2

‘If you drop a line vertically, from the thorax, it should reach a point somewhere near the centre of her left ankle. Providing that her weight,’ I add, ‘is entirely on that side.’

The model sways. She draws her weight over, wearily, onto her other foot.

‘In practice, of course,’ I say, ‘you may find it’s somewhat different.’

I get up from the wooden stool, gaze down at the drawing for a moment longer, then move over to the second stool and wait for the student there to rise.

‘Is it time for a rest?’ the model says.

She scarcely speaks above a whisper.

‘Do you feel like a rest?’ I ask.

Her feet are red; her ankles, it seems, are slightly swollen.

‘I’m feeling hot,’ she says.

‘Have five minutes, then,’ I tell her.

I get out a cigarette, light it, remember the rule about smoking in the life room, stub it out and cross over to the window. The model shakes her legs, forces her feet into her slippers and climbs down from the platform. Most of the students stay near their stools; one or two lean down, rub out some offending limb or feature, or begin to shade in the bits they like. Outside I can hear Wilcox complaining about some recent damage to the paintwork. ‘The damn thing’s not been painted a couple of weeks. Do you behave like this at home?’ A faint murmur runs through the room as the students wait.

‘That’s been done by a bloody chisel.’

A fainter, less uncertain voice replies.

‘Accident? That’s no accident. A mark like that’s not done by chance.’

The answering voice replies again.

A door is slammed. The voices fade.

I smell the smoke from a cigarette and look up in time to see a faint blue cloud rise above the curtain drawn across the front of the model’s cubicle. The rule about smoking, strangely, I’ve never questioned; has it got something to do with etiquette – one never smokes, perhaps, in the presence of a naked woman – or with Wilcox’s reverential feelings for the room itself: the last bastion of art, as he once described it?

Mentally, I wander off into the adjoining rooms: the library with its shelves of untouched and virtually untouchable books – ‘If you want any books apply in writing and, if I think it’s worth your while, I’ll let you have the keys,’ – beyond that, the room with the lithographic presses, the printing presses, the etching baths and etching presses, a foul, fume-ridden place – acids, inks and washing-fluids – for which I have no feeling of any sort at all. Neither have I much feeling for what goes on in the room beyond: dress-design and needle-craft; groups of thin, emaciated girls and fat, broad-chested women pinning strands of coloured cloth to dummies or sitting, round-shouldered, in front of black, foot-pedalled sewing-machines – ‘Damned exercise’ll do ’em good. Teach ’em to be economic. Won’t put a seam in until they’re certain,’ – laughter – ‘How much does that cotton cost a bobbin?’

Wilcox’s presence permeates the entire building, like a cloud of smoke, an atmosphere into which one ascends on arrival – up either wing of the bifurcated stairs – and which seems to seep into one’s very pores, until you find yourself on leaving taking on the identity of the man himself, thick-necked, broad-chested, delving into cracks and fissures, hauling out a pencil or the stub of somebody’s half-smoked cigarette: ‘Is there no end to this bleeding rubbish?’

Beyond the dress-designers and embroiderers comes the largest room of all, its interior divided up by a series of paint-encrusted screens. Behind the screens a variety of activities are carried on: lettering, designing, illustration, pictorial composition, anatomy, the study of antiques, still-lifes and plants. Here a certain amount of smoking is allowed simply because Wilcox can’t be behind all the screens at once; neither can he be in the lithographic and etching department when he is in the life room; neither can he be in the life room when he’s bawling out some student on the stairs.

I’m brought back to the present, in fact, by the sound of the Principal’s voice. ‘Someone,’ he says, having come into the room unnoticed, ‘is damn-well smoking. And that, mind you, when that certain someone knows that smoking in this room is damn-well not allowed.’

The faint blue cloud above the model’s cubicle drifts slowly off. Perhaps Wilcox is unaware, has failed to notice, that the model is no longer standing on the throne. He strides directly to the centre of the room. ‘Ash. Is that ash I can see on there?’

‘No, sir. It’s from my rubber.’

‘Rubber? Rubber? That looks like cigarettes to me.’

