Buried in Clay Page 3

  But he wasn’t going to give up. ‘That isn’t good enough.’

  ‘I won’t sell it to anybody else,’ I promised.

  For the first time since I had met him he smiled and I caught the full force of his charm. White, even teeth, the frown lines melting away. He was, I decided, about fifty and had a very attractive face. ‘I want to… Look,’ he said, changing his mind quite abruptly. ‘Why don’t I take you for lunch and I can explain?’

  I was taken aback. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I know you’d find it interesting. You see…’ He was about to add something else but instead he simply smiled again and I was drawn inside that magic circle of charm.

  I made my decision then. After all – I was intrigued to know the history of the jug. ‘All right.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Oliver,’ he said. ‘Richard Oliver.’

  It was one of the three names on the jug. Perhaps I had already sensed some connection. It partly explained why he was so anxious to buy it. ‘Susanna Paris,’ I said.

  He shook my hand and stood back while I finished settling my bill.

  So together we walked out of Sotheby’s, back out into the spring sunshine, and strolled through the streets of Chester.

  That was how I first met Richard Oliver.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As we walked along the street Richard Oliver made small, chivalrous gestures: he took my arm as we crossed the road, walked along the outside of the pavement. He was a man of both charm and manners, I decided.

  I was never more aware of this as on that first day in his company. We climbed the steps of The Rows and walked between the stone arches until we found a trattoria on the upper gallery, gaily decked with red-and-white gingham café curtains and wafting a scent of garlic as we opened the door. A waiter gestured us towards an empty corner and we weaved towards it, threading around tables laid with gingham cloths, lit by candles set in Mateus Rosé bottles grotesque with dripped wax. A soprano warbled an aria in the background. It was a glimpse of little Italy.

  Richard held my chair for me and I sat down, intrigued by this polite, chivalrous man and his connection with my jug. The waiter hovered while we scanned the menu and we gave him our order – lasagne, salad and a bottle of Chianti. I wasn’t really concentrating that hard on the food. I wanted to know the story.

  ‘Do your friends call you Susanna?’ His eyes were warm and held mine with a very direct gaze. I wasn’t sure what lay behind them. It is never easy to tell when people hide behind the shield of politeness. Was this simply a ploy to persuade me to sell him the jug?

  Probably.

  ‘No,’ I said, laughing. ‘It’s a bit of a mouthful. My friends call me Susie.’

  I noted the rather distant politeness and again this old-fashioned formality.

  ‘Would you mind if I called you Susie?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not at all.’

  I knew, without even asking, that no one ever shortened his name. He would always be called Richard.

  As the waiter poured the wine I opened the subject.

  ‘Tell me about Hall o’th’Wood,’ I said softly. ‘What’s the story behind the pictures on the jug?’

  Richard put his knife and fork down then took a sip of wine and swallowed it. ‘I don’t know the story,’ he said. ‘At least not all of it. I live at the Hall o’th’Wood. It’s my family home. It’s been in my family for generations. Ever since the early eighteenth century.’

  I smiled. ‘It looks wonderful,’ I said. ‘Does it still look like that today?’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly. Practically nothing in Hall o’th’Wood has changed in four hundred years.’ There was an obvious pride in his voice.

  I took a forkful of lasagne. ‘Then it’s no coincidence that your name is on the jug?’

  ‘Not exactly my name,’ he said gently, a touch of humour lighting his eyes. ‘My great-great-great-grandfather’s.’

  ‘I couldn’t work out from the design,’ I said, probing, ‘whether he was the hanged man.’

  Richard Oliver shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t hanged. He was, so family legend has it, murdered – or so I’ve always believed.’

  I was surprised at his lack of curiosity. Perhaps it was an affectation. Surely he couldn’t be ashamed of something which had happened almost two hundred years ago? I took a look at the proud face and thought, yes. It was possible.

  ‘Who was he murdered by?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, his mouth straightening. ‘It wasn’t something I was interested in. It was not really talked about,’ he added stiffly.

  I didn’t believe him. ‘Was he murdered in the house?’

