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She must’ve been smiling at somebody else, I thought. But as I looked around, back to the wall, this seemed unlikely. I sat, dazed, among the marble busts and gloomy portraits of long-dead headmasters until the bell rang, and the crowd dispersed. I waited, peering down the empty corridors, wondering whether I might have been forgotten.
A door creaked behind; I heard my name, and stood. The man in the doorway was tall, though not imposingly so, a little pot-bellied; tweed and sweater, horn-rimmed glasses; skin possessed of the waxy paleness common to those who spend too much time indoors. He stared at me, blinked, coughed; held out a hand, fingers clubbed and ink-stained. ‘Come on in,’ he said, softly.
He moved a stack of books and spilled papers from a wide, worn armchair next to the desk and I took a seat. The office was warm, if a little stuffy, books piled high under sediment layers of dust, framed prints of medieval etchings covering the walls. ‘Cup of tea?’ he said. Caught staring, I shook my head and picked at a loose thread on my folder.
‘So, let me begin with my usual spiel, and then we’ll get to know each other,’ he said, taking a seat by the desk and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He took a deep breath: tang of stale coffee on it, sour.
‘On behalf of the faculty of Elm Hollow, I’d like to welcome you to our student population.’ He paused, smiling. ‘We’re a small school with a varied and prestigious history, and we’re proud to have among our alumni leaders across a range of disciplines, including the sciences and the arts.’ There was a brief pause as he waited for me to respond; I nodded, and he went on, his smile the kind one might offer to a well-trained dog.
‘Our teaching staff includes many of these professionals, and our students are given the opportunity to follow in their footsteps with a wide array of curriculum-based and vocational courses. My name is Matthew Holmsworth, and I’m the Dean of Students here at Elm Hollow. I teach among the Medieval History faculty, primarily, but I’m also responsible for ensuring welfare among the student body, and, of course, welcoming new students such as yourself. You can call me Matthew – though I’d suggest calling the rest of the faculty Dr Whatever-Their-Name-Is until you’ve reached that level of informality, though, to be quite honest, that isn’t likely to happen with all of them … I, however, prefer to be called Matthew.’
He paused, drew breath, and smiled again. I looked away. In the weeks and months after the crash, I’d become somewhat accustomed to people looking at me like this, the ‘tragic miracle’ look, as though the fact of me confused them. I found it nauseating. ‘So what brings you here, Violet?’ he asked, though judging by this look, he already knew.
‘I need to get my A-Levels,’ I said, flatly, voice little more than a croak.
‘Great. That’s great. I’m told you were self-taught last year – is that right?’ I heard the creak of his chair as he leaned farther forward, and looked up.
‘Yeah. I … Yeah.’
‘That’s a very impressive achievement. You must be quite proud.’ I nodded. He looked down at my file, and almost imperceptibly raised his brow. I knew, for all my teenage claims of apathy that I’d done well; better, certainly, than anyone had expected. ‘Well, I can see you’ve got an interest in the arts,’ he continued, apparently choosing not to comment. I blushed at having expected more, a knot of shame coiling, sharp.
‘We have an outstanding arts faculty – our English programme is second to none, and most of our Music students go on to spectacular things at various conservatoires here and in Europe, so both of those would be solid choices. You might also consider one of our Fine Art courses, too – Annabel is highly selective, but I’d be happy to recommend she review your transcripts, if you’re interested …’
As he spoke, he ran a finger absent-mindedly over the glass of a framed etching lying on the desk. I followed the path, black ink on creamy paper: a woman tied at the stake, staring into the eyes of some great hulking beast with curling, twisted horns and broad wings. Behind her, three ghouls, arms reaching for her neck.
A silence fell. I realized he was waiting for a response. ‘That sounds … Great.’
‘Super,’ he said, with all the brightness of a department store Father Christmas. ‘And do you have any questions for me?’
‘Can I have a look at that?’ I said, reaching for the picture. I caught myself and pulled my hand away.
‘This? Well, of course.’ He paused. ‘It only arrived this morning. I’ve been wanting to procure a copy since I joined the faculty.’ He handed me the frame, and I placed it on my lap, leaning in to examine the beast’s feathers and scales, his mad, wild eyes, his used-car salesman smile. The flames curled up and around the woman’s feet, rising to meet the hair that fell long down her back. ‘Margaret Boucher,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I suppose you’ve heard the history of Elm Hollow, haven’t you?’
