Life Class

by Allan, Gilli

  ‘If she can find one that’ll take her.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be no problem. Loads of kids go travelling before going to university.’

  ‘Only if it’s a proper, planned gap year and the offer of a place has simply been deferred. Her grades were too appalling for her first-choice university. I was the one phoning Clearing, but she turned her nose up at anywhere else.’

  ‘She could do retakes.’

  ‘Don’t you think we suggested that?’ Fran looked skyward and shook her head. The complex emotions of love, anger, and anxiety swelled in her throat.

  ‘Why Thailand?’ Dory asked quickly, as if sensing her welling emotions. Fran cleared her throat and reached for her glass of wine.

  ‘Kim and Flora had already arranged the trip and Mel just tagged along, using Mum’s inheritance money.’ She gave her sister a wobbly smile. ‘Honestly! I am still so cross with her.’ Fran cleared her throat.

  ‘What does Peter say?’

  ‘You know Peter, anything for a quiet life. As long as no one’s making a fuss he’s happy to go with the flow. Let’s change the subject; you didn’t find the lesson too exhausting?’

  ‘I’m fine. Doing art may be a novel experience and it’s definitely going to be a challenge, but maybe that’s what I need.’

  ‘I’m glad you got something out of it. You seem … you look so much better.’

  It was true. Dory’s hair, which she’d had cut short when she’d started to lose it, had thickened and was glossy. Even the silver threads gave the blonde a rather attractive ash tone. Her hazel eyes, which had been suffused with a weary disengagement, as if everything was too much trouble, were now bright and interested. Her complexion was still pale but now that her weight had decreased, her face had lost its puffiness. She was even wearing a bit of make-up.

  ‘What was wrong with me last time we saw one another?’ asked Dory.

  ‘I’m not talking about last week. I mean last year, Mum’s funeral.’

  ‘I’d not long been diagnosed. I’m back to normal now, though I sometimes wonder if an element of the problem was mental. You know … mind, body, spirit? I just wasn’t happy.’

  Was that a dig? ‘But I didn’t know the unhappy bit, did I? You didn’t tell me you weren’t being looked after.’

  ‘Malcolm wasn’t a monster, he did look after me. We just didn’t notice we’d fallen out of love with one another till I became unwell. I resented it then but now I feel almost sorry for him. It must be hard to find yourself in the role of carer for someone you’ve no affection for.’

  ‘But that’s just the point … he didn’t care for you. He’s a doctor, for God’s sake. But he carried on working, running the clinic, leaving you to fend for yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t at death’s door. As far as he could tell it was either psychosomatic …’

  ‘He thought you were making it up?’

  ‘No. Well, perhaps he wondered if I was exaggerating, or being a bit of a hypochondriac, or I was suffering from one of those ME-type things, in which case there was nothing he could do. The only mainstream advice offered for ME sufferers is rest. There are plenty of alternative self-help therapies on the internet but of course they did sod all, as Malcolm predicted, and just made me feel more of a failure. It would have driven me nuts to have him fussing round me all the time. I wasn’t confined to bed. I didn’t need my pillows plumped. The clinic was our livelihood. It would’ve done neither of us any good if he’d allowed the business to run into the ground to give me gold-star nursing care.’

  ‘But he should’ve got another opinion, sent you off for tests. He was negligent, Dory, there’s no two ways around it.’ Fran was frustrated and puzzled by her sister’s attitude. The man had not only failed to diagnose her condition, but had seemed to lose all interest in her just because she was ill. And, to add insult to injury, had started an affair with a member of staff.

  ‘I’m not defending the bastard, he definitely could have been more proactive. But to be fair, he isn’t a generalist – even the GP didn’t pick it up. I was young for my thyroid to have packed up and there were so many seemingly unconnected symptoms. It wasn’t until I told him I was constantly cold and my hair was falling out that he put two and two together and did the blood test.’ Dory looked away, towards the pub’s kitchen door, as if signalling an end to this particular subject. ‘Where’s this famous food?’

