by Sasha Wasley
‘It’s just, I know you, and you tend to jump into things without fully thinking them through. I don’t want you to jump into living with Finn or anything like that, only to have him up and leave.’
‘That’s totally unfair!’ Free tried to assemble a reasonable argument, but her outrage scrambled her logic.
‘I’m only looking out for my little sister,’ Beth said mildly. She sipped her black coffee and pushed her slender shoulders back a little. ‘How’s the residency going?’
Just coincidence, Free thought furiously. It was just a trick of circumstance that Beth should mention looking out for her little sister in one breath, and the residency in the next. She made an effort to switch topics to her work at the school, but Beth’s words hovered at the edges of her mind for several days.
When Free went back to school after the holidays, the new clear glaze and the range of coloured underglazes arrived. She brought them in and examined them with pleasure, although Aidan, wandering by, looked as derisive as ever. He even muttered something that sounded like ‘waste of resources’. She tried not to be bothered by it.
‘Okay, we need to knuckle down and get these designs finalised,’ she told her Year Elevens during class. ‘Do you reckon you could get final drafts to me by the end of the week? I really want us to have some clay under our fingernails next Monday. If you can promise me designs by Friday afternoon, I can promise you that you’ll get to skip all your other classes on Monday – because Ms Lincoln’s given me permission to pull you out of class and work on tile-making all day as soon as the designs are ready!’
There was general agreement, although some students were less certain than others. Free couldn’t help but stare.
‘Are you serious?’ she said. ‘I would have killed for a whole day in the art room when I was in Year Eleven. Literally killed.’
Maybe they were nervous about getting started on their final tiles, she realised. They might need encouragement.
‘I know you can do this. I’ve gotta tell you a story. Listen.’ She wriggled up onto a high work table so everyone could see her properly. ‘Once, there was this ceramics teacher, right? On the first day of classes, she split her students into two groups. One half was gonna be judged on quantity. She said she’d come to class at the end of semester with a set of scales and weigh their pots. They’d get an A for twenty kilograms of pots, a B for ten, a C for five kilos, and so on.’
The kids stared at her in amazement and Free ploughed on, realising this could go either way.
‘But the other group, she said she was going to mark them on quality. They had to make one pot. One amazing, perfect, beautiful pot. So what happened? This is going to blow your minds, I swear.’ She settled on Tia’s face. The girl was watching her through dark eyes full of interest and admiration. It renewed Free’s confidence.
‘The best-quality pots? They were made by the quantity group. They were stunning. Amazing. Innovative! And it happened because that group, who were being marked on how many pots they made, they were all churning out stacks of pots and learning from their mistakes, getting better and better without even thinking about it. They were practising. They were doing. But the poor old quality group just sat studying the theory, and trying to get one piece of clay perfect. And in the end, none of their work was brilliant, because they didn’t gain the technical skills. The quantity group nailed it, because they bloody well got in there and tried. They kept trying and doing, and they created some freakin’ good art, in the end. But the quality group just sat and worried about it.’
There was silence. Did the Year Elevens like the story? Were they inspired? Or were they calling bullshit? Free waited, frozen in sudden terror. What the hell was she doing, using this stupid story on a bunch of cynical teenagers?
Cameron broke the silence, a grin spreading across his face. ‘Cool story, Miss Patz. I wanna do the Herne River on mine. The cycle of the seasons, y’know? In case it gets stuffed up by the dam.’
‘Can I do more than one final tile?’ Jorja asked. ‘Spares, like the quantity group did? I know what I want mine to look like, but I’m not sure I can make it come out the same as what’s in my head.’
‘Of course,’ said Free, starting to breathe again. ‘Of course.’
There was a buzz in the class during that lesson, and the students put all their effort into finalising their designs. More hands than usual went up for Free to come and help. Jay arrived part way through the lesson and murmured that she was impressed with the way the kids were working. Tia hovered at the end of the session, after Jay had left for lunch and the other students had dispersed. Even Cameron, who always waited for Tia, had given up.
