The Pottery Weekend – Part 1: Centring

"It's collapsing," said Adam.

"It's not collapsing."

"It's collapsing, Ruth."

The pot on his wheel slumped sideways with a wet sigh and fell into his lap. He sat there, covered in grey clay, looking down at his ruined creation with an expression of tragic dignity. Beside him, Ruth bit her lip so hard it hurt.

They were in a whitewashed studio on the Cornish coast, with a view of the sea through tall open doors and twelve potter's wheels humming in a row. The weekend had been her anniversary gift to him: twelve years married, two children left with her sister, and a vague idea that they had forgotten how to enjoy anything that did not involve a schedule.

She was forty, a solicitor, with her dark hair tied up in a scarf. He was forty-three, a teacher, big and gentle, in a canvas apron. Now he was grey to the elbows.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"You're shaking."

"It's the wheel."

He looked at her, and then at the pot, and then his shoulders began to shake too. They laughed until they cried, bent double over the wheels, while the instructor, a placid woman in a clay-stiff apron, patiently brought them a fresh lump.

"Centre it," she said. "Be gentle. Lean in with your whole body."

Ruth leaned in. The clay rose between her wet hands, a smooth wobbling cylinder, centred at last. She gasped. The world narrowed to the spinning clay, the cool slip, the slow curve under her thumbs. It was oddly sensual: the warmth, the wetness, the surrender.

"That's beautiful," said Adam, watching her.

"The pot?"

"You."

She flushed to her scarf. "Can I ask you something?" she said, softly.

"Yes."

"When did we last do something just to make something?"

"The nursery," said Adam. "We painted it together."

"It was lovely."

"Green?" he said, the old word, with clay on his nose.

"Green," said Ruth. "Very green. Come here. Let me show you."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Slip.