‘I nearly passed out on the bloody floor. Just look at my hands.’ He holds them out. The fingers have begun to tremble. ‘It’s the only safe place to smoke, is here. With all these stinks that Hendricks makes.’

  ‘You ought to ask Freestone to intercede. He’s the only one,’ Hendricks says, ‘who’s been asked to supper.’

  ‘And how did you get on, then?’ Pollard says. ‘A week gone past, and he’s never said.’

  ‘Been grafting, has he?’ Hendricks says.

  ‘I bought him his petrol: was brought home in the early hours in the back of a lorry; apart from that, pneumonia, a bout of food-poisoning, the evening passed off without incident,’ I say.

  ‘What’s his wife like?’ Hendricks says.

  ‘She doesn’t speak.’

  ‘She came here, one day. Did I ever tell you?’ Pollard says. ‘Kendal saw her downstairs and thought she was a cleaner. Took her in the broom-cupboard and handed her a mop. Never heard anything like it. Wilcox steps out from his bloody office: finds his old lady mopping up. Heard the bloody shouts from here.’ He begins to stub out the cigarette. ‘Kendal’ll be the next to go, don’t worry. Those bloody machines of his. Can hear them whirring from the Skipper’s office. He sits at his bloody desk for hours, tapping his foot and beating his head.’

  Hendricks has cleaned the stopping-out ink from his plate: he turns its shiny copper surface to the light, examining the lines.

  ‘Did he show you his pictures?’ Pollard says.

  ‘I have a faint recollection of one or two,’ I tell him.

  ‘They say he’s a Pre-Raphaelite,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘A little after his time,’ I say.

  ‘Not long ago,’ Pollard says, ‘he brought one to the college. He hung it up in the hall downstairs. The inspectors came round one day and asked him if he thought it was wise to hang up – in such a prominent position – the more reactionary of his students’ work. He took it down. When the feller was leaving he shook his hand and thanked him for his sound advice.’

  ‘You should see him with the education committee,’ Hendricks says. ‘He lined the students up on one occasion, on the stairs, and as the committee left, at a prearranged signal, they clapped their hands.’

  ‘Ever so slowly.’

  ‘Ever so slowly. I think you’re right.’

  Pollard has laughed. A certain relief has come into his movements.

  He cups his hand, scrapes off the debris from the cigarette which he’s stubbed out on the table, and carefully pours it into the bottom of the waste-paper basket beneath the sink. He screws up a fresh sheet of paper and puts it in on top.

  ‘What was it Kendal says: “Neurosis is infectious”.’

  ‘Contagious,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘With the Skipper it’s like ever-widening ripples. He lobs in some crazy notion and we all bob up and down.’

  Hendricks has crossed over to the rollers on an adjoining table. He squeezes black ink out from a tube and begins to roll it up on a metal board.

  ‘Nobody ever knows where the Skipper lives. He takes them there at night, and sets them loose in the dark to find their own way back. At least,’ Pollard tells me, ‘that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘I’ve heard he only eats nut rissoles.’ Hendricks is rolling up the ink, examining its consistency with a broad-bladed knife.

  ‘I heard,’ Pollard says, ‘it was fish and chips.’

  ‘Potato soup.’ I offer him a cigarette.

  ‘You really paid for the petrol, then?’

  ‘Two quid or more.’

  ‘Did you get it back?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Deduct it from your next subscription to the “Antique and Still-Life Restitution Fund”.’

  ‘I think I shall.’

  ‘Either that,’ he says, ‘or withdraw two quidsworth of stock from the artists materials and miscellaneous commodities room.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ I tell him.

  ‘Do you fancy a tenner on Happy Prince? I had it from a man in town that he was held back last week at Brocksborough Park.’

  ‘I can’t afford luxuries any more,’ I tell him.

  ‘This is income, man.’ He taps his chest.

  The cigarette, after a moment’s examination, he slips inside an already opened packet.

  ‘Mr Pollard,’ Wilcox says, appearing at the door. ‘If you have a minute, I’d appreciate it, Mr Pollard, if you’d step outside.’

