Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘We had a regular client at the foundry, you might have heard of him. Hugh Devon? The work we did with him was very collaborative. Though he didn’t do the kind of thing I was personally interested in, I liked him. He was a good bloke, and in the early days of his success, he was generous and keen to share the perks with the people who’d helped him. When he had his first one-man show in New York, a couple of us from the foundry went with him. Of course he was the star. We were just the hangers-on. We soon found ourselves at a loose end.

  ‘Before coming home, I visited the GSFA’s end of year show. I was blown away by what they were doing there. When I got home I put together a folio of work and applied. In fact, Hugh encouraged me. I don’t suppose his support was unrelated to the fact I was awarded a place, but hey, I didn’t care how I’d got there. But life jumped up and bit me.’ Stefan stopped talking and looked at Dory. Her large, amber eyes were fixed on his face, as if enthralled. He smiled and reached out to stroke her downy cheek. ‘I’m sorry. How have we gone off on this self-pitying tangent?’

  ‘I’m always interested in people’s lives. How they end up doing what they do. For most it’s a chapter of accidents, coincidence, and happenstance. Add in a generous measure of “other people’s expectations” and you’ve got my life. You seem to have pursued your goals more single-mindedly than most.’

  ‘Bloody-mindedly. At least I finished the course and got my Masters before I got the news my father was very ill and not expected to make it. I came home, but he defied the prognosis. In those last few months of his life, I’ve sometimes wondered what he would have made of Dom, less than sixteen at the time, modelling naked for me in the barn while he was up on his deathbed. He would’ve been appalled. I was never the son he wanted.’

  ‘And you still feel guilty about that?’

  Stefan shook his head. ‘A child should never be burdened with the expectations of its parents. Parents shouldn’t demand gratitude from their children for the accident of birth.’

  The conversation had come full circle. Dory looked away, and was now gazing down at her linked fingers. He stared at her profile and a slight frown puckered her brow. There was a part of his life story he’d told no one apart from Dominic. It suddenly felt necessary to tell Dory now. He’d bottled it once. There wouldn’t be a better moment.

  ‘We were talking about Dom. I’m not his father, but …’ Dory looked up at him. ‘Even on first meeting him I felt concerned about him … Perhaps because part of me has always acknowledged that I could have been.’

  ‘You had sex with his mother?’

  ‘God, no!’ A memory of the scrawny, waif-like woman Dom had recently pointed out to him flashed up in his mind. He pulled a face. ‘She must have been fourteen when she had him. When I was at college, nineteen odd years ago, I had a girlfriend, Chrissie. It wasn’t serious on my part. She, though, was probably after something more committed, particularly when …’ Stefan paused, thinking about those times, and the girl who had briefly attached herself to him. He wondered how Dory was going to react. It could be make or break time. But without this admission, he suspected, there was no future for him and anyone, let alone Dory. His past had to be exposed, accepted, forgiven.

  ‘I expect you can guess. Chrissie got pregnant.’ He felt Dory stiffen. ‘She envisaged a future for us and I didn’t. When she turned to me for help I offered nothing. No support, financial or emotional, either to have the child or to get rid of it. I simply refused to have anything to do with the decision.’

  Dory’s eyes dropped to her coffee mug. What was she thinking? It had felt imperative to tell her, but had it been too much of a risk?

  ‘A child?’ she whispered, almost to herself.

  ‘Dory? Are you disgusted?’

  ‘Were you in love with her?’

  ‘In love …?’ He was startled. ‘It was just sex! That’s why I had to break it off. There’s no room in my life for the messiness of love.’

  Though she gazed at him steadily, her eyes had grown glassy. ‘But you’ve been proved wrong, haven’t you?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve made room in your life for Dom.’

  ‘That doesn’t count.’ Stefan shook his head, unable to find the words to express his feelings towards the boy. ‘Anyway, you asked me about being in love. I’m not even sure what it means.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I suppose it’s one of those things. Hard to explain, but you know it when you see it.’ Momentarily, Dory caught his eye then glanced away sharply. Now she continued to shake her head slowly from side to side, as if trying to clear her thoughts. ‘This is so weird,’ she said. ‘Everything coming around in circles.’

