The Art School Dance (31 page)

‘
Existential anguish?’ said Griff, without
sympathy.

‘
I told
him he was trying too hard to be a genius, racking his brains for
ideas. I said I’d rather be happy and normal than a genius and
miserable.’

‘
And
what did he answer to that?’

‘
That
he’d rather be a genius and miserable than normal and miserable.’ I
was laughing still, even as the tears flowed, and it annoyed Griff
to sense that there might be any fondness in my mood. ‘Is that how
he is with me?’ I asked. ‘Miserable? Is that all I can do for him,
make him miserable?’

‘
No, of
course not,’ Griff reassured me. ‘He’s just in one of his awkward
moods. Ignore him. How about some coffee?’ he asked, getting to his
feet, but I shook my head. ‘Come on, I promise you it’s alright,’
he said. ‘I washed all the cups myself this morning.’

I laughed a
little more brightly at this, agreed to a cup, held back my tears
and dried my eyes. As Griff set the kettle on the gas I asked, ‘Is
Ceri not back yet?’

‘
No, and
it doesn’t look as though he will be now. If he’s boozing he’ll
probably kip on the nearest couch he can find.’ Griff turned, a
bottle of milk in his hand. ‘White, with sugar?’

‘
Make it
black,’ I said. ‘I think I’m feeling as tipsy as McCready’s
pretending to be.’

Griff returned
to the settee with the coffees, sat beside me again. ‘Have all the
tears gone now?’ he asked.

‘
I think
so.’ I was a little embarrassed by my behaviour, said, ‘I’m sorry,
Griff. It’s the first time he’s ever made me react like
that.’

‘
That’s
alright. Just make sure you don’t let him do it to you again. You
don’t deserve it.’

‘
If only
I knew what to do, how to help,’ I said, sipping at the hot black
coffee.

‘
The
best thing you can do for the moment is keep out of his way. In
fact I think you’d be better sleeping down here
tonight.’

I shook my
head. ‘No, there’s no need for that. I’ll just finish my coffee and
go.’

‘
But
you’re tired, I can see it in your eyes, and McCready is pissed off
or in a mood or whatever. Do you really want to go back upstairs
and risk another one of his tantrums?’

‘
He
wouldn’t hurt me.’

‘
I
should hope not. You can do without his moods, though.’

‘
I
suppose so.’

‘
Of
course you can. It’ll be better all round if you let him sleep it
off, whatever it is that’s plaguing him. It’ll teach him a lesson.
It’s obvious Ceri won’t be back tonight so you can use the bedroom.
Have my bed, I wouldn’t ask you to use his cess-pit, and I promise
you the sheets are clean.’

My eyes were
still moist, they made my smile sparkle. ‘If you’re sure, if it’s
no bother.’

‘
No
bother at all. Go on, off to bed with you. If there’s anything you
need I’ll be here on the settee.’

Waiting.

Chapter
Five

Griff cared for
me, or would do if given the opportunity; he would certainly claim
to feel more for me than McCready appeared to do. The outburst of
the night before, petulance in the guise of creative anguish, only
confirmed what Griff had always believed, that McCready was selfish
and unfeeling. The sad thing would be that I continued to suffer
this. Already the tears had gone, I had woken bright and cheerful
and gone directly upstairs to make my peace. The anger was left to
Griff, then, a bitter confusion of it which left him too unsettled
for any work.

The
debilitating creative fatigue which fell upon him drove him all
about college, from room to room and nook to cranny, and his last
resort in this search for a haven of peace was the library.
Immediately on entering he could sense the calm, a serenity which
might allow him to think or not think, whichever way the mood took
him. He stepped lightly across the carpeted floor, weaving between
the enamelled steel bookshelves from which the names leap out at
him: Sartre and Strawson, Gombrich and Greenberg, Marcuse and
McLuhan. Fuck
them
! In the
mood he was in it had to be Harold Robbins or nothing for Griff,
there was just too much of the aesthetics and the abstract
considerations about, the rows of books pulsated with erudite
questions and unfathomable answers and he wanted to be rid of them
for a while.

