Red Alert (8 page)

In the far corner, students were washing brushes in the oldfashioned deep sink. The wall behind it was smothered in a patina of generations of paint spattered and smeared in a riot of colour. Betty breathed in air redolent with the aroma of turpentine and linseed oil. She felt that this was where she belonged.

Then her happiness was suddenly punctured when the model appeared. She had expected Greg but it was a different firefighter. Admittedly, she knew that other firefighters took Greg’s place from time to time. Word had got around the fire station that it was a good way of making extra cash. So, depending on their shifts, quite a few of them came in to take a turn at modelling for the Life class.

Betty Powell wasn’t interested in any of the others. They lacked the charisma that Greg McFarlane possessed. The other firefighters were friendly and jolly, at the same time appearing awkward and embarrassed. None of them had Greg McFarlane’s self-confidence and strength of will. She could see it in his hard stare, and the way he relaxed his body. There was no embarrassment in him. It was almost as if he flaunted his body, challenging others to feel sexually aroused by it. She certainly believed in that assessment of him and there was no doubt that he had succeeded in arousing her.

It continually amazed her that none of the other female students seemed to feel as she did, or experience any sexual arousal whatsoever. They treated all the firefighter models in exactly the same way. They concentrated on their canvases. Then during the breaks, they chatted to whatever model happened to be there about the local clubs or discos or their favourite music group.

It was as if she died each time Greg McFarlane wasn’t there. When he was there, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, even during the tea breaks and lunch breaks. Then she felt she had to see him when he wasn’t in the Art School. She didn’t know where he lived, but one day she managed to follow him. She hailed a taxi and told the driver, ‘Follow that blue Mazda.’ Her heart pounded with the outrageousness of what she was doing. What if he saw her? When his car turned into Kirklee Terrace, she told the taxi driver to stop – just in time. Kirklee Terrace was a short, quiet street, and a taxi would have been more than obvious. Quickly she paid the driver and peered around to try to discern which house Greg McFarlane was about to go into.

She watched him park his car, then disappear into the very end door, the one next to the side entrance of the Botanic Gardens. What a wonderful place to live! How happy she could be with him there. After that day, every spare moment was spent following him. Sometimes she walked through the Gardens and loitered near the side entrance, watching the end doorway of the Terrace. Different people went in and out, but never Greg McFarlane. She would have to watch the fire station and somehow find out what shifts he was on, find out exactly where he went when he was neither working in the fire station nor at the Art School. But it was more difficult, she discovered, to watch the fire station and remain unseen. She had been nearby one day when she was startled by the fire engines suddenly clanging out and racing along the street. She caught a glimpse of firefighters sitting inside the vehicle dressed in their creamy gold-coloured firefighting uniforms. The vehicles passed out of her line of vision so quickly that she wasn’t able to discern if Greg McFarlane was on one of the machines. She supposed he must have been because she had discovered that this was the station he worked at. She imagined the fire he must be speeding towards, the men, the women, the children he would be risking his life to rescue and carry to safety. She could hardly contain her admiration, her adoration of him.

She couldn’t bear not seeing him, not being near to him. It was torture to waste precious time sitting in her mother’s quiet house, listening to the monotonous tick-tock of the clock, and watching her mother neatly, endlessly sewing.

She made excuses as often as she dared. That the Art School had asked her to work late was the usual excuse, but her mother was beginning to query that. Something had to be done. Then she had the idea of making a hoax call and bringing the fire brigade out. She’d say there was a fire nearby, somewhere that she could watch the firefighters’ arrival. Maybe even watch them from her mother’s front window. She did make the call, very carefully of course, putting a handkerchief over the receiver to disguise her voice. She’d heard the riotous sound of the fire engines arriving and from behind the curtain, she peered out expectantly.

‘What on earth are you doing, Betty?’ her mother asked, coming into the room carrying the cake stand.

‘I heard the fire engines. I just wondered where the fire was.’

‘Well, it’s not here, so sit down and take your tea before it gets cold.’

