I Came to Find a Girl

by Jaq Hazell

  On the far bank a white-haired man in a black T-shirt was fishing amongst the trees. There were ducks, bobbing down for food, and a heron ready to spear unlucky fish. I opened my sketchbook.

  A toddler in a pink sundress stopped and pointed at the path. “Mama, look – ladybird.” She held it up triumphant, squashed between her chubby fingers.

  Using charcoal I began to draw dark, dragging water that could take you down even on a glorious summer’s day.

  I moved on to watercolours, taking out my travel-set – a black tin filled with solid pigments. Using a small, fine brush I made watery sketches of details I could elaborate on when I got back to college.

  It was so hot my head hurt. The river had become quieter and my imagination louder as a sense of unease washed over me. Who is that fisherman on the far bank? He’s watching me – I know it. Would anyone remember seeing me here?

  The serious cyclists sped by too fast and the mother-with-toddler only had eyes and a wishy-washy smile for her clumsy kid. I should go.

  The bus was stifling, the walk from the bus stop to college unbearably long in the baking heat. I arrived in the calm of the studio, desperate for water and the chance to cool down. I didn’t expect my tutor, Mike Manners, to find me within a matter of seconds. He was never there when I actually looked for him, so why now?

  “Why don’t you leave, do something else?” he said. Quite an opener, I thought, especially so late in the day. I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, but if he did then it should have been a conversation we’d had two or three years earlier, rather than as the course drew to a close.

  “Why would I do that?” I’d come into college, come straight from the river, keen to develop the sketches I’d made. I didn’t expect to have to justify myself.

  “You think fine art is the right course for you?”

  I tried to read his expression – the laughter lines weren’t laughing. Is it just his way to fire people up to work harder at the eleventh hour or does he mean it?

  “How many people do you think manage to make a living from art?” he said.

  “It depends how determined you are. I know it’s competitive, anything creative is, but you shouldn’t opt out just because it’s difficult to get on.” You don’t choose art, I thought. It’s not a choice, though I used to think it was. I’d gone to a strict academic school, and had felt that the art room was the only place I could relax and be myself. I was good at art, better than anyone else, until I went to art college, where I realised lots of people have the same talent. But that was beside the point. You are born an artist but it took me a while to realise that. All those years of feeling slightly ill at ease in the world and then it fell into place: artists are different.

  After months of looking out my window and the days I’d spent sitting alone by the river where Jenny was found, I finally understood that creativity is a compulsion. It’s non-negotiable. I have to highlight whatever I notice and use art to process experience as I try to make sense of the world.

  Mike Manners took a step closer to one of the canvases I’d hung temporarily to try it for size and position on the white board that delineated what would be my exhibition space. It was a painting of beautiful young people dressed in children’s clothes at a party. The young men were in romper suits, the women in floral, gathered, girly dresses. One lad held a mallet and another a bottle labelled Rohypnol Fizz and, while a young woman searched the floor for a broken necklace, a guy looked on, a smirk across his face. It was entitled While You’re Down There, Love.

  Mike Manners took a step back and nodded. “What else have you got?”

  I sorted through the canvases I had propped against the wall and pulled out a painting of a sunlit old colonial house with a large sign in front. I turned it round slowly. “It’s called Help the Aged.”

  Mike Manners studied it closely, reading and rereading the sign in front of the house: ‘Golden Sunset Gentlemen’s Rest Home. Murderers, rapists and old Nazis welcome.’ “Where did this come from?” he asked.

  “Do I have to explain?”

  He stroked his chin. “The thing is, Mia, we never see you. You rarely make an appearance. And now you are here, you have this and to my surprise I am intrigued. I would love to know your thought processes.”

  “Okay. It’s about the little old men you see in the park. They all look so blameless but who knows? I imagined Botswana and the reported sightings of Lord Lucan and that led me to think of all the old Nazis and the Nazi-hunters still determined to track them down before they die.”

  He smiled – deep creases by his eyes. “We have a show.”

  I didn’t dare say I wouldn’t be using any of it.

  I went home after that, keen to add my new sketches to the collection of rough work I’d already pinned to my walls.

  Late that afternoon, Kelly knocked on my door. “Mia, you there?” She came in and found me sitting on the floor. “Wow, you’ve been busy.”

  My artwork covered the floor, walls and chimney breast. There were enlarged photographs of the river, various Nottingham street signs and alleyways and then there were close-ups of impromptu shrines that had been thrown up at particular spots – death sites. There were the river paintings, sketches of the girls on the street below my window, and dozens of newspaper cuttings including various news stories about Jenny.

  “Where are you going with all this?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “We’ve only got a week left.”

  “I know. I don’t know if I can pull it off in time, but I had this idea and I tried to ignore it but I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “Then you’ve got to run with it, I reckon.”

  “Perhaps the degree isn’t the most important thing.”

  Kelly nodded, aware that Jenny’s death had shifted my perspective.

  As the deadline for the end of degree loomed, the only respite from work had become the evening meal when we’d congregate in front of the TV.

  Spencer sat down next to me with a plate of spaghetti bolognese: “The-family-that-TV-dinners-together-stays together.”

