Down Among the Dead Men (3 page)

3

T
om was shaking up the school. In the first week, his pinstripe suit got so paint-spattered that the head gave him special dispensation to wear whatever casual clothes he liked. And the girls were permitted to bring T-shirts and jeans for art lessons, and change in the dressing room behind the stage.

He'd told year eleven that creating a portfolio sounded boring until you realised a portfolio wasn't a flat case for carrying a mass of drawings, but an opportunity to create exciting things that would never fit into a flat case. He'd taken them to see landscape artworks at Petworth and West Dean. They'd visited the sculpture park at Goodwood and come away with wholly different ideas about creativity. Inspired, they started on projects of their own. Jem worked on a big scale with a leaping dolphin made from driftwood. Mel was collecting pieces of glass worn smooth by the sea and making an exquisite mosaic no bigger than a dinner plate. Naseem was building a Neptune figure entirely from seaweed. Ella's was a big abstract fashioned mainly from broken lobster pots.

Some afternoons Tom would drive them in the school minivan to one of the pebble beaches—Bracklesham Bay and Selsey being only ten miles away—and get them scavenging for materials. On these trips he was relaxed about smoking and swearing and he always fitted in a visit to the beach café. He'd chat about almost anything except himself. His personal life seemed to be off limits. And of course the girls took this as a challenge.

“Ever come down here at weekends, Tom?”

“Far too busy, Jem.”

“What—painting and stuff? How do you relax, Tom?”

“I'm always relaxed. Haven't you noticed?”

“Except you've got to be sharp when you're driving. Have you had it long, your MG?”

“Some time.”

“Who chose it—you, or your girlfriend?”

“That would be telling.”

“Go on—tell us.”

“I've always liked sports cars. Most guys do.”

“And your girlfriend, does she like it?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Just now you seemed to be saying there's someone.”

“I'm pretty certain I wasn't—and if there was, I wouldn't.”

Laughs all round.

“Spoilsport. Is she an artist like you?”

“Talking of artists, Ella, give the others a shout, will you? They seem to be chatting up those skateboarders outside the café and I don't think we can justify it as performance art. It's time we started back.”

In the van, the interrogation started all over again.

“Do you have a long drive home, Tom?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“We were wondering where you live.”

“I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. There are more fascinating topics.”

“Such as?”

“Unit three of your A level art.”

Groans.

“I mean it,” Tom said, and started telling them about the personal investigation element of their coursework. The prospect of writing up to three thousand words scared even the boldest of them. A neat way to head off the questions about his home life.

With so many girls desperate to know, it was inevitable that someone would find out. Ella came into the art room one morning and said, “It's Boxgrove.”

“What is?”

“Where Tom lives. One of the year nines saw him drive out of the gates of some major estate outside the village.”

“Is he rich, then?”

“Got to be a millionaire, hasn't he?”

“What's he doing teaching if he's as rich as that?”

“It's a vocation.”

“Come again.”

“Like a mission, making the world a better place through art. He wants to spread the word.”

“You think?”

“Or he fancies schoolgirls.”

“If only.”

“I've been thinking,” Mel said suddenly.

“Listen up, people,” Jem said. “The Chosen One is going to tell us something amazing.”

Everything went quiet in the art room. Mel was the odd one out, the only girl whose fees were paid by a trade union. She would have been given an even harder time if she hadn't been an original thinker.

“I didn't say amazing. I was thinking about the Gibbon.”

“Groan. That's a thought wasted.”

“I know she wasn't popular, but it's weird how she, like, went off suddenly without even saying goodbye to anyone. Even useless teachers get some kind of leaving present. The head didn't seem to know where she'd gone.”

“Does it matter?”

“All kinds of stuff could have happened. She could have got knocked down by a car and lost her memory.”

“Or been kidnapped by Somali pirates,” Jem said.

“No one better pay the ransom, then,” Ella said.

