Invisible River Read online

  Invisible

  River

  Helena McEwen

  To my parents,

  with love and thanks

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Three

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  I just wanted him to turn round and wave as the train went out, instead of walking up the platform with that gloomy stooped back. Turn round and wave and say, ‘It’s all right, you can leave, I’m all right.’

  But he didn’t, because he’s not.

  And when I walked along the moving carriage to look out the open window, the train threw me around against the knobs, like it was angry.

  He didn’t turn round, so part of me went with him up the platform. Went with him up to the house, where he’d be bound to get the bottle out, doesn’t matter it’s before breakfast.

  That’s why he didn’t turn round. So part of me would go back with him, up to the house, into the kitchen.

  And I saw St Michael’s Mount slip away behind the hedges, with the sun glinting on the sea.

  ‘Let me go!’ I shouted at the sea, and then at the hedges, and into the marshes at Marazion.

  And all the way through Cornwall past Redruth and Cambourne and Bodmin Moor and St Austell I could feel the pull of my father left alone.

  I was halfway into Devon before it happened.

  It was because of those tunnels cut in the red rock; you plunge into them after the miles of sealight, and the tentacles couldn’t hold on. They had to let go, and then the city of London began to hum like a magnet, pulling me towards it.

  It was telling me my future with promising feelings.

  I arrived, and London splashed me all over. A big wave. Lots of experiences all at the same time, colours and loud noises. Women in patterned headscarves asking for money, and men in dark jackets calling out words, and many signs pointing you along bridges and upstairs and down walkways, and old ladies looking bewildered and men in uniform having an argument, and blaring traffic noise and electric skies shining dark and light at the same time and lights changing colours, and so many faces.

  And after a lonely night in the hall of residence, at the end of a long grey corridor lit with striplighting that flickered and made the air tremble, and the strange dislocated not-here feeling in that little room that smelt of gravy, I walked out into the autumn morning and smelt a bonfire behind the exhaust fumes. I only had to cross the road to walk into the tall glass cube that would be my art school for the next three years.

  I’ve brought my canvas bag with my brushes wrapped up in a tea towel, sticks of charcoal wrapped in tissue paper, a bottle of linseed oil and twenty-two tubes of paint, as though I am going to start painting straight away. But the girl who consults a list, and tells me we have been specifically told not to bring materials on Induction Day, sends me up in the lift to the third floor.

  I find my way along the corridor to my name on a piece of paper taped to the wall, and put my bag down next to an easel. I am gazing at my white space.

  ‘Who are you? I am Bianca,’ says an Italian voice.

  I turn round.

  ‘Hello, I’m Eve.’

  Bianca has also brought a canvas bag full of materials, gold paper and different coloured glass pots, which she begins to unpack.

  ‘They have forgotten the TRO! In-TRO-duction,’ she says. Her voice has a bell in it, a ting-a-ling sound. She is unusually thin, but she has a glitter about her.

  ‘It’s because they’re inducing us, like babies being induced into the world of the art school,’ says a voice from the corridor.

  Bianca laughs.

  ‘I’m Roberta,’ she says, coming into the studio and putting her basket on the locker and two plastic bags on the ground, which both fall over, so paint-spattered tubs of acrylic roll over the floor. ‘But call me Rob.’

  She has a round face and dark curly hair.

  ‘Hello, Rob.’

  ‘I recognize you from the interview,’ she says to me.

  ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘What was yours like?’

  ‘Oh, hellish. One of them was drunk!’

  ‘I didn’t like the head of painting much.’

  ‘Oh, the small one who kicks your pictures about?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Near Nottingham, and you?’

  ‘Cornwall.’

  ‘I’m from Rome,’ says Bianca.

  ‘Have you come all the way from Italy?’ says Rob.

  ‘I am escaping.’

  ‘What from?’

  ‘Bad people.’

  ‘There are bad people here, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know them!’

  In the lift we discover that Rob’s boyfriend, Mick, is doing metalwork at Camberwell.

  The induction tutor glares at us, tapping her clipboard with her biro, as we join the first-years at the bottom of the stairs.

  We are divided up. In our group there is a blonde girl from Ulster, a pretty and delicate-looking girl from Liverpool, slender as a bird, with pale skin. She wears a pair of enormous boots so she looks like a doll. Two girls from Manchester who titter together, a girl with long red hair, a Japanese boy and a young man with a black beard but no moustache who says ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that’ all the time.

  ‘We will begin in Sculpture!’ says the tutor, pointing her biro.

  We walk through the doors into the noise of banging and welding and the screech of the circular saw. Sparks are flying, there is a smell of metal, sawn wood and plaster. A student in a blue overall is cutting through metal.

