Schooling (31 page)

Vicar says to her, Seems you and I are the lucky ones as far as ailments go.

Butcher says to Vicar, What’s the point in buying it if we’re not going to use it?

Gilbert says to Butcher, Never thought I was ringmaster of catastrophe.

Vicar says to Gilbert, Now that’s apiece dramatic wouldn’t you say?

She says to Gilbert, Is that what happens when a splinter comes out? You still feel it?

Piers says to them all, I wish I’d never done it and what’s the likelihood of her regaining sight?

They played games for hours, skittles where you threw a ball down a wooden ramp and a game which required you to maneuver a gripper over a host of ugly toys. Her favorite was shooting chickens with a rifle, she won a stuffed frog. He excelled at throwing balls into a basket but never managed five consecutively. And throughout they took turns the two of them to comment on her shoes and what round green thing she had dropped thereon. When she won her frog, Gilbert said, It’s a frog baby you dropped which was so patently stupid it made the Lilt she was drinking come out her nose and onto the sidewalk. They were on the way home, it was beginning to go dark, it was the last time she laughed that evening. The next day she would discover the lie. In Giddy’s lane, they stood together watching a pinkish sunset, the clouds had spun away as they played. When Gilbert said, Another Fauvist sky, she went on walking. At the door, he said, Why not put your other shoes back on, we’ll save these to surprise Giddy with some other time. A special occasion perhaps. Sure, she said. Okay by me. He bent to help, she leaned against the windowsill, stockinged foot balanced on the bootscraper. Watching the top of Gilbert’s head as he guided her foot back into Father’s shoe. He was beginning to thin at the crown.

Is it fear of blindness that has them all hesitant to resume. They hover, some smoke, some reflect. Piers says, Travelers used to go through the alps blindfolded because mountain scenery drove them mad. And Vicar says meanly, Ah was that the plan then with the girl? Gilbert busies himself to not notice the pall the accident has left on his group. And then it becomes impossible, even for a resolute man, not to notice Inred’s idle flicking back and forth of her sketches, or Vicar’s consumption with his easel’s efficiency. The mountain the mountain. And the edelweiss or gulls or is it some chalky patch like the white cliffs of dover or that horse in the hill. Difficult to tell, it seems closer.

Right then . . . Gilbert claps his hands, they turn from the mountain to face him . . . I was planning to address this later this afternoon, after a full day of painting. Over tea in the church hall. But while Thérèse rests, this seems a good time. Vicar, may I? . . . Gilbert borrows Vicar’s easel and sets it in front of the group . . . Can you all see? . . . aiming it to Piers who watches Thérèse sleep.

Piers has one final look at his work, sits on the rocks next to Butcher. Gilbert pulls a large sheaf of sketches from his bag. These are his own. He lays them on the ground, chooses one and places it on the easel. A girl in red. The same red now pillowed beneath Thérèse’s blind head. Yes, for he is saying, One sleepless night. He is saying, I painted it from memory. A girl sitting hands across lap eyes downcast. What is she sitting on, a settee, a chair, the seat of a car? He speaks of acrylics which await the group in days to come, he speaks of tone of harmony and scale. He does not mention truth.

On to the next, the red sleeves pushed up, the girl’s arms folded, eyes no longer downcast but staring out, reproachful. Likely she makes that very face now. Butcher is saying something, I wish my nights of insomnia were only half so fruitful and Vicar, Girl resembles Catrine here, Vicar is laughing. Vicar is sticking out his teeth and bobbling his stupid head. Calling a vicar stupid might bring down some wrath but the hell with it. To hell with petulance. Gilbert can make her up from pigment, can take her apart by tone and light.

He came upstairs to carry the shoebox. Giddy was out the lights were out and the house needed lights for they had both seen the sun go down and noted the flavorful sunset. It was the night before she discovered he lied a white lie. A small act the kiss, determined. It was the night before the morning Giddy asked her not to wear the tunic and the house was dark except for one light in the kitchen, obese Mouser bumping against them, Gilbert saying, Well her car’s not here adjusting the shoebox she didn’t need him to carry. He sat on the moquette, she brought out the new shoes, they looked on them, he was so pleased. He looked at her. But a sweep of lights across the far wall had him hurrying out to light up the corridor and his bedroom downstairs. She remained in the dark holding the shoes. That night, the night before the lie, it was clear she would never wear them again.

