The Art School Dance

by Maria Blanca Alonso

  'I don’t know and I don’t bloody well care!' Virginia lied. 'Now can we drop the subject?'

  'Yes. Of course. Fine by me. Only I thought you looked a bit concerned about the situation.'

  'I’m not.'

  'No. Of course not. I mean, it’s not as though there was ever anything between you and Goomer.'

  'No!'

  Smiling, Peter went to serve a customer, only the second of the day.

  'Things are getting bad,' he lamented, when he returned to Virginia. 'People just don’t seem to have the money to spend at the moment.'

  'No.'

  'I suppose you’ll be needing to economise yourself, now, get some money saved for the fine when your case comes up in court.'

  'I suppose so,' Virginia conceded. She counted the coins in the pocket of her jeans without needing to take them out; there was not that much cash left. 'I’ll probably have to get some work done,' she said. 'Have you got any you can pass my way?'

  'Posters and the like?' Peter shook his head, still the trace of a smile on his lips. 'Sorry, Virginia, I had to get someone else when you turned me down the last time. Remember?' he said pointedly. 'I asked you to do some work for me but you were too busy.'

  Virginia drained her glass, took out the last of her money. 'Any chance of you cashing me a cheque, then? I’m running a bit short.'

  'Does the bank manager sell beer?'

  'It would save me going around to the bank and queuing, that’s all. You know what it’ll be like now, at lunchtime.'

  'Sorry, Virginia. You know I don’t mind helping out at weekends and bank holidays, but otherwise I don’t like to make a habit of it. Nothing personal.'

  'Of course.' Virginia returned the coins to her pocket; there was not enough there for another drink. 'I’d better get to the bank, then. See you later.'

  Walking along Bold Street, past the shops and between the shoppers, Virginia took out her cheque book and flicked through it, making sure she had at least one left. In the bank she wrote out a cheque, signed her name with a flourish and waited patiently in the queue. When her turn came she would pass the cheque over and the cashier -she always chose the most attractive one- would smile and ask how she wanted the cash.

  She would say four tens and two fives would be fine.

  'I believe that the assistant manager would like to see you, Miss.'

  'Four tens and two fives will do just fine,' she smiled.

  'I don’t think you understand,' the cashier said. 'The assistant manager would like a word with you before any more cheques are cashed.'

  'Oh.'

  The assistant manager, of course, was not as handsome nor as pleasant as the cashier.

  'It pains me to say this,' the man lied, once Virginia had been led through to the private inner sanctum, 'but I’m afraid I can’t let you cash any more cheques until there has been a marked improvement in the state of your account.'

  As if her account was an ailing patient in intensive care; if so, then it had to be said that it was as well as could be expected.

  He was a tall thin man with brittle wrists which Virginia wanted to snap; he reminded her of her old Latin master, ‘Styx’, a man of similar build and with an equally snivelling manner. The memory was not a pleasant one.

  A file on the desk was consulted and Virginia was informed that she was over two hundred pounds overdrawn.

  'Really?' said Virginia, genuinely surprised.

  The assistant manager made a steeple with his hands, fingertips to his lips. 'We’ve written several letters to you, none of which have been answered.'

  'Yes, well, I did change address recently.'

  'I see. And did you inform us?'

  No, naturally not, but Virginia said, 'Of course. I wrote to you. I can only think that the letter has gone astray.'

  'Yes, I imagine it must have.' The steeple was disassembled and the file picked up. 'This is yours. As you can see we have filled out quite a few typewritten pages, all relating to the fluctuating balance of your account.' A slight breeze blew as he thumbed through the pages for Virginia to see. 'It’s quite an achievement to merit so many pages, believe me. We have customers of twenty and thirty years standing who can’t match this.'

  If Virginia had not been so worried then she might have been proud.

  'And so,' the man continued, coming to his ultimatum, 'you must appreciate why I’m forced to take these drastic measures. No more cheques will be honoured until your account is in credit.'

  'Can I just cash this last one?' Virginia asked, still clutching her cheque made out for fifty pounds.

  'No.'

  'Please.'

