How does she manage to pee, I’d like to know. I would ask her but she won’t speak to me, and I do not wish to invade her privacy to the extent of following her to the Ladies. I do hang about in the corridor, however, and through a crack in a door leading to an office, see Stew, sitting in front of a computer monitor. I knock and go in.
‘What’s up, Stew?’ I say.
He says ‘Hi’ and leans back in his chair. He’s looking at a screen showing the gallery. I hadn’t realised the whole exhibition was being videotaped. ‘Is this part of it?’ I say. ‘Or is it just for security?’ You know how worked up people can get about art.
While I’m looking a man comes into the gallery and looks around. I imagine he’s thinking: ‘Is this it?’ Leaving Stew, who is biting his nails, I hurry back upstairs.
On the desk Judy is oddly quiet. The man is prowling round the empty pedestal. Again, I have the feeling, as I did with the man in the pub, that his face is familiar. Another good-looking fella. Hallelujah. Pity he’s interested in this stuff, though he keeps looking over at me. When Hannah comes back, she breaks silence at sight of the man. ‘Dad!’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’
So that’s it. This is Gordon Gifford. This is what he looks like at forty – unrecognisably handsome without a trace of blue ink.
But he has no time to answer because people are clumping up the stairs and Hannah has to get back up on her pedestal. She grabs the chair I was about to sit on and carries it over. Gordon offers her a hand up but she bats it away. Once in position she shoos him off, and he picks up the chair and brings it over to me.
‘Here,’ says Gordon to me. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Don’t we know each other?’ I say.
‘Do we?’ says Gordon. ‘Oh yes.’ He runs a hand through his hair, distracted. ‘Of course.’ But he says nothing else and goes to stand by the wall as the group comes in.
What do I expect – some declaration that he has loved me all his life and never been able to get my youthful beauty out of his mind? Hang on; he’s married anyway, isn’t he? So let him wait over there, arms folded, scowling at anyone who stares too long at his daughter.
Uncomfortable in his presence, the group – a family of tourists in shorts – does not linger. We hear them giggle and exclaim as they go down the stairs.
‘Dad,’ hisses Hannah, when this group has gone. ‘Go away.’ It appears she is embarrassed. Looking at Gordon’s body language, I would say the feeling was mutual and that, besides this, he considers her to be somehow in danger.
Gordon comes back every day, but shows no inclination to talk about old times. Just as well, as I would perhaps have felt a little awkward if we had become chummy. My review of Hannah’s work is, on the whole, unfavourable. In the circumstances, I cannot take both pieces of my editor’s advice. In this case, faithfully reflecting public opinion precludes me from appearing neutral.
The comments generated by the exhibition are overwhelmingly either bewildered, as in, ‘What?’ and ‘I waited for ages for something to happen’; or decidedly negative. ‘A bad case of Emperor’s New Clothes’ is a line I intend to quote. For me it sums up Buckington’s considered response.
Judy has been persuaded to provide me with photocopies of the comments sheets, in case my editor, or anyone else, requires proof that these are not my own words. I do also mention, of my own volition, that large numbers of people have attended, and I use the words ‘brave’, ‘audacious’, and ‘avant-garde’, because I find it rather touching that anyone could think of making a living with such rubbish. Hannah is, I’m afraid, like so many others before her, just playing at it, even if she has chosen to do this in a most difficult and embarrassing manner.
Every day she stands there, motionless, for far longer than an artist’s model would have to endure. She does not complain, neither does she waver. Such strength and dedication are admirable, but why is it any different from sitting, or standing, on a pole, or living in a glass box for forty days? That isn’t art; it isn’t even magic. Perhaps it is spectacle. That is all I can say.
On Thursday evening, I attend the ‘Interactive Opening’, having spent the day writing and rewriting my copy. In the end my editor accepts it despite the negativity of its tone, because I have shown him the comments sheets. I rejoice in being able to offer him the views of the majority.
There is quite a queue to get into the arts centre, headed by Hannah’s father. Gordon manages a pensive nod. I confess I am a little disappointed that he doesn’t seek my good opinion, but I gather that he does not care to have it, either for himself or for his daughter’s work. Something else is troubling him.
