The Girl by the River

by Sheila Jeffries

  ‘You showed him Tessa’s paintings?’ Freddie was even more shocked. ‘I don’t think she’s going to be happy about that. Those pictures are private to her.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ Kate said, ‘it got her IN!’

  ‘Even the one . . . with the angel – did you show him that?’

  ‘He picked it out,’ said Kate. ‘You should have seen his face, Freddie. He stared at it with such an intent, intelligent look in his eyes. Then he stared at me with a piercing gaze, and he said, ‘This girl is a visionary – she needs to be here – we have an extraordinarily good art teacher who will know exactly how to nurture Tessa’s talent.’ He said they could get her into the best art college in the country!’

  Kate paused to take a breath. Her bright brown eyes looked at him expectantly. ‘Well, say something, Freddie.’

  ‘A visionary? Is that what he called her?’ Freddie shook his head. The word swam through the dark waters of his mind, like Tessa, so long ago, swimming naked and afraid across the Mill Pool. A visionary! His thoughts rolled back, fourteen years, to Madame Eltura. She had used that same word. He thought of the sealed envelope now lying in the secret drawer of Granny Barcussy’s bureau. Should he open it? Was now the time? Or should he destroy it? If those words got into the wrong hands . . . ‘But he hasn’t even met Tessa,’ he objected. ‘Surely he’s not daft enough to award a scholarship to a girl he hasn’t met! Even I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘That’s arranged,’ Kate said, beaming at him joyfully. ‘He wants us to take her there for an interview – a chat, he said – after school today. I said we’d go.’

  ‘So . . . you want me to take you in the car?’

  ‘Yes please, dear. I’d be so proud to arrive there with you in our lovely car.’

  ‘And . . . you want me to agree to this?’

  Kate gazed at him trustingly. ‘Of course, dear. It goes without saying. We must support Tessa. It’s a golden opportunity for her. Let’s not stand in her way.’

  ‘She’s more likely to stand in her own way.’

  ‘Then we must talk her round. You know how unhappy she is at the grammar school. She can’t wait to be fifteen and leave – then what will she do? Work in the shoe factory? What else is there round here, Freddie? Can you really see Tessa on a factory assembly line sticking soles on shoes for the rest of her life? When she could go to Hilbegut and spend two wonderful years doing Art and English which is what she loves. She can take her A levels there and get into Art College. Wouldn’t you have loved a chance like that?’

  ‘Ah – I would have,’ Freddie said, feeling Kate’s enthusiasm again sucking him towards a place he didn’t want to explore. ‘Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to let her go and have a look at this man and his fancy scholarship.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Tessa said wearily. She wanted to put steel in her voice, and in her eyes. Ice blue, blade sharp steel. She had used it frequently, but today the energy she needed to manifest it just wasn’t there. At the end of the school day, she wanted to crawl into a cave and be left alone. Her mother knew that, and mostly respected it. So why were BOTH her parents dragging her out to see this intimidating school with its hordes of horrible boys? And why today? ‘You know I hate Thursdays,’ she added.

  ‘Well, this could be your lucky Thursday.’ Kate turned in the front seat of the Wolseley to look at her daughter’s mask of a face.

  Like Freddie, Tessa saw the glitter in Kate’s eyes. Delusion, she thought. Mum just can’t stop believing she can make me into someone else.

  She glanced miserably at the river valley, and a train burst out of the hills and sped over the viaduct, like a symbol of her escaping freedom. Tessa waited for Freddie to say what she knew he would say.

  ‘Ah – that’s The Cornishman.’

  Tessa watched his eyes in the driving mirror and thought they looked wistful. Did he share her secret dream? Maybe he does want to escape, she thought, and he’s trying to conform to what Mum expects.

  Since her meeting with Art, Tessa had built the dream of running away to Cornwall. She would go on The Cornishman. She’d even taken to timing her walks with Jonti so that she could watch that train go through, and feel the fierce energy of it reinforcing her dream. Once she had leaned over the bridge and thrown a moon daisy onto its roof as it thundered through the town. ‘Take my love to Art,’ she’d said, aloud. But when the train had gone, the moon daisy lay forlornly on the track, dying and discarded.

