Buried in Clay (5 page)

His offer came suddenly. ‘I’ll give you a profit on it.’

I felt immediately awkward. ‘I can’t sell it to you.’

He grinned. A wide, boyish, toothy grin. Both ugly and beautiful at the same time. Its ugliness was in its asymmetry; its beauty in its genuineness.

‘Come on, Suse,’ he coaxed. ‘You shouldn’t hang on to such a nice piece. It belongs here, in the museum. It should be on public show. Balterley’s near here. The house is one of the great listed buildings in this area. In fact I think the Oliver family still live there.’

I met his eyes. I knew that they did.

Again I shook my head.

But David was undeterred and like Richard Oliver he thought he could persuade me to change my mind by
offering me lunch. ‘Then come for something to eat,’ he said cheerily, ‘and a quick drink? It is lunchtime.’

I had a pang of conscience. ‘You won’t persuade me, David.’

He grinned again. ‘I can try. You’ll sell it in the end.’

So for the second time in two days I was having lunch with someone who was trying to persuade me to sell them the jug. But this was in a different place than the Italian trattoria in Chester. It was at a small bar in Hanley round the corner from Museum Place. As we downed our pints and tucked into a Staffordshire oatcake with bacon and cheese oozing out, I felt I must come clean with my friend. ‘Actually, David,’ I said awkwardly, ‘I might sell it one day, but it’ll almost certainly not be to you.’

He raised his eyebrows and his green-grey eyes narrowed.

‘The current owner of Hall o’th’Wood was at the sale. He missed the bidding and so I managed to buy it but I promised him first refusal so you see, David, I couldn’t possibly sell it to you. It wouldn’t be fair.’

He looked sulky. ‘He doesn’t have any right over it just because his house is on the front.’

‘I know,’ I said just as awkwardly, ‘but he seems to love the place so much and you must admit the picture’s brilliant. It’s natural he’s really desperate for it.’

I could feel his eyes on me.

‘You could make a heap of money out of him.’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘So what is it?’

Like many people David’s real questions were often uttered in a silky tone.

But I couldn’t answer something I didn’t really know myself.

‘I think he feels he has a sort of moral right,’ I said. ‘Obviously owning the house makes him want the jug.’ I looked up. ‘And I sort of feel it belongs to it.’

‘And the hanged man?’

I was silent because I did not know. I opened my palms. ‘We just don’t know. We don’t even know who he is.’

David misguidedly launched into a peevish attack on Richard Oliver. ‘He shouldn’t have been so careless, missing the bidding.’

It put me in the position of defending him. ‘I don’t think he buys much at auction. He doesn’t understand how it works. He instructed Sotheby’s simply to buy it.’

‘Then he’s careless with money too. They could have run him up to hundreds. Thousands even.’

Privately I agreed but this time said nothing. Richard didn’t need any more defence from me.

We finished our meal and went our separate ways. I had to call in to the ceramic restorers. I returned to Bottle Kiln to pick up my car, loaded the two boxes of china into the back then drove to Tunstall, to the restoration studios.

This is one of the joys of dealing in pottery in the Potteries. There is an absolute wealth of talent here – in
danger of going to waste since the pottery industry is slowly returning to its place of origin – the Far East. Pottery restoration is a highly specialised skill. You need to understand about kilns and glazes, modelling and firing, feckling and draining slip from moulds. But you need to be much more than that. You need to be an obedient copier because hands and heads, birds’ wings and any other small projection can so easily be knocked off. So reference books are always spread. We discussed, drew diagrams and studied moulds until I was satisfied. I spent more than an hour with Steve and Jules poring over these books to see how best they could restore the pieces to near perfection. And almost as long again haggling and arguing over the prices, Jules with her Mia Farrow hair cut, shaking her head, wringing her hands and telling me my meanness would put them out of business. It was all an act. I returned to the shop well pleased with my day’s work. But one of the frustrations and limitations of antiques dealing is that you cannot force the pace. Pieces need to be considered, studied and evaluated. You can attend ten sales and buy only one choice piece. You can put that choice piece in your shop window and wait months for it to sell. At times the antiques trade is like a snail – at others it is more like the wildebeest migration, frenetic, excited, noisy and crowded.

Joanne must have been watching for my car. The minute I reached the door she pulled it open to me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Guess who’s been on the phone?’

