Life Class (2 page)

The strap of his backpack now comfortably heavy over his shoulder, he returned to the bus stop, swigging from one of the six-pack of cola he’d bought. In the distance, the bus appeared and the queue shuffled forward. Somehow, since knowing Stefan, he’d become more aware of his environment, more aware of light and shade, of form and substance, colour and texture. Taller than the bloke in front of him, Dom had a view of the top of his head, pink scalp gleaming through silky strands of white hair. Then, as if suddenly sensing something, the man glanced over his shoulder. The crazed skin of his face was almost grey, a spider web of blue on the cheeks. Blurry, yellowed eyes narrowed and his mouth compressed into a puckered slash. Taking a distancing step, the old geezer turned away and began to mutter. Slowly, they boarded the bus. Dom stepped up behind him and heard snatches of his ramblings before the driver cut him short.

‘…Out there … our brave boys … Queen and country … likes of you …’

‘All right, mate. Everyone knows it’s a scandal. Where to?’

‘The engineer was due at eight, but when I spoke to Dory he’d still not arrived,’ Fran told her husband. She lifted her jacket from the hook. ‘So she might be late for her first class. OK, I’m off.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Fran watched bemused as Peter crossed the wood-block flooring of the large hall and picked up her art bag. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, sliding his socked foot into one of his Crocs.

‘Where are you …? What are you doing?’

He stood on one foot, attempting to hook Jimbo away from the other shoe with his upturned toes.

‘Out the way, bird-brained animal!’ He stretched out his hand towards Fran. ‘I’m helping you. Car keys?’

Helping? ‘I’m capable of carrying …’

‘But I can help now I’m home. This bag’s heavy. Is everything in here strictly necessary?’ Both Chihuahuas leapt and skittered around his feet as he walked to the back of her car.

‘I never know what I’m going to want. I may as well take everything.’

‘And it’s disgustingly filthy. You don’t want dust and charcoal and goodness knows what all over your clothes.’

‘But Peter?’
I’ll be lifting it out of the boot and carrying it into the school, unless you’re planning to come with me as my porter
, she argued silently.

‘Why don’t you get yourself a new bag? Then you can rationalise the contents and chuck this one out. Bet you’re lugging stuff to and fro you’ll never need.’

She acknowledged his last remark with a tight smile as she took the car keys he proffered and slid onto the driver’s seat. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? His view of early retirement had been rosy and optimistic. Hers had been more cautious, one that was beginning to look justified. ‘Now he was home’, he’d said with that indulgent smile, as if there was nothing but good to be gained from his continual presence. This ‘helping her out to the car’ was exactly what she was afraid of. A kind of well-meant suffocation.

She was still a young woman – not yet forty – fit and attractive and up for a good time, which in her book did not mean a trip to the pub for lunch with your husband every other Wednesday. She wasn’t ready to embark on the kind of Saga existence that he presumably envisaged. She enjoyed her freedom; she liked to do exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, without explanation or interference. It was early days but having him hanging around her house 24/7, with nothing to do but wonder what
she
was doing, was already getting on her nerves big time.

You are being petty, she reproved herself.
And
you’re not being fair. But guilty conscience didn’t stop her feeling this way. But she could forget home and husband for a few hours. She was on her way to the first life class of the autumn term. The class changed little from year to year, but this time her little sis would be there … and maybe one or two other new members. A buzz of anticipation grew.

‘Give my regards to …’ Peter called after her as the car began to move away, crunching over the gravel.

Chapter Three - Dory

Had it moved? Dory frowned, glanced back at her drawing. Hard to be sure. But the more she studied it, the more positive she became. Back to square one. She rubbed out her first sketchy attempt to reproduce this area of the figure. Pencil poised, she raised her eyes again and this time she saw the movement – the slight pulse and thickening – as it shifted a few millimetres.

Well aware that it was a part of the body that men – poor things – had no conscious control over, Dory was still surprised. Had she thought about it in advance, she’d have assumed that posing naked in front of a room full of strangers would have a depressing effect on the male genitalia. Not that she was bothered; she’d probably seen more cocks than most people here had eaten hot dinners, so why should this one’s twitchings give her problems? It was what men did with it that caused the trouble. She just happened to be one of the professionals who had to deal with the fall-out. But men, sex, and the day job were off the agenda today. In her personal life, it could be that men and sex were off the agenda full-time. She gave herself a mental shake. Get on with what you’re here for.

