Читать книгу Flying High - Литагент HarperCollins USD, Ian St. James Awards - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCynthia Chapman
Since she gave up teaching, Cynthia Chapman’s occupations have included market stallholder, pub pianist and running a fancy-dress hire business from her home in Kent. She has been writing for about five years and has had over thirty stories published in magazines. At present she is trying to find a publisher for her first novel while working on her second.
At twelve-thirty Mrs Oliphant removed her gardening gloves and laid them in the trug with the secateurs and bass. She straightened up from her task of staking delphiniums, conscious of a familiar twinge in the small of her back. Naturally one ignored this evidence of the advancing years; nothing was more boring than one’s own minor ailments. The way to keep young was to follow the excellent advice of all those newspaper columnists; get out and about and take up new hobbies and interests so that one simply didn’t have time to feel sorry for oneself.
However, she did feel a little sorry for herself when, just as she had arranged a lightly boiled egg and thin fingers of brown bread and butter on a tray, the telephone rang. She had to watch the egg growing cold as her friend Marjorie prattled on about nothing. As soon as she could she cut the conversation short.
‘You must forgive me, my dear – I’m due at my art class at half past one. That’s right, we’re going to tackle drawing from the figure this term. Yes indeed – one only hopes it won’t be too illuminating!’
After eating her spoilt lunch Mrs Oliphant hurried upstairs to change out of her pale-green cotton trousers and loose-fitting shirt. One did not of course dress up for an Adult Education class but on the other hand one did try to look fresh and summery. She selected a dress in a light, silky fabric patterned in soft shades of blue – reminiscent of the delphiniums that one loved so much – and white shoes with a sensible medium heel. Her fair hair was worn in a short, casual style that needed little attention, but she carefully reapplied the rose-pink lipstick that these days seemed more flattering than stronger colours. After spraying a little lily of the valley toilet water behind her ears she was ready.
Since her husband had died Mrs Oliphant had been to classes in Embroidery, Flower Arranging, Yoga (for which one had been obliged to wear a track suit) and French Conversation. This year’s choice – ‘Discovering Drawing’ – had made her feel quite adventurous, for although one had of course always adored Art it was amazing to find that one could actually produce quite recognizable pictures of assorted flowerpots, a bunch of bananas, or a jumble of kitchen utensils on a checked tablecloth.
This term the members of the class were ready to progress to ‘Drawing from the Figure’ and had been asked to pay an extra two pounds towards the services of the models. Their tutor Mr Redfern had stressed that the important thing about figure drawing was not to feel inhibited or discouraged by one’s early efforts but just to have a go. He was a likeable, friendly man and they had now got over their initial reluctance to call him ‘Teddy’ as requested. He was in fact rather like a teddy bear, stockily built, with fluffy golden hair balding at the crown, a cheerful, ruddy face, and eyes the colour of brandy. After two terms with him they all felt like old friends.
Teddy Redfern was in his early forties and had a liking for alcohol and young women; a combination which had cost him both his previous teaching job at a sixth-form college and his marriage. These days he still drank a little more than he should, but his weakness for young women was not catered for in his Adult Education classes, for the majority of his pupils were ladies of indeterminate age with more enthusiasm than artistic talent. Like Mrs Oliphant, they were charming, cultured and conventional, and if they ever detected whisky fumes on his breath they were much too well-bred to give any sign of it.
Now they were all busily engaged in drawing the young West Indian in jeans and T-shirt who leant against a table, his chin cupped in one hand, as if deep in thought. Teddy Redfern withdrew to the side of the room and surreptitiously lit a cigarette, tapping his ash out of the open window. Idly he listened to the snatches of conversation interspersed with ripples of ladylike laughter.
‘My dear, I was quite expecting a nude!’
‘Oh, we’re not nearly ready for that yet, are we?’
‘One does rather hope that one wouldn’t have to cope with a male nude to start with!’
‘But artists have to cultivate a detached viewpoint – just like doctors and nurses. The human body’s simply a machine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s too silly to be apprehensive about drawing the nude figure – most of us are married women, after all.’