Betty could have wept with disappointment and frustration. Nothing, not even a fire, would be allowed to interrupt her mother’s boring routines of a lifetime.

Then Greg appeared as a model again and at least she was able to devour him with her eyes during the School’s art sessions. She could allow her imagination free rein and her creative art of poetry added to her intense pleasure and gratification.

His hands are tan and square.

I am close enough to see the dark, fine hairs

brushing the sides, and the pipe of a vein

embossing the skin in a braille of health.

His fingers are long, and curved

in relaxation. The index finger wears

a scraped knuckle with indifference

as if made raw in some menial task.

I can imagine his hands at work

aiming jets of water at a tower of hungry flame,

cradling the back of a child’s head

while he carries her to safety.

His hands. My skin.

Stroking the skin on my arm,

providing a harmony of heat.

Not a moment too soon his hand moves

to other parts of me, not stopping

until the final, sharp, hot gasp.

Others in the art class

could be drawing a basket

of fruit for all the interest

worn on their faces.

I. I am elsewhere.

‘That Betty Powell’s awful odd, isn’t she?’

They were in the bathroom together. Sandra had just come out of the shower and Tommy was spiking up his blond hair with gel.

‘That’s putting it mildly. Surely you don’t need to ask that?’

‘I know, but I mean, she’s a real nutter. I caught her earlier in the Art School loo, before I left to come home. She had a lighted torch of paper. She hastily doused it under the tap and threw it into the bin as soon as she saw me. I said to her, “What do you think you’re doing – trying to set the place on fire?” She scuttled away then without saying anything but she looked as guilty as hell.’

‘My God!’ Tommy cried out. ‘That’s really terrible. The place is Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s greatest masterpiece.’

‘Not to mention the people still in it who could have been killed before the fire brigade arrived.’

They both stared at each other for a long moment in silence. Then Sandra said, ‘Have you seen the way she looks at Greg?’

‘During break times, yes. I couldn’t help noticing. It struck me as being creepy, to say the least.’

‘I saw her the other day hanging around the side entrance of the Botanic Gardens.’

‘You think she’s stalking him?’

‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. But if she’s thinking of trying to set fire to the Art School just to bring firefighters out, that’s really dangerous. What do you think I should do? Report her?’

Tommy hesitated. ‘The problem is that you’ve no proof, and she’ll just deny everything. How about if we both speak to her? Give her a strong warning. Say that we know what she’s up to and if she even thinks of trying such a thing again, or anything like it, we’ll both report her and she’ll be thrown out of the Art School and never get to come near the place again. She won’t want to risk that.’

‘No, she definitely won’t want to lose her place in the Life class, gawping at Greg.’

‘OK, we’ll try that,’ Tommy said. ‘We’ll certainly have to do something. I mean, that’s why even smoking a cigarette is banned. That Art School is …’

‘I know, I know. Charles Rennie Mackintosh’ll be birling in his grave. But don’t worry, we’ll put the fear of death in her – never to dare try anything like that again.’

‘It would have been bad enough if it had been a cigarette but you said it was a torch of paper?’

‘Yes, it was like a rolled-up newspaper. It must have taken quite a deliberate effort to get it all burning. It was just as well that that tap spurts out such a strong gush of water. For a minute or two, I was really frightened.’

They had been invited to supper at Kirklee Terrace and on the way there, they decided to tell Greg and Kirsty about the incident.

Greg said, ‘She didn’t bother me. But this fire thing – that’s different. That’s not on.’

‘We’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Don’t worry.’

Greg looked thoughtful. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Great Western Road.’

‘We had a hoax call to a shop along near Anniesland yesterday.’

‘That’s where she lives.’ Sandra’s eyes widened. ‘I once saw her walking towards the Cross. I was on my way to visit my auntie. My auntie used to live at Anniesland Cross.’

Greg said, ‘I could tell my friends in the local police station. I’m especially friendly with Sergeant Jack Campbell there, as you know. But he’d need proof it was her. An awful lot of folk live around that area. It could have been anybody. And unfortunately we get quite a few hoax calls.’

‘I bet it was her though.’

‘Probably was. What the hell does she think she’s doing?’

