Life Class (8 page)

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 procession 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.

If Dom didn’t turn up to the next class, the day of reckoning might be postponed, but there would ultimately be no backtracking from the decision he’d made. There was nothing for it. The next time he saw him, he was going to make a suggestion. He almost hoped it would be refused; it was likely to radically change his own life, possibly for the worse. But if the suggestion were accepted, it offered the chance to improve Dom’s.

Chapter Ten - Dory

‘The architecture’s a bit modern suburban. But it’ll do while you look for somewhere more suitable to buy.’ Fran, who’d made the remark more as a statement than a discussion point, lived in an old, stone-built rectory and Dory knew she had something similar in mind, if on a smaller scale, for her. They stood side by side in her tiny kitchen. Its window looked out over well tended canal-side gardens, the resurfaced towpath, and beyond its neatly mown banks, to the canal itself. The still water was a mirror to the blue and white sky, and the trees on the far side, now on the turn to the coppers, rusts, and golds of autumn.

‘If a place like this comes up for sale, clean, bright, all mod cons … maybe a bit bigger … I’d be quite happy,’ Dory said.

‘Don’t you find it a bit bland? You could be anywhere in the country. And wouldn’t you like a garden? Even the
houses
in this estate have gardens no bigger than postage stamps!’

‘Why do I want a big garden, Fran? We only had a balcony in Marylebone.’

‘Even if you’re not a gardener, surely you’d enjoy some green space around you, somewhere you can breathe?’

‘In an ideal world, but I’m trying to be practical and sensible. This place is fine, thank you for finding it for me. It probably says something about my taste, but I like the way they’ve done the redevelopment.’ Dory turned away from the sink, drying her hands. ‘The canal’s been transformed from a wilderness to a real amenity.’

‘Wilderness has a lot going for it.’

‘Be realistic … they wouldn’t have done the conversion and all the new building without tidying everything up. It’s very attractive with the walkways and courtyards. If I want wilderness I need only walk a mile or two down the towpath.’

‘You’ll have to watch out for dog mess,’ Fran warned. ‘Look …
you
don’t notice all the changes round here in the same way they impact on me. I’ve watched them chipping away at every scrap of green around town. And this housing estate, it all looks so pristine, so new.’

‘Well, it
is
new, what do you expect? Anyway, there’s development and development. On a site like this, an empty mill standing amongst acres of dereliction, it’s an improvement.’

‘They could have tried a bit harder to blend in.’

‘You’d have preferred that faux vernacular style, reconstituted yellow stone bricks, bow windows, and repro carriage lamps outside each front door?’

‘I’d have preferred them to leave it alone in the first place.’

‘But, given the need for housing …?’

‘It’s not need, it’s greed. There’re huge profits to be made. You know what happens … even in a lovely unspoilt village like mine?’ Fran was twisting the tea towel as she spoke. ‘That Edwardian place on Vetch Lane was sold eighteen months ago. And guess what, the house was back on the market within weeks, minus its big garden. And despite the government claiming they’d reverse the brown field site legislation as it applied to gardens, an estate is going to be built on it!’ Fran bit her lip and looked out of the window again. ‘And what about the poor old mill? It’s been refurbished to within an inch of its life! I’d defy anyone to guess it was two hundred years old, particularly with that out-of-character excrescence plonked on the top.’

Dory followed her sister’s gaze. The mill had been converted into flats; the glass and steel structure on top had been added to create a so-called penthouse apartment.

‘I agree with you about the mill, Fran. It is OTT. But what surprises me is why you found this place for me if you hate it so much?’

‘Of course I don’t hate it, and you’re only renting. You needed somewhere quickly, to use as a base.’

‘And I think it’s perfect, Fran. Until I find a place to buy I’ll be very happy living in this little flat, with the canal to look out on. I’m lucky, some people have no choice about the desperate conditions they live in. Cheek by jowl with the North Circular; a tower block on a sink estate …?’

‘Not very likely you’d end up somewhere like that.’ A defensive note had crept into Fran’s voice. ‘So, what specifications have you given the estate agents?’

‘Let me catch my breath.’ Suddenly, Dory wanted to deflect her sister. Despite everything she’d just said, the question was one she’d no answer for. What
did
she want? An attractive flat in an attractive location like this one, even if it was a bit bland, should suit her down to the ground. Why was she still agonising? When and if she finally made up her mind that the move from London was permanent, why would she want anything bigger? She was on her own. There was no prospect on the horizon of finding a mate, let alone having a baby, as Fran had so bizarrely suggested. Even if she was still theoretically capable of procreating, bringing a child into the world had to be based on sounder foundations than one’s ability to simply do so, hadn’t it? Feelings of broodiness would be a start. Babies and partners firmly out of the picture, what kind of future
did
she envisage for herself?