Maura
Fingers stumbling with enthusiasm, it took him three attempts to type something that made sense.
Whatever suits you. Less hassle for me to come to you? When works?
Her suggestion of the following morning pleased him and, since February had decided it was time to roll out a perfect blue sky, he decided to take the tram to the West End and take a stroll through Dean Village.
As before, there were plenty of tourists out and about, as well as dog walkers and joggers. The sunshine seemed to have brought everyone out of hibernation, although there was still a chill in the air that made Fraser glad of his coat. Having arrived early, he took a deliberately circuitous route through the winding streets, crossing Bell’s Brae Bridge to wander past the red sandstone turrets and spires of Well Court. The village had been a thriving milling community for centuries, with no fewer than eleven working mills at one point, and Well Court had originally been built to house workers and their families. These days it was a UNESCO World Heritage site but its purpose hadn’t changed, although Fraser suspected it cost an awful lot more to live there now.
Fraser stood for a moment on the Water of Leith Walkway, gazing along the river as it babbled beneath the houses on either side of its banks. In some ways, it was like stepping back in time; there was evidence of the area’s industrial past everywhere he looked. Tall warehouses that once stored grain and flour had been converted into apartments, but it was the smaller houses that had been home to the millers that gave the place its village feel, even though it was merely a stone’s throw from the bustling city. There were stories here, he thought as he gazed around, perhaps even ghost stories that he could use if he ever wanted to add to the Dead Famous repertoire. From its nearby location, he guessed Thistledown Lane must overlook the river, but he had no way of knowing which window belonged to Maura’s apartment.
He loved the mingling of old and new at the Port of Leith but he had to admit he felt a tiny stab of regret that he didn’t live here. Maybe, if he did decide against going back to London, he could look into buying a property nearby.
A quick glance at his watch told him it was time to meet Maura. Following the winding path, he made his way along the picturesque Hawthornbank Lane and into Thistledown Lane. Maura opened the door almost immediately, as though she’d been waiting just behind it for him to arrive. As before, her hair was tied back in a ponytail. There was no streak of clay in it this time. She was wearing a clean apron today, although he saw the potter’s wheel was out. ‘Oh, have I interrupted you?’
She shook her head. ‘I have a student coming over for a throwing lesson at midday. I’m trying to be organized.’
‘Lucky them,’ he said. ‘Having someone so well qualified to teach them.’
Her cheeks grew pink. ‘It’s more practice than anything else,’ she said modestly. ‘Once you’ve explained the basics of throwing, the rest is just dedication and hard work to improve.’
Fraser tipped his head. ‘Like most things, then.’
‘Like most things,’ she agreed wryly. ‘So, would you like to meet the ghosts?’
He couldn’t resist looking around, as though they might come floating towards him. ‘Very much.’
She waved him towards the shelves. ‘I experimented with a few different shapes and sizes,’ she explained as she moved various pots out of the way. ‘Some worked well, others not so well. I’m afraid I couldn’t get anywhere near the perfection of the ghost you gave me – he’s here too, by the way; don’t forget to take him home – so I went for a less elegant look.’ She hesitated and he realized she sounded more than a little nervous. ‘Anyway, here they are. See what you think.’
She presented him with a shelf containing six or seven ghosts. Some were plain white, a couple were an aged cream colour, and others were bright, with speckles of glaze that shone under the lights. One had an elegant swirling pattern painted in black down the back of his robe. A few appeared to be holding their sheet aloft with unseen hands. They all stared at him with oval eyes that somehow contrived to look anxious and perhaps even mournful, as though they knew they were awaiting his judgement. Fraser studied them in silence, taking in the care and attention to detail that had gone into each of them. Maura had not lied when she’d said they were not like the York ghost but, in Fraser’s eyes, they were vastly superior. He’d wanted something that represented the ghosts at the heart of the grim stories he told, while also being unique to Edinburgh and highly collectible, but he hadn’t dreamed Maura would also manage to imbue them with a sense of melancholy.
‘I love them,’ he said, reaching out to pick up the black painted ghost and inspect the intricate pattern. Turning it over, he saw the initials MM marked on the base. Replacing it, he took another ghost. This one was a pale green, with wispy strands of a darker green twisting through it. ‘Seaweed,’ he said, recognising the delicate fronds. ‘This is the sea witch, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘I based the design on Agnes Sampson, who was tortured and executed during the North Berwick witch trials. They said she raised a tempest to sink the fleet of James VI while at sea.’
Fraser shook his head, impressed that she’d taken the time to do some research of her own. ‘I cover those trials on my other tour. Not the city’s finest moment.’
Maura shuddered. ‘I know. The stories you tell are scary and gruesome but afterwards, it struck me how terribly sad they were too.’
He knew what she meant. When he’d begun negotiations with the previous owner of the tour business, the man had outlined what worked well with audiences and what didn’t. ‘Focus on the supernatural – that’s what they want,’ he’d advised, with grim practicality. ‘If you dwell too much on the awfulness of human nature then you won’t survive a month, financially or emotionally.’
