Schooling

by Heather McGowan

  When Gilbert leaves, it takes a year for the door to close behind him. In his attempt to shut the door silently. For a year she watches the light in the stairwell outline the back of his neck, the strange position of his arm stretched out behind him, shoulder. It could be that she is an artist after all, for her thoughts are of the difficulties of depiction, capturing that kind of foreshortening, darks, the greys, the browns of shadow, creases mapping his journeyed shirt. What a challenge to show discrepancy in similar colors. When it is all about shade. In the Felmar potting shed this summer she can try that cleft of corridor, Gilbert’s closing, closing.

  He leaves, Giddy’s tidying noises have long since ceased. Cold feet, square they are, a line of toes, taking out the nightgown Father gave her for this trip. Pyjamas are better, gowns coil up to trap you at night. Lacy neck scratches. Anne Boleyn, does Father think. Lace makes a lovely nest for a guillotined head. Bloody on a doily. Ouch says the head. Henry the eighth, drumstick big as a man’s arm. Reaching for the lamp, the house quiet, before the moth. Painting tomorrow, drawing at least. Which is familiar.

  Before walking out to examine the light, or today, over the fields to draw cows, before meeting the others, Thérèse, Piers, bloody Mrs. I., it is different. Evident at breakfast, well, evident enough the night before in that leaving, his good-night, his door-closing, the family jaw-bone. Evident, as if that isn’t enough, which it is, in the breakfast kedgeree and bread Gilbert cuts too thickly to go down the toaster. Coming down to the smell of fish and rice, Giddy’s fuss. Gilbert hovering with his tongs, general debate on the dimensions of toast, much ado about the freshness of milk. In the chaos, neck bloody, well blotchy from lace, tired from the moth, making her way through practically the entire pot of tea. It will have her jittery on the cliffs.

  Dreaming still? Gilbert sets new, thin toast before her. Behind him, Giddy. Trying for that good girl look, concentrating on butter application. Butter so cold it rips her toast. Hide the tearing. With jam or lemon curd. But there’s only foul marmalade for disguise. Gilbert’s hair in greasy morning clutches, a hand on her back as he pours more tea.

  Catrine.

  Inred leans against the fence looking up at her.

  I’ve been watching you. You have an innate sense of light. Do you know what innate means? Or intuition?

  Did she. Well, what did the woman think it had been all along.

  I notice where you choose to shade, where you take more care, where you dash off a detail. It’s intuitive . . . propping her badcow against a hip, Inred turns to a clean sheet . . . Perhaps if I align myself with you, the cows will stay still for me.

  Vicar pulls at his muffler . . . They’re well aware of how you see them, Lucy. As so much a pound.

  You cut up their families . . . she agrees with Vicar.

  But you like a nice beefburger yourself sometimes, am I right?

  No, where I go to school they’re more like cowpats.

  Dear me. Too dry. The trick is . . . Inred surveys the cow in front of her . . . Half a chopped onion mixed into the meat.

  I prefer shepherd’s pie . . . looking over at him. No sign Gilbert has any sense of hearing.

  Well, it seems I was making excuses, the cows are quite still but my drawings are even worse.

  The woman reminds her of someone.

  Do I, pet? Who’s that then?

  A lady in the town where I go to school. Beatrice her name is, she has a dog named Roger . . . shading a cow with an innate sense of light . . . She’s wise. Very wise.

  And your family? In England with you?

  The big cow turns to look, Well? . . . In a village north of London.

  Gilbert stops by . . . Are we all relinquishing our brains?

  You must like to visit them there.

  He speaks to Piers . . . Don’t be so nervous son, the mistakes interest me . . . on to Thérèse, guiding Thérèse’s hand as he once guided hers.

  Yes, I like visiting a lot.

  Understand, Thérèse, feel. You’re not positive where your hand will go, that’s the sense we’re after, hum. Lost control.

  Mr. Gilbert . . . Inred displays her work . . . If I lose any more control I’m liable to have the law out.

