Hazard Night, page 5
He was still laughing to himself when I fell in with him on the way out. ‘Your dad should watch his back. It seems he’s got competition in the fire and brimstone business.’
‘Do you think the new gospel will have any effect?’
‘Who knows. There’s a certain species of creep who thinks that being branded a pervert is a badge of honour.’
Henry looked over to where Bette was receiving tributes from a ring of excitable girls. Her face wore the glow of heroism. ‘But maybe times are changing,’ he said. ‘A female insurgency could be fun.’ I didn’t like the way he said this: it was flirtatious, but it was belittling too. And I knew the flirtatiousness wasn’t for me. When Bette looked back at the two of us and waved, I ducked my head and moved on.
The next time, Bette didn’t just wave: she called me over, leaning out of her common-room window to shout. Her throaty summons was unmistakeable.
I walked over slowly. ‘Yes?’
‘I said, I’ve got cake, and aren’t you coming in?’
I hadn’t been in the girls’ boarding house before, and I’d only been in one of the boys’ dorms when they were emptied out over the holidays and I was running some errand or other. This was the first Cleeve common room I’d entered when it was actually in use. Although the block was practically new, it still felt drab and utilitarian, despite the colourful bean bags and slouchy sofas. The floor was scattered with biscuit crumbs and empty crisp packets. Girls lounged with each other’s heads in their laps, braiding hair or vacantly picking at their lips and nails. Ricki Lake was on the small TV set high in the wall. When I stood in the doorway it was like that classic saloon-bar scene from a corny old western. The stranger enters, and silence falls.
‘This is Alice,’ said Bette regally. ‘Alice, this is everyone.’ She twirled her fingers at the room. The girls looked perplexed. Wasn’t I a townie? Or some kind of junior staff? ‘Pass me my bag, would you?’ she instructed a minion. Then, to me: ‘Come on up.’
Sixth formers had their own bedrooms, though there wasn’t room for much more than a bed and a desk and a narrow wardrobe. Bette flopped onto the bed and indicated I should take the chair. ‘Sorry for the unsisterly welcome. The three girls you met the other day are the only ones who know about your role with the flyers, and they’re sworn to secrecy. So the others don’t know what to make of you.’
I looked around the small room. There was a silver-framed photograph of what were presumably Bette’s parents on the desk and multiple Polaroids of Bette larking about with assorted photogenic friends. A colourful cotton sarong was draped over the window. The wall was plastered with magazine covers from The Face and SKY, and a poster of River Phoenix brooded above the bed. A shirtless Andre Agassi adorned the opposite wall.
‘And what do you make of me?’
‘I’m still working on it.’ Bette reached down to pull a box out from under the bed. ‘And, lo, a tuck delivery from the parentals. I wanted to say thank you for the photocopier, so dig deep.’
‘Thanks.’ I wasn’t hungry, but it seemed churlish to refuse. Bette was unwrapping a package of brownies with a childish enthusiasm that was as unexpected as it was disarming.
‘In my last school, we always pooled tuck,’ she said, licking cocoa powder off her fingers. I saw her nails were bitten down, which also surprised me. ‘People would lose their shit if they thought you’d been hoarding. Half of them were bulimics, which may have had something to do with it … I’m an army brat, you see, so I’ve been boarding since I was seven. All-girl gulags, up till now.’
‘So what changed?’
‘Daddy went to Cleeve. He always wanted a boy, so sending his only daughter here was the next best thing. What about you? How’d you end up at the local sin-bin instead of joining the sixth form here?’
‘It wasn’t a good fit.’
‘And the townie comp is?’
‘Not particularly. But I like the reasons for not fitting in there better.’
‘You probably made the right call,’ Bette conceded, wrinkling her tiny nose. ‘Because the Cleeve natives are definitely restless. Underneath the polo-shirted airs and Latin graces – well, it’s all a bit Heart of Darkness, don’t you think? Heavy breathing and grunting. Eyes glittering in the undergrowth. Maybe even a shaken spear or two … I’m assuming that’s why you dress the way you do.’
I blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, you’ve obviously cultivated becoming part of the furniture because you think being sexless will keep you safe.’ She did that finger-twirling thing again, this time in the direction of my clothes. ‘All that weird baggy crap won’t disguise you forever.’
I looked down at my outfit. Jeans, a boy’s red plaid flannel shirt I’d found in one of the lost property bins, my school gym plimsolls. Come to think of it, I might have found the jeans in the lost property bins too.
‘Look, you’ll be gone from here in a year or two. You’ve spent so much time trying to stay invisible, what’s going to happen when it’s time to be noticed? You won’t know where to start. I’m serious. This place has institutionalised you – neutered you – without you even realising it.’
I frowned. ‘Why do you care?’
‘I don’t care. Or not particularly.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose I’m bored.’
I knew I should be offended. But it wasn’t as if Bette was my first would-be meddler. Would this latest busybody succeed where all the others had failed? I pictured Bette in earnest consultation with the likes of Mrs Riley and, in spite of myself, I laughed.
Bette ignored the laughter. She scooted closer and reached for my hair, sweeping its drab curtains back from my face and piling it on my head. ‘Look at you,’ she instructed, indicating the mirror on the back of the door. ‘What’s that Hans Andersen story, the one about the magic tinderbox and the dogs? They had eyes the size of teacups. No, the size of towers. You have eyes like towers.’
I stared into my own eyes. My pale hair was piled high on my head. Bette moved my hand to hold it in place, then began pulling things out of the overflowing wardrobe.
‘You’re a swimmer, right? You’ve got the figure for it. Long and lean. Here, this has always drowned me.’ She threw a black velvet jacket into my lap. ‘And something fitted underneath. A plain boat-neck T-shirt or vest top. Actually, those jeans aren’t hopeless. Slouchy’s good. You just need some killer boots.’
Then she flopped back on the bed, sighing, eyes closed, as if suddenly overcome by boredom or the impossibility of the task. I got up to leave, trying to find the words to say thanks without sounding as if I’d been convinced of anything. ‘I think—’ I started.
Bette’s eyes opened again. ‘So tell me about Henry Zhang.’
EVE
Having made little or no attempt at redecoration in her four years at Cleeve, Eve was abashed to find the Eastons’ cottage smelling of fresh paint. The kitchen was a buttery yellow, the living room an earthy terracotta. The standard-issue sofa and chairs had been replaced with a velvet sofa and worn leather wing-backs. The walls were crowded with interesting prints and paintings, lit by the glow of antique lamps.
‘It’s lovely in here,’ she said, hugging her bottle of wine to her chest and breathing in the scents from the kitchen.
‘One does what one can,’ said Fen, grimacing. ‘I rather feel as if I’ve been plonked down in a Lego house. The bricks are so shiny … Mind you, our college digs were appropriately picturesque, but leaked heat like a sieve. I won’t miss those East Anglian draughts.’
She told Eve that Gabriel had found the local pub – ‘an absolute flea-pit, but he isn’t picky’ – and that she’d made a cassoulet. ‘I adore peasant food, don’t you?’
Eve wasn’t a cook. Lunch was mostly Milo’s leftovers; supper was often cheese and crackers. Peter usually ate the school meals, which were too stodgy for Eve’s taste. The cassoulet wasn’t to her usual taste either – pungent and animal, punchy with garlic. Yet as the wine flowed, she felt as if her wan Cleeve self was absorbing the colour of her new surroundings along with the richness of the meal.
It was almost like being back in London, in the world of grown-ups. Or college students, perhaps, except that the artisanal carelessness of the place wasn’t the makeshift kind. Eve was reminded that when she’d lived on her own, or even in flat-shares, she had always put effort into her surroundings. She, too, used to paint her walls, finding quiet satisfaction in pale colours and clean lines, a lack of clutter. The trouble was, she was still treating her life at Cleeve as temporary, allowing the silt and scuffings of domestic life to layer themselves around her as if at any point she could simply shrug them off. Whereas Fen … Fen obviously had no such commitment issues.
And it seemed she’d decided to commit to Eve, too.