I shook my head. ‘Mick Jagger? Paul McCartney?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she scolded. ‘No. Richard Oliver,’ she said. ‘He asked where you were. I said out with a friend. He said would you be back by four-thirty. I said yes I thought so and he said he’d ring again. He doesn’t give up, Susie, does he? He wants that bloody jug.’

I was thoughtful. So the jug was enough of a lure to keep him dangling. The thought rather pleased me.

But how had he got my telephone number?

Then I remembered. I’d given him my business card.

At four-thirty the telephone rang and I picked it up myself. ‘Bottle Kiln.’

‘Susie.’ I recognised his voice straight away. It was deep, a pleasant, mellow tone – with a hint of uncertainty?

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Richard Oliver here,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘I wonder…’ He stopped. And began again. ‘Would it be presumptuous?’ He gave a short, dry laugh. ‘If I promise not to mention the jug – not even once – would you have dinner with me one night?’

I didn’t even hesitate. ‘Yes.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up. Eight?’

‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think of anything more to say and he must have marked this because he gave a rich chuckle. ‘You’ll have to give me instructions how to get to your house or I shan’t find you.’

I told him, put the phone down and ran the gauntlet of Joanne’s open-mouthed gaze.

The following night I left the shop early and drove home. I couldn’t deny it, I was looking forward to an evening in Richard Oliver’s company – whatever the hidden agenda. But I was also very conscious of the difference in our ages which in turn made me apprehensive too.

I bathed and shampooed my hair then wrapped myself up in my biggest towel and sat in front of the mirror to dry my hair and apply my make-up.

My hair always took ages to dry. It was thick, curly and unruly. My aunt would often comment, laughing as she tugged at the comb, that the unruly bit was me and I should be pleased that I was not ‘thick’ too but the quip never brought a smile to my lips. I was more likely to scowl into the mirror until Aunt Eleanor teased me about looking like a frog. Tonight it seemed determined to be awkward, taking twice as long as normal to dry, however hot I switched the hairdryer setting to. I had another quarrel with it. The fashion then was for dead
straight locks, shining, glossy as satin. Mine was – quite simply – a disaster.

I sighed and turned my attention to my face.

I creamed some Max Factor Sheer Genius foundation over my cheeks and patted my face with some pale powder. I decided against false eyelashes. Sometimes they really irritated my eyes, which made my eyes water which in turn led to them becoming unstuck. And the last thing I wanted when dining with the suave Richard Oliver was for one of my eyelashes to land in his soup! The vision it threw up made even me smile. I suddenly wished I had time to ring my aunt and share this little image with her. She and I would have laughed together. But it was already a quarter to eight and I hadn’t even decided what I was to wear. I returned to the face in the mirror, ringed my eyes with black kohl pencil, brushed on some eyeshadow, smeared on Biba lipstick and looked again at my face. I looked anxious and apprehensive. But then I was apprehensive about how the evening would turn out.

I stuck my tongue out at myself, winked and felt marginally better.

I knew the reason I felt as I did. The face that looked back at me was too young for him. Too eager, like a boarding school child being treated for dinner out by a relative, preparing herself for the adult world. It reminded me too much of my own boarding school days, of the occasions when my parents had arranged to take me out for the afternoon and the sudden end of these
treats when I was returned to school. I was not elegant or sophisticated like the women I felt sure Richard would associate with. I felt suddenly unsure of myself. About to enter a strange world. And now I felt even more nervous.

I hadn’t felt like this since I was fifteen and the son of one of the holidaymakers staying near my aunt’s house had asked me to go to a beach party with him.

I’d gone and felt awkward for most of the evening until we’d gone for a swim and I had managed twice as far as he.

It seemed a long time ago now. I’d thought I’d outgrown such adolescent behaviour and was disappointed in myself. I tried to remind myself that I was a grown woman of twenty-six years old. I had run my own successful business for six years. I fought at the local salerooms with other dealers and I believed they respected me as an equal. I didn’t need to put myself through this doubt.

But it didn’t work.

I stared anxiously at my reflection and tried to calm myself but it didn’t matter how many times I told myself that this was silly, I still had butterflies in my stomach.

I glanced at my watch. It was ten to eight.

I tugged at the bath towel and gave an unhappy look at myself in the full-length mirror. The fashion then was to look emaciated with a flat chest and bony hips and on this I didn’t score too high either. The idol of the time was Twiggy who must have weighed a stone and a half less than I did. Her skin was fashionably pale with huge,
panda eyes and I looked nothing like this. Good food and plenty of swimming and sailing off the coast of Majorca throughout the summer had given me a healthy body, full breasts, and a year-round tan. All girls and young women want to look like the icons of the day and I didn’t. More than ever before I wished passionately that I was one of the thin, enigmatic women who stared at me from the covers of Vogue or Elle or Honey.

