The project was to complete a series of drawings on an aspect of London: Vanessa had chosen stations. She had rough sketches of the vaulted roof of St Pancras, a huge expanse of angles and curves, light and shadow. Below the roof, she wanted to suggest the swirling haze created by hissing steam engines, but the magic evoked by the station was proving difficult to capture.
‘Won’t be long, Vanessa,’ the tutor called from the doorway. ‘Just going to fetch paper for tomorrow.’ Carla Scott was one of the more flamboyant members of staff. She dressed in long highly coloured skirts and wore little lace up shoes. She’d gained a reputation as an illustrator when she published a book on death. Some of her drawings of open coffins and corpses lined the wall outside the studio.
Vanessa started clearing up. As she replaced the tops on bottles and cleaned surplus ink from the nibs of her pens, she thought of Andrew waiting for her in the coffee bar. For his project, he’d chosen the Thames. Vanessa had met him on Westminster Bridge when she’d finished sketching. It was dusk. They leant against the bridge and looked out over the river. Mist hung above the water. Lights from the Houses of Parliament on one side and the Festival Hall on the other glowed through the haze, staining the river’s dense blackness orange.
‘It’s funny to think Monet or Turner might have looked at this very scene,’ Andrew said.
‘Didn’t the Houses of Parliament burn down when Turner was around?’
‘Yeah, he’s supposed to have filled sketch book after sketch book.’
‘Do you think we’d be as dedicated?’
‘Not if it was as cold as this.’ Andrew turned to her and cupped her face in his hands. The wool of his gloves scratched her cheeks as he bent his head towards hers.
There was a murmur of voices at the front of the room. She hadn’t noticed Carla returning, nor that someone was with her. He had his back to Vanessa, leaning over the desk where Carla was sitting, but even so, he was unmistakeable. It was Gerald Blackstone. He hadn’t taken any more of their classes, but one morning she’d met him on her way into college. She was taking the stairs two at a time when he appeared at the top, a scary apparition with his wild hair and dark beard. They did one of those funny little dances people do when they first move to one side and then both switch in an attempt to pass each other. In the end, he stood aside. The gap he left for her to go by seemed to shrink as she drew level with him. At the top of the next flight of stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. He was standing at the bottom, grinning up at her.
Now he was at the desk with Carla Scott. He swung round. ‘Well, well, well! Look who it is!’ His voice echoed round the high room. ‘Carla, this is the girl I told you about.’
She laughed. ‘Which one? There are so many.’
‘In the pub at Christmas. She had this dress on. I’ve never seen anything like it. Pure white. Sexy.’
Vanessa’s cheeks blazed. He was mocking her attempts at dress design. The urge to fling the bottle of ink across the room pulsed through her. She imagined the smash of glass, fractured splinters, a spreading pool of violet ink on the wooden floor, landing at Gerald Blackstone’s feet, splashing his suede boots.
‘Vanessa, don’t take any notice of him.’
‘Hey! Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.’
‘You’re very naughty and you know it. Vanessa’s one of my best students and I won’t have her upset!’
‘Upset? Sexy’s a compliment in my book.’
They came over to Vanessa’s easel and studied her drawing. She was acutely conscious of Gerald, his arm in its black leather almost touching hers. He wasn’t much taller than her and she could hear him breathing, a heavy sough of air, in and out.
‘How’s it going, Vanessa?’ Carla said, when Vanessa thought she might scream to break their silence.
‘Not as well as I’d like.’
Carla frowned. ‘Technically, I can’t fault it,’ she said. ‘But if anything, it’s too careful, too perfect. Where’s the atmosphere of the station? What do you think, Gerald?’
‘She’s certainly a talented draughtswoman.’
Vanessa tightened her hold on the bottle of ink. Draughtswoman! How dare he?
‘All right if she wants to work in an architect’s office, I suppose.’
‘I’ve tried – ’
‘I agree with you, Carla. It’s lacking soul and that can’t be taught.’
‘But you must see these.’ Carla set off for the cupboard where work was stored, and Gerald went after her. Vanessa shoved away the remaining bottles of ink and followed them.
Carla had fished out several head and shoulder studies Vanessa had done of her parents. She’d drawn her mother in various poses, washing, ironing, scrubbing the floor. In the drawings of her father, his hand was always circling a glass, half raised to his mouth.
‘These I do like,’ Gerald said.
‘Aren’t they good?’ Carla’s voice purred.
‘Look at the curve of the back, the set of the shoulders – they’ve captured the essence of the woman.’ Gerald sifted through the pages. He picked one out.
Vanessa looked at his fingers curling round the page. They were short and thick, the tips wide and flat. A sprinkling of dark hairs sprouted just above the knuckle. She felt torn. She wanted to hear him praise her work, but his hand fastened on the drawing seemed to touch some secret part of her.
The picture he’d selected was a favourite of Vanessa’s. It showed her mother at the kitchen sink, her head bent at an angle, her hand raised to her temple.
‘Look at this,’ Gerald said. ‘You can feel the exhaustion.’
‘I like the way the back of the neck is exposed. It suggests vulnerability,’ Carla added.
