Argh. Yuck. Why would you do that? Why would you call a bowl Carnage? God, potters are weird.

“You like it?” A slight, blond woman in a smock comes up. “It’s my favorite piece.” I can see a tag reading ARTIST on a cord round her neck, so I guess she made it. Which means she’s Mona Dorsey.

“Lovely!” I say politely. “And that one’s lovely too.” I point to a vase with big black random stripes, which I think Luke would like.

“That’s Desecration.” She smiles. “It comes in a set with Holocaust.”

Desecration and Holocaust?

“Excellent!” I nod, trying to look unfazed. “Absolutely. Although I was just wondering, do you have anything with a slightly jollier title?”

“Jollier?”

“Happier. You know. Cheery.”

Mona looks blank. “I try to give my pieces meaning,” she says. “It’s all in here.” She hands me a pamphlet entitled “Wilderness Creative Festival: Guide to Artists.” “All the artists in the exhibition explain their life and working process. Mine is to depict the blackest, most morbid and nihilistic urges of human nature.”

“Right.” I gulp. “Er…great!”

“Were you interested in a piece?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I mean, I love the way they look. Only I’d prefer one that’s just a tad less depressing and nihilistic.”

“Let me think,” says Mona, considering. She gestures to a tall narrow-necked bottle. “This one is entitled Hunger in a Plentiful World.”

“Hmm.” I pull a thoughtful face. “Still quite depressing.”

“Or Ruined?” She picks up a green-and-black lidded pot.

“It’s really beautiful,” I hasten to assure her. “But it’s still a teeny bit of a gloomy title.”

“You think Ruined is a gloomy title?” She seems surprised, and I blink back in confusion. How could Ruined not be a gloomy title?

“A little bit,” I say at last. “Just…you know. To my ear.”

“Strange.” She shrugs. “Ah, now, this one is different.” She seizes a dark-blue vase with white brushstrokes. “I like to think this has a layer of hope beneath the despair. It was inspired by my grandmother’s death,” she adds.

“Oh, how touching,” I say sympathetically. “What’s it called?”

“Violence of Suicide,” she announces proudly.

For a moment I can’t quite speak. I try to imagine having Suze for supper and saying, You must look at my new vase, Violence of Suicide.

“Or there’s Beaten,” Mona is saying. “That’s quite lovely….”

“Actually, I’ll leave it for now.” I hastily back away. “But, you know…fab pots. Thanks so much for showing them to me. And good luck with the black and morbid human urges!” I add brightly, as I swivel on my heel.

Crikey. I had no idea pottery was so deep and depressing. I thought it was, you know, just clay and stuff. But on the plus side, a bright idea came to me while we were talking. I’ll read Raymond’s entry in the booklet about the artists and see if any clues come up.

I retreat to the side of the tent, perch myself on a handy stool, and flick through until I find him. Raymond Earle, Local Artist.