I looked up. ‘I’ve read the prospectus.’
‘Oh, no. The prospectus is the sales brochure. Accurate, of course,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘But it’s the rather sanitised version. Most of the faculty are drawn to this place for one reason or another from our school’s history – it’s tempting ground for the academic.’ He lowered his voice, a confidential whisper. ‘My interests, for instance, lie in the witch trials that took place on the grounds in the seventeenth century. Quite possibly in this very spot where we’re sitting now.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Oh, quite serious, yes. The wych elm you passed on your way in marks the spot where she was burned.’ I stared at him, but he went on, cheerfully. ‘It was believed – though I’d stress that this is medieval belief, not fact – that this was fertile ground for all kinds of sorcery. Many well-known folk myths originated here, though the references to Elm Hollow have faded away with time. A very good PR job on the school’s behalf, I think.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. It was a real frenzy, for a time. And occasionally, so they say, since – though that’s not really my area, being a medievalist and all. Still, it’s not uncommon for curious guests to arrive on the grounds, seeking an audience with the Devil himself.’ He chuckled, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Instead, they meet Mrs Coxon on reception, and they don’t seem to hang around long after that.’
He let out a sudden cough, as though catching himself. ‘Anyway – this piece is one I’ve been trying to procure for quite some time. A copy, mind, but a very good one. But don’t worry,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It’s not all devils and roaming beasts around here, at least as far as I’m aware. Let’s get your timetable sorted and find out what the future has in store for you.’
I left the office clutching an oddly sparse timetable. ‘We expect our students to fill these free hours with pursuits which will help them to become well-rounded young women,’ the Dean had said as I stared down at it, confused.
I’d enrolled in both the practical Visual Arts class, and Aesthetics, a more theoretical module – as well as English Literature and Classics, a subject not offered at my previous school, but which I’d loved as a child, when Dad would fill my mind with tales of Medusas and Minotaurs as I drifted into sleep. I had taken the maximum four courses students were permitted to study, and wondered what I’d do with all that spare time; imagined myself friendless, hiding behind books.
The corridor stretching towards the English department – a class for which I was by now a good twenty minutes late – was an area where the school showed its age, though it seemed still to possess a shabby dignity, an almost sombre blankness, as though pulled from another time.
Gone were the sex-ed pamphlets in wire racks, the sugar paper displays in childish lettering; gone were the painted breeze-blocks and papier-mâché displays, the keyed lockers and scuffed linoleum floors. Instead, I walked a warm, low-ceilinged corridor with step-worn carpets, passing wooden doors with office hours taped beneath each tutor’s name.
It was far too warm for September – but the heating, I would soon discover, was turned on only from September to Christmas, leaving us to spend the first few months of the academic year sweating through our shirts, the second peering at teachers through the mist of our breaths.
Finding the class, I was uncomfortably aware of a thin sheen of sweat on my brow, jumper stuck grimly to the skin under my backpack. I knocked on the door, and peered inside.
The students stared at me, eyes assessing, judging my place in the natural order. I gripped the door a little tighter, fingers turning red, then white. The tutor – Professor Malcolm, the only tutor I have encountered before or since who insisted on such a title, though with what qualification I am still yet to find out – was a squat, balding man with oddly tiny features, a button nose top-and-tailed by thin lips and black, bird-like eyes.
‘I’m … I’m new,’ I said, nervously.
‘Well, sit then. And try to learn something.’ He turned back to the board, resuming his talk, as I shuffled between the rows and took a seat. I tried to catch up, glancing at the open books and scrawled notes on the desks beside me. ‘And, as Blake concludes, “Thus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast.” What do we think this means?’
Met with silence, he sighed. I raised my hand. He sighed again. ‘Yes?’
‘… Blake finds morality and religion too … Too restrictive. He thinks it goes against the spirit of man.’ I blushed, furiously, realizing as I spoke what I’d done. The silence was cool, relentless – one of the many weapons, I would learn, that the students of Elm Hollow possessed.
He paused. ‘And you are?’
‘Violet,’ I whispered, my betrayal hanging heavy on the air.
He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Excuse me?’
‘My name is Violet,’ I said again, a little louder: a croak.
He nodded, and went on, as I shrank into my chair.
‘Man is a wild and occasionally savage, sexual thing,’ he said, affecting his previous drone which seemed designed to counteract the content of his words, the emphasis falling always on the wrong beat. I looked around, surprised at the absence of titters or comments in response to the mention of sex, but the class was silent. Only then did I see the girl from before – the girl with the bright, red hair – three seats away, staring back.