‘I can almost see her massaging her temple. Such a sensitive portrayal from one so young.’
Vanessa wanted to protest: she wasn’t that young. She half heard Carla saying ‘female subservience’ and Gerald’s loud laugh. She saw Gerald turn to her with a broad smile. He was saying something and she watched as his mouth moved. Enclosed in the black bristles of his beard, his lips looked red and voluptuous. Vanessa realised she was staring at them.
‘I’d better get going. It’s late.’ She gathered the drawings into a pile and handed them to Carla.
Gerald clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s all go for a drink.’
‘There isn’t time, Gerald.’ Carla turned to put Vanessa’s drawings away.
‘There’s always time for a drink.’
Carla leaned back against the cupboard. ‘We’ve got to be at the gallery at seven.’
‘What about you? What did you say your name was?’
‘Vanessa.’
‘Va-ne-ssa ’ He dragged the name out, pausing over each syllable. ‘I like it. Do you know where it comes from?’
‘Jonathan Swift made it up,’ Vanessa said promptly. Her mother never tired of telling her this.
‘Did you know it’s also a type of butterfly?’
‘Gerald … ’ Spots of colour had appeared on Carla’s cheekbones.
‘You’ll come for a drink, won’t you, butterfly?’
‘Em … ’
‘Gerald, the gallery …’
‘Yes, I know. The gallery.’ Gerald began clicking his middle finger against his thumb. The snapping sound filled the room, insistent and repetitive like a cigarette lighter that won’t ignite.
‘You have to push it, don’t you?’ Carla snatched Vanessa’s remaining drawing from Gerald’s hand.
‘What are you getting in a lather about?’ Making sure Carla didn’t see him, Gerald pulled a face at Vanessa. She bit her lip, grinning, until she noticed Carla’s expression.
‘Honestly … I must go. I … I’m meeting a friend.’ She caught up her coat from its peg and swung her duffle bag over her shoulder. ‘Bye!’ The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound of her feet clattering down to the ground floor resounded round the deserted stairwell.
The windows of the coffee bar were all steamed up. She stood on tiptoe, craning her neck. Her nose was pressed against the glass when the door opened. A tall figure, bulky in a heavy military-style coat, filled the narrow doorway. She looked up.
‘Andrew!’
‘Vanessa, what are you doing?’ He pulled the scarf from his mouth. He was smiling.
‘Looking for you.’
‘Out here?’
‘I was trying to see in.’ She gestured towards the condensation on the glass. ‘Never mind. It’s too complicated.’
‘I thought I must have missed you.’
‘I didn’t mean to be so long.’ Her eyes were level with his chest and little distorted images of her face looked back at her from the brass buttons on his coat. She shifted her gaze upwards. She was about to explain about Gerald Blackstone and how much he’d liked her drawing, and how thrilling it was to have someone like him praise her work and … words bubbled up in her throat, until she saw the look in Andrew’s eyes. Although an unremarkable grey, they were the most expressive eyes she had ever seen. They took on different shades and qualities depending on his mood. They could shimmer with light like pearls, die like ashes of a fire, be soft like the feathers of a dove, or hard like the metal of a gun. She wouldn’t mention Gerald Blackstone, she decided. ‘Are you going home now?’ she asked instead.
‘Yes, do you want to come?’
Vanessa had been to Andrew’s digs several times since their visit to the pictures, but always with other people. They’d squash up together on the bed, or take turns sitting on the only chair, cigarette smoke curling up towards the brown-stained ceiling. The lino on the floor was torn; a narrow bed was pressed against a wall, vivid with swirling floral paper and a heavy oak wardrobe took up most of one side of the room. A small table that Andrew used as a desk stood under the window and in one corner was a single gas ring.
Vanessa liked going there. But she knew this was a different sort of invitation from those others. If she went back to his digs today, the room would be freezing cold. Ice would cover the inside of the window and he would bend down to put a coin in the gas meter and hold a match to the fire that would sputter into light and a half-hearted warmth. They would sit on the bed and kiss. He would ease her on to her back. Unable to meet his gaze, she would turn her face, and the bedspread would rub against her cheek. The whiteness of their breath would mingle. His tongue would slide between her lips and her mouth would open under his. His hand would reach under her jumper and finger its way to her bra.
He caught hold of her collar with both hands and pulled her towards him. ‘Do you want to come back with me?’ he asked again.
She looked into his eyes, shiny and liquid like mercury, in the glow of the streetlight. She nodded. ‘They won’t be expecting me home for a while yet.’
There was a light shining under the kitchen door at the end of the hallway. She pressed her ear against the wooden panel. Nothing. Her mother must have gone to bed and left the light on for her. She did that sometimes, along with notes saying things like There’s plenty of milk. Make yourself some cocoa. Vanessa turned the door knob.
The harsh overhead glare made her blink. Her parents were sitting at either end of the table, a teapot and cups set out in front of them. A crusty-looking loaf and a knife were on the breadboard, beside her mother’s hand. Her mother wore her pink quilted dressing gown, and a hair net was wound round her head to keep her curlers in place. Her father was dressed in his working clothes, brown corduroy trousers and a woollen shirt open at the neck. A tin of tobacco lay on the table next to his cup.