  ‘If I’d achieved my goal of making a solid living out of art, then the hurt I inflicted on Chrissie to gain it would be easier to rationalise and justify,’ he continued. ‘But my determination to succeed by cutting everything else out of my life was doomed. If I believed in an overarching supernatural power, in fate or karma, I might have taken my failure as some kind of cosmic retribution.’

  ‘Life isn’t like that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I’ve never been able to forget that my child would now be Dom’s age. But I don’t know if he was raised by Chrissie, given up for adoption, or aborted.’ Dory drew in a sharp breath. Had he upset her? Too late to backtrack now. He’d told her the worst. ‘Don’t think I want to know. She dropped out, and as far as I’m concerned, she vanished. You’re shocked?’

  Her face was crumpling again, her lovely mouth turning down at the corners, her eyes darkening to a drenched, bronzy green. ‘How could I …?’

  ‘Dory? I felt it important to be straight with you, but it was too much.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. At least I understand …’ Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands. He took hold of them, pulling them gently away, uncovering the tears she tried to conceal. Suddenly, without premeditation, he was kissing her. Miraculously, she was kissing him back, her lips soft and damp. He could feel her hands tightening behind his neck, could feel the subdued pulse of the sobs as her body grew heavy against his. They subsided along the dusty old sofa. He pulled back slightly in order to look at her, but was then impelled to kiss away the tears which still glossed her cheeks.

  Her eyes were squeezed tight shut, her brow fiercely furrowed. She clung to him, pressing her mouth against his. There was no resisting and several moments passed in this hypnotic exchange before she pulled back and gazed up at him wide-eyed. A stuttering sigh escaped her. She blinked several times and shook her head. Stefan pushed some strands of hair back off her forehead and dropped a kiss there, before asking again, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ There was something she’d not told him. The pain in her expression wrenched at him. He went to kiss her again, but her eyes focused sharply. Abruptly she pushed away and pulled herself up straight.

  ‘No! I can’t deal with any of this now.’ Blinking and clinging to the arm of the sofa as if to steady herself, she muttered, ‘I need to phone for a taxi.’

  Chapter Forty-four - Fran

  ‘It was embarrassing …’ Having phoned Dory, Fran now found herself struggling to justify why she should have been informed in advance of her sister’s absence from life class. ‘Not knowing why you weren’t there.’

  ‘Till now I’ve been the one making excuses for you.’

  ‘You make it sound like it was months! I only missed a few. So, what was the problem yesterday? And why was your mobile switched off? Are you ill?’

  There was a pause, as if Dory was debating how to answer. ‘No. Just wasn’t in the mood, and …’ Again, a pause, ‘… things on my mind.’

  ‘Things you can’t or won’t tell me about?’ Fran said, hearing the aggrieved note in her own voice and hating herself for it. ‘Something to do with your mysterious jaunt up to London on Monday?’

  ‘Indirectly. Just leave it, Fran. It’s nothing serious. I will talk to you when I’ve sorted a few things out. It’s been a strange week.’<
br />
  It was useless to pursue the subject. Perhaps Dory would be more forthcoming tomorrow.

  ‘I almost wish I hadn’t gone,’ Fran said. ‘I did rubbish drawings and your friend was back to Mr Grumpy mode. Apart from him cross-questioning me about where you were, whether you were all right, we could hardly get a word out of him. Hello? Dory? Are you still there?’

  ‘Was anything said about Dom’s interview?’ Instead of her sister correcting her for referring to Stefan as her friend, she’d changed the subject.

  ‘What interview?’

  ‘On Wednesday. He was due to have an interview about getting into the Art Access course at the college.’

  ‘No one said anything to me, but Dom was definitely chirpier than I’ve known him. He may have told Rachel. They were in a bit of a huddle for a while. Even seemed to be sharing a joke at Michael’s expense.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Talking of Michael, I hope you haven’t forgotten his open garden thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was apparent she had forgotten.