And once Fraser had read the background behind each story for himself, he understood. His acting experience helped – he was playing a role, just like any other job he’d undertaken. Once the patter of the stories had become familiar, he’d been able to square the horror of the real-life events with the importance of reminding people they had happened. And the advice he’d been given was sound. The job of a tour guide might be to educate and encourage remembrance, but the goal of a ghost tour guide was to bypass the natural scepticism and logic of the audience to invoke their oldest fear – that something malevolent lurked in the dark. Fraser took pride in giving his customers exactly that experience, but he also hoped that at least some went away a little more thoughtful than they had been before.
‘The stories are sad,’ he said to Maura. ‘And you’ve somehow managed to capture that in your design.’
‘They’re just prototypes,’ she said, although he thought she looked gratified. ‘Obviously, you’d want to give me instructions on each theme and I’d need plenty of time to make them – the process isn’t quick.’
‘I don’t want you to change a thing.’ He touched the sea witch again, marvelling at how exquisite she was. ‘But I think this shape, rather than the one with hands. How many can you make for the first batch? Is twenty too many?’
She blinked, and let out a surprised laugh. ‘Woah there, slow down a bit. We need to think this through. You haven’t told me how you see this partnership working – is it a fifty-fifty split in terms of money?’
His eyes slid to the ghosts once more as he ran some rapid calculations. The figures he’d come up with had been mostly based on the prices he’d taken from the York ghost website but he could see now he had been way off. Their ghosts were desirable and appealing to collectors, but even the limited editions were mass-produced compared to Maura’s work. Her ghosts were all one-offs, and that made them more valuable. They also came with her mark, claiming them as hers. The last thing Fraser wanted to do was price the ordinary punter out of the market but he was looking at something special and he would be a fool not to price it accordingly. ‘Given the amount of work you’ve put in, I don’t think 50-50 is a fair split,’ he said, his eyes coming to rest on her. ‘I propose 60-40 in your favour, payable on delivery of the first batch. Does that sound fair?’
She nodded. ‘More than fair. Do you know how you’re going to price them yet?’
‘I need to do some more research,’ he said. ‘Obviously, I’ve got a rough idea but I don’t want to undersell them.’
‘Okay, that makes sense. When do you want the batch of twenty by?’
Fraser shrugged, even as his thoughts whirred. ‘You tell me when you can deliver them. You’re the one doing the hard work – all I have to do is add them to the website.’
‘Hardly,’ she observed. ‘You’ll be the one out in all weathers, telling the stories behind them and generating the sales.’
She had a point, Fraser had to concede. But the storytelling came naturally to him, as he supposed creating the ghosts did to her. ‘Why don’t we just agree we’re both brilliant and leave it at that?’
She laughed. ‘Deal. As for when you can have them, they don’t take long to make but the firing and glazing process takes a while. How does four weeks sound for the first batch?’
Fraser puffed out his cheeks. ‘It sounds brilliant. Why don’t we go with Agnes the sea witch for our first design? I can take this one away with me, get some photos done and start taking pre-orders.’
‘Sure,’ Maura said, and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t tell the others I said this, but she’s my favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ Fraser replied. ‘Although I’m sure they’re all excellent at haunting.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll wrap Agnes up for you.’
Moving away, she rummaged under the bench to retrieve some old newspaper. Fraser took the opportunity to study the other ghosts, admiring the workmanship. ‘How do you get them all the same size? I know you said the York ghosts used some kind of mould but you don’t, do you?’
‘No,’ she said as she wrapped the sea witch up. ‘Hand building is often a bit hit and miss, but I’ll create a basic template so they’re as similar as possible. Then it’s just a case of arranging the folds into the right shape.’
Fraser eyed her with some scepticism. ‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
She pulled a black polythene bag across the worktop and reached inside to pull out some clay. With brisk, sure movements, she kneaded it into an even shape and placed it onto a board. ‘The clay shrinks in the kiln, so it’s important not to roll it too thin,’ she said, taking a rolling pin and flattening the shape into a wide circle. ‘Then you use your template to cut the shape you want.’
Her hands moved quickly, manipulating the clay so that it transformed into a ghost before Fraser’s eyes. ‘There,’ she said, and pulled more clay from the bag to place before him. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’
He felt his eyebrows shoot up in alarm. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t.’
‘Yes you could,’ Maura encouraged. ‘Roll your sleeves up and give it a go.’
Fraser’s gaze slid from the well-crafted, sightless ghost she had created in just a few minutes to the glistening grey blob in front of him. ‘Erm…’
‘Here,’ Maura said, offering him an apron. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
He blinked. ‘You’ll see how utterly devoid of artistic talent I am and decide not to work with me?’
‘Unlikely,’ she replied firmly. ‘Roll out the clay. I’ll help you with the rest.’
There was, he knew, no way he could refuse. The clay was cold and softer than he’d expected; his fingers sank clumsily into its smoothness as he picked it up. With tentative movements, he ran the rolling pin across the surface, applying what he hoped was an even pressure to flatten the clay to the right thickness. Maura watched, then crossed to another bench to retrieve what looked to Fraser like two long rulers. ‘Use these as guides,’ she said, placing one on either side of the rolled clay. ‘They’ll stop you taking it too thin.’
