Bird Inside Page 24

  ‘I mean I won’t pose without my …’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rose. There’s nothing to it. I’ve seen scores of naked models in my time.’

  She didn’t answer, just dolloped on more marmalade, trying to distract herself from the tonnage of bare female flesh weighing down her mind – all those free-and-easy models he had scrutinised in over forty years. She gulped her coffee – hot – then continued chewing silently, annoyed he wouldn’t eat with her. He often made her feel a pig for suggesting that they stop for meals at all. A cigarette would do for him, or a quick bite standing up. The toast was pale and limp, as if he hadn’t the patience to wait for it to brown. She remembered Hadley’s story of his father always burning toast; the sadness in his voice, and sense of loss; then the way he’d wolfed his rarebit, gulped his soup; devoured a simple snack as if she’d saved him from starvation, pouring out compliments like ketchup. Isobel had found ice-cream for afters, and Hadley had demolished a whole quart, piling on whipped cream and nuts; licking maple syrup off his fingers as he rushed to fetch his bags, then zoomed off in the car. Isobel was right. She ought to be getting out much more, meeting different people.

  ‘By the way,’ she murmured, spitting out a grapefruit pip. ‘I’m going out on Friday, and I’ll need to leave by three-ish.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Just to see a friend.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Yes, Hadley, actually.’

  ‘Hadley? When the hell did you meet Hadley?’

  ‘At Isobel’s.’

  ‘I thought he was away at university.’

  ‘He is. He dropped in very briefly, on his way back from a dance.’

  ‘What, last weekend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When, then?’

  ‘Look, is this an inquisition?’ Jane wiped her mouth, pushed her plate away.

  ‘No, I’m interested, that’s all – wonder what you see in him, quite frankly. I’ve always thought he was a bit of a spoilt brat.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  The artist lit a cigarette, which helped to fill the silence, taking several puffs before he spoke again. ‘Still,’ he said, at last, snapping a used match in half. ‘I suppose he’s your own age.’

  ‘Exactly one year older. It’s quite a strange coincidence. His birthday’s the same day as mine. We’re both typical Librans – peaceable and gentle, but also moody and confused – up and down like yo-yos.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  Jane ignored the irony. ‘What sign are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Scorpio.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Why ‘‘oh dear’’?’

  ‘Scorpions sting!’

  ‘Only when they’re goaded. They’re also very loyal.’ Christopher started prowling round the kitchen, tidying things, shutting drawers and cupboards, pouncing on odd crumbs. ‘Look, about this modelling, Rose. It would really be a help if you agreed. I need a woman with long hair, you see, but someone very young with a good firm figure, and smallish breasts which aren’t floppy or low-slung.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me my breasts are too small?’

  ‘No. I’m telling you you’d be ideal. I want my Muses young and fresh and beautiful – innocent, unspoiled. You’re all those things.’

  She was touched, despite herself; pulled between suspicion and sheer vanity. To be turned into a goddess, a Muse of Art or Poetry; stand almost twelve feet tall; grace a Civic Centre designed by a famous architect, whom some had called a genius. She glanced down at his hands, strong and compact hands, which would design and cut those Muses – saw them fumbling for Anne’s breasts, groping lower, lower, to her navel, lower still, to … ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But I just don’t want to do it.’

  ‘Okay, please yourself. I can get another model from the art school. One of my old friends teaches Fine Art there, and she’ll give me a list. In fact, if I get off right away, I’ll catch her in the lunch break.’

  Jane slammed out of the kitchen. He had trapped her well and truly now. She could already see her rival – Lady Godiva hair, peach complexion, pert and pouty mouth, breasts as smoothly firm as the ones on marble statues. Except there was nothing marble about the sexpot’s blatant poses, her sprawled and willing flesh. She mooched into the studio, stood sullen by the window. Everything seemed grey – the mean and muted light outside, the sluggish brooding clouds. The artist strode in after her, buttoning up his coat. ‘Right, I’m leaving now. Perhaps you’d give this place a clean. It’s looking a real mess.’

