‘Like the history from ancient Greece to Lucien Freud.’
Sarcastic coos.
‘That’s good — but it’s a huge sweep of history. You might want to come at the subject in a slightly different way, like the nude in landscape, thinking of artists such as Cranach, Giorgione, Monet and Cezanne.’
‘I suppose.’ She didn’t sound convinced.
‘Or you could look at why the naked human form has such an enduring appeal for artists. Maybe interview some people who draw and paint from life. Credit is always given for original research.’
‘She could interview you, Tom,’ Jem said, ever ready to exploit an opening. ‘We’ve all seen your website.’
‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. The external moderator might not like your own tutor being involved. Better, really, to talk to artists who are nothing to do with the school.’
‘But how will she meet them?’ Mel asked.
‘Pose for them,’ Jem said.
Everyone enjoyed the prospect while Ella turned pink and said, ‘Thanks a bunch.’
Tom said, ‘Some friends of mine join me most Saturdays for a session in my studio.’
The level of interest rose several notches.
‘I’m thinking it would help you guys a lot to meet a bunch of serious artists and see how they work. It would be time out from your weekend, of course—’
‘No problem,’ Jem said at once. ‘We’re up for it, aren’t we, people?’
They made it obvious she’d spoken for them all.
‘I was thinking three at a time,’ Tom went on. ‘You could sit beside anyone you like and watch, or do some work of your own.’
‘Cool,’ Ella said. ‘Is it all day?’
‘A couple of hours in the morning, starting about eleven, and a couple in the afternoon. I provide soup and a roll or salad.’
‘Are they, like, guys?’
‘A mixed group, men and women, some my age, some older. I’ll need to clear it with them first, but they should be OK with it.’
‘Do you have a model?’ Mel asked.
‘Sometimes. Other days we’ll do still life or just work at our own projects. Being together is the main thing. So is it on?’
‘How will we get there?’ Naseem asked.
‘That’s up to us, obviously,’ Jem said. ‘Tom’s not going to collect us in the minibus, are you, Tom? I don’t mind giving two of you a lift in my Panda — that’s if I’m picked.’ An offer that seemed to some of the others like a gun at Tom’s head.
Jem, Ella and Naseem were the lucky first three. Intense debate followed over what to wear, this being an out-of-school activity. Ella had no problem. She was a goth at weekends, with white foundation and dark eyeliner, black leather and fishnets. Naseem would be sure to come in a gorgeous sari. Jem, with a free choice, was given so many suggestions that in the end she told no one what she’d decided — and on the Saturday put up her hair to make herself taller and wore a favourite red dress with lots of sparkle and spaghetti straps. Also platforms she needed to change into after driving the car. Not one of the outfits was suitable for art, but that hadn’t entered their heads.
They arrived late, at Jem’s suggestion. ‘They’ll think we’re only a bunch of schoolgirls if we get there on time.’
So at eleven twenty they drew up at the gate of Fortiman House, a mile along a small road out of Boxgrove, and turned down the car radio.
High walls surrounded the property and there was a double gate of wrought iron.
‘Awesome,’ Ella said.
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Naseem said.
‘Positive.’ Jem was checking her face in the rear-view mirror.
‘Shall I see if I can open it?’ Ella said. They were all nervous.
Just then, a middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket, jeans and wellies approached the gate from the other side. He was carrying a trug. ‘Morning, young ladies. Are you visiting?’
‘We’re artists,’ Ella said, ‘here to join the Saturday group.’
‘And liven it up,’ Jem said, becoming bold again.
‘They do their art in the stables. Drive straight up to the house and leave the car where you see the others. I’m Ferdie, by the way. I’ll open up.’
‘Cheers, Ferdie,’ Jem said, as they drove through, and then asked the others, ‘Was he after a tip, do you think?’
‘Some hopes, from three hard-up schoolgirls,’ Ella said.
‘Students.’
‘Still hard up.’
Along the gravel drive all chatter stopped. Ella’s first reaction of ‘awesome’ was the only word for Tom’s house, a massive flint building with seven gables along the front and a pillared entrance. Several cars were lined up, including the red MG and a yellow Lamborghini. Tom was waiting nearby and waved them into a space.
‘Trouble finding us?’ he said, opening the car door. ‘I was wondering if you’d decided to go shopping instead.’
‘I must change my shoes,’ Jem said.
‘Good thinking,’ Tom said. ‘Comfort is the name of the game.’ But when he saw the platforms going on, it became obvious comfort wasn’t high in Jem’s priorities. Tom didn’t comment. Neither did he say anything about the others’ outfits. Naseem was in a peacock blue sari and Ella’s goth outfit was little more than a basque over black lace.
‘Did you bring sketchbooks?’
None of them had — not even Naseem.
‘Ah, well, I’m not short of paper. We have a model today, so we got started on time.’
The stables weren’t recognisable as a place where horses had been kept. The building must have been gutted and reconstructed with large picture windows and a raked roof with dormer windows.
‘If you’re wondering how a teacher can afford a conversion like this, I can’t,’ Tom told them. ‘All of this belongs to my old man, Ferdie.’
There was a moment to take in the name.
‘We just met him,’ Ella said. ‘We thought he was the gardener.’
‘Dad grows orchids. They’re in all the shops. Been lucky in life, and so have I, by association. Let’s go in. Don’t open the door too wide or there’s a wicked draught.’
They edged inside, where a surprise awaited. The model was male.
Ella mouthed, ‘Oh my God!’
Artists and easels were ranged around the nude man, hairy, dark and with a beer belly, who faced the door in a standing pose on a table, his arms held high, hands clasped behind his neck.
Tom handed boards, sheets of paper and charcoal to his students. ‘Why don’t you move about and decide where you’d like to be?’
All three made straight for the rear view.
Twenty minutes in, the model was given a break. He did some twisting and flexing before stepping down from the table. An unnerving moment. What if he came over and struck up a conversation? Relief all round when he picked up a black silk gown and pulled it on.
Tom had been doing some drawing of his own. He came over to Ella. ‘How’re you getting on?’
Even she could see hers was a poor start.
‘Come and see some of the others. You may get a different take on life drawing.’ He walked over to a black man in a Rasta beanie hat who had been working in a sketchbook and had moved position several times during the session. ‘Do you mind, Manny? I’d like Ella to see the sort of thing you do.’
Manny gave him a suspicious look. ‘You kidding, man? I’m just having fun.’
‘That’s the point. Ella isn’t... yet. If she sees your work, she’ll loosen up a bit.’
‘You think so?’ With a shrug and a sigh, Manny handed the sketchbook to Tom. To Ella, he said, ‘This is how I get found out.’
Tom opened the book and flicked over some pages. ‘Was this today’s effort?’
‘Today’s, sure,’ Manny said. ‘Effort, not so sure.’
The page was filled with small cartoon figures drawn in ink with a minimum of strokes that captured the essence of the characters. He’d drawn just about everyone in the room except the model. Ella recognised Tom straight away from the mop of unruly hair over an exaggerated nose and chin.