  Gilbert chuckles, no other word for it, even old Inred looks surprised . . . That’s exactly what I’m looking for, Lucy.

  Always preferred sheep myself . . . Inred wipes her hands on her front, it is her common gesture.

  I prefer sheep too . . . looking cow hand cow hand, then trying for that lost control Gilbert so loves, cow cow cow, letting her hand go. Free the hand from the tyranny of the brain let go let go.

  You have the most extraordinary hair . . . Inred stays focused on the cows, pencil moving madly as if her hand has no obligation to her body . . . Like wild tentacles. How on earth does your mother manage it? But then you’re a boarder. I forgot. You’re staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  Yes, I’m a boarder. I don’t know how she manages . . . back to the field of cows.

  Clips. She used to pull it back with clips. The metal slides drew the hair off her forehead like a set of theatrical curtains only her hair was too heavy, the play was always over before she reached the bus stop.

  We all have our crosses to bear . . . Inred pushes a finger into the dense bundle piled on her head . . . As you can see.

  Giddy has what they call strawberry hair. When they arrived that night, the night of their arrival the end of the drive the night of the moth, Giddy sat at the kitchen table with a cup in front of her, solitaire and a straight back, hair splayed out across that straightness in a way that was immediately apparent as an unusual way. And to be sure, in the morning all that strawberry was wound into submission. More straw than berry. That night, yes the night of the you know what, while Gilbert prattled, taking coats and mufflers, too many movements for the task at hand, describing unnecessary descriptions, weather conditions, missing signs and was the haddock slightly off or was he indulging his hypochondriac vein, the one he really tries to suppress and, Oh how good it is to see you again can I make you another cup and what about you Catrine, waltzing around the room, bouncing off walls like one of his famous electrons. In the midst of Gilbert’s bouncing and cheer, she and Giddy silently sizing each other. The conclusion being something along the lines for both of them of I see you exactly . So, Giddy said, You are this Catrine. She did not continue with the I’ve heard so much about line, but it was implied or perhaps that was only an American saying, it is difficult to remember sometimes. Yes. Sit down and let my son make you something hot to drink. Was there a something in that My Son or was it only her imagination. Yes, Catrine, it doesn’t have to be tea, love would you prefer cocoa? Cocoa, yes please, Mr. Gilbert. She said it quickly so no one, although since there was only Giddy that really meant Giddy, would for one moment sense anything unusual. For instance, the use of the word love like that, like Love. Yes, casual. Odd, not only in that Gilbert has never said it before, not only in that it was clear that if old Giddy were not sitting right there, Love would not have been uttered, but odd how Love like that, inserted in a cocoa query in the kitchen, meant nothing. Less than silence. And he having just kissed her on the car like he did. So she looked at her hands and at Giddy’s hair and projected that it would be restrained the next time she saw her. That being the following morning at breakfast at kedgeree and too thick toast. And so it was.

  When I was a girl . . . Inred has been speaking this entire time.

  And when Gilbert went to telephone Vicar to ensure the old Deux Chevaux was up and running and could safely transport certain members of the party, she and Giddy sat in silence over the remains of egg and fish. When it came right down to it, Giddy was one of the least giddy people she had ever met. He says, my son does, that you’re a natural. Oh, I’m not so good really but he teaches me. I was sorry to hear about your mother. She could hear Gilbert at the phone in the corridor outside the kitchen hear his abrupt Good-bye. He saved her. Or he didn’t, one or
the other. We’re off then, he said, one hand at his stomach, still preoccupied with the previous night’s haddock. And Giddy with her tight hair scraped back, stood to fuss about sandwiches Gilbert assured her they didn’t need.

  But you have hair to write home about, don’t you . . . Inred sketches furiously . . . I’ll tell you another secret, a woman I know lives toward the bay has quite a problem with hair loss. It’s a constant amazement, how you decay. The horrors I could relate. For example, when you wake in the morning, your face holds the night’s grooves, the wrinkles of your pillow. Imagine the elasticity in your skin . . . fingersnap . . . Gone.