And now I had completely lost my confidence and criticised every aspect of myself I couldn’t decide what to wear. The fashion that year was for short skirts – really short skirts – of which I had plenty. But I didn’t think that miniskirts were Richard’s style. In the end I settled on a black crêpe dress, its length just a little above the knee, empire line, with a slash in its puffed sleeves. Over the top I wore a maroon velvet jacket and on my feet high-heeled, black shoes with a T-bar. Over my shoulder I slung a black leather shoulder bag with a buckled front which I had acquired mail order from my favourite, Honey magazine.

I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to eight. I sprayed on some Chanel No 5 and heard a car struggling to turn into my drive.

I took a final glance at myself in the mirror and met anxious eyes.

It was puerile to wait for the man to knock on my door so I simply opened it to him.

A maroon Rolls Royce had somehow backed into the narrow track behind my car. A chauffeur sat in the front
and Richard had climbed out and was approaching my front door, his hand already raised to knock.

He smiled and behind that smile I saw that he too was nervous. Did the jug mean so much to him? Or did he feel apprehensive about me?

‘Hello again, Susie,’ he said. ‘You should have warned me about the drive. Jenkins has had the hell of a time squeezing in.’ Sudden warmth in the grey eyes robbed the words of any criticism and I knew that he had simply struggled for something to say. His discomfort put me at my ease.

‘Shall we set off straight away? I have a table booked for eight-thirty. I don’t like to be late.’

His punctuality pleased me. ‘I’m ready.’

I locked the door behind me and climbed into the back seat of the Rolls, Richard next to me, while Jenkins drove gingerly along country lanes not designed for Rolls Royces but haywains and pony traps, tractors and the odd Land Rover.

Richard made some conversation, asked me what I’d been doing all day, whether I’d attended another sale and I told him I’d been busy at the pottery restorer’s and the shop. I didn’t mention my trip to the museum.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The Old Beams – Waterhouses.’

I loved the place. Again I was pleased. ‘I couldn’t have picked better myself.’

He turned his head to look at me. ‘So you approve?’

I nodded. Not only was the restaurant good but it would be a lovely drive, through the Staffordshire
Moorlands, Leek and out onto the Ashbourne road for just a few miles.

The sunlight was slowly fading as we turned out onto the A53 road to Leek. It danced low through the trees, gleaming orange, transforming the rural scene into a fading Constable painting. I sat back and simply enjoyed the drive.

Richard too seemed content not to force the conversation but to enjoy the evening sunshine as it dropped behind the hills. Once or twice he looked across at me and smiled. A time or two more I felt his eyes on me but when I turned around he was looking out of the window. He spoke only once, to comment on the scene.

And yet I did not feel awkward in his company.

We reached The Old Beams in good time and Jenkins dropped us off at the door. Richard smiled indulgently when I thanked the chauffeur but he said nothing.

The Old Beams catches the eye as you drive through Waterhouses. On the left-hand side, at a sharp bend, long and low and fancy built it is one of the gourmet’s places to eat in this part of the world. There are other, less obvious choices, pubs which cook local dishes and serve mainly to the natives but The Old Beams is where foodies find themselves.

The maître d’hôtel rushed over towards us as we entered. ‘Mr Oliver,’ he gushed. ‘This is indeed a pleasure. It’s a while since we’ve seen you. How are you, sir?’ He pumped his hand.

I sensed that Richard did not like the attention. He merely nodded and frowned, answering curtly – bordering on rudely. ‘Well, thank you.’

The maître d’hôtel gave me a curious glance and ushered us towards a table for two, in the farthest, darkest corner of the small restaurant as though we needed to be hidden away.

We ordered aperitifs and took our time choosing our food.

When we had ordered and the wine had been opened Richard poured us both a glass and settled back in his chair. ‘Now then, Susie,’ he ordered, as we sipped
ice-cold
Chablis, ‘tell me about yourself. Start at the beginning.’

I smiled back. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me about your childhood, your hobbies, your friends, your family.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Your life, Susie.’ He leant forward, suddenly intense. ‘What makes you tick?’

And quite suddenly this was not polite conversation but someone wanting to understand my very essence. And unusually for me, for I was a private person, I did not mind telling him.

