘Commercial’. The art school crowd were in the usual room when I got there and start singing ‘Wait a minute Mister Postman’ when I entered.

  I laughed and stuck up two fingers at the lot of them.

  ‘So how’s it going, postie?’ Chrissie asked.

  ‘You look shagged out,’ Gus observed, with a grin which was not totally sympathetic.

&n
bsp; ‘I’m knackered,’ I admitted. ‘Still, there’s the money, I can look forward to spending that.’

  ‘You can spend some now and get a round in.’

  I bought drinks for everyone, though there were some in the company who looked as though they’d had enough; they had probably been drinking right through from lunchtime, the lucky dogs, while I’d been humping my sack all about the county.

  When I told Gus the district I was working he asked if I’ve met any of those lonely housewives yet.

  ‘Which are those?’ I say.

  ‘You know, they’re bored and randy and they invite you into the house for a bit on the side. There must be some in a place like that, looking for company, male or female, it doesn’t matter which. They’ve got no shops, no bingo, there’s bugger all for them to do once the husband takes off for work.’

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should mention that,’ I said, and everyone fell silent for a moment, expecting some salacious gossip.

  ‘You’ve come across them, have you?’ said Gus, leaning forward eagerly.

  ‘No. I just thought it was funny you should mention it, that’s all.’

  There were some groans, some laughs, Gus looked at me with disgust and demanded another drink.

  *

  Inevitably we all got drunk and the next day I had a hangover, not a pleasant thing to suffer at six o’clock on a cold winter’s morning; the mail bag seemed even heavier than usual, there were more small packets than ever, the ride in the van shook my stomach about so much that I was glad to get out in the cold again. I began to understand some of the postman’s pet hates; the letter box that was too low down, the one that sprang back so sharply it almost took the tips off your fingers, the dogs that barked and snapped, the women who complained about the slow service and the weather which proved to be the greatest nuisance of all. By mid morning there was a fine drizzle falling, the sort that seemed to make a person just as wet as any downpour, and by lunchtime I was miserable, shivering over a plate of pie and chips in the canteen and tempted not to go out again, to feign sickness; I knew this wasn’t on, though, my supervisor wouldn’t be happy letting me go off sick if I was only working a week or two.

  I was out again before my clothes had really dried, feeling damp shivers run through my body; my fingers became numb and my toes were like ice as I trudged along. Many of the roads on my route had no tarmac, there were rutted country lanes, gravel roads, cobbles everywhere making my feet ache all the more and I was cursing like a collier by the time I reached the end of the round. And still there was a problem, one packet left in the bag; there had been no one in the house when I first tried to deliver it and now I had to decide whether to try one more time or take it back to the sorting office. If I had an empty sack I could just drop it off and sneak away before anyone asked me to do overtime; if I had to return the packet this meant seeing the supervisor and running the risk of being persuaded into a couple of hours more work. The way I felt, the condition I was in, I was really in no mood for overtime, so I decided in favour of giving it one more try; the address wouldn’t take me too much out of my way.

  The house was a modern detached place with coach lamps to either side of the door, and these were now lit, which they hadn’t been before, so I assumed that there was someone home at last. I walked hopefully up the drive and pressed the bell, heard the chimes echo indoors and second later saw a brighter light shine through the frosted glass panes of the door; a vague silhouette of a figure walking along the hall.

  ‘You?’ I said, when the door opened.

  ‘Hello, Ginny,’ smiled Paula. ‘Enjoying your work?’

  I looked at the packet in my hand, to make sure I had the right address, then read out the name and asked, ‘Is that you?’

  ‘My parents.’

  ‘Ah, then you’d better take it,’ I said, and handed the packet over.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Paula. ‘But you’re wringing wet and look frozen. Do you want to come in for a minute and get warm, have a cup of coffee? Is there time?’

  ‘I’ve finished now,’ I told her, showing her the empty bag. ‘And yes, thanks, I think I could do with a hot drink and a little warmth.’

  ‘Haven’t you got your route a little confused, though?’ she said over her shoulder, as she led the way into the house. ‘How have you managed to finish up here when we come halfway round your route?’

  ‘I called before but there was no one in,’ I explained.

  ‘So you came back? That’s very conscientious of you, Ginny. I must tell my father.’