At one table,
almost hidden behind a mound of books, Edith Billington, one of the
art history tutors, beckoned to him. He ignored her, determined not
to be distracted, and walks on.

‘
An
astonishing insight into Artaud’s madness,’ he heard her say as he
climbed the stairs to the upper gallery, her voice soft like a
prayer, quivering with respect for the dearly departed.

Silly cow! Why
study the madness of the past when it was there all around
them?

Study cubicles
lined one wall of the gallery and most of these were occupied; pens
scratched paper, heads were thoughtfully cupped in cramped hands
and the sight of it all sent Griff reeling. He crossed to the
opposite wall, this one all glass, and was confronted by a
panoramic view of the city. Opening a window he lit a cigarette and
blew smoke out into the fresh air so as not to upset the librarian.
He looked down at the ground, three floors below.

‘
That’s
no way out, Griff,’ said a gruff voice.

He turned
around and saw Teacher, the man’s bulk bearing down heavily on one
of the easy chairs, a glossy art journal like a crumpled comic in
his lap. His face was a deep red, though the room was cool, the
usual unruly shock of fiery red hair flared about his head.

‘
I
wasn’t thinking of jumping,’ Griff told him. ‘Just taking another
look at the world.’

‘
Well
don’t look too hard,
mon
ami
.
This world of ours doesn’t suffer close scrutiny.’

Aiming at the
winking lights of a distant aircraft Griff flicked his cigarette
away; of course it never reached, he watched it go tumbling and
spiralling to the ground and then sat opposite Teacher, low in the
seat, his hands deep in his pockets.

‘
It’s a
bastard of a thing at times, isn’t it?’ he said, though it was not
so much the world that had him troubled as some of the people in
it.

‘
Ah!
Sounds like you’re in just the right mood to join me in a drink,’
said Teacher, taking his hip flask from his pocket and passing it
across the low table which separated them.

Griff felt the
leather sides of the flask between his fingers, wondered if this
was the way an art student was expected to behave, systematically
evacuating the senses as all good bohemians do. No, he decided, he
will have a drink because he wanted to, not because it was expected
of him, took a mouthful of whisky and placed the flask back on the
table, as solid and erect as a challenge.

‘
Aren’t
you going to ask me what’s wrong?’ he said, after a lengthy
silence.

Teacher shook
his head. ‘You’re probably bored or pissed off or confused. It
happens all the time.’

‘
It
does?’

‘
Indeed.’

‘
So how
should I respond?’

‘
Cry if
you want to, it’s allowed. ‘
The young man who has not wept is a savage, the
old man who will not laugh is a fool
’. That’s Santayana, if I remember correctly.’
Teacher chuckled. ‘And here we sit, you young and weeping, me old
and laughing, neither of us savage or foolish, so things can’t be
too bad with the pair of us. Have another drink.’

Griff took a
second sip, then asked, ‘Have you seen McCready’s letters on the
front lawn?’

‘
That I
have!’ said Teacher, breaking into a laughter which was loud enough
to be out of place in the surroundings. ‘A good idea!’

‘
Christ,
Teach, not you as well,’ said Griff, disappointed. He was becoming
heartily sick of McCready’s ideas, his sense of values or
aesthetics or whatever upset by the frequent favourable responses
they received.

‘
They’re
good ideas,’ the Principal repeated, then added, ‘but that’s all
they are. Art is about something more than ideas, remember; it’s
also about craft and skill and emotion. You produce a genuine work
of art and it’ll last. McCready’s ideas will be forgotten by next
term.’

As Griff was
assimilating this, searching for some consolation in Teacher’s
words, the library doors swing open and a tall thin figure entered,
balding head, corduroy jacket, his high-pitched voice echoing
shrilly as he asked the librarian if the principal was around.

‘
Oh
shit,’ Teacher moaned. ‘Walter.’

