Even though it was a hollow and airy thing, the dense, seemingly random weave that made up its willow musculature and flesh somehow spoke of movement and personality. The very lift of the beast’s antlers – tall, jaunty and slender – and the angle of its throat and the direction of the creature’s gaze conveyed a sense of grandeur, pride and stoicism. It was a fine thing indeed. Atholl had expertly graded the willow shades so the beast’s neck was a paler gold than its pricked ears and tufted crown between the dark-red antlers.
‘Och, let me see,’ Atholl said, thinking. ‘A wee bit under a thousand pounds, maybe.’
‘But how long will it take you to make?’ Nina said, genuinely interested.
‘Many weeks, especially with the inn to run and the weaving classes taking off.’
‘You need to put your prices up,’ Nina told him, matter-of-factly, and she heard Mutt tut.
‘Not everything has to be out of the reach of us mere mortals,’ Mutt grumbled. All eyes turned to him and Nina glared. ‘Are you thinking of buying up Atholl’s entire stock then?’ he put in.
‘No,’ Nina said calmly. ‘I’ve already told you. There’s nothing here I can sell.’
Mutt huffed a sigh.
‘You can’t complain that I’m here to exploit people, then get cross when I say I’m not buying anything,’ Nina added in a lower pitch, only for Mutt’s ears. ‘Anyway, you gave me that list of makers. Why help me at all if you’re so suspicious of me?’
Mutt’s eyes widened and his mouth worked, but no answer came. She’d really got him this time. Hopefully now he’d stop needling her. She turned back to her basket, smiling, but after a moment her face fell.
Why had he helped her when all his instincts seemed to say she was out only for herself and didn’t care about craft or tradition? Why had he come all the way back to the inn after midnight to leave the note, and after they’d argued too? She didn’t dare acknowledge the little glow of hope that was mixed in with her indignation and annoyance.
Atholl put down his basket and made his way over to the pair. He had the look of a teacher coming to sort out two squabbling pupils. He checked their basketwork as he spoke and made a few corrections here and there before handing them back.
‘Nina’s right enough,’ Atholl told them both. ‘There’s nothing here she could sell. My business model works fine for us here in Port Willow. Anywhere else, it wouldn’t make sense at all. Besides, I dinnae ken what America would make o’ me, turning up at customs with forty thousand willow rods. I’m the maker. And I work right here. I cannae be exported.’
Nina smiled, grateful that at least Atholl understood.
‘But you’re right too, Mutt,’ Atholl continued. ‘I’ll let that stag go to the owner of some country house or other, and I won’t be sorry to sell it. It’s a braw piece and I think a thousand is handsome payment, but it’s a price tag still way out of the reach of most ordinary folk.’ Atholl bent his head a little between the two pupils. ‘Between us, I’ve only just started work on a new project that’s far more precious.’ Atholl glanced across at the large pad of paper on the bench by the fire in which he’d often lose hours at a time sketching ideas in charcoal. ‘It’s only a notion at the moment, but when it’s finished I shan’t part with it, not even for amillionpounds. I ken the difference between something’s price and its value, same as any traditional maker.’
Nina wasn’t sure if she’d been politely put in her place, or if Mutt had, or if this was Atholl’s kindly way of helping them see eye to eye. Either way, Beatrice was grinning proudly at him across the room and, feeling chastened, the young pair didn’t say anything else to one another after that.
Nina had a lot to think about as she worked on. Not least the fact that she wished Mutt had a better opinion of her, not that she’d done much to encourage him. As she worked on the basket, struggling to draw the weave tightly enough to make a truly useful object, she had to sit silently with the little feeling of shame within her, prodding at her and wanting to know why on earth she must insist on aggravating Mutt when he’d helped her.
She wasn’t used to people questioning her. Everyone at Microtrends and all her old friends had shared the same goal – to develop, brand and sell special things, and yes, that involved elevating those products out of the reach of most ordinary consumers. Was she expected to feel bad about that too, alongside everything else she had experienced lately to make her feel awful?
Just maybe, she was finding that she did feel uneasy about it all, and that she had all along, but it had taken this eagle eyed, smirking Scot to point it out, and here he was, still helping her in spite of his reservations about her.
Nina kept her head down, not wanting to meet Mutt’s eye again.
As Atholl made his way back to Beatrice he found he hadn’t addressed the bickering crafters quite so quietly as he’d hoped.
‘What is it?’ Beatrice asked. ‘What’s this secret project?’
‘You’ll see in good time,’ Atholl told her. His smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle delightfully, and he reached a hand to her jaw, briefly rubbing her cheek with his thumb.
‘I’ll look forward to seeing it then,’ she told him, and the pair seemed to get rather lost in each other’s smiles for a moment, until the door of the cottage banged open and Mark stepped inside.
‘Good God, I thought the weather turned quickly in Yorkshire, but that storm came in off the sea like I don’t know what!’ He shook the raindrops from his waterproof jacket.
Ruth couldn’t help herself. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy on your phone, you’d have noticed it sooner,’ she quipped dryly.
Mutt immediately made for the coffee machine and filled a mug for Mark, hastening him over to the fireplace where he sat cradling his drink and looking into the flames with glazed eyes. His phone call seemed to have exhausted him.
Ruth watched his back, her eyes boring into him, but she didn’t move over to the fire to join her husband.
If the weaving party hadn’t fallen to focusing on their baskets in silence they might have noticed how Ruth seemed to get lost in her own panicked, anxious thoughts, her flushed cheeks paling, unable to tear her eyes from the man who had chosen to spend the last hour pacing in the pelting Scottish rain talking intently with God knows who, rather than drinking coffee by the fireside with his wife and learning how to do something new.
Even with the wind and rain picking up outside, the school grew warmer, and slowly the general mood lifted as the baskets neared completion. Mark kept his eyes on the fire until Atholl produced a fat brown paper parcel of sliced black bun; Gene’s recipe, of course.
