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‘Do you now?’ Dave said, sounding interested. ‘You don’t fancy a table at the Fayre, do you? We’ve had someone drop out, so we’ve got a spare. We’ve got, amongst others, painters, weavers, a wood craftsman, a couple of ceramicists, someone selling knitwear, a candle maker, but no one selling any glassware.’
Jago thought rapidly. It would mean unpacking a few dozen boxes, sorting through some stock and digging out the Christmas-themed stuff but it was too big an opportunity to miss. ‘Yes, I’ll take you up on that. I’d be delighted. Thank you. Weird. I wandered into this part of town by accident. It seems like fate I should stumble on you.’
Dave laughed. ‘Things happen like that a lot in this town. Got any pictures of your work to show me?’
Jago got out his phone and scrolled through a few examples.
‘Looks good, although it’s difficult to see the quality on a phone. Reckon they’d sell a bundle at the Craft Fayre though. What’s your name and I’ll book you in. Got a card on you?’
‘No card I’m afraid, but I can drop one or two examples of my work in if you like. Give you a better idea of what I do. I’m Jago Pengethley.’
Dave started. ‘I know your work! You’re London-based, aren’t you? I was up town seeing a young friend of mine and I saw your glass panels in the gallery he’s got some of his paintings in. Nice work, my friend. You might be too expensive for a small-town Christmas Craft Fayre though.’
‘That’s me. You’re talking about the gallery in Islington, aren’t you?’ Jago laughed deprecatingly. ‘Adya took several of my window panels. That’s my high-end stuff though. I got a few commissions off them. I was very grateful to her.’
Dave nodded, thoughtfully. ‘She knows her stuff, does Adya. Doesn’t take any old rubbish.’
‘At the moment, though, I’m just making the smaller objects. My bread-and-butter stuff. I’ve just moved into Lullbury Bay so I’m based in the south west now. In fact, I’m looking for studio space. I’d like to make more of the large stained-glass pieces, but I need a bigger place than I’ve got at home to do it.’ The statement was uttered before he’d even formulated the thought properly. He liked Dave, had immediately taken to him and a workshop atmosphere might appeal. He spent much of his time working alone, it would be inspiring to work alongside other creatives. It might even ignite his work ethic which was still sluggish.
‘Studio space? We can rent you space, my friend. We’d be delighted to. Come and have a look.’
Jago followed Dave, a slight smile playing about his mouth. The gut feeling that the encounter was fate was growing. Dave showed him the available workshop which, even on this silvered December afternoon, was flooded with light. It was a large square shape, completely empty and painted white. Jago stood in the middle, envisaging his glass kiln along one wall, his set of glass storage drawers on the other, a large worktable in the middle. There were even hooks on the wall next to the door where he could hang his goggles and aprons when not in use. It was perfect.
‘Is the site secure? Some of my gear is expensive. I mean, it’s insured but it’s a pain if your kit gets stolen.’
Dave nodded. ‘All work rooms are lockable and we’ve got CCTV on all the obvious access points and motion sensor lighting on the car park now.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Sacrificed re-tarmacking the car park to get it in, so watch your tyres on the potholes if you drive. I’ll admit we’re not in the most salubrious part of town, but it’s generally a low-crime area. We don’t get much hassle. A few of the tourists get drunk and lairy in the summer but they don’t know we’re here, so we’re left in peace. And the School is a busy place, there’s always someone around, evenings and weekends included.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Come and see the main space then.’
Dave showed Jago into a large hall which was bare except for lines of naked trestle tables. The double-height ceiling, white walls and intense light begged for some glass art to be hung.
‘I’ll definitely say yes to both if I may. Yes, to the studio space but also to the Craft Fayre. I’ve a workspace at home but it’s only suitable for the smaller stuff. I’d like to take on more commissions but I’ve,’ he hesitated, ‘had a quiet period over the past year. Need to build up my client base again.’
Dave shook his hand. ‘Consider it done, Jago. Great to have you on board. You’ve got my number? Drop me your deets and I’ll add you to the programme. It’ll be mostly Christmas shoppers at the Fayre, but it’ll be a good way to get your name out there in the local scene. We’re quite a crafty lot here in west Dorset.’
Jago thanked Dave and, after having a more thorough look around the centre, exited to find darkness had drifted down. He walked back towards the town centre, keeping up a brisk pace as it was now bone-chillingly cold. He had a quick browse along the high street. The lit shop windows were like beacons of hope against the dank, secretive closing-at-the-end-of-the-day feel to the evening. He rechecked the town gallery and one or two of the craft shops. One sold some good silver jewellery and some high-end decorative items. He promised himself he’d call in and try to persuade them to take some of his stuff. Smiling, he decided it had been a good day.
He walked downhill to the bottom end of the high street, where it met the square and the promenade which led off it. Here the pavement split into two parts, the higher one with shops and the lower, narrower pavement, leading to the beginnings of the prom. In the square, a magnificent Christmas tree was already in situ, awaiting the lights switch on ceremony.
He went to stand on the raised part, at the top of some steps, which looked over the prom below. Standing against the railings, he gazed over the sea and to the Dorset coast beyond in the east. He watched as car headlights dipped and rose on the coast road. Someone driving home after a long day at work, maybe. It was calmer now, the wind having dropped slightly with the tide. All was inky dark with only the slightest glimmer of lighter sky clinging on in the west. Below him, he could hear the sea shushing in the darkness. One or two dog walkers passed him, but, apart from that, all was quiet. It all felt very different to the closed-in high-buzz city vibe he’d left behind.
The dark, shifting water pulled at his thoughts and his good mood deserted him. He shivered. It had been night when his father had died. Jago shuddered at the thought of his father helpless in the freezing treacherous waters of the Thames. It was why they had ended up living by the coast. His mother couldn’t cope with the sight of the river gleaming sluggishly through the city. She’d needed to get away. He was glad the water here smelled different, fresh and briny. Invigorating. But he knew, because of the presence of the RNLI station on the harbour, the station they all pretended to ignore, that these waters were dangerous too. He blew out a bitter breath. If only people learned to respect the water more. For an island race, its population had forgotten its instinctive relationship to the sea. Feeling his mood dip, he shut his mind off. He refused to think about it. Enough, he thought. He didn’t want to ruin what had been a positive day by dwelling on it any further. Turning sharply away, he collided with someone running up the steps.
‘I’m sorry.’ He caught her by the arms to stop her slipping on the wet cobbles. ‘I’m really sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Hello, Mr Pengethley.’
It was Honor Martin. His mood lifted instantly at the sight of her. It was as if she brought sunshine into the darkest of hours.
‘Honor! Hi. And please call me Jago. Sorry again. I was lost in the view.’
‘I can understand why. There’s something special about the sea at night, isn’t there?’
‘There can be.’
‘Were you on the way home?’
