Agatha Oddly

‘You’ve been gazing at that painting for at least ten minutes.’

Liam appears at my side, head tilted in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s a Tuesday in November, and we’re in the National Gallery on a school trip. ‘You’d think it had one of those hidden pictures in it, the way you’ve been staring at it,’ he continues. ‘You know – the sort you can only see if you look at it for long enough?’

‘It’s just my favourite, that’s all,’ I say, smiling at him.

‘I can tell!’

‘Mum loved it too. She used to bring me to see it whenever we were passing this way.’

‘How many times have you visited this place, just to behold its beauty?’ He says the last bit dramatically, sweeping his arm round with a flourish, as if he’s reciting a very corny poem.

I laugh. ‘Quite a lot!’ Then I pause. ‘It looks different today, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

I point to the vase, where the name ‘Vincent’ appears in blue script. ‘Well, that bit’s the same shade as normal, but the flowers –’ I gesture to the yellow petals – ‘they’re paler and clearer, if that makes sense.’

‘Less orangey-brown?’ suggests Liam.

‘Exactly!’ I smile at him. Nobody gets me like Liam.

Liam shrugs. ‘Perhaps they’ve had it cleaned.’

‘That would make sense … although I was actually wondering if it was more to do with where it’s hanging now. I mean, they’ve moved it from its usual spot, to make it part of the Van Gogh exhibition, so maybe the lighting’s different.’

My friend Brianna arrives at my other side. Her hair is still a sedate brown rather than her preferred blue – Dr Hargrave, our headmaster, has told her she mustn’t dye it an ‘unnatural’ colour again – only now it’s shaved everywhere except on top. She has delicate features and the contrast is almost shocking. Weirdly, though, it’s a good look for her.

‘Is it time to go home yet?’ she asks, studying her nails. They’re black with pale-green skulls.

‘Don’t think so,’ says Liam. ‘We’ve only seen one room so far.’

My backpack’s on the floor. Brianna crouches down and starts rummaging in the front pocket.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Looking for that ultraviolet torch thing. Did you bring it?’

‘It should be in there,’ I say. ‘What do you need it for?’

‘My nails are meant to glow,’ she replies.

I fish in the pouch of my bag and pull out the little torch, which is the size of a pen. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks,’ Brianna says. She shines it on her nails and we all admire the gleaming skulls.

‘Er … please can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?’ We turn round as Mrs Shelley, our art teacher, is trying to make herself noticed. All her clothes are drab browns and greys, and even her hair is an indeterminate sort of browny grey. She’s like a washed-out, watercolour version of a person. I find myself wondering what Agatha Christie’s Poirot would have made of her if he’d met her. I imagine my favourite detective nodding wisely and saying, ‘Non, mam’selle, there is no such thing as a really calm sea,’ in his Belgian accent. And maybe he’d have been right – perhaps Mrs Shelley does have hidden depths.

‘Er … everyone …’ she says again in her whisper of a voice, ‘can we move on now, please?’

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.’