HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  ‘I’m coming,’ he said.

  3

  Rose opened all the curtains, shook them out for bugs and checked every cupboard and every drawer for bugs, mould or other people’s filth, but found none. The place was almost new, smelled lemon-fresh. In the cupboard above the sink: four tins of soup – two vegetable, two tomato – two tins of rice pudding, one unopened box of Scott’s Porage Oats, one unopened bag of rice, one packet of Tetley teabags and a jar of Marmite. There was a small fridge, small oven, microwave, and a kettle that whistled. The bathroom was also small and practical with a standard shower and toilet, and the bed in the main bedroom was a double. It also passed the bug inspection. Add a stunning view of the loch to these simple luxuries and Rose decided this was a good deal. But first, as face-like-death Peter had suggested, she needed to stock up.

  It felt more like August than November. Some stimulating walks in the woods would be in order once she had some food in the fridge. She got in the car, headed north, and was soon taking a right and rattling over the first cattle grid. The road travelled parallel to a river that was not much wider than the road itself. She caught a glimpse of a heron standing in the shallows of the far bank. Further on, a dazzling blue kingfisher zipped by. Sheep lazed on the grass near the roadside at every turn, forcing Rose to slow to a crawl. Hillocks rose and fell. Natural springs trickled and spouted here and there, and the sunshine was glorious.

  Rose had her window down enjoying a cig when the first flecks of rain touched the windscreen. Shadow crept over the landscape and the cloud she was driving under decided to drop its load in one go. At least that’s how it seemed as rain pelted the car like bullets. She dropped the cig outside, closed the window, flicked the wipers on and slowed the Corsa for an upcoming bend. She took the curve in the road and onto a straight incline. The windscreen started to mist up. She fumbled for the heater dial, couldn’t seem to find it, but didn’t want to take her eyes off the road. The low sun broke beneath the cloud, sending glare through the thudding rain so that it sparkled like showers of diamonds. She could barely see a thing and was thinking of pulling over when she saw the kids. Two of them.

  In the two seconds that passed between seeing the helpless silhouettes: a boy, hand held aloft, the other a little girl – the shape of her dress the giveaway – Rose heard a scream. Although it could have been the Corsa’s tyres screaming as she rammed the brake and clutch pedals home, Rose thought it was the girl’s cry, because she was the one she hit first, or the scream might even have been Rose herself. The bang was loud, the car juddered and its tail spun round and took Rose with it, her head hitting the window she’d just closed. The car came to a stop, facing the way she’d been coming.

  Rose pushed open the door and hurried into the thrashing rain. By the time she reached the two lifeless bodies lying at the roadside the rain was coming to a stop, the cloud passing over, and the sun bright and warm once more. The girl was broken in half, the boy’s hand had snapped off. ‘Stone figures,’ Rose breathed. ‘Bloody stone figures.’

  Yet they’d seemed so real through the sun’s glare. So real.

  Along the grass verge were more figures: a small deer, a waving rabbit, a gnome in a kilt. A hand-painted sign said this was the home of Dove Pottery, and beneath that another sign: Always Open. Rose went back to the car. The Corsa’s bumper had a six-inch split and the paintwork was scuffed. She got in and turned the car around so that it was pointing towards Moxley, then got back out and returned to the broken figures. She stood the boy up on the grass by the roadside and put the two pieces of the girl alongside him. She picked up the boy’s hand and ventured through an ivy-covered archway that had an arrow pointing the way.

  The path meandered down a slope for some thirty yards before levelling. The bushes and various rocky outcrops along the way held myriad pottery figures: twisted, moss-covered faces, ugly old women with warts on their chins and lichen growing on their noses. A big old leather boot had another old woman peering from the top. From a branch hung an old rope swing and on the swing’s wooden seat stood an elf of some sort. He looked ancient and worn. Pottery eyes followed Rose’s progress. She came to a small white house, or cottage, its paintwork jaded and moss-stained. Ivy trails and tendrils looped this way and that and with every step another pottery figure would reveal itself. A smiling toad, a pair of crows – one with an eye in its beak – a cat with one eye in the centre of its forehead, a similar Cyclops dog, little people peering over tree roots. By the time she reached the wooden gate with a small sign that said Come inside, Rose wasn’t sure whether she was enchanted or nervous.

