Chapter Six
Hattie came out of the kitchen and wandered through the bar.
She was wearing her old duffel coat, which lived on a peg in the stillroom, and with a pocket full of biscuits, she munched happily as she headed out of the conservatory.
Picking up her pace to keep warm, she ran across the lawn to a door in the wall, beyond which lay the pottery studio.
She’d done her rounds, was eating her elevenses and, with an hour or two free, decided to sit in on the class.
Wind blew across the garden, whipping wayward leaves into a dense carpet. Damp, slippery and dangerous for those not so light on their feet.
In the shadow of the wall, handyman Alf was occupied.
‘This weather will keep you busy!’ Hattie called out. Alf was having difficulty gathering debris into a huge sack and huffed and puffed as he fought against the gusts. ‘Jo will want those leaves cleared. We don’t want anyone falling.’
‘Tha’ wants to watch tha’ doesn’t get swept away.
’ Alf snarled and hurled the sack into a wheelbarrow then stopped to roll a cigarette.
He struck a match and leaned into the barrow for shelter.
Cupping his hands around the flame, he dragged deeply.
‘In a hurry?’ Alf asked as he watched Hattie fiddle with the latch on the door.
‘Can’t you give this some oil?’ Hattie grumbled as her fingers probed the metal.
‘Aye, ’tis on my list.’ Smoke trailed past Alf’s bushy eyebrows and danced across the lawn. He placed the roll-up on his lips and with a grunt reached down to hoist the barrow up. ‘I’ll see thee,’ he said and set off to dump the contents on a compost heap at the end of the garden.
The latch had been on Alf’s list for as long as Hattie could remember and she shook her head as she watched him stagger down the path.
He stopped to open the gates to the meadow where smoke puffed out of the top of the tepee.
Hattie knew that the Shaman had a full house which, she thought, should make dinner conversation interesting for those with any energy left to rock up for the main meal of the day.
She noticed that the curtains were closed on the gypsy caravan and as ominous dark clouds rolled down from the fells, eerie shadows clawed across the countryside and shrouded it in darkness.
The spirits are out in force! Hattie thought.
She tried to recall who was participating in Clairvoyance in Midlife that morning and remembered that Hugo Mulberry was joining his brother today.
Hattie hoped that ‘Nanny’ wasn’t making her presence felt from the great nursery in the sky.
Hugo would be a handful if past history was anything to go by and Hattie made a mental note to have a rolling pin on standby in the kitchen.
There would be no repeat of their pantry experience.
Hugo would be old and doddery these days and Hattie preferred her fun wrapped in a younger parcel.
The latch gave and moments later, Hattie stood on the step of the pottery studio to peer through the windows. She was miffed to see that two bud vases she’d made during a practice workshop had been removed from the sills.
Jo had said they resembled phalluses.
Hattie reached for the door and thrust it open. ‘Morning, Paul,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to have an hour with you.’ She threw her clipboard to one side and unbuttoned her duffel coat then dug her hand in the pocket. ‘Biscuit?’ she asked.
Paul, the potter, shook his head and a quiff of thick hair fell over his forehead. He was sitting at a wheel with a lump of wet clay in his hands. He pulled it into a long length and looked nervous as he studied Hattie.
A group of students gathered around the wheel to watch their tutor demonstrate the skill required for making mug handles. Hattie shrugged off her coat and, grabbing an apron, tugged it over her chest. She went to join them.
Paul was the owner of Petheriggs Pottery, located a few miles away. He’d been making his bespoke range of dinner and kitchenware for many years but competition from other potters in the popular tourist area had made life stressful and Paul was glad of the opportunity to teach at Boomerville.
‘That’s a nice length,’ Hattie said and gave Paul a wink. She’d known the attractive divorcee for many years and had encouraged him to run the classes.
Paul’s clay instantly dropped in a wet heap onto the stationary wheel. Several students giggled as he retrieved the clay and began again. When he was confident that his instructions were clear, he dispersed the students to their own tables to begin work.
Hattie plonked herself on Paul’s stool and rolled up her sleeves.
‘Let’s show them how to do it. We’ll soon have those babies full of tea.’ Hattie nodded towards a line of mugs waiting for handles and began to pummel her clay.
