‘So it’s always been a self-medication?’ Dr Brink peers at me through his glasses.
My mind flashes through my life from the farm to now. I guess I’d still pinched Mom’s gin at home because I was lonely and it made me feel better. Perhaps I was also scared deep inside about Dad and the ANC? Everything got so tense after the Soweto riots. Burning petrol and rubber jumps back to my mind. I rub shaky fingers across my forehead. I can’t deal with that yet. I swallow and force my mind back to the Karoo farm. ‘In my childhood, yes, I guess so.’
‘And your adulthood? Has your loneliness remained?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m close to my sisters now.’
The air in the room grows thick and hot. I blink rapidly and clench my jaw.
‘I know it’s painful but if you don’t face things, you’ll still want to numb yourself with alcohol. It’s really important that we peel off the layers.’
The iron stench of blood rises back into my mind. The memory’s so strong it clogs my nostrils. Oh God. I retch. I gulp at the hot air and place my head between my trembling hands. ‘I don’t feel too well, Dr Brink,’ I mutter. ‘I think I need some air.’
‘Here, have some water.’ He offers me a glass from the side table. I swallow down a small sip. He clears his throat and stares intently at me. ‘We’ll stop there for now. It’ll get better … just persevere.’
I give a small nod and take another shaky sip of the water. My stomach’s alive with caterpillars and my hands feel like water. I don’t know if I can deal with this. I don’t want to relive that time again. I don’t think I can.
Dr Brink’s calm tone breaks into my panic. ‘You’ve got an art class next which should be fun and then there’s some free time to relax and chat. I’ll see you out.’
I get up in silence and move on shaky legs to the door. It clicks closed and I lean against it, gulping down some air. I’ve got to keep to the childhood part … the roots must be there. I can’t deal with what came later.
I force my mind away from the dark past and walk with a stiff back into the art class. Dad always said I had guts. I mustn’t let myself break down in front of everyone. I have to keep a grip.
Helen has gathered the other patients in a semi-circle. She’s dressed in a white T-shirt, jeans and a calico apron instead of her nurse’s uniform. I pull down the sides of my mouth as my eyes walk over her. She looks at least ten years younger and quite pretty despite her cabbage-patch face. I didn’t realise her hair was that long or that blonde.
She looks up and gives me a broad smile. I flick my hair from my face and return the favour with a half-smile. Karlos moves to the side to make room for me to join the circle.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper as I stand next to him. I set my face and focus on Helen. Alison looks at me with hooded eyes from across the circle. I smile at her but her face remains frozen in intense anxiety. She twists her hands in front of her and jerks her head. There’s another patient standing next to her. He’s thin with grey-tinged black hair and looks like he’s about forty. He’s got a peaked face, thin nose and round eyes which dart around the room and flicker up and down in short starts making him look like a rook. We make eye contact. His head jerks back. An adrenalin surge prickles through me. Does he know me? Is he from the medical world? I look away as my cheeks grow hot. My eyes blur. I’m an educated person. How did I let myself get to this?
‘Melissa, this is George,’ says Helen, pointing to the man. ‘He arrived with Nic and Wolf, but wasn’t well yesterday, however I’m pleased he’s feeling better today.’ She beams at him while he looks down and shuffles his feet.
I still feel queasy as I take in the pockmarked face and ravaged addict look. ‘Hello, George,’ I mumble. He’s really quite repulsive. I don’t know why I thought he could be a doctor; must’ve been the grey-tinged hair.
George shuffles his feet and looks down. ‘Howzit?’ he croaks in a thin, rasping voice.
‘We’re doing some pottery today,’ says Helen, looking at each of us in turn. ‘I’ll demonstrate and then you can all have a go. Put on your aprons; we’re about to get deliciously messy.’ She rubs her hands together in glee.
I tie my apron around my waist and glance up at Karlos. He catches my eye and smiles. For some strange reason his presence calms me. It must be his earthiness.
‘Okay. You can all come and help yourselves to clay and find a wheel.’
Karlos is the first to grab a wad of the red sticky clay. He squashes it between his palms and then smells it. ‘Just like my farm,’ he says, before breaking into a wide grin.
I take a wad and press my fingers into it. I hold it up to my nose and sniff. He’s right. It smells just like damp earth. If I close my eyes I could be right back at the Karoo.
