Chloe. Freya North
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the ground ran beneath his feet like the slurry in the basin of his wheel after a day’s work. As he strode the well-known route he rued the fact that it had been months – last autumn at least – since he had visited Mac. He knew his phone call was unnecessary, that he was always welcome; but he knew too that a phone call more than once in a while, a visit for a visit alone and not for advice, would not go amiss. Mac was well into his seventies after all. And after all, Mac was Mac.
Michael Mount, commonly known as Mac, was William’s mentor. He had taught him everything he knew about clay but, most importantly, he had instilled in him the intrinsic magic of the stuff and had inspired him more than any teacher at college, more than any studio potter studied and lauded. More, therefore, than Bernard or David Leach, more than Lucy Rie, more than Thomas Naethe even. For it had been Mac who had wrapped William’s hands around a ball of terracotta clay when he was nine years old. With his own hands covering, and uttering not a word, he had squeezed hard over William’s until the clay was quite warm and had compacted under his fingernails, colouring every line and gulley in his palm.
‘It’s like the earth,’ William had gasped in awe, scrutinizing his hand.
‘Well, it is called terracotta, dear boy!’ Mac had said gruffly, having always felt awkward about conversing with children.
‘No,’ insisted William, ‘the earth – look, in the palm of my hand. Rivers of clay, Mac. See how it’s dried here? That’s an earthquake. And see this,’ he explained, holding the terracotta ball aloft, ‘this is like the world too – see? From my nails and your squeezing? The Himalayas. The sea. Here’s England, this patch here.’
Mac hadn’t the heart to tell the boy that Ireland was usually seen on the left, not the right, of mainland Britain so he patted William on the head.
‘Along with diamonds, clay is the most precious thing the earth gives us,’ he said sternly, tweaking William’s ear and motioning him to sit. ‘Man himself was fashioned out of the stuff.’
While Mac and William’s father shared a pipe and a memory or two, William perched on a stool in a corner and, like Little Jack Horner, stuck his thumb deep and with relish into the clay. Instinctively, he squeezed against it with his first three fingers and began to pinch a slow, clockwise path around his thumb with deliberation and reverence. The ball had become a bowl.
That afternoon he made two more. The next week he was coiling. Bowls, urns, pots; vessels all for they both contained and revealed space. Intuitively, William made shapes where the space inside determined the form, and he built forms which described the space they occupied. At nine years old, he had no idea he was doing either. Mac was convinced that first afternoon that the child was a prodigy and, as a consequence, saw no need for any specialized child-conversing technique. With this boy he could talk unguardedly about clay; a feat rarely possible with contemporaries. The boy, too, lost all awkwardness and stilted politeness. They could, in fact, just chat. They could also be sound and secure in each other’s silence. The clay had wedged shut the generation gap and had fired impermeable a friendship between them. Far more precious than diamonds.
For ten years, until he went to college, William arrived at Mac’s at nine every Saturday and Sunday morning and most afternoons during school holidays. That he forfeited a coveted place in the school football team and sacrificed initiation into the intricacies of adolescent sex, bothered him not at all. A vessel, growing and undulating under his hands, damp and silky to the touch, was far more sensual a proposition than a hasty grope in a musty smelling cloakroom. Though he had yielded to the latter on a few occasions, the forms over which he ran his hands invariably felt too bony to ever pose a preoccupation, or even much of a distraction. So, William forsook teenage sport in all its guises and probably saved himself a great deal of injury. He worked harmoniously alongside Mac who produced his renowned stoneware tableware which the local cafés bought in bulk and which he sold at inflated prices to tourists. Dry glazed in trademark earth colours which Mac called ‘home-made Cornish sludge’, his pieces were coveted as quintessential souvenirs of the county, just like Cornish fudge and clotted cream. With the onset of arthritis, his time at the wheel was limited to a precious hour or so a day but his prices had risen accordingly and the last laugh was still all his.
Mac lived on the outskirts of a classic Cornish harbour village and the smell of fish, diesel and sea solicited William from half a mile off. As he wound his way down into the village and up through the other side, the gulls yelled and wheeled with a scavenging greed absent from those which seemed to circle just for the hell of it over the cliffs beyond Peregrine’s Gully. Alongside the gulls, jovial voices bantered out from the harbour and every now and then a rusty local van stalled and beeped its way through the narrow main street headed for the fishmongers of Falmouth and Penzance. For William, who had uttered hardly a word all week, let alone held a conversation, the noise was deafening and it was with some relief that he let himself in to Mac’s cottage.
‘Don’t tell me you have a car?’ were Mac’s first words, his face aghast.
‘Gracious no!’ exclaimed William once he had his breath back. ‘Whatever made you think that?’
‘That look! On your face. That’s the look people with cars wear when they arrive. That’s what traffic jams and petrol fumes and three-point turns do! Cars distort the physiognomy, dear boy. A facial expression exclusive to the late twentieth century. Like this,’ he scrunched his face tight shut, ‘and like this,’ he said, opening his features but fixing them askew in apparent angst.
‘I see,’ mulled William who would have quite liked to laugh.
‘So,’ said Mac, with a clap of his hands ushering William firmly inside. ‘She’s still got you making dinner services for the bourgeoisie?’
‘Well, for a trumped-up bistro in Crickhowell, at any rate,’ William laughed lightly, unwinding his scarf and settling deep into an old Windsor chair.
‘Crick-who’ll? Where’s that then?’
‘South-west Wales, I believe.’
‘A hundred and eighty pieces?’
‘Indeed – with an option on serving platters and small table vases at a later date. I drew the line at ashtrays.’
‘As I would damn well hope! Mind you, nice little earner, my boy!’
‘Less thirty per cent.’
‘Ah!’
‘And, of course, the subjugation of my own creativity.’
‘Which, I’d confidently say, is worth far more than thirty per cent. But there we are. And here we are! Welcome, dear dear boy!’
After two cups each of strong tea, they sat and said not much over a pipe. William was not a smoker and yet with Mac he would gladly puff away an afternoon. He was not sure why, maybe it was to capture any remaining shred of his father, maybe it was to keep Mac company. Perhaps it was just to be polite. Maybe it was because it was downright pleasant. Just as William never had to introduce himself when he phoned, so he was relaxed enough in Mac’s company to sit in affable silence. William noticed, even through the blue haze of tobacco smoke, that Mac was now quite white. And yet his thick head of hair and extravagant eyebrows, his neat moustache and tanned skin gave not the impression of age but of vitality. As if there had been no pollution or stress during his life to colour him any different. William had always known Mac as fair, hirsute and lively. He was merely two shades lighter now, that was all.
Mac observed that William was leaner than when he had last seen him, and that it suited him. His mid-brown hair flopped becomingly here and there making his dark brown eyes all the more elusive and attractive. He noticed too that William’s complexion was showing the indelible signs of living amidst the tawny moorland and the lash of the sea air. Ruddy, translucent and awash with health and hardiness. Only his hands belied his habitat for they were elegant, clean and pale. A concert pianist, perhaps; a surgeon, maybe. A ceramicist, of course.
Once the pipes were cool and the fire needed stoking, Mac eased conversation in.
‘My