The guides helped; before long, Fraser had a flat expanse of clay. Maura handed him a stubby, angled knife and the bowl she had used as a template. ‘Now cut around that and peel the excess away.’
He did as she instructed and gave her an enquiring look.
‘That’s great. Next, you’ll need to make something for the clay to drape around. Roll some of the spare clay into a ball around the size of a large marble.’
The next part was where he felt it all went wrong. The circle of clay stuck together once it was arranged across the top of the ball, creating thick clumps that thrust out in odd directions rather than lying in ethereal folds. ‘Ease them apart,’ Maura advised. ‘Use your fingers to create the shape you want.’
But it was no good. No matter what Fraser tried, the clay stubbornly refused to do his bidding. He fired a pleading glance at Maura. ‘Help.’
‘Like this,’ she said, moving nearer. Her deft fingers teased and tugged at the ghost, smoothing out the damage he’d inflicted and shaping it into something that resembled the one she had made. ‘See?’
‘What I see is that I could fiddle with that lump of clay all day and not make it look like yours,’ Fraser said. ‘I think I’ll stick to acting.’
‘You’re not done yet,’ Maura said. ‘Your ghost needs eyes or he won’t be able to see.’
Fraser sighed. ‘I think mine might be blind, actually. Haven’t you ever heard of Sightless Sam?’
‘Nope.’ She created two small ovals in her ghost’s face, and then offered Fraser the thin paintbrush handle she’d used. ‘Your turn.’
He would have been happier if the eyes had been level but at least they were broadly the same size. Maura didn’t comment. Instead, she handed him a sliver of damp sponge. ‘Smooth away any bobbles or creases, or they’ll turn hard in the kiln and catch on things.’ She leaned past him to run the sponge over the clay. ‘See?’
Obediently, Fraser bent for a better view, just as Maura turned her face towards him and, for a moment, they were no more than a few centimetres apart. The breath froze in his chest as her gaze met his. Several startled observations collided in his brain at once. The first was how dark her eyes were, framed by thick dark lashes that shimmered as he stared at her. The second was the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that he had never noticed before. And the third observation was that this was not the first time he had been this close to her. A memory surfaced, of another time and place when she’d been so near, perhaps even closer. Near enough for him to lean in and kiss her. Just as she was now.
Maura cleared her throat and the memory vanished. Blinking, Fraser straightened. ‘Sorry,’ he croaked, still reeling with the implications of the shocking recollection. ‘Yes, I see. You smooth out the rough bits. Got it.’
She had turned her attention back to the ghost and was methodically tidying the edges. ‘I’ll carve your initials into one of the folds, so we know which one is yours.’
He took several breaths in and out, forcing his bewilderment aside. Maura’s voice was utterly matter of fact, perfectly normal. With a bit of luck she hadn’t noticed him staring at her like a lovestruck fool. ‘Thanks,’ he said, swallowing a hot rush of embarrassment. ‘Although I think it’s pretty clear which is mine.’
Gathering up the tools they had used, she carried them to the sink. ‘You should wash the clay off your hands before you go. It gets everywhere if you don’t.’
He untied the apron he wore and laid it on the workbench. ‘Occupational hazard, right?’
She smiled. ‘You have no idea.’
Taking refuge in the act of washing the dust from his hands, he waited until he was sure he could meet her gaze before he looked up again. ‘I’ll have my solicitor draw up the paperwork and send it over to you before you start work,’ he said. ‘Make sure you’re happy with the financial details. Obviously, you’ll retain the rights over everything you make.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I hadn’t even thought about that. Thanks.’
Fraser nodded. ‘Let me know if you have any questions.’
If Maura thought his suddenly formal tone was strange, she didn’t say so. ‘I will. And don’t forget to take Agnes,’ she said, holding out the wrapped ghost. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing how she looks in her photos.’
He took the package. ‘Great. Well, I’ll be in touch over the next few days.’
‘Okay,’ she said, following him to the door and pulling it open. ‘Speak soon.’
Fraser was glad of the cool fresh air as he closed the door behind him and made his way along the cobbled street. His forehead felt feverish, his thoughts hot and jumbled as he made for the bridge, but he knew his discomfort had nothing to do with the temperature inside the studio and everything to do with Maura herself. Now that he was outside, the flash of memory had crystallized into something more tangible, an insistent recollection of pressing his lips to Maura’s, of cupping her cheek and sinking his fingers into her hair. It had happened, he was sure of it. The question was when, and why hadn’t he remembered it before now? Did Maura remember? Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Although she’d probably realized he didn’t remember and that was why she’d kept quiet. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing old schoolmates dropped into conversation, after all.
With a heartfelt groan, Fraser let his eyes drift briefly shut. In the space of a few seconds, his life and his new business partnership had both become considerably more complicated. The problem was not the realisation that he had once kissed Maura McKenzie. It was the fact that he very much wanted to do it again.
End of Part One