  She kept her back turned, shoulders hunched. So now she’d been demoted – become the skivvy once again, instead of the professional, or the Muse. The local art school was probably packed with Muses – all young and fresh and beautiful – innocent, unspoiled. She heard the front door close, heard the artist’s footsteps thudding down the path, suddenly dashed after him, raced towards the car.

  ‘Wait, Christopher!’ she shouted. ‘Let me come too – oh, please.’

  Jane walked along the corridor, a step behind the artist; the notice-boards on either side crammed with details of societies and sports clubs, meetings, marches, lectures; huge colour posters of exhibitions, or advertisements for rock bands. Christopher had once taught at this art school, and had already met two staff he knew, who’d immediately closed in on him – excited shouts, embraces. The Great Man returned to instant adulation. She wished she looked more worthy of him, or at least had brought a comb and lipstick, instead of dashing out in her oldest clothes, with neither bra nor coat. Was he ashamed of her, she wondered, or had he forgotten clean about her, as he chatted with his colleagues about his latest show, his latest big commission?

  ‘Christopher!’ a woman cried, a petite brunette in a multi-coloured sweater, her curly hair swept up on top, her eyes so black and lustrous they looked as if they’d been taken out and varnished.

  ‘Serena!’

  The artist moved towards her, and all Jane could see was his camel-coated back, now straining at the armpits in an enthusiastic hug. The woman finally pulled away, but reached for Christopher’s two hands, clasped them in her own. She was no longer young, but skilfully made up; the wide mouth glossed with pink, the Latin eyes made larger by dramatic arcs of bronze. Jane had not been introduced, but judging by the fervour of their meeting, this must be one of Christopher’s ex-mistresses – or maybe not so ‘ex’. Jane tried to see her shape beneath the sweater. Was the figure slim and girlish, the breasts high-slung and firm? It was difficult to see at all, with the artist standing right up close, still handcuffed by Serena.

  The two walked on up the stairs together. The other staff had disappeared, as if they had no wish to play gooseberry. Jane felt much the same herself, followed at a distance, trying not to hear their conversation.

  ‘So how’s old Blackie?’

  ‘Old’s the word! Old and very fat. She still misses you, you know. Remember that quite ghastly night when …’ Peals of laughter, more eager reminiscences. They paused on the first landing, Jane stopping too, embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, this is Rose,’ said Christopher, seeming surprised that she was there still. ‘She’s working for me temporarily.’

  Jane noted the ‘temporarily’, forced a duty smile, let her hand be shaken by Serena’s. The woman’s hand felt hot and damp, as if she’d just climbed out of bed – the artist’s bed – after a night of …

  ‘In fact, could you be an angel and look after her for half an hour? I want to dig around in the library, find some references.’

  Jane jabbed her foot against the wall. ‘Look after her’ implied she was a child, not an equal and professional who might like to see the library for herself, even help him scan the books. Perhaps Serena would offload her in the crèche.

  ‘Well, I’m due back in the painting studio.’ Serena checked her watch, a man’s one on a butch black strap which only served to emphasise her frail and slender wrist. ‘Should
be there already. But if Rose has no objections to my jawing to the students about their giraffes and kangaroos … They’re doing a project based on drawings they made at the zoo.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ said Christopher.

  Their eyes met for a moment, as if recalling other fun times, other private outings. ‘See you,’ said Serena, with a final intimate smile, then teetered along the passage in her high-heeled black suede boots. Jane dithered just behind her, wondering if she should speak her mind, say that she’d no wish to be nannied, and could easily amuse herself, maybe go and grab a coffee.

