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PRELUDE

Dear Father

I got your letter yesterday, inviting me to join you. Cannes sounds wonderfully exciting - but Simon Barrington has invited me to stay with him for the first part of the holidays. I hope you won't mind if I accept his invitation instead. His parents own a place in the North Riding, near Leyburn. You'll remember that you met Dr Barrington here at school last St Andrew's Day. Dr and Mrs Barrington were awfully kind to ask me. I will telephone you as soon as I get home.

Yours, Dorian.

 

 

 

QUEST

Dorian paused on the steep path to wipe the perspiration off his forehead, grateful for the small breeze stirring in the branches overhead.

Thick woods on either side of the path made it difficult to judge how much farther he had to go. He'd been walking for an hour and a half - mostly uphill. At first, striding out along a deserted path between green fields and tall woodlands had felt exhilarating; he'd been cooped up on the train for so long, and then hitch-hiked for miles. Now, he was getting tired. He was on the right path, though, he was sure of it. He'd checked; the woman at the village shop had confirmed this was the right way - although the look on her face told him she thought he was wasting his time.

That's what Barrington had thought, too.

***************

The last Tuesday of term, the last period of the day.

Mr Carstairs had moved the fifth form art class outside to sketch under the trees that grew along the edges of the playing fields. The fresh air would do them good, he'd said, and no doubt he also thought being outside the classroom might ease some of the bottled-up longing for freedom that was unsettling them all with the end of term so close.

"What're you doing in the holidays, Dorian?" Simon Barrington leaned back against the shady oak tree, settling his sketch pad on his knees.

"Father's gone to the south of France with a friend. He wrote and asked me if I'd join them."

"Might be fun."

Dorian snorted derisively. "No it wouldn't, it'd be boring. But I'm not going."

"What?" Simon stopped sketching and looked incredulously at his friend.

Dorian grinned, then turned his attention back to his drawing. "I wrote back and said I was going to spend the first part of the holidays with a friend, so I'd see him when he got back to England. What I'm really going to do is, I'm going to Westmorland to find Cameron Faraday, and ask him to teach me to paint."

"Cameron Faraday! You can't mean it!" Simon looked horrified.

He'd heard Dorian on the subject of Cameron Faraday many times in the previous months, and had dutifully read all the magazine articles Dorian had shown him. The headlines had featured phrases like ‘Greatest living painter', ‘Eccentric genius', and ‘Uncompromising innovator'. Critics were unanimous in their praise of the man's work, but the general consensus seemed to be that Faraday was irascible, intolerant, and antisocial. Simon admired his work almost as much as Dorian did, but it would never have occurred to him to seek the artist out.

Seeing the art master walking in their direction, Simon lowered his voice to an urgent hiss. "Dorian, what makes you think he'll even talk to you, let alone agree to teach you?"

Dorian turned wide blue eyes on his friend. "Why wouldn't he? I'm serious, Barrington. If I want to improve, I need to learn from real artists. Faraday is the best living painter in England."

The art master had paused to talk to two other boys a short distance away; he was still too far off to overhear what Dorian and his friend were saying.

"And what will your father say about not going to France? Good lord, I'd never get away with that. When my father says we have to go somewhere, we don't have a choice."

"My father won't care. He was happy with the explanation I'd be staying with a friend's family. I'll meet him back home in Cornwall, and everything will be all right. He'll never know."

Simon regarded his friend with a mixture of apprehension and admiration. "Whose family did you say you were staying with?"

"Yours."

Simon's jaw dropped. "God, Dorian! What if he checks up? What if he telephones?"

"He won't. He's busy - he's got his mind on other things." A small smile. "He trusts me. Don't worry, Barrington; he won't telephone. Your parents won't get involved. You won't have to explain."

***************

Dorian rounded the last bend in the path. The woods gave way to a grassy clearing with a rocky crag rearing skyward on one side, and a steep drop down toward the valley floor on the other. The view over the valley and the lake was stunning, but he didn't linger to look at it because at the far side of the clearing he could see a stone and timber cottage - and standing in the doorway, looking directly at him with a deeply unfriendly expression on his face, was the man Dorian had come to find. Cameron Faraday.

Refusing to feel intimidated, Dorian approached with all the self-confidence he could muster, and came to a halt about ten feet away.

"What do you want?" Faraday demanded, his tone harsh and unwelcoming.

Dorian took a deep breath. "My name's Dorian Red. I'm an art student. I admire your work and I want to ask you if you would teach me how you paint."

Faraday pinned him with an inhospitable stare. "This isn't an art school. If you want lessons, go to the village institute." His mouth curled sarcastically. "They teach watercolours on Thursdays."

Dorian stood his ground. "Mr Faraday, I'm serious. If I'm to improve my painting I need to learn from real artists. I want to learn from you. Will you teach me?"

Faraday narrowed his eyes, his mouth set into a hard line. "What makes you think you're worth teaching?"

Wordlessly, Dorian delved into his back pack and pulled out a sketch book. He handed it to Faraday. "If you think I'm not worth it, I'll go. But if you think I am-"

Faraday opened the book at random, and turned over two or three pages, frowning. "You study art at school?"

"Yes. I've been top of my class in art three years running."

Faraday snorted. He turned over several more pages, more slowly now, and then turned back to re-examine the pages he'd already viewed.

Closing the sketch book, Faraday looked Dorian over critically. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Do your parents know you're here?"

"There's only my father. He's in Cannes."

"What you mean is, he doesn't know you're here."

"No. He doesn't."

Faraday shook his head and muttered something that sounded like, "Bloody people, nothing but nuisances."

He handed the sketch book back.

"All right. I'll teach you. You can stay for a week - after that, you'll be in my way so you'll need to leave. There's a bed in the loft. You'll have to pay your way while you're here: I need a model for the picture I'm working on. I'd've had to hire some fidgety boy from the village so you'll do instead. Can you sit still?"

"Yes, of course I can."

"All right. In the mornings, you model for me. In the afternoon, you paint, and I'll work with you to improve your technique. Does that suit you?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you. I really appreciate-"

"And there's nothing to do at night up here," Faraday cut in. "You'll be too far from the village to go looking for company, so if being stuck up here doesn't appeal to you, you'd better leave now."

Dorian raised his chin slightly. "I want to learn from you. Being up here doesn't bother me."

Faraday's expression softened a little. He smiled, almost warmly.

"You've got guts, lad, I'll say that for you. Going behind your father's back isn't exactly admirable, but that's nothing to do with me. You'll have to work that out with him. Come on then, Dorian Red; I'll show you where to put your bag. Have you eaten?"

 

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