Flying High

‘Mick? Oh, no. The female figure – that’s the usual drill. I shan’t be inflicting any naked male bodies on you, ha, ha!’

That was rather a relief, thought Mrs Oliphant, after she had driven Teddy Redfern home. It wasn’t that one would be shocked or embarrassed; more that one might feel obscurely uncomfortable, possibly on behalf of the unclothed male model, so heavily outnumbered.

The next week Mick posed for them again. He sat on a hard wooden chair with his arms and legs crossed, and his body seemed to be all planes and angles, difficult to reproduce on the paper.

After the class she saw Teddy Redfern getting into his little red Citroën and felt slightly disappointed that there was no longer any need to offer him a lift.

The following week a new model appeared. To Mrs Oliphant and her contemporaries she seemed hardly more than a child, though one realized of course that she must have been in her early twenties. Her dark hair was cropped short like a boy’s and her skin was as firm and shiny as a nectarine. In spite of the plumpness of her figure she was wearing black cycling shorts and an orange T-shirt that was really no more than a vest. Her black canvas shoes were dusty and her nail polish chipped.

How unattractive girls nowadays made themselves look! thought Mrs Oliphant, narrowing her eyes a little as she started to sketch the ripe curves that only too clearly needed the support of a good brassière. And how very unflattering those tight shorts were, made from some slightly shiny synthetic material … Teddy Redfern had introduced her as ‘Lynne’, and at half-time sat on the edge of his table chatting to her and laughing a lot.

On the afternoon that Lynne came into the art room wearing a gaudily patterned short kimono a frisson of excitement ran through the class, for obviously they were about to tackle The Nude.

She really looked very little better without her clothes, thought Mrs Oliphant as, after discarding the kimono, the girl settled herself on an old chaise longue. She lay in such a position as to make it clear that she was not in the least self-conscious about the size of her hips. Today Teddy Redfern fetched her a cup of tea in the break, and though she shrugged herself back into the lurid kimono she did not bother to tie its belt. He sat beside her on the chaise longue and once again did a lot of laughing.

No doubt he was as detached as any doctor or nurse, the ladies reminded themselves, for after all the human body was merely a piece of machinery. Nevertheless, one did feel that it might have been more suitable not to have given the model that jolly slap on the behind just as she was about to start disrobing, or to have whispered whatever it was that made her giggle so uncontrollably.

After the class Mrs Oliphant walked to her car with Mrs Prentice, a nice woman of her own age, and they discussed Teddy Redfern’s behaviour in hushed voices.

‘Of course, one never knows with divorced men,’ said Mrs Prentice sensibly. ‘One shouldn’t be surprised if they go off the rails.’

‘Off the rails?’ repeated Mrs Oliphant in a high, alarmed tone. ‘Oh, but surely, my dear, there couldn’t be anything like that! Goodness knows, one isn’t a prude, but the girl is young enough to be his daughter. No, I think he was just being a little bit foolish in the way that middle-aged men so often are …’

Certainly Teddy Redfern was not foolish on any subsequent occasion that Lynne posed in the nude; indeed his manner towards her seemed offhand and almost brusque. Twice he complimented Mrs Oliphant on her work. A new model came and sat for them; an elderly man with a face full of unusual lumps and bumps like a potato. Teddy Redfern pinned Mrs Oliphant’s drawing of the potato-like head on the art room wall.

At their final class Mick posed for them again. The ladies had brought strawberries and cream to eat at half-time; Teddy Redfern had provided a couple of bottles of wine; a party atmosphere prevailed. Under the influence of this Mick became quite chatty and got out photographs of his girlfriend and baby daughter. At the end of the afternoon Mrs Oliphant walked out to the car park with Teddy Redfern.

‘Will you be coming to the class again next term?’ he asked.

‘Well, naturally one would love to if it can be arranged. But I’m not quite sure what my commitments will be; I’ve promised an old friend that I’ll go to Italian classes with her.’

‘Oh, do come, Anthea,’ he said, looking at her with his warm, brandy-coloured eyes. ‘I can’t manage without my star pupil. We’ll be doing still life in the autumn; I seem to remember you were rather good at that.’

‘Still life …’ she echoed, seeing in her mind’s eye a bunch of dark purple grapes lying in a pottery dish, perhaps beside a slim green wine bottle. ‘Yes, I do feel that’s very much me.’

‘Jolly good!’ he said, like an enthusiastic schoolboy. ‘I’ll expect to see you in September. You will come, now won’t you?’

Yes, thought Mrs Oliphant, she would go, even if it clashed with the Italian class and she had to disappoint Marjorie. There were times when one had to be a little selfish, otherwise people would take advantage of one’s good nature. Almost gaily she waved, as Teddy Redfern drove away from the centre still calling out, ‘Don’t let me down!’ from his car window.

Mrs Oliphant spent the month of August visiting her married daughter in Canada. They did a great deal of touring about and the weather was very hot and, although of course one absolutely adored one’s grandchildren, there was no getting away from the fact that toddlers were most frightfully exhausting.

It was delightful to be back in the peace of one’s own charming little cottage, to rediscover the joys of solitude and the sheer bliss of pottering around one’s garden. It was not until she had been home for a week that she chanced to pick up the new Adult Education Prospectus from the library.