I looked back down at the desk, names and doodles carved into the wood. When I finally met her eye she raised an eyebrow and smiled. I felt myself about to become a punch-line – but, unable to see anyone else watching, braced for the laughs, I returned a dim half-smile, a weak attempt at nonchalance.
She pointed at the tutor, rolling her eyes, and smiled; mouthed ‘dickhead,’ and turned back to face the board. She slid lower into her chair, and began rolling a cigarette from a tin hidden on her lap beneath the desk, perfectly still, but for the dexterous, whipping movement of her pale, thin fingers, chipped black nails catching tobacco scraps beneath.
I lost myself in thought, the class dull, air growing thick with impatience. By the time the bell rang, I was in something like a trance. As I slid my notebook and pen back into my backpack, I looked around, feeling myself watched. But it seemed I had been forgotten, my presence no longer of interest – and the girl with the red hair was gone.
Wednesday afternoons were reserved for extra-curriculars, and as I had none, I spent the rest of the day exploring my new campus, wandering by the grand Great Hall where the choir practised some mournful, gorgeous song.
I walked the long, high-ceilinged corridors of the Arts building, where drama students lurked in thickets, launching into soliloquies, echoes overlapping. In music rooms violinists practised beside pianists, the same rippling passages played time and again, while the warm autumn breeze whistled through the trees outside, shaking leaves which fell in lazy arcs. I can still see them falling like outstretched hands, hear them crunching underfoot. It is a scene, a mood, still fresh and bright in my mind, recalled with the bittersweet taste of youth, of lilacs and lavender in the air: the campus entirely idyllic, and utterly charming.
Except, that is, for the dining hall. There is good reason why this area is never shown on the prospectus or to visiting parents: it is the underbelly of the school, necessary and crude, one of the few parts of campus where function is allowed to outweigh form.
The fluorescent-lit canteen rattled and hissed, emitting the rancid tang of meat in rendered fat; the vending machines rang and rattled with constant use. Students gathered in heaving clusters around laminate tables, surrounded by an odd mixture of cheap plastic chairs and a repurposed pew dragged up from the basement for a drama rehearsal several years before. It is still in place now, decades later, more cracked and bruised still.
I settled into a corner, watching my classmates hungrily, mining them as one might an anthropological study – this approach perhaps indicative of one of the many reasons why, while not entirely isolated at my previous school, I had still found it a struggle to make friends.
I looked at the casual way they’d adapted their uniforms – all made, it seemed, from materials designed to scratch and needle the skin beneath – Doc Martens, black, red and tan; butterfly clips in pastel shades holding fraying braids. Tartan, denim jackets tied tight at the hips. Velvet headbands, earrings, strings of beads and silver chains, all signifying personalities and secrets which I – wearing my uniform simply as the handbook prescribed – seemingly did not possess. I felt woefully underdressed, and hid lower behind my book (a novel whose simpering heroine I had begun to find irritating, and which I would soon abandon, never to be finished).
Still, it seemed I had not gone entirely unnoticed. I felt the eyes of the girls on me, though each time I looked up, they’d already looked away; heard, too, the whispered words ‘She looks like …’ passing from one group to the next. I could imagine their thrust. Some creature, a farm animal: dog, pig, or cow. As the clock tower rolled one slow minute to the next, the whispering seemed to grow louder still, a growing hiss, a menace, as I blushed and sat lower, longing to disappear.
As I blinked away tears, staring blankly at the words on the page, three figures passed by the large windows at the other side of the cafeteria. My eyes followed the shock of red hair as the girl bobbed alongside two others, who smiled and talked as they kicked the fallen leaves underfoot.
I imagined them turning back to look at me; willed the girl to give me the same, playful smile she’d offered earlier, and shuffled in my seat, my pose determinedly relaxed.
But she didn’t turn back, and they walked on, disappearing into the sunlight, their shadows trailing tall and proud behind.
Chapter 2 (#u76515698-c753-5413-bbf8-ca86bc60249c)
The studio was covered in creamy paper, pastel drawings crawling from corners like creeping clouds of smoke. I felt a cool smudge at my elbow, a violet stain smeared across the cuff of my shirt.