Teddy Redfern threw his cigarette-end out of the window and began to drift round the room, making bluff, hearty comments about the work as he went. No good being too discouraging, he thought, or he’d find himself without a class next year. Mrs Oliphant’s attempt seemed to him slightly more competent than those of the other ladies.
‘I say, Anthea – I do believe you’re improving all the time! That head’s really very good.’
‘Oh, do you think so? I felt I was making a frightful botch of it.’
‘Nonsense! Just have a bash at it and don’t worry too much over the results. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it?’
As he moved on, a faint frown crossed Mrs Oliphant’s face, for she found this simple philosophy quite alien to her nature. One could hardly ‘have a bash’ at everything in life; either one felt that one could be moderately successful at something, or one didn’t.
It would be no use, for instance, having a bash at changing the flat tyre of one’s car, she thought some forty-five minutes later, standing in the car park feeling particularly helpless. One would just have to go back into the centre and telephone one’s garage.
As she walked up the steps Teddy Redfern swung out of the glass doors, talking away so busily to the West Indian boy that he nearly bumped into her. ‘… like a couple of balloons in a binliner. Ah – forgotten something, Anthea? I’d better come back with you. I’ve just locked up.’
‘Oh, no, no –’ she faltered. ‘It’s my wretched car; a flat tyre, and I’m afraid I’m a perfect fool when it comes to dealing with anything mechanical …’
‘Is that all? I’ll have it done in a jiffy. Can’t have you messing about with oily tools, can we? Don’t wait for me, Mick – I can get the bus.’
The young man rode off on a motor bike and Teddy Redfern accompanied her back to her silver-grey Golf.
‘Is your own car out of action?’ enquired Mrs Oliphant, watching him roll up his sleeves and set to work.
‘Yes, temporarily. Bit of a nuisance, but I think there’s a bus I can get in about twenty minutes.’
‘Oh, but I insist that you let me run you home. It’s the very least I can do after your kindness. I believe you live quite close to me,’ she went on, as he gratefully slid into the passenger seat. She had seen him one day in a ramshackle Citroën Dyane coming out of the drive of a rather nasty-looking little bungalow.
‘And you live … ?’
‘Vine Cottage; I don’t know whether you know it?’
‘Ah yes, I think I’ve passed it in the car. Is there actually a vine?’
‘Yes, quite an old one at the back of the house. Are you at all interested in gardening?’
‘Love it,’ said Teddy Redfern, who occasionally, in a wild spurt of energy, would go out to his garden and attack the lawn for ten minutes or so before collapsing into a deckchair with his heart pounding. ‘I’m afraid mine’s a bit neglected at the moment but I’ve got great plans for it. You must come round one day and advise me.’
‘Oh, I adore telling other people what to do with their gardens,’ she said effusively. ‘But isn’t your wife fond of gardening?’
‘I live on my own. Was married for a time but it didn’t work out; just one of those things, I suppose. My fault. I’m not an easy man to live with – put it down to the artistic temperament!’
He went on to tell her about his days at the Slade in the 1960s when he had been ‘a bit of a terror’ then gave her an account of his teaching career. He was naturally obliged to leave out all the most interesting bits but made up for this by enlarging on his reasons for ‘opting out’.
‘… had enough of the rat-race. I made up my mind I was going to devote myself to my own work, sink or swim. I’m simply not cut out for a regular nine-to-four-thirty job. Nowadays I can stay in bed till noon then work all night if I feel like it.’
How Bohemian he was! thought Mrs Oliphant, remembering her own husband setting off at the same hour each morning with briefcase and bowler hat. One could see how the artistic temperament would be difficult to live with but at the same time quite fascinating.
‘Perhaps you’d like to pop in and have a cup of tea with me as it’s on the way,’ she said, as they neared Vine Cottage. ‘Unless of course you’re in a frightful hurry?’