At last the girl packed her pencils into a case and headed for the exit. She stopped just short of the doorway and glanced back at Free.
‘That ceramics teacher story. Were you in the quantity or the quality group?’
Free gave Tia an apologetic grimace. ‘I’ll level with you. I heard that story one night when I was staying in a youth hostel in London, and there was this American dude there who listened to motivational podcasts on speaker every night. Like every damn night. No joke. I was ready to steal his iPod and stick a screwdriver in the speaker. But one night, one of the podcasters told that story. I don’t even know if it’s true, but it stuck with me. I went and visited this ceramics master, Giacoma Pinelli, in Italy last year. She was a genius. I mean a genius, Tia. I asked her what her secret was and my friend had to translate my question for me, but Giacoma looked me square in the face and said, “esercizio”.’
Tia frowned.
‘Exercise. Practice,’ Free supplied. ‘I’ve always done esercizio because . . . well, I don’t know why. I just need to. I paint and draw all the time. You do it too, I can see it in the way you work. I’m not a great artist, but I honestly believe esercizio is the only path to greatness as an artist, and I’ll just keep doing it until one day I hopefully get close.’
Tia’s face glowed. ‘Thanks, Miss Paterson.’
Free sent Tia to lunch and wandered to the staffroom to join the other teachers. She reheated her container of curry leftovers and sat down in her usual spot at Jay’s table, steering clear of Aidan where he sat with Kent, his sports teacher friend, comparing the costs of their road cycles.
‘Not having crackers today?’ Jay asked Free.
‘No, my boyfriend is the best at Thai food!’ Free stirred it with her fork, inhaling. ‘This is a red chicken curry.’
‘You’re seeing a cop, right?’
Free stared. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Small town.’ Jay winked.
Something murmured about ‘women always go feral over men in uniform’ from Aidan’s end of the table caught Free’s attention. God, he’s such a predictable creep. She endeavoured to ignore him, but now Aidan’s lunch had sparked Jay’s interest.
‘That looks delicious,’ she said, craning her neck to see better.
Aidan regarded his food – smoked salmon, capers and cream cheese on some kind of savoury pikelets. ‘It’s not as fresh as it could be. It’s from Marcel’s Deli. They’re a bit hit-and-miss.’
In her surprise, Free forgot that she was avoiding direct conversation with Aidan. ‘Do you order your lunch from them every single day?’
‘Most days,’ was the short reply.
‘Marcel’s?’ Jay put in. ‘Didn’t your family’s company buy that café, Aidan?’
Aidan shrugged. ‘Yes.’
Free thought back to the afternoon when he’d taken her for coffee at Marcel’s. That poor barista who was trying to close the café – Aidan must have pulled rank to get him to keep it open for them.
‘It’s all about feeding the troops,’ he was saying. ‘Marcel’s does all Buildplex’s corporate catering locally and supplies the project office.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Kent.
Jay gave Free and Max a silent glance, then got up and headed for the urn – but Aidan saw.
‘Might as w
ell support the businesses that support us,’ he remarked clearly. ‘Right, Free?’
Free blinked, bewildered.
‘You know,’ Aidan elaborated, poking a languishing piece of salmon back onto a pikelet. ‘Supporting your art materials distribution business with a nice big order of ceramic glazes for the school.’
It took her several moments to comprehend the slur. Free’s face burned, her heart pounding.
‘I didn’t push for new materials because of the ordering arrangement with Bostons,’ she said, going slightly breathless.
He smiled. ‘Of course not.’
‘No, Aidan.’ Free’s voice had risen, a pitch of desperate injustice breaking through. She attempted to calm herself. ‘I wouldn’t do that. This is a school. Jay asked me to order for the school.’
‘I know.’ He said it around a mouthful of his lunch. ‘It’s just a coincidence that you identified problems with materials the school already happened to be well stocked with.’
