Free Life Class by Gilli Allan Page A

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