She took a deep breath and unfixed the chain. ‘You had better come in, Mr Yarrow.’
‘Cheers.’
The tea things were already on the rosewood occasional table in the drawing room. She had only to fetch the teapot from the kitchen where the kettle had been simmering for the last twenty minutes, but she decided against it. She dared not leave him alone in the room.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
Ignoring the invitation, he crossed the carpet to the corner cupboard and picked up a large stoneware vase. He balanced it in his palm and with his free hand caressed the surface, tracing the ripples left by the potter’s fingers.
‘Fantastic. Fabulous glaze.’
‘It is rather lovely,’ Miss Parmenter agreed.
‘Must date from after her trip to Japan in 1933.’
Her skin prickled. ‘You know who made it?’
‘Your sister — who else?’
He knew. The relief was as palpable as rain in tropical heat. For all his unprepossessing appearance, he had demonstrated his right to be there. He knew about pottery, about Maggie’s pottery. He was a connoisseur. ‘I couldn’t say which glaze it is,’ she told him in a rush of words. ‘She had hundreds, well, dozens, anyway. She wrote them all down like recipes in a cookery book. She actually called them recipes. This could be anything, anything at all.’
‘Celadon,’ said Mr Yarrow. ‘It’s one of the celadons. The grey-green.’
‘Really? I believe you could be right, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what went into it.’
‘Feldspar, wood ash and a small quantity of iron oxide,’ said Mr Yarrow.
‘You’re very well informed.’
‘That’s why I’m here.’ He replaced the vase. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
Miss Parmenter said, ‘I’ll get some tea. You will have a cup of tea, Mr Yarrow?’
‘Sure.’
She felt she had to trust him now, even if she still found it impossible to get those thugs and vandals out of her mind. She was in such a hurry that she deliberately omitted to heat the teapot first, a rule that she had broken only once or twice in her life. When she carried it — naked without its cosy — back into the drawing room, Mr Yarrow had picked up Maggie’s pot again.
‘Terrific.’
‘It is a fine example of her work,’ said Miss Parmenter, as she stopped to pour the tea. She had forgotten the strainer. She would break another rule and manage without one.
‘No, I was talking about you,’ said Mr Yarrow. ‘Here you are, a little old lady tucked away in a small hotel on the south coast. Once had a famous sister, but she died twenty years ago. Who would have thought—’
‘Just a minute,’ broke in Miss Parmenter. ‘I may be old, Mr Yarrow, but little I most certainly am not. Nor am I "tucked away", as you put it. There is an hourly train service to London if I want it.’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘We haven’t got off to a very good start, have we?’
‘If you would be good enough to replace the pot on the shelf, I can hand you a cup of tea.’
‘Right.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No. Do you mind if I try again? Your sister had an international reputation as a potter. She travelled the world. She worked with the greatest potters of the twentieth century, people like Hamada and Bernard Leach.’
‘I met them.’
‘I’m sure you did, but it must have been hell to have been the sister of Margaret Parmenter.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, did you ever travel abroad like her?’
‘No.’
‘Were you ever called a genius?’
‘Mr Yarrow, I don’t know where this is leading, but I find it intrusive and embarrassing.’
‘I’m trying to pay you a compliment, Miss Parmenter. You have to be a pretty exceptional lady to go to all the trouble you have to keep your sister’s name before the public, considering you had no talent of your own. That’s what I call selflessness.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ murmured Miss Parmenter, looking coyly into her cup.
‘Not at all. Come clean with me. Didn’t you ever feel a twinge of envy?’
She looked up and regarded him steadily. ‘You must understand, Mr Yarrow, that I was brought up to love and respect my sister and all my family. Father believed in certain principles that I am afraid are neglected by the modern generation of parents.’
‘Old-fashioned values?’
‘I’ve heard them called that. I’ve heard it said that we were repressed, presumably because we didn’t go about in gangs, terrifying people. If we needed to express ourselves, we learned to do it creatively, like my sister.’
‘How about you?’ asked Mr Yarrow. ‘Did you do anything creative?’
‘I would rather not talk about myself.’
‘You weren’t motivated?’
‘I didn’t have the opportunity. Mother died when I was twenty, so I had to manage the home and care for Father.’
‘Ah, the parent trap,’ said Mr Yarrow. ‘The unmarried daughter caring for the aged parent.’
Miss Parmenter set down her cup and saucer. She was so irritated that she feared she might snap the handle from the cup. ‘Mr Yarrow, I don’t know whether that remark was intended to be sympathetic. If so, it was misplaced. I was pleased and privileged to be able to look after my father for over thirty years. The fact that I chose to remain unmarried is immaterial. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else, but I will not have my life dissected by a total stranger who knows nothing about it. Nothing.’
‘Easy,’ said Mr Yarrow as if he were speaking to a dangerous animal. ‘You did invite me here. Remember?’
‘I invited the Artemis Gallery to send a representative with a view to mounting an exhibition.’
‘But you didn’t bargain for a guy like me who takes a personal interest in the job?’
‘I don’t mind telling you that I expected someone more... well, more businesslike.’
‘Pinstripes and bowler?’
‘Well...’
‘Give me strength,’ muttered Mr Yarrow. ‘Okay, let’s do it your way. What have you got to show me?’
Miss Parmenter folded her arms and sat back in her chair. ‘In a moment. First, how much do you know about my sister’s career?’
‘Enough. The Royal College. The two years with Hamada in Japan. Those elegant, tall pots in the palest wood-ash glazes that she produced right through the forties and fifties.’
‘How many have you seen?’
‘Not many,’ he admitted. ‘Most of them went into private collections.’
‘At least you’re honest.’
‘Thank you for that. The few I’ve seen are knock-outs.’ He added for her benefit, ‘Exquisite.’
‘I like honesty,’ Miss Parmenter observed. ‘If my generation had a fault, it was putting too much stress on being tactful, sometimes at the expense of the truth. Young people are not so sensitive about what they say. They can be hurtful, but at least they are honest. I would like you to be honest with me.’
‘It’s okay. I was a boy scout.’
She stood, picked up the tray and carried it towards the door. ‘There’s no need to be facetious.’
He followed her to the door and reached for the handle. ‘Miss Parmenter, I was trying to make a point. You don’t have to treat me like a kid.’
She laughed. She could hardly believe that she was actually laughing, but she was. The funny thing was that he was right. She was treating him like a child. She wasn’t in the least afraid of him. And this was the man she had almost refused to admit because of the intimidating clothes he wore.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Nothing you would understand.’
‘Shall I take the tray?’
‘No. I can manage, thank you. But come with me.’ She was distinctly enjoying this. Her moment was approaching, and she intended to savour it. She carried the tea things through to the kitchen and set them down. She felt supremely confident.