Over the course of the week, those of us in the practical classes had filled the space, until it was impossible to leave the room without a coating of pink and blue chalk on our uniforms. Our hands left pastel prints in homage across the school: library books with green thumbs, a peach palm around a test tube, blue lips printed on coffee cups and each other’s cheeks. The lesson, I suppose (Annabel, the art tutor, rarely leading us to an obvious conclusion – or any conclusion at all) was that the artist leaves her mark on everything she touches. It would be many years before I would realize just how true that would turn out to be.
She sat on the edge of the desk, feet swinging just above the floor, while those of us in her Aesthetics class sat breathless, waiting for her to begin. Dressed entirely in black, her hair in silvery curls that hung heavily over her shoulders, she seemed drawn from another world. Even in memory, she seems possessed of a wordless authority: the power of one who could silence a room with a single breath.
‘Oscar Wilde,’ she began, at last, ‘described the discipline of Aestheticism as “a search after the signs of the beautiful. It is the science of the beautiful through which men seek the correlation of the arts. It is, to speak more exactly, the search after the secret of life.” And that is what we are here to do. Make no mistake. You may be young, and time may seem to be endless, but you’ll learn – hopefully before it’s too late – that those singular moments of illumination are what make life worth living. It is up to you to seek them out, to see them for what they are. And the sooner you begin, the richer your life will be.’
The door clicked open, a short, blonde girl in sports colours muttering a hushed apology as she entered. She sat in the empty seat beside me, mouthing ‘hi.’ I smiled numbly back, surprised to be greeted at all. Annabel looked at her coldly, and the girl looked away, abashed.
‘You should be developing your aesthetic appreciation of what is beautiful, or worthy of your attention,’ Annabel went on, ‘by creating your own philosophy – your own theory of art – that serves to explain your tastes, and the way these intersect with the rest of your life experience.’ She leaned back, rolling her shoulders; her silver pendant sparkled in the light.
‘After all, this is not a course for the lazy student who wishes to sit around and have me talk at them for four hours a week. Quite the opposite, in fact. I expect you to posit your own judgements, and explore your subjective appreciation of art. Those of you taking my practical course – which I believe is most of you – should take the opportunity to develop these ideas beyond what Wittgenstein called the “limits of language”, which, I am sure, you will grow familiar with in this class.’
A ripple of excitement ran through the room. For all their bitterness and dramatics, it is a fact known only to the very best of educators that teenagers are uniquely susceptible to the poignant phrase, the encouragement of their own, individual talents. It may be a cliché – but I am sure a great many creative spirits have been forged through the power of a single glimmer of inspiration at this age.
Certainly in the moment, it seemed as though each of us was alive with potential, though none of us knew, for instance, who Wittgenstein was (even now, I will admit my knowledge is rudimentary at best, his theories a little esoteric for my tastes), or why such a limit to language might exist. Or, for that matter, why a group of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds might be somewhat unqualified (to say the least) to create our own theories of art. No – in the light of this encouragement, we saw ourselves anew, thrilled with the sense of possibility.
‘Marie,’ she said, turning to face a dark-haired girl – recognizable as she spoke for her reedy, high-pitched voice, the shadow of a nervous laugh familiar from the canteen. ‘Give me an example of a work you find beautiful.’
‘Michelangelo’s David,’ she said, confidently.
‘Why?’ Annabel said, wry smile revealing gums almost white, fading into teeth.
‘Because it’s a symbol of strength and human beauty.’
Annabel said nothing, the silence deathly, yawning like a trap.
‘Is that what you think, or what I think parroted back to me?’ she said, finally, as she leaned over the desk and peeled away a sheet of paper, her book on Renaissance sculpture open underneath. The girl stared down, turning pale. ‘Though other members of the faculty may enjoy it when their students mindlessly repeat phrases they do not believe, the point of this class,’ she said, turning her back on the girl, ‘is not to give me the answer you think is right. It is to tell me what you really think. I already know what I believe, and I don’t need you to remind me.’ She looked around the room, eyes cast on each of us in turn. I felt my stomach lurch as she settled her gaze on me.
‘Violet.’
‘Yes, Miss.’ My breath caught a little, nerves shaking through. It was the first time she’d spoken to me directly in either class. There was some brightness to her, that seemed almost to glow from within; as though her blood ran silver in her veins, instead of blue, lighting her skin from below. When I look back, now, I wonder if she could ever have been quite as we saw her, or whether we simply imposed the light upon her, the force of our wanting turning her into something half-divine. On cool days – rational days, when the grey hush of autumn seeps into everything – the obvious occurs. It might simply have been a trick of the light.