  ‘Fuck this!’ shouts the young bearded man into the noise.

  We are shown how to use the lathe, what precautions to take with the welder, where the plaster of paris is kept, and how to use the
glue-gunning machine.

  We walk away from the screeching sound, past partitioned spaces with drawings taped to the walls and stacks of sketchbooks, into a room that is quiet.

  Five people are in a kind of meditation, putting layers of white gauze soaked in plaster of paris on to armatures made of wood and wire. Their hands and fingers are white, and I like watching the white fingers smoothing the soaked gauze. They stand back patiently while we look at the ghostly forms.

  Outside, next to the enormous kilns, are sheds full of bags of clay, huge pieces of stone, tree trunks, prams, bicycles, bits of rusty wrought iron and some old windows.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ says Bianca.

  We walk through large studios where students stand about in the midst of their work, gathered round kettles, smoking cigarettes, or look up from their absorption as though we are barely visible.

  Rob says ‘Hello!’ to a blonde girl, who looks at her blankly and turns away.

  We walk into the ground-floor studio for enormous canvases, large as the side of houses. ‘Fuck that,’ says the young man, with admiration.

  ‘Who was she?’ asks Bianca.

  ‘She goes out with a friend of Mick’s,’ says Rob. ‘She’s a third-year and, well . . . I’m a first year. That’s Suzanne! Stuck-up cow.’

  ‘Porca miseria!’ says Bianca. ‘I can’t bear these cool English cucumber types!’

  Rob and I both laugh. ‘What? What is funny?’ says Bianca.

  Chapter 2

  We are shown round the lecture theatre on the first floor, the art history department and the secretary’s office. We are introduced to Miss Pym, the secretary, and Tom, the first-year tutor.

  At last it is time for lunch.

  Roberta and Bianca and I sit together with the red-haired girl, and discover things about each other. One wall of the canteen is made of glass, so we are in the courtyard along with the pigeons.

  Cecile is a ballerina who has been dancing for the Royal Ballet, but received an injury and decided to change her career. She sits with a perfectly erect spine.

  Rob is going to marry Mick. He is a blacksmith and they’ve known each other since they were five. We all say ooh! because childhood sweethearts make people say ooh! along with the vision of horseshoes, and cold autumn mornings, and a young man with a pinkish face holding the hind leg of a horse and tapping it.

  We find out that Rob lives near London Bridge with Mick, that Bianca lives in Brixton with two Italian girls who are doing textiles at Goldsmiths, and the ballerina lives in Kensington with her husband, who is twenty-two years older.

  ‘And I live in a soulless room down a long corridor in the Halls of Residence,’ I say gloomily.

  ‘I will ask around for you,’ says Bianca.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  The stairwell winds up the centre of the building, lit by a huge skylight. The rooms and studios are arranged around the landings, and lit by walls of windows. The further up the building you go, the more London spreads out before you.

  The print rooms on the second floor overlook the King’s Road and St Stephen’s, and are filled with printing presses for wood cut, lino cut and etching.

  There are baths for soaking paper and lines to dry it on. There are racks for newly printed prints and acid baths for placing the etching plates. There are shelves with tins of ink, and a long wooden desk under the windows.

  Round the corner, where the screen-printing press stands, the windows look over treetops towards the Fulham Road, and two girls stand at big basins in black plastic aprons, hosing ink out of the screen-printing mesh. The jet of water shoots out of the hose and turns red and yellow before coiling into the drain.

  We look round Photography and the dark room, with the red light, and white baths of chemicals that flavour the air.

  ‘I can’t take any more!’ says Bianca. ‘I can’t remember all these processes!’

  Rob laughs. ‘You don’t have to, don’t worry. It’s just if you want to use this stuff, you have to have a vague idea.’

  On the third floor we meet Steve, the head of film. He has long greasy hair that he smooths back from his forehead every now and then, slowly, with his whole hand, while looking sideways.

  Bianca mimics his gesture and we get the giggles. He wears a jacket made of leather.

  A tall girl with a scarf around her head strides out of a studio, saying, ‘Who has stolen the red heads?’ Steve tells us proudly that this girl is in the third year and has just been commissioned to make her second short film for Channel Four, and that red heads are spotlights.

  There is a buzzing sound in the video rooms, and we watch a video of someone’s hand putting pig’s guts in a bucket, that goes round and round on a loop. Cecile pulls a disgusted face. Steve says, ‘It makes a strong statement.’

  In the editing suite Steve shows us how to use the projector and splice the film, the video equipment and where the spotlights are kept.

