In the weeks after Denis die, we started in earnest to try and make a go of the pottery, his legacy. In the weeks before his death things had slowed up, but I had continued to try and build up speed and skill on the wheel and began various experiments with design on plates, storage jars and rather quirky teapots.
It was Saturday and bleary eyed I staggered down the stairs, half asleep and unfocused. I headed for the kitchen and grabbed a quick slice of toast. Putting on triple layers of clothes including vest, shirt, jumper, thick leather style jacket and gloves I stepped out in to the cold.
For some months previously I had saved up enough to scrape together the money to buy a small motorbike, much against my mother’s will. It was great though now, as I could ride to Greendene independently and not have to take the “the forever bus” to Bookham and nab a lift with Mike. Today, though I had agreed to meet him in Dorking and to set up the pottery stall in Arthurs Yard where there was a craft market every Saturday.
It was a bright crystal clear morning; there were silver coated trees and grass with spikes of frost that caught the light of the low sun as I kicked the Honda in to life. It was going to be a cold ride down the by-pass, but I was optimistic that we would sell some pots, including mine with a bit of luck.
I well remember as I raced down the road how the iconic hump of Box Hill appeared round the corner. Dappled woolly white clouds speckled the horizon a scene like one of those Japanese prints of Mount Fuji. The trees glowed soft gold and were on the turn as I carved my way passed Westhumble and the car park that was always full of bikers in the summer, but was now vacant, empty of cars.
I weaved my way round the back streets of Dorking and parked behind the old coaching inn that was Arthur’s yard. Mike was already there with the loaded Morris traveller and carrying the trays of wrapped items ready to put on display. We had loaded the car the evening before in preparation as neither of us were early risers.
There was a lively bustle of people bringing all kinds of items for sale, leather goods, jewellery, postcards, paintings and other rather suspect items that I would not have attached the word “craft” to. The yard itself was very old and had a cobbled surface, half timbered features and could have been something out of Dickens, it seemed a very suitable place for a craft market.
I don’t know if there is an art to setting up a stall? We spent ages putting out stuff and moving things here and then moving them there. We argued about whether we should have a few choice items or load the table with lots? In all my time selling on stalls, marquees, exhibitions and shop displays I never fully worked out the subtlety of selling. Maybe we should have done a course on it, but it never occurred to me and would it have made a difference, I don’t know? We tried all different ways and sometimes it worked and we sold lots, but then the next time we sold b……. all!
The other mystery was what things would sell? I don’t think either Mike or I had the “popular touch”, despite all our artistic talents, selling goods and promotion was not our strong points. We did in the end decide on what would be about right, a sort of compromise and once the pots were out we settled down to wait.
Now the pots were out on display we sat patiently, rather like a spider in its web waiting for a fly. Slowly and imperceptibly my boots began to turn to ice and the clinging cold seeped in underneath and through the gaps of my clothing. I stamped and jumped and shivered while slowly a troop of people wandered round the yard.
The thing I found tricky was when someone casually walked up to the stall; do you jump up immediately and engage them in conversation or, do you pause and let them peruse? Not being that brilliant at the casual conversation I tended to hold back, but often they then drifted away and I could have lost a sale. I Iooked enviously at other stallholders, who were engaging lots of customers and getting lots of sales I did learn that if you could engage them in talking, that not only did you maybe get a sale from them, but that others would then be less shy and would come up and buy also. So you often got a flurry of sales and then nothing for ages.
Potential customer strategies were also interesting, many would wax lyrical about the pots and say how cheap they were, but would look round for something we didn’t have and ask for that. For example, they would say
“I like your teapots, do you have a coffee set, I don’t drink tea?”
We would have to say no not at the moment. This meant they could get out of actually putting “their money where their mouth was” They also, very often asked for uniformity like factory made items, not realising that surely it’s the variety and differences which make studio pottery more interesting and worth more too? This was such an important element in Denis’s psyche, the work had to be pushing boundaries experimental and focused on individuality not consistency.
The day passed excruciatingly slowly, we took turns in taking a walk and warming up in a cafe with a coffee, but despite that we were nearing hypothermia by the time it was late afternoon and light was fading. I was aware too, that I had to drive back on the bike before I could warm up in a hot bath at home.
We packed up very quickly and decided to unload the pots on the Monday instead of that evening. We had sold a few things and as this was to be a regular Saturday, felt we would gradually develop our customer base over the coming weeks.
I then hit the road, very tired and trekked on home passing the brooding hump of Boxhill again and finally getting home for that well earned hot bath.
Next chapter: Teaching
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