He didn’t look round. His gaze was fixed on the flimsy paper he was clasping and the brown shag he was loading into it. He licked the edge of the paper, his tongue moving slowly first in one direction and then the other. He pulled some shreds of tobacco from each end of the cigarette he’d made and tapped it on the table.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Her mother glanced at her and shook her head, a gesture that told Vanessa everything she needed to know.
‘Hope you weren’t waiting up for me.’
Her father turned with an exaggerated movement where his head dipped so that his forehead was almost touching the table, before swinging slowly round and rising until his eyes met hers. ‘You’re sorry,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And what exactly are you sorry for?’
‘Like I said, I’m late and I thought you … Mammy might have been worried.’
‘Worried?’ The word hung in the room. ‘And why would that be?’
‘Well, she does, doesn’t she? When any of us are out. When you’re at the pub … ’
Her father got to his feet. He swayed and his backside in its baggy brown corduroy hovered above the seat. It seemed forever, until he finally straightened up. He kicked his chair away and it slammed into the dresser behind him.
He took a step towards her. His cheeks were brick-red, knotted veins in his neck standing out.
‘You little bitch!’ he yelled. Flecks of spit appeared at the side of his mouth.
‘I didn’t mean … ’
‘You dare criticise me!’
‘Danny, for mercy’s sake … ’ Her mother’s voice trembled beneath her father’s like a gurgling under-current in a raging torrent.
‘Keep out of it, woman. Your snivelling and drivelling make me sick!’ His fingers fumbled for the buckle on his belt.
Vanessa’s eyes fixed on the brass prong, sharp and pointed. The brown leather of the belt was worn and cracked. She knew that belt. Once before, he’d hit her with it. The blows had landed on her legs and buttocks. She’d stood there whimpering until he’d shouted at her to stop or he’d give her something to cry for. Now she watched as he pulled the belt from around his waist.
Her mother grasped her father’s arm as he slapped the end of the belt against his palm. ‘Danny, please … ’
He shrugged her off. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The slap of the belt on his hand continued. He smiled, revealing the front tooth he’d broken when he fell one night coming home from the pub. In that split second Vanessa made her mind up.
She pulled off her coat and flung it away from her. Her foot kicked the door shut behind her. Her heart was hammering.
‘You’d hit me, would you?’ Her voice didn’t waver and she knew then she could do it.
He began to wind the belt round his hand so that the buckle dangled free. ‘Try and stop me.’
‘I will.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I will. You’re not coming near me with that belt.’
He grinned at that. ‘Pleased with ourselves, are we? Cocky little madam with your swanky ways.’
‘Oh sweet Jesus … ’
‘Shut up, woman. I’ll not have the bitch looking down on us.’
Vanessa saw her father tighten his grip on the belt. ‘I don’t. You and Mammy – ’
‘Leave Mammy out of it. She’s worth ten of you.’ He lifted the belt to his right shoulder. In another second, it would come flying down.
‘If you lay a finger on me, I’ll walk out of this house and you won’t see me again.’ Vanessa matched her father’s stare. In spite of all the times she’d drawn him, she’d never been brave enough to study his eyes closely before. They were bluey-grey, the colour of washed out pebbles in a stream. The whites were cloudy and stained with broken blood vessels. His sandy e
yebrows were thick and met in the middle. As she watched, the blaze died in his eyes. They looked empty and scared.
A little cry came from her mother, a sort of yelp like an ill-treated puppy.
‘It’s all right, Mammy. He won’t hit me.’ Vanessa stretched out a hand and her mother’s fingers crept into her palm.
Her father pulled the belt from around his hand and threw it viciously across the room. It bounced against the top shelf of the dresser, the buckle catching the rim of a plate. It was one of several lined up on the shelf, each one overlapping the other. As if in slow motion, the plate tipped forward, unbalancing the one to its left, which in turn moved the next one and so on down the line, until one by one, the plates began to cascade forward. They bounced on to the lower part of the dresser and ricocheted on to the floor. The fine porcelain shattered on the quarry tiles and settled around her father’s feet.
Vanessa tore her gaze from the scattered fragments and looked at him. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, the skin puckered around them. His mouth was wide open, and she saw his tongue, furred with yellow. He was shaking, and all at once she realised he was laughing.
Her mother’s hand went to her throat. ‘Sweet Lord, whatever is it now?’
Her father laughed out loud. Vanessa’s attention was riveted on his face. This was a side of him she’d never seen before. She hoarded the image.
‘Danny! Have you lost your senses, man?’
Her father took a hankie from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He dabbed at his cheeks and neck. ‘Those plates … ’ Laughter smothered the rest of his words.
‘Holy Mary, you’re making no sense!’
‘Your mother’s fancy dishes – ’
‘The dishes are broken!’
‘Thank God! I could never abide them!’
Vanessa’s mother snatched up a teacloth. ‘May the good Lord forgive you, Danny Heaney!’ She flicked the cloth around the back of his neck and head. ‘And my poor mammy would have given you her last halfpenny, sure she would.’
Unravelling Page 5