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Isabel tapped at her iPhone. ‘You have half an hour to create your object. I’ve set the timer. Go!’
There was an instant flurry as the other women started moulding their clay balls or tearing off smaller pieces and shaping them.
My own grey sphere sat in front of me, and I prodded it, feeling hugely uninspired. What could I create that encompassed my pain? Jeremy and his latest date bonking? That would take a lot longer than half an hour, and I definitely needed Michelangela skills for that. Maybe I could poke a hole in it with a stick and say it represented my painful zit.
I side-eyed the woman next to me to see what she was making. She was busily rolling a sausage shape and had two smaller balls already made. The woman next to her was also making a clay penis. Oh well, if you can’t beat ’em …
‘Time’s up, ladies!’ Isabel shouted, and I almost leapt out of my skin since she was standing right next to me. She strode around the table, peering over people’s shoulders—nodding, commenting, and sometimes raising her eyebrows. I hoped I wouldn’t have to do a show-and-tell as to whose penis I’d created and why it had caused me pain. But I was quite pleased with my creation, to be honest. I’d even done some detailing to make it look more authentic. Not that I knew what Jeremy’s penis looked like, but since the man was an Adonis, I’d tried to do his nether regions justice.
‘Very nice, Anna. One of the best I’ve seen, and there are quite a few specimens here,’ remarked Isabel as she reached the head of the table again, and I felt smug for creating a top-notch clay penis.
That was me, though, such a goody-goody—always doing extra homework to receive praise from my teachers at school, coming home with certificates and awards to bask in even more praise from my mother.
‘Anna’s the brainy one, and Beth is the pretty one,’ she’d tell her friends, as if both traits were equally as important. I guess in the patriarchal society we live in, she wasn’t too far wrong. But the fact that we were identical twins also made it kind of confusing.
‘OK, ladies, now I want you to focus on your object and channel all your pain and heartbreak into it,’ said Isabel. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged as she saw us hesitating. ‘This is the prick that’s making your life hell.’
I glowered at my clay penis, imagining Jeremy dancing about naked, waving it in front of my face, and taunting me, See this, Anna? You’re never going to have it. Because I only go out with pretty girls, not brainy ones. I’m going to call you into my office and sit there looking beautiful with this gorgeous member between my legs and make you suffer.
I felt rather silly thinking this, but all the other women were frowning and muttering at their clay, so I didn’t feel too weird.
‘Good work, everyone. Now under the desk is a shelf, and I want you to bring out the tool you’ll find there.’
Curiously, I reached underneath and gripped a smooth rubber handle. Bringing it up to table level, I saw it was a small but strong little hammer. I wasn’t sure why Isabel didn’t place them on the table. Dramatic effect?
‘Right, ladies,’ she said, beaming. ‘This is the therapy bit. I want you to pound the living daylights out of your object.’
I blinked and glanced around. The other women were grasping their hammers and looking uncertain too.
‘Aren’t we going to get them fired?’ asked one. ‘I spent ages doing the pubic hair.’
‘The only fire that clay penis is going to feel is the heat of your anger. What are you waiting for? Pound!’
Obediently, we tapped our clay creations timidly.
‘Harder!’ exclaimed Isabel excitedly. ‘Feel the rage!’
Somehow, her encouragement infected us; and we started wildly smashing our hammers, obliterating our creations to smithereens. The noise was incredible. Some women were screaming. Others were crying. Some (like me) were giggling uncontrollably. Bits of wet clay flew into the air, and I felt it land in my hair and stick to my face. I’m pretty sure I also breathed some in.
After a few minutes of everyone letting loose their emotions, Isabel clapped her hands, and the banging ceased. ‘Now for some feedback. How did that make you feel?’ She looked around the table and clocked me. ‘Anna?’
Breathing hard, I looked down at Jeremy’s make-believe penis, which was now a flattened pulpy mess. No way he was using that anytime soon. He’d need corrective surgery. I spat a bit of clay out of my mouth and grinned at Isabel.
‘Strangely satisfying.’
***
Buoyed by the adrenaline rush I’d experienced at the art therapy class, I immediately went home and replied to my mother, telling her I’d come and stay next Saturday. Then I booked a ticket for an Oxford Castle & Prison tour tomorrow. It felt good to take action rather than being a passive observer.
But being a passive observer on the tour was what I needed to be. My plan was to check out Eleanor’s cousin, Thomas, incognito and see what he was like. That entailed wearing inconspicuous clothing: a grey sweatshirt, black leggings, ratty old trainers, and a cap. Plus lurking at the back of the group, not asking questions, and generally avoiding suspicion. I was pretty sure Thomas had no idea who I was, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Eleanor may have mentioned me and shown him a Facebook photo.
However, I wished she had shown me a Facebook photo of him. I’d had a bit of a madge-twang moment when the tour started. She’d mentioned he was attractive, but I hadn’t counted on Thomas being quite so good-looking, and it had thrown me a bit. Short dark-blond hair that was longer and tousled on top, a hint of stubble, and a pair of intelligent brown eyes. He was medium height, and I could tell there was a decent body under the white prison garb he was wearing too. Plus he seemed kind of cool and personable, judging by the way he held everyone’s attention. Intrigued, I crept forward when we were in one of the dungeon rooms so I could hear better.
He was recounting a story about a woman called Mary Blandy, who had been imprisoned and hanged for poisoning her father. ‘It’s not entirely clear what happened,’ said Thomas, gazing around at the group. ‘Mary was a well-educated and respectable young woman. But she met Captain William Cranstoun, who was already married, and he made a play for her.’
Humph, typical, I thought and inched forward until I was near the front of the group.
‘He proposed but kept stalling, trying to annul his previous marriage, and Mary’s father became suspicious. William sent Mary what he said was a “love potion” and asked her to add it to her father’s food so he’d be more amenable to their relationship. Unfortunately, it contained arsenic, and her father died. Mary was imprisoned here for the crime of parricide. She was hanged on Easter Monday, 6 April 1752.’