He dabs his fingers at the mess.

‘Good God.’

He gazes over at the chalk-marks where the model’s feet have been, then at the students, then, with increasing dismay, he glances at myself.

‘See here,’ he says. ‘What’s happened to the model, Freestone?’

‘I’m afraid,’ I tell him, ‘she isn’t feeling well.’

‘Well? Not feeling well?’ He glances round as if he’s never encountered this condition in his life before.

‘She said she’d carry on,’ I tell him.

‘Carry on?’

‘Which is very good of her,’ I add.

‘Good of her?’

The model reappears. She climbs onto the platform, glances down at her chalk-marks, then, fixing her gaze on a point a few inches above the Principal’s head, resumes her pose.

‘You’ll be fetching her cups of tea in next.’

He glances round him once again.

‘Somebody’s been smoking in here. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed.’

‘That’s me, I’m afraid,’ I tell him. I indicate the cigarette, stubbed out, which I’m holding in my hand. ‘A momentary aberration.’

‘Aberration?’ Wilcox gazes at my hand for several seconds. ‘You know the rule about smoking, then, I take it? If we can’t set an example ourselves I don’t know who damn well can. I spend half my time going round trying to keep this building tidy.’

‘More,’ I tell him.

‘More. That’s right,’ he says.

Perhaps it’s the association of cigarettes, drifting clouds of smoke and the body of a naked woman that Wilcox instinctively recoils from. Almost absent-mindedly I withdraw my fingers from the cigarette and leave it equidistant between us on the window-ledge. I turn my gaze to the window, see, faintly, the Principal’s face reflected in the glass, and concentrate my attention on the view outside.

It comprises, very largely, that area of the town with which as yet I’m least familiar. The college, a prominent, square-shaped building, stands near the centre of the town, looking out over the roofs of the nearest buildings towards the park. Hedged fields, low hillocks, clumps of trees and odd, isolated copses, stretch out in a broad perspective towards a distant line of heath and hills.

‘It’s not only the smoking,’ Wilcox says. ‘Somebody’s been scratching at the paint outside.’

Clearly, he’s come to a decision about the cigarette. I can even feel a certain amount of sympathy for him when I consider the effort required on the Principal’s part not to snatch at the offending object – a certain degree of violence invariably accompanies the disposal by Wilcox of a piece of rubbish – crush it, and drop it in his pocket.

‘I’ve a damn good idea it’s been done by one of these damn chisels. They come up here at home-time and put them in their lockers. They know damn well they’re supposed to stay downstairs.’

He pauses, in illustration, listening for any sounds from the sculpture room below.

My own thoughts move on, first to the pottery room beyond, then to the room beyond that given over to the gas-fired kiln, then to the room and passageway beyond that given over, on certain afternoons and evenings, to sign-writing and interior decorating.

‘The damn building’ll drop to bits if I don’t keep going round,’ he says. ‘As it is we don’t come very high on the priority list of that so-called – though I don’t know why – education committee over yonder.’ He gestures at the window now himself.

‘It needs someone to keep them on their toes,’ I say.

‘Toes? Bloody backsides I should think’s more like it. When it comes down to it there’s not one in here, or over there, that does a proper job of work.’

He pauses again. The silence of the room is undisturbed, save, that is, for the scratching of the students’ pencils, the odd sighs of frustration, the thudding of a rubber against a board.

‘It’s the time they take over the work. Not to mention the work itself. Spend two minutes on a bit of hardboard – never mind your canvas – and think they’ve done a Mona Lisa. Two hours with a bit of wire and plaster and you’d think they’d turned out a John the Baptist.’

‘Yes,’ I say. I nod my head.

‘Too hot, is it,’ he says, ‘or cold?’ He indicates the model’s heater: two rectangular metal sheets set one above the other on a metal stand.

‘Warm enough, I think,’ I tell him.

The model nods.

‘Think on about the smoking. I don’t mind it in the staff room. I draw a line at it in here.’

He glances over at the model, coughs, lengthily, as if overwhelmed entirely by the atmosphere of the room, and then, still coughing, crosses to the door.