  With the boy’s hand still in hers, she pushed through the gate and went up the side of the house. The back garden was huge and beautifully kept with a big lawn and potted plants everywhere. At the bottom of the garden stood a tall white dovecote, and beneath that a table. The woman sitting at it appeared to be painting a pottery figure. Rows of similar figures filled the table. A dove was perched on the white fence behind the woman, and another alighted to the dovecote as Rose approached. She walked past what must be the workshop-cum-showroom. Through its windows Rose saw shelves of figures in all shapes and sizes. As she neared the table the woman stood. She was stick-thin, maybe late fifties with bright white hair cut into a bob. No makeup, and her blue dress and white apron were plain and looked years old. The woman smiled a mouthful of little teeth.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ Rose said. ‘I think I owe you some compensation.’ Then she spotted the dog, big black thing, Doberman possibly, a curled lump at the side of the woman’s chair. It lifted its thick head and looked at her.

  ‘She won’t eat you. Don’t worry.’ The woman stroked the dog’s head.

  Rose placed the broken hand on the table.

  The woman looked at it. ‘I thought I’d heard a bump.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that. The girl, she’s broken in half. I didn’t see them, what with the sudden rain . . . and the sun-glare. I thought I’d hit real children. Such a fright. Please allow me to pay for the damage. You have a lovely garden, by the way.’ Rose went into her pocket for some money.

  ‘Please put it away,’ the woman said, ‘You’re not the first to hit the children and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Did you damage your car? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, not hurt, just the bumper got a little crack.’

  ‘No real harm done, then.’ The woman showed her teeth again.

  But there was real harm. She’d broken the woman’s property and couldn’t leave without at least buying something. ‘Are you open for sales? I’d love something to take home with me.’

  ‘Holidaying at Loch Rowe’s cabins, are you?’

  ‘Yes, just signed in for a week.’

  ‘Well, we’re always open.’ The woman got up and headed for the workshop. The dog padded obediently by her side.

  One end of the small workshop was cordoned off by a wooden half-door where a kiln stood amid shelves of pieces waiting to be fired. This side of the half-door resembled the inside of a greenhouse, its shelves bursting with the fruits of this woman’s labours, figures interspersed with sprigs of berries and dried flowers and pine cones. The price tags were higher than Rose had expected. £30 for the smallest frog. £40 for a one-eyed cat like the one she’d seen outside. £50 for a dog that looked like the one at the woman’s feet, but this one had three heads. What really caught Rose’s eye was a plain grey cup on the top shelf: big bowl, big handle, like the lovely big cups they have at Costa Coffee. Despite its plainness the price tag dangling from its handle declared this cup a whopping £360. Rose wanted to get it down, take a closer look, but the small card pinned to the shelf beneath it that said, U Break U Buy! made her hesitant.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. A lot of money for a plain old cup.’

  ‘Yes, yes I was.’

  ‘As for the sign, had to, in the end, so many dropped and smashed. People wonder why they’re so expensive and go diving in. If only they’d ask me fi
rst instead of taking them down and inspecting them for gold inlay or whatever it is they hope to find, and then dropping the blooming things.’

  ‘All right,’ Rose said. ‘Why do they cost so much?’

  ‘It’s in the painting, the detail. Each one takes a month or more. I don’t make many, only when the fancy takes me.’

  Rose looked back to the cup. Granted, there were the finest of grooves running around the cup, much like the grooves in a vinyl record, and the grey did change to a darker shade toward the bottom, possibly with some lines of green and yellow in there too. But still, £360 was a lot of money for a cup. She had the feeling the woman was trying it on.

  ‘Take it down, have a look,’ the woman said.

