Down Among the Dead Men (4 page)

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?”

“He was introducing me to some of the artists. Geraint, the one with the serial killer face. If you get a chance, take a look at his collection of knives, all laid out on the bench beside him. I said his work was fantastic and he called me a bloody liar, the only words he spoke.”

“Charming!”

“So who did you start up a conversation with?” Ella said as if she'd been socialising all morning.

“No one in particular,” Jem said. “One looks like a vicar. I heard Tom call him Bish.”

“A bishop?”

“I expect it's a joke.”

“Someone's coming.”

It was Ferdie, pushing a bag of compost in a wheelbarrow. Now that they knew he was Tom's dad and the owner of the house, he would get more respect.

He stopped to speak. “Will you be coming every week, then?”

“No. Some others will get a turn next Saturday. Tom says three at a time is best.”

“How many of you are there?”

“In our A level group? Twelve.”

“That's not many. And will you become better artists by coming here?”

“Tom reckons,” Jem said.

“Seeing how real artists work is a big help,” Ella said.

“You're real, aren't you? You look real to me.”

“You wouldn't call us artists if you saw our stuff,” Jem said.

Ferdie wagged a grimy finger. “Never undersell yourselves. From what I've seen of the art world, there are no rules about how it has to look. It's more about persuading people your product is special, and you won't persuade anybody if you talk like that.”

“We have to persuade Tom and an external examiner.”

“No problem. It's a matter of confidence. Those artists in there have got it. They believe in themselves.”

“Be nice if some of that rubs off on us,” Ella said.

“It's not for me to interfere,” Ferdie said, “but I don't see why you have to take turns to visit here. You could take your drawing boards outside and draw the scenery. If the weather's bad you could do interiors in the house.”

“I don't know if Tom would agree,” Jem said.

“Never mind Tom. Would you find it useful?”

“Incredibly useful.” Jem was beginning to think they had an ally in Ferdie.

“I'll put a word in,” he said before wheeling his barrow away.

The girls returned for the afternoon session feeling more relaxed about life drawing, a state of affairs that didn't last. Tom announced that Davy the model would take up a new pose. Davy disrobed and stepped up with a wobble and a grunt and some minutes were spent deciding what was required. He was turned left and right and finally square on to the girls with legs astride and his member quivering.

“Okay for everybody?” Tom asked.

The girls were incapable of speech.

“Couldn't he do something different with the arms?” Drusilla said. “It's too Neanderthal from here.”

“Try it with hands on hips,” Tom said to Davy.

More movement. More embarrassment.

Drusilla shook her head. “That's camp.”

“Hands clasped behind your back.”

“That's one of the royals on a visit.”

Each adjustment brought an extra disturbance to Davy's person and to the trio from Priory Park School.

Finally arms folded got the nod from Drusilla and everyone else.

4

T
he whole class were invited to the next Saturday session at Fortiman House. Mel and two others, Anita and Gail, were to have their turn in the studio with the artists. The rest would work on landscape outside.

Jem said to Ella, “I'd give a lot to see Mel's face when Davy strips off.”

“She knows what to expect. We told her.”

“Yeah, but you know Mel. Remember how she fainted when the condom was passed round in that sex lesson?”

“That was ages ago.”

“And we're not going to let her forget it.”

Mel was an open goal for teasing. Her father had been a humble workman—a “hole-in-the-road” man, as Jem had categorised him. The fact that he'd been killed when his drill had hit an electric cable hadn't met with much sympathy from her schoolmates. In the eyes of the group people who worked outdoors knew they were taking risks. Mel's mother had married again—to a bricklayer—and they never attended parents' evenings.

On this fine, clear morning, it was warm enough for Jem and Ella to set up their easels on the lawn in front of the house.

“Are you doing the whole building?” Ella asked.

“No.”

“It'd take too long, wouldn't it? I was thinking of making sketches of bits of it, like those weird chimneys.”

“Good idea.”

“So what are you going to draw?”

“Tom's MG.”

They worked steadily until the mid-morning break, when Mel and the others emerged from the studio. Tea and coffee were being served from the kitchen at the back of the house.

“So?” Jem said when they'd managed to corner Mel.

“So what?”

“Come off it, Orphan Annie. You know what we're dying to hear about. What did you think of Davy?”

“Who do you mean?”

“The model, dorkbrain.”

“There isn't a model. We're doing still life, a big Chinese vase and some drapes.”

“Really? What a letdown.”

“Not for me. I'm enjoying myself. It's amazing how everyone in there is dealing with it. Tom lets us move about and talk to the artists and they're really friendly—well, most of them are.”

“Except Geraint?”

“The man with the knives? He's a bit strange, yes, and he goes at the canvas like he's paintballing. A dollop of red carried right across the room and hit the woman opposite on the cheek. She wasn't pleased. I don't think he said sorry.”