My homage to David . . . Gilbert picks up a new drawing.

And there she is slumped over in the bath, back up like a cat, looking out at them all with reproach or was it rebuke. It was the Re-’s she failed in Betts’ test.

You know about Bonnard of course . . . her voice rings out, high, unusual.

Sorry, Catrine? . . . he looks up, a finger tracing light along her painted shoulder.

He forced his wife into baths all the time . . . oh this is strange . . . Made his wife scrub herself bloody she repulsed him so.

Gilbert presses his lips to stop himself.

When she met him she was a sweet girl from a village in Flanders where her family raised sheep and sold them at market or made sweaters from the wool. In the spring she helped her father shave them up . . . turning from them, Butcher’s amusement to the mountain yes that white is definitely closer now it looks like a figure but she is forever finding things where they are not . . . She met Bonnard his name was and he convinced her that she was so dirty she should always take a bath . . . turning back . . . In fact it was his greatest wish in life that she never wear any clothes at all.

The story I’m familiar with suggests that she hated him.

Maybe she did but not at first. Maybe she got tired of having prunes for fingers.

Well, Catrine, this is all very amusing. You’re amusing us greatly but the others in the group are paying for—

Your great wisdom—

Just—

On how to see.

Alright—

What you know might be different from what you see, have you told them that?

Sit down, Evans, this is no longer amusing, your dramatics are getting very very stale. And very silly.

They’re paying for your opinion on whether they are or are not wild beasts.

I said sit down . . . Gilbert snaps.

Butcher looks up at her, mystified.

But you haven’t even asked us, we could go around the circle, Mr. Gilbert, we could all tell about our own experiences with things like perspective. We could describe what it means to have an eye, Vicar could show us how the nude can be a mountain and Butcher could . . . now she’s crying in front of all of them, it’s not in control . . . Butcher could—

Gilbert is by her, has his arms around her, the others are bewildered in her watery focus, Vicar beetles an eyebrow, she is crying. Gilbert says, What an unusual day for girls, is it the moon, a planet’s retrograde path. She lets him stroke her hair, how could he put her up on an easel as if she were a tree. In the bath. When he knew how happy she was about the new red cardigan, the one she hates because right before he did it he said I rarely see you in color. And then he did it kissed her with his tongue like that.

Gilbert says, How do you feel about calling it a day. The white gone, it was a gull. It’s a day, says Vicar and the others move away to pack up the paints and Gilbert’s hand moving in the soothing now his mouth in her hair now.

Gilbert pulls away sharply. She wipes her face looks at him. His face is distorted. She looks where he does but cannot make sense of it. Gilbert says, What On Earth. Vicar and Butcher huddled over sketches together on the rocks, Piers prostrate at the feet of Thérèse, but now the figure of a man emerges at the crest of the hill transforming from a white spot into the figure of an amateur botanist, booming as he approaches, I THOUGHT AS MUCH.

Mr. Betts?

Miss Evans. Mr. Gilbert . . . Betts before them in the clearing, rucksacked, rugged, alpine wonder. Neatly combed, what there is of it, unflustered. It sounds a contrivance, how can it be, but you see the teacher has been there all along.

Gilbert takes his hands to his hips, whitening, lips go thin . . . Now you can hardly tell me this is some sort of coincidence.

No no. Wouldn’t attempt to convince you of that . . . Betts takes her in, a deputized air to him . . . Miss Evans?

She looks back to the mountain, where did he—

Has this man harmed you in any way?

How did . . . Gilbert is shaking . . . Did you
follow
us?

Catrine Evans, answer my question.

That day on the balcony . . . Gilbert jabs his finger.

Has he?

Patrick . . . Gilbert barks . . . Listen to me . . . Betts looks over . . . That was no coincidence either was it? Harrington?

Coincidence is in the eye of the beholder . . . Betts swivels back to her . . . Wouldn’t you say?

What’s this all about . . . Gilbert glances over at Vicar and Ingle who have taken the distraction as an opportunity to pilfer a cigarette from Piers and share a smoke. Gilbert flashes her a strained smile, rolling his eyes to say, who would’ve believed it of old Betts.

