‘Was a time Daniel made many crocks such as these,’ the woman said, seeming to answer Callista’s thought, ‘but not no more, folks wants only that which stands up to ’ard wear… not that I blames them for that for pennies be too few and far between these days to go spendin’ any on china set to break should a child bang it to the table. No, there no longer be a call for crocks thin as this, it be the thicker pottery folk of Wednesbury buys.’
Setting the jug aside Callista drank gratefully of the hot sweet tea, letting the warmth of it flow through her.
People like herself, the inhabitants of Trowes Court and Drews Court, the close packed tiny houses of Lloyd Street and Manor House Road, of Chapel Street, Dudley Street and so many more where people lived a hand to mouth existence, those she could well understand would not buy delicate china of this sort for the very reason this woman had given, but there were others of the town who were wealthy: people such as the Ramseys and the Derrys, a growing number of industrialists and businessmen who showed a fondness for decking their homes with the trappings which marked their success. And then there was Phineas Westley, who appreciated beauty and workmanship; his breed might not be so thick on the ground in Wednesbury, but Wednesbury was not the only town in England.
Voicing what had sped through her mind, Callista saw the fleeting look she felt marked a certain sadness before the woman smiled again.
‘There might ’ave been a time Daniel would ’ave thought as you just does but not no more; oh, the skill, that ain’t never left his ’ands, but the love o’ potting, that be long faded; now he makes the pots folks asks for, an’ they be all such as you sees there along the shelf.’
Glancing where the woman’s hand indicated Callista understood the fleeting, quickly submerged sadness which had passed across her face. She too, judged the delicate beauty of the poppy decorated cup against the thicker undecorated straight sided mugs and jugs and she too, preferred the former.
‘How could he lose such a love?’
The woman’s quiet laugh telling her she had inadvertently spoken aloud, Callista blushed.
‘No need for your cheeks to take on that colour though it brings life to that pale face.’ Reaching for the teapot she had placed on the bracket before the fire the woman refilled both cups, offering milk and sugar before resuming. ‘It be easy to lose a love for the work of your ’ands when the love of your heart be took from you. That were what robbed Daniel, took from ’im the desire to create things o’ beauty.’
‘But these cups, the jug—’
‘Made many a year since.’ Her interruption soft, the woman opened a cupboard displaying plates and dishes all painted with the same motif of scarlet field poppies. ‘Daniel made the whole set against my comin’ of age day. They was plain cream ware but over the next year I painted each piece and Daniel took ’em to the pottery for to ’ave the glaze fired on. I might ’ave done more for there were still a few folk who comin’ to the pottery left orders for the finer china but with the comin’ of the children my time were all took up.’
… when the love of your heart be took from you…
Did that mean this woman and her husband had lost the children born to them, seen death take them, was that what had robbed the man of the desire to create beautiful pieces like those cups? Callista kept her gaze lowered, not wishing the reflection of those questions to be seen in her eyes.
‘My father told me once of the pottery he said was here in Lea Brook though we never came to see it. Whenever he needed a new clay pipe he went to Potters Lane.’ It was almost an apology but the woman smiled as it was said.
‘My Daniel has praise for the men along o’ that lane but for pots an’ dishes the clay there be the wrong sort.’
She had taken enough of the woman’s time. Thanking her again for her hospitality Callista reached for the damp shawl, draping it about her shoulders.
‘Do you?’ She paused, the words awkward on her tongue. ‘Do you know…? Do you think the owner of the pottery would sell me threepennyworth of clay?’
‘I can’t say as to that, me wench, but you could ask.’
‘Yes.’ At the door Callista turned. ‘Yes, I will, and… and I won’t ever forget your kindness.’
As the thin bedraggled figure walked away, the woman turned indoors. There were few years in the bones of that wench but the sorrow of ages dwelt in her eyes.
*
Where would the girl have gone? The proceeds of the bailiff’s visit to Trowes Court together with the report of his dealings laid on the desk before her, Sabine Derry read through the page again. There had been precious little in the home of Jason Sanford; had it always been like that, sparse of furniture? Of anything worth more than a copper or two… or had the years seen his widow sell his property off a little at a time? Property! Leaning back in her chair she stared at the paper. What property would that man have… what did any of the tenants of Trowes Court have?