“What did Tom do?”

“Didn't seem to notice. I think he admires Geraint's work.”

“Did he tell you to look at it, then?”

Mel nodded. “To me, it looked a mess. I couldn't see it had anything to do with the vase. I didn't say so to Tom. He thinks I'm too careful anyway. He says I've got to break out, whatever that means. Like, there's a guy in there drawing cartoons of us all.”

“Manny,” Ella said. “He's fun. Have you spoken to him yet?”

Mel shook her head. “You know me. I find it difficult going up to people.”

“Tom's got a point,” Jem said, winking at Ella. “You've got to break out.”

“He was talking about my art.”

“Are you working in charcoal?”

“Yes.”

“Try smudging. That ought to please him.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I mean really make a dog's dinner of it, don't just blur the lines. Go for it like that woman who gets black all over her face and clothes. Charcoal Charlotte. He'll say you've found your inner genius.”

Ella butted in. “Yeah, and he might say she's taking the piss and doesn't deserve to be doing A level art.”

“Bet you he doesn't,” Jem said. “That's the kind of thing the Gibbon would've said—not in those exact words, but the message would be the same.”

The mention of their former teacher triggered Mel into saying, “Hey, did you know there's a missing persons bureau and Miss Gibbon is on it? I found her on the website. It gives a date in July when she was last seen.”

“Never! . . . Really?”

“Honest. There's a picture of her, quite a nice one actually.”

Ella and Jem had both started navigating their smartphones and, sure enough, there was an official police website showing a photo of Miss Gibbon in a pink top against a background of fruit blossom.

“Almost human,” Ella said.

“What a handle,” Jem said, reading on. “Constance Gloria Gibbon. Thirty-nine? That's a laugh. She was closer to forty, in my opinion. Who would have reported her missing, do you think? The head?”

“She must have family. Does it say?”

“Just some number to call. That'll be the police.”

“What if they find her?” Jem said, eyes popping at the thought. “We could lose Tom.”

“She'll be in no state to teach again,” Ella said. “Not right away. She'll need time to get over it. She wouldn't come back before we've all left.”

“We can hope,” Jem said.

Any more talk about Miss Gibbon had to be put on hold because one of the other artists joined them. “Right,” she said in a business-like way. “I'm Anastasia. Are you young ladies actually finding this helpful, joining in with us?”

All three made positive sounds.

Anastasia was clearly the woman who had been hit by Geraint's blob of paint, because there was quite a smear of red to the left side of her face, even though she'd wiped most of it away. Good thing her clothes had escaped, because they were of designer quality, a blue and white striped top, tight-fitting jeans and calf-length light brown boots. “The reason I asked is that if it were me looking at all the different styles, I'd just be confused.”

“It's what we're supposed to do for our exam,” Jem said. “Studying different ways of dealing with a subject.”

“And responding in our own way,” Ella chimed in.

“Good for you,” Anastasia said. “In my day everyone tried to draw like Holbein and of course we couldn't and got deeply depressed. The way art is taught now is so much better for one's self-confidence.”

“It is if you get a good teacher,” Jem said. “Tom took over this term and we're improving in leaps and bounds.”

“He's a charmer, for sure,” Anastasia said. “Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but he gives amazing parties.”

“Why shouldn't you say it?” Mel asked.

“Because they're not the kinds of parties schoolgirls attend.”

“We're students, not schoolgirls,” Ella said. “We could be at sixth form college. We'll all be eighteen next year.”

“My dear, I can see you're wonderfully mature. In fact, I wouldn't have dreamed you were still at school if Tom hadn't mentioned the fact.”

“What do you get up to at these parties?” Jem said.

Anastasia had turned so red that the paint mark barely registered. “Oh, dear, I'm getting into deep water here. Maybe modern schoolgirls—sorry, students—do attend such events, but I doubt whether your headmistress would encourage it. Tom might find himself out of a job.”

“Are they, like, orgies?”

Anastasia laughed. “If they were, I'd stay away. No, we're artists. All we do is let our hair down, so to speak.”

“Smoking pot?”

“Not to my knowledge. Listen, I'm not saying any more and I'm going to ask you, please, to forget everything I said under pain of death. And now I see them returning to the studio.” She turned about and moved off as if she'd disturbed a swarm of bees.

“That's something Tom's been keeping to himself,” Jem said to the others.

“Probably quite innocent,” Mel said. “A poker school or something.”

“Strip poker?” Ella said.

“Not much joy in that when they see models stripping off for them every other week,” Jem said. “You'd better get back to the studio, Mel. They're definitely going in. Oh, and Mel.”

“Yes?”

“See if you can find out when the next party is.”

