Chloe by Freya North Page B

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.
    â€˜Don’t tell me you have a
car
?’ were Mac’s first words, his face aghast.
    â€˜Gracious no!’ exclaimed William once he had his breath back. ‘Whatever made you think that?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I see,’ mulled William who would have quite liked to laugh.
    â€˜So,’ said Mac, with a clap of his hands ushering William firmly inside. ‘She’s still got you making dinner services for the bourgeoisie?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Crick-who’ll? Where’s that then?’
    â€˜South-west Wales, I believe.’
    â€˜A hundred and eighty pieces?’
    â€˜Indeed – with an option on serving platters and small table vases at a later date. I drew the line at ashtrays.’
    â€˜As I would damn well hope! Mind you, nice little earner, my boy!’
    â€˜Less thirty per cent.’
    â€˜Ah!’
    â€˜And, of course, the subjugation of my own creativity.’
    â€˜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