  Face on, no one would have realised the waitress had a bare midriff; it was hidden behind a voluminous, stained apron. But her back was turned to the sisters as she dealt with the next table and almost as if programmed, Fran began a mental mapping of the contours of exposed flesh on display.

  ‘Mel is keeping in touch with you and Peter, I hope?’ her sister asked.

  Had Dory tuned in to what she was thinking, or had she also been reminded of Mel by the waitress’ bare midriff?

  ‘She doesn’t phone us.’ Waitressing? Did all girls waitress or do bar work at some point in their lives? Fran conjured an image of her daughter serving cocktails in a rustic, bamboo beach bar, overarched by palm trees and nothing dividing it from the glittering aquamarine sea but bleached sand. The waitress couldn’t have been less like Melanie. She was older and had a Mediterranean look, with her glossy dark hair and olive complexion, though there was no hint in her accent that she came from anywhere further south than Kent. Mel was not only still a teenager but was a pale-skinned blonde – a classic English rose – and even if she was carrying a bit of extra weight, it was puppy fat, and bound to disperse given time. The momentary glow of maternal pride transmuted into another pulse of anxiety.

  Was it a benefit to stand out in a crowd? Could her youth, her long, fair hair, even her childish pudginess be an attraction to a certain type of man? Don’t even think about the skimpy clothes and belly button ring. Fran tried to suppress the complex mix of emotions which threatened to bubble up. Her expression must have mirrored her troubled thoughts.

  ‘But she is all right?’ Dory asked with a frown. ‘You have heard from her?’

  ‘She texts and emails, though not enough to stop me worrying. I just wish she hadn’t gone, she’s too young.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. What an adventure. I wish I’d done something like that at her age, but one minute, school, the next, microbiology at UCL.’

  ‘There are so many dangers, Dory.’

  ‘Girls are vulnerable, full stop. You can’t prevent them from growing up. If she’s not lost it already, she’s got to lose her virginity soon.’

  ‘What about pregnancy, the massive danger of STIs, AIDs, even … as you should well know! Not to mention getting caught up in drugs.’

  ‘You don’t have to travel to be exposed to all of that. She knows how to look after herself, doesn’t she? She has taken condoms?’

  Why did Dory have to be so measured and reasonable all the time? ‘Condoms! How should I bloody know? It’s not a subject we talk about.’

  Dory frowned. ‘But surely you’ve …’

  ‘It’s so easy for you to dish out advice, but what do you know?’ Fran interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not an expert on South East Asia. I know that our girls are more vulnerable; the way some of them dress gives out the wrong signals. Western girls are dismissed as tarts and slags, fair game to be used and abused. She might be drugged, kidnapped, raped. She might even be murdered, for God’s sake! A lot of use it’ll be having condoms in her bag.’

  That shut Dory up. Now she was nodding as if she sympathised, but still with that condescending know-it-all expression.

  ‘The trouble with women like you, I’m sorry to be blunt, you’ve no idea what it’s like to be a mother. Oh, you think you do …’ Fran ploughed on, ignoring the flinch in her sister’s face. ‘… but women who’ve not had children can’t comprehend the visceral connection between a mother and her child. No amount of condescending rationality can make the slightest dent in it. I daresay I’m being ridiculous …’

  �
�Of course you’re not.’

  ‘Making mountains out of molehills, but nothing you can say will stop me worrying about her. Apart from everything else, I just can’t get it out of my head that Mel’s in a part of the world which has suffered from coups, riots, terrorist bombs, earthquakes, a tsunami … Fran’s voice was cracking. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or shout. Talking to her sister reminded her how it had always been. She would get angry about something, seeing the world in black and white, for her or against her, while Dory remained coolly superior. It might be commendable to be objective, to rationally examine every angle, but there were times when Fran wanted support and agreement. Anything else looked like a challenge, felt like she was being put in the wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dory said. She looked contrite and suddenly sad. ‘You’re right, I’m not a mother. How can I know what you’re going through?’

