The Fat And The Thin Of It Page 18

“Really?” to which he nodded. “So… if I am sued, we’ve got it put away somewhere?” again he nodded. “We wouldn’t have to sell the house or anything?” he shook his head and toasted me with his glass of Pinot.

  “Thanks to you, darling.” He took a swig. “Those ten years at Catwalk meant a very healthy wage that we hardly had time to spend. It’s all invested and quite safe.”

  I could see his point, actually. The only luxuries we’d allowed ourselves were the renovations on our home and changing our cars every two years. We’d grabbed the odd week here and there for some pretty fancy holidays, but that was about it. I let loose a little sigh and permitted myself a small smile. “Great.”

  As I went to pick up my glass I caught sight of my broken nail. “Oh, and give Maggie a call because...”

  “She called me at work, actually.” He swallowed a piece of broccoli. “She’ll be back on Monday.”

  “Oh, for...” I tutted and laid my fork down. “I’ve just done all the bloody work she hadn’t done for the past three months in just one day! I don’t know, Terry, perhaps...”

  “We can still afford her as well, sunshine,” He poked a piece of steak into his mouth and gestured with his knife at my index finger. “Your manicures cost more than she does.”

  I went to bed that night quite bloody knackered after all the house-sorting, but in a much more relaxed state of mind: Not only because of what Terry had told me, but also because that sensitive part on my thigh had gone altogether after all that work.

  Thursday finally came and I was really looking forward to my first pottery class.

  Christ, I couldn’t believe that something like a pottery class would make me feel I had something to get up for. Before Christmas, I was gearing myself up for getting stuck into the February fashion shows. Now, I was gearing myself up for getting stuck into soggy clay.

  And, I hoped, Jackie would be there. I couldn’t wait to see her face!

  I had time for a session on the machine, a shower, a quick coffee and a fag. I now had the heater in the conservatory so it wasn’t like I was smoking in an industrial meat freezer, and the view of the garden was quite spectacular now I could actually see through the windows. Our garden was wide but not very long, and I had Dad help us think of what plants and trees to put in.

  Dad loved his garden when he could work in it, and had had a portion up the end dedicated to his vegetables. I could still remember him tending to the garden after work and at the weekends, dressed in an old pair of corduroys and a jumper with holes in the elbows, rain or shine…

  Anyway, he suggested we put three groups of shrubs in the centre, and we now had three, well-developed sections that I called ‘faith, hope and charity’. I didn’t know that the hell the plants were called, mind you, but there was a wonderful blend of yellow, green, red and purple leafed bushes and shrubs of all sizes; one straight in front of the windows, and two either side which were slightly smaller and set further forward so they formed a triangle. Behind them was a tight row of cypress trees that we kept trimmed down, and on either side of those were dense bushes that sloped downwards towards the front of the garden, which gave the impression that it was longer.

  God, when was the last time I’d actually sat here and looked – really looked – at our garden? It must have been back in autumn, when the mornings were still light enough and I’d had my breakfast and fag before running off to work. But, even then I probably had my head filled with what I had to do and hadn’t paid attention. And, even if it was an evening fag, I was more than likely concentrating on puffing than looking. It was all quite lovely, actually.

  Anyway, time for the class. I stubbed out my cigarette and set off.

  I got to the community centre a half hour before the class started to pay for three months up front, then I went into the workshop to wait for the teacher and other pupils, especially Jackie. About seven women and two men streamed in, and then a woman in her sixties, wearing multi-coloured tie-and-dye overalls and sporting wildly curly, bright aubergine hair burst through the door.

  “Welcome, welcome class!” she boomed with her arms spread wide. “How fabulous to see you all again after the festivities!” she stood in the middle of the workshop and hugged herself while doing a complete turn, bowing to each person in the room, including me. “We have a new addition to our little community here,” she extended a hand in my direction with a flourish. “And I’d love you all to give her a huge, loving welcome!”

  The people in the room either gave me a shy wave or uttered a timid ‘hi’. The teacher boomed, “Welcome, Jill! My name is Celia and the rest of the group will eventually emerge from their shells and introduce themselves!” she strode over to me and took my elbow. “Class, grab the work you were doing before the festivities and pick up from where you left off, will you? I need a few minutes with Jill to get her settled!”

