Schooling Page 3

  Catrine.

  Sir.

  You needn’t call me sir in my house we’re friends here. I’m glad you like my paintings, I’m glad your mother would have liked them, I can’t say anyone from school has ever seen them but—

  I like them a lot.

  But. Are you warm enough, are you shivering?

  I’m fine. But what?

  I should put more paper on or another log—

  But what?

  I feel somewhat awkward that you’re here. I know the school wouldn’t like it.

  You haven’t even asked what the trouble is.

  Well . . . down at the cushion next to him memorizing the brocade taking his time to say . . . What is it, Catrine?

  Stretching out her legs they are long for nearly fourteen she is one of the tallest and that includes boys should she arrange stockings again carefully or simply stretch and say . . . Like I told you before, Mr. Gilbert. Paul wants to kill me.

  You know how boys are Catrine they pretend to hate girls but really. No, I spilled breakfast on him. Humiliation in the dining hall.

  Is that all it is.

  Did I say humiliation no no I meant to say how that strange heart made his sweater rise and fall, his white feathers pulsing as they caked with egg.

  I mean good God I thought it was something dreadful something—

  It is dreadful.

  Gilbert jumps up strides to the window inspects the sky and yes takes waist between forefinger and thumb as he seems to do when thinking or pleased . . . I think it’s going to snow . . . smiling back at her then not smiling . . . You weren’t even wearing a coat out there.

  I do feel slightly sick.

  We must get you back.

  Please . . . can’t help that it comes out so forcefully, bite it down . . . Mr. Gilbert I haven’t finished telling you.

  But you’re ill.

  Shifting . . . Maybe I’m just hungry.

  Releasing the sky the assessment of snow . . . Hum, I suppose Gredville is wearing your breakfast . . . out into the passage . . . Let’s go see what there is. How’s toast?

  Gilbert’s kitchen warm with its Aga stove and old cowhand picture.

  Yes I picked that up at a jumble sale does this bread seem alright to you or does that appear to be mold I also bought a complete set of medical dictionaries get yourself a plate from that cabinet published in the seventeen hundreds it’s horrifying what they practiced in the name of science in those days.

  Taking the plate, blue with a shepherdess on, nodding as he flips her the toast, to butter, of course jam.

  Back we go . . . she has the plate, he steers her by the shoulders to the sitting room.

  And sitting she could ask what’s the upstairs like awkward toast are there fireplaces jam on the corners of her mouth he watches her lick it off.

  Catrine, I think we ought to call Headmaster it could snow and who knows what frenzy they’re lathering themselves into over your disappearance—

  Is it her leaf caught hair or that she is American why can’t he let her be why can’t he let her stay.

  Can’t you tell them I’m alright, Mr. Gilbert? That I’ve fallen asleep in front of the fire, that you think I should sleep for a while because I seem sick or exhausted or something?

  Considering her, Gilbert seems fourteen or so with his white scar and his dubious testing of a finger against the table his leaning forward to hear the sound of his voice making that telephone call watching her with uncertain eyebrows waiting to hear it. How a conversation like that would happen how it would go and who would say what.

  Paul Gredville, hum?

  Sir?

  But he is halfway from the room and she knows he is not like that to everyone.

  Outside the light grows dimmer still. She moves to the window in homage to Gilbert’s movement there, testing her hands on hips, waist between forefinger and thumb, observing the garden, wondering at the sky, whether it will bring the snow it warns of, exasperated at the weeds she never got around to pulling, marveling at mortar’s submission to ivy, cataloguing repairs. In the recesses of the house the faint chime on noon yet

  Do we need a lamp on? . . . from somewhere . . . Catrine?

  dark enough for midnight.

  10

  Most disturbingly, Mr. Stokes had no idea you were missing. He thanked me for my concern said as soon as you were awake I was to deliver you to the San . . . judging by the echo, Gilbert must be standing in the doorway she noticed the roof eaved in the hall . . . It’s gross deception I’m taking part in, Catrine. It’s a mistake.

  I’ll go back.