  Her dream was so secret that she hadn’t written it in her diary. Kate or Lucy would read it and make a fuss. Sometimes Tessa felt her mind was like a vast museum of dreams, with more and more archives and exhibits in glass cases to which she alone held the keys.

  ‘Can’t you tell her, Dad? I’m not going.’ Tessa looked at Freddie’s eyes in the driving mirror. Cornflower blue, and glistening with secret thoughts which he kept firmly under the tweed cap he always wore. Today it was his best one, clean and grey like lichen on tree bark.

  ‘You let me do the driving, Tessa,’ he said. ‘If I go arguing with you we’ll end up in the ditch.’

  The narrow road across the Levels made this a serious possibility. One wheel on the spongy grass verge and a car would roll into the peat-black rhyne below. Tessa knew the rhynes were fifteen foot deep, and some of them yielded up blackened stumps of prehistoric trees which the dredger had dumped along the banks. She stared into the tea-brown water, wishing she was a carefree child again, searching the banks for the green shells of freshwater mussels.

  She thought about the look in her mother’s eyes. It was screening sadness. In her diary, Tessa had written of their ‘summer of discontent’. Until that summer, she thought her mother’s optimism was invincible. Lucy had been there like a bright star, until the Weymouth week, and suddenly the family’s golden child had turned hostile and hormonal.

  To Tessa, it had felt like a thunderstorm, brooding with anger, firing barbs of stinging rain. The storm was inside their home, under beds and under tables, billowing around heads and hearts. It was inside Lucy. Even Tessa missed the old Lucy. The new, resentful, bolshie Lucy rarely wanted to talk to her now or do any of the things they had done together. Increasingly, her parents were turning to Tessa to salvage their dreams. She began to feel responsible for their happiness.

  The tyres crackled over the beechnut carpet and the car swept up the drive to Hilbegut School. Tessa made up her mind to be polite but uncooperative.

  ‘You look smart, Daddy,’ she said as Freddie got out of the car.

  ‘’Tis me wedding suit,’ he said. ‘Weddings and funerals.’

  ‘And special occasions. Like this golden opportunity for our daughter,’ Kate said, her face radiant as she led the way in.

  Freddie took Tessa’s arm. He looked into her eyes. ‘You be proud,’ he said. ‘Proud of yourself and what you can do. I’d have given anything for a chance like this, Tessa.’

  The headmaster came out to meet them, and all Tessa saw were his ancient eyes finding hers, like a man high above her on a tall ship, throwing a lifeline down as she struggled in the cold deep ocean. She had no choice but to grasp it.

  ‘Tessa!’ he said, as if he’d found a diamond in the sand. ‘I’m honoured to meet you.’

  Tessa took the hand he held out to her, and felt its bones squeezing her bones. She looked at his aura and saw a flare of aquamarine and white with a tired shell of a man lurking inside. He doesn’t want to die, she thought, he really wants to be here, and he wants to meet ME. She didn’t dare to speak, but gave him a smile, from her eyes.

  Mr Perrow shook hands with Freddie, holding onto his hand for a long time as the two men studied each other’s eyes.

  ‘I thought we’d go over to the Art Department.’ Mr Perrow took them along the side of Hilbegut Court and across the yard to what had once been the stables and coach house. Tessa followed, staying close to her father. They passed a group of boys who were standing under a big horse chestnut tree, with books and folders und
er their arms. They glanced curiously at the girl with the chestnut hair and pale blue eyes, appraising her; one of them, with a quiff of hair falling across his face, eyed her up and down. Tessa set her face to mutinous and stony. She turned her head away from them.

  Mr Perrow showed them in to a spacious studio with a high glass roof. Immediately, Tessa felt a change. The energy in there was calm and beautiful, like a glade in the woods. The walls were covered in colourful artwork. Tessa glanced at her father, seeing his eyes light up with interest.

  ‘Ooh, isn’t it lovely?’ Kate said. ‘And I remember this as a stable block.’

  They were introduced to Mrs Appleby, the art teacher, a pale-skinned, pale blonde creature with luminous eyes and a soft voice. She wore a denim smock covered in paint, a tie-dyed orange and purple skirt, and open-toed sandals. ‘Tessa! How wonderful to meet you, dear,’ she said. ‘I hope we can work in harmony.’