He lets it shut behind him.

A murmur of relief runs through the room.

‘Thanks, Mr Freestone, for getting me off the cigarette,’ the model says.

‘That’s all right,’ I tell her. I hold up the one I’ve started smoking. ‘My mistake as well.’

‘Dying for a smoke,’ she says, swaying now, wearily, from one foot to the other.

I cross over to the nearest stool, wait for the student there to rise, sit down and gaze at the drawing on the pad before me.

It’s comprised almost entirely of irregular triangles. They begin at the top of the paper and run down with increasing boldness to the bottom. The feet of the figure are clad in what look like an enormous pair of metal boots.

‘The idea, really, was to sort of indicate the masses. And to sort of counterpoint the main areas and shapes.’

‘Yes,’ I say. I nod my head.

A hand comes down, casual, wistful, as if about to bring the metallic shape to life.

I glance over at the model.

Odd shadows have appeared at the corners of her mouth.

Cramp, I think. Or pins and needles.

‘Sort of projecting, I suppose, the principal masses.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

I ease my legs against the stool.

I glance over, idly, to the drawing on my right.

From a distance of three or four feet the figure there looks uncommonly like a peeled banana. To my left, the Black Hole of Calcutta: a mass of erasures, scratches, crossings-out; beyond that, an armature-like construction – arms and legs reduced to matches – and on the other side a figure constructed from what look like motor car inner tubes and tyres.

‘Perhaps you can shade a few of these in.’

‘Yes?’

‘Give the figure,’ I say, ‘some sort of context.’

‘Context?’

‘Give it some relief.’

‘The idea, really, is to get the masses.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I see.’

The hand comes down again. I’m attracted immediately by the neatness of the nails, like petals, pink and smooth. A girl.

‘To keep it two-dimensional,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I say.

Her hair is dark. It hangs around her face in a shallow cowl. Her eyes are grey. A thin line of black mascara strengthens the already pronounced effect of her thick black lashes. The lips, too, in profile, remind me of a flower: the texture of her skin, smooth, unblemished, brings back the image of a petal. I smell her scent.

‘I wondered if you’d look at one or two drawings I have,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I say. I lift the pad.

‘Not here,’ she says.

‘Perhaps I could see them when we have a rest,’ I tell her.

‘I haven’t got them here,’ she says.

‘Bring them tomorrow, then,’ I tell her.

I get up from the stool.

‘Shall I carry on?’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I tell her and cross over to the door, hear Wilcox’s voice in the corridor outside, and move back slowly towards the window.

I glance over at the girl. Fletcher? Newman. Christian name? Begins with ‘R’.

She wears a white sweater and a short grey skirt; her leg’s outlined against the profile of the stool.

I look back towards the window. ‘Wil cox be in fashion this year?’ someone has written on the paintwork.

‘Tennis tonight, or something else?’

Hendricks has come into the room on soft-soled shoes – lunch-time spent playing Badminton in the gymnasium of the Technical College across the way – and now stands by my elbow gazing at the view.

‘Spend more time looking out of there than looking at anything else, I think.’

‘Yes,’ I tell him.

‘How about the tennis?’

‘Will the weather hold?’ I ask.

‘Should think so. Still autumn, not winter. Five-thirty, old man? I’ve booked a court.’

He glances at the model.

‘What’s she like?’ he says.

‘All right.’

‘Might come in and do a plate or so myself,’ he tells me.

Hendricks teaches lithography and etching.

‘Heard who’s disappeared this morning, then?’ he says.

‘No,’ I tell him. I shake my head.

‘Freddy. Gone and vanished. Been searching high and low,’ he says.

He takes out a comb and runs it through his hair, ducking down so that he can see his face reflected in a framed print of the ‘Discobolus’ on the wall.

‘Hell of a temper. Been into every room,’ he says.

‘Came in here. Never mentioned it,’ I tell him.

‘Preliminary inquiries. Search everybody, I suppose. Won’t commit himself too soon. Bide his time, old man. Then pounce.’