  The click of a lamp a pool of light. And he crosses the room to the lamp next to her.

  Wait . . . she touches his arm . . . Look at the snow.

  Gilbert forsakes his waist to fold his arms. Side by side they watch the white fall. A marvel yet she cannot . . . Have you ever . . . what the hell is she saying when she doesn’t know anything.

  Hum?

  Painted . . . again words again . . . Well have you ever painted a person?

  Finally he places yes one hand on his waist holds it turns and leans the other arm and his body against the fogged window behind which the snow floats before which they stand like two decent people in ordinary conversation.

  I’m no artist, Catrine. I’m simply amusing myself.

  He has forgotten that he has made a mistake that he has lied to Cyclops that she offered to return. He could be thinking of her adjusting stockings he could be thinking of her licking jam she has felt him hold her waist between thumb and forefinger this man on his rounds so purposefully inserting his unclean but could it be shaven in the back hair before her nose to correct her failing experiment to retrieve a hair from her page to hold it up between that celebrated thumb and forefinger, to inquire Yours?

  Pardon, Mr. Gilbert?

  The other paintings . . . again he reaches for the lamp beside her . . . They’re stored away somewhere.

  Do you still paint? . . . breathing in his faint shampoo . . . What about Chittock Leigh?

  As he draws back . . . I suppose I don’t find it as glamorous to paint what surrounds me although it can be inspiring here at sunset or even sunrise . . . leaning against the window again . . . But I can’t think you’re ever up that early.

  No remember too much bed and not enough sleep.

  Still I go driving sometimes, some weekends. Try to find something.

  Look at the two of them leaning against cold windows like old friends chatting about painting and snow and she tonguing her molars to find raspberry seeds from his jam. To review: He has leaned across her to offer up the scent of his hair. He has phoned the headmaster to ensure she will stay. She has eaten his toast and stretched out her legs.

  You seem to be avoiding the subject of Mr. Gredville.

  Oh . . . the snow quilting the unweeded lawn . . . It’s not important.

  Him killing you?

  I can’t think about it now.

  Mr. Brickman seems to have taken a fancy to you . . . he watches her reaction she chooses to consider the whitening grass . . . Does he have designs on you?

  Under sheets.

  You be careful of those lads.

  Under striped sheets behind the wardrobe she finds the paintings.

  Could it be nearly one o’clock the chimes again although it seems they chimed only seconds ago the unused room dusty . . . Sorry it’s a little—I’m just thinking I ought really run you back you ought really go to the San it could be something serious . . . but all the while hefting up the mattress to tuck under the sheet running out to take a pillow from his own bed . . . I will get around to tidying one of these days it’s not often I have visitors . . . unfolding blankets drawing the shade. A moment by the window . . . How dark . . . then back to fussing as he did by the fire wiping the bedside table with the sleeve of a robe hanging from the door . . . You’ll call for me when you awake, if you need anything. Do you think—should I take you back?

  I
don’t feel well enough . . . kicking off one shoe . . . I mean I just need to sleep I’m homesick I’ll be . . . now the other . . . Alright after a nap I’ll call you if I need anything besides . . . a small yawn . . . It’s snowing your car could get stuck.

  Something about homesick, that was the trick, because he softens . . . Some sleep will do wonders.

  And she sits on the bed because to get under the covers she might take off her skirt but should she do it here in front of him will her shirt reach down to cover enough.

  I’ll get you some water . . . Gilbert slips from the room.

  Pull the skirt around so the zipper faces front unzip step out. Sweater too why not. Sliding under the covers in stockings and shirt head down on the pillow no surprising pencils. Gilbert’s pillow smells of Thursday mornings ten to eleven twenty smells of Argon potassium smells of too much bed and not enough sleep.

  Here we are.

  Back with a glass of water placing it carefully on the robe-shined table next to her judging the distance. Supine, can she reach it easily if she wakes suddenly dry or parched or needing to quench because she doesn’t know what else to do in this Gilbert house in this Gilbert bed.

  Don’t be homesick . . . looking down at her that noble crease that scar . . . We’ll take care of you here.