Yes, there it was: Discovering Drawing: Edward Redfern. For beginners or the more advanced. Drawing can simply record information, but it can also express dynamic emotion. Students will be encouraged to develop their skills in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques. It really did sound quite exciting put like that, and she began to look forward to the new term.

One day in the second week of September she discovered that the grapes were ripe enough to eat. She could not remember having picked them as early as this in previous years; it had been an exceptional summer. She toyed with the idea of taking a bunch along to her first drawing class, then the happy thought struck her that there was really no need to wait for this. She knew where Teddy Redfern lived and could perfectly well call round with the grapes she had promised him. Perhaps she could advise him on his garden at the same time.

Mrs Oliphant arranged several of the ripe bunches artistically in a shoe box lined with crumpled pale-green paper napkins – almost as if one were taking them to church for a Harvest Thanksgiving service, she told herself mockingly. But one did like things to look elegant; even a simple gift should reflect one’s personality. For similar reasons she dressed with care in a lilac cotton skirt and top that she had bought in Canada. It was still warm enough not to need a cardigan.

Teddy Redfern’s bungalow, seen close to, was even nastier than she had imagined and the poor man’s garden certainly was neglected! The hedges had simply been allowed to run riot and the last of the privet blossom gave out a warm, sickly scent; a lawnmower stood abandoned on the half-cut patch of grass; the flowerbeds were dry and choked with weeds. A large, untidy clump of red-hot pokers almost blocked the path that led to the front door.

Stepping delicately past these red-hot pokers, Mrs Oliphant rang the doorbell, then stood listening with her head on one side. She became aware of music playing somewhere inside – the sort of music with a heavy, pounding bass that somehow she would not have expected a man of Teddy Redfern’s age to have liked. She rang the bell again but this time without much confidence.

His little red car was standing on the drive so he must be at home. Perhaps he was working in the back garden. She made her way round the side of the house, hardly noticing that the music had stopped. As she came to an open window she found herself looking into an incredibly disordered living room and was about to hurry past when she was arrested by the sound of voices. They seemed to come from a sofa covered in hideous mustard-yellow velveteen which stood with its back to the window.

‘Have a heart, sweetie – I’m not a superman.’

‘That’s not what you told me half an hour ago …’

It was at this point that Mrs Oliphant caught sight of the black cycling shorts and orange vest which lay next to a whisky bottle on the carpet. She lifted her eyes and saw a plump but shapely leg rise into the air, the toes curling and uncurling. There was the sound of a slap then a giggle, followed by Teddy Redfern’s unmistakable laugh.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Just let me change the tape first.’

The next moment Mrs Oliphant stepped back in horror as he got up from the sofa and crossed the room, revealing more of the naked male body than she ever wished to encounter again. It was clear that he had not been ‘drawing from the figure’, though he could have been expressing dynamic emotion in a free and original way, using a variety of techniques.

Her heart thudding, she tiptoed swiftly back to the front of the bungalow. Would it be best to take the grapes home with her? But then, looking at their firm, shiny plumpness, she felt a sudden distaste for them. Quietly she laid the box on the front doorstep and hurried out of the gate.

It wasn’t that one was shocked, she told herself, standing in her cool, gracious drawing room a little later. If one had thought about it, one would naturally have assumed that he must have some sort of ‘love life’, to use the rather ridiculous modern expression. It was simply that one didn’t expect that kind of thing to be going on in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight, and not even in his bedroom.

Absently she rearranged a spray of Michaelmas daisies in the vase that stood on the low table. With sprigs of purple hebe and a few creamy-white roses the effect was exquisite.

It was strange that she had not noticed the reddish tinge in Mr Redfern’s hair before today; she had never cared for ginger men – just one of those little irrational foibles. Of course, one had always realized that he was not quite a gentleman …

She gazed out of the window at her charming garden, a restful, soothing vista of greens and blues and silver and white. It might be agreeable to take a tray of tea out to the courtyard, she thought.

Sitting there, sipping Earl Grey tea from a fragile, bone china cup, she turned once more to the Adult Education Prospectus. Watercolour Flower Painting; how delightful that sounded! The tutor was a Bridget Coombe-Stevens, and students were encouraged to bring their own plant and flower material.

There was nothing more ageing than to get into a rut and one really had a duty to oneself to ensure that this did not happen. And of course this class had the added advantage of not clashing with Italian, and so one would be able to keep one’s promise to poor Marjorie …

BERLIN STORY (#ulink_61ea71e4-6c85-5871-a7f0-44a3b2e0a1bb)

Philip Sealey

Philip Sealey currently teaches English at the European School in Munich. He has travelled widely and written two novels and the libretto for an opera. At present he is working on a third book set, like this short story, in Berlin after the Wall.

BERLIN STORY (#ulink_61ea71e4-6c85-5871-a7f0-44a3b2e0a1bb)

Es war einmal – once upon a time.

The wood was dark and the thin ribbon of sky above their heads was already speckled with the first stars.

She was four and he was six and every few paces she had to break into a run in order to keep up with him. Her basket, filled with the berries they had been gathering, hung heavily in her small hand and she longed to abandon it somewhere. Her brother Hans had nothing to carry.

‘Why do you always go so fast?’ she called crossly after him.

‘It’s getting dark!’ he shouted back over his shoulder.

‘But we’ll be home soon, won’t we? You promised we’d only be gone an hour.’