Karlos breaks some off his clay. ‘That’s too little … here,’ he says, handing me a blob. His hand rests for a second on mine. He moves closer so that our thighs almost touch. I can feel the heat from his body, smell his aftershave, which I think is Old Spice, and hear the faint rasp of his breath flowing in and out. A flicker of excitement rises deep in my belly and tingles down my thighs. I keep my face firm as I press my fingers into the clay. I must watch myself. The last thing I need is to start down that road again, but I guess at least it’s a distraction from exploring my raw onion layers. I squish my fingers deeper and roll the clay between my palms before breaking some off to form a small ball.
Karlos watches with an amused smile as I pinch it underneath so that four little legs emerge. I push and prod until I’ve got a head, two small ears and a cotton-wool tail. Karlos lifts his eyebrows appreciatively. I look up and smile. ‘I used to make plasticine sheep when I was little; my aunt’s got a sheep farm in the Karoo.’
Karlos takes the sheep from me and examines it. ‘The Karoo’s boere’s land and this is a very good sheep; you must be a farmer at heart, like me.’
He emphasises the last two words and looks me straight in the eyes. My thighs grow hot. I bite down on my lower lip. Shit, his masculine energy is strong. Karlos is looking down on me with a cheeky expression as if waiting for my answer. ‘I had a good holiday there.’ I cringe as I say the words. My voice sounds husky; I hope he doesn’t read anything into it.
‘Nice,’ says Karlos. ‘All that space … a man can breathe.’
I nod. ‘It’s got a rugged beauty.’ I turn away as my cheeks grow hot. Shit, I mustn’t let him see me blushing. What the hell’s wrong with me? He’s not my usual type. I don’t even know why I’m feeling like this.
‘If you could all just watch me for a second, please,’ says Helen. ‘I’ll show you how to mould the neck of your pots.’
I purse my lips together and feel a twinge of envy deep in my belly as I watch her whirling hands. She looks like she’s completely in control as she spins it around, wetting it periodically and easing it expertly upwards, shaping it only seconds later into a perfect pear. She strokes the clay with wet hands and then picks up a reed and draws a zig-zag pattern around the base and top. ‘You might want to look at some of the Ndebele artwork over there.’ She points towards some framed photographs of African huts painted in geometrical shapes of bright primary red, yellow and blue. ‘There are some paints and brushes as well as stencils over here and afterwards we will glaze them.’ She completes her pattern and picks up a finished pot from a side shelf. ‘This is what they’ll look like when we’ve painted them. Very bright and cheerful.’
Hattie sneers and begins anxiously rubbing her wad of clay between her hands as if we’re in some kind of race.
‘Right, now place the clay around your wheel and then hold and shape it as it spins. I’ll come around and help.’
‘It’s okay, I know how to make a pot,’ says Hattie, throwing clay on her wheel and starting to spin it. Her hands pat up and down in short slaps and I have to admit she does look like she knows what she’s doing.
I pick up the rest of my clay and squash it around my sheep. I pat the clay around the wheel and begin spinning. Some of the clay splatters off and I have to stop it and start again. I notice Hattie eyeballing me. Stupid bitch. Why does she always have to be so competitive? I concentrate with narrow eyes and wrap my hands around the whirling wheel, patting and dabbing it like Helen had done. A surprised smile slides across my face as the long neck of my pot stretches up from its bulbous base. It’s taking shape and it’s actually looking quite good. I dab my hands with more water and hold them gently around the spinning wheel. Amazingly, I’m making a decent pot and it’s the first time I’ve ever done pottery. Maybe I have a hidden talent I didn’t know about, and it’s fun.
‘Good job,’ says Helen, ‘keep your hands where they are and then gently slide some more of the clay up.’
I do as she says and watch my pot settle into a firm pear shape, albeit the long neck’s a little phallic looking. Helen pats me on the shoulder and moves over to help Alison who’s just standing in front of her wheel with her head down with her knuckles white around the unused wad of clay.
‘Let me help you,’ says Helen gently, taking the clay from her and rolling it into a ball.
Hattie looks away from her pot for a second and calls to Karlos in a sneering tone. ‘You not helping Alison today? I thought you were so pally with her before.’
Karlos tenses and glares from behind his rather lopsided pot. ‘I was being kind,’ he snaps. ‘Helen is helping her this time.’
Hattie snorts. ‘Ja, I’m sure you were.’ She pauses and narrows her eyes at Karlos. ‘You going to help Melissa now?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ says Karlos, screwing up his face in a snarl. ‘Melissa doesn’t need my help.’
