Chapter Fourteen
Twenty-Two Years Later
The last time Fraser Bell visited Craigmillar Castle, he’d been imprisoned for treason.
The atmosphere was very different today – no one had brandished an antiquated pistol in his direction, for a start, or called him Highlander scum.
The lush lawns surrounding the ancient battlements were filled with large, open-sided marquees, and pastel-coloured bunting fluttered against the cornflower blue June sky.
Banners announced that this was ScotPot, one of the biggest ceramics shows in Scotland, while visitors queued to pose for photographs between oversized sculpted letters spelling out SCOT and POT on either side of the iconic arched entrance.
And somewhere inside the mêlée of tents and artists and eager pottery afficionados was Maura McKenzie, hopefully doing a roaring trade.
Fraser glanced at his parents. ‘What shall we do first? Take a wander or grab a coffee?’
Roberta Bell pursed her lips. ‘Let’s get our bearings.’ She held up the map they’d been given as they passed through the ticket booths. ‘It says here your friend is in the Bothwell tent.’
There were eight marquees in total, each named after a Scottish family with links to the castle and surrounding area, as well as several food and drink areas with tables and chairs, although picnics were allowed. The idea was clearly to make sure the ScotPot punters had no reason to leave.
‘Toilets first,’ Micky Bell said, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I hope they’ve laid on proper ones. The kind that flush.’
Fraser glanced at the crowd ambling past. It was a Friday morning, which he supposed might have some effect, but there was a definite skew towards middle age and older.
There would be posh portable cabins with sinks and running water, he guessed, and plenty of them.
ScotPot had been going for well over a decade and knew its audience – the organisers were unlikely to persuade people to stay all day if they had to take their chances in the kind of chemical loos found at music festivals.
‘The castle toilets are here,’ he said, pointing to the visitor centre on the map.
‘But it looks like there are temporary ones in the east and west gardens.’
His father jiggled from one foot to the other like a toddler. ‘Whichever is nearest.’
‘The visitor centre, then,’ Roberta said. ‘Don’t get distracted by the gift shop on the way back. We’re here for the pottery, not the overpriced whisky and fudge.’
Looking faintly mutinous, Micky vanished wordlessly into the crowd, leaving Fraser and his mother to watch the tide of ceramics enthusiasts flow around them. ‘I must say, I’m excited to meet Maura and see her work,’ Roberta said. ‘Does she know we’re coming?’
Fraser nodded. It hadn’t felt fair to spring the meeting on her unannounced. ‘I said we’d pop in. We might need to pick our moment, though. She said something about offering demonstrations here and there throughout the day.’
‘What a treat,’ Roberta exclaimed. ‘It’ll be just like that television show, the one with the man who cries when he sees what the contestants have made.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a pottery lover.’
‘I wasn’t. Not until you told us Maura was making the ghosts to go with the stories on your walking tour,’ she said. ‘I watched an episode out of curiosity and, before I knew it, I’d binge-watched a whole series.’
‘Maybe you should join a class,’ he suggested, thinking back to the lesson Maura had given him a few months earlier, when she’d helped him to craft a ghost of his own, although it had been uneven and lumpish compared to hers. ‘It’s very therapeutic.’
‘I expect it takes a long time to master,’ his mother said practically. ‘I’ll stick to knitting. I know where I am with jumpers and scarves.’
She certainly did. Fraser still had the scarf she’d knitted for him to take to drama school in London, although it had been a newly adopted hobby back then. It seemed to Fraser that there was nothing she couldn’t knit. ‘Maybe something to keep in mind if you fancy a change.’
‘Speaking of change, how’s the new storyteller?’ she asked. ‘Settling in?’
She meant Rebecca, who had recently joined Dead Famous as a third tour guide. ‘I think so,’ Fraser said. ‘She used to work on one of York’s ghost walks so she’s got plenty of experience, but she’s spending a couple of weeks shadowing me and Tom while she learns the ropes here.’
His mother looked at him. ‘I hope that means you won’t have to work quite so hard.’
That was part of Fraser’s overall plan but it wasn’t why he’d expanded the Dead Famous team. ‘I wanted another storyteller to try to meet demand,’ he explained, ‘especially now the tourist season is in full swing. I hate turning people away.’
‘Yes, but all work and no play is a recipe for disaster,’ she pointed out. ‘And it’s already cost you one relationship.’
Fraser tried not to grimace. There had been a number of factors involved in his break-up with Naomi and he couldn’t deny that his change of career from actor to tour guide had been one of them, but perhaps not for the reasons his mum imagined. ‘I’m fine. No need to worry.’
She sniffed. ‘I’m your mother; it’s my job to worry.’
‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I’m enjoying the work, even if things are a bit hectic. At least it’s keeping me out of trouble.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said, but thankfully the reappearance of Micky pre-empted whatever else she’d been about to say. She raised her arm to wave. ‘Micky Bell – over here!’
‘There was no need for the windmill impression,’ he grumbled when he reached them. ‘I knew exactly where I left you.’
Roberta rolled her eyes. ‘This, from a man who got lost on a golf course last week.’
‘I was hardly lost,’ Micky protested.
Fraser hid a smile as his mother sighed.
‘Did you, or did you not, take a wrong turn and complete hole fifteen before hole three?’ she demanded.
‘That could happen to anyone,’ he said, waving an airy hand. ‘Even the club secretary agreed.’
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.’