‘Annabel, please,’ she said, without smiling. ‘Tell me, what would you choose?’
I felt the class turn to face me, expectantly. Marie glared, her fury at Annabel boring into me. I thought of things I’d read about, seen, their names lost to me in my panic. Finally, I alighted on an image: women laughing, raving furiously, at a town far below; the wild-eyed devil gnawing limbs. ‘Goya’s Black Paintings,’ I said, the words catching on my tongue.
She drew three circles in the air with her fingers, teasing out my meaning. ‘There’s just … There’s something about them I really like.’
‘You really like?’ Annabel said, eyebrow raised. ‘Surely you can go a little deeper than that.’
I felt my heart tumbling in my chest. The truth was, I’d seen them in a book when I was five, maybe six years old, and felt a strange thrill at the horror of it all. Mum had ripped the book from my hands almost immediately, but the images had stuck. Years later, I’d stolen the book from a second-hand shop, too ashamed to admit how much I wanted it, cruel faces grinning deathly from the cover. Three days after that, wracked with guilt, I’d returned with a stack of my dad’s old books – a donation that would cover the cost several times over.
‘Well, it’s not really an aesthetic thing,’ I said, slowly. ‘But he painted them on the walls of his house, just for him. So, even though he was known for his portraits, which are nice, but … Well, kind of boring …’ At this a flicker of a smile crossed her face, willing me on. ‘When he was on his own, he wanted to paint these horrifying things, like the devil eating a man, or the descent into madness. It was like a release he could only get when he was alone.’
She nodded, brushed a curl of white hair behind her ear. I almost felt as though she turned a little towards me, as though the better to hear something unsaid. ‘I assume you know The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters?’
I blanched. ‘Sorry?’
‘The etching. From a very similar period.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No. I haven’t seen it.’
‘Look it up. You’ll like it.’ She turned away. ‘In fact, bring a copy with you next time, and we’ll discuss as a group.’
As she went on, I felt the girl’s eyes on me; tried, but failed to resist the temptation to look back. The red-headed girl from my English class chewed thoughtfully at a thumbnail, grimacing as the chalk covered her tongue; catching my eye, she laughed, and I laughed too, an echo.
She turned back to face Annabel, and I did the same, though the rest of the class passed in a haze, the fact of having met Annabel’s approval – a least briefly – leaving me dazed with relief.
The bell rang, and I began to pack my bag, while the red-headed girl and her friends gathered by Annabel’s desk, voices lowered in hushed conversation. The tall girl glanced at me, pointedly lowering her voice further. When it became clear the three of them were waiting for me to leave (my cheeks flushing hot with the realization) I scooped up my bag and walked towards the door.
‘Hey, wait,’ a voice called after me. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ I turned to see the red-head grinning at me, slyly; the other girls – and Annabel – looked at me, their expressions blank, mask-like.
I didn’t smoke, but – taken by surprise, I would later claim, though in fact merely desperate to make a friend – I nodded.
In the corridor, we walked in step. ‘So how do you like Elm Hollow?’
‘It seems okay. Everyone’s been pretty nice so far.’
She pushed the door, the fresh air outside exhilarating. I felt the sweat droplets freeze and dry on my brow as we walked in silence to a graffitied smoking shelter hidden behind the main building, away from the car park, and away from disapproving eyes. A cheer drifted by on the wind from the playing fields; swallows circled overhead in bursts, as though catching themselves mid-flight.
‘So … I’m Robin, by the way – thanks for asking.’ She grinned, waving away my clumsy apology, the words still unspoken. ‘Where are you from?’ she said, clicking the lighter repeatedly before giving it a firm shake. Finally, it lit.
‘Well, I was at the Kirkwood before,’ I said. ‘But last year I stayed home.’
‘Like, home-schooled?’ She raised a pencilled brow sharply, red pinpricks blooming beneath.
‘Kind of, I guess. But I sort of taught myself.’
‘No way,’ she said. ‘How come?’
‘I … Well, my dad died. They said take as much time as I needed, so …’
‘Hey!’ she said, brightly. ‘My dad’s dead too.’ She paused. ‘I mean, so, you know. I get it.’
‘Oh. That’s horrible. Sorry.’
‘No, no, it’s cool. I didn’t really know him. Mum says he was kind of an asshole.’