  Too late. The door had closed behind them, Serena and herself swallowed up in noise and colour – colour on the easels, colour on the walls, colour in the students’ way-out clothes. She could hardly make them out at first – just looming faces, gabbling voices, shocks of puce or scarlet. One girl had bright pink hair, sticking up on end; another sported a large red hat with ostrich feathers nodding from the brim. Some looked very ordinary, in shabby jeans like hers, or creased and dirty sweatshirts, but they faded into the background, while the extroverts leapt out. An Indian girl had made herself dramatic by painting purple zigzags on her cheeks; a five-foot-nothing redhead was plastered with stage make-up, tiny silver sequins glued all down her neck. The boys looked more like tramps, or punks, with patched and holey jeans; three or four with earrings, one in a Hawaiian shirt with paint splashed on his face. Jane felt not just shabby now, but boring, unoriginal. She tried to shrink into a corner, but Serena followed, smiling, began telling her that these were students in the first term of their foundation year, who were trying to discover what kind of artists or designers they wished to be eventually. ‘Last week they were doing graphics; this week I’ve thrown them in the deep end of Fine Art.’

  Jane tried to concentrate, though she was aware of eyes upon her, some of the male students glancing at her bra-less chest, her long and tangled hair.

  ‘I gave them all a briefing earlier on this morning. Now I’m going to see them individually, criticise the work they’ve done so far. If you want to listen in, you’re very welcome, or just look round on your own. Or if you’d rather sit and read …’ She scrabbled in her bag, tossed Jane the Independent, then loped towards a student with earrings made from milk-bottle tops, who was painting polar bears, striping them like zebras in black and yellow ochre; working on the floor, her discarded outer clothing scattered all around her.

  Jane stayed put in her corner, still felt overwhelmed, as if she’d walked into a zoo herself, to view some rare exotic species. The girl with the pink hair might have come from the flamingo cage, or flown in from the tropics; another wore a leopard print, with her talons painted black to match, and a rumbustious group of mostly boys was chattering like monkeys, one wag in particular keeping up a constant stream of banter.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Darren!’ Serena bawled impatiently. ‘Let’s have less yak and more work.’

  Darren grinned, strolled back to his easel, stopped to talk to Jane. ‘Have you come to see the course?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, not …’

  ‘It’s a year’s hard labour, but disguised as education. Hey, come and feed my lions.’

  Jane let herself be coaxed towards his canvas, tried to find the words to admire his strange brown beasts, which bore almost no relation to any lions she’d seen. Darren himself was tall and very skinny, with his dark hair in a ponytail, and baggy turquoise trousers which looked as if they’d been borrowed from a fancy-dress supplier. Her mother would have damned him as bohemian, unwashed. She giggled suddenly. She hadn’t washed herself, must seem quite a tramp; no longer her parents’ clean and model daughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Darren frowned suspiciously, as if she were laughing at his work; began repainting one hind paw. ‘Are you thinking of applying here?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘I can highly recommend it. The food’s lousy, the tutors waltz in when they think they will, the building’s all but falling down, the art-history lectures are boring boring boring, and we all love every minute.’ He laughed, revealing gappy teeth, then squirted orange paint onto his palette, brilliant glossy paint which she longed to use herself. She had never even thought of going to art school, had dropped art in the fifth form. Yet, despite Darren’s mock-objections, she was tempted by the way of life – the fun, the camaraderie, the fact that these students all belonged, were committed to a course, to developing their individual skills; didn’t need to earn their livings, or fret about the future yet. She was even attracted by the mess: the dirty paint-smeared walls, the floorboards barely visible beneath the tide of clutter – rolled-up coats and sweaters, knapsacks, cardboard boxes, paints and palettes, dirty rags, bottles, paper cups.

  Serena was approaching them, talking to the student on their right, a strawberry-blonde in a daring crotch-length mini over stripey woollen tights. Jane listened to the phrases: ‘The scale of the main image is wrong, and nothing is relating to the four sides of the canvas.’ ‘That red in the middle-ground is contradicting the space …’ She felt baffled and excluded, the only one who didn’t speak the language, didn’t have the talents. Yet she’d shown skill in cutting glass, picked it up extremely fast, so Christopher had said.

  ‘Can you do stained glass here?’ she asked, watching Darren daub a mane on to his lion.

  ‘No,’ Serena butted in. ‘Very few art schools seem to include it nowadays. They teach it up at Edinburgh and Swansea, and I think it’s part of the Mural Design course at Chelsea, but nowhere else, as far as I recall. Why – are you planning to take it up?’