  In these close confines Rose could smell the woman: unpleasant, fishy. It was almost overpowering. And it was hot in here. Too hot. Rose looked at the floor, the big black dog was there, by the woman’s side, staring up at Rose with bright, chocolate eyes. Was it smiling at her? Rose steadied herself, looked up at the cup on the shelf, weighing up whether she should take it down or not. If she were to break it, well, it wasn’t the three hundred and sixty quid. Money wasn’t a problem, more the bead of sweat that just rolled down her nose and salted her lips. She needed to get out, get some air. She was about to say it didn’t matter when calloused and cracked fingers reached up and took hold of the cup. The woman presented it to Rose at head height, which made Rose think of blood, communion and naked witches in merry circles. ‘Take a look,’ the woman said again.

  Rose reached carefully and took the cup from the woman’s hands. It was bigger and heavier than a Costa cup, but it felt good, felt right. Take a look, the woman repeated, or did she? Rose wasn’t sure. She could hear the dog breathing. She carefully hooked a thumb inside the handle, made sure her grip was firm, then slowly lowered the cup, keeping her eyes straight ahead. The woman’s face came into view. She had a thin-lipped smile and a glint in her eye. Rose willed her not to show her little teeth.

  ‘It’s a lucky cup. Keeps an eye out for you. Tell me what you think is inside.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘You’re about to see the cause of most breakages here at Dove Pottery. What do you think it might be?’

  ‘Can they be lucky cups, if people keep dropping them?’

  ‘The people that don’t drop them gets the luck. But you changed the subject. What do think you’ll find inside the cup?’

  ‘A tarantula,’ Rose said without thinking, then, ‘Or the dried-up corpse of a rat.’

  The woman gave an excited little laugh and the fishy smell waved over Rose. ‘Go on, see if this is your lucky day.’

  Trying not to gag at the fishy smell and determined to not drop the cup, Rose checked her sweaty grip before lowering the cup and looking into its bowl. There was no spider, no rat corpse, yet despite being given ample warning she still startled and almost dropped the cup.

  The woman drew a sharp breath, the dog got to its feet.

  Rose’s hands were shaking. The bright blue eye was lifelike, life-sized, and positioned in the bottom of the cup, moulded outwards, its lids thick, its lashes realistic, its blue iris deep with layers of intricate detail, well, the thing looked realer than real. Rose didn’t want to look away.

  ‘Did it blink?’ the woman said.

  ‘Blink?’

  ‘Did it blink? Some people swear they catch a blink.’

  ‘I can imagine. It looks so real.’

  ‘The painting is done in layers with a fine glaze over each, fourteen in total. The layers create depth and therefore a likeness to reality.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ She handed the cup over and the woman swathed it in tissue paper.

  ‘It’s very clever.’ Rose handed over £400, insisting she keep the change towards repairing the broken kids. She gave a thank you that felt earnest and hugged the cup as she hurried back to the car. With her lucky cup safe in the boot (wrapped in a blanket) Rose waited until Dove Pottery was out of sight before she stopped the car, opened the windows, and put the cool blowers on. She smoked a cig and thought: Did I really just pay £400 for a cup? If she had anyone to answer to she’d be embarrassed.

  Back on the road, where there were no clouds only sunshine, green hills and the river keeping pace at her side, Rose realised something odd: the sudden downpour that had caused her to hit the pottery figures . . . when she was on the lawn of Dove Pottery, the place was dry. No rain dripping from the trees, no rain-soaked pottery figures staring from rain-soaked thicket. And the woman, she was outside at the table painting her pottery . . . no evidence of any rain there. Rose remembered the time, as a kid, standing at one side of a river in the sunshine and waving to her friend at the other side who was standing beneath a shower of snow, so she supposed it was possible the rain could have missed the rear of the premises, that Rose had been on the edge of the downpour. She shrugged it off. But there was something else. How did the woman know she was staying at the loch? She could have been staying at any one of a number of caravan parks, campsites, or B&Bs that dotted the countryside from here to there, but the woman had guessed right first time. Now that was odd.

  At Moxley village, Rose quickly bought provisions and decided that getting back to the cabin for a joint and a strong tea – perhaps from her new lucky cup – would be a good idea.

