Free Wise Follies by Grace Wynne-Jones Page A

at the new glazes I mixed the other day. One of them might be suitable for your coil bowl.’ He was pointing enthusiastically to some large plastic containers full of viscous coloured liquids. As he peered at them with a deeply preoccupied expression it became clear that romantic lunges were very far from his mind. He had that rolled-up sleeves, ‘isn’t this interesting?’ expression that one often sees on children’s television.
    I gazed at the glazes too. Numbly. Uninterestedly. The humiliation of it. I’d almost thrown myself into his arms and there he was mulling over pottery all the time. He was clearly trying to be kind to me, but not in the way that I’d wanted. ‘I fired some samples of these glazes,’ he continued, as he picked up some small ceramic squares from the table. They were all different colours.
    ‘I – I like the sandstone,’ I mumbled, trying to force a little smile. ‘The – the sandstone is very nice.’
    ‘Excellent choice,’ James beamed. ‘Well, Alice, thanks so much for your help. Don’t wait – I’m sure you’re keen to get home. I’ll lock up.’
    ‘Good-night then, James.’ I looked at him longingly.
    ‘Yes, good-night, Alice,’ he replied, producing a large bunch of keys from his jeans pocket.
    As I walked home I wondered how I could have misread James’s signals quite so drastically. It hadn’t been like The Piano at all – more like Blue Peter . It was so very humiliating. And disappointing. That Silvermint had been entirely unnecessary. The self-deception of the evening made me squirm.
    But at least James had been friendly. He had used me to demonstrate the coil technique. He smiled at me so gratefully. Yes – yes – that was something. Surely one day – one day very soon perhaps – James might take me in his arms.
     
    This is the fifth time I have asked James about ‘raku’ – a type of Japanese lead-glazed coarse-grained pottery. He sounds slightly exasperated as he goes over the details again. I have to find a way of talking to him somehow. Asking him if I could open a window only took five seconds. And admiring his sherbet-coloured shirt was equally brief. ‘James, ravish me – here – now, or during coffee break,’ I want to tell him. Instead the conversation somehow slips on to slipware and then porcelain until Mildred, who’s been trying to make a jug for the past four weeks, asks for his assistance.
    This is the final night of term and I’m getting desperate. Even though I ask James questions I already know the answers for, I can’t seem to broach the one I am most doubtful about. I can’t seem to ascertain whether the tender interest he takes in my ceramic endeavours extends to any romantic interest in myself. I’m being far too meek. I stare up at him as though he is a mountain. I search for emotional footholds from my base camp. In fact, I’m just about to gingerly attempt a slight ascent of my beloved and tell him I like his aftershave when he says he has something to tell us.
    ‘I am infatuated with Alice Evans. I simply must share this with you.’ How wonderful those words sound, only James Mitchel isn’t saying them. He’s standing near the door and is solemnly informing us that he is moving to West Cork. He’s opening a pottery studio there.
    I’m gobsmacked. I just stand there trying to keep my expression calm, while emotions go off inside me like popcorn. Then I start to smile idiotically, as though absurdly pleased.
    ‘West Cork is such a lovely place,’ I sort of squawk.
    ‘Yes, it is. So picturesque,’ people agree as they head calmly, unbrokenly, back to their clay. Someone says they have brought in chocolate digestive biscuits for the tea break as a special treat. They’ve all just accepted it, like it’s no big deal. But I can’t accept it as I pretend to study my newly glazed vase with an expression so rigid with sadness, so expressionless, it makes my cheeks ache.
    By eight-thirty I’ve worked myself up to