  Pollard, his back to the door, stands gazing first at Hendricks then at me as if to accuse one or both of us of some uncanny imitation of the Principal’s voice.

  ‘What’s going on in here, then? Mothers’ tea-party, is it?’ the Principal says.

  He comes inside.

  ‘Shop-floor meeting of the layabouts union?’

  He tries to laugh; a harsh, stuttering snarl erupts inside his throat.

  ‘Annual conference of the federation of still-life exponents, is it, then?’

  I have a feeling he’s been listening at the door. He gives no sign.

  ‘We were watching a new process, Principal,’ Pollard says.

  ‘For brewing up tea, then?’ Wilcox says.

  ‘Etching,’ Pollard says.

  He indicates Hendricks’s figure at the adjoining table.

  Hendricks himself looks up in some alarm.

  ‘It’s a new acid process which Mr Hendricks is investigating, sir,’ he says.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  Hendricks is about to transfer the ink on the roller to the copper plate, now laid out on the surface of a smooth white stone.

  Wilcox crosses over; he glances at the plate.

  ‘What’s new in this, then? I can’t see any difference, lad.’

  ‘It’s an adaptation of one of these old, medieval processes,’ Pollard says.

  Hendricks nods his head.

  Wilcox stoops to the plate. ‘It looks like one of Mr Freestone’s poses to me,’ he says, ‘Straight up and down: no arms, no legs.’

  ‘I drew it in the life room,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘I see nowt new in that, then,’ Wilcox says.

  ‘It’s the acid that Mr Hendricks uses,’ Pollard says.

  Hendricks nods his head again.

  ‘What kind of acid’s that, then?’

  Pollard looks over to Hendricks.

  ‘It’s a kind of distilled wine I’ve been using,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Almost a kind of vinegar, really.’

  ‘Very acidic,’ Pollard says.

  ‘I can’t see nowt different between this and hydrochloric acid,’ Wilcox says. He stoops to the plate again.

  ‘It gives it a more delicate line. Particularly with a standing nude, sir,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘I see nowt delicate in this. It looks to me like any other. A bit under-exposed, if anything,’ he adds. ‘You’ll not get a good clean print with that.’

  ‘More a sfumato effect. I believe that’s what you were aiming for, Mr Hendricks?’ Pollard says.

  Hendricks, uncertain, holds the inked-up roller above the plate.

  ‘Somebody been smoking in here, then, have they?’ Wilcox says.

  He lifts his head.

  ‘Where’s the wine you’ve been using, then?’

  Pollard gestures behind him: there are any number of bottles standing on the shelves above the sink, principally cleaning fluids and diluted acids which haven’t, as yet, been thrown away. ‘I believe Mr Hendricks used the last of it on this.’

  Hendricks, his back to Pollard, has begun to ink the plate.

  He passes the roller across it several times, Pollard stooping at one point to examine the plate, even threatening to touch it with his little finger.

  ‘A bit more there, I think.’

  Hendricks stoops; he glances at Pollard then examines the plate.

  He runs the roller across it lightly.

  ‘Let’s see this famous sfumato,’ Wilcox says.

  Hendricks eases up the plate with his fingers; he carries it across the room to the largest of the presses.

  He lays it in the centre.

  From an adjoining table, with his fingertips, he picks up a sheet of paper.

  He lays it carefully across the plate.

  ‘Shall I turn the handle?’ Pollard says.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Hendricks says.

  He lays several sheets of paper on top, then a felt cloth, then lowers the thin metal sheet and edges the press beneath the roller.

  He goes to the wheel.

  ‘First time I’ve heard of vinegar. What medieval process is it?’ Wilcox says.

  ‘I believe it was used in the monasteries,’ Pollard says.

  ‘When was etching invented, then?’

  Pollard scratches his cheek. He glances at Hendricks.

  Hendricks, his back to Pollard, has begun to turn the massive wheel.

  ‘Quite early on, sir,’ Pollard says.