  ‘I’m worn out!’ says Bianca, as we come out on to the landing. ‘I have to lie down,’ and she lies down on the floor and closes her eyes.

  We walk round the figurative studios, divided by a maze of white-painted partitions.

  I walk past paintings of fossils and shells, screaming people and grey empty landscapes. The studios smell of oil paint, turpentine and white spirit. There is a quietness here.

  In the life room the model is taking a break, wrapped in a blue curtain and drinking coffee from a plastic cup. She sits on the edge of the mattress, her pink toes stroking each other. The students are standing around and looking at each other’s work. They turn to look at us with dazed expressions.

  The technician’s workshop is on the top floor. It smells of wood, and we meet Geoff, the technician, in a brown coat with a pencil behind his ear. He has a friendly open face and nods at each of us in turn and explains how to cut the stretchers, saw the angles, and nail them with corrugated nails, how to stretch the canvas over the stretchers, and melt the rabbit-skin glue to prepare the size. The ballerina asks him if you can make size without using animal products.

  Sinéad, from Ulster, flicks her eyes up to the ceiling.

  There are woodshavings on the floor and the circular saw makes a whirring sound as he shows us how to slice through the plank without cutting your hand off.

  On the landing we meet Terry, the abstract tutor, who has bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I’ve heard he has a drink problem,’ whispers Sinéad, with a snort.

  ‘This way,’ he says.

  Through the windows on the abstract floor, you can see all the way past the bend in the river to Westminster and the far-away blue buildings on the horizon.

  The rooms are also lit from skylights in the roof, and I think that even this building, with all its light pouring in, began as a drawing; and before that it was a thought. And I’m glad the architect put so much light into his thought.

  And I like wandering through the studio spaces full of abstract forms and sketchbooks bursting with ideas, stacked up on the floor or leaning against each other along makeshift shelves.

  Sometimes the canvases are huge and fill a whole wall; cadmium-red singing on grey, with cobalt violet and sienna.

  Sometimes they are small; collages made of feathers and corrugated cardboard and grey paint the colour of the sky and pigeons.

  I sneak a look into a sketchbook and see pages of colour variations, like looking at different musical chords made visible and singing on the page.

  Students begin to go downstairs for tea.

  But when everyone leaves, the studios are not empty. The ideas are everywhere. They make the air hum. And I stand in the darkening space and see the twilight falling all the way to Westminster.

  Chapter 3

  I take the silver lift down to the ground floor and feel a blast of cold wind from the open front door as I walk into the canteen. Through the wall made of glass, the big tree and the Henry Moore sculpture in the courtyard are turning blue. People are reflected in the gl
ass.

  I stand in the queue behind a tall young man in a tartan shirt that has dots of white paint spattered over it in an arc, that match up with the splashes on his trousers.

  He has long black hair tied with an elastic band, blue-black like a crow. He turns his head. He smiles at me then frowns a funny frown and peers unexpectedly towards my eyebrows.

  I have a spot on my forehead.

  ‘It’s about to pop!’ he says, nodding at it.

  ‘I know!’ I say, laughing at his rudeness. We don’t say anything else.

  I get my mug of tea served from a big silver teapot by a lady in a white bath-cap.

  ‘There you are, duck,’ she says.

  Bianca turns and waves at me. I sit down with her and Rob.

  They are examining a list of options: etching, lithography, photography, animation, life drawing, painting: media and supports, sculpture: plaster/clay.

  I look across to see where the dark-haired man went.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Bianca, looking round and seeing him too. He is leaning against a table, talking to someone. I like his easy way of moving.

  ‘Oh, I know him. That’s Zeb, he’s a friend of Mick’s. They did foundation together,’ says Rob.

  ‘Call him over, call him over,’ says Bianca, tugging on Rob’s sleeve.

  ‘Hi, Zeb!’ she calls out, but he doesn’t hear.

  Suzanne comes through the door. She starts talking to Zeb.

  ‘That’s his girlfriend!’ says Rob.

  ‘Oh, that is Suzanne’s boyfriend!’ says Bianca, looking disappointed.

  The head of painting strolls into the canteen. He is a small man with hair that grows like moss. He stands with his feet apart and his hands on his hips inside his jacket, and surveys. He strides over and addresses us, and the tables nearby. ‘Welcome to you, first years!’ How are you settling in?’ he says.

  ‘When can we see your paintings, please?’ says Bianca loudly.

  I like the bell sound in her voice.

  ‘Well! There are some in the library on slide, and quite a few catalogues of the shows I’ve had,’ he says rather smugly, then takes a breath in to announce something else.

  ‘No! the real ones! Can we see the real ones?’