  Suddenly he is stooping is placing hands either side of her shoulders is leaning down is moving toward her so that the smell of him rising from the pillow and the smell of him floating down compresses her as he kisses.

  Under striped sheets behind the wardrobe she finds the paintings. She can’t sleep how could she. Leaning. Four of them. She knows they will be of the woman and they are.

  It was only a kiss on the cheek but he should have known she wouldn’t sleep if he was going to kiss her on the cheek.

  She’s naked of course. Sprawled, unburdened by covers. Foot hooked by sheet. Body an undulation against the background’s creamy hillocks. Demented. No, badly executed shadow by the mouth. Poor lady, lonely without a bottle or bread. Not even a pear for company. And cold, skin an experiment of blues. Gilbert’s love of litmus. Portrait of the Acidic Woman. Mixing his palette, Gilbert making light, hummingly debating valency, hum might these democratic blues dance together, how exactly does matter matter. Amsterdam was better. He should stick to naked cities. The hungry woman with her flesh and bottom and breasts and all of that. Flesh. Staring, mouth caustic. Lying on her side, forehead melting into a fleshy arm. Moaning. Please don’t paint me blue again.

  Downstairs in adjusted stockings loosened blouse yes and skirt. It happened that she could sleep an hour or so even after being kissed and ferreting out the blue woman. After thinking too much she could still sleep some. Down the stairs hair a thicket the clock chiming it must tell the half hour too it tolls all the God damned time.

  Outside the day stays dark, in the kitchen Gilbert folds down a corner of his paper to locate her. At the bottom of the stairs. Pulling hair behind one ear. That’s new hair behind the ear where did that come from.

  The snow gets on her hair and the coat he has lent. Not his duffel but a wool suit jacket because I have nothing better. How soft the notsheep how cold his car how quiet the white around them. In the parking lot behind the San he comes around to open her door . . . You can return it any time what day is it today well perhaps I’ll run into you before Thursday . . . hands on her shoulders . . . You shouldn’t be homesick you’re sure you’re alright perhaps we should have left you in bed . . . searchingly as if—

  Are you going to kiss me again.

  He drops his hands. The white snow and scar. Behind him the school rises up through the weather. Monstead, their castle. His eyes his scar jumping or is it the snow falling between them. Why does he always look at her. What? In his eyes what?

  You get some sleep . . . then he turns, slamming into his woolly car so, before she realizes, it is just her and the snow.

  11

  DONG Morning assembly in the great hall waiting for masters black capes open like crows eyes still slow still DONG puffy from sleep to file past the statues mustached Giles Dupré Raynes founder in bronze Apollo a broken Cromwell and Queen Victoria that one just a bust DONG up the aisle between the rows of students standing in carved pews to the first row DONG the row of velvet Simon Puck goggling his eyes fingers reading his scalp for scabs. Morning light through the stained glass plays on her hand. A yellow circle in the design appears to be a fried egg but is in fact a sun.

  Headmaster stands to lead the prayer.

  The light stipples Gilbert’s bowed head. If no one ever visits clearly the paintings are hidden from himself.

  Oh God we have heard with our ears

  Yesterday, after the nurse took Catrine’s temperature and informed her that there was hardly time for playacting, what with students who were actually sick, what with winter coming on, she was sent to Tea.

  Our fathers have declared unto us

  Taking her tray, she received the benediction, pink meat pie wedge, hard-boiled egg staring from its center, noble

  noble works that thou did

  There were no empty chairs

  in the old time

  near Sophie or anyone so she had to sit with first years. The younger girls wanted to know about America and she told them. Lies until Brickie passed by on his way to the bread giving her a look that made her go quiet.

  World with . . . damn . . . As it was in the beginning

  She doesn’t try to locate the back of Gilbert’s head but it seems to float wherever she looks.

  World with . . . damn . . . Is now and ever shall be

  Gilbert

  World without end.

  Headmaster stands . . . You may sit . . . patch over his one eye, three black strings plastered across his globe . . . Later this week we will be lucky enough to hear excerpts from Mr. Spenning’s travels in Borneo.