Now, glancing at his face, Dory saw the model was looking at her. No. Not just looking, staring. Look at the rest of the figure, she told herself. Her gaze swept over his reclining form, identifying the patterns and shapes; her hand tentatively followed across the paper, attempting to reproduce the angle of the head, the slope of the shoulder, the splay of hand on thigh. It was then she noticed his reproductive paraphernalia was on the move again. Drawing from life was hard enough without this added distraction.

Dory had known she’d find the class challenging. The reality was even harder than she’d suspected and the model was in on the conspiracy to defeat her. She wished she could have caught her sister’s eye to share the joke, but even if they’d had an unobstructed view of one another, Fran was behind the model. Dory looked around – no one else had her grandstand view. The tutor was standing at an easel just a metre or so away, dark brows drawn together as he worked on his own drawing. Not much tutoring going on, Dory reflected. From his angle, even if he was unaware of the life model’s disconcerting stare, he must have noticed the waxing and waning of his genitalia. But what could he have done about it?

Typical of her to have been the sole latecomer, and then find her new drawing pad was so tightly sealed in its crisp plastic wrapping that it gave new meaning to the word ‘rustle’ as she tried to extract it. Typical too that she should find herself in this full-frontal position. All the other students – some standing at easels, others, like her, straddled over low benches called donkeys – had arranged themselves in a semi-circle behind, or to the sides of the mattress on which the model reclined.

She’d only had a moment, after making her apologetic late entrance, to exchange a quick smile of recognition with Fran, before a man left his easel and, with an audible sigh, approached her. For a split second she felt she recognised him, but immediately discounted the idea. There was no one amongst her acquaintance with shaggy, dark hair like that, no one with a close-cropped dark beard. After pointedly looking at his watch, the man moved his own easel to one side then dragged one of the low benches forward to take its place.

‘Use this donkey,’ he’d said, giving her no alternative. ‘Here’s a board. You’ve got paper? I’ve asked everyone for an accurate drawing. Pencil.’ Thankful to be able to settle quickly, and with minimal added disruption to the rest of the class, she was not about to object to her view of the model, even if she’d known it would give her extra problems. ‘Don’t get bogged down with detail.’ Again the tutor checked his watch. ‘Forty minutes left.’ With no time to feel intimidated, she just had to put pencil to that first virgin sheet of paper and start.

Apart from her sister, there was no one in the class she knew. She was on her own in this private struggle. Story of my life at the moment, she reflected, wondering why she was even doing this. She had recently made a resolution not to allow others to organise her life for her, and yet here she was, doing something her sister had pushed her into. Typical of Fran to come up with an idea that she thought was good, then steamroller it through.

It was early summer, and the two of them had been on the common, taking the Chihuahuas out for their exercise when Fran first came up with the idea.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Dory had objected. ‘I’m only here on a flying visit. I’ve not even made up my mind about leaving London. It’s a bit soon to be signing me up for adult education classes!’

‘You
have
made up your mind about moving back. You know you have. It’ll be great. You and me, babes …’ Fran squeezed her arm. ‘And if you
are
interested in doing the life class, you can’t afford to wait for official enrolment. There’s a waiting list. We all re-enrol directly through Sandy, our teacher, before the end of the summer term. I’ll sign you on as well. You’ll adore Sandy. She’s a real sweetie.’

‘However nice she is, you’re jumping the gun a bit.’

Dory had been staying at her sister’s. There’d been another funeral to go to – one of the few reasons the family all got together these days – and suddenly it had seemed like a turning point, a time to reassess her life. The money from the split with Malcolm might not yet be in her bank account, but the amount had been grudgingly agreed. What
was
there to keep her in London? But this walk was the first time she’d articulated the thought, and Fran had run with it.

‘If you want to sign on for a class, particularly the life class, you might as well make the decision now,’ Fran persisted. ‘And you know what they say. You have to get back on the horse.’ A couple of helmeted women began to rise up above the edge of the plateau, as if emerging up through a stage trapdoor. Then, in a surreal coincidence, their mounts appeared. The horses crossed the path sedately. Their riders, elegantly imperious in full riding gear, scarcely glanced at the sisters, who’d stopped to let them pass. Fran’s dogs began to yap.