But Teddy Redfern was in no particular hurry and thought it would be interesting to see the cottage. As he followed Mrs Oliphant through the front door he was instantly struck by the unnatural tidiness of the place, then by the elegance and quiet good taste evident in the drawing room. His feet sank into a soft, pale carpet; the chairs were covered in blue-and-white flowered chintz; a few good pieces of porcelain were displayed here and there. On a low table with the colour and sheen of a new horse-chestnut stood an elaborate flower arrangement of mauve and white lilac, fat white peonies and purple irises. He felt large and ill at ease, fearful of bumping into some valuable piece of furniture or marking the carpet with his shoes.
Mrs Oliphant led him out to the neat little kitchen so that he could wash the traces of oil from his hands.
‘I think it might be pleasant to have our tea outside, don’t you? It’s such a beautiful afternoon. Why don’t you go out to my little courtyard and relax, and I’ll bring the tray in a minute.’
The courtyard was delightful with its tubs of double petunias and trailing lobelia. Behind him the vine climbed almost to the roof of the cottage, its leaves a tender pale green against the faded coral of the brickwork. He sat down on a white wrought-iron chair and gazed down Mrs Oliphant’s garden.
‘You don’t do all this yourself, do you?’ he asked, as she set the tray down on the table.
‘No, I must confess I have a man in to do the heavy work. But I think beautiful, peaceful surroundings are so important for one’s well-being, don’t you?’
This was an idea that had never occurred to Teddy Redfern. It was odd, he thought, that no yellow or orange or scarlet flowers seemed to grow in Mrs Oliphant’s garden, and he remarked on the fact.
‘But how frightfully clever of you to notice! To tell you the truth, I find those colours strike a jarring note – I love blues and mauves, and white of course, and all those heavenly things with silvery leaves. One tries to keep the effect muted.’
‘And do you get many grapes from the vine?’
‘Yes, certainly. More than I know what to do with. You must have some in the autumn.’
‘Maybe if you decide to come to my class again we could use them for some still-life work.’
‘Yes, what a splendid idea! I’m sure I shall want to carry on with the class – one feels one still has such a great deal to learn. I’m finding drawing from the figure a tremendous challenge. I think we were all a little apprehensive before today; one half-expected to be confronted by a nude!’ She gave a musical laugh.
‘Oh, we shall get to the nudes,’ said Teddy Redfern with confidence. ‘Oh, yes – the nudes are all lined up. Or nude, I should say; only one of the models will be doing it. We have to pay them more, you see.’
‘Yes, I suppose one would have to … It won’t be the young man who posed for us today, then?’
‘Mick? Oh, no. The female figure – that’s the usual drill. I shan’t be inflicting any naked male bodies on you, ha, ha!’
That was rather a relief, thought Mrs Oliphant, after she had driven Teddy Redfern home. It wasn’t that one would be shocked or embarrassed; more that one might feel obscurely uncomfortable, possibly on behalf of the unclothed male model, so heavily outnumbered.
The next week Mick posed for them again. He sat on a hard wooden chair with his arms and legs crossed, and his body seemed to be all planes and angles, difficult to reproduce on the paper.
After the class she saw Teddy Redfern getting into his little red Citroën and felt slightly disappointed that there was no longer any need to offer him a lift.
The following week a new model appeared. To Mrs Oliphant and her contemporaries she seemed hardly more than a child, though one realized of course that she must have been in her early twenties. Her dark hair was cropped short like a boy’s and her skin was as firm and shiny as a nectarine. In spite of the plumpness of her figure she was wearing black cycling shorts and an orange T-shirt that was really no more than a vest. Her black canvas shoes were dusty and her nail polish chipped.
How unattractive girls nowadays made themselves look! thought Mrs Oliphant, narrowing her eyes a little as she started to sketch the ripe curves that only too clearly needed the support of a good brassière. And how very unflattering those tight shorts were, made from some slightly shiny synthetic material … Teddy Redfern had introduced her as ‘Lynne’, and at half-time sat on the edge of his table chatting to her and laughing a lot.
On the afternoon that Lynne came into the art room wearing a gaudily patterned short kimono a frisson of excitement ran through the class, for obviously they were about to tackle The Nude.