  Lucy . . . Vicar in passing . . . What tales are you frightening the poor child with?

  Still, you’ve nothing to fear you’re—

  Fourteen.

  Goodness, I was never fourteen. Another thing, light. I can no longer read in sixty watts. It’s got to be a hundred these days. Subtleties of light are lost to you as you age.

  Lucy, many artists painted so-called subtleties well into their eighties and nineties.

  Vicar, this is girl chat now.

  Well, I never realized girl chat meant decay.

  Inred leans, confidentially . . . Men don’t understand. Another— I’m not sure I do.

  I should hope not, at fourteen. I’m not referring to the obvious creaks and groans, the arthritic bores, no, it’s the nuances that devastate. I mean I can tell you I see the other end of the spectrum, death-wise. Not a lot of room to couch it in my line. Death holds no secrets to a butcher. I’ve spent my life with muscles and organs.

  Organs? . . . Gilbert in passing, no doubt on his way to scold Piers for precious sketching . . . I have this sensation, Lucy . . . pushing at his stomach . . . Anything you can diagnose?

  Careful, she might treat you as she would a cow . . . Vicar chops at his throat.

  Watch that she doesn’t take a cleaver to me, will you?

  Very funny . . . Inred rests her savage pencil on top of the fence . . . Do you want my help, Mr. Gilbert?

  Yes please . . . hand still on stomach he’s been walking around like napoleon since this morning.

  Let’s have a look . . . Inred takes his face in her hands looks deep into his eyes . . . Umhm . . . pulls down one eyelid then the next . . . Umhm . . . places the back of her hand to his forehead . . . Umhm . . . pinches his wrist between her forefinger and thumb . . . Eat anything peculiar this morning?

  Well it’s been since yesterday.

  Now is the time to consider meandering cows, or watch Piers, note whether or not he has, after so many warnings, finally managed to revoke his German propensity for perfection in favor of an abandoned sense of the line. What could be the point of harking back to yesterday’s supper, half of which still rests on Gilbert’s handbrake, the other half of which proved so provocative.

  It’s certainly not food poisoning.

  I had this haddock, surely that must—

  No no . . . Vicar weighs in . . . Food poisoning happens immediately or not at all.

  And you’re not feverish.

  Now he glances at her and where the hell is she supposed to look. Hum . . . Gilbert’s hand absently traces light circles on his coat. Shall we get you back to the village? . . . Inred drifts back to drawing.

  Probably my imagination . . . Gilbert watches Inred return, moves to the vicar . . . Not much in the way of sympathy from the ladies. I’ll turn to you, Vicar.

  Don’t go giving me anything contagious, Mr. Gilbert. I’ve no interest in sharing your discomfort, though I’ll listen to your other woes.

  A short prayer for me or somesuch.

  Butcher pencils a tree . . . Good thing you’re not a ruminant, you’d suffer four times the pain.

  Well I could offer you Timothy, Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake—

  None on me, Vicar—

  —and thine often infirmities.

  —though the idea’s not a bad one.

  Piers appears . . . I have some brandy in my flask.

  I can’t condone shots of liquor in a cow field, Piers, this is a family outing.

  Your often infirmities.

  What’s that, Catrine? Ah yes, my often infirmities. Often delusions would be more like it. Those are some saucy cattle you’ve down on the page, Vicar.

  Mr. Gilbert, you know my limitations.

  Gilbert meets her eye . . . No such thing as limitations. Isn’t that right, Miss Evans?

  So you say.

  Right . . . Gilbert watches Thérèse . . . Take your pencil like this, forefinger along the top. That way it’s more difficult to make a precious mark.

  Finished rearranging Thérèse, Gilbert glances over. Peripherally he is hers always.

  Now he is beside her, squeezing next to Inred, taking her paper, leaning against the same fence that cuts her thighs.

  This line is strong, this one here . . . the top of his head, his nose as he speculates on the drawing . . . Are you comfortable up there? . . . Gilbert glances at her, he does that, those quick birdy movements.