He tried to
shrink, to become a part of the chair, but his bulk was too easily
seen, the librarian had already pointed him out. Walter’s long
stride quickly took him up the stairs and brought him face to face
with Teacher.

‘
Not
now,’ Teacher told him. ‘Go away, Walter.’

‘
It’s
Barney-’ Walter began.

‘
Funny,
I could have sworn it was Walter,’ Teacher smiled at
Griff.

‘
-I hear
he’s due back from his leave of absence.’

‘
So?’

‘
I just
can’t work with him anymore.’

‘
Then
resign.’

‘
Something has to be done about him.’

‘
Ask
him
to
resign?’

‘
For
God’s sake can’t you be serious for once?’

Before Teacher
could caution Walter over the irreverent outburst his name was
called out again -‘Mr Teacher! Mr Teacher!’- and Ron came running
up the stairs, using his broom quite adroitly to speed him
along.

‘
Oh
merde
,’ Teacher
sighed.

‘
Mr
Teacher! Mr Teacher!’

‘
Yes,
Ron, what is it?’ he asked, handing his flask across to the
cleaner.

‘
It’s
about all that stuff in the studio,’ Ron gurgled, becoming
accustomed to the invitation to drink whenever he confronted the
Principal.

‘
The
paintings? Yes, I have to admit that some of them aren’t up to
much.’

Ron moved his
broom back and forth on the floor before him with one hand, raised
the flask to his mouth again with the other. ‘Well, it’s not so
much the paintings, Mr Teacher, as all those cubicles and things,
especially that big chicken coop of McCready’s. I can’t manage.
They’ve got to go.’

‘
The
students all need a place to work in,’ Teacher explained. ‘They
need a bit of privacy and seclusion.’

‘
But it
makes it difficult for me,’ Ron complained. ‘To sweep up,
like.’

‘
I
appreciate that, Ron, but I’m sure you’ll be able to
cope.’

‘
Well I
can’t!’ Ron insisted, banging his broom down hard. ‘I
can’t!’

‘
I’ll
see what I can do for you, then,’ Teacher said, preferring to
placate the man rather than argue the point.

‘
And
another thing,’ said Ron, drinking again and then setting the flask
down on the table.

‘
Shite!
What now?’

‘
That
chicken’s still making an awful mess.’

‘
Walter.
Will you see to it?’

‘
It’s
nothing to do with me.’

‘
See to
it!’ Teacher insisted, and the senior lecturer stamped off
unhappily, the cleaner moving unsteadily at his side.

When they had
gone Teacher picked up his flask from the table, then shakes
it.

‘
Well
I’ll be damned,’ he said. ‘That greedy little
cochon
has guzzled the lot again. He’s turning
into a dipsomaniac, that man.’

Teacher rose
from his seat, crossed the floor and spoke into a telephone
extension which hung on the wall; he was smiling when he returned
but Griff didn’t ask why, just looked into the beaming face and
felt the glowing grin reflected in his own. Within minutes more
footsteps were heard on the stairs, the sound of delicately slim
heels this time, and the head of Teacher’s secretary bobbed into
view, swivelling around on its elegant neck to search him out.
Moving towards them, on dancer’s legs through drunken dreams, she
placed a plastic carrier bag on the table.

‘
Here
you are,’ she said disapprovingly, ‘and I hope you know what you’re
doing.’

‘
I’m the
boss, aren’t I?’ said Teacher, taking a fresh bottle of whisky from
the bag. ‘I ought to know what I’m doing.’

The young
woman sniffed and tossed her head, her hair flowing fragrantly
behind her as she did so. Griff also sniffed, taking in her perfume
as she walked away.

‘
Nice,’
he commented.

‘
No
she’s not,’ Teacher told him. ‘She’s a snooty young bitch and
she’ll have to go. She should never have come to an institution
like this in the first place. She doesn’t fit in.’

‘
The
same might be said for a lot of us.’

They drank
from the new bottle of whisky.

‘
Do you
know,’ said Teacher, ‘I’ve been so out of touch I’d almost
forgotten that Walter works here. I take it he still
does?’