She really looked very little better without her clothes, thought Mrs Oliphant as, after discarding the kimono, the girl settled herself on an old chaise longue. She lay in such a position as to make it clear that she was not in the least self-conscious about the size of her hips. Today Teddy Redfern fetched her a cup of tea in the break, and though she shrugged herself back into the lurid kimono she did not bother to tie its belt. He sat beside her on the chaise longue and once again did a lot of laughing.
No doubt he was as detached as any doctor or nurse, the ladies reminded themselves, for after all the human body was merely a piece of machinery. Nevertheless, one did feel that it might have been more suitable not to have given the model that jolly slap on the behind just as she was about to start disrobing, or to have whispered whatever it was that made her giggle so uncontrollably.
After the class Mrs Oliphant walked to her car with Mrs Prentice, a nice woman of her own age, and they discussed Teddy Redfern’s behaviour in hushed voices.
‘Of course, one never knows with divorced men,’ said Mrs Prentice sensibly. ‘One shouldn’t be surprised if they go off the rails.’
‘Off the rails?’ repeated Mrs Oliphant in a high, alarmed tone. ‘Oh, but surely, my dear, there couldn’t be anything like that! Goodness knows, one isn’t a prude, but the girl is young enough to be his daughter. No, I think he was just being a little bit foolish in the way that middle-aged men so often are …’
Certainly Teddy Redfern was not foolish on any subsequent occasion that Lynne posed in the nude; indeed his manner towards her seemed offhand and almost brusque. Twice he complimented Mrs Oliphant on her work. A new model came and sat for them; an elderly man with a face full of unusual lumps and bumps like a potato. Teddy Redfern pinned Mrs Oliphant’s drawing of the potato-like head on the art room wall.
At their final class Mick posed for them again. The ladies had brought strawberries and cream to eat at half-time; Teddy Redfern had provided a couple of bottles of wine; a party atmosphere prevailed. Under the influence of this Mick became quite chatty and got out photographs of his girlfriend and baby daughter. At the end of the afternoon Mrs Oliphant walked out to the car park with Teddy Redfern.
‘Will you be coming to the class again next term?’ he asked.
‘Well, naturally one would love to if it can be arranged. But I’m not quite sure what my commitments will be; I’ve promised an old friend that I’ll go to Italian classes with her.’
‘Oh, do come, Anthea,’ he said, looking at her with his warm, brandy-coloured eyes. ‘I can’t manage without my star pupil. We’ll be doing still life in the autumn; I seem to remember you were rather good at that.’
‘Still life …’ she echoed, seeing in her mind’s eye a bunch of dark purple grapes lying in a pottery dish, perhaps beside a slim green wine bottle. ‘Yes, I do feel that’s very much me.’
‘Jolly good!’ he said, like an enthusiastic schoolboy. ‘I’ll expect to see you in September. You will come, now won’t you?’
Yes, thought Mrs Oliphant, she would go, even if it clashed with the Italian class and she had to disappoint Marjorie. There were times when one had to be a little selfish, otherwise people would take advantage of one’s good nature. Almost gaily she waved, as Teddy Redfern drove away from the centre still calling out, ‘Don’t let me down!’ from his car window.
Mrs Oliphant spent the month of August visiting her married daughter in Canada. They did a great deal of touring about and the weather was very hot and, although of course one absolutely adored one’s grandchildren, there was no getting away from the fact that toddlers were most frightfully exhausting.
It was delightful to be back in the peace of one’s own charming little cottage, to rediscover the joys of solitude and the sheer bliss of pottering around one’s garden. It was not until she had been home for a week that she chanced to pick up the new Adult Education Prospectus from the library.
Yes, there it was: Discovering Drawing: Edward Redfern. For beginners or the more advanced. Drawing can simply record information, but it can also express dynamic emotion. Students will be encouraged to develop their skills in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques. It really did sound quite exciting put like that, and she began to look forward to the new term.