  His lips tightened. He didn’t like my interest in his family skeleton. ‘I don’t know.’

  I tried another tack. ‘It’s a long time ago, Richard,’ I said. ‘It hardly reflects on your life today, surely. Aren’t you just a bit curious?’

  He took a long draught of wine, his eyes not leaving my face. When he set his glass down it was with a firm hand. ‘There are some secrets best left secrets,’ he said. ‘None of it can benefit people living today.’

  ‘But it’s your history,’ I persevered. ‘Most people would find it interesting.’

  ‘Not I.’

  I knew it was bordering on intrusion but I could hardly contain my curiosity. ‘And the potter, Matthew Grindall? His sister, Rebekah? Do you know nothing about them either?’

  ‘No.’ His curtness was bordering on rudeness.

  What was the significance of the gallows, I wondered, and did not dare ask? But if he was so disinterested in the story behind the jug why did he want it so much?

  It was obvious Richard Oliver would only be drawn on one subject – the house – so I returned to that.

  ‘Describe it,’ I said. I could settle for that – for the time being.

  His face changed completely. It lost the shuttered look. It was as though he was two people. A Jekyll and a Hyde. His eyes returned to my face. ‘As you could probably tell from the picture on your jug Hall o’th’Wood is a very old house. Sixteenth century. Built in the style of the time, in the shape of a letter ‘E’, in tribute to the queen. Susie,’ he said, warming now to his subject. ‘It is in fabulous condition. Practically all of it is authentic. The panelling, the doors, the fireplaces and the most wonderful carved oak staircase which splits in front of a huge stained-glass window, almost like a church.’ He was smiling – not at me but, I felt, at the window.

  ‘Is it a religious window?’

  ‘No – more pastoral. The trees and animals, sheep, cows, grazing in the fields. In the centre a crusader stands.’ He paused, as though about to say something but changed his mind and continued. ‘When the evening comes and the light streams in through it I could almost believe in Heaven.’

  And Hell? I thought. Surely the man hanging in the gallows was nearer to Hell? So was it his ancestor or the potter? Or the killer? Was Matthew Grindall the killer? Or was there another man – or woman – involved? Rebekah, perhaps?

  He was watching me very carefully and I knew he was gauging my reaction. It was all a sort of test. He continued talking about the house. ‘So many old properties have been vandalised,’ he said, warming to his subject, ‘in this decade in particular.’ ‘The Sixties are completely lacking in respect for tradition but Hall o’th’Wood has never been touched. It is as it always was. I feel more a caretaker than an owner. A custodian, almost.’

  Of its reputation too?

  But something in me connected with this sentiment. I met his eyes and my cynicism melted away. ‘I feel like that too when I handle a particularly good piece,’ I said.

  He looked at me, a little startled but made no comment. I pushed all my questions to the back of my mind. They must wait, I thought.

  It was I who broke the silence with a joke designed to probe beneath the surface. ‘And your wife?’ I queried lightly. ‘Does she have to cook in a sixteenth century kitchen, roasting a sucking pig with an orange jammed in its mouth?’

  He laughed out loud at this quip, opening his mouth wide without self-consciousness. ‘I’m not quite such a Luddite, Susie,’ he said. ‘I have bowed to the twentieth century, fitted it out and put an Aga in. Maria has pine cupboards for her equipment.’ His face was full of fun now. He looked boyish – almost mischievous. ‘And no spit for the Sunday roast either.’

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Housekeeper.’ He shook his head. ‘My wife. Ex-wife, Julia.’ He drew breath. ‘Well – let’s just say she didn’t really care for the place. It wasn’t her cup of tea. She was a modernist and hated living in what she called ‘the mausoleum.’ It was a mistake to have married her in the first place. We’ve been divorced for years now.’ He gave a harsh, cynical laugh. ‘Hall o’th’Wood is very choosy whom she allows to live within her walls and from the first Julia didn’t fit. The minute I took her there I knew it.’ His eyes looked beyond me. ‘She was miserable there. If she could have had her way she would have jazzed the place up.’ He practically shuddered.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sympathised.