  Back on the meandering road by the meandering river, slowing for sheep and cattle grids, Dove Pottery came into view. Rose checked for rain clouds and slowed the Corsa to a crawl. The figure of the boy with the missing hand was still there but the two broken bits of girl had been removed. When Rose spotted the black dog, sitting by the gate, she put her foot down and did not look back.

  By the time she reached the turn for the loch she was hot and flushed. A couple of years ago the menopausal flushes had finally dwindled to weak sweats that nothing more than a cold flannel could cure, but here it was, back with force. And something else was back too. So surprised was Rose by the sudden appearance of her breasts she stopped the car. She released her seat belt, thought it might be giving a false impression, but no, her breasts remained. She cupped her hands to them, outside of her shirt, and could feel them heavy in her palms. Tears came quickly, and she sobbed. ‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered, as the weight of the phantom breasts suddenly vanished. She felt around her shirt – flat once again. She put the car into gear and turned into the trees where the sign said cabin 4 was waiting.

  She made tea in her fancy £400 cup, rolled a fat joint, and sat by the open front window taking long breaths of the lemony weed. She thought of the woman, wondered what her name might be, wondered if perhaps she’d been hypnotised into parting with her cash. Something wasn’t adding up. The phantoms used to always come as a pair, and the feeling was always one of loss and hideous grief . . . unnerving, and with frustrating sexual undertones that gave her the willies. Maybe the weed was eventually driving her cuckoo. She drank the last of the tea and startled again at the striking blue eye looking at her from the bottom of the cup. Dregs of tea slipped around the eye’s protuberant curves like overspilling tears and Rose felt a touching warmth flow over her. Sympathy? Empathy? She put the cup down.

  4

  M&M seem different this morning; less talkative. Muriel snaps lots of pictures as they walk the loch path. Martin has the same camera, but doesn’t take as many pictures. Beth has the feeling he’s keeping a distance between them. Martin’s bricks don’t go with his quietness, they’re bright and shiny right now, so maybe he’s happy and paying attention to the task in hand. Muriel, though, has a quickness to her this morning, bending, stretching, snapping pictures; she reminds Beth of the puppet in her dream. Beth observes the M&Ms with great curiosity, their creativity always a fun do. They pull up at cabin 1, the one Peter uses for painting his pictures. Martin stops to stare at an old tree, and Muriel is staring at the cabin with a blank look on her face. Both of their atmospheres jiggle a little, and an idea comes to Beth in a flash.

  She coughs their at
tention. The M&Ms turn to look at her, both smiling. ‘I’ve an idea. I know you wanted dying flowers and tendrils and stuff for the skirts but, well, would non-flower ideas be good?’

  ‘Any ideas are good ideas,’ Martin says. ‘Tell us what you’ve got.’

  ‘I’d rather show you. If I tell you I don’t think you’ll get it. I mean, I might not explain very well what I can see in my head.’

  ‘Okay, sweetie.’ Muriel holds out a hand. ‘Show us.’

  There’s no need to knock on Peter’s door and ask permission. Beth spots him across the hilltop. He’s sitting on the steps of the old ruin with his head in his hands. He never moves as they approach and judging from the cloud of grey bricks that surround him, Beth thinks he might be asleep.

  ‘Hey, Pete,’ Muriel says as they grow near.

  Pete raises his head. He looks ill. He’s white as a blanket.

  ‘Mind if we look around, take a few pictures? Beth has some costume ideas she wants to show us.’

  Peter stares straight into Beth’s eyes and takes his time in answering with a nod. He looks across the yard to where bramble bushes have been ripped out and piled high. Beyond the pile, the yellow dragon is where he’d left it – jammed against a stump that Beth knows isn’t a stump.

  ‘Aye, help yourself,’ he says, ‘just don’t go off the yard. There’s a hole needs filling. Don’t want any accidents.’ He pushes to his feet with a grunt, the worry on his grey atmosphere plain to see. Bricks jostle out of place then back in again and he seems to be a little hunched, as if he’s embarrassed.