Chapter 8 #3
John, she had gleaned, was trying to find a new purpose in retirement and Iris had been given the day as a gift by her grandmother, but Jules sensed that it wasn’t a birthday gift, it was for some other reason.
Beneath the serene features there was a battle going on.
She used to be good at sensing things. You had to be as a midwife.
Daphne was talking about her children and grandchildren, her husband of over fifty years and Jules wondered if she was putting a gloss on her life or maybe she was one of those people who deliberately made everything and everyone sound adorable not to impress others, but to reassure herself.
Jules wasn’t convinced she was giving much of her real self away.
Lance, on the other hand, seemed refreshingly uncomplicated.
As she listened to the chatter around the table, ankles tightly crossed beneath the chair, she picked at a piece of mushroom and thyme quiche and gradually began to relax.
Food always tasted so much better in the open air, she thought; the tomatoes were perfectly ripe, the quinoa salad tangy with mint and lemon, the salmon melt in the mouth soft, the bread pillowy on the inside with a satisfyingly chewy contrasting crust. For the first time in a couple of weeks she actually felt hungry.
‘After Sarah died I could have gone back to London, returned to my job in finance and got a nanny for the children,’ Lance was saying, ‘which was what my parents thought was for the best.’
He paused and glanced across the lawn towards the studio.
‘But this place had a hold on me and being a potter is in my veins. I think you said you’re a midwife, Jules?’
‘Oh! Yes!’
She was aware that she sounded like a startled bird. Did she tell him that? She didn’t remember. He was looking at her directly across the table.
‘That’s meant to be a calling, isn’t it?’
‘Um, I suppose so.’
That probably wasn’t what he wanted, she thought. He probably wanted her to sound more definite, more glowing. Everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to say more.
‘I never really wanted to do anything else,’ she added, her voice quavering beneath the attention.
She really, really couldn’t do this, sit here for the rest of the day with a group of strangers. It was too much. She had to say something, but Carrie didn’t appear to notice her distress and Lance was still talking.
‘I felt like that about potting,’ he said, ‘ever since I first squidged some clay into a Christmas angel at primary school. But pottery isn’t really seen as a ‘proper’ job, at least not in my family, so I went down the conventional route until I couldn’t do that any longer without suffering long term damage to my mental and physical health.
Which is how I came to be here and why I decided, after we lost Sarah, that there were more important things than money.
As long as I could earn enough to support myself and my family, to run this place, to give something back, pass on my passion, then I would be happy. ’
A passion for pots, she thought. That sounded safe. That’s what she needed to do, find a passion for something which would be all consuming. Something she would be able to turn to if she was ever tempted to get into a romantic relationship ever again.
Halfway through the afternoon Erin and Tasha arrived in the studio with a tray of cakes and mugs of tea.
‘Wow!’ Erin said to Carrie. ‘For a first attempt, that’s really good.’
‘You’re too kind, but I don’t think I’m a natural,’ Carrie replied, her laughter reverberating around the room. She stretched. ‘It’s tiring though, learning something new. All of that concentrating, I suppose.’
‘Concentrating is good,’ Jules said, working some sgraffito decoration around the edge of her bowl.
‘And that,’ said Erin, ‘is really, really good.’
Jules felt herself beginning to blush.
‘Look at this, Dad,’ Erin said, handing her father a large mug with the words Keep Calm and Carry On emblazoned on it in scarlet font.
‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, looking up from where he was chatting to John.
‘I’ve done this a bit before,’ Jules murmured.
‘Not since you were twelve,’ Carrie protested, ‘and that’s ages ago.’
‘Thanks!’ Jules replied, and everyone laughed.
‘You ought to keep going,’ Erin said, ‘shouldn’t she, Dad?’
Jules glanced over at Lance who was now busy clearing a few things away.
‘I think so,’ he replied, ‘but Jules might not want to. It might not be for her.’
‘You must come back,’ Erin said, earnestly. ‘We do a discount for returning customers.’
‘Erin,’ Lance said, moving over and putting an arm around her shoulders, ‘give Jules a bit of space. She’s here on holiday. She might not want to spend another day wrapped in a massive apron and getting clay all over her face.’
‘Oh,’ Jules exclaimed, blushing even more. ‘I haven’t, have I?’
She put her hand up to her cheek and then realised that she’d be putting even more clay on herself.