‘Actually,’ she confessed, sucking the last of her martini from the olive, ‘we were bloody lucky to end up here. Headmaster Parish is a family friend of Gabriel’s from back in the day. Strictly between us – even Parish doesn’t know the particulars – Gabriel left St Ben’s under a bit of a cloud.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a tale as clichéd as time. The rapaciousness of youth, the vanity of middle age … the insecurity of both. Inevitably – and messily – it all ended in tears.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
‘It happens. We’re working through it. Cleeve is meant to be a fresh start.’
Emboldened by the gin, Eve ventured, ‘The, er, female sixth formers …?’
‘Good Lord, Gabriel’s not rampant.’
Eve blushed, realising she’d overstepped the mark. But then, much to her relief, Fen laughed. ‘Besides, my husband’s weakness is for fragile hot-house blooms, all a-quiver with the singularity of their intellect. Not much danger of those here.’
‘I know we should feel sorry for the Cleeve girls.’ Eve rubbed the frosty rim of her glass. ‘The school’s still adjusting to a female intake. But these girls … they’re so pleased with themselves. And the way they look straight through you …’
‘Posh girls don’t do diffidence. Or ambition. You’ll get the odd mad and bad outlier, but most of them are as dull as tinned mince.’
Nearly all the bohemian types that Eve had met came from some kind of privilege, and despite Fen’s mention of youthful sojourns in artists’ squats and on the picket line for the miners’ strike, she suspected Fen was the same. But she didn’t pursue the subject. They’d moved into the living room and she wandered around, looking at the pictures on the wall. ‘Are any of these yours?’
‘No. I’m having a bout of artist’s block just at the moment. Right now it’s easier to think of myself as a painter-decorator.’
‘Didn’t the school send someone to do the job?’
‘I’m sure they would have, but I couldn’t be arsed with the inevitable wrangling and delay. And I quite like painting walls – it’s soothing. Whereas being boxed in by beige was not.’
‘You should see the Laura Ashley nightmare at mine.’
‘Ah. Well, if you really can’t bear it I’ve got some paint pots I changed my mind about. How do you feel about Aegean Blue? Fuck it – if your living room’s the same size as mine we could put on a first coat tonight! It’s not even late.’
They opened up a tin and brought it under the light. A soft greenish-blue slop glistened within. Giddy with wine and bonhomie, Eve agreed. She suddenly couldn’t think of anything worse than another morning waking up to those smug roses. When they got to Wyatt’s, loaded with brushes, trays and paint, they found the place was silent. Milo was sound asleep and Peter had turned in for an early night, since it was the assistant housemaster’s turn on duty. Eve and Fen put the stereo on low, found another bottle of wine and set to work. ‘I never bother with masking tape and all that, however liquored up I am,’ Fen informed her. ‘I’ve got impeccable fine-motor skills.’
She was good as her word. Eve, however, struggled to keep her hand steady. She didn’t care, feeling an almost primal joy as the flowers and trellises disappeared under a wash of mermaid blue. About half an hour in, Peter came down in his pyjamas and robe, squinting through the sleep in his eyes. When he saw Fen he apologised, flustered, and attempted to smooth down his hair.
‘We’re transforming ourselves,’ Eve told him grandly, waving her brush aloft. Paint speckled the coffee table she was standing on. She could feel a blob stiffening on her cheek.
‘Lovely,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Would you mind turning the music down a notch?’
‘You missed a bit,’ Fen called out as, re-smoothing his hair, Peter went back up the stairs.
The scene which greeted Eve the next morning – a painfully early one, thanks to Milo and her hangover – was not the triumph she was expecting. It seemed they should have used some kind of primer on the wallpaper, for the roses had reemerged, lurking like malignant jellyfish under the blue. The coverage was patchy, to say the least, and the colour greener than she remembered. Eve surveyed the streaks and blobs, the crooked edgings, and felt distinctly seasick.
‘I’ll have a word with Joe Allen,’ said Peter, and although he was being helpful (Joe was head of Facilities) Eve sensed his reproach. Unfairly or not, she had decided Peter was also to blame. They should have painted the house together, ages ago, with wine and music and mutual silliness. Why had she had to wait for Fen?