  ‘First time I’ve heard of vinegar,’ Wilcox says.

  ‘Most monasteries in those days made their own wine, of course, sir,’ Pollard says.

  ‘Wine’s an intoxicant,’ Wilcox says. ‘Perverts the digestion, for a start. I can’t see it being much help to an etching.’

  The table of the press has disappeared beneath the roller; at the same uniform speed Hendricks draws it back.

  ‘Let’s see this famous sfumato,’ the Principal says. He steps to the side of the press as Hendricks lifts the metal sheet. ‘It seems no different to me. I thought sfumato was sort of blurred.’

  ‘That’s chiaroscuro,’ Pollard says.

  ‘I know sfumato when I see it. I use it in my own work,’ Wilcox says. ‘It’s an excuse, usually, for drawing nowt clearly.’ He looks at the etching in Hendricks’s hand. ‘And that’s an example of it, as near as ought. Though why it needs vinegar to do it I’ve no idea.’

  He goes to the door.

  ‘Could I see you outside, Mr Pollard,’ he adds. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘Anything to oblige, sir,’ Pollard says. He follows Wilcox out, glancing back, briefly, as they reach the door, running his hand across his jacket and dusting off the ash.

  ‘He’ll be cutting it too fine one of these days,’ Hendricks says.

  He looks at the plate, checks it with the etching, then takes the plate back to wash off the ink.

  ‘He’s not as foolish as he thinks.’

  ‘Pollard?’

  ‘Wilcox.’

  He runs the tap, lays the plate on the draining-board, pours on some soap powder, and begins to scrub it.

  Pollard comes in a moment later.

  He crosses over to the etching, examines it, whistling, then, his hands in his pockets, comes over to the sink.

  ‘Been invited out to dinner.’

  ‘Who by?’ Hendricks stops his scrubbing.

  ‘The Skipper.’

  ‘What’s he after?’ Hendricks says.

  ‘I’ve no idea, old man. He was very much taken by my description of this process you’ve invented.’

  ‘I’d have told him there was no such thing if he’d asked me directly,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘Good job he didn’t in that case,’ Pollard says.

  ‘The man’s not a fool, you know.’

  ‘He’s vetting the staff for loyalty,’ Pollard says.

  ‘Did he mention the smoking?’ Hendricks says.

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘I don’t even smoke. Nor drink. Except soft drinks, occasionally,’ Hendricks says.

  ‘He’s probably sure of you, Hendricks,’ Pollard says. ‘It’s the back-sliders,’ he adds, ‘that he invites to dinner.’

  Mathews has come in; jacketed, jeaned and booted, he goes over to the student at the silk-screen press.

  When he sees me by the sink he comes across.

  ‘There was a feller asking for you downstairs.’ He takes my arm. ‘Tall,’ he says. ‘With red hair, and a red moustache.’

  ‘Did he give his name?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I told him you’d be out to lunch. If I’d known you were here I could have sent him up.’

  ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘I saw him in the street then he wandered off.’

  He watches Hendricks a moment as he rinses the plate.

  ‘Not hiding from the feller, then?’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Your expression,’ he says. He shakes his head.

  ‘I was listening to Mr Hendricks explain to Mr Pollard a new process he’s discovered.’

  ‘For doing what?’

  ‘Mr Hendricks can tell you,’ I say, manoeuvring Pollard to the table as I cross over to the door.

  From the landing window I look into the street. Not only is the red-haired man standing at the corner, but not a few feet away from him the man in the trilby hat. They appear, conspicuously, to be unaware of one another, the man with the red moustache looking up the street, towards the college, the one with the trilby hat looking down it, towards the town.

  I go down to the hall below, cross the corridor leading to the yard at the back, and from the yard slip out into a narrow lane backing the college, beyond the modelling shed.

  A man is standing there I’ve never seen before; he looks up at me in some surprise, adjusts his glasses then his trilby hat, then, as I glance up at the sky, he looks up too, examines the roof of the college for several seconds and then, as our eyes meet, briefly, nods his head.