  Tessa looked at her, intrigued. Was this enchantress actually a teacher? She drifted around the studio and Tessa followed her silently, surprised at the variety of media. There were fat tubes of paint, and more brushes than she’d ever seen, boxes of charcoal, and trays of pastels in wonderful colours. There were stacks of sugar paper in different shades, there was cartridge paper, and luxuriously textured ‘Bockinford’. ‘And these are something new,’ said the enchantress, showing her some brand new boxes of rich, brightly coloured sticks. ‘These are oil pastels – they’re gorgeous – I can’t resist them.’

  ‘I’ve never used pastels,’ Tessa said, and she itched to pick them up and stroke them across the paper. ‘I’ve never used anything except pencils and my paint box.’

  ‘Well, you can do all that here – and we have a pottery next door, and a textiles department where you can do tie-dyeing and Batik. You can make yourself some clothes.’ Mrs Appleby smiled beguilingly at her. ‘I made this skirt.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Tessa said. She could feel herself thawing, especially when Mr Perrow steered her parents away to look at the pottery and woodwork rooms.

  ‘Do you paint at school?’ asked Mrs Appleby.

  ‘Only because I have to,’ Tessa said. ‘We just do still life – bottles and fruit – I find it boring. I don’t see the point in copying something that you can see anyway. I think art should show you something you’ve never seen before.’

  Mrs Appleby touched Tessa’s sleeve like a butterfly pitching there. ‘I think we’re kindred spirits, Tessa. I’d really like to work with you.’

  ‘Shall I show you my paintings?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘Oh, please – do.’

  Tessa untied the ribbons of the portfolio, and took out her detailed pencil drawings of Selwyn. She laid them along the workbench in order. ‘They tell a story,’ she said, ‘and it’s a true story about a horse I’m in love with. She’s called Selwyn, and I worked all the summer with her at my friend Lexi’s place.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’ll tell you her story if you like,’ Tessa said, moving to the first picture. ‘This is Selwyn with tears in her eyes because no one understood what was wrong with her. Then, this is Selwyn making a face and being a bad tempered horse – see, she’s got sparks coming out of her aura.’

  ‘Her aura?’ Mrs Appleby raised her eyebrows. ‘Can you see auras?’ she whispered.

  Tessa checked to see if her parents were out of earshot. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes – I do.’ And when she spoke those words to another human being, she felt an archway of light open in her mind. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it. In case people think I’m mad.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re mad, Tessa. You’re a sensitive, gifted girl, and here, in this space, with me, you will be free to express yourself.’

  Before Tessa could stop them, the tears brimmed over and ran down her cheeks. The brimming river, she thought, it’s been dammed since I was seven years old. She brushed her tears away with the back of her hand. She wanted to tell Mrs Appleby that she’d tried to kill herself, and why. Instead she said, ‘I’ll go on telling you about Selwyn. Now – this next picture is Selwyn sharing her secret with me. Everyone assumed she was being bad-tempered and awkward, but she wasn’t. I listened to her feelings in a special way I have with animals, and she told me she had hurt her back trying to jump too high – and now she can’t bear anyone to ride her or even put a saddle on her – and she was devastated because she couldn’t jump anymore. So I told Lexi, and Lexi is trying to find a vet who can treat her.’

  ‘Poor Selwyn.’

  ‘I can ride now,’ Tessa said, ‘but I’ll never ride Selwyn, and she knows that, so she lets me lead her around and groom her and talk to her, and I try to send her healing for her painful back. She lets me touch it now.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Tessa!’

  Tessa smiled, and the smile felt warm and brand new. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I took the pictures onwards to help Selwyn recreate herself. This one is Selwyn as a unicorn in the pastures of heaven. And this last one is Selwyn as Pegasus, with wings, coming out of the sunlit clouds.’

  ‘These are extraordinary!’ Mrs Appleby raised her soft voice to a squeak of excitement. She touched the rippling mane with a manicured finger, as if she was touching the real Selwyn. ‘It must have taken you hours to do this, Tessa – what pencils did you use?’

  ‘I’ve only got two,’ Tessa said, ‘an HB and a 2B.’

  ‘So who taught you to draw like this?’

  Tessa shrugged. ‘I just can.’

  Mrs Appleby’s luminous eyes shone into hers. ‘It’s not only the drawing skill,’ she said, ‘it’s the emotion in them. These pictures mean something. They – they speak to my soul.’

