The Diamond House

by Dianne Warren

  I have now settled again in my pleasant east-facing room in the boarding house of a widow, Mrs. Gretta Klein, who is an excellent cook, although she perhaps has a more refined taste for sausage than I. Other than her slight overreliance on this Germanic dietary staple—which she lovingly calls bratwurst—she looks after her single gentlemen very well, and she keeps her house as neat as a pin. She does not talk about Mr. Klein, but I believe he was killed in an accident of some kind. I don’t know why she chose to stay in the West, but we (her gentlemen) are all very grateful that she did. There are some dreadful boarding houses about the city.

  I would like to say that I am glad to have had the honour of accompanying you home after the funeral of your great-aunt. It was most pleasurable, in spite of the downpour. I had been hoping for the opportunity to introduce myself, although of course I wish it could have been under happier circumstances. I send my condolences once again on the loss of your relative. A visit to a cemetery is a reminder to get on with things (whatever those things may be) because time is short.

  On that note—and I risk telling you with hope it will be of interest—I have made a discovery that will determine my future: this new city in which I find myself sits on a bed of clay. Several months ago, I left the scrapings from my boots on the stoop outside the door of the boarding house. Of course the fastidious Mrs. Klein swept them off into her flower bed, where they did not break down as one might expect, but rather dried into hard balls as the sun shone on them. By nightfall they had hardened into bullets that could not be broken apart. The heavy clay soil here is quite the thing. After a rain, it is near impossible to walk in, and it makes the mud in Byrne Cemetery look like a fine broth. (I hope your shoes have recovered. Mine, sadly, did not.)

  Now, as a person with an interest in clay would know, not all clay is refractory, but I have engaged the services of a chemical engineer and we have been testing the deposits in the vicinity. So far, we have discovered three different kinds of refractory clay, and as a result I have invested in the purchase of land. There are four things needed for a brick production plant: clay, fuel, water, and a tempering agent to prevent cracking during the firing process. The first three are at hand, with coal to the south and a running creek on the property. My chemist will tell me what to do about the fourth when he has finished his testing, but we know there is sand in abundance along the Saskatchewan River, not far to the north.

  You’ve probably gathered that this factory is for me an obsession. I understand that the men in my mother’s family worked all their lives in factories for the English. My father and brother, as I believe you know, work at the Morris foundry, a fate that I escaped after a brief stint in which I tried to please my father by following in his footsteps. I quickly learned that I resented the factory whistle and its authority over me, and I resented also my father’s insistence that his sons do exactly as he did.

  But more and more of late, I find myself asking a crucial question: was my disdain for work at the Morris plant an aversion to the work itself, or was it disdain for lining the pockets of someone else, namely Mr. Charles Morris? Or was it simply that I took a stand against my father’s wishes, and determined to prove him wrong that there is only one path in life?

  I am not sure of the answer. My father is a hard man who favours my brother. My mother is an unhappy person in poor health. I do not know where I got my entrepreneurial spirit and I do not see it anywhere else in the Diamond family, which is—truth be told—a family without dreams, and without dreams there is no joy.

  I will not go on about this further and risk you thinking that I am a man without joy, because the opposite is true.

  I am very glad your father had the good sense to take a post in Byrne Corners. Otherwise, we would never have met. And I also respectfully ask if you would like to go about with me a time or two when I am again home for a visit? And may I call you Salina? Or Sally, if you prefer. Please advise.

  Yours in anticipation,

  Oliver Diamond

  Dear Mr. Diamond,

  What a way to begin a correspondence, with memento mori and a reminder that we should all get on with things. I might have reason to accuse you of being morbid. However, you are forgiven, and I did love your story about the Clydesdale horse. I cannot say that I have thought previously of their wild beauty as a reminder of danger lurking. (You have a most serious side to you!) Sometimes when I look at horses in a paddock I imagine myself as one of them, caught between a wild desire for freedom and the comforts in life. (There, I have revealed the serious side of my own disposition, or perhaps I am simply naive, having never lived without comfort.)

  Of course you may call me Salina. Or even Sally if you like, although I am not much fond of that particular diminutive. Still, it’s better than Hattie, is it not? (I don’t know any Hatties. That just popped into my head.)

  It was indeed a pleasure to meet you, although I am sorry that the rain interfered with the impression I would like to have made. I assure you that I do not normally go about with water dripping from my hat and the tip of my nose. It was foolish of me to leave the house without an umbrella on such a grey day, but I thought the rain would hold off as a favour to my departed great-aunt. She always said she came to Canada to escape the rain in Ireland. She would have been most unhappy to know she was buried in it. Mercifully, she was under cover, unlike the rest of us.

  Your clay city sounds intriguing. I do so hope that your tests and experiments continue to net results. I am sorry that my knowledge of the chemistry of clay is lacking. It is not anything that we discuss at my ladies’ club.

