Red Alert (10 page)

‘It’s time I was going to that Art School to have a word with your tutor.’

‘No, no, Mother. It’ll be all right, I promise.’

For her mother to go anywhere near the Art School would be disastrous, and had to be avoided at all costs.

And so she had just to go home straight from the Art School and her disappointment at Greg not being there. She had to sit and watch her mother set the small table with the rose-patterned china teacups, saucers, plates, sugar bowl and cream jug. A neatly folded linen napkin was carefully positioned on each plate. The silver cutlery was neatly placed. Then the three-tiered cake stand. Buttered scones on the top, Victoria sponge on the middle, and biscuits on the bottom. Next came the silver teapot, from which her mother carefully poured tea into the cups.

It was enough to drive anyone mad.

She was beginning to have longings and dreams about her mother dying. How wonderful it would be to have perfect freedom to do exactly as she liked, where and whenever she liked.

But it looked as if, despite being in her fifties and despite the unhealthy-looking blotches of colour on her face, her mother and all her endless routines would go on forever. Betty had never been lucky. Right from early childhood, as far back as she could remember, she had been repressed, manipulated, eroded by this selfish woman and her twisted view of life and men and sex.

As she sipped her tea and tried to ignore the monotonous tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock, her mind darted this way and that trying to think of some way to escape from the house for at least an hour or two so that she could see Greg. She couldn’t think of anything that would at the same time prevent any danger of her mother going near the Art School. The horror of her mother finding out that she had never taken embroidery, but was instead in the life-drawing class in the same room as a naked man – actually sitting looking at him and painting him – was too much to cope with. Her hand trembled at the mere idea, making her teacup rattle in its saucer.

‘Is something wrong?’ her mother queried.

‘No, no. Sorry.’

‘You haven’t had your scone yet.’

Picking up a scone, she thought bitterly, ‘Oh yes, of course. That’s what’s wrong with me. I haven’t had my scone yet.’ Her stomach tightened at the thought of eating it, and then the Victoria sponge, and then the biscuits.

Once her mother was dead and gone, she’d never even look at these things again. She’d break all the china and smash the three-tiered cake stand, fling the silver into the bin and set the embroidered tea cloth on fire.

Thinking of fire brought Greg into her mind again. She wondered when his shift would change and he’d be back modelling. An awful thought struck her. She’d heard the firefighters just did modelling jobs when they were short of money. What if Greg wasn’t short of money any more? What if he never came back to the Art School? If he didn’t appear tomorrow, she would have to go over to the West End and try to find him. She would slip out of the class and the School early. Or pretend she was feeling ill and had to go home. Then she’d go to the fire station and wait for him. Maybe if he saw her, he’d realise how she felt. He’d understand and it would bring them closer.

Her euphoria began to return and with it, the words of the poem she’d created earlier.

Two figures under an electric light.

Bright with desire.

Sandra and Tommy left Charing Cross Mansions and strolled hand in hand along Sauchiehall Street. They were on their way to the Art School. Later they planned to spend some time in the Mitchell Library in North Street. Just to see the Mitchell illuminated in the evening was a thrill. Its glorious dome was splashed with golden light against the purple sky as it soared proudly over the teeming traffic of the motorway. Tommy appreciated it almost as much as the Charles Rennie Mackintosh buildings.

‘It’s not nearly as original, of course. But then Mackintosh was a genius. No one could compare with him. But the Mitchell is pretty imposing. It’s the Renaissance palace of literature. Did you know it was founded by a tobacco lord, Stephen Mitchell?’

Sandra shook her head. ‘But I know it’s got the largest reference collection in Europe.’

‘My favourite is the Burns collection. I love spending time in the Burns room. Now there was another genius.’

There was a café in the Mitchell where they planned to have a coffee and something to eat later. Soon they were passing the towering Baird Hall, an Art Deco building which they both admired.

‘Glasgow’s really great for architecture of all kinds.’

Sandra agreed but said, ‘I know but you’ve always got to tell visitors they have to go around looking up.’