I do not have to wait in the queue, of course, but can go right in – except that I am locked out. Reduced to knocking, I am further embarrassed when the door is opened a mere chink and I find myself being scrutinised by a fierce woman I think I recognise.
‘Press,’ I say, holding up my pass.
‘I know who you are!’ barks the woman, acting out her role of guard dog. Of course she does. The recognition is now mutual and complete, though I don’t know her real name and can’t quite bring myself to address her as Brown Owl in this context.
‘Can I come in?’ I say.
‘You can,’ she says, ‘but whether you may is another matter.’
Oh, ha ha. ‘I’m expected,’ I persist.
‘Well, nobody told me.’
‘Nevertheless.’ I push the door and slide through. Once in, I ignore Brown Owl and sweep upstairs.
I’m surprised to see someone I know in the gallery. It’s the handsome stranger from the Boar’s Head, the one with the familiar, but unplaceable features. Judy is there too, twittering on, something about money (the soaring cost of birdseed, probably), but I manage to evade her.
‘Hi,’ I say to the handsome stranger, taking care not to call him that to his face. ‘We sort of met the other night.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you the art critic?’
I wonder how he’s come to hear about me. Does he mean ‘the art critic for the Buckington Bugle’ or ‘The Art Critic’?
‘What do you think of it?’ he says.
‘It’ isn’t actually happening at this point. The Pedestal and the Girl are hidden behind what looks like a white shower curtain.
‘Well, it’s different,’ I say, brightly, not wishing to make ‘cruel’ the first impression he has of me. Or the second. His first impression, thinking back to my behaviour in the pub, was probably ‘unfriendly’. I smile again, hoping to obscure that thought.
Just then the doors open and we part to let people through, though not without a look at each other that promises future conversation.
When the room is full, music begins to play, a tinkling, mechanical tune, such as you might hear from a musical box, very like the theme tune to Camberwick Green.
People stop murmuring and wait expectantly. Slowly, slowly, the shower curtain rises, like a white shroud, pulled up by a rope running through a pulley attached to the ceiling, unsheathing Hannah’s cling-filmed form, posed as before. Her father is standing very close, as if he’s afraid she might fall. Most people here have seen her already. I wonder why they’ve come back for more.
The music changes to a fanfare of trumpets and Stew emerges from behind a white screen, dressed in a white fencing outfit and carrying a foil. It is painted black, and this, together with Stew’s dark hair, stands out against the white walls, so that as he walks, head and sword seem to float.
As he approaches the pedestal he swishes a few cuts of the foil. ‘Ooh,’ says the crowd, moving back. Gordon goes into a crouch. Stew, in a classic lunge, leans forward and pushes an invisible button with the tip of his foil. As the pedestal begins to revolve, so Hannah comes to life. She looks bewildered, then, seeming to notice how high she is above the ground, falls to her knees, gripping the sides of the pedestal. Stew goes back behind the screen. Gordon stands up again, glancing anxiously at Hannah. Stew reappears with an axe.
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His intention, I presume, is to take the axe to the Pedestal, not to Hannah, but he doesn’t get a chance to swing it once, as Gordon puts a hand on his shoulder, which seems to have the same effect as a Vulcan death grip. Stew crumples to the floor. Hannah says, ‘Da-ad!’
‘Blimey,’ says someone. ‘Is this all part of the act?’
On the whole I’m sorry I haven’t been able to report the whole fiasco. I suppose if I was really keen on the job I would revise the story and email an update. However, I feel my original words will not only be justified, but seem lenient and forbearing in the circumstances. Besides, there has been no death to report: Gordon and Stew have been parted and the axe taken into custody. Hannah has left in what looked to me like a sulk. I have plenty of material for next week’s column. Besides, I’m keen to catch up with the mystery man.
I see my stranger talking to Judy and spot my opportunity to rescue him and earn his undying gratitude.