  Chapter Nine - Stefan

  This morning was his new start. In one hand he held a heavy knot of keys, with the other he pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket and tipped one into his mouth. He had parked in the furthest corner of Wyvern Mill, between a breezeblock outbuilding and a chain-link fence. Instead of heading for his new workshop, he walked over to the padlocked gate. He unlocked it and dragged the gate open; the shriek of the hinges fused in jarring cacophony with the scrape of the gate across the uneven ground.

  Beyond the fence all was a still, green wilderness. The bronze surface of the silted-up canal, scribbled by curls of yellow leaf, seemed scarcely to move. The banks were an impenetrable tangle of long grass, reeds, and weeds. Stefan lit up and stared into the sluggish water. He could stay here as long as he liked. He could even sit down. There was a bag of cement that had been left, forgotten, in the long grass beside the towpath. It had solidified into a hard, bag-shaped block. The slight depression where the bag had sagged made it an inviting perch for someone who might want to stay and let this silence creep into his bones.

  Restless and wanting to do something constructive, he didn’t sit down. After only a few puffs, he dropped the cigarette and obliterated it beneath his foot. The grinding squeal of metal against concrete jagged through his brain again as he pushed the gate shut. He crunched back over the yard. It had once been surfaced, but so long ago it had broken up in an uneven jigsaw, the wide cracks colonised by pads of wiry grass and weeds.

  Today was the first time he had come here to work. Until now, his trips to the new premises had been devoted to transporting the rationalised contents of the barn and setting up his new studio. In that short time, the site had become completely familiar. Wyvern Mill was only one of the many nineteenth-century mills – evidence of the town’s semi-industrial past – that had grown up along the bottom of the valley, around the river and the canal. From the local history he’d retained he knew that they’d originally been woollen mills. Fabric for making British army uniforms had been woven here. The image of the river, flowing red with the run-off from the dyeing of the cloth, had stuck in his mind since primary school days.

  Since their heyday, the fortunes of the mills had mirrored those of the country – decline and dereliction followed by reinvention. As he had driven down through the rambling Wyvern Mill site and over the bridge, he’d passed a variety of small businesses and workshops, some in the original buildings, some in newer structures that had grown up over the centuries in an ad hoc sprawl. Finally, at the very back of the site, next to the now-disused canal, was the small, breezeblock unit that was his new studio.

  It was chilly inside and a dank, earthy smell permeated the space. Stefan sat, elbows on the workbench. Ahead of him, at eyelevel, was his ‘work in progress’. Supported on a wooden shaft, it was obscured in smeary plastic that was bunched and tied at the bottom. Set on a revolving sculpting stand, this sculpture was one of the first things he’d brought to the new studio, but its presence oppressed him. He averted his eyes to the water-filled spray-bottle and, lying beside it like a discarded necklace, a metal wire jewelled with tiny beads of clay, attached at each end to short lengths of wooden dowel. There was also the Spurs mug which, since its handle had come off in the move, held his sculpting tools. Everything was dusted with a powdery pink residue.

  He scooped a lump of clay from the bin. About the size of a grapefruit, it was at first cold, damp, and heavy in his hands. His eyes were unfocused as he squeezed it between one palm and the other, working and moulding it with his thumbs. Gradually it warmed under his kneading touch, its surface becoming silky and malleable, alive with potential. After a while, he had worked it into a simple figure. He pushed the limbs this way and that, bending the torso and arching its neck. He worked hypnotically, hardly looking at the figure, almost as if he were blind and touch his only sense. The process went on for some time, this pushing and twisting and varying of the pose. Suddenly he screwed it up and threw it into the large, dustbin-sized container.

  He sighed, stood up, and flicked the switch on the shiny new kettle. Instantly it began to spit and splutter angrily. He dragged it off its stand and shoved it under the tap, filling it through the spout. An explosive hiss of steam plumed out, stinging his hand. He swore. Cold, and impatient for the water to boil, he remained consumed by the urge to do something constructive. If he was not in the mood for modelling clay, the obvious thing was to go out to the car and fetch his paperwork – the research for his Further Adult Education Teaching Certificate and the folder relating to his classes. Yet writing assignments or form filling were last on the list of things he wanted to do, and there was a bit of him that didn’t want to be reminded of his part-time job.

