Chapter Three
Mum held the second letter from the principal at arm’s length. ‘Two letters in one week,’ she announced. ‘What is it about you and art, Charlie?’
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘Tim Wong-Smith and I were doing detective work, looking for clues.’
‘And the art teacher found one,’ Mum said. ‘With your name on it.’
‘So what’s a guy to do?’ I demanded.
‘Stop destroying art rooms for a start,’ Mum responded. Then she went lecturing on about me being a vandal. (Where have I heard that before?)
Mum told me that it was no more mountain bikes and Nintendos for me. Next Christmas she’d buy me a box of crayons, a paint-by-numbers set, plus some modelling clay and a beret. She would start making me like art, learn to appreciate it and understand it and not throw it about like one of those demented people who slosh buckets of crimson paint on a bit of board and call it art.
That’s the thing about Mum and works of art. She has our house full of it. Every way you turn there’s a little artistic object looking back at you. Even in the toilet there’s a painting hanging behind the door. It’s of a prim-faced milkmaid with a yoke sort of thing on her shoulders and two buckets hanging from it. It’s like she’s just waiting for you to finish, then she’ll clean up. In places like that I don’t like being watched.
Anyway, Mum simmered down and we ate our sausages in peace. Since it was Friday, it meant two glorious days of not doing anything. A long sleep in on Saturday morning and an even longer one on Sunday.
But my mother had other ideas.
Early on Saturday morning, Mum threw my bedroom door wide open. ‘Charlie Thomson,’ she said in a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners sort of voice, ‘we’re going to the art exhibition. So, chop, chop. On your feet.’
‘Mum,’ I protested. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Feet! Let’s hear them making a noise!’
Mum took away my shoes so that I couldn’t bang them on the floor and pretend it was me clumping about the bedroom. (An old schoolboy trick I learned from my father who is away working on an oil rig where there is not an art work to be seen.) It was useless. I gave up. This was the day my art education was to start — at the town hall where all the art prize exhibits were on display for a week before the judging took place.
I humphed and grumped, but it was a waste of time. Worse than that, Mum made me wear something trendy and artistic, so it was on with the corduroy pants, a polo-necked sweater and sandals. Then off we went to the town hall.
The only good thing about going was that I might see Tim Wong-Smith and find out why he disappeared from the art room, leaving me to face Ms Carter. Her anger had been magnificent to see. Like a sailing ship in a high wind. Billowing sails and stuff like that.
See, I was being artistic already.
At the town hall, there were dozens of eager art lovers, cooing and oohing over the various paintings, jugs, pots and sculptures. There was a red thing with a brass top that I thought was brilliant, but Mum said it was a fire extinguisher, put there by the council.
Then, horror of horrors, I saw Sean Dingwall with Rosa Thurwell. They were admiring a painting of the night sky with stars, comets and stuff. The picture wasn’t the least bit funny, so it must have been something Sean said that made Rosa laugh. It was a low point in my life. Sean and Rosa, or Rosa and Sean. It didn’t matter which way you said their names, it was still bad news.
Rosa caught sight of me. ‘What are you doing here, Thomson?’ she demanded. ‘You’re not an art lover. You’re an art destroyer. Stamping on poor Tim’s horse with your big boots.’
‘And what are you wearing?’ Sean Dingwall asked. ‘It must be Dress-Like-a-Dill Week.’ They laughed some more, then went off before I could think of a witty reply.
There was still no sign of Tim, so I’d have to wait until Monday to confront him. Why, Tim, why? I could hear myself pleading. I only had one question and he had the whole weekend to make up lots of answers.
Mum suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and said very firmly, ‘Come and see this, Charlie.’ She propelled me past rows of identical pots, then similar coffee mugs and at last a whole table full of matching milk jugs, all made by different people, but every one of them looking the same. The jugs. Not the people.
We stopped at a wall that hung with paintings and Mum pointed to one and said, ‘Now, study that picture, Charlie. Look at it for two whole minutes, then I’ll come back.’
Mum left me. The picture was of a tree in a green field with a blue sky in the background. I leaned my head to the left, then to the right, but the picture always stayed the same — tree, blue sky. I thought of taking it off the wall and having a look at the back, or holding it up to the light, but remembered my art vandal reputation and thought better of it.
Them Mum was back, breathing in my ear. ‘It’s Julia Dawson,’ she whispered.
‘No, Mum, it’s a tree.’
‘Julia Dawson painted it,’ Mum said through gritted teeth. ‘And I have bought it. What do you think of it?’
‘The tree follows me around the room.’
‘No it doesn’t, but do you like it?’
‘Great, Mum.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘We could hang it behind the toilet door. And sack the milkmaid.’
Mum gave me such a look. She stuck a red sticker beside the painting, then went off to do the financial business with Julia Dawson.
I wandered on, and then I saw it. There was a whole table full of sculpture things. Lots of dragons, an aeroplane with droopy wings, a Spaniel with only one ear and spots like a Dalmatian — and then came the horse.
It was sort of rearing up on its two back legs and its tongue hung out and one eye was higher up the face than the other. But anyone could tell it was still supposed to be a horse. Isobel Simms was standing there, looking at it.
‘It’s not a patch on Tim Wong-Smith’s horse,’ she whispered, the way you do at art shows in case the artist is hovering nearby hoping to overhear some good words.
‘Yeah, I feel really sorry for old Tim,’ I agreed. ‘Missing out on being here.’
‘I feel even sorrier for whoever made this horrible looking thing,’ Isobel went on. ‘What was he thinking?’
‘Or she?’ I added.
Together we looked at the card in front of the horse. It said simply: Horse, by Gordon Sandilands.
Where had I heard that name before. Of course — my teacher who was always on the warpath. That Gordon Sandilands.
So he’d made a horse sculpture too. Not a very good one, but gold star for trying. E for Effort, Mr Sandilands. If ever peace breaks out between us, I’ll congratulate him.
Isobel broke in on my thoughts. ‘I’ve got to go, Charlie. My Mum’s in a buying mood. I’ve got to talk her out of going for a really awful painting. Bye.’ And off she went.
With Isobel gone, my mind turned back to Horse, by Gordon Sandilands. Hello, I thought, what if Mr Sandilands saw Tim’s horse sculpture and could tell he had some serious competition? And what if Mr Sandilands decided to get rid of Tim’s horse?
It would be easy for him to do. He could get the art room key any time he felt like it, open the door, switch on the fans to position five, stamp on Tim’s horse and yell, ‘Die, horse, die I tell you!’
Or dramatic words like that. I could see him doing it. Then choosing me to take the blame.
Good theory. The only problem was how to prove it.
Stars Page 3