  And speaking of which . . . what a coincidence that we share an interest in clay! You did say that you had heard of my interest. To elaborate, I am an aspiring potter, although at this moment strictly a hobbyist. We have a small group of ladies here in Byrne Corners who meet twice a week to make bowls and vases and such. Mr. Charles Morris—you already know him as a very-important-man from the foundry—has built his wife a pottery shed in their yard, and he sends a much-less-important-man from the foundry to fire the kiln when we are ready for it. I dare say we could throw our own wood on the fire, but he won’t hear of it. I call us the Potted Ladies, but I think I am the only one of us with a sense of humour. The rest take their flower painting very seriously, especially Mrs. Morris, who sticks to ashtrays because they are the easiest to make and have a flat surface for her little paintings.

  Please see enclosed a drawing of my most recent teapot. It is white with two green leaves. The decoration is plain. I’m afraid I’m not much of a paintresse, although I do like to think about surface design.

  I would be happy to go about with you the next time you are here. Let’s say one time and see if it becomes two, or perhaps even three.

  May I call you Oliver?

  Sincerely,

  Salina Passmore

  P.S. I am adding this after some thought. It is interesting that your excitement about the future was offset by the story of the horse. I hope I am not being forward when I say that you must be a person led by equal parts practicality and passion. I think this is a good combination for a young man embarking on a business venture and, of course, I wish you the very best of luck. I withdraw my earlier comment about you being morbid.

  Dear Salina,

  Your teapot is delightful! There is no doubt that you must be the most talented of the Potted Ladies. I cannot imagine any of them being able to top such a design. Do you use a potter’s wheel? If so, you are highly skilled for a hobbyist (which you called yourself, perhaps in modesty). I look forward to seeing your teapot in person, and maybe even savouring a cup of good black tea that has been brewed within. How does it pour? That is the test of a teapot, is it not?

  As to your observation about horses and a life penned in, I apologize for my dark interpretation of the story of the black horse leaping to freedom. I did not mean to appear morbid and I admit that I sometimes get carried away. I wonder still about the horse and hope that it has been
taken in by a farmer who will treat it well. I admire your vision and your propensity for metaphor. At the risk of being forward, I will say that you must be a person of great intelligence balanced by an equal measure of idealism. Surely that is a good combination for a young woman with artistic ambitions.

  I have good news on the factory front. My chemist believes we have ample refractory clay on the property I have purchased, and he believes also that with some slight chemical alterations the clay will make bricks suitable for construction. I am now looking for business partners and investors, as the land acquisition has put a strain on my savings and an inheritance from a relative I’d never met. There is a Texan I have heard about, a man named Nathaniel Thick. He is a very successful cattleman looking for opportunities, and if he is as astute as they say he is, he will not turn his back on this one. The amount of building in this city is astounding, and why ship materials by rail when you can make them (bricks, that is) right here? I am imagining the construction of many stately homes such as the ones on High Street in Byrne Corners, all built with Diamond bricks. But of course I am getting ahead of myself.

  I am curious about the kiln that Mr. Morris had built for his wife. You mentioned wood. It is wood-fired, then? And what shape? How big is it? I am thinking myself of beehive or bottle-style kilns, which are predominant in England, but the continuous kiln is also a possibility. These can be built up the side of a hill so that the heat gradually rises from one to the next. However, I am not sure if what is called “a hill” here on the Great Plains has a sufficient incline. Coal, of course, is the most logical choice for an industrial fuel source. There are coal deposits to the south that are shipped by train. Did you know they use canals in England? There is a creek close enough, but it is nothing more than a trickle for most of the year and will not be useful at all as a means of transport.

  Research! This is a phase that cannot be skipped if I am to be a success, and I have decided to go directly to the source. I am planning a trip to England to see for myself the pottery operations, especially those in the towns of Stoke-on-Trent. Perhaps I can find someone who will take me in as an apprentice. I hope I do not sound like a child on Christmas Eve when I say I am sleepless with anticipation, and of course I will be stopping in Byrne Corners on my way. There are many things, then, to look forward to.

  The rain dripping from your hat at your aunt’s funeral was most becoming.

  Please do call me Oliver, and I am honoured to call you Salina. I think, though, that I should hold off calling you Sally, and I will be sure never to call you Hattie. I aim only to please.

  Courteously yours,

  Oliver Diamond

  P.S. I believe you are too hard on yourself regarding your leaf decoration. I have not yet had the pleasure of examining said leaf, but I have no reason to believe it would not be perfectly attractive. And of course the surface is the canvas, and without it there is nothing, and you have no doubt created a very fine surface in your teapot!

  Dear Oliver,

  Let me first say that I am enthusiastic on your behalf concerning the trip to England. I think it is wise of you to undertake this research and fully inform yourself of the ins and outs of production. Why not learn from the best? Why not be that ambitious for yourself and the future?

  And now for my news: I have been kicked out of the Potted Ladies!

  Here is what happened.

  It was to be a workday in the shed and one of the ladies suggested a challenge, a footed vase, to be made either on the throwing wheel or by hand construction, whichever was each lady’s choice. Before we began work, they all removed their wedding rings as usual (all but me, of course) and deposited them in a bowl set on a shelf. It is a bit of a ritual, dropping the rings in the bowl.

