In the van, the interrogation started all over again.
“Do you have a long drive home, Tom?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“We were wondering where you live.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. There are more fascinating topics.”
“Such as?”
“Unit three of your A level art.”
Groans.
“I mean it,” Tom said, and started telling them about the personal investigation element of their coursework. The prospect of writing up to three thousand words scared even the boldest of them. A neat way to head off the questions about his home life.
With so many girls desperate to know, it was inevitable that someone would find out. Ella came into the art room one morning and said, “It’s Boxgrove.”
“What is?”
“Where Tom lives. One of the year nines saw him drive out of the gates of some major estate outside the village.”
“Is he rich, then?”
“Got to be a millionaire, hasn’t he?”
“What’s he doing teaching if he’s as rich as that?”
“It’s a vocation.”
“Come again.”
“Like a mission, making the world a better place through art. He wants to spread the word.”
“You think?”
“Or he fancies schoolgirls.”
“If only.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Mel said suddenly.
“Listen up, people,” Jem said. “The Chosen One is going to tell us something amazing.”
Everything went quiet in the art room. Mel was the odd one out, the only girl whose fees were paid by a trade union. She would have been given an even harder time if she hadn’t been an original thinker.
“I didn’t say amazing. I was thinking about the Gibbon.”
“Groan. That’s a thought wasted.”
“I know she wasn’t popular, but it’s weird how she, like, went off suddenly without even saying goodbye to anyone. Even useless teachers get some kind of leaving present. The head didn’t seem to know where she’d gone.”
“Does it matter?”
“All kinds of stuff could have happened. She could have got knocked down by a car and lost her memory.”
“Or been kidnapped by Somali pirates,” Jem said.
“No one better pay the ransom, then,” Ella said.
“Yeah, she goes on about the golden mean and the pirates think she’s super rich.”
Mel was still being serious. “It’s just a mystery how a teacher can vanish and no one seems to care.”
“Obvious,” Jem said. “She did something the school wants to hush up, like running a knocking shop.”
“The Gibbon?” Ella said.
“I didn’t say she was on the game. I said running it, like a madam.”
“I can’t picture that.”
“The head would have a blue fit in case it got in the papers and no one wanted to send their kids here anymore.”
“You’re all being ridiculous,” Mel said.
“Now we’ve got Tom, we don’t want the Gibbon back. She was the pits.”
“I don’t want her back either.”
“Shut up about her, then. She’s history.”
Tom didn’t seem fazed when they told him they knew where he lived.
“Okay.”
“Aren’t you bothered, Tom?” Jem said. “You wouldn’t tell us when we asked.”
“Because it has bugger all to do with why I’m here, which is to show you lot how exciting art can be. Now you know where I live, perhaps we can talk about something useful, like unit three, your personal investigations—and that means being curious about some topic in art and not my totally boring private life. Remember, this is twenty-five per cent of your course mark.”
They’d been told before and they were ready. “I’m doing mixed media and new materials,” Jem said.
“Elephant dung?” Ella said with a grin.
Jem was amused. “And much more, like fabrics, cardboard, wood, porcelain.”
Tom nodded. “Sounds promising. How about you, Mel?”
“I was thinking of postage stamps.”
“Not another bloody mosaic,” Ella said.
“Typical,” Jem said. “Always something small.”
“Hold on,” Tom said, “let’s have some respect for each other. What is it about stamps you want to investigate?”
“Like how the designs are done and how they’ve changed. There was a man in the paper last week, an artist who’s just had his first pictures accepted by whoever decides, and there’s masses of stuff on the internet.”
“Good thinking,” Tom said. “Stamp design has come a long way since the penny black. It’s unusual and it could be a fascinating study. Yes, go for it, Mel. And you, Ella. What’s your area of investigation?”
“The nude.”
“Okay, okay,” Tom said over the laughter. “Get it over with. I take it you are serious, Ella? How do you propose to make this your special study?”
“Like the history from ancient Greece to Lucien Freud.”
Sarcastic coos.
“That’s good—but it’s a huge sweep of history. You might want to come at the subject in a slightly different way, like the nude in landscape, thinking of artists such as Cranach, Giorgione, Monet and Cezanne.”
“I suppose.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Or you could look at why the naked human form has such an enduring appeal for artists. Maybe interview some people who draw and paint from life. Credit is always given for original research.”
“She could interview you, Tom,” Jem said, ever ready to exploit an opening. “We’ve all seen your website.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. The external moderator might not like your own tutor being involved. Better, really, to talk to artists who have nothing to do with the school.”
“But how will she meet them?” Mel asked.
“Pose for them,” Jem said.
Everyone enjoyed the prospect while Ella turned pink and said, “Thanks a bunch.”
Tom said, “Some friends of mine join me most Saturdays for a session in my studio.”
The level of interest rose several notches.