They had decided they would corner Betty Powell during the lunch break. That way they would be able to have more time and a better chance of privacy.

It was one of the other firefighter models who was sitting, and right away, Sandra noticed that for once, Betty was not the first student in the classroom eagerly setting up her easel. That obviously was because the model was not Greg McFarlane.

Greg had told them he would be on early watch for the next few days.

They all worked diligently until lunchtime, except for a short coffee break mid-morning. Simon Price, as usual, never missed a chance of having a dig or a sneer at Tommy. Since Tommy had come to live with Sandra and they were really close, she could see how deeply this treatment affected him. He tried to put up a cheerful front but the terrible sadness in his eyes never changed. Often when Sandra came into the room unexpectedly, she would get a glimpse of the hopeless droop of his shoulders and the disappointed twist of his mouth, before he straightened and smiled at her.

At lunchtime, they both went over to Betty, and Sandra said, ‘Betty, we’re both here to give you a serious warning.’

Immediately Betty tried to hurry away but Tommy caught her arm and stopped her.

‘Look, both Sandra and I know you’ve been following Greg, stalking him in fact. Not only that, you’ve been making hoax calls to the fire brigade. Even worse, you’ve tried to set the Art School on fire.’

Betty’s pale face had gone a sickly shade of grey and her eyes were panicking around, desperate to see any means of escape.

‘It’s got to stop, Betty,’ Sandra said, ‘or we’re going to report you and that’ll mean you’ll be lucky if you don’t get arrested. But you’ll certainly be chucked out of the Art School for good. You’ll never be allowed to set foot in the place again.’

Tommy cut in then. ‘What’s more, we’ve already told Greg and he’s absolutely furious. He wanted to report you right away but Sandra and I have managed to persuade him to wait and give us a chance to talk to you first. Are you listening to us? Do you want to go to jail or be banned from the School?’

‘It’s definitely going to be one or the other or both if you ever go near Greg again. Surely you must know you haven’t a chance with him. He hates your guts.’

‘And don’t dare even think of setting fire to any place,’ Tommy said.

At that point, Betty managed to free herself and escape.

They didn’t bother to follow her.

Tommy said, ‘That should have done the trick. We couldn’t have made it much stronger.’

‘I know. We’ve scared the wits out of her.’

‘I can’t help feeling sorry for her in a way.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Tommy, don’t go soft on me now. If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for poor Hamish Ferguson getting beaten up. Not to mention his ghastly digs.’

‘I know, but Betty’s obviously not a happy girl.’

‘Just forget about it now. We had to stop her, for everyone’s sake. Just imagine what would have happened if she had managed to set the School on fire. Lots of people would have been killed.’

‘Right enough. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Well, stop thinking about it. It’s sorted.’

Nevertheless, they were both feeling a bit stressed for the rest of the afternoon. So much so that at one point when Simon Price was picking on Tommy, Sandra lost her temper and cried out, ‘For God’s sake, you’re putting us all off with your constant sniping at Tommy.’

The tutor’s moustache quivered with anger.

‘I’ll have none of your impertinence, girl. I know you’ve ghastly red hair, but that’s no excuse.’

At the end of the session, Sandra said to Tommy, ‘I don’t feel like going to the Mitchell now, do you? Yet I don’t feel like going straight home either.’

Tommy agreed.

‘How about going to Greg’s place and letting him know how we got on? He should be off duty and at home by the time we get over to the West End.’

‘OK.’

They didn’t feel like walking either and so they took the bus to the Botanic Gardens and began walking through the gardens towards the side entrance, and Greg’s place in Kirklee Terrace. The Botanic Gardens was a beautiful place and it made them feel better. They passed the stunning Kibble Palace, a glass temple with its ribbed dome sweeping up over the exotic plants that nestled around its base.

‘Maybe Greg arranged to go straight to Kirsty’s.’

‘Well, we’ll soon see.’ Tommy opened the side gate and they both went up the few steps fronting Greg’s building.

Thankfully for them, he was at home and the door opened to allow them in. They wasted no time in telling him how they had, as Sandra said, ‘Scared the wits out of Betty Powell. She won’t be bothering you again, Greg.’