Peter duly organised for the room to be repapered and then painted magnolia. Eve said she’d go with whatever he liked: she’d moved on. The important thing was that life was changing. She’d dipped her toe into foreign waters and, one way or another, the dreary roses were gone.
From there on, Eve Winslow and Fen Easton’s friendship was an established thing. They soon slipped into the habit of meeting in one or the other’s house for coffee or cocktails every other day of the week. Or else they’d go for late evening strolls around the campus, arm-in-arm. Eve abandoned her lacklustre membership of the campus book group and events committee. She speeded up her walk, zipping past the likes of Nancy Riley with a cheery wave. She had more patience with Milo. The boys at Wyatt’s said to each other that Winslow’s beard must be getting some on the side.
Peter’s relief at Eve’s raised spirits was plain to see. ‘I remember making my first friend at Cleeve,’ he told her over the washing-up one Sunday evening. ‘Harry Buller. I’d thought him horribly bumptious, at first. But he had a big heart to go with that braying voice. He looked out for me. That’s when Cleeve started to feel like home.’
Harry had been Peter’s best man but Eve had only met him a handful of times. Peter’s contact with his fellow Old Boys was surprisingly sparse, but then Peter’s devotion to his time at Cleeve was as much to the institution as the people. He got along with everyone, wherever he was and whoever they were, but he had no close friendships of the type Eve was used to forming with other women. It was, she supposed, a male thing and a public school thing combined.
‘Fen’s brightened you up no end, and I’m sure you’re a good influence on her too.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, you’re quite different people, aren’t you? You’re more of an introvert and that might well calm Fen down a bit.’ He smiled. ‘I think Gabriel finds her rather a handful.’
Eve raised her brows. ‘Rather a handful’ was how you talked about a disruptive child, not someone’s wife. And she didn’t much like being described as a ‘good influence’, either. As if she were a senior prefect, urged to set an example for the squits.
‘How’s Gabriel settling in?’ she asked carefully. ‘Is he … popular with the students, do you think?’
Peter rinsed the suds from the last of the dishes. He was being careful in choosing his words too, trying – as always – to be fair. ‘I get the impression he intimidates them. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But he’s got a very dry manner. He’s used to teaching undergraduates, of course, and the brightest and best undergraduates at that. No doubt the adjustment is a touch bumpy.’
Eve herself was intimidated by Gabriel. Their paths crossed only fleetingly, as when she was at Fen’s, he was usually working in the school library or else at the pub. When they did meet, he was unfailingly courteous, but wary-seeming too. Eve put this down to the fact he probably knew Fen had confided his infidelity to her. She pictured some ardent Cambridge undergrad – a bluestocking, as Nancy would say – winding a lock of hair around a finger and biting her ripe lip, as she hung on to the Hot Prof’s every word. And, yes, it would be something, Eve thought, to kindle a spark in those chilly dark eyes.
It was several weeks before Fen showed Eve her work. Eve had expected something large scale and exuberant, in keeping with the flavours of Fen’s cooking and the colours on her walls. But her canvases were generally small, layered in scratches of black ink – dense scribbles that were somehow both laborious and deft. Several depicted scenes from the darker edges of folk tales, of women suckling hedgehog-babies or girls vomiting frogs. Metamorphosis was a recurring motif. There was a series of nudes in flagrantly sexual poses, birthing their myth from between splayed legs. And so laurel branches thrust out from the forest of Daphne’s pubic hair, and a monstrous spider crawled out from Arachne’s. Blodeuwedd, the Welsh girl spun from flowers who was changed into an owl, trailed petals from her vagina that turned into a whirl of feathers, with sharp slashing talons and a cruel beak.
‘They’re incredibly striking,’ said Eve. She’d crossed paths with quite a few creatives over the years, but she always felt inadequate responding to art, especially the art of someone she knew. Here, her fear of exposure was particularly ironic, given the images on display. The naked bodies represented all stages of womanhood, from the lithe curves of adolescence to the stringy or lumpen flesh of later life. But their faces – whether sly or vacant, ecstatic, enraged – were all, unmistakeably, Fen’s.