  ‘Don’t let me down on this, please! I’ve been looking forward to it. I’ve precious little else to entertain me at the moment.’

  There was another long silence. Fran was biting her lip, predicting the refusal she thought was about to come. She heard her sister’s release of breath.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Dory, it was your idea that we go together!’

  ‘Was it? I’m sorry. I’m really not in the mood …’

  ‘You sound weird,’ she interrupted. ‘You sure you’re all right, Dory?’

  ‘… to socialise. I’m OK. Where is it again? What time?’

  ‘Combeside,’ Fran said with a relieved smile. ‘I know where it is. We can travel together. It’s open all afternoon so if I collect you at 2.30, we’ll be there by three.’

  ‘No.’ Having sounded vague and preoccupied, Dory’s refusal of a lift was instantaneous. ‘I want to go separately. And an hour earlier. I need to go on … somewhere afterwards. Give me the address. I’ll find it. I’ve got a Satnav.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Dory wouldn’t say. They didn’t argue about it, but a wave of loneliness and self-pity swelled inside Fran. What was wrong with Dory these days? Why was she behaving so oddly? Just when she needed a friend for support and comfort, her sister was either off with the fairies, mysteriously unavailable, or making trips to London for who knew what purpose. Dory had even missed life class for the first time, without forewarning her, and had then been unreachable by phone.

  All she’d asked of her was that they share a car to Michael’s place. Not only was it a more sensible pooling of energy use, but it was friendlier – they could have had a natter on the way. They could have discussed her situation. But oh no! Why was she so determined to go separately?

  Thank goodness the charity event was well sign-posted. Despite having claimed to know exactly where Michael lived, Fran was unfamiliar with this particular corner of the county. It was off the beaten track and more deeply rural than the Strouley area. But the outskirts of Combeside, as she drove down into it, were anything but rural. The narrow lane had wide, manicured verges and was lined by large houses set back in leafy gardens. Now that she was so near, the open-garden was more liberally advertised with posters. Several hundred yards beyond the village centre, Fran saw a home-produced sign with a large P and a red arrow. Twenty or so vehicles were already parked in this field, but not Dory’s. Of course not! Fran had known this would happen. But within five minute of switching off her engine, she saw her sister’s car turning in.

  Fran was pleased with what she was wearing – white cotton cut-offs with a skinny, black-and-white striped top. Trendy, but not trying too hard, she thought. She was obscurely put out to see her sister looking so pretty. These days, Dory hardly ever wore anything but jeans, but today she’d chosen a floaty, bias-cut skirt which she’d teamed with a pin-tucked, teal blue camisole. Unable to formulate a reason other than envy as to why Dory shouldn’t wear this particular ensemble on a hot summer afternoon, Fran held her tongue.

  Arm in arm, they crossed the lane. Two more of the ubiquitous posters were attached to wooden gates open to a surprisingly unostentatious driveway. Fran had half expected stone pillars with lions, or at the very least stone balls, surmounting them. The house itself was obscured as they descended the curve of the sloping drive. She’d conjured images of extensive landscaped gardens through which a tree-lined avenue led to a stone-built Palladian house, but when it came in sight, it was evident that Combeside Manor – an asymmetric, red-brick miscellany of styles and periods – had never been classically graceful. From some of its barley sugar chimney, Fran guessed it had started life as a Tudor dwelling.

  Following the signs which led them to the back, the sisters paid their entrance fee to a man at a canopied stall where plants could be bought. They were given a leaflet each, with a plan and description of the garden. Dory pushed hers into her bag.

  ‘The Orangery,’ Fran said, reading the first heading. ‘I feel I already know about as much as I need to.’ Looking up at the much discussed extension, she saw the wide terrace outside it laid with tables and parasols where visitors were already sitting. Through the multiple glazed doors, grey-haired ladies in pinafores hurried in and out with trays. Within moments, Fran was spotting famous faces, and not just local celebrities. People in the media, even an actor and an ageing musician, were attending this charity event. As an attractive woman holding a champagne flute passed them, Fran gripped her sister’s arm.

  ‘I’m sure she’s a TV presenter,’ she whispered. ‘Trust Michael to know all these types!’