  We ate in silence. ‘How good a portrayal of the house is the picture on the front of the jug?’ I was learning to skirt round inconvenient subjects.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, instantly regaining his enthusiasm. ‘Right down to the very last timber. The potter must have spent a long time studying the structure. In fact it’s so accurate you can see my bedroom window on it.’ His flirtation was a challenge. It made me realise how much I was enjoying his company.

  My turn to dig again.

  ‘Do you know anything about the provenance of the jug, Richard? Has it been in your family since the eighteenth century?’

  The chilly look he had given to
the cashier at Sotheby’s was returning and it was obvious Richard Oliver only wanted to talk about the house and probably persuade me to sell him the jug. That was his agenda. If he knew the story he was not going to share it with me, an antiques dealer, who would copy the entire tale onto a large label, tie it round the handle of the jug and inflate the price accordingly. Therefore I must steer a neutral course. ‘I wonder,’ I said fatuously, ‘where it came from, why it was made, where it’s been in the last hundred and eighty years, how it ended up in Sotheby’s and what the story which lies behind it is – if anyone knows it at all?’ I watched him, plastering a bland expression on my face.

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t even know of its existence. You can imagine how I felt when a friend saw it photographed in Cheshire Life in Sotheby’s advertisement. I was intrigued.’

  I looked away.

  ‘All Sotheby’s would tell me was that it had been the property of a local farmer. That is it.’ He was looking at me again. ‘Sum total of what I know about the jug.’

  And now it was mine.

  He poured me another glass of wine and filled his own glass up. ‘Now you,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself, Susie. Where do you come from? How did you put yourself into the antiques business? Is it a family tradition?’ He was teasing me. ‘Are you part of Paris & Daughter?’

  I laughed with him, liking him in this light mood. I put my chin in my cupped palm and looked into the grey eyes, marking how dark the pupils were. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘My father was a diplomat.’

  He dipped his head towards me. ‘Was?’

  ‘My parents were killed when I was a child,’ I said. ‘I was brought up by an aunt. She’s an artist. She lives near Soller – on the island of Majorca.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘A bohemian childhood.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So where is your shop?’

  ‘In Hanley. Right in the middle – just down from Lewis’s department store. It’s in a disused bottle kiln, on the site of an old potbank.’ It was my turn for enthusiasm now.

  I was studying his face and thinking how pleasing his features were – neat, regular and now his temper had melted away I was aware of very great charm and warmth. I judged him then a man who could be a good friend. A deep and committed lover – or a bad enemy. His eyes were fixed on mine with a flattering absorption. His face, which could look hard, was now softened with amusement and interest. His lips were full and a well-shaped Cupid’s bow and I found myself wondering what they would be like to kiss. Hard? Soft? Warm? His eyes were still on me and I felt myself flush with embarrassment. I was not a natural coquette. I poured myself a glass of water and offered him one. He accepted and sipped it as slowly as the wine.

  I continued to wonder about him, agreeing with my earlier estimate. Early fifties. His face was dominated by the clear gaze of his eyes and I found my glance returning to them. Even when I was looking away from him I could feel the heat from them as hot as a laser beam. His skin was smooth and faintly tanned, not the dark playboy tan of foreign holidays in Europe but the healthy glow of someone who enjoys striding through English countryside. I searched again at his mouth and found no trace of the anger he had shown to the cashier at Sotheby’s. In repose it looked sensuous. He was watching me, still smiling. I wondered which was the real Richard – the angry, almost spoilt man, furious at being thwarted by the Sotheby’s system or the charmer in a Saville Row suit, plain maroon tie and very white shirt, neatly pressed and starched. By Maria presumably.

  I breathed in and caught his scent, the faintest waft of cigars, mixed with expensive soap, spice and something else indefinable, perhaps the same scent that I associated with antiques – honey, lavender, beeswax.

  He continued firing questions at me about the antiques business but I suspect he was aware of my scrutiny. ‘Do you have a partner?’

