Teach Me Dirty(9)

“I like it here,” he said. “It’s good for thinking.”

My impulsive bravery seemed to have vanished. I stared ahead, through the windscreen, watching the water ripple as it twisted its way downstream, but Mr Roberts wasn’t watching the river, he was watching me. Seeing into me. Seeing through me.

“There’s a picnic bench over there.” I followed the gesture of his hand and saw a rickety looking table through the rain. “But it isn’t really the day for it.”

I tried to think of something to say, and what came out was the lamest excuse for a question in the whole entire universe.

“Do you come here often?”

His lip curved into a smirk for just a second. “Yes, I do come here often. I like the water.”

“Me, too. I mean, I like water, not this water. I mean, I do like this water, but I’ve never been here before, so.” I made myself take a breath, knowing my cheeks were burning. “That’s why I’m going to Aberystwyth, or I hope I am.” I chanced meeting his eyes, and his gaze was intense and curious. “For the water. For the sea. And the art, of course.”

“You like the water, too. Yes, that figures.”

“I like boats,” I said. “My uncle has one, moored down at Brixham. He lets us go on it sometimes, I love it. My grandad used to fish off the beach at Saundersfoot. He used to catch allsorts, would be out there all day. I guess it’s in my blood. Not my parents so much, they don’t like boats. Not like me. It’s not boats, it’s the water, being on the water.” I put my palms to my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just. I don’t know.”

“Relax,” he said. “Listen to the rain on the roof, feel the river.” He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose, his gestures flamboyant. “Breathe it in. Can you feel it?”

I felt myself smiling. “Yeah, I can feel it. Water is life.”

“Yes, and emotion and soul, and the unconscious, the dark deep, the primordial soup of inspiration.” He wound down his window, and I realised just how old the car must be. Vintage. Soulful. It suited him. I’m sure my jaw dropped as he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his blazer pocket. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head and he lit up, blowing a wispy curl of smoke out into the rain. I stared at the way it billowed from his lips, the way his fingers gripped the cigarette like he’d done it a million times, not like the awkward clusters of cool kids struggling to look experienced with their ten-packs of Malboro Lights.

“I smoke, too,” I said. It sounded a lot cooler in my head. Between us, in the car, the words sounded pathetic and juvenile. Like me. “Sometimes. Well, not very often. I don’t mind, I mean, if you do.”

He smiled, and there was amusement in his eyes as he offered me the pack. “It’s hardly breaking the law. You are legal.”

I shivered at his words. Yes. I’m legal. In every way that matters.

My hand dithered, then retreated to my lap. “I don’t usually smoke a whole one, I just take drags from Lizzie’s. Smoking a whole one makes me cough.” Shit. I must sound like the biggest dork.

“It’s a bad habit.” He slipped the pack back in his pocket and watched me, undoubtedly soaking in every breath of my discomfort. He took a long drag, and then offered me his own cigarette, fresh from his mouth. My heart thumped. “Can’t have you coughing, but you look like you could do with this.”

I took Mr Roberts’ cigarette with shaky fingers, stomach fluttering at the thought of it being between his lips. I sucked hard, trying to look impressive, but his cigarettes were stronger than Lizzie’s and the smoke burned my throat. I handed it back before I got a headrush, transfixed as he placed his lips back to where mine had been.

“Talk to me, Helen.”

I willed myself into the depths of the soft leather seat. “I, um… I just… I just don’t know where to start.”

“Start anywhere you like.”

I smoothed my pleated skirt over my thighs, wiping my clammy palms in the process. “The drawing. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

“You can forget about the drawing, Helen. I understand artistic expression, the fiery impulses of imagination as the muse calls. There is nothing to apologise for, you should maybe just consider being more discrete with your private sketches. Your peers may be less sympathetic. I’d hate to see you suffer for your creativity at the hands of those who don’t understand it.”

“Or understand me.”

“Precisely. Creatives rarely find their natural home amongst their peers, Helen. I never did.” He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Youth is a cavern of creative potential, rife with tempestuous emotions and new, emerging sensuality. I think that sketch was tapping the wellspring. I don’t think it was about me so much as about you, making sense of your sexuality. There is such power there, Helen, such beauty, ripe to be channelled and explored. The picture was skilled, and it had life. That had little to do with me, and everything to do with you. The fact it was me was secondary to the pursuit of the art itself. The figure could have been anyone.”

But he was wrong. I was shaking my head before he’d even finished.

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t agree?”

“I agree that it’s about something deep, something… sexual… some emerging me. I get that, and yes, my peers can be spiteful, most of them are total idiots, and no, I don’t belong there, and I never have and I never want to, and that’s ok, and they could be as spiteful as they wanted about my art, because I wouldn’t even care. I just care that it made you uncomfortable.”