Read Online Chloe by Freya North - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜My boy,’ he started, poking methodically at the embers, ‘I know you don’t need me to tell you to give up the wholesale business and make a go of things as a
potter
.’ He raised an eyebrow at William and lifted the corner of his mouth to say ‘Well then?’ silently but quite undeniably.
    â€˜
You’re
in the wholesale business of sorts too,’ protested William gently, ‘with your chunky mugs and squat teapots and home-made Cornish sludge.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Mac, tapping his pipe and absent-mindedly putting it back between his teeth, ‘but I do not have your skill. You’re the master craftsman. I just churn out – stuff. We both work with clay, but we’re worlds apart in terms of
quality
, of vocation.’
    â€˜You know clay better than anyone,’ said William fixedly.
    Mac chuckled and sucked on the pipe. ‘Hell, I’ve even started putting the odd piskie here and there – peeping behind a mug handle; lounging on a plate rim; peering up from the depths of a jug!’
    â€˜Pixie,’ said William.
    â€˜Piskie,’ agreed Mac, retrieving a mug with a small figurine clambering over the rim, for proof. ‘See! Positively Walt Disney!’ he basked.
    â€˜But you’re the one who inspired me! Who still does,’ William protested. ‘You showed me just what clay is. What it can do. What it can be. That it is organic, alive. As precious a commodity as diamonds. You are the sole reason that I am where I am and that I work with clay at all. That I love the stuff and that it is my very life-force.’
    â€˜Dear boy! You flatter! What I am trying to say is, I know where I’m at – surely that must be the goal of every artist? My limitations as a potter are also my achievements,’ said Mac, giving the clay elf a ping with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I feel neither restricted nor frustrated for I am content to make what I make, glaze as I do,’ he declared, suddenly on his feet, twirling the fire-iron as if he were Gene Kelly. William held the mug and looked at the figurine; the ensemble was unashamedly kitsch and yet a second look revealed remarkable, secret little details that quite took him aback.
    â€˜And I know what I want to do.’ He raised his face to Mac and looked most forlorn. ‘But how
can
I when another depends on me?’
    Mac pursed his lips and leant against the fire-iron, rocking on his heels.
    â€˜That Saxby woman has more than one young potter churning out pot-boilers to keep her warm. Toasting more like – she must be making a mint out of you.’ He enjoyed his ‘pot-boilers’ pun but could see it was quite lost on William.
    â€˜But Mac, if I don’t – for her … Then I can’t – with her.’
    Mac cocked his head and regarded William until the penny dropped.
    â€˜And how great a loss is that?’
    â€˜She’s taught me, er, everything I know in that department. I just feel I
ought
, you know, to stick around? She’s having a hard time – convinced that her youth and looks are