One day in the second week of September she discovered that the grapes were ripe enough to eat. She could not remember having picked them as early as this in previous years; it had been an exceptional summer. She toyed with the idea of taking a bunch along to her first drawing class, then the happy thought struck her that there was really no need to wait for this. She knew where Teddy Redfern lived and could perfectly well call round with the grapes she had promised him. Perhaps she could advise him on his garden at the same time.
Mrs Oliphant arranged several of the ripe bunches artistically in a shoe box lined with crumpled pale-green paper napkins – almost as if one were taking them to church for a Harvest Thanksgiving service, she told herself mockingly. But one did like things to look elegant; even a simple gift should reflect one’s personality. For similar reasons she dressed with care in a lilac cotton skirt and top that she had bought in Canada. It was still warm enough not to need a cardigan.
Teddy Redfern’s bungalow, seen close to, was even nastier than she had imagined and the poor man’s garden certainly was neglected! The hedges had simply been allowed to run riot and the last of the privet blossom gave out a warm, sickly scent; a lawnmower stood abandoned on the half-cut patch of grass; the flowerbeds were dry and choked with weeds. A large, untidy clump of red-hot pokers almost blocked the path that led to the front door.
Stepping delicately past these red-hot pokers, Mrs Oliphant rang the doorbell, then stood listening with her head on one side. She became aware of music playing somewhere inside – the sort of music with a heavy, pounding bass that somehow she would not have expected a man of Teddy Redfern’s age to have liked. She rang the bell again but this time without much confidence.
His little red car was standing on the drive so he must be at home. Perhaps he was working in the back garden. She made her way round the side of the house, hardly noticing that the music had stopped. As she came to an open window she found herself looking into an incredibly disordered living room and was about to hurry past when she was arrested by the sound of voices. They seemed to come from a sofa covered in hideous mustard-yellow velveteen which stood with its back to the window.
‘Have a heart, sweetie – I’m not a superman.’
‘That’s not what you told me half an hour ago …’
It was at this point that Mrs Oliphant caught sight of the black cycling shorts and orange vest which lay next to a whisky bottle on the carpet. She lifted her eyes and saw a plump but shapely leg rise into the air, the toes curling and uncurling. There was the sound of a slap then a giggle, followed by Teddy Redfern’s unmistakable laugh.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Just let me change the tape first.’
The next moment Mrs Oliphant stepped back in horror as he got up from the sofa and crossed the room, revealing more of the naked male body than she ever wished to encounter again. It was clear that he had not been ‘drawing from the figure’, though he could have been expressing dynamic emotion in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques.
Her heart thudding, she tiptoed swiftly back to the front of the bungalow. Would it be best to take the grapes home with her? But then, looking at their firm, shiny plumpness, she felt a sudden distaste for them. Quietly she laid the box on the front doorstep and hurried out of the gate.
It wasn’t that one was shocked, she told herself, standing in her cool, gracious drawing room a little later. If one had thought about it, one would naturally have assumed that he must have some sort of ‘love life’, to use the rather ridiculous modern expression. It was simply that one didn’t expect that kind of thing to be going on in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight, and not even in his bedroom.
Absently she rearranged a spray of Michaelmas daisies in the vase that stood on the low table. With sprigs of purple hebe and a few creamy-white roses the effect was exquisite.
It was strange that she had not noticed the reddish tinge in Mr Redfern’s hair before today; she had never cared for ginger men – just one of those little irrational foibles. Of course, one had always realized that he was not quite a gentleman …
She gazed out of the window at her charming garden, a restful, soothing vista of greens and blues and silver and white. It might be agreeable to take a tray of tea out to the courtyard, she thought.
Sitting there, sipping Earl Grey tea from a fragile, bone china cup, she turned once more to the Adult Education Prospectus. Watercolour Flower Painting; how delightful that sounded! The tutor was a Bridget Coombe-Stevens, and students were encouraged to bring their own plant and flower material.
There was nothing more ageing than to get into a rut and one really had a duty to oneself to ensure that this did not happen. And of course this class had the added advantage of not clashing with Italian, and so one would be able to keep one’s promise to poor Marjorie …
