Lena Jones - The Silver Serpent

I glance round at the other students. They must have finished looking at the paintings some while ago, because they’re all gathered round the benches and windows, chatting and chewing gum. One group of students are all busy doing each other’s hair, while some others are sitting on the floor, sharing things on their phones and laughing loudly. No one is listening to Mrs Shelley.

Brianna’s lost concentration again, and is aiming the torch at a landscape on a side wall. Then she points it at the next painting and starts moving the beam along, one picture at a time, until she rounds the corner and reaches Sunflowers. Until this one, the beam has been invisible, but now there’s something that shouldn’t be there. I move in closer.

‘Look,’ I say, pointing to a small mark that’s appeared, just below Van Gogh’s signature.

Liam frowns. ‘It looks like an “A”.’

‘It is an “A”, I say. ‘But what’s it doing there?’ I take a picture of it, while it’s lit by the ultraviolet beam. The letter is quite ornate.

‘Maybe it’s a mark made by the gallery … their way of marking against theft?’ he suggests.

‘You really think they’d write on a priceless painting?’ I ask.

Brianna shrugs. ‘It is in invisible ink.’

Suddenly there’s a loud clapping and we all go quiet, our heads swivelling towards the source of the noise. A tall, slender man with dark, greying hair, brown eyes and an expensive-looking navy suit is standing there. This is Lord Rathbone, father of Sarah, my archenemy at school. She’s standing next to him, a smug smile doing nothing to improve her habitual air of privilege and arrogance.

Normally, I love visiting the National Gallery, and I’d been looking forward to the Van Gogh exhibition for months. But it turns out that Sarah’s dad is a gallery patron and the fact that this trip had been arranged was entirely thanks to him, so all the pleasure’s been squeezed out of it like water from a mop.

Lord Rathbone smiles at us and I wince unexpectedly. I have an unpleasant image of him catching small prey in that sinister grin. He’s like one of those toothed Venus flytrap plants.

‘Please do your teacher the courtesy of paying attention to her words of wisdom,’ he says. ‘We are, after all, here to learn.’ His voice has the oily tone of someone who’s used to getting his own way.

Brianna leans in to my ear. ‘Ugh, he’s even more patronising than his daughter,’ she whispers.

I nod and murmur, ‘At least now we know where she gets it from.’

‘He gives me the creeps,’ she replies.

‘Me too,’ I agree.

Mrs Shelley clears her throat and says … something.

‘What’s that, Mrs S?’ asks a boy.

‘I can’t hear her,’ says another. ‘Can you?’

Liam leans in to my ear. ‘She said it’s time to move on to the next room.’

‘How do you know?’ I ask him.

‘I’ve been learning lip-reading. I thought it might come in useful.’

Lord Rathbone claps his hands again and shouts, ‘ Silence! ’ He’s gone an impressive deep red, which I’d like to inspect more closely. I think it’s shade #9A0000 in the hexadecimal code used to identify precise colours on computers, but it’s hard to tell without getting nearer to him than would be polite.

‘I will not tolerate this insolence!’ he exclaims. ‘You will listen to your teacher with respect!’ Everyone falls silent and he nods to Mrs Shelley, who blushes.

‘Er … right, thank you, Lord Rathbone. Now listen carefully, everyone. We’re going to move on to the next room, where I’d like you to look out for the painting we studied in class, Bedroom in Arles , which was, of course, one of Van Gogh’s own favourites. Remember what we discussed – the flattened perspective and the lack of shadows, and try to compare the style with the Japanese prints we looked at, and which the artist used for inspiration. Decide how successful you think he was. And don’t forget to take notes, for discussion in class next time.’

We all traipse dutifully through to the next part of the exhibition. Brianna, Liam and I walk along together, and Brianna asks, ‘What did she say? Something about a Japanese prince?’

Liam laughs. ‘Don’t you remember those prints we looked at, to see how Van Gogh tried to get a similar effect in his work?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t really listen in art. I mean, I like looking at the pictures and stuff, but Mrs S is so dull that I always end up switching off.’

‘Did you know she’s actually a lady?’ I ask her.

‘Well, I didn’t think she was a bloke, did I?’

‘Agatha means as in “her ladyship”,’ says Liam.

‘Seriously?’ says Brianna. ‘She’s not half as arrogant as the Rathbones, though, is she?’

Liam laughs again. ‘No one’s half as arrogant as the Rathbones.’

‘Shh!’ I warn them. Sarah and her dad keep walking past, like guards on patrol.

We can’t get near Bedroom in Arles , so we stand chatting at the back of the crowd. But after six or seven minutes staring at the back of people’s heads, I grow restless.

‘I’m going to have another look at Sunflowers ,’ I tell my friends. ‘I can’t work out what that letter A’s doing on there. Can you cover for me?’

‘How are we expected to do that?’ asks Brianna.

‘Say I’ve gone to the loo?’ I suggest, then as soon as I see the Rathbones chatting to our art teacher, I sneak out and return to the previous room, which is now empty. Except it’s not quite empty – there’s a boy standing in front of Sunflowers . He glances up as I approach.

‘I love this work,’ he says in a familiar way, as if we’re friends.

‘Mmm, me too,’ I say.

‘I always look at Sunflowers when I come to the gallery.’

‘Mmm, me too!’ I really must think of something else to say. ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ I add, and my gaze flickers over him, taking in details:

I realise he’s watching me with a smile, and I feel myself blush.

‘So, you’re a fan of Van Gogh too?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘I’m a fan of art in general,’ he says. ‘I’ve studied it for years. Did you know that there were two series of sunflowers, painted by Vincent for his friend and fellow artist Paul Gauguin? He was going to hang them as a frieze round the walls of Gauguin’s room in the Yellow House in Arles.’

Actually, I do know that, but before I get a chance to respond, the boy is walking over to the next painting along: Wheatfield with Cypresses.

‘Look at the impasto!’ he exclaims.

I know that this means having several coats of paint layered one on top of another, to build texture, so I can at least nod. Van Gogh is said to have been one of the first painters to use the technique.

‘You can really feel the movement of the trees and clouds, can’t you?’ he asks.

‘You really can,’ I say, excited to find someone who shares my love of Van Gogh’s art. I’ve never met anyone else who’s known what ‘impasto’ means. ‘I’ve been having to keep my hands behind my back, so I don’t touch the surface. It’s so tempting.’