Page 61 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘Is that a promotion?’ His eyes were bright, and to her relief a smile lit up his face.

‘It most definitely is! I’ll be heading up their ceramics department, and when it comes to ceramics, the academy is one of the best.’

‘Better than where you are now?’

She nodded. ‘I haven’t agreed to it yet and I haven’t even seen a contract, so it’s not definite, but I’m tempted.’

‘And so you should be! Aw, hen, I’m so proud of you! And your mother would be too, if she were alive.’ There were tears in his eyes, which made her own fill up.

‘I’ll still see you regularly, Dad. I’ve checked flights and—’

‘Don’t mind me, you have to do what’s best for you and your career.’ Vinnie beamed at Mack. ‘Who’d have thought that my wee girl would be working for a New York academy, eh? Didn’t your mum always say that you can do whatever you set your mind to?Of courseyou have to go. I’m chuffed to bits, lassie, and I’m so proud of you.’

Freya hadn’t been aware of how tense she was, until she heard her dad say he was proud of her, and having his approval meant everything.

It made saying yes to Jocasta Black that much easier.

New York, here I come!

Chapter 16

The clay was off-white and smooth to the touch as Freya removed it from the wet cloth she’d wrapped it in to keep it moist and pliable, after it had been delivered yesterday.

It was a warm afternoon and she was in her dad’s garden, seated at the rickety outdoor table on which she’d placed a wooden board that she’d found in the small but incredibly full shed. It was held in place by a pair of rusty old clamps which she’d also found in there.

The familiar feel of the clay had an immediate soothing effect, and she couldn’t wait to get started. But before she did, she went inside and popped her head around the sitting-room door to see whether her dad wanted anything.

Bless him, he was fast asleep, his head resting on the back of the riser chair, the TV on low.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t be disturbed for a while, Freya turned her attention back to the clay. She loved every part of the process of making an inert grey lump come to life: from wedging the raw material, to taking the final product from the kiln and praying it hadn’t cracked.

After breaking off a lump of the wet clay, she placed it on the digital scales, adding more to it until she arrived at a nice round number, then she moved the scales to the side, picked up the clay and slapped it down on the board several times.

Although this process was an essential start to any pottery session, as it knocked air bubbles out of the clay, it also served to get her in the zone, and it was an excellent stress reliever. There was nothing quite like repeatedly bashing a lump of clay onto a hard surface!

Satisfied that she’d given it enough of a pummelling, Freya patted it into a rough circle, then used a wire to slice the clay into horizontal sections, ending up with six flat patties. Working quickly because she didn’t want the clay to dry out, she misted each patty with water, then donned a pair of thin disposable gloves and a respirator.

Carefully opening a packet of dark pink powder, she weighed out the amount she needed, then sprinkled it evenly over five of the patties, followed by another spray of water. As soon as she’d stacked the circles of powder-covered clay on top of one another, with the non-powdered one on the very top, she removed the respirator and took a gulp of air. Despite being outside, she hadn’t wanted to take any risks. The powder (or mason stain, as it was called) was incredibly fine, and inhaling it could lead to all kinds of nastiness.

Keeping the disposable gloves on, Freya picked up the stack of clay patties and began squeezing them together, gradually mixing the stain and the clay together, occasionally giving it another squirt of water.

As so often happened when she was working (although how having this much fun could be called ‘work’ was something she often asked herself), she lost track of time, and it was only when she re-wrapped the now heather-coloured clay in a damp cloth, popped it inside a plastic bag and then into an airtight container to sit overnight, that she realised two hours had sped by.

She also became aware that she had an audience. Her dad was standing by the back door, watching her. He had a faraway look on his face, but quickly snapped into focus.

‘Have I told you how proud I am of you?’ he said, and Freya’s heart melted.

‘You have.’ Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the box of clay where it was and walked towards him, her arms outstretched. He gathered her to him and she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she whispered into his neck.

‘And I love you, my gorgeous wee girl.’

Sniffling back tears, she said, ‘I’m not so wee now.’

He rubbed a hand up and down her back. ‘You’ll always be wee to me, no matter how old you get. I wish your mum had lived long enough to see her little girl going off to America.’

‘So do I.’ She missed her mum dreadfully; she always would.

Vinnie cleared his throat, and his voice was hoarse when he asked, ‘Have you thought any more about it?’

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