“Yeah, she goes on about the golden mean and the pirates think she's super rich.”

Mel was still being serious. “It's just a mystery how a teacher can vanish and no one seems to care.”

“Obvious,” Jem said. “She did something the school wants to hush up, like running a knocking shop.”

“The Gibbon?” Ella said.

“I didn't say she was on the game. I said running it, like a madam.”

“I can't picture that.”

“The head would have a blue fit in case it got in the papers and no one wanted to send their kids here anymore.”

“You're all being ridiculous,” Mel said.

“Now we've got Tom, we don't want the Gibbon back. She was the pits.”

“I don't want her back either.”

“Shut up about her, then. She's history.”

Tom didn't seem fazed when they told him they knew where he lived.

“Okay.”

“Aren't you bothered, Tom?” Jem said. “You wouldn't tell us when we asked.”

“Because it has bugger all to do with why I'm here, which is to show you lot how exciting art can be. Now you know where I live, perhaps we can talk about something useful, like unit three, your personal investigations—and that means being curious about some topic in art and not my totally boring private life. Remember, this is twenty-five per cent of your course mark.”

They'd been told before and they were ready. “I'm doing mixed media and new materials,” Jem said.

“Elephant dung?” Ella said with a grin.

Jem was amused. “And much more, like fabrics, cardboard, wood, porcelain.”

Tom nodded. “Sounds promising. How about you, Mel?”

“I was thinking of postage stamps.”

“Not another bloody mosaic,” Ella said.

“Typical,” Jem said. “Always something small.”

“Hold on,” Tom said, “let's have some respect for each other. What is it about stamps you want to investigate?”

“Like how the designs are done and how they've changed. There was a man in the paper last week, an artist who's just had his first pictures accepted by whoever decides, and there's masses of stuff on the internet.”

“Good thinking,” Tom said. “Stamp design has come a long way since the penny black. It's unusual and it could be a fascinating study. Yes, go for it, Mel. And you, Ella. What's your area of investigation?”

“The nude.”

“Okay, okay,” Tom said over the laughter. “Get it over with. I take it you are serious, Ella? How do you propose to make this your special study?”

“Like the history from ancient Greece to Lucien Freud.”

Sarcastic coos.

“That's good—but it's a huge sweep of history. You might want to come at the subject in a slightly different way, like the nude in landscape, thinking of artists such as Cranach, Giorgione, Monet and Cezanne.”

“I suppose.” She didn't sound convinced.

“Or you could look at why the naked human form has such an enduring appeal for artists. Maybe interview some people who draw and paint from life. Credit is always given for original research.”

“She could interview you, Tom,” Jem said, ever ready to exploit an opening. “We've all seen your website.”

“I don't know if that's such a good idea. The external moderator might not like your own tutor being involved. Better, really, to talk to artists who have nothing to do with the school.”

“But how will she meet them?” Mel asked.

“Pose for them,” Jem said.

Everyone enjoyed the prospect while Ella turned pink and said, “Thanks a bunch.”

Tom said, “Some friends of mine join me most Saturdays for a session in my studio.”

The level of interest rose several notches.

“I'm thinking it would help you guys a lot to meet a bunch of serious artists and see how they work. It would be time out from your weekend, of course—”

“No problem,” Jem said at once. “We're up for it, aren't we, people?”

They made it obvious she'd spoken for them all.

“I was thinking three at a time.” Tom went on. “You could sit beside anyone you like and watch, or do some work of your own.”

“Cool,” Ella said. “Is it all day?”

“A couple of hours in the morning, starting about eleven, and a couple in the afternoon. I provide soup and a roll or salad.”

“Are they, like, guys?”

“A mixed group, men and women, some my age, some older. I'll need to clear it with them first, but they should be okay with it.”

“Do you have a model?” Mel asked.

“Sometimes. Other days we'll do still life or just work at our own projects. Being together is the main thing. So is it on?”

“How will we get there?” Naseem asked.