“I’m thinking it would help you guys a lot to meet a bunch of serious artists and see how they work. It would be time out from your weekend, of course—”
“No problem,” Jem said at once. “We’re up for it, aren’t we, people?”
They made it obvious she’d spoken for them all.
“I was thinking three at a time.” Tom went on. “You could sit beside anyone you like and watch, or do some work of your own.”
“Cool,” Ella said. “Is it all day?”
“A couple of hours in the morning, starting about eleven, and a couple in the afternoon. I provide soup and a roll or salad.”
“Are they, like, guys?”
“A mixed group, men and women, some my age, some older. I’ll need to clear it with them first, but they should be okay with it.”
“Do you have a model?” Mel asked.
“Sometimes. Other days we’ll do still life or just work at our own projects. Being together is the main thing. So is it on?”
“How will we get there?” Naseem asked.
“That’s up to us, obviously,” Jem said. “Tom’s not going to collect us in the minibus, are you, Tom? I don’t mind giving two of you a lift in my Panda—that’s if I’m picked.” An offer that seemed to some of the others like a gun at Tom’s head.
Jem, Ella and Naseem were the lucky first three. Intense debate followed over what to wear, this being an out-of-school activity. Ella had no problem. She was a goth at weekends, with white foundation
and dark eyeliner, black leather and fishnets. Naseem would be sure to come in a gorgeous sari. Jem, with a free choice, was given so many suggestions that in the end she told no one what she’d decided—and on the Saturday put up her hair to make herself taller and wore a favourite red dress with lots of sparkle and spaghetti straps. Also platforms she needed to change into after driving the car. Not one of the outfits was suitable for art, but that hadn’t entered their heads.
They arrived late, at Jem’s suggestion. “They’ll think we’re only a bunch of schoolgirls if we get there on time.”
So at 11:20 they drew up at the gate of Fortiman House, a mile along a small road out of Boxgrove, and turned down the car radio.
High walls surrounded the property and there was a double gate of wrought iron.
“Awesome,” Ella said.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Naseem said.
“Positive.” Jem was checking her face in the rear view mirror.
“Shall I see if I can open it?” Ella said. They were all nervous.
Just then, a middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket, jeans and wellies approached the gate from the other side. He was carrying a trug. “Morning, young ladies. Are you visiting?”
“We’re artists,” Ella said, “here to join the Saturday group.”
“And liven it up,” Jem said, becoming bold again.
“They do their art in the stables. Drive straight up to the house and leave the car where you see the others. I’m Ferdie, by the way. I’ll open up.”
“Cheers, Ferdie,” Jem said, as they drove through, and then asked the others, “Was he after a tip, do you think?”
“Some hopes, from three hard-up schoolgirls,” Ella said.
“Students.”
“Still hard up.”
Along the gravel drive all chatter stopped. Ella’s first reaction of “awesome” was the only word for Tom’s house, a massive flint building with seven gables along the front and a pillared entrance. Several cars were lined up, including the red MG and a yellow Lamborghini. Tom was waiting nearby and waved them into a space.
“Trouble finding us?” he said, opening the car door. “I was wondering if you’d decided to go shopping instead.”
“I must change my shoes,” Jem said.
“Good thinking,” Tom said. “Comfort is the name of the game.” But when he saw the platforms going on, it became obvious comfort wasn’t high in Jem’s priorities. Tom didn’t comment. Neither did he say anything about the others’ outfits. Naseem was in a peacock blue sari and Ella’s goth outfit was little more than a basque over black lace.
“Did you bring sketchbooks?”
None of them had—not even Naseem.
“Ah, well, I’m not short of paper. We have a model today, so we got started on time.”
The stables weren’t recognizable as a place where horses had been kept. The building must have been gutted and reconstructed with large picture windows and a raked roof with dormer windows.
“If you’re wondering how a teacher can afford a conversion like this, I can’t,” Tom told them. “All of this belongs to my old man, Ferdie.”
There was a moment to take in the name.
“We just met him,” Ella said. “We thought he was the gardener.”
“Dad grows orchids. They’re in all the shops. Been lucky in life, and so have I, by association. Let’s go in. Don’t open the door too wide or there’s a wicked draught.”
They edged inside, where a surprise awaited. The model was male.
Ella mouthed, “Oh my God!”
Artists and easels were ranged around the nude man, hairy, dark and with a beer belly, who faced the door in a standing pose on a table, his arms held high, hands clasped behind his neck.
Tom handed boards, sheets of paper and charcoal to his students. “Why don’t you move about and decide where you’d like to be?”
All three made straight for the rear view.
Twenty minutes in, the model was given a break. He did some twisting and flexing before stepping down from the table. An unnerving moment. What if he came over and struck up a conversation? Relief all round when he picked up a black silk gown and pulled it on.
Tom had been doing some drawing of his own. He came over to Ella. “How’re you getting on?”
Even she could see hers was a poor start.
