“Has that ever happened?” I asked.
“Not on the first day out, no,” he said.
“But thereafter?”
“Hard to say if it was an accident or the poor wee thing jumped.”
I promised not to jump overboard even though I supposed it was a solution to my predicament, and he looked quite alarmed. I then asked if he could do me a favour and tell me whether there was a Mr. Oliver Diamond on board. When he said, “Ah, it becomes clear,” I assured him that he had it wrong, and that I simply wanted to deliver a letter to him from a mutual acquaintance, my sister, as a matter of fact.
He took the envelope and I asked him not to read it. He said his discretion was assured and he left, saying that he was going to be keeping an eye on me.
Later, I learned that the steward had found Oliver and delivered the letter, telling him that the sister of its author was on the ship. Confused, Oliver had gone looking for you or Edith. He remembered your given names, but since neither of you still carries the name Passmore and the booking would surely be under a husband’s name, he did not know who he was looking for. Only when he was able to convince the Chief Purser to let him look at the entire passenger list did he find my name and figure out that it was me who had given the steward the letter. By that time, I was lying on my berth with my head over a bucket and Mrs. Brenner caring for me. Thank the Lord that she did not get sick or we would have been in a terrible state in that small cabin. Oliver showed up just in time to witness me heave what must have been the very last contents of my stomach into the bucket.
And what were my first words to the man I had been so worried would not be on board?
“Just leave me to die,” I managed to say.
Mrs. Brenner shooed him away, and told him she would get me fixed up for a caller once the rocking plague had worked its way through. She told him that if he cared at all for me, he would leave without arguing, because no woman wants a man to see her in such a state.
“You do look dreadful,” she said after he left, and then she asked if that was my young man, and expressed the opinion that he was handsome for a tall man, and that she normally did not find tall men to be so pleasing about the face.
After two days of the most awful sickness, I was able to sit up without the room spinning and appreciate the news that Oliver Diamond was on board after all, and he had sought me out and promised to return. Mrs. Brenner offered to help me bathe and fix myself up to receive a visitor, and it was a good thing because I didn’t have the strength to even brush my own hair, which was in a tangled mess. I was worried that the cabin smelled of sickness, but Mrs. Brenner assured me that she had opened the tiny port and the cabin now smelled only of brine and cod. She managed to get me changed into a clean frock and held her hand mirror up as I powdered my nose.
Roseanne, the next part of the story is the best.
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Brenner opened it to Oliver Diamond. In his hand was an envelope, which I knew contained my letter.
“You’re feeling better, then?” he asked.
“Much improved,” I said. I was sitting on the edge of my berth now, and I indicated that he should sit on Mrs. Brenner’s, which he did. Mrs. Brenner left to give us some privacy, although she insisted for decency’s sake that the door remain ajar.
Suddenly and to my astonishment, Oliver slipped off the berth and managed to fold and squeeze his long body onto his knee on the floor between us, and he proposed marriage. I did not think about it for longer than five seconds before I said yes. At that point Mrs. Brenner squealed in the hallway, and I called to her to come in so she could share in our good news. Oliver got himself up off his knee, and left the cabin to the ladies so we might talk.
We were married shortly thereafter by the Captain, and I immediately wrote to Mother, and now I am writing to you. These letters will be in the overseas post as soon as we land in Liverpool, and I hope I will be forgiven.
Please, please be happy for me, Roseanne. If there is any opinion that matters, it is yours.
Your loving sister,
Salina
Dear Daughter,
As much as it was a relief to hear from you, do not expect your father and me to forgive you just yet. How in the world did you think you could run off and not tell us? Your father was beside himself with fear that you had been abducted or come to a terrible end. Perhaps both. You have caused us so much worry. How did the anticipation of that worry not stop you—for God’s sake—from following a strange man aboard an ocean liner? That was the worst behaviour for a lady, Salina. The worst. That is all I can bring myself to say on the matter.