‘Have you met our new patron of the arts, Nathaniel Green?’ Judy says. ‘I was saying to you earlier; he’s buying the exhibition.’ She would say more, but people are moving towards the doors. ‘Duty calls!’ she says, and excuses herself to go stand by her collection box and offer audience response questionnaires.
Now I remember where I’ve seen him: in the newspapers. He’s a big collector, one of the biggest. What he says, sticks.
‘Mr Green,’ I say, ‘how can you?’
‘Nathaniel,’ he says, ‘or Ned; my friends call me Ned. You mean the practicalities of staging the work?’ He frowns and looks into the future: ‘Hannah will be exhibiting at different times of year and in different venues, to be arranged. Long term, I can see what you mean; she’ll get older. Well, that will be interesting too, don’t you think? And besides, I’ll hold the franchise.’ He brightens up now. ‘I could have exhibitions in countries around the world. Say, would you like to join me over the road for a drink?’
I go with him, gladly, to the Boar’s Head, and find myself with the opportunity to sit on the bar stool I slid from the first time we met. Taking up this position again, I bestow upon him my full smiling attention.
‘The possibilities are endless,’ he is saying. ‘You know, one of the things they might do is flay a layer off her, so that it hangs, like skin….’
‘What about her father,’ I say. ‘Is he going to turn up at every event?’
‘It makes for good publicity,’ he says. ‘But if it became a real issue we could even use a different Girl. It might not have the same energy, but I guess we could do it.’
‘And may I ask how much you’re paying for it?’ I say, which, if you consider my job, is hardly a rude question.
‘More than enough to create a great deal of interest,’ he says. ‘In fact, I think Gordon will see things differently when he’s had a sight of the cheque his daughter’s getting.’
I hesitate then say, ‘I wonder if a negative review would bring the price down.’
‘Don’t do me any favours on that score!’ he says, looking surprised and a little pleased. His eyes search mine, as if he wonders whether I am joking. ‘I know not everyone’s like you. They won’t get it straight away. But you know a big price attracts attention.’ He leaned in closer. ‘Between you and me, I don’t need to make the money back; it’s more important to back something I believe in; but I don’t see why I’d lose money on this one. Did you see the number of people there?’
He kindly refrains from pointing out that the Buckington Bugle is unlikely to have much effect on world opinion.
‘I guess she’s become a local celebrity,’ I say and glance over his shoulder at the bar clock. It’s ten to nine. ‘We finished early,’ I go on. ‘Do you think people got their money’s worth?’
‘Why don’t I tell you over dinner?’ he says.
‘I’d love to, Ned,’ I say. ‘But you know what? Could we make it tomorrow?’
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘You probably have a deadline.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do.’ I write down my phone number, swallow my drink and get down from the stool. Unsure whether to kiss him on the cheek, I stick out my hand; he takes it and pulls me towards him. Our cheeks touch and kisses whisper past our ears. With an apologetic look, I pull away. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘but you know how it is.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, putting his hand on the seat of my vacant bar stool. ‘I know: a deadline is a deadline.’
The New Adventures of Andromeda
‘Help?!’ calls Andromeda. No reply. The sea idles at her feet. She drums her fingers on the rock to which she’s been chained for the best part of three hours. During this time neither monster nor hero has appeared.
Two-hours-and-fifty-seven minutes ago, Andromeda had been feeling quite attractive, having spent most of Thursday preparing for her appointment with her designated hero, Perseus. She’d carefully rubbed the hairs off her legs with a well-soaped pumice stone; she’d bathed in goat’s milk (and after milking fifty goats she’d needed to); she’d rinsed and oiled her hair. Andromeda was hoping that Perseus would make her a present of Athene’s mirror, the one he’d used to defeat the Gorgon. She was hoping he’d descend from the sky, using the winged boots Hermes had given him, or astride Pegasus, that beautiful white winged horse born from the damp earth soaked in the Medusa’s blood.
Two-hours-and-ten-minutes ago, even without a mirror, she’d been able to look down and approve of the way the sea spray was curling her perfumed hair and making her dress cling damply to the contours of her body. She’d even considered the possibility that she might glance at the Gorgon’s snaky head and turn herself to stone. After all, she would never look more lovely.
