“In place of green, try the blue. Shadow is not merely a toning down, it often completely changes the colour – the perception, even.”
He stared with disbelief as Mr Carter used his brush to add a blue dappling under the trees. But once he’d finished he was amazed at the effect. It was his first impressionistic experience.
“That’s amazing!” He was very pleased. His work now looked somehow more… mature.
The Art Room was nothing more than the top floor of Oakhurst, the beautiful old Lutyens house that had been converted into the school some years before. It had that familiar school art room smell—all acrylics and poster paints, slightly septic drains and cleaning fluids. Always a place of calm and reflection, the classroom became more than another teaching venue, it was the location of a growing dedication to inner discovery.
“5 minutes, ladies and gents. Can you clear up now, please?”
These were words of almost universal disappointment, even for an anticipated break time or end of school day. Art was fab. Available at any time, someone was always working away at something interesting after lessons or during frees. Portraiture was difficult, so most opted for still life—sheep skulls and fruit, chequered tablecloths and coffee pots. Each week newly acquired skills would add accomplishment to the merely observational, style to the perfunctory tasks of the curriculum, and permit a certain amount of freedom of expression. Some enjoyed taking this route further, others diverted into the realms of expression free from direct form and true abstraction, overcoming the inevitable embarrassment that first accompanies exposure of the soul until there developed a certain clarity, and something called ‘voice’ or ‘presence’ could be detected in the finished pieces. These were exciting times for the unveiling of the machinations of soul and mind. Lines and circles, angles and shapes became reflectors, colours became moods, the canvas itself a portal to the inner experiences of the artist.
“Have you thought about the field trip?”
He heard the question from the good teacher, but could not resist a glance over to the object of his squishy affections, on the opposite side of the room. A pair of female eyes returned the warmth: quite what would occur on that trip would only become apparent once the bus was parked and the beds were assigned. The mind filled with thoughts of dorm rooms and showers and group sex and the very extremes of adolescent sexual fantasy.
“Yes, my mum says I can go if I get improved grades in all subjects.”
Because it was always so busy, the art room never became the venue for the typical teenage shenanigans. That was something best left to walks back to the station, late afternoon rendezvous under the trees, or even a weekend date. Not having much money, mutual affections had to be enjoyed at a bargain basement rate of little or no cash. If you couldn’t do it at school itself, or on a park bench, or in an empty carriage of the non-stop Metropolitan Line, then it wasn’t going to happen.
“Can you return the form with a cheque then?”
Of course, there was a certain amount of imagination involved in finding niches for cross-pupil naughtiness. There were quiet places around the grounds away from watchful eyes where the usual five-minute grope could be extended to fifteen minutes passionate wet kissing. Behind the gym became a regular, although inclement weather made it ultimately unsatisfactory. There were fox tracks in the cherry and birch woodland the far side of the football pitch led to a small clearing, but it was obvious to all that a couple entering the woods were not going there to pick flowers or go bird watching. That left venues within the school buildings themselves; empty classrooms, music practice rooms and, at the right time, the cellar/common room under the main school itself.
“That’s the bell, boys and girls. Off you go.”
Mr Carter was himself already on the way to the staffroom for a break coffee. He was not on duty today, but even so he would sometimes take his outside and either sit alone or with one of the teachers or whichever student would appear and talk cordially about one thing or another. His father ran an ironmongers, supported an impressive ginger toupee, and grew vegetables on an allotment. On the wall of his kitchen hung a framed poem that had been fried, a quirk of previous artistic direction.
“Can I stay? I’d like to finish this.”
The answer was almost inevitably positive. Showing an interest was always to be rewarded with time, only the interest was not merely arty.
“Yes, but you must both clear up before the end of break.”
His voice led away down the creaky maze-like corridor system, past the swing doors that flapped under the little stairway up to the caretaker’s flat. Mr & Mrs Clooney were an oddjobman and dinner lady/clearner partnership who enjoyed living in a relatively small flat under the eaves that must once have functioned as staff quarters when the house had been privately owned. Mr Clooney was a dour, unhappy Scot, prone to months-long bouts of frowns and a stiff gait that no doubt described the presence of rheumatism. He it was that had a certain responsibility for arranging the drivers of the minibuses, the cleaning of classrooms and the constant work of maintaining the lawns and gardens. It is he, therefore, who would have arranged for Ted to conduct the cleaning of the cellar rooms one particular evening.
“Hi!” he peeked over at her concentrating face, gleefully aware of their time alone at last. She was happy to return his gooning glance for a second, but returned her eyes to the work on the easel before her. What did that mean? Was she really working? Perhaps she didn’t value their time together with as much excitement as he did. They continued for a few more minutes, blissfully alone, he all the time wondering what more to say, and she probably quite content with things as they were.
“How about I meet you tonight, after school?”
The door burst open as an early squidling rushed in to bag the best chair. She nodded, turned red and returned to paint.
It was normal for pupils to be hanging around school long after lessons had finished: some practicing music, some sat in discussion, some working, some reading and some just delaying their journey home. Some, however, saw this time as an opportunity to connect with their favourite person’s mouth, to swap sweet words and saliva and have arms dangle nonchalantly over shoulders precariously near to breasts. In general, however, nothing went much further; apart from the issues of privacy, there just wasn’t the opportunity—unless one was created.
“Come on. No-one’s down here.”
They slipped into the common room, now weirdly devoid of life. Usually the location of spontaneous juvenile guffawing before school, at breaks and lunches and even after 3.20pm, the animation that accompanied 20+ musician children resonated long after their departures. Leaving the lights off and using only the natural ambient orange glow of the city beyond, he led her by the hand to the second little room, which was little more of a locker room that housed benches and pegs for coats and bags. There they pitched their intimacy, on a slatted bench, all fingers and sighs as together they overcame her natural modesty, and took things decidedly unsteady for the better part of an hour. And then Ted the cleaner walked in on the two scared rabbits.
“What were you doing?”
The headmaster’s words were cautious, but firm. It could be that there was a perfectly reasonable justification, one beyond the expected fumbling and kissing. But how exactly was he to give explanation for himself? It had been nearly seven o’clock and the rest of the school was locked up for the night.
“We were talking. Just talking.”
He eyed the squirming spotty teenager with a pause. Could he really punish this?
“You are expected to go home straight after school.”
He’d got away with it, but now the word was out. They’d been caught; the architecture of their love-zone was common knowledge, no matter how he bluffed and joked. He didn’t need to hear the whispered conversations to know the object of their tattle-tattle—through bravado the newly acquired reputation did not thoroughly unnerve, but he felt it was, perhaps, unfairly won. At least there was always Art. And there was always the field trip.
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