* * *

Back in the studio, Mel took a tissue and started smearing the charcoal she had so carefully outlined before the break. Jem had been right. At once the picture had a freer look. She rubbed a few of the lines away completely and was pleased to see that they hadn't been needed. When she stood back, her brain filled in the missing bits.

“What's happening here?” a voice said in her ear.

Tom.

“I'm trying something different.”

“It's good. Go for it, Mel. You can use a rubber to lighten some areas if you want, but add some more charcoal first.”

He moved on.

She was pleased to get approval, but she felt disloyal to Miss Gibbon. All those exercises in perspective must have had some purpose. Her own sense of order had rather welcomed the analytical approach. The idea that there was a golden mean, an aesthetically pleasing formula for designing a picture, had given her something to aspire to. Last year hadn't been a total waste of time, as the others believed.

If, as now seemed inevitable, she “broke out” and disregarded those principles, she felt a strong urge not to disregard Miss Gibbon herself. The others seemed happy to dismiss her from their minds. They'd never had much respect for her. “Almost human,” Ella had said about the online photo. The knowledge that their former teacher was on the missing persons list didn't trouble them. Their only concern was whether she'd be traced and get her old job back.

Mel had decided she, at least, would make an effort to find out more.

Now was an opportunity.

Tom was still on her side of the room giving advice to Gail, one of the other A level girls. He'd have to edge past Mel to return to his own easel because Anastasia had built a barricade with two donkey stools to separate herself from Geraint. No one liked to get close when he was wielding the knife.

“Tom, mind if I ask something?”

“Ask away.”

“When you took over from Miss Gibbon, did you get a chance to talk to her?”

He shook his head. “She left suddenly during the summer break.”

“I was hoping you might have learned what her plans were, like where she was going next. We didn't give her a goodbye present or thank her for teaching us or anything.”

“She's on your conscience?”

“In a way.”

“I wouldn't worry about her. From all I heard, she was rather a private person. She may have decided she needs a break from teaching, a sabbatical. You might laugh at this, but teaching a lively group of students can be really demanding. Doesn't the school have a forwarding address?”

“I don't think so. Miss Gibbon is officially a missing person.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Are you sure?”

“I've seen her picture on the police website.”

“That's really disturbing. I hadn't heard.” Shaking his head, he moved on.

Out on the lawn, Jem had completed three good pastel drawings of Tom's MG by mid-afternoon. She didn't feel like starting another or indeed anything else, so she went for a stroll instead. The grounds weren't vast or particularly beautiful, but there were some wonderful old trees. She found a kitchen garden at the back and a swimming pool with a tiled surround and two larger than life black and gold masked figures in bronze with spectacular headgear and cassock-like garments.

Across another stretch of lawn she spotted Ferdie with his wheelbarrow emerging from a walled garden. He was coming in her direction, so she waited to speak. He seemed surprised when she gave a friendly, “Hi. Is that where you grow the orchids?”

A slow smile of recognition dawned. “Didn't recognise you for a moment.” He grounded the barrow. “Yes, I'd offer to show you round, but they're in controlled conditions.”

“Humidity and stuff?”

He smiled. “That's about right. Some of them are extremely delicate. How's the art coming along, young lady? Going to show me? I've been handling compost but I won't touch.”

She opened her sketchbook and showed the pastel drawings of the MG.

“Ha, the passion wagon. You've caught it perfectly. Tom will approve, I guarantee.”

“D'you reckon?” she said. “He'll be like, ‘You've spent too much time getting a likeness when you should have made it more dynamic.'”

“Like a streak of red to show it doing a ton on the motorway? Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer it just as you've drawn it.”

Jem had no thought of calling him old-fashioned. “If I'd had my head straight when I got here this morning, I could have drawn those amazing figures near the pool, or their reflections in the water, which would have been even better.”

“You like them? I'm pleased to hear that.”

“They're awesome. They set it off incredibly.” Without pause she added, “Is that where Tom holds his parties?”

“Someone been telling you about the parties, have they?” Ferdie said.

“One of the artists mentioned them as if they're rather special.”

“Not all that special, unless I missed something. Just a social get-together for his art friends. In the summer they gather round the pool and he has some loud music going. Or they sometimes hold it by the lake.”

“You've got a
lake
?”

“We call it that. Others might describe it as a pond. You should take a stroll down there. It would make a nice picture. Of course in cold weather they use the studio for the parties.”

“They're all year round, are they?”

“Night of the full moon.”

“Go on.”

He grinned. “I kid you not.”

“Cool. D'you think I might get an invite?”

“I can't speak for my son, but I doubt it.”

“Why? Do they, like, get up to something illegal?”

He laughed. “No, no, no. Not on my property. Any nonsense of that sort and I'd ban the lot of them.”