  Paula took me through to the kitchen, where I supposed such tradesmen as myself must belong. Those other parts of the house I managed to see on the way were fully carpeted, there wasn’t a trace of linoleum anywhere, not even in the kitchen which was tiled and scattered with rush matting; it was a sign of opulence, I believed, that there was no lino and the carpets stretched from wall to wall. In the kitchen I noticed that everything was electric, the cupboards were fitted to the wall rather than standing free, and the sink had a double draining board; further clues to a comfortable home and a prosperous life.

  ‘I didn’t realise you lived out here,’ I said, as Paula filled the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. ‘I was under the impression you lived in town.’

  ‘I do, I have a flat there, but this is Christmas and my parents always like me to spend some time at home with them. It’s the one concession I make in return for having a place of my own.’

  We sat on stools at the narrow breakfast bar while the kettle came to the boil. Paula was wearing jeans and a sweater, most unsecretary-like, almost bohemian; she had her heels hooked over a rung of the stool, bending her knees and stretching the denim nicely over her thighs, emphasising just how shapely her legs were.

  ‘Why would you want to live away from a place like this?’ I asked, looking around the kitchen and imagining what the other unseen parts of the house must be like, fires in every room, gas or electric most probably so that there would be no cold winter mornings spent in front of a grate, shivering to strike a match to crumpled newspaper. ‘This is a fantastic place,’ I said. ‘Your father must be on quite some wage at the Post Office.’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘More than I’m getting.’

  ‘Probably,’ she laughed. ‘My mother works as well, though. She brings in even more than he does. She’s an accountant.’

  I looked around again, like a peasant in awe of my surroundings. ‘Still, there’s no way I’d leave a place like this,’ I said.

  ‘Yes there is. You’d leave if you were in my position. You’ll be leaving your own home soon.’

  ‘But my home’s nothing like this.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, it would make no difference if it was. I left home because I wanted some freedom. Isn’t that one of the reasons you’ll leave?’ My silence told her that she was right and she smiled as she made the coffee, said, ‘Right then, take off your coat, and your shoes and socks.’

  ‘Why?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Because they’re soaking. I’ll set them on the radiator to dry. You can take that towel from the back of the door and dry your feet.’

  ‘They might be filthy,’ I warned her. ‘In fact they probably are, after the day I’ve had.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, I won’t be offended by the sight of them. You could have a bath if you liked, if you have the time.’

  ‘No, that’s alright,’ I said, and started to take off my shoes and socks, embarrassed by the smell and hoping that Paula didn’t notice. I don’t think she did; she picked up the mugs of coffee and told me to follow her through to the sitting room when I was ready.

  My feet really did stink, so before I towelled them dry I washed them with some detergent I found by the sink, then went bare-footed through to the sitting room.

  That afternoon provided me with my definition of comfort, even though the nature of it was rather opposed to the romantic ideals I had as an artist. I sat in
an armchair while Paula sat on a vast settee, her bare feet curled beneath her, and there was no need for either of us to inch closer to the fire for the whole house was so warm. The upholstery was soft, the room was comfortably furnished, and though it really wasn’t the sort of place where an artist should be able to flourish I found myself making it a goal, an ambition, a home which would be better than the one I was born into. We talked about what it was like to work on the post –‘bloody awful in weather like this’- and where I would go after my foundation course –‘away, anywhere’- and as the warmth crept slowly through my limbs the perfume of Paula subtly permeated the air; her voice took on a fragrance, too, and washed over me, I was half inclined to close my eyes and curl up in that chair, as if the conversation was a bedtime story lulling me to sleep. I promised myself that I would spend some distant future days in just this way, in warmth and comfort.

  *

  It was getting close to six o’clock when I remembered that I had to get back to the sorting office and drop off my mail bag. I told Paula that I had to leave.

  ‘No rest for the working woman,’ Paula smiled, as I went back to the kitchen to put on my socks and shoes; I picked up my coat and returned to the hall to see that Paula, too, had her coat on. ‘It’s starting to pour,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a lift into town.’

  ‘There’s really no need to,’ I told her.

  ‘But you’ve only just got dry,’ she argued. ‘Come on, it’ll be quicker than going by bus.’

  We went around to the side of the house, to where Paula’s Mini was parked, and shivered even as we sat inside it. Paula switched on the heater full blast, revved the engine like mad and we belted out of the drive and along the lane. She said this was the best way to get the car warm, excusing her driving, and I had to admit that I was already beginning to sweat by the time we reached the main road, as much from her exuberant driving as from the effect of the heater. Fortunately the rush hour traffic slowed us down and we travelled a little more safely into town, took all the short cuts Paula knew to bring us to the sorting office in a fraction of the time it would normally have taken.