  I can remember thinking that if this was simply a preamble to persuading me to sell him the jug it was a very good attempt but wasted. However I determined to enjoy his company.

  ‘I don’t have a partner,’ I said.

  ‘So who is watching the shop now?’ His eyes were on mine and he was gently teasing again.

  ‘Did you simply close the door and put a sign up – Gone to the saleroom. Back tomorrow?’

  I laughed then. ‘No, I do have a girl called Joanne who looks after the place. She manages the customers very well. Better than me actually. She’s much more patient.’

  He murmured something.

  ‘I shall call in later on this afternoon and see what she’s been up to but I had to come to Sotheby’s today. An American buyer cleaned me out last week. The cupboard was bare. Empty shop windows are not a good idea, Richard Oliver. People soon go elsewhere unless I fill them up which is a full-time job.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said dryly and I knew he was picturing what he considered as his jug centrepiece in my shop window. ‘Hence the long list of lot numbers you gave the girl at Sotheby’s.’ He was scrutinising me as intently as I had been watching him.

  I had a strange sensation of being out of my depth. The background noises had stilled; the soprano was quiet. The restaurant had ceased to exist outside this table and this one man. I didn’t know then which was the stronger emotion – curiosity to know the story of the jug, bold attraction for Richard Oliver or something else, some recalled elegance and sophistication. I realised that this was dangerous. In minutes he would ask me to sell the jug to him and I would not resist. Then he would vanish from my life for ever.

  It was he who broke the silence. ‘How long have you had the shop for?’

  I pulled myself back to the present. ‘Six years. I did a Fine Art degree in London and couldn’t wait to leave the smoke. I came up here initially to learn about pottery manufacture and never quite moved on.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘I suppose you’d find it patronising of me to comment that you don’t look old enough to run your own business at all – let alone for a number of years.’

  Yes, I thought. I would.

  ‘I inherited a legacy which gave me the opportunity to buy the shop and open up. It was a good start.’

  ‘And do you buy anything?’

  ‘Some furniture, a few clocks, bits of silver. I specialise in Staffordshire pottery, particularly Victorian portrait figures. It’s my passion.’ As yours is your house, I could have added.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why portrait figures?’

  Was he interested? Really interested – or was this polite affectation? I was finding it difficult to gauge. But it might be an idea to share confidences. I wanted the story behind the jug and so I tried to put my passion into words.

  ‘Because the whole world is there seen through the honest eyes of the potter. It’s a naive microcosm. Politicians, criminals, royalty and circus performers. Animals they would never see, famous people they would never meet. All fashioned in simple clay to stand on their customers’ chimney breasts.’

  ‘I see. And are some of them valuable?’

  ‘Some of them – yes. Very. Others you might buy for as little as three pounds.’

  ‘I see,’ he said again and fell quiet.

  The silence between us grew as I waited for him to broach the subject of the jug but he didn’t. He poured me another glass of wine, met my eyes, smiled, and continued to eat his food.

  I knew I would have to ask him. In fact, as I looked up from my food, I caught him looking at me, his lips twitching into an almost-smile.

  He was waiting for me to open the subject.

  Well, I thought, two can play at this game.

  It was a good salad, in an olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing and the pasta al dente, full of garlic. I wondered if he had been here before. With a wife? Mistress? Girlfriend? I was full of questions about him as I watched him eat but we were largely silent for the rest of the meal, both sipping the wine very slowly as though to delay departure.

  I looked across at him and caught him watching me. I knew then that I should sell him the jug, that however much I wanted it it should return to Hall o’th’Wood – whatever the story. I could have named a price and he would have paid it without argument. But some possessiveness, some mischief, some Midas complex held me back from offering to let it go and take a small profit. I know now that in my heart I wanted to retain something of Hall o’th’Wood and of its owner. But now I can be honest with myself. Then I was making excuses. Once I’d found out the provenance and the story which lay behind this lovely piece of pottery I could either treasure it myself or take a good profit. It is often not a good idea to sell your best pieces without considering them for a while.