The reclusive potter!” Judy smiled and shook her head. “He’s hard to find, ex-directory and ex just about everything. Beats me how he runs a business, but he seems to sell all over the place. I’ve never met him. Dad has. When we had a silent auction to raise money for repairs to the church, Michael Langton donated a really beautiful soup tureen and plates. Told Dad he was happy to contribute as long as he didn’t have to come. Odd sort, but his stuff was beautiful.”
“You have any?”
Judy shook her head. “It all went and got a good price, too. Someone from Effingham bought it and thought they got it for a song. Seems he’s known all over the country. As for where he lives,” she paused, “let me call Sylvie, who edits the parish mag.”
Judy picked up the phone and speed dialed a number. After enquiries about Sylvie’s Dad’s health and how much he was looking forward to two weeks in Brittany, she wrote down what was either a long address or extremely complicated directions. “The address is Manor Farm cottages, but you can’t get there from Manor Farm Road.” She handed Antonia the paper. “Here are Sylvie’s directions verbatim. If you get lost, I’ve written her number at the bottom. Call her. She’s been there to deliver parish magazines.”
The paper was covered with large, loopy handwriting, but it was legible enough. Antonia tucked it into her pocket. “Thank you so much; you’ve been really helpful.”
“Glad I could be. The odds were I couldn’t have as I’m gone more than I’m here, but it so happened I remembered Mum and Dad talking about him.” She paused. “Want Mum to spread the word in the village you’re looking for people for craft sales? Or do you have particular requirements, nonamateur stuff and so forth?”
“I’ll be very selective.” Abel help her, she was going to have to be. “But I’ve nothing against amateur. It’s quality and originality that matter. I hope to use mostly local people. Do you know anyone else?”
“Only two old ladies, the Misses Black. A pair of sisters who live in the Council Houses up by the main road. They knit and have for years. Mum had them make a marvelous poncho for me for Christmas. Their work is really good. A whole lot better than the sort of stuff we get for church bazaars.”
“Someone else mentioned them. Do you have an address? Phone number?” Judy had both. Antonia downed a mouthful of tea. “Sorry to run, but I’d like to try to find the elusive potter before I go home.”
“And,” Judy went on, half-hesitating, “I do embroidery and collage. I sold a few cushions to an interior decorating shop in Oxford. Made myself some extra dosh to eke out my loans.”
Might be hideous but one never knew. “Do you have some work handy?” Antonia glanced at the heap of sewing Judy’d pushed aside earlier.
“That one’s still at the planning stage,” she replied, following Antonia’s gaze, “but I do have a couple I gave Mum and Dad for Christmas. Let me get them.”
While she nipped upstairs, Antonia took the opportunity to tip the contents of her mug down the drain to save her body the effort of absorption. She was sitting back down, empty mug in front of her, when Judy returned, clutching two large pillows.
Antonia had to stop herself from gaping. They were almost bed pillow size, a glorious mix of colors and textures and embroidery. Both had foregrounds of skeletal winter trees. One background was bright oranges, yellows, and reds; the other was done in pale blues and whites with pink and lilac streaks. “Sunrise, sunset?”
“Yes. Dad’s a night bird, Mum’s a morning person. My brother and I nicknamed them Sunset and Sunrise when we were little. I made these for them for their silver wedding.”
“They’re incredible but hardly economical. There must be hours of work in these.”
“Weeks and months actually. The ones I sold were nowhere near as intricate.”
“Could you make up a few samples? I think they’d sell for Christmas or wedding presents. Maybe as special orders.” Antonia turned the pillows over, inspecting the piping and finish. “I’d love to sell them. We just have to work out prices that cover the work involved.”
“No prob.” Judy took them back as Antonia stood. “We know where to find each other. Give me your mobile number, and I’ll leave a message when I have something to show you.”
Antonia drove away from the rectory and turned down the lane toward the station and the common. She’d check out these two Misses Black. Having seen Judy’s work, she was ready to accept her word that maybe the two knitting sisters would fit into the center. But what she really wanted was a couple of nationally recognized names, and if Michael Langton was as well-known as everyone claimed, he’d be a good one to start with.
The lane curved by the station; Antonia consulted the written directions and turned right onto a narrower lane that skirted the common. Antonia drove until the lane narrowed even further and, after several minutes, degenerated into a rough track with grass growing down the middle and overgrown hedges that brushed the car on both sides. No question the man lived in the back of beyond.
Potholes and ruts now joined tufts of grass as scenic additions to the lane. It wasn’t quite as bad as roads she remembered from centuries back, but it would definitely have been easier on horseback. Just as Antonia was thinking of turning around—or would have if there had been any sign of a gate or field to reverse in—the lane came to an abrupt end in a graveled, open area where she could reverse comfortably. As she turned sharply to the right, ready to turn around, she noticed a battered van parked under an overhanging tree and a narrow bridge.
Footbridge, she amended to herself. A couple of stout planks to be more exact, held down at each end with rough boulders. On the far side, a narrow footpath led to a group of buildings that resembled sheds or dilapidated warehouses.
This couldn’t be where he lived. She must have missed another turning. How could anyone, even a recluse, run a business here? Impossible to receive deliveries, and potters needed vast amounts of clay and minerals for glazes. What about food? Even back to nature self-sufficient sorts surely needed milk delivered. And how in Abel’s name did he fire the kilns? He couldn’t have electricity or gas this far out, could he? Hard to imagine coal or coke lorries venturing up that road. She wasn’t even sure her car would make it back.
Antonia locked her car. Foolish really. Hardly likely to be any sneak thieves around here, but city habits died hard. She crossed the narrow bridge. It was more of a small river than a stream—about three meters wide and running fast. The water shone clear and clean as it flowed over the bed of pebbles and sand. The afternoon sun glinted on shoals of silvery minnows as they darted back and forth. It would be fun for Sam to come fishing. Right now, she might as well see if the potter was at home.
The mortal appeared to inhabit a series of shacks—rough buildings, some mere lean-tos, clustered round a paved courtyard. Antonia passed each building until she found a mortal heartbeat, albeit a rather slow one, inside a long shed.
When a knock on the wooden door got no reply, she rapped harder before opening the door and calling out, “Hello?”
“What the hell do you want?” Wasn’t exactly the response she’d expected, but it was clear and to the point.
“My name is Antonia Stonewright. I’d like to talk to you about selling your work in my gallery.” That should work. She’d never met an artist who didn’t want to make a bit more money.
“My