  He looks one way down the street and then the other; and then, like a doorman, smiles approvingly, touching his hat, as I step back once more inside the yard.

  3

  ‘Why do we have to go this way round?’ she says.

  ‘I thought, back there, we were being followed.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ she says. ‘They talk like that, you know, in there.’

  ‘Contagious.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  We cross the road. It’s almost dark; the lamps have just come on: odd pools of yellowish light are strung out along the street. A pale luminosity still fills the sky.

  I shift her case to my other hand.

  ‘I suppose we’ve come this way,’ she says, ‘to avoid my mother.’

  ‘We could hardly avoid her,’ I tell her, ‘if she’s waiting in the door.’

  ‘Where is the door, in any case?’ she says.

  She looks along the darkening street, at the decaying garden, at the Georgian terrace; it has an eerie grandeur in the evening light.

  ‘It’s the middle one along.’

  I point it out, slowing in any case and looking around.

  ‘Why should my mother follow us here? Honestly,’ she says, looking round herself, ‘you’re paranoic.’

  We reach the steps; there’s no light on in the lower rooms. The hall, when I open the door, is empty. Perhaps the red-haired man, optimistically, is still waiting by the college.

  We climb the stairs.

  ‘It’s very dark.’

  ‘I’ll put the light on,’ I tell her, ‘when we reach the landing,’ yet continue climbing in the semi-darkness to the second floor.

  ‘Which floor is it? Couldn’t you have found somewhere lower?’ she says.

  ‘I was lucky to get this place, in any case,’ I tell her. ‘Places in this town,’ I add, ‘are hard to find.’

  ‘I can’t see why we couldn’t have gone home,’ she says. ‘Gone home to my mother’s house, I mean.’

  ‘When we’ve got a place of our own?’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s not our own. It’s yours. How can it be our own, when I’ve never been here before?’ she says.

  I insert the key; the lock clicks back. We go inside. I put on the light. I close the door.

  She gazes round.

  ‘It’s very small.’

  ‘Anything larger,’ I tell her, ‘would cost a lot.’

  I go through to the kitchen.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  I call to her, briefly, through the open door.

  ‘Anything,’ she says.

  ‘You could light the fire.’

  I fill the kettle, look out at the darkness of the yard below, decide it’s empty, put the kettle on and light the gas.

  When I go back through she’s looking for the matches.

  Her beret, thankfully, she’s taken off; her hair, freshly washed, hangs down in a wave around her neck.

  ‘Use this,’ I tell her.

  She takes the lighter; she kneels to the hearth.

  ‘It’s not very strong.’

  ‘The pressure’s very low,’ I tell her.

  ‘There’s hardly any heat.’

  ‘You could lie in bed, if you like,’ I tell her.

  ‘That’s some home. You’ve to lie in bed to try and keep warm.’

  ‘Some people haven’t even a bed to lie in, I suppose,’ I tell her.

  ‘My mother would have a fire.’

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No,’ she says. She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know where I am.’

  She begins to cry.

  I lift her up.

  ‘We’re together now. That’s all that counts.’

  It’s like holding a saint: someone in the grip of some violent, cosmic tribulation.

  ‘Where am I, Colin?’

  ‘You’re here. With me.’

  I take her head. Her eyes are closed. The mouth’s pulled down in a kind of snarl.

  ‘We shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Just hold my arms.’

  Her eyes have opened.

  ‘I don’t know where I am.’

  ‘You’re here with me.’

  ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  I kiss her cheek.

  ‘I don’t know where I am.’

  A car goes past in the street below.

  Her sobbing quietens; at one point, it seems, she might have screamed: there’s the sudden convulsion of her body, then, in spasms, the tension dies.

  ‘Help me make some food,’ I say.

  I take her to the kitchen; I get out the pans and set them on the stove. The food I’ve already bought and half-prepared.

  ‘Can you light the gas?’

  She’s still got the lighter; only now, having lit the gas, does she look at it, the crown-shaped crest, then, almost absent-mindedly, she puts it down.