‘She’s still a bit shy,’ she tells him. ‘Even without her pink collar.’
‘This place is great,’ he says as he wanders around, taking in her half-made pots, piles of sketch books, pots of glazes and general potter’s paraphernalia. If the lack of lighting strikes him as strange, he does not mention it. ‘You’ve been busy, by the look of it.’
‘Things are stacking up. I’ve gone as far as I can go without a kiln. I’m really pleased to see these books.’
Dylan is now standing in front of what is obviously the large, modern, electric kiln. He looks at it, and then at Tilda. ‘This one not working then?’
She hesitates, turning away from him to add milk to his drink. ‘I want to try something different. Something … older. More in keeping with where the pots have been made, and what inspired them.’
‘Cool.’ He nods, easily accepting her explanation.
She hands him the mug, letting him help himself to the somewhat damp sugar from the bowl. He seems very at ease, and she envies him his ability to relax with someone he scarcely knows, in a place he has never been before, with a less-than-friendly dog watching his every move. She takes the biscuit tin from the workbench and offers one to Thistle in the hope she might thaw a little, but she won’t even take it. Dylan takes two, munching as he talks.
‘So, what’s the plan? Are you going to build the thing in here?’
‘Oh, no. It has to be outside. I think I’m going to use bricks. I’d like to seal it with mud, but the weather’s not exactly conducive to trying to dig at the moment, so I may have to use mortar.’ She unwraps the books and flicks through the first one until she finds an illustration to show him. ‘Here, see? It’s a simple system, but you can get fantastic results if you manage the temperature carefully.’
‘Can’t be easy. I mean, you light a fire under the thing and it burns. Hardly comes with a dial, does it?’
‘It’s all about controlling the airflow and letting the kiln cool down slowly, which can take days.’
‘Days!’ He laughs. ‘We’re going to need more biscuits.’
‘We?’
‘Thought I’d lend a hand. Can’t dive until things warm up a bit out there. The dig’s on hold because of the freeze too.’
‘Well, I hadn’t planned … that is, I don’t know…’
‘If you’re going to make that thing out of bricks,’ he says, tapping the picture on the page, ‘you’ll have to go to the builder’s merchants in Brecon.’ He shrugs and smiles. ‘I’ve got the Landrover, all fueled up and ready to go.’
‘Really? I mean, will it get as far as Brecon?’
He clutches dramatically at his chest. ‘I’m wounded. Wounded! That’s my fabulous Linny the Lanny—she’s been with me years.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘They won’t deliver, not all the way up here. And I can easily get what you need in the back of Linny.’ He glances at his watch. ‘They’ll be open by now.’ He slurps his tea and looks at her, head tilted slightly to one side, waiting.
And what do I tell him? That I’m terrified of going anywhere in a car? That if he goes over forty miles per hour I’ll have a panic attack?
She knows she cannot. No bricks: no kiln. No kiln: no pots. She needs those bricks, and there doesn’t seem to be another way of getting them. She drains her mug.
‘Okay,’ she says, nodding a little too much. ‘Yes, thanks. That’d be great. I’ll … get my coat.’
As they leave, she expects Thistle to follow but the dog hangs back. She pats her gently. ‘Okay, funny old thing. You stay here and guard the valuables. That’s pretty much the kettle right now.’
She climbs into the passenger seat of the Landrover and immediately feels her stomach knot.
Steady girl. Not exactly a speed machine. Only ten miles or so, you’ll be fine.
‘Right,’ Dylan slams his door, sending a shudder through the whole vehicle. ‘Here we go.’ He turns the key, and nothing happens. He tries again. Nothing. Not even a stutter or a faint whir of battery attempting to fire internal combustion engine. He turns the key a third time. Again, nothing. He frowns. ‘Odd,’ he says.
‘Oh well, never mind…’ Tilda finds herself ridiculously relieved.
‘She’s such a good starter. Reliable as the day is long, is my lovely Linny.’
‘Well, she doesn’t seem to want to start today,’ Tilda points out.
Dylan hesitates, turning to look at her, then says gently, ‘Or perhaps you don’t want her to.’