  My first choice is always the wheel, but Mrs. Morris has only one and I couldn’t be bothered waiting my turn today, so I moulded a tall vase around one of the forms we have for that purpose. I had some notion of pinching the lip of the vase into a series of ocean waves and creating a foot to match, but I overworked it and the clay dried out and cracked and a chunk dropped right off. I picked up the dried-out piece and threw it in the slops bucket, and then thought, “Bother,” and threw the whole vase in. It was so hot and crowded in the shed, and I could hear the ladies chatting away about this and that and saying nothing of interest, and I felt so uncharitable toward them that I decided to clean myself up and arrange the lunch, since it had been my turn to bring the cakes.

  When the rest of the ladies finished for the day and had returned their rings to their fingers, we all seated ourselves in Mrs. Morris’s gazebo. As Mrs. Morris joined us, she took the opportunity to say, “Salina, dear, I noticed that you abandoned your project to the slops. Waste not, want not, and clay is a material that can be regenerated with the simple addition of water.” I muttered something about the heat and the cracking, and she had the nerve to say that the rest of them had managed, and that flaws in the form can always be disguised later with decoration and a little extra glaze.

  What came over me?

  I shocked even myself by saying, “Mrs. Morris, the form is surely the most important thing. And if you attempt to make yourself a more interesting form, you’re bound to fail once in a while. You may like to paint on the reliable surface of an ashtray, but an ashtray it remains. I suppose you could put a foot on it for a bit of a challenge.”

  I knew immediately that I had gone too far. I attempted to smooth the waters by saying something about both the form and the surface decoration being important. And then, never one to leave well enough alone, I went on to praise healthy disagreement and asserted that we needed to exercise our brains if we wanted the vote.

  Oliver, it turned out that not one of them sees the need for women to have the vote! One lady said she wouldn’t know what to do with it if she had it. I looked around the circle for signs that even one lady might see things my way, but there was not one. Not even my friend Ruthie.

  (Et tu, Ruthie?)

  Quite the silence ensued, with all the ladies looking down at their teacups until finally one brave soul helped herself to a lemon square, bit into it, pronounced it delicious, and made a show of asking me for the recipe. Several others followed, and there was a lengthy discussion about the recipe, which I agreed to write out and bring for them next time. I thought the acrimony to be in the past, and myself forgiven.

  However, I had been home for no more than an hour when a note was delivered to my hand by one of Mr. Morris’s employees, and signed The Morris Pottery Club. I had been excused, the note told me. I was not a good fit, and brought discord to what had once been a pleasant and agreeable group. They wished me well—and I am certain “they” was Mrs. Morris acting alone since they are all so opposed to voting—and hoped I would find another studio, knowing that there is not another studio anywhere in our district.

  And to top it all off, we—the Passmores—had a most ridiculous discussion at the dinner table tonight, with my parents blaming my expulsion from the club entirely on my stance on the vote. It went like this:

  Father: “Salina, why do you insist on bringing that up in polite company?”

  Mother: “It is so unbecoming, women marching in public, making spectacles of themselves.”

  I: “I do not see why women are denied the right of electing our government. Father, you’ve always said we girls are as smart as any boys you might have had.”

  Father: “Probably smarter. Which I see as a problem, and why you should not be allowed anywhere near a polling station.”

  Good grief, Oliver, what is wrong with everyone?

  After dinner my sister Roseanne came to the house with hopes of convincing me to accompany her and her two children on a trip to Niagara Falls. She’s been going on about this trip for weeks and I can hardly think of anything worse. I love Roseanne dearly, but her children are hellions and give me a headache. They live across the back garden and I can hear them even with the windows closed. Her boy Amos is impossible. Well,
the trip will not likely take place anyway because Father thinks train journeys are not acceptable for ladies travelling without their husbands or fathers, and he is sure Niagara Falls in particular is teeming with con men.

  Yes, I told him, very dangerous con men selling sofa cushions with Niagara Falls embroidered on them.

  More dangerous, Oliver, is the lady who went over the Falls in a barrel. Now her I would like to meet. I hear she does talks and sells pamphlets for ten cents.

  Oh, I have bent your ear enough with the news of this trying day. That is that. I shall not mention it again.

  How are the plans for the factory coming?

  I so look forward to your visit, assuming that I have not put you off with this report of my ungracious behaviour.

  Sincerely,

  Salina

  P.S. Regarding your inquiry about Mrs. Morris’s kiln, it is not worth speaking of. It is very small, and the poor man from the factory has to feed wood into the firebox all night to get anywhere near the desired temperature, and you seldom get a firing free of ash. Mrs. Morris designed it herself. I’m sure your kilns will be vastly superior. And I would hardly call Mrs. Morris’s shed a studio. I don’t know where she got such a lofty idea!

  Dear Salina,

  It is hard to believe that any pottery club in existence should not want you as a member and the Potted Ladies will soon see their loss. I think you are right that no democratic vote on your membership took place. (I assure you here and now that I am all in favour of women voting.) I wonder if this is a case of someone lacking talent being jealous of someone else with an obvious abundance? You can tell me all about it when we meet in person. I am sorry to say that will be somewhat later than what I had originally planned, and I cannot stop in Byrne Corners before I sail. I have tried to find time between business commitments and my departure date, but to no avail.