‘Please. If you wouldn’t mind.’
She gave him her keys and he went down the steps ahead of her, his nostrils assailed by a smell of rotting cabbage. A few leaves, thick-veined and gross, their stalks yellow and flabby with decay, littered the ground. He turned the key in the lock, but the door, swollen with damp, resisted him. All the time he was aware of the dark cavity behind him. Anybody could hide in there after dark. No wonder she was frightened.
The door gave before a more determined shove.
‘There we are.’
She’d stopped halfway down the steps. Now only her head and shoulders were lit by the street lamp. Gradually, as she edged further down the steps, her face fell into shadow. Then she was standing beside him. He caught her scent, sweet and dark, above the stench of rotting vegetables.
‘He got inside once.’
‘I’ll have a look around.’
He went first, walking ahead of her down a long passage, which bent sharply to the right in the middle. The lino was black with grey blotches, perhaps intended to suggest pebbles, but looking rather as if somebody had spattered paint across it. She had two main rooms — big, but dark. A tiny kitchen opened off the living room. The bathroom was squeezed in next door to the bedroom. He looked in the airing cupboard, inside the wardrobe, under the bed — feeling, as he pressed his cheek into the musty-smelling rug, like a ridiculous old maid — then returned to the hall. All clear.’
‘Good.’ She laughed on a sharply exhaled breath. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? After all that.’
‘I’d love one.’
He had no idea what the offer implied and daren’t think. He told himself there was no hurry. Most of his sexual experience so far had been kisses and cuddles and worming his way into the drawers of girls whose sights were firmly set on marriage, always feeling a bit of a bastard since he had no intention of marrying anybody. That, and a series of rather unsatisfactory commercial encounters. They should have been easier, since both sides knew where they stood, but they hadn’t been. In fact, the memory of the first time could still make him cringe. The woman, beside whom any one of his aunties would have looked like a mere slip of a girl, pointed him towards a bowl of water and a bar of carbolic soap and towel on the dresser by the bed. Obediently he started to get washed. Hands. Face. Neck. Ears. Even now he felt a hot blush of shame prickle his chest, as he remembered her laughter.
‘Are you all right in there?’
He roused himself. ‘Yes.’
‘You’ve gone very quiet.’
‘Just thinking.’
While she finished making the coffee he looked around the room. Her taste was good. She’d used deep shades of red and blue and positioned small lamps to cast golden arcs of light over the walls, so the effect was of being in a dark, rich cave. The dustbins and squalor outside were easily forgotten.
She came back into the room carrying a tray.
‘The trouble with this place is everybody comes down here to empty the rubbish, so if I hear somebody moving about I don’t know if it’s him or just somebody from upstairs.’ She put the tray down on a table. ‘Or a peeping Tom. You get plenty of them.’
‘You shouldn’t really be living in a basement.’
‘I know, but it’s got a garden. And it’s cheap.’
Taking the cup from her, he sat down on one of the sofas, feeling the sharpness of worn springs under the velvet cover. ‘Are you getting a divorce?’
‘I’m not sure I could. It’s a lot harder for a woman. A man only has to prove adultery. A woman has to prove adultery and cruelty.’
‘Do you think he’d divorce you?’
‘Never in a million years.’ She forced a smile. Anyway that’s enough about me. I seem to have been talking about meself all evening. What about you?’
‘Oh, what about me? I think we come from the same part of the world. Middlesbrough.’
She shook her head. ‘Grangetown.’
‘It’s only a few miles. Just think, we might have walked past each other in the street.’
‘So how did you get to the Slade? Scholarship?’
‘No, my grandmother died and left me a small legacy. I was working as an orderly in the hospital at the time, but I decided to use the money doing this.’
‘Is that what she’d have wanted?’
‘Good God, no. She wanted me to be a teacher, I think, or a solicitor’s clerk, something like that. Good, steady money and a pension at the end of it.’
‘But you didn’t fancy that?’
‘I thought I had talent.’
‘Thought?’
‘There’s not been much sign of it recently.’
‘Do you think you might be trying too hard?’
‘I’ve got to try. I’m not like Neville. If I make a mess of this there’s no feather-bed for me to fall back on.’
They talked for a while longer, but she was obviously tired and after a few minutes he drained his cup and stood up.
As she was opening the door he said, ‘Would you like to go to a music hall?’ When she hesitated he said quickly, ‘But I don’t suppose you feel much like going out at the moment?’
‘No, I think it would do me a power of good.’
‘Friday at seven? I’ll pick you up.’
As the door closed behind him, he was amazed by the boneaching pain of the separation. He’d known her only a few hours, it oughtn’t to be possible to feel like this. He lingered, hoping she’d part the curtains and look out, but they remained closed, with only a strip of light to show she was still inside. How totally his life had changed in the space of a few hours. Fizzing with excitement, he set off to walk home. As he turned the corner of the street, a man walking fast, head down, hands thrust into his pockets, slammed into him. No apology. No acknowledgement even. Paul turned to stare after him as he strode away, the street lamps passing his shadow like a baton along the pavement. He half expected him to disappear down Teresa’s basement stairs, but no, he went straight past, his hunched figure dwindling rapidly into the dark. Relieved, Paul turned and walked on.
The following day, Paul went to see Professor Tonks to apologize for walking out of the life class. The incident loomed so large in his mind it was salutary to discover how little importance Tonks attached to it. As for leaving the Slade …
‘What’s the point of going now? You may as well wait till the end of term at least.’
‘But if I’m wasting my time?’
‘Are you?’
‘You seemed to be implying that.’
‘I told you your drawing was bad. I don’t remember saying you were wasting your time.’
‘I don’t seem to be getting any better.’
‘Technically you are. Only …’
‘Only?’
‘Most people who come here are bursting with something they want to say, and the trouble I have with some of them is that they can’t be bothered to learn the language to say it in. Whereas with you it’s almost the opposite.’
Paul would have liked to defend himself, but didn’t know how. This wasn’t the criticism he’d been expecting.
‘I do have a problem with life drawing, I know that. But I thought my landscapes were … Well. A bit better.’
‘There’s no feeling.’
‘Perhaps I’m not managing to express it, but —’
‘I don’t get any feeling that they’re yours. You seem to have nothing to say.’
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