‘Does it make a good facemask?’ she asked.
‘Not if my wrinkles are anything to go by,’ Lance replied, passing her a box of tissues.
‘My granny says that we earn our wrinkles and we shouldn’t wish them away. They tell the story of our lives,’ Tasha said, perching on the windowsill, fingering some geranium petals.
‘Your granny is a very wise woman,’ Lance said.
As Erin went to talk to Daphne and Tasha joined her, Lance sidled over to Jules.
‘I’m sorry about Erin being a bit pushy,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘She’s always been involved in the business and she’s so eager to keep it going, expand it even. She thinks I’m not commercially minded enough. But…’
He shrugged and glanced out of the window for a brief second before allowing his gaze to rest on her bowl.
‘She’s right about your bowl though. That’s pretty good.’
Jules blushed as everyone looked over and murmured their agreement. They were such a nice group, so supportive. She felt silly for being so worried about coming.
‘It’s not totally symmetrical.’
‘Neither is life, Jules,’ Lance said. ‘We’re all works in progress.
’ He was about to move away and then turned back, dropping his voice.
‘If you do want to carry on while you’re here, but don’t want to join a class, you can always come back later in the day.
You could have the place to yourself then. No charge.’
She blinked up at him. That was so kind. She dropped her head low so he wouldn’t see the tears pooling.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, ‘but I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Why on earth did you rebuff him like that?’ Carrie chastised on the way home. ‘He was just being nice.’
‘I know, but I’m allowed to say no to things.’
‘There are ways of saying it.’
‘Was I offhand?’
Carrie pressed her lips together.
‘I didn’t mean to be. Anyway, what does it matter? I’m not going to see him again.’
‘Except when you go to collect your bowl after it’s been in the drying room.’
‘You could do that for me, couldn’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ Carrie said, ‘if you’re nice to me.’
‘I’m always nice to you. Well, almost always.’
‘And wasn’t I right to book us in there today?’
‘Don’t crow.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
Carrie punched her lightly on the arm.
‘Admit it, you enjoyed yourself once you got over the initial nerves and your bowl is brilliant.’
‘Lance is right,’ Jules said, winding down the window and allowing her fingertips to brush the hedges as Carrie pulled the car into the lane leading down to the cottage. ‘It is like riding a bicycle. Once you’ve done it, you don’t completely forget.’
Jules smiled at Carrie and for the first time in several weeks it felt like a proper smile, from behind her eyes, from her heart space.
How on earth could she have been stupid enough to risk this friendship for someone like Gavin?
The friendship between women was more enduring, more sustaining, more precious than any man.
She was never going to let a man steal her heart ever again.
Carrie dropped her outside the cottage.
‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come in?’
Jules shook her head.
‘No, you get back to your beloved. He’ll be pining for you.’
She stood beneath the archway and watched as Carrie turned the car around and headed back up the lane. A tendril of honeysuckle caressed her skin, its thick sweet scent filling her nostrils. She lifted her arm for one last wave and turned towards the cottage.
‘Hello, house,’ she said. ‘Just you and me again tonight.’
The air in the hall was still and warm, draping itself over her like the softest cashmere.
The windows in this room faced east so it was in shadow in the afternoon, but the subdued light was calming after such an intense day.
Jules put her bag down at the bottom of the stairs and lifted her hair to rub the back of her neck.
She was beginning to stiffen up after the time spent hunched over at the wheel.
‘A bath is definitely needed,’ she said, catching sight of herself in the mirror above the fireplace.
First, she made a pot of tea, placing the little silver pot on a circular tray alongside a china cup and saucer and a plate with a couple of freshly made ginger biscuits which she had found on the doorstep with a note from Rita.
I know you won’t have finished the cake yet, but I’ve been baking and thought you might like to try some of these.
Rita
X
Rita, Jules thought, was one of those people who had kindness running through her like a seam of gold. She probably couldn’t be mean if she tried.
She headed upstairs and turned on the taps.
There was a small velvet, button-backed chair in a corner of the bathroom and whilst the room filled with the scent of rose and patchouli and the bath frothed with bubbles, she sat in it and poured herself a cup of amber liquid.
Even though it was still light she lit a couple of candles, one called Peace, which had a snow-white quartz embedded in the wax, and another that was prettily pink and glowing.
Taking off her clothes she sank into the water, closed her eyes and gave thanks for her day.