The Paradise Stain. Nick Glade-Wright

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the dissolution of self,’ Mungo had argued, more protectively of himself when they’d first decided to live together. It was as much to do with the idea of Melinda earning money as a teacher whilst he struggled with his musical creativity, and knowing how her father thought of him as not contributing financially. It used to bother him each time he drove off to the studio.

      Melinda and Mungo had devised their own union ritual, inviting family and close friends, and had made promises to try harder to understand the other person when things inevitably got bogged down. In the meantime they wanted to show the people they cared about how much they loved each other at this particular point in time. How long it would last was not the issue but getting pleasure from the moment. To begin with, Barry had thought the whole thing nebulous and hippy, but to his surprise it seemed to be working.

      This morning Melinda thought the concept of having a husband gave her a bit more clout. This woman looks as if she could hold her own in any bar fight, she thought as her neighbour approached. For now the term husband would be adopted as a protective mechanism.

      ‘Yeah, I seen ’im. Is ’e a poof or summit? Never seen a bloke wearing red trousers neither. Talks funny too.’

      It was impossible to take offence at Lippy’s manner. She was unpretentious and authentic, Melinda observed, like so many of her students at the Polytechnic who’d also been scraped from the same mold. Melinda relaxed a little and smiled.

      ‘My husband’s just one of these arty types, a muso,’ Melinda replied lightheartedly, lifting her eyebrows to give the impression she was siding with Lippy. Better to deal with an ally than an assailant was her rule number one when dealing with difficult students.

      A turbulent existence had clearly stunted this woman’s formal schooling and her remark was simply about a man she had observed being unlike anyone she had experienced before.

      That’s all. Melinda’s grandfather had advised against any form of backchat if they were to get on in this jungle. He should know. He had been as much a fixture in the area as the street signs, most of which were unreadable because of graffiti. A bit like the old man himself, she’d often thought.

      As Lippy entered the living area and began looking around with wide, inquisitive eyes, Melinda speculated about whether the woman’s frown was ingrained or whether she was concentrating on the objects to judge if there was anything of value worth stealing at some later date.

      Lippy suddenly snorted with bewilderment. ‘Jeez, you got a pianna!’

      ‘Mungo gives lessons to some young children on Thursdays.’ She smiled outwardly. ‘They can go on a bit. You know, a bit hard on the ears. Might be a good day for you to do your shopping!’ she added slightly apologetically but trying to be conversational.

      ‘Thas if fuckin’ Cenna Link giz us what’s owin’. Tryna get money outa three fuckin’ fathers is … ’ Lippy stopped, puffed air, clearly sick and tired of banging on about them. ‘Better go, eh? Cute kid. My other two are probably tryna burn the fuckin’ house down, little bastards. Nice to meetcha, Mel. See yas round. Bring pianna man round for a drink sometime, eh?’

      ‘I’ll let him know. Bye then.’

      She could quite understand why Lippy had such a nick name. Rosie had fallen asleep in Melinda’s arms, snug in the thick white bath towel. Melinda kissed her daughter’s forehead. She looked so content, so serene, so … not wanting to meet the neighbour. ‘I know your trick, you little poppet. If only we adults had that sort of audacity.’

      Rosie, too young to go to crèche quite yet, adored these Mondays with Mrs Gorski, as much a loved member of the family now. And Melinda, unlike most of the staff at the Polytechnic, also loved Mondays because first up she had a free line, giving herself time to prepare the pottery studio for her Licorice class at ten, filled with Allsorts of odd bods.

      Yetta Gorski, stocky, smooth leathery face with a strong jaw line, a mother of five, now grown up men, exuded warmth and a selflessness that had been fashioned out of privation. Her late husband Leszek, once a miner on the West Coast, who departed his dusty world with an incurable lung infection, left her early to raise their brood on her own. She never remarried, she never complained. Now that her boys had flown the coup her ingrained need to nurture was even stronger.

      Melinda would fantasise about getting Yetta together with her father whenever he became maudlin. Complete opposites she knew, but it was the pampering he could have done with. And Rosie, well, she became the sweetest granddaughter Yetta Gorski still didn’t have from her boys.

      Yetta, dead on time, came bustling into the house carrying a cane basket containing her knitting, a dogeared Romance novel and two bottles of home brewed beer for Mungo. She hadn’t been able to give up the practice of brewing even though her lads had disappeared interstate to the WA mines. She always had a few bottles in the fridge for their returns. When Rosie had her naps, Yetta found peaceful escape in books whilst knitting at the same time, an action that had become a wholly automatic function of her anatomy.

      ‘Hi Yetta. Rosie’s gone back to sleep. Don’t think she was too impressed with the woman next door.’ She chuckled. ‘Just sauntered right in to introduce herself to us. I’m sure she’s not a danger but just for a while I’d keep the front door closed.’

      ‘Yes, I will keep my eyes wide.’

      But there was something about the woman, an inclination for violence maybe? Exacerbated by the brazen way she talked about her own children, and even Mungo? Or am I just prejudiced? Melinda wondered. She’s pretty scary with those tattoos round her neck and arms, and that voice.

      ‘I’d better get these breakfast things cleaned up before our young lady is demanding my full attention. Now you get your self off to those little terrors at school,’ Yetta said firmly.

      ‘Little! If only. Most of the boys tower over me. I’ve got the class of regular kids mixed with the special needs today. It really is like a mad house sometimes.’

      ‘But you couldn’t do without it; is that right?’

      Melinda just smiled.

      Attending the School of Art had been an exasperating time for Melinda. Whenever she opened the kiln door after a firing, and the magic of metamorphosis was revealed, her highly anticipated creations never seemed to come out as she’d wished.

      She had dreamed of having a career as a ceramicist, exhibiting her highly acclaimed textural slab built constructions in swish galleries. But ceramics was a competitive field and the cost of setting up kilns and workshop at home was prohibitive, so teaching became a realistic alternative. Not completely letting go of her dream she kept her hand in by demonstrating techniques to her students.

      One day, she kept reminding herself.

      It wasn’t always simple at college, now a polytechnic, some thing else later no doubt. In the last couple of years classroom teaching had become more complex and arduous with the addition of special needs students to the mainstream classes. And on top of that there were more qualified art teachers than available positions, so Melinda found herself in front of Home Economics classes for half her time. Cook’n to the students.

      She took pleasure from the fact that both her subjects were about mixing ingredients, ovens and metamorphosis. Melinda told Mungo she was an alchemist where basic elements, like mud or flour, could be transformed into astounding creations. She hoped her students would transform СКАЧАТЬ