‘… the proceeds of their work will be enough to reimburse Mr Derry…’
She had seen the look in Oswin Slade’s eyes while saying those words, a look which said he too, would be repaid, that some way, somewhere his own reward awaited him. And so it did, but it would not be what the smart little man expected. Smart! Drawing the neatly handwritten account closer with the tip of one finger her lips clamped in a line thinned with distaste. Yes, smart was the word her rent collector would use of himself. But not Sabine Derry; there were other words she would choose, words such as cunning, wily, sly and contriving… yes, she could find many adjectives to describe that repugnant individual, none of which would do him real justice. Gathering coins she had counted twice she slipped them into a cash box taken from a drawer of the desk. The entire value of the contents of that house! Locking the box with a small ornate key she slipped the box back into the drawer. Would the property of a certain Mr Oswin Slade be of any higher value?
He had issued the order of eviction… he had sent in the bailiffs. The irritation that had burned in her on listening to Slade’s obviously self-congratulatory statement of his handling of the affair of Trowes Court glowed again in Sabine. Where would the girl go? What would become of her? That fool had given no thought to questions of that nature, but he would.
Rising to her feet, Sabine left the study. Upstairs in her own room she breathed the anger inside her. Yes, by God, Oswin Slade would think long and hard!
*
‘Threepennorth, you says.’
Whiskers reddened with the dust of clay, fingers daubed with the same, the man sat at a potter’s wheel looked at Callista. ‘And what is it you expects to do wi’ the clay threepence be buyin’? Won’t mek you no sets o’ dishes for no bottom drawer, ’tain’t gonna be ’ardly enough for a teapot an’ a mug.’
‘I don’t want dishes, nor do I want a teapot and mug.’
‘Be just as well, for the money you speaks of be nowheres near enough. Pots need to be glazed and fired if they goin’ to be any good, ’tain’t just a matter of throwin’ ’em on the wheel.’
She should have known the money she had would be insufficient. Callista watched the spinning wheel, the deft sure movement of the man’s hands lifting and shaping the dull red clay, bringing it to life with a touch of his fingers, creating a thing of beauty where moments before had been only a shapeless lump.
Reaching for a thin wire attached each end to short spindles of wood the potter sliced through the base of the jug he had thrown and in one swift adept move freed it from the wheel, setting it aside on a long bench which held an assortment of freshly worked mugs and dishes.
‘Eh up, wench.’ She had turned to leave when he called. ‘This ’ere threepennorth o’ clay… what was you wantin’ it for? You don’t be from a pottin’ family, least not from these parts; this ’ere be the last kiln for miles around an’ you ain’t used it.’
‘No sir, I am not of a potting family,’ Callista answered with the politeness she had been taught, ‘and I have not been here before though I have live
d with my parents in Wednesbury all of my life.’
Which don’t be many years. Wiping his hands on a crumpled rag the man kept the thought to himself.
Hunger pains dragging at her insides Callista shivered beneath the damp shawl. Perhaps someone back in Potters Lane would sell her threepenceworth of clay. But she must go now before the last of her strength deserted her.
‘You lives in Wednesbury, you says.’
He had followed her from the workshop and now stood looking at her, his keen glance narrowing through the mauve of early evening as she answered.
‘Not any more. With my mother’s passing a few days ago my home was… I decided to leave and begin a life somewhere else.’
Maybe not a wholly intended lie, but a lie just the same. He wouldn’t be tekin’ much of a risk o’ losing should he bet a year’s income that home had been teken from her, that her ’ad been thrown onto the street like so much rubbish.
‘Be your father set on this venture along o’ you?’
The wind, sharpening yet more with the fading of the sun, cut through the thin shawl. Trembling with the sting of wet clothes against her skin, Callista could have been forgiven for hurrying away, for leaving the man’s questions with no answer, but her upbringing forbade such. Hoping he would ask no more, that with her answer he would return inside his workshop, she replied through lips stiff from cold.
‘Jason Sanford died some years ago.’
‘Jason, that be a name don’t often be given a lad, not in this town it don’t.’