  ‘I’m … not too sure.’ Her future was so uncertain. If she embarked on a training, then she’d lose her link with Christopher, and would they take her anyway? She was bound to need an A-level in Art, which would mean going back to school, or enrolling in some college – interviews, exams, more pressures, indecision. She felt pulled so many ways, yet the strongest of the magnets was always Christopher.

  He was suddenly at the door, beckoning to Serena, who hurried over, smiling. Jane could hear them whispering like two conspirators.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Darren, swinging round to look.

  ‘Christopher Harville-Shaw.’

  ‘Jeez! You mean the artist?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘He used to teach here once.’

  ‘D’you know him then, or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said airily. ‘I’m working for him, actually.’ She enjoyed his startled look; relished it still more when the artist called her over, used her name for everyone to hear. Of course she wouldn’t apply for any training. Her work with him was far too precious, and, anyway, he was training her himself. She felt superior, important, walking down the passage with him, now raised above mere students – a famous painter’s friend.

  Her elation was short-lived. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ve finished in the library. Now we’ll pop into the life room. I want a word with Ben. Serena says he’s using this new model, who sounds just the job for me – a seventeen-year-old dancer with hair down to her bum.’ He paused outside a scuffed and paint-chipped door, held his finger to his lips. ‘You mustn’t make a sound, Rose. We shouldn’t really interrupt the class. The models always hate it. But if we just sidle in and make ourselves invisible …’ He opened the door, crept in on velvet feet. She followed apprehensively, surprised by the difference between this room and the painting studio – the cathedral-like silence and air of concentration; no jabbering or joking, but a sense of high solemnity.

  Her eyes moved from the students to the object of their scrutiny, posed naked on a dais at the back. She blinked and shook her head. A seventeen-year-old dancer with hair down to her bum? The withered flabby body looked nearer seventy; the breasts sagging to the belly, the eyes half-lost beneath drooping heavy lids, the hair itself sparse and dirty grey. Jane felt herself recoiling. How could any woman of that age agree to take her clothes off; a
llow her glaring defects to be emphasised in paint? Yet she also felt compassion for the model – the pathetic plastic flip-flops on her feet, the string of cheap blue beads, child’s beads from a chain-store, as if she had tried to grace her nakedness, or provide a touch of colour to counteract her dingy sallow skin. A spotlight had been rigged up just above her, its relentless beam revealing all her flaws: the swollen veins running rope-like down her legs, the mottled thighs and mangy pubic hair.

  She seemed to catch Jane’s eye a moment, accept the horror in it, though her own expression didn’t change at all – a strange ecstatic mystic smile, as if she was aware of something higher, something no one else could see. She stood absolutely motionless, one hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair-back, the palm upturned, the fingers reaching out. Jane began to feel faint stirrings of respect. It must be very tiring to stand in that position, to remain unfazed, undistracted, by twenty pairs of eyes, to shrug off their contempt; maybe earn her living the only way she could. The pay for models was not exactly high, but at least it was a job a pensioner could do, when she was too old or frail or frowsty to be accepted as a waitress or a char.

  ‘Rose!’

  She heard the artist’s hushed but urgent voice, had forgotten he was there, forgotten almost everything save the sight of that old woman, who seemed lost in her own world, despite the crowded room. Christopher was whispering to the tutor, standing with him almost at the door, and was now beckoning her over, implying they must leave. She felt a strange reluctance to drag herself away; walked only very slowly, glancing at the students as she passed them. There was no revulsion in their eyes, just complete absorption in their work. They were not judging the model as a woman, or a body, but reproducing her; each seeing something different in the figure. The frumpy wrinkled crone had somehow been transformed – not glamorised, or rejuvenated, but allowed her human dignity, her gritty dogged courage. Jane realised now how brave she was – to strip completely naked before a group of students who were half a century younger, and still retain one’s poise. Some had made her older still, not shrinking from her defects, but faithfully recording them, yet also re-creating her patience and resilience, her strange other-worldly smile. The woman had some aura, a sense of style and confidence, which the students had picked up, mirrored on their canvases.