Free Life Class by Gilli Allan

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