  For now.

  How are you coming Mrs. Ingle? Cows behaving?

  It’s a different sort of drawing, Mr. Gilbert.

  Good good . . . Gilbert pulls himself up on the fence, whispers . . . Can’t bear you taller than me . . . swinging his legs around as he says . . . That’s what we’re after, Lucy . . . reaching for her sketchbook . . . May I see?

  Several cows, four sheets of intuitive pencil marks, an innate understanding of light, all products of a relinquished brain. She has talent for losing control.

  Gilbert’s chin pressed into thought . . . Interesting, what do you make of this?

  I changed my mind and began to draw something else.

  Excellent . . . he turns the page. Silence. His eyes move away from the drawing to his hand where it grips her book.

  That’s you.

  I see.

  You got in my eyeline when you went over to the vicar, so I drew—

  Well it’s remarkably unlike me.

  It’s a lot like you, you’re leaning against the fence, see and your hair—

  You choose to turn your back on all this . . . in a wave of his hand, Gilbert gathers the landscape, cows . . . In order to sketch some hideous teacher.

  I liked that tree behind you . . . watching a moody cow contemplate the horizon . . . Besides, you’re not.

  What?

  Hideous.

  And these points on my head, those would be my horns? Am I devil or bull?

  Your hair sticks up.

  One hand up to smooth . . . Lovely.

  Mostly I drew cows, see . . . riffling through pages to show that she can follow directions.

  I should be flattered, hum. That you would think me worthy of that sort of attention.

  You don’t think it’s good.

  Mr. Gilbert . . . the vicar, when excited, creates a whistling sound through his teeth.

  Yes, John . . . Gilbert turns but leaves two fingers on her sketch-pad to mark his place.

  There’s a yellow wagtail just above that second tree, do you see? So there is, you’re perfectly right, John . . . now to her . . . My opinion on good or not good is not the issue . . . now to the German . . . Piers, flip that sheet of paper over. You’re getting distracted.

  But sir, it’s becoming something—

  We’re anti-something.

  Piers turns to a fresh sheet of paper.

  Back to her . . . You’d do well to take a page from young Thérèse there, swift marks, lack of hesitation. I could point out your capacity for detail or these marks which are gentle but convey a sort of urgency.

  Those are the cows. What about my portrait of you?

  I think we should move on to a different setting. I sense the others—

  That time you did my portrait.

  Yes yes.

  Did you shove me behind the wardrobe with the blue woman? Certainly not.

  So it’s not some kind of colle
ction, then, of—

  What are you driving at?

  I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m driving at.

  Shall we move on then? . . . turning away, rubbing his stomach . . . Piers, Vicar?

  I’m getting at something here, Mr. Gilbert.

  We’ll wait then, Mrs. Ingle. No hurry . . . he turns back to her. You get nervous.

  Rubbish. About what?

  Me drawing you or—

  You’re exasperating me . . . leaning forward across her . . . Losing steam, Thérèse? Just a few minutes while Mrs. Ingle finishes.

  Sorry to hold everyone up, just want one to feel proud of.

  But when you paint me, I’m supposed to love it . . . watching Inred bend to her paper . . . You don’t listen, really, to what I’m saying.

  Catrine . . . Gilbert looks at her, she looks out to the cows.

  You think I’m not as good as you. You think I—

  Not true. Not true.

  And another thing . . . turning get him square in the eye . . . Mothers are not replaceable.

  What? What are you thinking?

  Neither are Rosies.

  I know that. What’s wrong? What’s different? . . . he takes his gaze to his left toward something she cannot see, then softly . . . Well, I suppose everything’s different.

  There was a moth.

  Sorry?

  Last night. In the bedroom. It kept me up, kept banging against the light.

  You kept the lamp on?

  No.

  How odd.

  Mr. Gilbert . . . Inred closes her sketch pad . . . I’ve about had it for these wretched beasts.

  Hooking down to her, Gilbert whispers . . . Please don’t do this, Catrine.