‘Hush, Nelson, hush, Jimbo!’ She threw a rubber bone in the opposite direction and the dogs raced off, disappearing into a dense forest of grass in frantic pursuit of the jingling toy.

Dory angled her head towards the retreating riders. ‘Did you clock the kit?’

‘Part of the attraction, an expensive uniform that sets you apart … and being elevated above the hoi polloi. There’s no alternative but to peer down your nose.’

It was a typically chippy Fran response, Dory noted. She looked about her. The common offered views in every direction.

‘Hey, do you remember that time we picnicked up here? There was a gang of us, plus our mums. I must have been seven or eight. So you were around ten. I’m sure it was near here. We clambered down that bank.’

‘Nearly thirty years ago!’ Fran smiled in recollection of the adventure. ‘And we climbed into the garden of the witch’s house. Where was it?’ The sisters strolled over to the edge of the hill. Beyond the steep slope, diagonally slashed by the bridle path the riders had just ascended, there was nothing to see but the densely wooded slopes. The two women looked out over the tree canopy to the hills beyond.

‘In amongst those trees somewhere,’ Dory said. ‘And do you remember …’

‘Meeting that strange boy?’

‘We were the strangers. We’d invaded his garden.’

Fran didn’t argue, but when she spoke again it was to revert to the previous subject. ‘You have to get back out there and start socialising again. You’ll never meet anyone otherwise.’

‘Fran, is persuading me to join this class a matchmaking ploy?’

‘I just want you to rejoin the world. You’re not to sit at home and mope. The life class happens to be something I really enjoy. Let’s do it together. It’s been such a long time since we did anything with each other. It’ll be fun.’

‘For you, maybe. You’ve kept it up since your college days.’

‘You always loved doing art, you know you did. You were so disappointed when you had to give it up after GCSEs.’

Ironic, Dory thought. I wonder who pushed me towards science? No point in rehashing the past. Her sister always had a different memory of their shared history.

‘Enjoying art at school a very long time ago is not the same thing as having talent,’ Dory persisted. ‘
And
I’ve not done any since, unlike you.’

Fran made a dismissive gesture. ‘People do it because they want to, not necessarily because they’re talented. But you’re right, I’d be lying if I said it’s just the art I go for. It’s the whole social thing that makes it fun.’

‘Exactly. You’ve all been doing it for years. I’d feel like an interloper barging my way into an established club of like-minded people.’

‘We’re hardly all like-minded! There’s a completely mixed bag. And some real characters. An old ad-man, an aromatherapist, a retired psychologist, an ex-diplomat turned antiques dealer, a millionaire –’

‘You
are
trying to fix me up!’

‘I’m not. In fact, the majority of the class are women. And Michael the millionaire is married!’ Fran retorted. ‘But I worry about you. You seem intent on living like a hermit for the foreseeable.’

‘I’ve not been well, remember?’ Dory shook her head. ‘And as for men …!’

‘You can’t nurse a broken heart forever.’

‘I’m not, Fran, believe me. I’m well rid of the bastard and not interested in a replacement. All that dating palaver just makes me feel tired and old.’

‘That’s crap!’ Fran said crossly. ‘You’re younger than me. I’m the one who’s nearly … Age is all to do with attitude of mind. If you see yourself as old then that’s how men will see you. Look at Kylie, she’s older than us. Not to mention Madonna, who’s even older still.’

‘Who are you trying to convince?’ Clearly the subject had touched a nerve.

‘It’s never too late. Even for starting a family. Our mother –’

‘That was circumstance.’

‘These days it’s a lifestyle choice. There’re loads of women our age or older planning their first babies!’

A baby? A chill breath lifted the hairs over her body. ‘Sounds a bit mechanical. Is it a boyfriend you’re trying to fix me up with, or a genetically healthy stud to impregnate me?’ Dory’s laugh masked the shiver. ‘Why bother with a relationship at all? A turkey baster could do the job! If I was keen to have babies don’t you think I’d’ve done something about it before now?’