‘You go fuck yourself,’ says Hattie, throwing her nose in the air and turning back to her wheel. ‘Your pot’s wonky anyways.’
‘Just ignore the bitch,’ mutters Karlos, throwing some more clay onto his wheel in one angry spurt. His jawline jitters as he clenches his hand around the clay and begins spinning.
‘Right, I think let’s all just concentrate on our pots and if you need help, call me. I’m going to stay with Alison.’ Helen motions to Hattie who has finished spinning. ‘That looks great, Hattie. Why don’t you do some patterns now and then you can paint and glaze later.’
‘Ja, okay, but I want to do some circles, not those black people shapes.’
Helen says nothing in reply while Hattie stands with a smirk on her face surveying her pot which is perfectly round with a short, fat neck.
‘Hey, good pot,’ says Wolf, leaving his wheel and sidling up to her. ‘I think you must come help me before you do your patterns. Mine keeps falling over.’
Hattie grins. ‘Agh, maybe you should start again. Come, let me show you.’ She takes the clay off the wheel and rolls it between her hands. ‘Now, you must throw like this.’ She slaps the clay onto the spinning wheel and begins to mould it.
‘Hey, you’re good. Where did you learn to make pots like this?’
‘Agh, I did a pottery class when I was younger. Me and my friend made much better pots than the kaffir pots.’
Wolf splutters out an ugly laugh, sending saliva spraying out around him. ‘Ja, anything will be better than those.’
They both turn and give me a sideways glance. I clench my teeth and concentrate on my spinning wheel. They can both go fuck themselves. I’m not rising to the bait.
‘Agh, ignore them,’ whispers Karlos.
‘I am. No point even giving people like that the time of day. They really are the scum of the earth,’ I whisper.
‘Well said,’ says Karlos. He looks back at his wheel. ‘I think mine is looking a bit better now.’
I look over at his pot. It’s still leaning to the side but has certainly improved. ‘Much better,’ I say and he puffs up with pride at my praise.
Hattie stands back from Wolf’s pot. ‘There, you see. Now it looks strong.’ She gives him a sideways smile with a glint in her eyes, while Wolf straightens his shoulders and sticks out his bloated stomach. He gives her a blackened smile. ‘Ja, much better. Good job, Hattie. I owe you one.’
He gives her a wink. I turn away. He makes me want to vomit, but obviously not Hattie. What a pair!
‘Agh, no!’ Karlos steps back and shakes his head as he looks at his pot which has suddenly fallen over on one the side. ‘What’s happened?’ I move to look at it from the back.
‘Don’t worry, it looks okay from this angle.’ We look at each other and laugh.
‘You’re too kind.’
‘How about mine?’ asks Nic, giving me a wink and looking back at his pot, which he’s been working on in silence, although I’ve caught him twice giving me sideways glances and scowling when I was with Karlos. His effort’s not bad with a tall, slim pot and a narrow opening. It’s much straighter than Karlos’ one.
‘Very professional,’ I say. ‘I’m impressed.’
Nic flicks back his blond fringe and his face breaks out in a wide smile. He looks down at his pot with his hands on his hips like a proud two-year-old who’s just been praised by his teacher. ‘Thanks. I think I’ll attempt a Ndebele pattern now.’
‘Good idea,’ I say, turning away with a smile. Nic and Karlos look like they’ve eaten a pot of cream. Both little boys yearning for some positive attention.
Helen has given up on Alison and is now helping George who looks uncomfortable and anxious as she helps him hold the spinning clay. It’s obvious neither George nor Alison are enjoying this at all.
‘Okay, well done everyone. I want you to now make some patterns and then later on we’ll give them a paint. We’ll glaze them tomorrow, put them in the kiln and then you can collect them later. They’re yours to keep.’
I go over and study the bright geometrical patterns of the Ndebele huts. They are really beautiful. I take up a thin steel rod and try and copy the pattern on the top and base of my pot.
‘That looks really good,’ says Helen, coming over to inspect. ‘Once you paint it, it’ll look like a genuine Ndebele work of art.’
‘Brilliant. I love their artwork. They have such an innate talent.’ I address my words at Hattie who sneers and turns away. I complete the pattern and have to admit that pottery class, with the exception of having Hattie and Wolf around, has been great and at least it took my mind away from the painful onion layers for a while. Perhaps Helen was right. I do feel a bit better today.