Paul sidestepped Hattie and went to help his students.
The air was tense as everyone focused on the task in hand. They held up their clay and with sweeping downward movements, slowly pulled it into shape.
‘Keep it well lubricated,’ Hattie called out to a timid-looking couple that were working as a team. ‘Nice and slow.’
The process was time-consuming and the students were deep in concentration. The room was silent and they all worked hard as handles began to form.
But Hattie was bored. She looked around the room and frowned. Her handle was nothing like the neat shapes that now graced the sides of the mugs.
Paul, sensing Hattie’s discomfort, made his way back.
‘This can happen to a beginner,’ he said as he looked at her thin gooey mess.
‘Part of the process is to keep going until you get the length and thickness you require.’ He cupped the clay in Hattie’s hands.
With his eyes focused and mind set on rescuing the handle, Paul dipped his fingers in a bowl of water and guided Hattie.
Hattie sat very still. Paul’s warm fingers entwined with her own and she stared into the potter’s gorgeous green eyes, succumbing to his kneading and stroking while the handle took shape.
‘You see, it’s easy when you have a technique,’ Paul said and handed Hattie a mug. ‘Now hold it firmly and guide it in.’
The final hold was a hold too far and as Hattie grabbed the mug with one hand and held up a length of drooping clay in the other, she lost her balance and fell forward onto the wheel.
Scrabbling about with her feet, she hit a button and electricity shot through the wheel causing it to spin madly.
Hattie lunged forward to steady herself and grabbed Paul but this sent them both flying across the room.
The astonished students flung their half-finished mugs to one side and raced to rescue their tutor.
As Hattie emerged from under a pile of wet and broken pottery, she struggled to her feet.
‘I think I’ll go and check on the cookery class,’ she said as she smoothed clay from her fingers.
‘Shout if you need anything.’ Her cheeks were burning as she removed her apron and tossed it to one side.
Embarrassed and keen to be gone, Hattie retrieved her coat, popped a biscuit in her mouth and ploughed through the mayhem to make her way out.
The students were open-mouthed as they stood beside their dazed tutor.
‘Don’t make a meal of things,’ Hattie mumbled as she looked at Paul and without a backward glance she headed to the hotel.
* * *
‘Bloody hell, Hattie,’ Jo exclaimed, ‘it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t sue us!’
Jo, who had been in the hotel at the time of the pottery incident, had rushed to the studio after an anxious student appeared at reception to say that their tutor seemed to have had a funny turn.
Half an hour later, Jo was helping Potter Paul into the back of an ambulance.
The paramedics were reassuring, confident that he was only suffering from shock and not a heart attack as initially feared. Jo had anxiously watched the medical team hit the blue lights as they sped off to A an hour or two in the tepee will erase their memories.’
‘Let’s hope Paul’s fingers are just bruised and not broken.’
The front door bell rang, summoning a member of staff, and a porter hurried past to help a new arrival with their luggage.
‘Oh heck, it’s Hugo.’ Hattie leaned over the desk to peer down the hall where their new arrival was heading her way.
Sir Henry, who was sitting in the bar with Lucinda, heard Hattie. ‘Is that my brother?’ he said. ‘Send him in here. He’ll be ready for a livener.’
‘Bleedin’ hell, I’m trapped.’ Hattie opened the kitchen door to make her escape.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Jo said and she grabbed Hattie’s arm. ‘You’ve got some brownie points to make up and Hugo always had a thing for you.’ She shoved Hattie out through reception and into the hallway to greet their new guest. ‘Go and say hello.’
Hugo Mulberry strode into view. Smart and dapper in country tweeds, he looked fresh despite his long journey.
‘Hugo, how wonderful to see you again.’ Jo pushed Hattie forward. ‘I hope you’ve had a good trip.’
‘Blasted train was packed; a man can barely read his paper on those damn tilting things.’ Hugo was clearly not suited to the high-speed west coast trains and Jo wondered if he’d prefer steam.
‘Your brother is waiting for you in the bar.’
Jo guided Hugo along the corridor where Hattie stood by the window in an attempt to blend into the curtains.