This, Mr. Gilbert, and in no way do I wish to embarrass you . . . Betts takes down his rucksack . . . Is about your abduction of the American girl.

Abduction?

He didn’t abduct me.

And who’s to say you know what abduction is, hm? . . . Betts folds his arm . . . That day I found you with him on the balcony I gave some thought to my prior accusations of your character.

Calling me pornographic, you mean.

Yes. And in the heat of that moment on the playing fields . . . he pauses . . . As well as several times thereafter, it seemed a logical . . . searching . . . Conclusion to draw no pun intended or perhaps it was, I’m not certain.

Patrick—

Holding up a hand for silence, Betts out-herods Herod . . . The day I came upon you two at Harrington, engaged as it were in art, I gave quite a bit of thought to complicity and the idea of being led astray. We thought—I hope you won’t feel I’ve been indiscreet, Evans, I spoke with Madame Araigny about it at length—and together we thought, how can a child, a girl, come across such notions on her own?

She has her own.

We surmised that the fault therefore must lie in the elder. A responsibility. The adult. He with the wisdom of age at his disposal.

Patrick, this is ludicrous, you jumping out of the trees like a cuckold in a bedroom farce—

An interesting analogy, Mr. Gilbert, to say the least.

—formulating the most appalling theories. I am teaching Catrine. This is a painting trip.

Teaching what, I’d like to know.

Don’t be obscene.

Mr. Gilbert I have just come upon you with the girl in your arms. The child is here staying with my mother.

I needn’t remind you, you said it yourself. A child.

Yes, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your voice down, that is a Man of God over there, I’m sure he has no wish to overhear your disgusting speculations.

I think we should ask the girl.

Are you so unhappy with your own life, Patrick, that you seek to meddle—

I have a cousin in Truro I thought, why not pop down—

Shouldn’t you be in France?

French trip ended on Saturday. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten since you were scheduled to go. But then, you canceled, didn’t you? Coincidentally, soon after it was apparent the American girl wouldn’t be going . . . chomping the scenery . . . I was responsible for your father denying permission. I thought it wasn’t wise for—

Wise for what exactly, Patrick?

Betts strolls over to Gilbert . . . For you to get the poor child sloshed on cheap wine so as—

For Christ’s sake. Does she look unhappy to you? Is she bolting down the mountainside at the first sign of help? You’re a sorry man. With perverted delusions. Go home. Go back to Chittock Leigh, put your feet up and enjoy the rest of the Easter holidays. And leave me to finish teaching.

At Harrington, you told me that teaching meant giving of oneself. Is this what you had in mind?

And what is
this
? Go on ask her . . . Gilbert takes the rock from his pocket tosses it up then catches it . . . Catrine, say something.

Betts reaches out for the rock . . . That’s a nice piece of shale mind if I—? . . . he examines it, licks it . . . May I keep this?

This is all in a day’s work to you, is it?

I rang the father . . . Betts says mildly, tugging at his rucksack. What? . . . she has never heard him shout . . . What? . . . Vicar starts from the perch he shares with Butcher . . . You’ve done what? . . . even Piers raises his head from Thérèse’s feet . . . How dare you you . . . they are all mad, broken, a party of explorers off the rails . . . Are you . . . spluttering . . . Some kind of lunatic. You’ve really lost your mind haven’t you. Nothing’s happened, Betts, you’ll upset her father for nothing, the man entrusted—

And now the man’s entrusted me with bringing his daughter back safely.

Catrine . . . Gilbert puts his hands on his waist hip jutting leg contrapposto you can smell him your first weeks in Chemistry you can smell his hydrogen his helium. That nap on his pillow when he compressed you. When he leaned to your forehead. When all you wanted was. Well it’s time to know.

Butcher and Vicar appear, eager in their rucksacks to join the tableau. Betts asks what happened to Thérèse. A point went in her eye. Gilbert whispers, Please Catrine. He will have to speak up if they are to hear him in the back. Please tell the truth. You will remember that as the equation between what you see and what you know. He was the one who said I would have liked your mother, her democratic paintings but who also found ill mothers fit for lies. Who took away the chips. Who stayed. Who would have thunk it, Vicar would say, who would have thunk he’d need her like this.