Tommy shrugged. ‘Trying to get your attention probably. And to keep seeing you, even when you’re not in the Art School.’

‘She’ll see me again all right, when I tell her to fuck off.’

‘It’s difficult though, isn’t it? I mean, she’s supposed to sit staring at you in the art class.’

‘She’s had that for a few days. I’m on duty.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Sandra said. ‘Tommy and I’ll speak to her at the break.’

Kirsty laughed. ‘What a carry on!’

Tommy obviously didn’t see anything in the slightest bit amusing. ‘That building, the Glasgow School of Art, is Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s masterpiece. Even more so than his House on the Hill, or the House for an Art Lover. People come from all over the world to see the Art School. Staring at Greg won’t do any harm, but trying to set fire to Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s …’

‘OK, OK.’ Sandra gave him a playful punch. ‘We’ve got the message. And I’m sure now that she’s been found out, she won’t try anything like that again.’ She turned to the others. ‘Tommy’s mad about the place. Nobody dares say a word against it.’

‘It’s just that I appreciate art in any form. And of course Mackintosh was an artist as well as an architect. I feel very lucky to be able to study there and to have such a brilliant artist as a teacher.’

Kirsty groaned. ‘You’re even luckier not having him as a father.’

‘You can’t deny – nobody can deny, Kirsty – that your father is a brilliant artist.’

Greg shook his head. ‘That’s very noble of you, Tommy. After the way he treats you. If he spoke to me the way he speaks to you, I’d have punched his face in by now. Or broken his fingers one by one so that he could never hold a brush again.’

Tommy winced. ‘Greg, for pity’s sake, don’t even think of such a thing. He just tells me the truth. I haven’t a clue as a painter. I’m hopeless. He knows it and I know it.’

‘Will you stop talking like that!’ Sandra punched his arm again before turning to Kirsty. ‘I know he’s your father, Kirsty, but honest to God, it’s really wicked the way he’s been continuously undermining Tommy’s self-confidence. I feel the same way as Greg. Forgive me, but I once reported him for the way he bullies everybody, but Tommy in particular. I got short shrift, of course. The powers that be just said we were lucky to have him as a tutor.’

‘There you are. I told you we’re lucky and me especially. I’m surprised they let me in the School in the first place.’

‘Sandra’s right, Tommy. He bullies us at home as well. He’s nearly destroyed my brother, but he doesn’t get away with it with me. I refuse to allow him to destroy my self-confidence, and you shouldn’t allow him to destroy yours. He’s charming to Greg, of course. He knows he couldn’t get away with anything with him.’

Tommy didn’t look convinced. Sandra loved him and longed to be able to comfort and help him. She kept desperately trying to think of something.

They pushed in through the double doors nearest Sauchiehall Street. The long oval wooden bar dominated the room. The gantry was covered with various bottles and speciality whiskies, and along the wooden fascia above the bar were inscribed various couthy sayings. Along the window wall were snug booths, facing into the main bar, where the tutors liked to sit for the early part of the evening when any business could be discussed. They always chose Tuesday because at nine-thirty a local blues band had a jam session in the far corner. This was always popular, not just for the quality of the group, which was indeed superb, but because of the fact that after forty minutes or so, pub regulars could join in, bringing out their own guitars, saxophones, or mouth organs.

The standard of the amateurs was always surprisingly good and, because you could never predict who would turn up with what instrument, it gave the evening a real vibrancy. All tied together beautifully with the rasping vocals of the lead singer, a small, slender, middle-aged man with a voice straight from a ghetto in the deep south.

The pub was crowded. Crushed round a table cluttered with pint glasses, some of the directors and tutors were already enjoying a drink and a talk. The main topic of conversation was the different groups of students and how they were progressing.

‘One thing that gets nowhere with me,’ Simon Price said, ‘is the sycophantic idiots who think they’ll get a good crit if they buy me a few drinks.’

One of the others laughed. ‘I know. I get them as well. Doesn’t stop me enjoying the drinks, though. A good pint’s a good pint, no matter who pays for it.’