“Come and see some of the others. You may get a different take on life drawing.” He walked over to a black man in a Rasta beanie hat who had been working in a sketchbook and had moved position several times during the session. “Do you mind, Manny? I’d like Ella to see the sort of thing you do.”
Manny gave him a suspicious look. “You kidding, man? I’m just having fun.”
“That’s the point. Ella isn’t . . . yet. If she sees your work, she’ll loosen up a bit.”
“You think so?” With a shrug and a sigh, Manny handed the sketchbook to Tom. To Ella, he said, “This is how I get found out.”
Tom opened the book and flicked over some pages. “Was this today’s effort?”
“Today’s, sure,” Manny said. “Effort, not so sure.”
The page was filled with small cartoon figures drawn in ink with a minimum of strokes that captured the essence of the characters. He’d drawn just about everyone in the room except the model. Ella recognised Tom straight away from the mop of unruly hair over an exaggerated nose and chin.
“Is that allowed?” she said, smiling.
“It is here. Anything goes.”
“Is this me with my friends?” Ella asked, pointing to three young females pictured in a huddle looking furtively over their shoulders.
Tom grinned. In a few skilful lines, Manny had caught the girls’ embarrassment.
“You must be a professional cartoonist,” Ella said.
“No way,” Manny said. “Just the dogsbody round here.”
“Manny’s employed here keeping the garden under control.” Tom said. “Mowing, hedge-clipping, leaf blowing and tree surgery. Damned hard work.”
“Anyone asks,” Manny said. “I’m the estate manager. Saturdays he lets me hang out here. Says it’s good for my soul.”
Tom moved on to the next artist. “This is Geraint. He works with a palette knife.”
Ella managed a twitchy smile at Geraint, a tall, gaunt man wearing a butcher’s apron marked with paint. Sunken, bloodshot eyes looked at her over half-glasses. Geraint didn’t return the smile.
“See how the form is starting to emerge on the thighs,” Tom said. “The slashes of blue and brown are bringing the lighter areas forward. It’s so much more than simple shadow.”
“Fantastic.”
Geraint wiped the paint from the knife and she thought she heard him say, “Bloody liar.”
More knives of various sorts, from table cutlery to what looked awfully like a stiletto, were ranged on the donkey bench beside Geraint.
Ella took a step away.
“There’s just time to look at Drusilla’s work,” Tom said, moving on to the next easel, a pencil drawing difficult to interpret.
Drusilla came over from the window, a willowy woman in corduroy trousers and an ethnic sweater that looked as if it was made from an unwashed fleece. She was more gracious than Geraint. “There isn’t much to show for my efforts, dear,” she said. “It’s a slow process. I don’t draw the model. I look at the shapes the background makes against his outline and if I get them right the figure will emerge. We all have fixed ideas about the way the human shape is formed, arms, legs, torso and so on. By ignoring all that, I trick my brain into producing a more honest image, if you understand me.”
“I think so.”
“Have you drawn from life before?”
“Only other students in their clothes.”
“Much more difficult.”
Tom said, “The headmistress would have a fit if they worked from the nude.”
“It was the same in my day,” Drusilla said. “All I ever got to draw was a vase and I was the despair of the art teacher. I could never get the ellipse right.”
The model had mounted the table again.
“Is the model always male?” Ella asked Drusilla when Tom had moved away.
“Davy? We draw him more than anyone else. He’s good at it and he’s been coming for years. But we also have women from time to time. By the way, don’t let Geraint get to you. He’s a pussycat really.”
With another posing session under way, Ella checked the other artists. An overweight woman opposite, her hands black from charcoal. The man to her left wearing a clerical collar. Another man looked about eighty. Next to him was a tall woman in expensive designer clothes.
In the lunch break, there was a chance for the Priory Park trio to take their tomato soup and apple juice to a bench outside the barn and talk about the experience so far.
“I nearly had a fit when we walked in,” Jem said. “I didn’t know where to look.”
“Haven’t you seen a willy before?” Ella said.
Hoping she sounded nonchalant, Jem said, “Of course I have. It was just, like, so unexpected. Be honest, Ell, you were embarrassed, too. I thought they wore a posing pouch.”
“Why should they? Women don’t wear anything. My sister went to a hen party where they were all given pencils and paper and supposed to draw a buck naked model. She said he was a hunk who worked out at the gym and he had a good laugh with them. Not like this guy. He’s gross.”
“That’s mean.”
“It’s true.”
“You want a chunky model. Better for drawing.”
“Listen to the expert.”
“I was shocked, too,” Naseem said. “I hope my parents don’t ask to see what I drew when I get home.”
“Don’t,” Jem said. “My Dad would be round the school Monday morning. We can say we watched the artists at work, which is true. Let’s agree on that, shall we?”
“But we can tell the others at school,” Ella said.
“We absolutely must. This is too good to waste. What did Tom say to you in the break?”
Down Among the Dead Men Page 3