ANNIE TURNER

by Richard Banks 

Annie was not in love, of that she was sure. Love was something that happened to young people, other people’s children, not a forty something woman married to a man twenty years her senior. She had once loved her husband and the embers of that love still remained, but only the embers, the excitement, and passion were gone. She told herself that love was unimportant, just a phase, the consequence of a biological process soon to expire.

 

    She had much to be thankful for, a comfortable existence, a tolerant, undemanding husband, and yet life seemed lacking, incomplete. She was only halfway through her life and yet it seemed over. Other women of her age had the consolation of children. She had none. Her life was empty, without purpose. There had to be more, she reasoned. She needed more.

 

    Had she been able to define the ‘more’ she so desperately sought, a solution to her unhappiness might readily have been found. The absurdity of her situation appalled her. How could she find what she lacked, if she didn’t know what it was? Where should she be looking? Would she know ‘it’, if she saw ‘it’?

    To her surprise, the answers to all these questions were waiting for her at the Lambeth College of Further Education. Her enrolment there for pottery classes was merely intended to fill her Monday mornings, her highest expectation was that she would make a half-decent vase. Then, the mystery of ‘it’ was solved.   

    ‘It’ was six foot, two inches tall, twenty-six years old, with the complaisant good looks of someone well used to admiring glances. ‘It’ was Mario, the potter, their tutor, made in Napoli and temporarily seconded to the college under a teacher exchange program.

    He had come, he said, “to improve his English and to teach the art of pottery, the Neapolitan way.” He smiled broadly at this revelation and paused as if inviting a round of applause. Contenting himself with the nervous simpers of some of the younger ladies in the class, he proceeded to expound the “ancient mystery” of Neapolitan pottery in a peculiar fusion of several languages that rendered the mystery safe from discovery.

    Mario concluded his discourse with an expansive wave of a muscular arm and asked his audience if they had any questions. “You ask, I answer,” he added, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the questioning process.

    Annie had several questions that she thought best kept to herself. She wondered if the tattoo on his upper arm extended onto his shoulder and why a man with such a luxuriant head of thick, curly hair had none on his chest. While her view of his chest was restricted by the buttoning of his shirt, the pedant that hung from his neck appeared to be resting against nothing more than smooth, brown skin. Perhaps, he shaved it like he shaved his chin, she conjectured, or maybe he ….  Her train of thought was abruptly halted by the sound of Mario’s voice.

    “Mrs Turner, you have question?”

    She adjusted her gaze upwards to find Mario’s dark brown eyes gazing quizzically into hers.  She realised this was the time for quick thinking. She needed a question, a really good question, preferably something about pottery, something that would impress him, attract his interest. “Will we be using real clay?” she said. The alarm bells in her head told her this was not enough. “I mean, I mean… will we be using the real clay of Neapolitan Italy?” Yes, that’s it, she thought, that will do. The stares of her fellow students suggested that it did not.

    Mario, however, appeared to be giving the question serious consideration. A troubled expression clouded his face. He took a deep breath and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I ask same question. How can you make Neapolitan pot without Neapolitan clay, but man up the stairs say too expensive, we have clay, London clay, use that. It not the same I tell him, but he no listen. What can I do? How do I teach you the Neapolitan way? It no possible, yes?”

    Annie attempted to shake and nod her head at the same time. Finding the sensation unpleasant she decided to use her voice. “No possible, absolutely,” she said. “I mean, you can’t make a cake without eggs.” She pulled a face to further express her disapproval.

    Mario reflected on the relevance of the cake and eggs. Fearing his students were about to desert him for the cookery class next door, he flung out his hands in a desperate appeal for their support. “It will not be easy. You think it not be done, so do I, but we try. We try together, yes?”

    Annie managed to suppress a whoop of approval. Wow, she thought. What an emotive subject pottery is. Who would have thought it? This was her road to Damascus moment, a call to arms, her chance to attempt the impossible, to upset the odds and come through triumphant. On second thought, if that wasn’t worth a whoop what was? The exuberant cry that escaped her lips was echoed by several other ladies. The single male student was unmoved and looked wistfully at the door.

    Mario observed the animated faces of his students and concluded they would be continuing in the class. He seemed near to tears. “You make me very happy. I make you happy. After tea break, we make pots together. Good pots, strong pots. You and me together, yes?”

    Annie felt a pleasant little shiver pass through her body, she curled up her toes to stop it escaping. Pottery with Mario was obviously going to be an experience not to be missed. She pictured herself at the potter’s wheel with Mario reaching around her to steady the pot she had started, but which was teetering out of control. His hands on her hands, guiding them, caressing them, as the pot again spun with symmetrical precision.

    Her daydream was interrupted by the realisation that the other ladies were filing out the door en-route to the canteen. She rose to join them. Mario stood by his desk, waiting to lock the room. He was smiling, looking towards her. Was he thinking what she hoped he was thinking?

    “Mrs Turner,” he said, as the last lady left the room. “Thank you for what you say. It is good you are so enthusiastic. Maybe you also interested in this?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twice folded slip of paper, which he pressed into her hand. “We talk later, yes?”

    Annie smiled what she hoped was an assured, sophisticated smile. Play it cool, she thought, as blood came rushing to her cheeks. She retreated to the ladies’ toilet and locked herself in one of the cubicles. For a few moments she dared not look at the scrap of paper she was clasping in a clammy hand. What had he written? She took a deep breath, unfolded it and discovered a leaflet, with Mario’s name in bold capitals. There was smaller lettering below. She held it up, until all the printed words were in focus. ‘Mario Pozzuoli’, she read, ‘Personal Services for the Sensual Woman - discreet and confidential.’ At first she was horrified, then embarrassed. She pulled down the lid of the toilet seat and sat down.

    Annie stared blankly at the cubicle door and then again at Mario’s leaflet. She wondered if he also provided services for disconcerted women. The thought raised a smile, then a giggle.

    “The young rascal,” she murmured. Whatever made him think she would be interested in… The thought remained unfinished. Of course she was interested. Hadn’t she been drooling over him like a teenage groupie. So the young man’s favours came at a price. What didn’t? Could she blame him. Could she blame herself if she… That pleasant little shiver returned. She had only to say yes. Why not? she thought. It would not be love, of course, but who needed love, it had let her down too many times. The emotional helter-skelter was no longer for her. She needed something steadier, uncomplicated. A chance to play, to take pleasure without the lows that love always brought. She slipped Mario’s leaflet into her handbag. For the first time in a long time she knew what she wanted, what she needed, nothing could be plainer.

    Annie joined her fellow students in the canteen. She bought a coffee and sat down beside a woman she had spoken to at the beginning of the class. Mario was there, seeking eye contact, waiting for her to communicate her agreement with a knowing smile or an unobtrusive nod of her head. She decided to keep him waiting until the end of the class. How good it felt to be in control.

Copyright Richard Banks