Max had not lifted his gaze from his sandwich, but Free knew he was listening hard.
‘I didn’t do that – I wouldn’t – would never . . .’
Free lost her words. She almost couldn’t believe he would accuse her of this. Was there a misunderstanding? She looked helplessly at Max but the biology teacher kept his eyes down. Free glanced across the room at Jay but she was immersed in a conversation at the hot-water urn.
‘I swear,’ Free said, but she sounded uncertain even to her own ears.
‘Are your students ready for tile production?’ Aidan asked, quite casual.
She gulped. ‘Um, nearly.’
‘Good. Mine are too. We can start on the final tiles next week.’
Try as she might, Free couldn’t ignore what Aidan had said. The rest of the day passed in a peculiar kind of haze as she dwelled on his insinuation. Was she just being paranoid? Maybe his remarks had been in jest – or maybe she’d misunderstood entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But every now and then, a blade of certainty sheared through her doubts. Of course he bloody meant it. He’d made a completely unjust accusation against her. She drove towards home and it was there in the car that her emotion spilled out. Angry tears poured down her face, dampening her dress and blocking her nose. Part way to Marlu Street, she took a sudden turn and drove the jagged, winding road to the top of Mount Clair. She climbed out and sat in the lookout shelter, staring over the red and green landscape with the majestic Herne River winding through it. Her eye fell on the russet scar of the dam construction site and Free clutched the edge of the bench.
Aidan’s remarks were abhorrent. With every atom of her being, she hated what he’d said. She hadn’t added a percentage when ordering new glazes, since this was part of the tile project and funds were tight. Jay had encouraged her to but Free had refused. But it was her word against Aidan’s. If she weren’t quite so devastated, the irony of it would have made her laugh. Aidan Hamilton, who’d suggested their public artwork should celebrate the ecological destruction being wreaked by his family’s corporation, was accusing her of lacking integrity!
This unfair, awful moment had tainted the entire thing. The job. The contract, the residency, the role as teacher, her part in coordinating a public artwork. Once or twice, she even questioned herself. Had she pushed for the replacement glazes without enough consideration for the school’s finances? Had Jay’s encouragement made her overconfident – made her overstep the mark?
Screw that, she thought. She wasn’t that person. Surely she knew herself well enough to be sure of that.
It was an hour before she was calm enough to get back into her car for the drive to her unit. Max was waiting for her on the porch, but Finn didn’t appear to be home. Free went inside and threw her gear onto the bed. She was heading for the studio to attempt to forget about her day when Finn’s door banged. Free changed direction. Just before she reached the front door, she stopped.
Finn was singing. She needed to hear it.
She went into her bedroom and, flicking the last skerrick of water out of the glass from her bedside table, held it up to the wall. Her heart warmed and the turmoil eased. What was it about Finn’s singing that made everything feel better? It gave her exactly that feeling of arriving home, the same peace she experienced every time she turned off Herne River Road at the Paterson Downs sign. She sank to the floor with her ear pressed against the bottom of the glass.
It took her a couple of minutes to realise he’d gone quiet. It was the knock at her front door that shook her back to the present. Free scrambled to her feet and straightened her skirt before dashing to answer it. It was Finn, of course. She managed a smile and stepped into his hug, only relaxing when her face was pressed against his chest, inhaling his warm, clean scent.
Finn flicked the door closed behind him and held her back so he could see her face. His smile faded. ‘What’s the matter?’
It occurred to her in an instant that Finn’s bad days at work consisted of fights, road fatalities and separating abused children from their parents. Hers consisted of some idiot’s unfounded sniping and having the crappiest lunch in the staffroom.
She forced another smile. ‘Nothing. Just a full-on day. Come in.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Of course. Can I get you a drink? I was thinking I might have a glass of wine.’
Finn wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I can see something’s wrong. Tell me what’s happened.’
