Time moved slow for Godfrey, endless hours of nothingness. His wife had warned him that he was far too young to retire, but he hadn’t listened. And she had been right, again. He vowed, to himself, to heed her advice in the future.
“What you need is a hobby,” she said. “Something that will engage your brain and energise you, that will tap into your creative side.”
As she walked away, he heard her mutter, “and something that will get you out from under my feet.”
Godfrey had never been one for hobbies. His working life had been so busy he never managed to find time for meaningless pursuits. He tried to recall his childhood, wonderful carefree days, but they were so long ago. The only specific hobby he could recall was that he enjoyed playing with clay.
The smell came back to him as he thought about it, an earthy, moist, organic odour which filled his senses. His fingers could almost sense the slippery, malleable material between them. That was what he would do, he would make something from clay. His wife must have noticed the faraway look in his eyes.
“What are you dreaming about now?” she demanded.
Godfrey was engrossed in the idea of resuming his childhood pastime. He hadn’t noticed his wife return to the room.
“Oh, just a little project I have in mind dear. Heeding your advice – as always.”
“Well, very good, but don’t make a mess and remember to tidy up when you’re done. I don’t want to return to days of cleaning.
He had forgotten she was going away for a week. He couldn’t remember where or why. It wouldn’t do to admit this lapse of memory, it might be added to the list of his faults. And Godfrey suspected that list was far too long already.
“I hope you have a nice time dear.”
“Nice time? Have you forgotten where I’m going?”
“No dear, certainly not.”
His wife made a disapproving sound in her throat. She looked at him in a way that suggested he had already done something wrong.
“And don’t leave the washing up for me to do.”
“No dear.”
“And remember to eat. I know how forgetful you can be.”
“Of course not, my darling. I mean, of course I will, every day.”
Godfrey turned away from her. He hoped she hadn’t noticed the desperation which he knew was showing in his face. He still couldn’t remember where she was going.
“I’m sorry I can’t join you this time,” he ventured.
He thought that phrase might cover a multitude of occasions.
“When have you ever wanted to visit my mother?”
“I meant, I’m sorry I can’t be there to support you. She is such a…” Godfrey was lost for the correct word. He knew the relationship between his wife and her mother was fraught.
He heard her snort of disbelief, but she left without challenging him further.
A whole week without judgement. A week without trying to keep their home as neat as she liked it. A week of bliss. He heard the door click shut and knew he had seven days of freedom. Of course, he would have to tidy up before she returned, but that was a task he would worry about when the time came. He could leave it all to the end of the week, then do it in one burst, a much more efficient use of his time. Godfrey was a master of managing time, his work had been one of organisation and method.
Their house felt empty once he was alone. His wife insisted on calling it a mansion, and she was right, there were so many rooms. Having always lived in the same house; Godfrey knew they might still have the clay from his childhood. Nobody ever threw anything away. He and his wife were firm adherents to that maxim, waste not, want not. Indeed, he thought they might even be the originators of the phrase.
After searching through several barns and outbuildings, Godfrey found the clay. It was where he had last remembered using it all those years ago. The basement room had a pair of benches and all manner of odds and ends tucked away in cupboards. He peeled back the cloth covering a large tub, and his heart leapt. Someone had kept it covered with several layers of damp cloth to keep the clay moist. They were pale blue bedroom curtains from when he was young. Maybe he had done it. No matter, because when he peeled back the cloth, the clay was perfect.
Godfrey sank his fingers into the firm, squidgy material and smiled.
When a boy, he had fashioned all sorts of imaginary creatures. No pinch pots or soap dishes, no beads or bowls for him. Godfrey’s imagination had always been wild. But regardless how many models he made; he never found a suitable way to display them. Gathering dust on shelves was always, Godfrey thought, a sad ending for his creations.
An idea was gathering pace in his head. A way to recreate and display his work, something which would even impress his wife. He shook his head. Best not to get too carried away.
Godfrey dug two large handfuls of clay out of the chest and rolled them into a ball. There was no detailed plan in his head. Adding more and more clay, the ball grew until it filled half the bench. It was in danger of collapsing under its own weight. He needed a way to stop it from flattening on the base, thereby destroying its symmetry.
Looking around the workshop, he spotted a long pole and decided to poke it right through the middle. That way, he could suspend the whole thing between the two benches. It took him a while. The benches were heavy and determined to stay in their allotted places. With perseverance and tenacity, Godfrey manoeuvred them into position. The two ends of the pole lay on the two benches, his large ball of clay suspended in mid-air between them. He could spin it and get to every part of the surface, with ease, and there were no flattened surfaces.