  “Shush,” Slug said, as he sat forward to catch a question on Eggheads.

  “You probably won’t know it anyway,” I said.

  “I did know that,” Slug said, “I’d have got that.”

  Tamzin put her plate on the floor under her chair, and picked up some artwork.

  “Let’s see?” I said. She held up some mood boards consisting of fashion drawings, a few magazine cuttings in next season’s citrus colours and fabric swatches.

  “Pass them over.” I wanted to feel the fabrics and study the linear drawings of haughty-looking models. “I like the futuristic shoulders.”

  “I’m having trouble making them – bit harder than I thought.”

  “I’m so behind on all my work, in fact, I’d better get on with it.” I returned to my room, and sat on my bed, willing myself to find the energy to continue.

  It was still hot, even though it was evening. Where’s the rain when you need it? I forced open the sash. Girl-with-braids was out, along with a stocky blonde.

  I grabbed my sketchbook. I always had it to hand as it had become a project – the girls from my window and the cars that crawled by and me recording it all.

  They were laughing as they smoked and checked their mobiles.

  A car came. It was white with writing and a phone number on the side.

  I sketched it though I knew I wouldn’t have time to use it, not now.

  I returned to my more advanced work. It was slow, meticulous, intricate, and I liked that juxtaposition, the unexpectedness as the subject matter was so dark. Each piece took between four and six hours, depending on the level of detail. There were to be eleven in all and I still had three left to do. I’d set myself a hard task. I’d be working through the night, as we all would, propping ourselves up with coffee and Pro Plus.

  In the morning, Kelly had lines on her face that weren’t normally th
ere. I checked my own – same, though I had bigger bags under my eyes. I’ll be glad when this is over.

  In the studio, we’d been allocated two boards each in order to exhibit the culmination of three years of work. Graham’s area looked complete: cast in bronze and painted, he had odd pieces of luggage. There were a couple of suitcases, a large bulging rucksack and an Adidas holdall, then there was a careful arrangement of fragments as if a case had either exploded or been the subject of a controlled explosion. Collectively, they were called Left Luggage. Alongside this he had sculpted a replica of a black council recycling bin, inside which he had installed a constantly ticking mechanism and called it Everywhere. It was all very Age of Terror post-9/11 and in my opinion, too obvious but someone liked it. Rumour had it he was being bankrolled by a mystery backer and it had to be true, as no one else could afford to work in bronze.

  Emily had a series of painterly landscapes based on Somerset, where she came from. They were in earthy colours with the occasional hint of lavender – conservative, but accomplished, while Beth had turned to photography and her own face. There were twenty-five framed photos of her and her flicky hair, detailing minuscule changes of expression – nightmare, having her all over the wall.

  I needed to stop looking at other people’s work. It wasn’t good to compare myself, not at this late stage. I returned to my designated area and began to pack away a large 3D model I’d made a few weeks before.

  “Are you not using that, Mia?” Graham asked.

  “No, I’ve moved on to something else.”

  “I thought it looked interesting. What’s it about?”

  “It’s about all the dirty old men.” I bubble-wrapped a giant model of a Viagra pill. I’d made an eel-shaped creature out of enlarged Viagra pills, hearing aids, and incontinence pants, porn videos and Saga holiday brochures and sprayed them all Viagra violet-blue – inspired by the items I’d sent Flood. I called it: Whatever You Do, Don’t Take Your Eyes Off It. I’d liked it at first but changed my mind. “I’m dumping it.” I kicked it aside. “Graham, can you do me a favour and hold something up for me?” I picked up an A3-size framed work that I’d finished the night before.

  “Whereabouts do you want it?”

  I pointed at the wall, at eye-level. “Try there.”

  He held up the piece, “How’s that?”

  “Down a little, about an inch, that’s good. Hold it there while I grab a pencil.” When I turned back Graham was studying it and I didn’t want to interrupt. I wanted his reaction. We’d been studio neighbours for three years and I rarely felt anything impressed him.

  “When did you do this, Mia?”

  “It’s all recent, I have a whole series.”

  “It’s quite a departure.”

  “They’ve taken hours.”

  “It’s feminine and yet tough. Can I see the rest of them?”

  “I’ve only got three down here. I’ve still got a few to do. It’s going to be another all-nighter.” I passed him the other two pieces I had with me.

  Graham nodded. “I haven’t seen you do anything like this before.”

  It would take all night – my own fault for getting my act together so late in the day.

  Kelly came in to see me around midnight. “How’s it going?”

  I was at my desk in the small pool of light from the Anglepoise. It was the only way I could carry out such intricate work so late at night.

  “Why didn’t I think of doing this twelve months ago?”

  “That’s not how it is for people like us. We have to take it to the wire.”

  “What did we do for the last three years?”

  “We had a good time.” She smiled. “I’m making coffee, do you want one?” Kelly needed a break from filling the intricate display boxes she’d built. “I’m still struggling with the titles,” she said. “What do you think about Walthamstow?”

  “It’s about more than where you’re from though, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I thought call one that, and then one looking at somewhere we’re all supposed to aspire to, I dunno. God, I just wish it was over, I’ve had enough.”