After two hours and fifty-nine mirrorless minutes – it is by now well past the hour when she should have been commanding a servant to crack open the first amphora of the day, and sinking into her lover’s embrace – she feels, not lovely and vulnerable, but bedraggled and venomous. Her chilly flesh is taking on a mottled aspect and, with the incoming tide lapping round her ankles, she can’t help reflecting on the fact that, since no one else cared to, she’d had to fasten her own chains.
A grey, scaly boulder, no longer able to keep still, shifts an inch or two to the left and lets out a groan.
‘Come on out!’ yells Andromeda. ‘You might as well.’
The sea monster gets up from his crouch, rubbing the calf of his hind leg. The face he pulls is terrible, but this is mainly due to cramp. ‘He’s late,’ grumbles the monster.
‘You’re telling me?!’
‘What do you think’s gone wrong?’
‘How should I know?’ says Andromeda, whose nose is cold and could do with a wipe. ‘I’m just the virgin.’
The sea monster rolls his eyes.
‘You’d better be careful,’ says Andromeda. ‘For all you know he could be here right now. Don’t forget he’s got that helmet Pluto gave him. It makes him invisible.’ She allows her eyes to slide past the monster’s shoulder as if there is something behind him and has the satisfaction of seeing him duck and turn.
‘Yes,’ says the sea monster, ‘I’ve heard that he’s favoured by the gods.’
On cue, up clatters bare-chested Perseus on a horse; he holds the reins in one hand, in the other he carries a writhing sack.
‘Quick,’ hisses Andromeda to the sea monster. ‘Hide.’
‘Can’t I cut straight to the menacing?’ the sea monster hisses back. ‘It’s just that I’m awfully late for bathing my youngest.’
‘Oh, very well,’ says Andromeda. It means losing her moment alone with Perseus, but never mind. In her present mood, she’d find it hard to utter a cry of welcome and gratitude. Indeed, she feels rather inclined to bite his head off herself, but then where would she be? All alone and chained to a cold, wet rock, that’s where. Right now, she wants her dinner more than anything. She hopes Perseus has booked somewhere decent.
‘Where are your wings?’ Andromeda can’t help asking as he reins in his horse. �
�No wonder you’re late!’
The sea monster shifts from foot to foot as if hoping to be introduced.
‘Get on with it then,’ says Andromeda, crossly.
‘I’ve always admired your work,’ says the sea monster.
‘Thanks,’ says Perseus. ‘And I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘I mean get on with the menacing and the killing and the rescuing,’ says Andromeda. ‘I’m catching a chill.’
‘Charmed,’ says Perseus, flicking her a look.
‘Sorry.’ The monster bows, apologetically. ‘I’d like to chat, but the sun is sinking and it’s a long swim home….’ So saying he raises himself on his hind legs, roars and unsheathes his sabre claws.
Andromeda screams.
Perseus, instead of drawing his sword, looks thoughtful. He hooks the sack with the Gorgon’s head in it over the pommel of his saddle, and gets out his diary. ‘Well, as it happens it would suit me to reschedule. I had an oaf to see to on the way over and it took rather longer than I thought.’
‘What?’ says Andromeda.
‘By the way…’ Perseus leans forward and beckons the sea monster closer. The sea monster advances, keeping a wary eye on the hero’s sword. Perseus, bringing his mouth close to the holes in the side of the sea monster’s head where the ears should be, whispers, ‘Who is she, exactly? I seem to have lost my notes.’
The sea monster sighs and recites impatiently: ‘Her name’s Andromeda. Her mother bragged she’s more beautiful than Neptune’s daughters.’
‘And is she? I mean, after all, once one’s rescued a girl I believe one’s supposed to marry her and to be quite honest,’ he glances over at Andromeda who grimaces back, ‘she doesn’t seem to have much idea of, you know, grooming.’
‘Of all the nerve,’ explodes Andromeda. ‘You should have seen me three hours ago.’
Pumping Up Napoleon Page 4