Godfrey was pleased with his ingenious solution. He spun the pole, and the ball moved from one end of the bench to the other. He giggled at his ingenuity and almost let it roll off the end of the bench. Quite enough for one day, he decided. His hands were already tired from unaccustomed work. To stop the ball sagging while he rested, Godfrey tied a string round the pole and attached a small weight to it. As the weight descended, the pole slowly ran along the bench and kept his ball of clay in motion and regular in shape.
He had a glass of wine, a snack, and retired to bed. The washing up could wait.
When Godfrey woke, his thoughts immediately turned to his project. A simple breakfast and a large mug of tea set him up for the day.
The first thing he needed to do was rig some extra lights in the basement. He found a powerful lamp and carried it down with him, almost spilling his tea in the process. The basement had only one power socket, not a problem as he liked the light behind him when he worked. His bench was soon flooded with light. He allowed himself a smile.
The surface of the clay was wet from the cloths he had covered it with. He rigged some strings above the benches and hung the old curtains on them. They would prevent heaven knows what from dropping onto his work whenever he took a break.
He had left his ball of clay spherical and smooth. But now decided it needed some texture, some variation to catch the eye. He raised some areas by pinching them between his fingers. As he spun the pole, the moisture settled into the remaining, lower surfaces. It took on a rather pleasing look, Godfrey decided to go with his instinct.
The creatures he had created as a child were all different. He had taken great delight in the detail, forming hairs on the surface of some by the careful use of pointed tools. Others had scales or feathers. The ideas popped into his head unbidden. Godfrey had an eye for detail; he had always prided himself on that aspect of his craft.
For the next few days, Godfrey became so engrossed in his project, he lost all sense of time. He even forgot to eat, drink, and sleep. Had anyone been there to observe him, they might have thought he had taken leave of his senses.
There was a clock in his head, a sense of time running out. Godfrey was aware that his wife was due home any day. He wanted to finish his project and clear up any mess before she could reprimand him.
In his last few days of solitude, he completed all the details. Some worked out not quite the way he wanted, but some were better. In general, he was satisfied with his week’s work. His wife would doubtless also be pleased with his new hobby.
Time had indeed sped by and, as he was climbing the stairs from the basement, he heard his wife calling his name.
“Godfrey. Where are you?”
“Here dear,” he called as he mounted the stairs. “I’ve been pottering downstairs. Would you like to see what I’ve made?”
She sighed and shushed him ahead of her as they headed to the basement.
“The paint still needs to dry a little, but I’ve got the colours just right, very pleasing, I think. And there are a few details I’d like to tweak. But what do you think?”
Godfrey’s wife looked at his creation and sighed again.
“With a few last adjustments, it will come to life,” he said. “I thought we could put it in the corner of the living room.”
“And be tripping over that pole sticking out of it.”
“I could saw that off. It was only to help me while I was working on it.”
“I’ll think about it. But it doesn’t go with our decor. Have you given it a title.”
“I thought ‘Earth’ might be appropriate. It is made from clay, which is a type of earth.”
His wife shook her head. A judgement Godfrey knew wasn’t positive and one which wasn’t wise to challenge.
“Borrow my magnifying glass,” he suggested, “I think you’ll like some of the detail.s”
His wife sighed, and without much enthusiasm, took the glass and peered at his work.
“What are all those things crawling around on the surface?”
“They’re not crawling. They’re evolving.”
“I think it’s a bit creepy.”
Godfrey slumped on a stool, looked down at his hands, covered in bits of clay and flecks of paint.
“And why is so much of it blue?”
He explained that the clay had been wet and that those parts had sort of formed themselves. He pointed out that if she looked closely, she might be able to see things within the wet parts. But his wife had already put the magnifying glass down. She brushed some stray fragments of clay from her fingers and turned back to the stairs. His work had not gone down well.
“Did you do the washing up?” she asked.
He had only eaten two meals while she had been away. He had meant to wash the plates, but it must have slipped his mind.
“I’ll do them now, dear.”
“And can’t you find a hobby that’s a little less messy.” She said as she wiped her hands on the pale blue curtains, leaving smudges of grey and white on them.
Godfrey followed his wife back upstairs. He was disappointed that she didn’t share his enthusiasm. He wondered if he could find a hobby she might like. She was an avid reader and writing didn’t make a mess. It could be a grand adventure. A family saga with several generations. And there could be plagues and a flood from which only a select few would escape. With their pets, of course.
Earth would just have to wait. He’d get back to it someday. Maybe when his wife next visited her mother.