  The view from the back of the house was not what she’d envisaged. Instead of rolling parkland, there was a lawn that didn’t look much longer than her own, although the grass here was billiard-table smooth and weed free. Yet there were some formal elements which claimed it as the garden to a house with pretensions. Banked at either side of the steps from the terrace, oriental poppies and frill-headed peonies, from deepest crimson through to palest pink, were in full bloom. From the bottom of the steps a wide-flagged path edged by a budding lavender hedge, led down to a large, formal pond with a fountain. Either side of this path, about halfway down, were two plinths. On one was a classical sculpture of a woman. Green with verdigris, she was pockmarked and missing an arm. On the plinth opposite stood the sandaled feet and calves of a man. The rest of him was missing. What the fountain was meant to represent was impossible to tell from here. The metal looked deformed and twisted.

  ‘They almost look war damaged,’ Dory said.

  ‘In a way, they were! The story is told here,’ Fran read from the guide. ‘In 1914, the youngest son of the family lied about his birth date and enlisted. He was sent out to France where his older brother, Charles, was already serving as an officer. Their father had friends in high places and was able to pull strings and get his under-age son sent home, just before the first big battle of Ypres. In those days, there were a couple of Boer War cannons on the terrace here. The son, Edward, was so outraged by his treatment that after getting tanked-up one evening, he came home with a gang of friends and managed to fire off several rounds, before being subdued by his father and the household retainers.’ She looked up with a grin. ‘He was obviously a pretty good shot.’

  Dory was staring at the vista. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Perseus and Andromeda. The fountain is … was … the legendary sea monster.’

  ‘I mean the material?’

  Fran frowned. As far as she was concerned, what they were made from was the least interesting part of the story. ‘Bronze. Why do you …?’

  Pulling her phone from her bag, Dory descended the steps and walked towards Andromeda. She began to take pictures.

  ‘I bet Edward thanked them in the end,’ Fran said, when she caught up. ‘Charles was killed.’

  Dory glanced around from her study of what remained of Perseus. ‘Who?’
/>   ‘The brother.’ She got no answer. Dory turned back and, muttering something about lost-wax, inserted her hand into the hollow calf of a broken-off leg. Fran sighed. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Moving on to the fountain, Dory resumed taking photographs. Fran followed. Close up, it was more obvious that it was once meant to be a sea creature. She could see scales on the least mangled sections of the metal. Water shot out unevenly from the gaping hole where its mouth might once have been, reaching a height of several metres before falling back into the pool. Why did her sister want pictures of the ugly, broken thing? Sure that she’d get another of those distracted non-answers, Fran didn’t bother to ask the question. Beneath the lily pads, her eye was caught by a metallic glint of orange and white sliding slowly through the dark, spray-pocked water.

  ‘Look at the size of those Koi carp!’ Fran shuddered. ‘Don’t you think there’s something sinister about them?’ More fascinated by the fountain than the pond’s inhabitants, Dory failed to reply. ‘There’s an arboretum at the end of the lawn,’ Fran persisted, reading again from the garden guide. ‘But the majority of the garden is over here, to the side of the house, where the ground rises. Before Michael bought it the house was owned by a spiritual group of some kind, and it was used as a retreat.’ Fran walked towards an arch in a yew hedge. Not knowing if she spoke to anyone or no one, she said, ‘From here on the garden is divided. So …’ As she emerged on the far side, she stopped dead. Dory cannoned into her from behind.

  ‘Oh!’ Fran half turned. ‘You decided to follow after all? This is the Zen garden.’ A large, electric-blue Buddha sat solidly at the centre of swirls of gravel. A variety of smaller, Buddha-like figures were dotted around, and stylized monkeys peeked out from behind boulders or clumps of oriental grass. ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,’ Dory said, a wry twist to her mouth. Not wanting to tread on the raked patterns, the sisters eased around the edge and past stone benches. Before they could leave the area they had to pass another oriental sculpture. The wasp-waisted red figure was standing. Forming a kind of crown on its head was a multitude of replica miniature heads.