“That's up to us, obviously,” Jem said. “Tom's not going to collect us in the minibus, are you, Tom? I don't mind giving two of you a lift in my Panda—that's if I'm picked.” An offer that seemed to some of the others like a gun at Tom's head.

Jem, Ella and Naseem were the lucky first three. Intense debate followed over what to wear, this being an out-of-school activity. Ella had no problem. She was a goth at weekends, with white foundation and dark eyeliner, black leather and fishnets. Naseem would be sure to come in a gorgeous sari. Jem, with a free choice, was given so many suggestions that in the end she told no one what she'd decided—and on the Saturday put up her hair to make herself taller and wore a favourite red dress with lots of sparkle and spaghetti straps. Also platforms she needed to change into after driving the car. Not one of the outfits was suitable for art, but that hadn't entered their heads.

They arrived late, at Jem's suggestion. “They'll think we're only a bunch of schoolgirls if we get there on time.”

So at 11:20 they drew up at the gate of Fortiman House, a mile along a small road out of Boxgrove, and turned down the car radio.

High walls surrounded the property and there was a double gate of wrought iron.

“Awesome,” Ella said.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Naseem said.

“Positive.” Jem was checking her face in the rear view mirror.

“Shall I see if I can open it?” Ella said. They were all nervous.

Just then, a middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket, jeans and wellies approached the gate from the other side. He was carrying a trug. “Morning, young ladies. Are you visiting?”

“We're artists,” Ella said, “here to join the Saturday group.”

“And liven it up,” Jem said, becoming bold again.

“They do their art in the stables. Drive straight up to the house and leave the car where you see the others. I'm Ferdie, by the way. I'll open up.”

“Cheers, Ferdie,” Jem said, as they drove through, and then asked the others, “Was he after a tip, do you think?”

“Some hopes, from three hard-up schoolgirls,” Ella said.

“Students.”

“Still hard up.”

Along the gravel drive all chatter stopped. Ella's first reaction of “awesome” was the only word for Tom's house, a massive flint building with seven gables along the front and a pillared entrance. Several cars were lined up, including the red MG and a yellow Lamborghini. Tom was waiting nearby and waved them into a space.

“Trouble finding us?” he said, opening the car door. “I was wondering if you'd decided to go shopping instead.”

“I must change my shoes,” Jem said.

“Good thinking,” Tom said. “Comfort is the name of the game.” But when he saw the platforms going on, it became obvious comfort wasn't high in Jem's priorities. Tom didn't comment. Neither did he say anything about the others' outfits. Naseem was in a peacock blue sari and Ella's goth outfit was little more than a basque over black lace.

“Did you bring sketchbooks?”

None of them had—not even Naseem.

“Ah, well, I'm not short of paper. We have a model today, so we got started on time.”

The stables weren't recognizable as a place where horses had been kept. The building must have been gutted and reconstructed with large picture windows and a raked roof with dormer windows.

“If you're wondering how a teacher can afford a conversion like this, I can't,” Tom told them. “All of this belongs to my old man, Ferdie.”

There was a moment to take in the name.

“We just met him,” Ella said. “We thought he was the gardener.”

“Dad grows orchids. They're in all the shops. Been lucky in life, and so have I, by association. Let's go in. Don't open the door too wide or there's a wicked draught.”

They edged inside, where a surprise awaited. The model was male.

Ella mouthed, “Oh my God!”

Artists and easels were ranged around the nude man, hairy, dark and with a beer belly, who faced the door in a standing pose on a table, his arms held high, hands clasped behind his neck.

Tom handed boards, sheets of paper and charcoal to his students. “Why don't you move about and decide where you'd like to be?”

All three made straight for the rear view.

Twenty minutes in, the model was given a break. He did some twisting and flexing before stepping down from the table. An unnerving moment. What if he came over and struck up a conversation? Relief all round when he picked up a black silk gown and pulled it on.