Limestone and Clay (9 page)

It's a relief to enjoy work again, to experience enthusiasm in her fingers for the feel of the clay and for what she can make it be. And once Iris has gone, once she has some ideas, a few sketches, she can work speechlessly. All the energy will be in her fingers, the thought and the decision she will trust to their sense.

She sees the lump of clay in the bin as a lump of possibility today. She only has to get Iris over with. Why use Iris? Why not her own self? But she has asked now, and Iris was eager, flattered to be asked.

When the kiln had cooled she'd opened the door to find only a couple of casualties: a mug and a mask both cracked, but the other items are lined up ready for the glaze. And there is no rush.

A ten o'clock Iris arrives. She wears a black-fringed red silky shawl over her brown skirt and cardigan. ‘What do you think?' she says, turning round as she enters to give Nadia the full effect.

‘Nice.'

‘Might as well look the part as not.' Iris throws it over her shoulder. ‘This afternoon,' she adds, ‘I'm seeing about my hair.'

‘Do you want coffee?' Nadia asks, ‘or shall we get straight on?'

‘Depends if you're paying by the hour,' Iris says. Her voice is smiling, trying to ingratiate. Nadia looks away.

‘I'll give you a fiver this morning,' she says. ‘It probably won't even be an hour. Is that OK?'

She leads her into the studio. ‘If you sit there,' she indicates the chair she's placed by the window, ‘and take off your shoes and … are you wearing tights?'

‘Stockings,' Iris says.

‘I thought everyone wore tights these days.'

‘Give me claustrophobia in my you-know,' Iris replies, hauling up her skirt and fiddling with a pink suspender button. ‘Wouldn't have put them on if I'd known …' she grumbles under her breath. She peels off the stocking and hangs it over the arm of the chair. The stretched foot dangles coyly, toes turned in. ‘Cold in here,' she remarks. ‘You ought to get yourself a bit of carpet.'

‘Can you imagine cleaning the clay off it?'

‘That's a point.'

‘The heater'll come on in a minute.'

‘Wouldn't say no to a coffee, since you ask,' Iris says, sitting heavily down.

‘OK.' Nadia goes into the kitchen to make her one.

‘I went to university, you know,' Iris says when she returns.

‘Really?' Nadia hands her her coffee.

‘That's surprised you. Had me down as thick, didn't you?'

‘No, not at all,' Nadia says, but she
is
surprised. ‘You're one up on me, then,' she says. ‘I went to art school. What did you read?'

‘English. At Leeds. But I didn't stick it. Only stayed till the first Christmas, not my cup of tea. Fish out of water, me. I like books, reading, all that … but they are only books, aren't they, duck? Got it all out of proportion there they had. There was a kerfuffle when I left – after all the effort it took to get there – Dad none too pleased. And then I met Leonard.'

Nadia has picked up her pencil and is roughly sketching the position of Iris's foot, which rests tensely on the low stool as she talks.

‘Leonard?'

‘My first husband. Lovely man, gentle, generous … Had this feeling about him, broken head line, bad sign however you read it. Sign of early death. But couldn't help myself. Couldn't wait either – and I was bloody right as it turned out.'

‘What happened?'

‘Third anniversary, crushed by a ton of cod at Grimsby Harbour.'

‘Oh dear …' Nadia feels an alarmed smile jump to her face.

‘It's all right, it does sound comical. He'd had
his
chips …'

‘Iris!' Nadia looks at her. Is she joking? Again there is an enigmatic glitter in her eyes.

‘Well, you have to laugh,' she says. ‘Never regretted it – leaving university I mean, marrying Leonard. Better to have loved and lost than …'

‘And now there's Derek.'

‘Yes, well …' Iris sighs. She leans forward. ‘Sorry about yest –' she begins.

‘Can you keep still?' Nadia asks.

‘Only I
do
know …'

‘I need to concentrate.' Nadia keeps her eyes on Iris's foot.

There is silence for a moment and then the fan heater switches on.

‘Clever,' Iris remarks.

‘On a thermostat.'

Nadia sneaks a look at Iris's face. She has pressed her lips together, looking sad and perplexed, as if trying to come to some decision.

‘I'd rather not talk just for a moment, if you don't mind,' Nadia says. ‘Would you like the radio on?'

‘I'm all right, duck,' Iris replies. ‘You just carry on.'