Please let him be satisfied, please let him say goodnight so I can leave. Praying silently, she drew the shawl closer using the strength of it to prevent her arms shaking.
‘I believe it was a favourite with his father. It seems that like his son, Heracles Sanford too, loved the stories of ancient heroes.’
‘Sanford…’ Seeming not to feel the bite of the gathering evening the man stood. ‘Then your father would be Jason Sanford?’
‘Yes.’ Callista nodded.
‘The same Jason Sanford who taught along of St Bartholomew’s boys’ school?’
Why did he insist on keeping her talking! Teeth almost chattering, Callista nodded again.
‘But I knowed ’im.’ The man smiled. ‘It were ’im taught my Adam. Never set a task he took no time in the explainin’ of aforehand an’ would allus give a lad an answer; a fine teacher my lad said of ’im.’
‘Th… thank you, my father would have been proud to hear your son say that, please thank him for me.’
The man’s face had closed as she said those last words. Why? She had only asked he pass a word of thanks. But the gleam of interest had immediately disappeared from his keen eyes leaving them dull and suddenly empty. Should she apologise even though the reason for doing so was not apparent to her? She would rather do that than leave on a sour note. But before she could bring her chattering teeth to order he had turned from her and was gone into the workshop.
Overhead the sky was darkening. Dusky mauves and lemon tipped purples were fast becoming deep grey. The lashing rain of the afternoon was gathering its forces for a promised storm. It would be a journey in vain returning to Potters Lane; the men working there would be finished for the day, they would be gone to their homes, doors closed against the cold of the night, and likely none of them would leave the comfort of the fireside to sell her threepennyworth of clay. But she had to try… she could not turn her back on all she had promised.
‘Eh up!’ Like the clang of a bell the shout echoed on the stillness, bouncing back from the brickwork of the kiln rising like a giant flagon, black against a background of pewter sky. ‘Was you not saying you was after buyin’ ’andful of clay?’
15
Sally Baker had been more than cooperative, she had practically poured out answers to his questions. The stupid whore had thought by telling all he would let her go; ‘But that was a mistake, Sally,’ Oswin Slade smiled as he whispered. ‘That was a great mistake.’
There had been no enquiry following her death. It had happened as he had thought. A prostitute too drunk to watch where she was stepping… fallen beneath the steam tram… the police hadn’t bothered with any line of enquiry other than to ask at various establishments until identity was certified. ‘Death by misadventure’ had been the finding of the Coroner. Oswin smiled again; it had certainly been a misadventure for Sally Baker.
He had supposed he should thank the slut, lay an anonymous gift of flowers among those her friends along of the Turk’s Head had clubbed together to buy from a nurseryman. The idea had faded even more rapidly than the carefully nurtured blooms when laid on the cold earth. Oswin Slade wasted his money on nobody; he wasted even less on a dead whore!
‘Thursday,’ Sally had said. ‘I goes there on a Thursday…in the afternoon.’ Glancing to the left and right along a street empty of pedestrian or carriage, Oswin thanked whichever star shone over him and slipped quickly between tall gateposts and around to the rear of Acacia Villa.
‘… why is it Polly Burke be given a full afternoon and evenin’ away from ’er job?’
The words overheard in that smoke filled room throbbed in his brain; he remembered them all, every vowel and every consonant were etched deep in it, carved side by side with those spewed by that trollop as his fingers closed about her throat.
‘…it be on a Thursday, I goes there on a Thursday…’
Would Polly Burke have locked the door to the kitchen? Was there a gardener or some other employee of Samuel Ramsey who might see him approach? No, no, Emma would be too wise to allow that, she wouldn’t give her housekeeper time away from the house only to have someone else see the arrival of her doxy visitor. Secrecy must be the very essence of those clandestine meetings if Emma wished to save her face in the town, not to mention that of her husband – and Emma Ramsey would very much want to save both. An expensive undertaking! Feeling the door open beneath his hand Oswin’s inner smile spread. It would prove a very expensive undertaking!
Apart from the slow tick of a long case clock, the spacious hall was silent. The house smelled of success, gleamed of wealth, but he paid no heed to the gracious furniture, the paintings and ornaments; there would be time for that when they all belonged to him.