  'Certainly not.'

  'Twenty-five pounds, then?' She reached for a pen on his desk. 'I’ll change it to twenty-five.'

  'No.'

  'Twenty?'

  'We are not here to barter,' she was sternly told.

  Virginia had to come close to tears before the assistant manager agreed to cash a cheque -’the very last one’- for a measly ten pounds.

  Had she been wise Virginia might have considered saving this last donation from her bank, but this particular virtue no longer ranked amongst the strongest of her traits. She went for a drink, instead, and was unlucky enough to meet Chuck Presley.

  *

  Chuck was a gambling man and sometime antiques dealer, talking aged widowed ladies into parting with saleable items and paying them a fraction of their worth. He did not work very often, though, and when he did it was always for others, so he earned a wage rather than made a fortune from his efforts. His main income, his boast would be, was from his gambling, he earned more from this than he could from any other occupation, and it was inevitable that he should have a tip for Virginia.

  Small and wizened, with an uneven face which made him look like one of the antiques in which he sometimes dealt, he waved her a greeting which could not be heard, his eloquent hands flapping above the heads at the bar.

  'Virginia, good to see you girl,' he said, when she was by his side, and his garbled conversation began. 'So I’ve just left the ‘Masonic’, been there with Brian, and I said ‘Yes, Brian, I’m still a gambling man. Showed him the betting slip, I did, a straight fifty pound win. Of course fifty quid’s nothing to the likes of Brian.'

  'Of course,' said Virginia.

  'He’ll probably slap a hundred on. Maybe two. He can afford it.'

  'Yes.'

  'Yes.' Chuck’s eyes were closed now and his head was bobbing enthusiastically. 'So it’s ‘Baudelaire’ with Pat Eddery riding, three forty-five.' He opened his eyes and looked into Virginia’s face, to see if she recognised the name, then said, 'French poet, champion of the Surrealists he was.'

  'Who? Pat Eddery?'

  'Baudelaire! I’d expect you to know that, being an artist of sorts.'

  Chuck’s talkative hands slowed to a stop, as though all his attention was being directed to the horse and to the money which was at stake.

  'Better go,' he then said, suddenly alert. 'Nice to see you again, Virginia. And don’t you forget. ‘Baudelaire’ in the three forty-five.'

  Rather than go to the door, however, to leave as he had said he must, Chuck went to the far end of the bar; there he stood with his hands resting on the counter, his eyes challenging the vacant space in front of him. It was a monumental kind of pose which he often assumed, disturbed only by the convulsive movements of his arms which from time to time saluted someone he knew.

  Baudelaire. Three forty-five. Poet and champion of the Surrealists. Virginia wondered if Pat Eddery knew this, or the owner or trainer. With this inside information she just had to have a bet, so she finished her drink and walked from the bar.

  Chuck waved his hands to acknowledge the departure. 'Don’t forget!' he shouted after her. 'Baudelaire! Three forty-five!'

  Virginia recited the words to herself as she walked from the pub to the betting shop, mouthed them silently as she printed them on the blue slip.

  How much?

  T
o win or each-way?

  One pound each way, she decided, and scribbled down the bet. After all, she was not looking to make a fortune; a bet for her was nothing more than an entertainment. But then again, why not a fortune? Or at least a few pounds more than the handful she had at the moment. She tore up the betting slip, found a clean one and printed out her instructions -’BAUDELAIRE. 3-45 EPSOM. £10 WIN’- with all the clarity and precision she could muster. It was indicative of her optimism. She even did a doodle of a soft watch in the bottom corner, in honour of the champion of the Surrealists.

  Then she took her place behind the regular punters. This was always the hardest part for her, on the few occasions she gambled, standing in line and unsure if she had filled out her slip correctly, worried lest she should be corrected by the person behind the counter and exposed for the novice that she was. Everything went smoothly, though; the bet was accepted, the money taken and she was given her receipt.

  A loudspeaker above her crackled and odds were quoted and flashed on a screen. Starting prices were interrupted by a race commentary which was delivered as a manic recitation; Virginia found it hard to follow, there was time to kill before her own race, so she decided to leave and call back later when everything had run its course.

