Page 21 of Days You Were Mine

Then

Alice

I slide into class ten minutes late, wearing the jeans of yesterday with a blue striped shirt Jake has lent me, which Rick notices immediately. He makes his eyes enormous and hisses, ‘Alice Garland, have you been collecting scalps?’

We are in Gordon King’s class, which is unfortunate because my mind is fried, my face raw from this morning’s intense kissing, my groin aching, not unpleasantly, from a full night of lovemaking.

I fetch the lithograph of the oak I made in the last session and begin to mix paint, four specific colours: titanium white, yellow ochre, cadmium red and ivory black. This restricted palette, made famous by the Swedish painter Gustav Zorn, gives me all the scope I need for the microscopic metamorphosis from bark to flesh, or rather, a hue that can be perceived as both. There is an art to getting the right shades to effect the transformation, almost a kind of wizardry. I know exactly what is needed and begin with the gradual reduction of black and yellow ochre; I will use the resulting greens and browns for the first wash of colour.

Just looking at these tones of bark can transport me back to the old oak tree in the field behind my house, with a hollow big enough for me to hide in. I might make a version with thehollow painted on afterwards, symbolic of the emptiness inside my tree. Not much of a leap to remember the first time I hid within the oak, aged twelve, the day my first full report arrived home from boarding school. A rash of B minuses and the occasional C (plus D for needlework, which I claimed privately as a triumph).

My father called me into his study.

‘Well, hello, Miss Average,’ he said as I walked through the door.

The words held an edge of jokiness that didn’t meet his tone. I realised in the next fifteen minutes as he railed against weakness and mediocrity that trying to please him would never be enough. I was a different girl when I left his study, with the whole of the long, lonely summer holiday ahead. I knew my father didn’t love me, couldn’t love me, wouldn’t love me, and from that moment on, my childhood became simply something to get through.

I am absorbed in my preparation, and Gordon’s voice, his presence right in front of me, comes as a shock.

‘What is this, Alice?’

His voice is quiet, and I know, from a whole childhood of experience, that a quiet, measured voice can be the most vicious.

‘It’s a tree,’ I say; not to be facetious, more as a preparation for what comes next, for the groundswell of indignation that will accompany my defence.

I am a woman who paints trees, humanised ones. I am being paid a hundred pounds to capture the likenesses of a band who are being talked about as the new Rolling Stones.

‘If you’d been on time, you would have heard what I said at the beginning of class. If your idea isn’t working, then start again with a fresh approach. Don’t waste your time and mine with repetition of a weak concept.’

‘Gordon, if you would hear me out, I’d like to explain why I’m painting trees and what it is I’m trying to convey.’

He nods his assent, his sharp-featured face tensed into acute irritation.

I tell him about the series of people trees, caught at the exact moment of metamorphosis. I talk about why I’ve chosen the Zorn palette, to find not just skin tone but the exact shade for bark, lichen and moss. I tell him that when I look at certain trees, I can see character and emotion, traits and flaws displayed in the gnarl and twist of the branches; I see gender, history, triumph and disappointment.

‘Very well, Alice. Since you’re so passionate about it, carry on.’

His voice is neutral, unexpressive, hard to read. But I am instantly buoyed by his change of heart, the first time he has ever listened to me.

I am immersed in my work and the next hour and a half flashes past, no thought for anything except the personality of my tree. Strong, bold, confident. The way I am feeling today, as if I am wearing Jake’s self-assurance along with his shirt.

At the end of class, Gordon leans against the edge of his desk and waits for us to listen.

‘In art, intellect is everything. Passion is everything. Curiosity is everything. If you have an intrigue, the essence of something you can dig and scrape away at until it becomes an actual concept, then pursue it. That curiosity and passion is the whole reason you are here.’

Across the other side of the room, Rick catches my eye and winks. Victory to you, tree girl, the wink says.

Our second ‘business meeting’ takes place in the Coach and Horses, a chance to get to know the band, Jake says, and so I bring Rick along for moral support.

The pub is crowded, but they’re easy to spot, gathered in a corner, their own little pocket of black. Jake has his back to me, so it’s Eddie who sees us first.

‘The art students are here,’ he says.

Jake whirls around, pint sloshing over his hand, laughing as he pulls me into his arms. He kisses me on the mouth, briefly, though just the lightest touch of his lips is a pathway of electrons leading straight to my groin.

‘Come and meet the boys,’ he says, introducing us to Eddie first, a James Taylor lookalike with the same strong brows and dark, shoulder-length hair; then Tom, the drummer, who jumps up and shakes both our hands.

‘Jake’s been telling us all about you. A pair of geniuses according to him.’

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