‘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 similarly, emerging from their grey and sticky capsules triumphantly as brightly coloured winged creatures. Another dream she endeavoured to keep alive.
‘They’ve all got character, Yetta, and most are shameless when expressing themselves. A bit like our Lippy next door! One lad’s in a wheel chair as he has cerebral palsy. Mason he works the chair with one withered claw of a hand controlling the steering knob. I kid you not but the other day I was setting the kiln temperatures, the rest of the class had gone to a break, and bold as brass he wheeled alongside the drying bench and with his other hand managed to swipe two or three drying pieces of work belonging to other students onto the floor.’
‘Mm, that seems shameless enough. How do you discipline that?’
Melinda shrugged. ‘No idea really. Most people treat him as if he’s invisible because they don’t want to feel uncomfortable communicating with him.’ She smiled naughtily. ‘He can sound a bit like a mating whale. So the other kids make empty platitudes, then move away. It’s not easy, and can be very frustrating, but he’s had a lifetime of being alienated simply because of other people’s social embarrassment. It doesn’t seem fair to be born with that sort of life sentence.’
‘Possibly his special need is to get the rage out of his system, hence the pot smashing.’
‘For sure. The depressing thing is that it’s hard to tell who’s neediest sometimes. Autism, Asperger’s, Down syndrome, they all require specific ways of interaction, but it’s the so called normal mainstream ones, real deadshits some of them, excuse my French, who have no physical or mental disability that cause the most trouble and are hardest to deal with. And we teachers are the jugglers trying to keep all their different needs airborne at the same time.’
‘For you I should sew one of those pointy hats with bells on!’ Yetta laughed. ‘But