Agatha Oddly

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.’

He glances round, one hand hovering just in front of the painting’s surface. ‘Shall we?’

‘No!’ I cry.

He bursts out laughing. ‘I wouldn’t really. It might be brittle, after all these years – I don’t want to be the boy who breaks one of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. I’m Arthur, by the way.’

‘Like Hercule Poirot’s friend!’ I say. I can’t stop myself blurting it out.

He smiles and bows. ‘Captain Arthur Hastings, at your service.’

‘You know the books?’ I say excitedly.

‘Know them? I’ve led my life according to the belief system of Hercule Poirot. I like to pretend my parents named me after his friend – but it was actually after some boring great-uncle or other.’

‘Well, I can do one better than that.’ I grin. ‘I’m named after the author herself,’ I announce. ‘I’m Agatha.’ We beam at each other. ‘So … do you work here?’ I finally ask.

‘I wish! No – I’m doing work experience at a printer’s nearby. I come in on my lunch hour, or if it’s quiet and there’s nothing for me to do at work. I’m not allowed to operate the machinery or anything, so when they’re busy I just get out from under their feet.’ He shakes his head in wonder, staring at Wheatfield with Cypresses. ‘Just look at that craftsmanship. It’s exquisite.’

‘It really is,’ I say. We stand side by side in silence for a moment. There’s something awe-inspiring about getting as close as this to a famous painting.

‘Well, I guess I’d better get back to the others,’ I say eventually.

He nods. ‘And they might have started to miss me at the printer’s. I’m not really supposed to go wandering off.’

We wave goodbye to each other and I walk quietly back through to the next room. Although it was great meeting Arthur, I wish I’d had another chance to look at that letter A. It reminds me of the first of the three tests I’d had to complete to become an agent – I only had an A to start with then as well. There’s no one in this part of the exhibition, so I spend a moment in front of another of my favourites, The Starry Night, with its yellow moon and swirly sky. Then I do my duty and examine Bedroom in Arles – admiring the bright colours and the bold simplicity of the bed, chair and door. I remember learning that the walls and door were originally purple rather than their current shade of blue: the paint has discoloured a lot over the years. The painting hangs beside The Yellow House – a picture of the house in Arles in which the bedroom was situated. Finally, I creep through to the next area, where Mrs Shelley is with the other students.

‘There you are!’ hisses Brianna. ‘You’ve been gone for ages! Mrs S asked where you were, and we had to say you’d got diarrhoea.’

‘Diarrhoea?’ I say in horror. Then I take in the glint in her eye. She’s just joking. She laughs.

‘Actually,’ says Liam, pushing his glasses up his nose, ‘nobody even noticed.’

‘Just another day of invisibility,’ I say brightly.

‘Do you really want this lot to notice you?’ says Brianna.

She has a point. There’s quite a lot of rivalry at St Regis. Lots of students live extraordinarily privileged lives, from a financial point of view at least. Their families own estates – or even whole islands. I attend the school on a scholarship and live in a park cottage, because my dad’s the head gardener there. I guess that’s still pretty privileged, but not by their standards. I wouldn’t change places with them for anything, though.

We take the minibuses back to school. Liam, Brianna and I sit close together, and I tell them about meeting Arthur.

‘Tall, blond and pretentious?’ says Liam. ‘Are you sure he’s not a St Regis boy?’

I roll my eyes. ‘He was nice, Liam. And not at all pretentious – he just knows stuff, that’s all.’

‘Whatever,’ he says.

Brianna starts singing some rhyme or other about Liam being jealous because he loves me and wants to do ‘kissing in a tree’. We ignore her. We learnt long ago that it’s the only way to get her to stop – she quickly gets bored if she can’t provoke a reaction.

We get back to St Regis just in time to take the register and then it’s time to head home.