‘Andrew, Jules has come here to get away from thinking for a while.’
He threw Carrie a cursory glance.
‘Nonsense! That’s impossible. The brain is never still. It needs to think.’
He dug his stick into the ground and fixed his stare on Jules as if he could see right into her head, which was suddenly empty of everything except panic.
‘I-I…’ she stuttered, looking desperately towards Carrie who gave an almost imperceptible shrug of helplessness.
‘No need to give me an answer now,’ he said after what seemed like the longest pause in a conversation she had ever had to endure. ‘Mull it over. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
And with a tip of his hat and a flourish of his stick he was off, striding back towards the house, Wilbur glancing apologetically back at Carrie as he followed The Major close at heel.
‘Wow, I’m tired,’ Jules said, rubbing her eyes.
‘It’s probably the stress coming out,’ Carrie said. ‘I slept for days when I first came here. Sleep is very healing, and I haven’t let you do that. Sorry. Maybe I’ve been a bit selfish.’
‘You haven’t been selfish at all, but I could do with going back to the cottage now and putting my feet up.’
‘I’ll let you out of the front gate,’ Carrie said, ‘and I’ll stop by and pick the car up later if that’s okay. Although I suppose if I grab a ride back with Guy, I could leave it there until tomorrow. That’s if you’re okay on your own tonight?’
Jules followed Carrie back across the gravel courtyard past the front of the house with its imposing oak front door and shimmering old glass windows. Even though it was high summer there was smoke coming out of one of the chimneys and Jules guessed that the house would be dark and cold inside.
‘Look at these,’ Carrie said, peering through the window into the shop. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’
Some of Lance’s pots were arranged on the windowsill, their glaze catching the golden droplets of evening sunshine.
‘You ought to go back and glaze your bowl, Jules. Finish it yourself. Erin will make a good job of it, but it won’t be totally yours.’
Jules gazed at the blues and greens, silken as the sea and the island landscape. She wanted to touch them, to hold them in her hands, to feel their weight, their gloss, the love that had gone into them.
Complete what you’ve started, her granny used to say when she was little. Maybe this bowl, which was waiting to be finished, could be a symbol of a new approach to life, of a commitment to herself as much as to other people, to her patients, to her mother and her sister. Jules could envisage her finished bowl, deep blue and jade green glazes allowed to spill over one another, finding their own definition of beauty. She would place it on the windowsill above the sink back in the Manchester kitchenand fill it with yellow and red Isle of Wight tomatoes. She was determined that bowl would remind her not of Gavin, but of a positive turning point in her life.
Jules slept better than she had in a long time. The room was the perfect temperature, her bath had relaxed her, and she had picked up a book of poetry from the little pile on the table next to her bed. She woke briefly just before four to hear the birds begin to sing, but after that she had slept on until nine. She was just finishing her breakfast eggs when there was a knock at the door.
There was a very old Mercedes estate parked outside the cottage. Jules paused briefly by the mirror in the hall, wiped a crumb of toast from her cheek and pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. Through the bulls-eye glass panel she could see the back of a man’s head.
‘Oh!’ she said, opening the door.
‘Bad time?’ Lance asked, turning to face her.
‘I slept in.’
‘You’re allowed to. You’re on holiday.’
‘Mmm, I suppose so.’
He held out a box.
‘We’re on our way to collect Tasha. I thought you might like your bowl.’
‘Thank you.’
She took the box from him and he turned to leave. Suddenly the passenger door of the Mercedes opened, and Erin swung her legs out.
‘Hi, Jules,’ she called.
‘Hi, Erin.’
