Roberta flashed Fraser a knowing look. ‘So you say.’
‘Shall we take a look around?’ he cut in, before his father could launch into a more spirited defence and insist upon calling the club secretary as a witness. ‘I could really do with a coffee.’
‘Good idea,’ Roberta said. ‘We’ll let you lead the way, won’t we, Micky?’
Ten minutes later, Fraser was sipping a piping hot Americano from a cardboard cup and felt much better equipped to deal with both his parents and the crowds. There was a puzzling lack of signage to identify which tent was which, lending a slightly chaotic air to the flow of traffic. Fraser wondered whether it was to encourage visitors to browse, rather than make a beeline for their favourite potters. Whatever the intention, it meant he and his parents passed through three marquees before they found Maura. Her stand was made up of white shelves loaded with bowls, pots and plates, a few of which Fraser thought he recognised from her studio. A row of mugs hung from hooks suspended from a board, more delicate cups nestled on saucers, with matching plates nearby. An exquisitely hand-painted sign bore her name in iridescent blues and greens, putting Fraser in mind of waves and salty air.
Maura herself was barely visible behind a cluster of onlookers, some of whom were craning their necks for a better view. She must be demonstrating, Fraser realised as he and his parents drew nearer. Joining the back of the small group, he peered over the collection of heads to see what she was doing.
Her own head was bowed, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun as she focused on a thin sausage of clay on the table in front of her. ‘You’ll want to keep the coils as even as possible,’ she said, expertly spreading her fingers as she worked the roll back and forth to increase its length. ‘Once you’re happy with the shape, add the coil to your base and start on the next. Make each one a little longer than the previous one if you’re building up and out, and shorter as you come back in.’
Fraser watched her lay it on top of the base, cutting it to size and then repeating the action with the remaining snake of clay. He couldn’t yet tell what the pot was destined to become – a jug, perhaps – but her mastery of her craft shone as she smoothed the layers into one with swift, assured thumb strokes. Evidently satisfied, she set about shaping another thread of clay.
‘She’s so fast,’ a woman beside Fraser murmured. ‘It takes me an age just to make decent coils, never mind build them up into something vaguely resembling a jug.’
Her friend nodded. ‘You can tell she’s a professional. I bet she’s never made a wonky handle in her life.’
Fraser grinned, thinking back to Maura’s confession about the pottery disasters hiding in her parents’ loft. But the woman was right about one thing, he thought as Maura commanded the clay: she was most definitely a pro.
‘How do you stop it from being too heavy?’ a man at the front asked.
Maura held up a jagged-edged metal oval, no wider than the palm of her hand. ‘With a serrated kidney. Once I’ve finished smoothing in the coils, I use this to remove the excess clay.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘It’s best to be as brutal as you can bear, without weakening the structure.’
Other questions came and went – Maura answered them with infinite patience, even as her fingers worked the clay. Before long, she had a perfectly proportioned jug, albeit without a spout or handle. A moment later, she was wielding the serrated scraper, shearing off half the clay she’d applied with a ruthless efficiency that made Fraser wince. He’d expected some of the crowd to wander away, in particular his own father, but Micky seemed every bit as transfixed as the rest of the onlookers. Gathering the worms of discarded clay, Maura squeezed them together and reached for another kidney, this one rubbery and pliable. ‘This will flatten out the ridges,’ she said, working the jug with swift, curved strokes that transformed the clay into smoothness once more. She looked up with a smile. ‘All I need to do now is add the spout and handle.’
‘And hope it doesn’t drip,’ someone said, and everyone laughed.
Maura nodded. ‘That too. If anyone has a foolproof method, I’m all ears.’
A few minutes later, she had crafted a spout, which she attached with practised expertise. She eyed the jug critically. ‘What it needs now is a good smacking with a wooden paddle, to beat it into the right shape, but I’ll spare you that and pop the handle on instead.’
It seemed she must have prepared it before Fraser and his parents arrived, because she reached for a curved strip of clay at the end of the board. The two women in front of Fraser leaned forwards, as if to get a better view. ‘Handles are almost as tricky as spouts,’ one murmured and the other nodded her agreement.
But of course, Maura had no issues. Once she was satisfied the handle was straight, she spun the turntable to show the finished jug to the audience, who broke into applause. ‘Thank you,’ Maura said, her cheeks reddening a little. ‘There’ll be another demonstration at three o’clock, if you missed any of this one.’
Most of the crowd began to drift away but several stopped to look at the items she had on display. Fraser’s mother joined them, making a beeline for the rack of mugs. ‘As if we don’t have enough,’ Micky complained. ‘There’s not enough room in the cupboard as it is.’
‘You can never have too many mugs,’ Roberta called over her shoulder, without turning round. ‘Especially when they’re as beautiful as these.’
There wasn’t much his father could say to that, Fraser thought, least of all in a tent full of pottery lovers. Wisely, he kept his mouth closed. Fraser glanced across at Maura, who was chatting easily with a few members of the audience as she wrapped their purchases. Several more were waiting to pay. She needed an assistant, he thought. Someone to handle the mundane business of payment while she showcased her art. But he supposed part of the appeal of buying a Maura McKenzie original was the opportunity to talk to the artist herself. The people hovering nearby seemed happy enough to listen in as they waited their turn, at any rate.
As the crowd dispersed, he saw Maura look up and spot him. She gave a little wave and he thought she seemed pleased to see him, although that could have been due to the gratifying flow of customers. One woman appeared to want a full set of the four seasonal plant pots Fraser had admired when they’d been taking shape a few weeks earlier. ‘Don’t forget to come and collect them before you leave,’ he heard Maura say as she stashed them safely under the cloth covering the bench.
Finally, it was Roberta’s turn. She beamed at Maura like a long-lost friend, which prompted Fraser to step hurriedly forwards to introduce her. ‘This is my mum. Roberta Bell, meet Maura McKenzie.’
‘Hello, Roberta,’ Maura said, her eyes crinkling into a warm smile. ‘Although I should have guessed. He looks just like you.’
‘Apart from the beard,’ Fraser said gravely.
‘He gets that from me,’ Micky said, appearing from behind him to thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Fraser’s dad, Micky.’
Maura turned her radiance his way and Fraser was amused to see his father straighten his shoulders a little. ‘Great to meet you,’ she said. ‘I hear you’re quite the golfer.’
‘I try,’ Micky said, looking gratified.
‘It keeps him out of the house, at least,’ Roberta said. ‘But it is so lovely to meet you at long last, Maura. Fraser has been singing your praises for months, with the ghosts and everything else you make.’
Maura’s cheeks reddened slightly ‘He’s very kind,’ she said, and nodded at the mugs Roberta was holding. ‘Would you like me to wrap those?’
