Chapter Fourteen #2
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?’
‘Yes, please. I can’t wait to show them off when my friends come over for our weekly coffee morning.’
Fraser eyed the mugs she’d chosen. ‘Aren’t there matching plates to go with those?’
Roberta’s eyes lit up. ‘Are there? Where?’
‘Here,’ Maura said, stepping towards the shelves at the back of the stand.
‘I’ll take four,’ Roberta said.
Beside him, Fraser heard the faintest of sighs from his father.
‘There’s a discount if you’re buying the mug and plate set,’ Maura said.
Roberta fired a triumphant look Micky’s way. ‘A bargain, then. Thank you.’
Fraser watched as Maura carefully wrapped the mugs and plates, and tucked them away for collection later. When it was time to pay, he stepped quickly forward, his card already in his hand. ‘My treat, Mum. Let’s call it an early birthday present.’
Roberta folded her arms. ‘But it’s not until September.’
‘A very early present, then,’ he said, smiling as he tapped the card on the reader. ‘As long as you don’t expect me to do the same at every stall.’
His mother enveloped him in a hug. ‘You’re a good lad, Fraser Bell. You’ll make someone a wonderful husband one of these days. Naomi doesn’t know what she’s missing.’
From the corner of his eye, he saw Maura’s expression soften and he wondered whether it was from pity or sympathy. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you need anything, Maura? A cup of tea or a snack?’
She tapped the lid of a thermal mug on the stand. ‘I’ve got one, thanks. Although it’s probably lukewarm now.’
‘Want me to bring you a fresh one?’ he offered.
She shook her head, as he’d known she would. ‘Don’t worry. With a bit of luck, I’ll be too busy to drink it.’ She paused for a moment, then her expression suddenly shifted. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Did you know there’s a link between Agnes Sampson and this castle?’
He blinked. Agnes Sampson was a respected Scottish healer who had been burned as a witch after confessing to a plot against King James VI.
She featured in the ghost stories Fraser told on his tour and was the inspiration for the first Edinburgh ghost Maura had created.
‘Is there? She’s meant to haunt the Palace of Holyroodhouse, not Craigmillar. ’
‘I know, but according to one of the guides I was chatting to, Agnes was accused of hiding a charmed wax image in one of the turrets here, to bring harm to the local laird’s brother,’ Maura said. ‘Luckily for him, it didn’t work.’
Fraser thought back to the historical records he’d read when he had first taken over Dead Famous.
The sixteenth century witchcraft trials had begun in North Berwick and had made for grim reading, involving gruesome torture and unbearable humiliation for scores of men and women from Edinburgh and the surrounding area.
Their supposed crimes seemed ridiculous to modern eyes – the summoning of contrary winds and consorting with the devil – but many had confessed, presumably to make the torture stop, and had been executed without mercy.
It was not, he concluded, Scotland’s finest moment.
‘Not so lucky for poor Agnes,’ he said, and raised an eyebrow. ‘If she was truly guilty of everything they accused her of, she’d have met herself coming the other way.’
Maura offered a wry smile. ‘As you’d expect from a witch.’
‘Who will the next ghost be?’ Roberta asked. ‘Have you decided?’
‘Not yet,’ Fraser said. ‘It’s probably something we should start thinking about.’
Was it his imagination or was there a flicker of hesitation in Maura’s eyes before she nodded?
‘Sure.’
‘It would be handy to pin it down before the storytelling night later this month,’ Fraser said, thinking ahead to the prestigious event he’d been invited to at Edinburgh Castle. ‘I might be able to sneak in a mention or two while I’m talking about the castle ghosts.’
Again, he caught a glimpse of something indecipherable in her expression. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s discuss it once the ScotPot dust has settled.’
She glanced at the crowds milling past as she spoke, and Fraser wondered if they were the reason for the slight reticence he’d detected; she was there to sell her work, after all. ‘Okay. We’ll stop by again before we go, to pick up the mugs Mum bought. You might be in need of a cuppa by then.’
Maura tipped her head, grimacing. ‘I’ll probably be in need of something stronger.’
‘Just say the word,’ Fraser said. ‘There’s a horse box decked out as a gin bar in the food area – message me and I’ll bring you whatever you want.’
‘I might just take you up on that,’ Maura said, smiling. ‘Thanks.’
A woman who had been examining the displays turned to look at Maura with an enquiring expression.
‘Duty calls,’ Fraser observed, even as Maura’s smile became businesslike. ‘We’ll see you later.’
‘Such a lovely girl,’ Roberta said, as they joined the swell of pottery fans drifting through the tent. ‘And so clever. I can see why you work well together.’
Micky nudged him. ‘She’s easy to look at too. I bet that helps.’
Fraser felt his stomach churn. His parents had no idea he had any history with Maura, other than attending the same school, and they couldn’t know about the stirrings of attraction Fraser had fought when he’d first reconnected with her.
But that was firmly in the past, along with the kiss they’d shared decades ago.
He and Maura were business partners and that was all there was to it.
He made a show of consulting the map. ‘Shall we check out the Gilmour marquee next?’
‘Excellent idea,’ Roberta said. ‘I think one of the potters from the TV show is in there.’
Micky held up a hand. ‘I’ll meet you there. That coffee’s gone right through me – I need to use the facilities.’
‘Again?’ Roberta said.
‘Yes, again,’ Micky fired back. ‘When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.’
Roberta thrust the map at him. ‘You’d better take this. Not that I expect it will help.’
Snatching the paper, Micky executed an abrupt about-face and vanished into the crowd.
Roberta sighed. ‘Honestly, he has a bladder the size of a thimble. It’s a good thing we’ve got all day.’
Fraser managed a diplomatic smile. As much as he loved his parents, he was starting to wonder what he’d let himself in for.