It is a lovely day here. I have canned the green beans. We opened a jar at supper last night and the beans were a perfect colour and not at all tough.
That young Amos did quite the thing a few days ago. He climbed a tree and couldn’t get himself down, and we had to call the fire department to bring a ladder. I don’t know what he was thinking to go so high. Luckily, all ended well, although he perhaps didn’t think so since his father gave him a hiding.
I have been busy on the planning committee for the upcoming bazaar at the church. I am in charge of the jumble sale and my committee has been collecting items in the church basement. Of course they must be sorted and many of the items have to be laundered. It is surprising to me that people don’t take the trouble to launder their used clothing before handing it over. Have they not heard of airing dirty laundry? We have never, in our family, been much for displays of dirty laundry. I do not speak to your father of this matter. It is better to let some things simmer until they have simmered themselves out.
Well, you are a married woman now. I wish Oliver Diamond the best of luck.
Your mother,
Mrs. William Passmore
P.S. The dreadful English weather is not to be taken lightly. Wool is the best fibre for keeping dampness off the chest. I believe that is because of the lanolin, which repels the moisture, thus keeping the wearer of a woollen sweater dry and warm.
Sister Salina,
As usual, you have selfishly thrown us all into a flap, even Roseanne, who is normally far too lenient with you (and her children, but that is another matter). Do you not understand that, from our point of view, you have taken off across the ocean with a stranger? We do not know Oliver Diamond, even if he does come from a good family. And is your marriage even legal? Good heavens, Salina, this is the sort of thing girls named Lizzy do in novels.
And here is what Father is worried about. Someone might as well say it. You claim you are married to a businessman, but so far he does not have a business. He is conducting “research,” which sounds fishy. Father has asked around, and it appears that he was trying to drum up money when he was home last, talking up this brick-making scheme and inviting people to “invest” in the business. We fear you have wed a scoundrel, and we fully expect him to ask Father for money now that he has married into our family.
I just do not know what you were thinking to act so impulsively. Were you that desperate for a husband? I would not have thought it. Otherwise, you could have said yes to one of the gentlemen who had the decency to speak to Father. The Frenchman, for example. That would have been a good match, in my opinion, even if he was French.
As far as your interest in pottery making as a vocation goes . . . honestly, Salina.
Your sister,
Edith
Dear Salina,
Don’t listen to Edith, who has just shown me her letter to you. I have advised her not to send it, but since when did she ever listen to me?
All right, the truth is, I am angry too. Not that you married your Mr. Diamond, but that you didn’t confide in me, your favourite sister, before you left. The very morning of your departure we danced in my parlour to records on the new gramophone, and then hours later you danced off into the beyond without a word to me. And you caused us all such worry. What in the world were you thinking . . . leaving a note that said “Don’t worry”? D
id you suppose we would take your word that there was nothing to worry about? This is you we’re talking about, and you are not very wise sometimes. Suffice it to say that we were all greatly relieved to learn that you are at least still alive somewhere.
I have never seen Father so fuming mad with one of us, and Edith is feeding his anger. Mother and I are the voices of calm, but do not think you are off the hook with us either, and do not pretend you are surprised that Vesuvius has erupted in the Passmore household.
Well, now that I have said my piece I suppose congratulations are in order. I will admit that Oliver Diamond’s marriage proposal does sound just a tiny bit romantic, even if you were still green with seasickness. From what I remember of his height, I don’t know how he managed to get down on his knee in that small space, but it is admirable that he was willing to propose and save your reputation. That must be one mark in his favour. (I am trying to see the good in what you have done.)