Before she knew it, Free had poured out the story about Aidan Hamilton and his insinuations. When she’d finished, Finn was silent, frowning slightly, and she felt ashamed of how petty it all was.
‘I mean, I know it’s a first-world problem, but it bugged me.’ She crossed the room to drop onto the couch.
He came to sit beside her and pulled her close. ‘Don’t say it’s a first-world problem. It’s serious. That’s bloody harsh, what Hamilton said. And – shit, it’s even defamatory, Free.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbelievable. He’s probably insecure because he knows he’s in a compromised position himself, if it was his mother pulling strings that got him the job.’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘It’s come up in conversation down the pub once or twice.’
‘Wow, really?’ Free thought about it. ‘Has anything else come up? About people pulling strings?’
Perhaps something had been hinted about Beth helping her get the job. Finn seemed oblivious to her meaning.
‘There’s a lot being said about Amanda Hamilton’s habit of buying any local business that Buildplex is likely to spend money with. Not to mention the way she fudges her people into important roles, that sort of thing. And the protests are causing Buildplex major headaches. There was even some damage to one of their machines yesterday.’
Her heart sank. ‘Oh no. Really? That wouldn’t have been the protesters, would it?’
‘It looks that way. We’re having to spend more and more time at the construction site, checking on things, answering call-outs from the workers. The project office is installing extra CCTV and employing more security guards.’
‘God, why do people have to do that crap?’ Free sighed and slumped back against the couch cushions. ‘It ruins the integrity of the protest.’
Finn chuckled. ‘I don’t know anyone else who talks like you.’
‘It’s serious, Finn!’ A sudden thought hit her and she eyed him in horror. ‘I’d assumed you were against the dam . . .’
‘I am, you cheeky bugger!’ He pretended to clip her ear. ‘Now you’re questioning my integrity?’
Free puffed in relief. ‘Sorry. I just thought for a moment you might not be against it, with what you said about the protesters.’
‘Well, they’re going about their protest the wrong way, in my opinion.’
‘Yeah. I agree.’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘Do you want to come to the next protest with me?’
He pulled a face. ‘I’ll probably be there, no matter what.’<
br />
Free caught her breath. ‘Do you mean as a cop?’ Finn nodded. ‘Oh, Finn! Oh no. You’ll be on the wrong side!’
‘The wrong side? I won’t be on any side, except the side of the law.’
‘But how can you be there, knowing what you know about the dam and what it’s doing to the river – and protecting the project from the protesters?’
Finn’s eyebrows were knitting slowly. ‘Uh, because it’s my job.’
‘But —’
‘Free, I’m against the dam. There are threatened species in danger, and possible environmental issues that haven’t been managed properly. But it’s happening, and protesters are causing criminal damage to the machinery. It’s my job to stop that.’
Free twisted her fingers together. Max jumped up on the coffee table and meowed at them accusingly.
‘It’s okay, Maxie. We’re not fighting.’ She looked at Finn. ‘It’s just . . . it’s just, not all the protesters are doing things like that.’
‘I know. But if some of them start, it can have a knock-on effect when emotions are running high. Others get involved, and things get out of control. Then we’re obliged to clear everyone out. That’s what happened yesterday.’
‘You cleared everyone out?’ Free’s heart plummeted. ‘All of the protesters, just because some of them were doing the wrong thing?’
Finn nodded. ‘It’s the best way to stop things getting out of control.’
She thought it over, picking at a nail. ‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose so. I guess, with people caring so passionately about the river, they might do things that are out of character. But if you got rid of the ones doing the vandalising, I’m sure everyone else would settle down.’
Finn stared at her, then broke into a laugh.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘I can never quite believe how . . . well, how pure your heart is. You can always find the good in people.’
‘Are you calling me naive?’
‘Maybe a tiny bit . . . idealistic. I bet you even think Aidan Hamilton is simply misguided and misunderstood.’