  Though he’d been teaching it for over four weeks now, the life class remained the most difficult, its students the most intransigent. Whenever he thought about it he recalled the woman, and his neck prickled with embarrassment. It was an adult class; no matter what the provocation it was totally unprofessional of him to lose his cool with any of them, least of all her. Since the incident she’d not said a word to him and her expression remained wary and closed down. But unlike most of them, who seemed to think they knew it all, she was one of the very few who could be relied on to do what he asked.

  He dragged his thoughts away from her and turned on the reconditioned laptop he’d recently bought. As it booted up he moved back to the bin where he’d thrown the clay, retrieved it, and began rolling it between his palms again. When the homepage emerged on the screen he couldn’t remember why he’d switched it on. All his work in progress was in paper form in the folders in the car. He could use computers – up to a point. Over the years he’d had to learn some basic skills, but he’d yet to establish the habit of typing out his thoughts. He still committed everything to paper first and only then typed it up. Clicking his emails he saw with a slight sense of disappointment that there was no new mail in his inbox – nothing then to distract him from getting on.

  He leant back against the workbench and surveyed the room with a frown. It wasn’t right. Everything looked too clean, too tidy, too new. The reclaimed kitchen fittings were pristine. Why had he spent so much time and effort re-painting them? Today, their clinical whiteness seemed almost a reproach. Under the laminate worktops that he’d scrubbed with max-strength cleaning products, storage boxes and drums of resin, silicone rubber and plaster were stacked tidily – too tidily – as were the pillow-shaped packs of clay. The books that lined the shelves were uniformly upright and orderly. Ironically, the books he’d brought here were the ones he referred to the least. Those he had pored over, returning to time and again, were grubby and dog-eared. Planning to replace them, he’d left them at the house, but had yet to discover how to source second-hand books on the internet.

  The top of the breezeblock walls, just beneath the rake of the corrugated roof, formed a flat, shelf-like surface. Very soon after he’d taken on the tenure of the workshop he’d stood on the chair and arranged his collection. The head of a doll with googly eyes looked down at him, and next to her lay a proce
ssion of bird and small mammal skulls and a piece of twisted branch. Lumps of stone had also been lined up here: one, imprinted by an ammonite, another split open by an explosion of quartz crystals. Many of the items in the hoard he’d found as a boy, and retained a kind of sentimental attraction. But now their presence grated, as did the fact that arranging this collection was almost the first thing he’d done. Not only was it a pretentious self-indulgence, it was misplaced energy – an effort to convince himself, as much as others, that he was an artist. The most important thing about this space was that he used it, not that he embellished it with contrived quirky artefacts.

  If he were to turn around, he would see the wrapped bust on the sculpting stand. He didn’t turn. He had no wish to face its camouflaged reproach. Once, he’d have scoffed at the suggestion he would ever have attempted to sculpt this particular head. Then he’d rejected his father’s repeated mantra: You’ll never amount to anything. You don’t have the strength of will to make it on your own! But he’d half believed it, too. Was the fact he’d started on the project progress of sorts? A dual demonstration of his commitment to the life he’d chosen, and an admission that he was better able to understand the old man. Recent experience made it easier to identify with the rollercoaster of ambition and disappointment that being a parent entailed. Admittedly, the term was only weeks old but Dom had already been absent at least once from every one of the classes he’d signed up to, including Life. Stefan was convinced he was keen, but that other temptations had too great a hold over him.

  The kettle began its grumbling preamble to switch-off. About time, he thought, and threw the lump of clay he’d been absently kneading back into the bin. He already knew he’d forgotten to buy milk but at least he’d remembered the coffee this time. As he unpicked the plastic from around the lid of the jar he wondered how he was able to remember Grace’s shopping every week yet was so inefficient about his own sustenance. He looked around for a mug. Shit. The only one was the handle-less Spurs mug, looking like some weird pot plant, its branches formed from his collection of tools. He re-screwed the jar absently, his thoughts returning to the boy.