Had the death of her playmate halted Emma’s little games – was that the reason for the silence lying over the house? Did the wealthy Mrs Ramsey no longer entertain on Thursday afternoons?
‘… we all knows her wouldn’t give the drip from the end of ’er nose…’
Hadn’t those been the words laughed aloud in the Turk’s Head? And hadn’t he watched that housekeeper leave the house, watched until her well fed figure disappeared from sight? Why give the woman time away from her duties unless there was something Emma Ramsey wished to avoid being witnessed?
The answer to the dilemma came in a soft throaty laugh. Glancing towards the source of the sound, Oswin’s greed found new heights. It was true what that whore had babbled: Emma did like her forbidden fruits served on Thursday.
Feet making no impression on the thickly carpeted landing, he followed the sounds beckoning to him, the moans and gasps he himself knew well, sounds which said Emma thought herself alone with her lover; but this lover was not Sally Baker.
Facing him from the end of the landing, a door stood open; need outstripping caution? Or desire to strip driving it from the mind? Was Emma’s ardour for her extramarital amours so strong it suppressed fears of being overheard?
With steps as soundless as his thoughts, Oswin approached the open door, smiling at the scene which met his eyes. His ship had well and truly come in!
A woman lay naked on the large bed, her widespread legs pale against the deep rose of the silk cover, a woman who moaned her pleasure at the mouth sucking at her breast, at the hand stroking long caressing fingers over the dark vee at the base of her stomach. Eyes closed, mouth parted in the extremes of physical pleasure, Emma Ramsey gasped a plea for fulfilment.
‘Not yet.’ Husky
with its own erotic pleasure, a slight laugh answered the groan questing fingers brought gurgling from the rapturous Emma. ‘Not yet, not before I’ve done this…’
Pulling at the nipple of the voluptuous breast, stretching it to the full before releasing it, a tongue traced the line of pale flesh between the breasts, over the stomach to the thatch of pubic hair to take the place fingers had caressed seconds before. Then the head lifted and with another sensuous laugh, her own nakedness flaunting its mouse coloured thatch and bobbing breasts, another woman straddled the moaning Emma, one body moving up and down against the other.
‘… an’ that lover don’t be no man…’
Eyes lifting from the two women lost in the throes of passion, Oswin glanced at the dressing table, its surface strewn with pretty jars and delicately shaped bottles. His eye pausing at the centre of the strewn table, he caught the laugh rising to his throat. Yes, Oswin Slade’s ship had definitely come in.
*
It had all gone so perfectly. Sitting beside his own fireplace Oswin gloated over the happenings at Acacia Villa. No one had seen him enter that house, and those women, Emma Ramsey naked and moaning with the pleasure of her lover’s mouth and hands… and that lover! The triumph that had glowed in him from standing at that bedroom door flared like a beacon. He had hoped Sally Baker’s tale of the carryings on in that house, of Emma’s fondness for women, would prove true but he would never have thought to find the sight which had met his eyes.
They had both been unaware of him standing in the doorway, unaware they were being watched. Emma Ramsey groaning and gasping, lifting her buttocks to those long fingers playing in her crotch, begging to be given that exquisite release; and the other one, mousy brown hair trailing over her shoulder as she sucked that plump breast, her own bobbing as she slid man-like over her willing partner.
This would bring him money. He remembered the thought which had leapt to his mind. Then his eye had drifted across to that dressing table and what he saw among the toiletries spread across its surface had made his thoughts blossom, each giving way to another and yet another like the opening petals of a beautiful flower whose scent was money. Emma and her husband would pay to keep that sordid secret and for such a secret the price would be high. It would have been shameful enough had that mouse haired lover been a man, but shocking as that would have been to their wealthy friends, it would eventually be overlooked; but a woman making love with a woman – a lesbian affair – that would stick in the craw of society, talk of it would travel to different towns faster than a train. The Ramseys would be glad to pay in order to avoid such a disaster to their comfortable life. Exactly what amount he would demand had been constant in his brain since choking the information from that whore but as his glance had rested on that dressing table he knew he could double what he dreamed of.
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