Fraser glanced at his parents. ‘What shall we do first? Take a wander or grab a coffee?’
Roberta Bell pursed her lips. ‘Let’s get our bearings.’ She held up the map they’d been given as they passed through the ticket booths. ‘It says here, your friend is in the Bothwell tent.’
There were eight marquees in total, each named after a Scottish family with links to the castle and surrounding area, as well as several food and drink areas with tables and chairs, although picnics were allowed. The idea was clearly to make sure the ScotPot punters had no reason to leave.
‘Toilets first,’ Micky Bell said, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I hope they’ve laid on proper ones. The kind that flush.’
Fraser glanced at the crowd ambling past. It was a Friday morning, which he supposed might have some effect, but there was a definite skew towards middle age and older. There would be posh portable cabins with sinks and running water, he guessed, and plenty of them. ScotPot had been going for well over a decade and knew its audience – the organisers were unlikely to persuade people to stay all day if they had to take their chances in the kind of chemical loos found at music festivals. ‘The castle toilets are here,’ he said, pointing to the visitor centre on the map. ‘But it looks like there are temporary ones in the east and west gardens.’
His father jiggled from one foot to the other like a toddler. ‘Whichever is nearest.’
‘The visitor centre, then,’ Roberta said. ‘Don’t get distracted by the gift shop on the way back. We’re here for the pottery, not the overpriced whisky and fudge.’
Looking faintly mutinous, Micky vanished wordlessly into the crowd, leaving Fraser and his mother to watch the tide of ceramics enthusiasts flow around them. ‘I must say, I’m excited to meet Maura and see her work,’ Roberta said. ‘Does she know we’re coming?’
Fraser nodded. It hadn’t felt fair to spring the meeting on her unannounced. ‘I said we’d pop in. We might need to pick our moment, though. She said something about offering demonstrations here and there throughout the day.’
‘What a treat,’ Roberta exclaimed. ‘It’ll be just like that television show, the one with the man who cries when he sees what the contestants have made.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a pottery lover.’
‘I wasn’t. Not until you told us Maura was making the ghosts to go with the stories on your walking tour,’ she said. ‘I watched an episode out of curiosity and, before I knew it, I’d binge-watched a whole series.’
‘Maybe you should join a class,’ he suggested, thinking back to the lesson Maura had given him a few months earlier, when she’d helped him to craft a ghost of his own, although it had been uneven and lumpish compared to hers. ‘It’s very therapeutic.’
‘I expect it takes a long time to master,’ his mother said practically. ‘I’ll stick to knitting. I know where I am with jumpers and scarves.’
She certainly did. Fraser still had the scarf she’d knitted for him to take to drama school in London, although it had been a newly adopted hobby back then. It seemed to Fraser that there was nothing she couldn’t knit. ‘Maybe something to keep in mind if you fancy a change.’
‘Speaking of change, how’s the new storyteller?’ she asked. ‘Settling in?’
She meant Rebecca, who had recently joined Dead Famous as a third tour guide. ‘I think so,’ Fraser said. ‘She used to work on one of York’s ghost walks so she’s got plenty of experience, but she’s spending a couple of weeks shadowing me and Tom while she learns the ropes here.’
His mother looked at him. ‘I hope that means you won’t have to work quite so hard.’
That was part of Fraser’s overall plan but it wasn’t why he’d expanded the Dead Famous team. ‘I wanted another storyteller to try to meet demand,’ he explained, ‘especially now the tourist season is in full swing. I hate turning people away.’
‘Yes, but all work and no play is a recipe for disaster,’ she pointed out. ‘And it’s already cost you one relationship.’
Fraser tried not to grimace. There had been a number of factors involved in his break-up with Naomi and he couldn’t deny that his change of career from actor to tour guide had been one of them, but perhaps not for the reasons his mum imagined. ‘I’m fine. No need to worry.’
She sniffed. ‘I’m your mother; it’s my job to worry.’
‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘But I’m enjoying the work, even if things are a bit hectic. At least it’s keeping me out of trouble.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said, but thankfully the reappearance of Micky pre-empted whatever else she’d been about to say. She raised her arm to wave. ‘Micky Bell – over here!’
‘There was no need for the windmill impression,’ he grumbled when he reached them. ‘I knew exactly where I left you.’
Roberta rolled her eyes. ‘This, from a man who got lost on a golf course last week.’
‘I was hardly lost,’ Micky protested.
Fraser hid a smile as his mother sighed.
‘Did you, or did you not, take a wrong turn and complete hole fifteen before hole three?’ she demanded.
‘That could happen to anyone,’ he said, waving an airy hand. ‘Even the club secretary agreed.’