Freddy is a yellowing, much-fingered plaster cherub used, perhaps in Wilcox’s earliest days, for drawing from the antique. Recently, several other casts have disappeared, integral parts of their anatomy having, over the months, preceded them. Freddy’s own single dismembered piece lies invariably on the pedestal by his side.

‘How’s it feel?’

‘Feel?’

‘Arms ache?’

‘A bit.’

‘A few more games: you’ll feel all right.’

He glances over at the model: he gives his comb a final shake.

‘Do you want a lift, or shall I meet you there,’ he says.

‘See you there, I think,’ I tell him.

‘Okey-doke,’ he says.

He gazes round at the students, crosses to the door, waves, then disappears.

‘Rest,’ I say and watch, abstracted, as the model eases first one foot then the other, then, breasts trembling, climbs down from the throne.

She pushes her feet inside her slippers, eases her back then, glancing first in my direction then at the door, walks over to the drawings.

She examines the Michelin tyre-man first, frowning, her head held slightly to one side.

Still frowning, she moves over to the armature, then to the Black Hole of Calcutta, gazes for several seconds at what is, plainly, an indecipherable mass of scrawls and whirls, then moves on, more slowly, to the triangulated frost-man. From there her eyes pass on, perplexed, to the peeled banana. As if some error of judgement on her part is involved, she glances back along the row; peeled banana, frost-man, black-hole/coalhole, wire-man, tyre-man; she glances up, smiles, stretches, then comes over to the window.

‘I used to be interested in drawing.’

‘Really?’

‘Years ago.’

‘Not now?’

‘Never find the time.’

I examine the skin around her shoulder. The white line left by a strap runs down through an area of suntan to the white skin above her breasts.

‘I don’t suppose if I had the time I’d be much good in any case. Not nowadays,’ she says.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Not with this modern stuff,’ she tells me.

She points back towards the drawings.

‘I don’t understand half of it,’ she says.

‘Same here.’

She smiles again.

‘You’re supposed to be a specialist,’ she says.

I can see our two figures reflected in the framed print of the ‘Discobolus’, a broad, stocky, dark-haired man: secondhand, fawn jacket, white shirt and blackened collar; and the pale, pink, glowing figure of a light-haired woman. She runs her hand across her chest.

‘Think I’m boiling. These heaters are stronger than you think.’

I feel her arm.

‘I’ll switch them off,’ I tell her.

‘Too cold. Even with one on it gets too cold. And with two on, of course, it gets too hot.’

‘Better too hot,’ I say, ‘than cold.’

‘That’s what I think, love!’ she tells me.

She glances back towards the throne. Beads of sweat have run down beneath her arm. Her feet are still inflamed; her ankles, perhaps, are always swollen.

‘At this other place I go to the heaters are always breaking down,’ she says. ‘It’s like standing in an ice-box.’

‘At least one or two things work here,’ I say.

‘Thanks, I think, to Mr Wilcox.’

‘Thanks to Mr Wilcox. Yes,’ I add.

She begins to laugh.

Behind her I can see the Newman girl. She’s standing with her back to the wall, her hands clasped behind her, pushing herself off from the wall then letting herself fall back against it, laughing, listening to the small, squat, black-haired boy who has produced the peeled banana.

‘In some schools they hardly draw from the model anymore.’

‘Be doing you out of a job,’ I tell her.

‘If it wasn’t this I’d probably find something else,’ she says.

‘Such as?’ I say.

‘Worked in a factory once,’ she says and adds, ‘Sewing buttons.’

She lifts my tie.

‘Don’t you have anyone to sew them on?’ she asks me.

‘No,’ I say. I shake my head.

‘That’s how it is nowadays,’ she says. ‘Don’t think marriage, looking after somebody comes into it anymore. Not like it used to.’ She runs her hand across her chest. ‘Think I’ll go get dressed,’ she adds.

The Newman girl has left the wall; she’s walking along the row of stools, glancing at the drawings, her hands behind her back, stooping, pausing here and there, her feet astride, her chin thrust out: she glances up at one point and sees me by the window. She shakes her head, smiles, then, flushing slightly, moves on around the stools.