  Father on the telephone, Good news But we will continue this morning with Dr. Thorpe’s insights Extremely good news On Man’s rise from the innocence of brutehood. Man sold their house in Maine. They were to find a new one over the Christmas holidays. Questions of morality arise in A new house where Alternatives are offered of better lives. Did they need a house did they need. Understanding the distinctions between good and evil. What about Conscience. What about Hopes of spiritual ascendance. What about in Maine the day the movers came. Finding that bird’s nest with Mother’s hair wound in the twigs. No chance of finding something like that in any new house.

  It is only after ages fraught with despair . . . Dr. Thorpe mimes despair . . . Hopelessness and grinding . . . his teeth . . . Misery that. Moral law becomes dominant. So Ariise . . . Thorpe trills . . . Ariise from a bestial to a moral plane of existence.

  Across the courtyard with Sophie and Ness. Sophie singing Boring boring boring laddering a scale the sun coloring everything sharply the morning—

  Yank . . . he moves in bestial, thin, the height of a man.

  They have reached the door to School House. So close. One step up through the heavy oak door four steps down the short corridor to History. Sophie stops singing thunder rattles in the distance voices halt across the tennis courts pupils stop to watch clouds speed across the sun casting the group in shadow then lighting them again. The school cat flashes by. From far off comes the faint sound of a drum.

  Look at me.

  Well she won’t she’ll reach for the door past Sophie’s protective arm Sophie telling Paul You Bore Us and here’s her own voice apologizing no less for spilling on his—

  Jumper you mean?

  A movement in the shadowed doorway. Brickie steps out. He doesn’t register Paul only at her his shifting bastard hair an old tired light in what she can see of his eyes.

  Paul leans one shoulder slowly against the wall. Silence. Vanessa gives a little cough. Something has happened between Brickie and Paul.

  You saw what she did . . . Paul finally comes away from the wall . . . Leave this.

  Why does Gredville
plead like that. What does Brickie have on him. Sophie’s arm on her back. In this world without end, when does she begin to protect herself.

  Brickie pushes back through the door toward History. Watching the door ease closed, Paul snorts, walks away. Then lopes across the courtyard tracking new springbok.

  That low tone of distant thunder grows loud and ominous. Louder, louder, it becomes a rattling vibration, resting at the height of an unbearable scream. The noise threatens deafness when suddenly a silver motorcycle appears spinning around the corner of School House. Ploughing through a flowerbed, it roars across the courtyard, heading straight for her and Sophie. At the last minute, the motorcycle jerks to a stop, spraying gravel. A helmeted figure cuts the motor and flicks down the kickstand. Sophie sucks in her breath, starts backing away. The driver’s tall, seventeen? Eighteen? He pulls off his helmet. Sophie goes ashen, the dust settles. The boy grins.

  Oh . . . Sophie whispers . . . Owen Wharton.

  12

  Handel floats across the courtyard. Chorus rehearsing The Messiah. We Like Sheep, they profess. We Like Sheep, they baa.

  Their adoration of sheep carries down to practice room 9 in the basement of School House. She begins again. Carols against the din of radiators. Deck the wrong note Deck the. The? The halls with—

  A shadow falls across her music. She glances up. The boy from the motorcycle is crouching at her window, sliding it open . . . Fa la la la la . . . he jumps into the room.

  She splits a reed.

  You’d do better to improvise. God that sill’s filthy . . . the boy sets down a clipboard, dusts off his hands . . . School’s a muckheap. Never play a clarinet sitting down. It constricts the muscles in your throat. Besides, I want your chair.

  You can’t be in here . . . but she stands.

  Can’t? Let’s make it up as we go along, shall we?

  Who are you?

  Introductions! . . . he straddles her chair dramatically thunk thunk his boots one either side . . . Owen Wharton, Upper Sixth, taking three A levels including Theatre Arts . . . the boy has odd vowels . . . Passed only four O levels year before last bit embarrassing but consensus was that the Biology questions were absurd . . . is he American . . . I think you’ll find I’m intelligent enough for the job.