The ceramics tent is far more crowded than before, and it takes me a little time to find Danny, sitting in the corner. He has his sketchbook open and is drawing an outfit, totally absorbed. I can see more sketches piled up by his feet, and it looks like he’s been at it awhile. Isn’t he keeping a lookout for Raymond at all?
“Danny!” I say, and he jumps. “Any sign of Raymond? Are you watching?”
“Sure.” He nods alertly. “I’m on it.” He focuses on the crowd in the tent for a few seconds—then his gaze drifts down and his pencil starts moving again.
Honestly. He is so not on it.
“Danny!” I plant a hand on his sketch. “What happened to staking out the tent? If Raymond walked past right now, would you notice?”
“Jeez, Becky!” Danny raises his eyes to heaven. “Face it, Raymond’s not coming. If he wanted to be here, he’d be here. All the other artists are here.” He gestures around the tent. “I chatted with them. They said Raymond hardly ever shows up.”
“Well, still. We should at least try.”
But Danny isn’t listening. He’s drawing a belted dress with a cape, which actually looks amazing.
“You carry on with your sketches,” I say with a sigh. “Don’t worry about Raymond. I’ll stake out the tent.”
“I’m off duty?” Danny’s eyes light up. “OK, I’m getting a drink. Catch you later.” He gathers up his sketches, stuffs them into his leather portfolio, and heads off.
As he disappears, I turn my attention to the people in the tent. My eyes are narrowed and I feel on red alert. It’s all very well, Danny saying Raymond won’t turn up—but what if he does? What if it’s all down to me to discover the secret? If I could do that, if I could actually achieve something…maybe I wouldn’t feel so pointless.
I check the photo of Raymond on my phone and scan the faces around me, but I can’t see him anywhere. I circle the tent a few times, weaving through the crowd, looking at all the pots and plates and vases. I quite like a cream-colored bowl with red splatters, but as I get near I see it’s called Carnage, and my stomach turns. Are those red splatters supposed to be…
Argh. Yuck. Why would you do that? Why would you call a bowl Carnage? God, potters are weird.
“You like it?” A slight, blond woman in a smock comes up. “It’s my favorite piece.” I can see a tag reading ARTIST on a cord round her neck, so I guess she made it. Which means she’s Mona Dorsey.
“Lovely!” I say politely. “And that one’s lovely too.” I point to a vase with big black random stripes, which I think Luke would like.
“That’s Desecration.” She smiles. “It comes in a set with Holocaust.”
Desecration and Holocaust?
“Excellent!” I nod, trying to look unfazed. “Absolutely. Although I was just wondering, do you have anything with a slightly jollier title?”
“Jollier?”
“Happier. You know. Cheery.”
Mona looks blank. “I try to give my pieces meaning,” she says. “It’s all in here.” She hands me a pamphlet entitled “Wilderness Creative Festivaclass="underline" Guide to Artists.” “All the artists in the exhibition explain their life and working process. Mine is to depict the blackest, most morbid and nihilistic urges of human nature.”
“Right.” I gulp. “Er…great!”
“Were you interested in a piece?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I mean, I love the way they look. Only I’d prefer one that’s just a tad less depressing and nihilistic.”
“Let me think,” says Mona, considering. She gestures to a tall narrow-necked bottle. “This one is entitled Hunger in a Plentiful World.”
“Hmm.” I pull a thoughtful face. “Still quite depressing.”
“Or Ruined?” She picks up a green-and-black lidded pot.
“It’s really beautiful,” I hasten to assure her. “But it’s still a teeny bit of a gloomy title.”
“You think Ruined is a gloomy title?” She seems surprised, and I blink back in confusion. How could Ruined not be a gloomy title?
“A little bit,” I say at last. “Just…you know. To my ear.”
“Strange.” She shrugs. “Ah, now, this one is different.” She seizes a dark-blue vase with white brushstrokes. “I like to think this has a layer of hope beneath the despair. It was inspired by my grandmother’s death,” she adds.
“Oh, how touching,” I say sympathetically. “What’s it called?”
“Violence of Suicide,” she announces proudly.
For a moment I can’t quite speak. I try to imagine having Suze for supper and saying, You must look at my new vase, Violence of Suicide.
“Or there’s Beaten,” Mona is saying. “That’s quite lovely….”
“Actually, I’ll leave it for now.” I hastily back away. “But, you know…fab pots. Thanks so much for showing them to me. And good luck with the black and morbid human urges!” I add brightly, as I swivel on my heel.
Crikey. I had no idea pottery was so deep and depressing. I thought it was, you know, just clay and stuff. But on the plus side, a bright idea came to me while we were talking. I’ll read Raymond’s entry in the booklet about the artists and see if any clues come up.
I retreat to the side of the tent, perch myself on a handy stool, and flick through until I find him. Raymond Earle, Local Artist.
Born in Flagstaff, Raymond Earle…blah blah…career in industrial design…blah blah…local philanthropist and supporter of the arts…blah…love of nature…blah…greatly inspired by Pauline Audette…has for many years corresponded with Pauline Audette…would like to dedicate this exhibition to Pauline Audette…
I turn the page and nearly fall off my stool in shock.
No way. No way.
That can’t be—
I mean…Seriously?
As I stare at the page, I suddenly find myself laughing out loud. It’s too extraordinary. It’s too weird! But can we use this?
Of course we can, I tell myself firmly. It’s too good a chance. We have to use it.
A couple nearby is eyeing me oddly, and I beam at them.
“Sorry. I just saw something quite interesting. It’s a great read!” I wave the booklet at them. “You should get one!”
As they move away, I stay perched on my stool, glancing down at the booklet every so often, my mind spinning with ideas. I’m making plans upon plans. I’m getting little adrenaline rushes. And for the first time in ages, I’m feeling a kind of excitement. A determination. A positive spirit.
—
I stay in the tent for a while longer, till Mum and Janice come back. As I see them making their way through the mêlée, I can’t help blinking in astonishment. Mum is wearing a pink Stetson and a matching belt with silver studs all over it. Janice is lugging a banjo and wearing a fringed leather waistcoat. Both are flushed in the face, although I can’t tell if that’s from sunburn or rushing about or too much bourbon-laced iced tea.
“Any sign?” demands Mum as soon as she sees me.
“No.”
“It’s nearly seven!” Mum looks fretfully at her watch. “The day’s almost gone!”
“He might come along at the end of the exhibition,” I say. “You never know.”
“I suppose so.” Mum sighs. “Well, we’ll take over till it closes. Where are you going to go now?”