‘She’d better not. She won’t know what’s hit her if I’ve to deal with her. For a start, I’ve no time for anyone who makes hoax calls. While the fire engines are out on one of them, somebody else might be in real need of our help. Somebody might burn to death while the engine’s out on a hoax call.’

‘As I say, you can be sure she won’t do anything like that again!’

Betty ran and ran and ran. And ran. She didn’t know where. Until, exhausted and choking for breath, she found herself outside the Royal Concert Hall. She leaned against its wall, struggling to calm her breathing. Eventually, she was able to cross Killermont Street and go into the Buchanan Bus Station. There were some seats in the middle of the concourse and she collapsed onto one. People were milling around buying tickets, studying timetables, buying sweets and newspapers and bottled water. In the open-fronted café, people were sitting drinking tea and eating sandwiches. In the middle of the concourse, next to where she sat, there was a sculpture of a young soldier with his girlfriend hanging around his neck. She was wearing the soldier’s beret and her heels were kicking up joyously behind her. The world was going on exactly as usual. Except her world.

She could hardly believe what had happened. Everybody knew everything. Or so it seemed. And Greg hated her. And she was in danger of losing her place at the Art School. But that was her life. She couldn’t exist without it. Yet at the same time she didn’t know how she could go back. It would be an ordeal facing everyone again. Especially Greg. Oh, how she had been fooling herself, imagining that he could be attracted to her and longing to be with her as much as she longed to be with him. It had all been merely a figment of her over-developed imagination. And her desperate need.

She certainly didn’t feel able to go back right now. Best to go home, give herself a bit of time to recover, and return tomorrow as if nothing had happened. She’d make some excuse to her mother about why she was home early. As far as she knew, the model tomorrow was to be one of the other firefighters, not Greg. That would give her time to douse her feelings, or at least get a grip of them and hide them deep, deep down inside so that he would never see them. From now on, she must hide her feelings from everyone. And outside of the School, she mustn’t be seen near Greg. Tears were threatening to build up inside her now at the thought of Greg hating her and of not being able to be near him.

Somehow, she found her way to a bus that would take her home. She sat breathing deeply and continuing her fight to keep the tears at bay. She entered the draughty tiled close and climbed the stairs to her mother’s flat. She fumbled for her key, and once the door was open and she was in the lobby with its dark brown varnished wallpaper, she called out as her mother always told her to do, ‘It’s Betty, Mother.’

It was part of the usual routine.

Then her mother would call back, ‘Wash your hands. I’m just bringing in the cake stand.’

Right from childhood, she had always to wash her hands before sitting down to any meal.

‘Wash your hands. Tea’s almost ready.’

Only this time there was no answering call of any kind.

It was another shock in her terrible day. A small shock, but a shock nevertheless.

‘Mother?’

She reached the sitting room. The fireside table was not set. It was not even covered by the embroidered tea cloth. She went into the kitchen. There was no one there. The bedroom,

the bathroom, every corner of the flat was silent and empty. Then the jangle of the phone startled her. She nervously picked up the receiver. No one ever phoned them.

‘Betty Powell?’ a voice queried.

‘Yes.’

‘I think you’d better come to the Art School right away. Your mother’s here and she doesn’t look well.’

Horror upon horrors!

This was the worst of all. She felt so physically weak now, she had to get a taxi to take her to the Art School.

The embroidery tutor was waiting in the janitor’s office in the downstairs hall.

‘You’re Betty Powell, aren’t you?’ The tutor immediately pounced on her.

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother was obviously confused and came into the embroidery class asking for you. I had to explain that you’ve never been in my class, but I was sure I’d seen you going into the Life class and you know how easy it is to get lost here if you’re not used to the place. So I took her there.’

Betty could imagine her mother’s shock being much worse than anything her daughter had suffered that day. Now Betty had no idea how she could face her mother. What on earth could she say? What excuse could she make for all the deceit? What excuse for wanting to paint naked people, but worse – oh, much worse – naked men?