  It was on her tour of the city shops, whiling away her time until after the three forty-five, that Virginia discovered her mistake, in a favourite bookshop where she found a paperback about the man himself, Baudelaire.

  'For me Romanticism is the most recent, the latest expression of the beautiful.'

  'Sorry?' someone said, and Virginia asked to be excused, explaining that she had simply been reading aloud.

  'Oh,' said the person, and walked away.

  Romanticism?

  Virginia read the sentence again.

  But what about Surrealism? Surely that had been Baudelaire’s pet. Or was she getting confused, mistaking her dates and becoming a victim of her fragile memory? As Baudelaire said, a few pages on, as though for her benefit: 'I have memories more than if I were a thousand years old’.'

  'My problem exactly,' Virginia agreed. 'Too many fucking memories and I can’t cope with them all.'

  She left the bookshop and found a television showroom. There she wandered among the various sets, waiting until no one was looking and then switching one set over to its Teletext service. And the result of the three forty-five? Baudelaire second!

  Thanks to Chuck Presley -gambler and now gobshite- Virginia’s funds were once again wiped out. She shuffled from the showroom and stood on the pavement, looking down into the gutter. There was nothing there which could be used as currency. So what to do? The city was a miserable place without any money. Looking at the clock of Saint Luke’s Church she saw that it was almost five o’clock. Opening time. She would go to the ‘Corkscrew’, see if any more drawings had been sold; with her head optimistically bowed to where there might lie a wallet or a stray ten pound note she went off in search of a saviour.

  *

  Coral’s smile was more like the sneer of an anti-Christ than a saviour when she learned of the reason for the visit. No drawings had been sold for days.

  Virginia swore and slumped on a stool.

  'Perhaps they’re overpriced,' Coral suggested.

  'Isn’t that just what I told that tit Gerald? He should have let me sell them at my own price.'

  'A pint apiece?' Coral shook her head as she laughed. 'That really wasn’t on, Virginia, and you know it.'

  'It would do me at the moment,' Virginia mourned, and Coral, moved by the sorrowful countenance, poured her a glass of Red Stripe and placed it on the bar.

  'Here, have this one on me.'

  Virginia cheered slightly, sipped at the drink and asked almost despairingly if there was any possibility of Coral cashing her a cheque.

  'Sure.'

  'You can?'

  'Of course. It won’t bounce, will it?'

  'No, I’m only a couple of hundred pounds overdrawn,' said Virginia, and honesty was proven to be the best policy; Coral laughed and asked how much Virginia wanted.

  'Thirty pounds?' Virginia suggested.

  'Is that all?' said Coral, taking the money from the till. 'That won’t last you long.'

  'Just until the bank opens tomorrow. It’ll do.'

  Quietly reminding herself that it would have to last a good deal longer, Virginia pocketed the notes and listened as Coral said that she could now use a favour in return.

  Virginia sensed a catch rather than a favour.

  'Yes?'

  'It’s really more like a golden opportunity than a favour,' Coral expanded. 'There’s Trev and Tone, see-'

  'Sound like a comic double act.'

  'Not all that comic, but a double act is precisely what they are. Trev -Trevor- won’t go anywhere without Tone-'

  'Tony?' Virginia guessed.

  'Right.' Coral hitched her shoulders, settling her breasts more comfortably in her bra as she frowned. 'Bugger me if I can prise the two of them apart. I’ve tried, but that faffing Trev always tags along.'

  'When it’s Tone that you want?'

  Correct.

  So a fourth party was needed, to entertain Trev while Coral did her best with the other.

  'What’s this Trev like?' Virginia asked.

  'He’s... cute... sort of compact.'

  'A midget?'

  'No!'

  'Are you being honest with me, Coral? I mean, he’s not absolutely disgustingly unpicturesque, is he?'

  'No, I promise you. He’s short, yes, but sweet.' Coral looked sincerely into Virginia’s eyes, a hint of a plea shining in her own. 'Come on, Virginia, one good turn deserves another. It’s only for one night.'