Once Iris has gone, Nadia really works. She prepares the clay and then stops, regards it, a grey lump, a cold dead mass. And then she begins. She takes it between her hands and begins to work life into it. Energy and warmth flow through her fingers, press into the structure of the clay until it responds, until it almost begins to take responsibility for its own form, to communicate with her hands. She forgets the sketches she began with and becomes absorbed in the work, in the touch and the smell of the clay, often she closes her eyes as she squeezes and pinches and moulds, for her eyes are too intellectual, too literal. Her eyes bring words into her mind and it is not words she is after, it is a feeling, something there are no words for, a spontaneous rhythm.

She works for hours and it is hunger that brings her to. The form she has made is something like a foot. It is not literally a foot, but it has the tension of a foot about to run, a lifting, so that it seems reluctantly rooted to the bench. Or it could be a plant, a strange yearning shoot, but muscled. It is unlike anything she has ever done or seen. She is exhilarated by it, delighted and alarmed. She shivers. It is cold in the room, the heater has switched itself off again. There is a distant sunlit sheen outside in the world she has temporarily forgotten. Cars are travelling on the road, birds are sending out shrill slivers of sound, gradually the world edges back. Her neck aches, and her wrists. She shakes her hands and feels and hears the tiny clicking of her strained joints.

And here is this – thing – that she has made. The surface of the clay dulls as she watches, the first minute particles drying in the air. And if it works – if for anyone else it works – if it is art, then there need be no end to it. She could do it again. Could she do it again? The transformation of the ordinary – Iris's ordinary lumpish foot – into, what? Art? What's that? The ineffable? She snorts at her own pomposity.

The thing is puzzling to look at, but intriguing. Is it? Or is it simply nonsense? Nadia longs for fresh eyes. It has been part of her all day, there has been no distance. Perhaps it has always been part of her. So how can she tell? She rubs the drying clay between her fingers and thumbs. The doorbell rings. Impatiently and abstractedly, she goes to answer it. It is Celia.

‘Oh.' Nadia is caught off guard. ‘Simon's out,' she says. She runs her clayey fingers through her rough hair. She is wearing no make-up and she is filthy.

‘I know, I've come to see you, not Si,' Celia says.

‘I've been working …'

‘Have I interrupted?'

‘No. Just finished. Come in then,' Nadia says ungraciously, standing back to let Celia past. ‘Go into the kitchen. I'll just wash my hands.'

She throws a damp cloth over the thing, for is it finished, or not? And then she washes her hands, letting the water run scalding hot, glimpsing her unmade-up face and her messy hair in the clay-spattered square of mirror above the sink. She is not ready for company, not anybody, most certainly not Celia. She is annoyed to be interrupted, not from the work, which is finished for now, but from the underground river of thought, the almost-contact with her subconscious that a working day, that speechless hours, afford. It is particularly irritating that it is Celia who has barged in. Broken the mood. I should have sent her away, she thinks, shouldn't have answered the door. Should have looked through the spy-hole, and left her outside. But through her dislike is threaded a string of fascination. For Celia was Simon's lover. It is fascinating to try to see what Simon saw.

‘I've put the kettle on,' Celia says.

‘Fine. I'm having a sandwich. Want anything?' Celia shakes her head. Nadia slices bread and cheese and a tomato. ‘Sure? I'm starving.'

‘Working hard?'

‘All day.'

‘Found the point?'

‘What? Oh yes.' Nadia is surprised Celia remembers Sunday's trivial conversation. ‘Don't know about that. Maybe I've invented a new one. For myself I mean. I'm sculpting some … oh never mind.' Why should she explain what she's doing to Celia? And how can she explain? It would sound so bloody arty and pretentious and trite.

‘Sculpting? I thought you were a potter.' Nadia looks at her with sharp dislike. She notices how pale Celia looks, how there are shadows under her eyes. ‘Or is that the new point? Art instead of craft?'

‘Not exactly.' The kettle hisses and Nadia switches it off, spoons instant coffee into mugs. ‘Anyway, what do you want?'

‘Have you any sugar?' Celia asks, smiling wryly. ‘I've got a sudden craving for the stuff. White death.'

‘It'll have to be brown death,' Nadia says, bringing out an ancient, solid bag of muscovado. ‘Oh yes. Congratulations. Simon told me. You'll have to chip a bit of that off,' she adds, for Celia's teaspoon has met with resistance.