  The class silently dispersed to various parts of the workshop and Celia towed me over to something that looked like an ancient and tatty wheel of fortune lying on its back.

  “Have you ever plied clay before, Jill?” she boomed at me. “Have you yet to experience the sensuous pleasure of creating art from very substance of Mother Earth?”

  Oh, for the love of Pete; where the fuck have I put myself? “Um, no Celia. I haven’t... where’s Jackie?” I looked towards the door in the hope that she’d walk in and we could then begin to have a quiet laugh about all this.

  Celia swept the room with her eyes. “It doesn’t look as if she’s here today,” she swept them back to me. “So! Are you ready to begin the experience?”

  She grabbed my right hand and plonked something cold, heavy and wet into my palm. “Here, squeeze that.”

  I stared at the lump of dirty grey clay in my hand and tried to make a fist but I couldn’t. Either I was a wussey weakling or this lump was disguising a stone and Celia was having a laugh.

  “Go on! really really squeeze it!” she pressed my left hand on top of the lump. “Explore the texture, its pliancy, its cool, earthly comfort!”

  I really, really tried but I really, really couldn’t.

  Celia grabbed a lump for herself and began to stroke it as if she was holding a tiny kitten in her hand. She sat on a tiny stool and put her foot under the wheel and began to pump it up and down, and the wheel started to spin; slowly and laboriously at first, but it gradually built up a whirring speed. “Can you see the red disc in the middle?” she pointed to the centre of the wheel and I nodded. She dipped her free hand into a bowl of water that was sitting on a low table beside the wheel and extended the water over wheel, working from the inside out as it spun. She then proclaimed, “That’s where you aim!” and she splattered the kitten onto the red disc.

  I jumped; I couldn’t help it as it really was as if she’d splattered an animal on the wheel. The dirty grey colour made it look like a tiny, dead foetus.

  “Now, Jill; can you see how the clay is perfectly centred?” I could. “That’s how you begin! If it isn’t perfectly centred,” she dipped both hands in the bowl of water and covered the clay with them. “You can’t transform Mother Earth into art.”

  I watched as Celia pulled the clay up into a tube about three inches high, then gently pressed her thumbs into the middle and made an indentation, all the while pumping the wheel with her foot and occasionally dipping one hand or the other into the bowl of water. It was fascinating, I had to admit, and it didn’t look that complicated.

  “Now,” Celia stopped pumping and slowed the wheel down with her hand, grabbed a piece of wire and deftly sliced her pot off the wheel. “You try!” and with that, she strode away and left me, the wheel and the clay alone to get cosy.

  The clay in my hand felt as if it was sweating. I couldn’t blame it; I was about to hurl it at a spinning wheel and splat it and mould it into a pot-thing. I’d be sweating if I were in its place.

  I sat down and fiddled under the wheel with my toe, trying to find the thing that pumped it. I touched a strip of wood and it
shivered a little, so I pumped and the wheel made an attempt at turning. I pressed and released in quick succession, and it gradually built up speed until it hit warp II. Okay; I pushed my hand up to shoulder height, and prepared to hurl the clay, shot-put style but downwards.

  The clay went flying towards the wheel and missed the red circle, clung to the edge of the wheel for a tentative moment, then spun off and slammed against the raised side that surrounded the wheel. I leaned over and tried to scoop up the lump of clay, but the wheel was spinning so fast that it whipped my hand away with such a force that I let go of the lump and it hit the bowl of water and sent it flying before ending up in a heap of splat on the floor.

  Fuck.

  “Don’t worry, Jill!” Celia waved from across the room. “Grab another lump of Mother Earth’s child and try again!”

  Oh, that’s just bloody great; not only does the stuff remind me off splatted road-kill, but the daft bitch had now firmly implanted the image of splatted foetal road-kill into my head.

  At last, after the fifth attempt, my clay hit the target. I have to say I felt chuffed, and pumped the air with my fists and whispered ‘Yes!’ to myself.

  “Don’t just let it sit there! Make contact!” shouted Celia.

  Right.

  I dipped my hands in the bowl I’d refilled and cupped them over the clay. I must have grabbed