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By Root 1945 0

young women from the college came and threw pots from time to time. Geraint brought in young men from the City and Basil Wellwood himself came, and bought large vases by Benedict Fludd, which Geraint had had transported from Lydd. There was argument over what to call the place. Geraint thought of “Kiln and Crucible,” which Florence said sounded industrial. Imogen, who had been working on some small silver, walnut-shaped boxes, said “Why not The Silver Nutmeg?” and that was agreed on. They made a strange tree, from bronze and silvery wire, about five feet high, which they stood in a large jardiniere, made at Purchase by Philip and Benedict, in a glaze shading from pale sea-green to deep indigo, painted around with a prancing dragon with fourteen legs, whose teeth closed on his own scaly tail. Imogen hung this tree with small gold and silver objects made by herself and other silversmiths and from the top branch she hung the Silver Nutmeg and Golden Pear, smooth and glowing.

Geraint liked fixing things. He believed he was the prime mover behind the summer crafts camp in 1904. One idea led to another. If there was a camp in and around Purchase House—a camp where people could come and make things, and other people could come and learn, then the carpets might be replaced, and the furniture spruced up, and the house full of talk and work instead of female lethargy and retarded tocking clocks. It came into being in his mind—tents in the orchard, for men and for women—classes in the empty stables, painting, weaving, Imogen at a table in the harness room, surrounded by a circle of eager learners, classes at all levels from elementary to masters, in making pots … He thought about the studio in the dairy, and his father in the studio. He was a man of moods, Benedict Fludd, many of them evil, more of them morose, some of them manic. In one of his good moods—by which he meant manic—his son thought, he might be got to agree. There would then be the problem of the mood he might be in by the time the camp was set up. Geraint quailed. He went to talk to Prosper Cain who suggested that the summer camp should be set up elsewhere—they might ask Frank Mallett and Dobbin and Miss Dace if they could suggest a site—but it should be set up in reach of Purchase House, so that Fludd could perhaps give a lecture on his work—or a demonstration—and so could Imogen. It would be good for Pomona to have something happening—she must be given employment.

The person who helped out—instigated by Dace, Mallett and Dobbin—was Herbert Methley. A neighbouring farmer had just died, and his widow was happy to let the run-down farm buildings to the proposed camp to make studios for classes. She would provide milk, bread, apples and cider. There was plenty of room in the meadows for tents, there was a farm pond even if there was no river, the bathing places of Dymchurch and Hythe were within reach. Methley proposed some lectures on the Art of Writing. Wood-carvers and landscape painters were suggested. Geraint went, with Prosper Cain, to Purchase House, where they ate a lamb pie, cooked by Elsie, and surreptitiously studied Benedict Fludd. They asked if he would, when the camp was in place, spare Philip to help with the pottery classes and perhaps even lend his kiln to fire the work of the pottery enthusiasts. Fludd said Philip was more than busy, and he did not propose to put his kiln in danger. But his mood was not savage. Geraint had spent a short lifetime calculating how savage his father’s mood might be. His lip muscles were relaxed. Geraint looked from his father to Prosper Cain. He thought: I do not love my father. I have never loved my father. I wish I had a different father—a man like Cain who protects people, a man like Basil Wellwood who understands that I’m clever and ambitious. Benedict Fludd had loved his daughters in some odd way. But he rarely acknowledged the existence of his son.

“Imogen will be here,” Geraint said. “Imogen will be giving classes in silver-working. You really should make the effort to come to London and see The Silver Nutmeg. We