‘Thanks.' Celia sugars her coffee and Nadia sees the teaspoon trembling between her fingers.

She sits down opposite Celia and eats a mouthful of her sandwich. ‘God, I'm starving,' she says. Celia watches her. ‘So?' Nadia asks. ‘What do you want?' She corrects the brusqueness in her voice. There is no need to be quite so rude. ‘I mean you've never been to see me before. Only Simon.'

‘Well, yes, no. Is he still going tonight?'

‘I think so – Miles is a bit dubious. They'll decide at the last minute.'

‘Oh.' Celia looks wistful.

‘You
could
go,' Nadia says.

‘Oh no … even if I wasn't up the spout I wouldn't, what with the weather. Bloody headbangers. Men.'

Nadia frowns at her. This is not like Celia. Why does she seem so vulnerable? She doesn't even look particularly pretty today, sort of worn down and anxious.

‘I hope they don't go,' Celia says.

‘Is that what you've come to tell me?'

Celia sips her coffee and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘You said Simon told you? That I'm in the club?'

‘Yes.'

Celia takes a deep breath. ‘Is that all he told you?'

‘Yes. Why?' Celia's face is transfused with a tremulous resolve. Nadia's mouth goes suddenly dry. She puts down her sandwich. ‘Why?'

‘There's something I want to tell you,' Celia says. ‘I mean, not that it will make any difference to any of us. I just feel I have to tell you.'

‘What?' Nadia slides her hands under her thighs to stop them shaking. Outside a bicycle bell rings. She notices that her spider plant needs watering. ‘What?'

Celia's voice is defensive. ‘I don't see
why
it should make any difference.'

‘
What
?'

‘That Simon is the … the donor.'

‘Donor? What?' Nadia fends off the truth. She squeezes her eyes and sees sparkling darkness.

‘Well, the father; only biologically, of course …' Celia hesitates, looking frightened now. ‘You had no idea … no, I can see … I thought maybe …'

Nadia stares hard at the table, at the surface which is so ringed and pocked. Simon is always saying he will sand it. She pulls her hands out from under her thighs and examines the fingertips, which have paled to ivory. The patterns of her fingerprint, the intricate whorls and the hair-like lines, are grey with the faintest tracing of clay. They look like complex pebbles – agate perhaps. Something semi-precious. She slides her eyes down to see Celia's feet under the table, her black shoes, the hems of her jeans. ‘Donor?' she says. ‘Father?'

She remembers Simon's attitude the evening Celia had rung. How he had missed a beat, kept his back turned a moment too long.

‘I really thought you'd know,' Celia pleads. ‘Oh Christ, I've done it now. I thought you'd have guessed, or he'd have told you.'

Nadia looks at Celia as if hypnotised, watching the way her face moves, the muscles in her cheeks bunching and flattening as she speaks, her eyes widening and narrowing, the stretching of her lips … the moist tongue inside, the slight unevenness of her teeth. ‘It wasn't romantic,' she is saying, as if offering an excuse. ‘You should know that. I mean I admit I tried to make it, you know, nice, natural. I invited him to dinner, but he said no.'

‘With Dan too?' Nadia asks.

‘No! Si said no to dinner. Said that would make him feel unfaithful. Scrupulous Simon!' She gives a hard little laugh. ‘He came round on the day. The day I was ovulating … Did all that revolting knicker-gazing and temperature-taking for a few weeks to be sure. Rang him. Dan went out. Si came round. Had a drink. Hardly spoke. I mean we'd spoken earlier when I persuaded – well, asked: he hardly needed
persuading
.' She meets Nadia's eyes almost as if this is a collusion but Nadia snatches hers away. She realises she hasn't been breathing and forces breath all the way down inside her to fill her poor shocked flattened lungs.

‘We did it very quickly. Almost impersonally – no,
clinically
. We didn't even kiss. I didn't enjoy it, you should know that. It was something he did to me, like artificial respiration or something.'

‘Except it wasn't artificial.' Nadia's voice is husky.

‘Well, no. And as soon as we'd finished, well,
he'd
finished, he left. He didn't kiss me, not once. I lay in bed for ages, knees up, visualising the little buggers swimming up, egging them on …' She stops, waiting for Nadia to speak.