  'Give me another drink, then, to steel myself. I’m warning you, though-'

  'There’s no need for warnings. Just trust me.'

  As Coral trusted Virginia, foolishly, blindly, ignorant of any consequences.

  Some time later, seeing Coral’s eyes brighten and wrinkle into a smile, Virginia looked over her shoulder at the two young men who entered. 'Bloody hell, Coral!' she gasped. 'If that one’s mine then he’s a sodding dwarf!'

  'Dainty,' said Coral, still smiling as the two threaded their way towards the bar.

  'And look at the teeth!' Virginia whispered.

  'Did I tell you he lisps as well?'

  'That’s it. I’m going.'

  Coral grabbed Virginia by the collar, making a tourniquet of the front of her blouse. 'Do you want that cheque back? Do you want to forget about favours, you bloody ingrate?'

  Virginia was held fast by Coral. It was only when the dwarfish creature with the lisp smiled up at her that she was released.

  'This is Virginia,' said Coral.

  'Virgin-ya?' Trev smirked.

  Virginia looked down her nose at the young man beside her but said nothing, aware of Coral’s threatening presence.

  'Well!' Coral rubbed her hands together in anticipation of the evening ahead. 'What about drinks?'

  Two cans of beer with whisky chasers.

  Clasping her hand over her heart, over the money which was in her breast pocket, Virginia gazed absently up at the ceiling and hoped to hear the cash register ring, praying that there would be no question of them going Dutch.

  It made no sound.

  'It’s alright, Virginia, the drinks are on me tonight,' Coral told her.

  Virginia looked down to see a glass of wine -more ladylike than a can of beer?- on the bar before her; both the men had drinks in their hands. She relaxed with her Liebfraumilch, enjoyed it, not joining in the conversation or giving Coral much support.

  Her aloofness soon peeved Coral.

  'Jesus, Virginia, you might be a little more sociable,' she said, when Trev and Tone went to the toilets.

  'It’s difficult enough looking at the berk. You surely don’t expect me to talk to him as well, do you?'

  'For a thirty pound favour I expect a lot more than that.'

  'You’re asking m
e to sell my body?'

  'I’m asking you to be nice to the chap.' Coral winked, her lashes a little thicker with mascara than usual, her eyes a little darker and lips a little redder. 'In any way you like, Virginia. Just keep him out of my way.'

  'Which chap is that?' asked Trev, back from the gents with his hair slicked back.

  'Which chap is what?' Coral said, stuck for an answer which would not cause offence.

  'Just some old inebriate who’s always coming down here, shouting his mouth off and scaring the customers,' said Virginia.

  As if a lisp was a sign of gullibility Trev said, 'Ah.'

  Coral’s relieved smile acknowledged that some of the thirty pound favour had been repaid; then a quick jerk of the head in Trev’s direction reminded Virginia of her further duties.

  Virginia turned and smiled down at him.

  'It’s a posh sort of name, Virginia,' Trev remarked.

  'A bit of a mouthful,' thought Tone, who was obviously more comfortable with single syllable words.

  'I’ll call you Ginny,' Trev decided.

  'Over my dead body,' Virginia grumbled softly.

  'If you want it that way,' Coral hissed in her ear.

  'What are you two whispering about now?' Trev wanted to know.

  'Nothing important. You can call me Ginny.'

  Like a pet who had just been favoured Trev wormed closer. Itching to move away, Virginia was saved by Tone who inserted his body between theirs, so solid and erect. He was a big man, but not too big for Coral to handle. She was sizing him up already, looking for weaknesses she might be able to exploit and pushing drinks across the bar to him. The drinks seemed to be having little effect on the stalwart constitution, however, though Virginia for her part began to feel pleasantly free of cares as the evening wore on. She looked again at Trev. Stretch his legs some eighteen inches or so, maybe tap his teeth back into place and persuade him not to speak unless spoken to and he would not be completely unattractive. get him sat down, she decided, and that would compensate for his lack of height. Her knees were getting a little weak, in any case, and she could do with a rest.

  'Do we have to stand at the bar all night?' she asked Coral.