  ‘My Dad has helped me. He does stone carving, and he used to paint. He helped me a lot when I was little, but now – well, he’s usually working. Shall I show you some more?’

  ‘Yes please – oh my goodness, what’s THAT?’ Mrs Appleby exclaimed as Tessa shyly pulled out the angel painting which had so impressed Freddie.

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk about angels, so I painted this one,’ Tessa said, and her heart began to beat faster with anxiety. Had she gone too far? She could hear the footsteps and voices from the studios beyond, and the squeak of Freddie’s best shoes. Her mother was doing most of the talking as usual.

  ‘This is a startling, surprising picture. It’s refreshing. I’ve never seen a painting like this before,’ Mrs Appleby enthused. ‘Has it got a story too?’

  ‘Yes, it has.’ Tessa was silent for a few seconds, feeling yet another dam bursting in her consciousness. She’d made up her mind to be mutinous and monosyllabic, and not talk. She’d thought such a strategy would put them off trying to entice her into the school with its horrible boys. But Mrs Appleby’s soft voice had somehow opened her up. After years of silence, Tessa found herself talking – freely – the way she talked to Selwyn. It felt as if the horse was in the studio with her, like a guardian who held the key to her soul. ‘Well, Dad was really upset with us one day,’ she began. ‘He’s rarely angry, but he was then, and the anger was hurting him so much, I couldn’t bear it. I looked at him to try and convey how deeply I understood, when I saw the angel in the room with him, like a sunrise. Her wings were reaching the walls and her face was so dazzlingly bright. I tried to tell Dad but he clammed up on me, so I tried to paint her. I did it really quickly.’

  She turned and saw her parents standing behind her, with Mr Perrow. Their eyes were shining with excitement, and pride. I can’t let them down, Tessa thought. She felt energised by the talk with Mrs Appleby. She felt a bond with her. I could do this – I could do art and English. If I can survive in this place. For now.

  They stood outside under the horse chestnut tree, talking about A levels and Art Colleges. Tessa glanced at her father. His eyes were sparkling, and he was fully engaged with the conversation. For once, he hadn’t noticed the sparrowhawk, but Tessa watched it hovering, high in the blue air above Hilbegut. She gasped as it swooped above them
. The underside of its blade-like wings were a rich cream, its hooked beak glinted and its eyes gleamed like tiny mirrors. And now, the high-pitched scream of a young swallow, snatched from the sky, and carried west. I am that swallow, Tessa thought.

  Chapter Fourteen

  TURNING POINTS

  ‘I’d like a chat with Tessa on her own,’ Mr Perrow said, ‘before we finalise our agreement and give you the formal offer of a two years’ scholarship. Is that all right with you, Tessa? You can have someone with you if you wish.’

  ‘I’ll come on my own,’ Tessa said, looking firmly at her parents and trying to ignore the flicker of fear that passed through Kate’s eyes. She read its warning message. It said something like, ‘Don’t tell him the whole truth.’

  She followed Mr Perrow into his study. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he led her to two bucket chairs, and sat down beside her. ‘Have you got any questions you’d like to ask me?’ he said.

  ‘Yes – do I have to wear my hair in plaits if I come to this school?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘No – it’s your hair,’ he said, ‘and you’re a young lady now, not a child.’

  ‘And do I HAVE to do games?’

  ‘No. It’s there if you want to do it.’

  ‘And do I HAVE to pretend to be like everyone else?’

  ‘Definitely not. We want YOU here, Tessa, not a sheep.’

  That made her smile. She fiddled with the soft ends of her chestnut plaits and wondered whether she dared unplait it right now in the headmaster’s office. Her mother would say, ‘That’s VERY bad manners’. She decided to wait until she was in the car, and then undo the hated braids.

  Mr Perrow’s eyes were searching hers. ‘Is there anything else I need to know about you, Tessa? Perhaps something your parents wouldn’t have told me?’

  Tessa hesitated. ‘There are lots of things like that.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a good thing. It can be a bad thing you want to be honest about,’ said Mr Perrow. ‘Trying to be perfect can destroy us! It’s better if we can be open about who we really are. If there is anything, Tessa, anything at all you think I should know, then please tell me now.’