Pat Barker - Life Class

Footsteps, quick and light, and then the door was thrown open and she looked out at him, smiling.

‘Doesn’t your landlady mind men calling?’

‘ Men ?’ She peered round him. ‘Oops, he’s brought the regiment. No, she’s down in the basement. As long as there’s not too much noise, she lets us get on with it. She’s even letting us redecorate.’

Elinor led the way up a broad staircase whose dark green carpet had a beige strip in the centre where the pile had worn through to the backing. She was clearly in the thick of decorating — he smelled distemper the moment she opened her door. Lolling tongues of rose-trellised wallpaper lay on the floor where she’d simply seized it and pulled it off the wall. A bucket of grey, glutinous sludge, a table and a stepladder occupied the centre of the room, but a sofa and two chairs had been pushed together at the far end so that some kind of normal life could continue.

‘What colour are you doing it?’

‘Stone. I thought grey might be a bit too depressing.’

‘And you’re doing it all yourself?’

‘No, Ruthie comes round to help. She’s on the floor above. We’re doing mine first and then we’ll do hers.’

‘It’s a big job.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind, I like it. Anyway, there’s no choice. I can’t work with that stuff on the wall. There’s another room, if you’d like to see?’

The bedroom. Elinor’s bed under a patchwork quilt, a chair, a wardrobe. Nothing else. Sunlight came in through the smeared window and crept in parallelograms of light across the faded carpet. From below came the hum and rumble of traffic.

‘I’m leaving this till last.’

He scarcely heard her. He was staring at a painting she’d propped against the wall: a female nude, facing away, rubbing a bath towel down her left arm. The ends of her glossy black hair stuck in wet coils to her white shoulders. ‘Teresa.’

‘She modelled for me. I said. Don’t you remember?’

He did, now she mentioned it, but still it came as a shock. They gazed at the painting together. He felt a surge of desire, not for Teresa, but for Elinor. He imagined kissing her, and the image was so vivid that for one crazy second he thought he’d done it, and was groping about in his mind for some way of repairing the damage.

‘That’s the one I won the scholarship for.’

He realized she’d brought him here into her bedroom to show him this, but he didn’t know why. A natural pride in a good piece of work? Or something more fundamental: a demand that he should recognize her as an equal? Well, if that was her motive she needn’t have bothered. There could be no question of equality. If he stayed at the Slade another ten years he’d never be able to paint sunlight on wet flesh like that.

‘It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I’ve seen it.’

She smiled. ‘Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There’s only room for one.’

He stood in the kitchen doorway while she boiled water and made salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches. He wanted to say more about the painting, but he’d always found it difficult to praise an artist to his face, her face, or even to accept praise gracefully himself. Though that hadn’t been much of a disability so far.

‘Right, I think that’s it,’ Elinor said, wiping her hands on her sides. ‘Here, you can carry the tray.’

He set it down on a small table, which she cleared by sweeping piles of books on to the floor. They sat facing each other, the sofa and chairs so squashed together their knees were almost touching. She offered him a plate and a sandwich, but didn’t immediately pour the tea. He noticed there were three cups.

‘I got a note from Teresa saying her husband was prowling round.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Poor Teresa. She must be terrified.’

Her eyes had gone black with anger. Her sympathy reminded him how very much he liked her, and he was reaching out to touch her hand, when –

‘Elinor.’

Neville, gasping for breath after the long walk upstairs. He stopped in the doorway, registering the scene, and his face changed colour — not a flush, but the most extraordinary darkening, like a male fish that finds itself unexpectedly confronted by a rival. ‘Oh, hello, Tarrant.’

Why does she do it? Paul wondered. Obviously she’d invited them both to tea, at slightly staggered times, implying, though not promising — for when did Elinor ever promise anything? — that each was to enjoy a tête-à-tête. Now she avoided looking at either of them.

After an awkward pause, Neville produced a bottle of wine from the green bag he was carrying. ‘I thought you might like to celebrate the scholarship.’ He glanced at Paul. ‘You know about this?’

‘I’ve just been admiring the painting.’

‘Oh, you’ve got it back?’

‘Yes, this morning. Come through, I’ll show you.’ Paul listened to the murmur of voices from the bedroom. Neville loved her. It was unmistakable. He always spoke to her with a kind of clumsy, affable superiority, making the most of his extra years and his fame, but increasingly the mask of confidence slipped to reveal lust and pain and fear.

‘I couldn’t have done it without Teresa,’ Elinor was saying, as they came back into the room. ‘A model makes all the difference.’

‘Yes, and she’s a good model too, isn’t she?’ Neville sat down next to Paul. Are you painting her?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll get some glasses,’ Elinor said.

The two men were left alone. After a pause, Neville asked, ‘How’s the life class going?’

‘Oh, you know. I’ve more or less given up.’

Elinor came back with three glasses and a bottle opener. Neville uncorked the bottle and poured. After they’d toasted Elinor’s success, there was silence. Then Neville said, ‘Oh. I’ve got something to celebrate too. I’ve bought a motorbike.’

He looked so pink and glowing, so insufferably pleased with himself, that of course they had to troop downstairs and admire the gleaming monster. Another craze, Paul thought, dismissively, another fad. That was the kind of reaction Neville provoked. Not contempt, exactly, but something close to it. The vanity of the man. The wealth. And yet you had to share his delight in his new toy. He was such a child.

‘I don’t suppose I can tempt either of you to have a ride?’

‘No,’ Elinor said.

Paul raised his glass. ‘Not at the moment.’

Back upstairs, flushed with wine and triumph, Neville became more expansive, reverting to the subject of Teresa’s husband. He seemed to have forgotten Elinor was there. ‘Why does she live in that wretched little basement? There’s no need. She’s not that poor. And even if she was, some man or other would always fork out. If she was half as frightened as she says she is, she’d be only too glad to move. Look at it. No proper locks on the windows. Anybody could hide in that coal-hole, the bolt on the back door doesn’t work … One screw —’

Too late, he stopped, stared into his glass and emptied it in one gulp.

‘She seems very happy there,’ Elinor said.

Nobody replied. Paul smiled and stood up. ‘I think I ought to be going.’

Elinor was looking up at him with some concern. He shrugged, then bent and kissed her, rather enjoying the expression of pain that flickered across Neville’s face. ‘Shall I see you in Lockhart’s tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘One o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, then.’

‘No, wait, I’ll see you out.’

They walked downstairs together. ‘Are you and Teresa coming to the Café Royale tonight?’ she asked, as he opened the front door.

‘Yes, I’m meeting her there. Are you coming?’