‘My parents died when I was eight.’

He lifted his eyebrows.

‘They were in an air crash.’

He was still enquiring. ‘My father was the pilot,’ I said quickly. ‘We don’t know what the cause of the crash was. There was an investigation but it happened while they
were abroad in the Gulf and it was apparently difficult to obtain any facts. I’ll probably never know whether it was pilot error or a problem with the plane. I was at boarding school at the time and they don’t exactly encourage you to spill out your emotions.’

I fell silent, recalling the summons to the headmistress, the clipped words and the terrible, empty feeling which had washed over me as I had returned to class – changed for ever. I looked up to see his eyes on me.

‘I was simply told that my parents were dead, with little detail. My aunt tried to find out exactly what had happened but it was all so difficult. My father had been working out there and communications were poor. They simply vanished from my life.’

Again his eyes were on me, appraising, and I felt he had seen something of the lonely girl stifling her sobs in a dormitory.

I drank some of the cold wine which checked my emotion. ‘I spent the summers with my aunt. She was wonderful. She simply stepped in and took our upbringing over. My father’s sister,’ I explained. ‘Eleanor Paris. She’s an artist. You may have heard of her.’

He shook his head.

‘She’s getting quite well known. She lives on the northeast coast of Majorca, between Deja and Soller. There are a lot of artists there.’ I smiled. ‘It’s a sort of colony. I spent all my holidays with her, at Casa Rosada. Her paintings are…’ I struggled to describe her frenetic, moving paintings.

He was listening very intently.

‘…well – I think they’d be classed as surrealist.’ I laughed and tried to explain. ‘They’re very distinctive. I could recognise one of hers from the other side of a gallery. She uses the colours and textures of the island but
her
style.’ I laughed and watched him smile. ‘That’s all her own. Think somewhere between Rousseau and Chagall. Lots of flying houses and distorted people who, when you look, are actually someone you know.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘She sounds interesting. I’d like to meet her.’

I was as sure that she would like to meet him. And as for painting Hall o’th’Wood I could imagine the way her brush would twitch from the moment she saw it, even perhaps see the house and the painting through her eyes. She would have made the house full of movement, peopled with the three persons from the jug – Rychard Oliver, ancestor of the man who sat opposite me, giving me all of his attention, and the potter too, Matthew Grindall and his sister, Rebekah. The gallows would hover, threatening, over the house, its significance unknown. ‘She is interesting,’ I said. ‘In fact I think she’s probably the most interesting person I have ever met.’

I pondered. ‘It was probably her influence on me that gave me the confidence to open the antiques shop.’

‘And have you found it hard?’

‘At times. I made some pretty awful buys right at the beginning.’ I laughed. ‘I lost money for the first six months.’

‘And then?’

‘Something clicked. I found my taste and my market.’

‘Is it difficult to be accepted in the business?’

‘The trade,’ I corrected, still smiling. ‘No – not really. As long as you don’t act like a complete prat at the saleroom other dealers don’t care whether you’re young or old, male or female, rich or poor. In some ways it’s a very egalitarian existence. Nothing is important but your knowledge and the way you use it.’

He poured me another glass of wine and led the conversation in another direction. ‘Do you have other family besides your aunt?’

‘I have a sister.’ I made a face. ‘Sara. Five years older than me. She sort of looks after me. Takes charge. She’s quite bossy really. She’s always interfering in my life and thinking she knows what’s best for me.’

‘And does she?’ He was smiling.

‘Absolutely not,’ I said firmly.

‘Where does she live, this bossy sister?’ I think it was at this point, when he shared my humour and kept his gaze firmly on my face as though he would drink it, that I began to feel that this was no ordinary man.

I answered his question. ‘Newcastle-under-Lyme. Not far from here. Sometimes I think not far enough,’ I added darkly.

We ate our food. I know it was good but I cannot remember what it was. We chatted some more but I can’t remember now what turn the conversation took. I wanted to ask him about his life but didn’t feel
comfortable intruding. I had the impression that Richard Oliver was an intensely private man who would not welcome prying. In that way we were alike.

The dessert menu arrived and we chose. Then followed the cheese and biscuits. There were some good local cheeses, one from Hartington, and they came with seedless grapes which we ate sporadically. I wanted the evening to extend into the night.

When coffee came I bit the bullet.

‘What about you? I know nothing about you apart from the fact that you live in Hall o’th’Wood, that you are divorced and have a housekeeper called Maria.’