  We sat in the kitchen with our coffee. “This time tomorrow it’ll all be over.”

  “Yeah, roll on tomorrow. We’ll be partying,” Kelly said.

  “Start with the free wine at the private view.”

  “I’ll be drinking before that.”

  “Vodka here first, then the private view, Ruby’s and a club...”

  After a few hours’ sleep, I woke first and gave Kelly a shout, then we packed up the last of our work and rushed down to college where the studio was abuzz with frantic activity as everyone assembled their shows.

  The morning passed so fast in a Pro-Plus headachy fog. It was as though I was there but not really there. Still, my eleven works were hung in the nick of time, and my sketchbooks arranged below on a small, white box.

  “Not bad, housemate.” Spencer gave my arm a playful punch. “Like it.”

  I went to see his work: three stormy canvases thick with paint. “They’re certainly you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Moody – unpredictable.”

  “I resent that.” He smiled.

  “It’s twelve o’clock.” Mike Cherry clapped his hands. “Time’s up, ladies and gentlemen, everyone out, thank you very much.”

  The deadline had passed. There was nothing more we could do but hang out in the sunshine for the afternoon, on the grassy hill in the Arboretum alongside a hundred or so other students who were relaxing before the reality hit that they had to find something else to do with the rest of their lives.

  The private view was that evening. I chose a simple, silver shift dress and pinned up my hair. Kelly went for black linen trousers and a white shirt and Tam wore a fitted black top and denim skirt.

  I poured out large tumblers of vodka in my room.

  “To us.” Kelly made a toast.

  “Thank God it’s over,” I said.

  “I suppose we’ll all end up with shitty summer jobs,” Tamzin said.

  “You haven’t applied for Butlins again, have you?”

  Tamzin shook her head. “One summer of that was enough.”

  Kelly looked down. “The job offers haven’t exactly been flowing in. My friend Dan, from back home – you know the one doing history – he’s been offered a place on one of those graduate training schemes in the city.”

  “Be boring though,” Tam said.

  “Don’t you think we’ll all end up doing something boring? At least he’ll get decent pay.”

  “Hello girls.” Slug peered round the door, followed by Spencer.

  “Clean out a glass and you can have some vodka,” I said.

  For the last month no one had washed a thing unless they needed it themselves. The sink was piled high with pans and dishes, as were the drainer and worktops.

  Slug tracked down a clean saucepan. “Quarter full will do,” he said, before revealing a couple of old, chipped mugs. “Who’s going to be at this thing tonight then?” he said.

  “I heard the two Mikes have invited a few influential people,” Spencer said. “They usually sell a lot of work.”

  “That’s because the college takes a cut,” I said. “They’ve done a bit of marketing for once.”

  Kelly shrugged. “It’s a bit of fun. I’m not expecting anything more.” And neither was I. I certainly didn’t expect Flood to show up.

  Thirty-three

  Exterior, the glass entrance to the university’s Bonington Building: the camera moves into the foyer where a sign reads: ‘Fine Art Degree Show’, and down a corridor into a maze of board partitions that slice up the studio space.

  There are paintings, installations and sculptures: Spencer’s seascapes, Beth’s self-portraits, and Kelly’s intricate boxes of found objects. The camera slowly paces a route round the boards checking what’s on show as well as filming the young crowd, some of whom turn towards the camera and nod, smile o
r make faces and peace signs.

  “Jack, good to see you,” Mike Cherry says, wine glass in hand. “Had a good look round? What do you think, a vintage year?”

  “I’ve only just arrived. I’ll get back to you on that.”

  The camera gently sways, taking in daubs of colour, a manic video-art piece, a bronze sculpture of a bulging rucksack and something else. Briefly, he pauses at a set of eleven, wall-hung works. It’s my work, there on film and he’s looking at it.

  He utters something under his breath and then walks back outside. He stops, his breathing heavy.

  Twenty or so metres away, a large car draws up, a Bentley. A uniformed chauffeur gets out and opens the door and Nicholas Drake climbs out.

  The camera dips towards the pavement and in a wonky fashion shifts back to the glass entrance, as Flood hurries back inside.

  Thirty-four

  The private view for our degree show was no more than a party with free drinks, as far as I was concerned. I was up for it though. I felt good. My hair in a messy up-do had worked and my dress was flattering and despite the recent lack of sleep my skin was clear and my usual heavy liquid eyeliner had gone on in a perfect line with an upward flick at each outer corner.

  “Where’s the wine?” Tamzin wasn’t taking any chances after the drink ran out at the post-fashion-show party the year before.

  The studio-turned-art gallery was filling up fast with college staff, family, friends and the occasional interested party. Kelly joined her parents and elder brother and Spencer and Slug chatted with some guys from Photography while I looked around for Jason, Donna and Warren (whom I’d invited but were unlikely to come due to work).

  “Show me round.” Tam linked arms.

  First up was a painted triptych with an enlarged close-up of the stamen and interior of some exotic flowers. “That’s a bit Georgia O’Keeffe,” Tam said, and moved on to Graham’s bronzes of left luggage.