On to other news, since you are not the only one in the world. I finally managed my trip to Niagara Falls. In the end, Mother kept the children while Edith and I and our dutiful husbands took the train and stayed overnight. I was frightened out of my wits to stand at the top of the Falls and watch that water move at such great speed to the edge of the drop, and was thankful that we had had the good sense to leave the children. The shopping was not much. There were not even many charlatans to entertain us. Oh . . . but we did see the woman who went over the Falls in a barrel. She has set up a stand and is selling her life story for a few coins. Her orange tabby housecat is part of her display. She sent the cat over in the barrel first as a test run. She had planned to display this famous barrel (which she designed herself) but her manager ran off with it. Can you believe it? Apparently she is near-destitute. I have enclosed a copy of her story for your reading pleasure. I purchased several, in a feeble attempt to help her out.
I don’t know whether to tell you this or not, but Mrs. Morris and her ladies have booked a table at the church bazaar and they plan to sell their wares to the poor unsuspecting public. I imagine Mrs. Morris will price her ashtrays as though she is a great artist. (There is no basis in fact for that. I just thought you would enjoy it.)
I am enclosing the notice that you directed Mr. Ward to publish in the paper. I admit I laughed when I found out you told him to bill Father.
Your forgiving sister,
Roseanne
Mr. Oliver Diamond and Mrs. Salina Diamond (née Passmore), both formerly of Byrne Corners, Ontario, wish to announce their marriage on June 12, 1903. The happy couple is now honeymooning in England, where they are undertaking research on the pottery trade. Upon their return to Canada in the fall, they will reside in the city of Regina, District of Assiniboia, where Mr. Diamond will operate his new brick plant as owner and proprietor, and Mrs. Diamond will open a china pottery studio. Mr. and Mrs. Diamond look forward to greeting you as man and wife.
Dear Roseanne,
We are now on the train to London from Stoke-on-Trent somewhat sooner than planned. Although it was an education in itself just to see the Potteries and I was inspired in ways I cannot begin to explain, our stay there was less than satisfactory for Oliver’s purposes. To put it plain and simple, there was no welcome mat placed for him at any factory doorstep. Our landlady, the kindly Mrs. Wilson, put an end to our bewilderment about what we had done wrong by explaining that the factory owners are very protective of their trade secrets and the rumours about town positioned Oliver as a young upstart from the colony, in other words, from their marketplace. Needless to say, this was a great disappointment for Oliver, who has been out of sorts that our tour has so far not lived up to his expectations.
In spite of this rebuke by the factory owners, I have met the most interesting woman, a designer with the name of Mrs. Decker-Jones who aims one day to be an independent, which is a term for pottery artists who work in their own studios outside of the factory system. (It is a term I have fallen in love with, incidentally. Independent.)
Here is the story of my escapade with Mrs. Decker-Jones.
She had heard—I suspect from our Mrs. Wilson—about my aspirations to become a designer. She sought me out and directed me to meet her in the dead of night at the Etruria Works, with strict instructions not to tell Oliver, which should have been frightening but it was not. Instead, I was filled with excitement and felt a bit like the woman with her barrel at Niagara Falls. I left Oliver sleeping (as were the factory managers—the reason for the strange hour) and walked along the canal on a path lit only by the occasional gaslight, past the original home of the very Josiah Wedgwood, to our meeting place across the canal from the factory. Then, with the help of an oven man on his night shift, she took me into the Works and revealed the purpose of this subterfuge, which turned out to be an unauthorized tour of every aspect of production: from the design room to the slip house and the pottery shop, to the ovens and the packing rooms. What I could see was limited by darkness—we carried only one lamp—but you cannot imagine what a privilege it was, and as we moved from room to room, she opened my eyes to the plight of women who work in the Potteries. With the exception of the printers and paintresses, they do the menial jobs it is believed they are suited for and suffer the physical consequences of lead poisoning and endless, repetitive work. Did you know there is a thing called “wrist-drop” suffered by the dippers? (Of course not. Why would you?) It is a kind of paralysis. The great injustice of it all is that these women are poorly paid and not protected by the unions as their brothers and husbands are. This has drawn the attention of the great Emmeline Pankhurst, who visited this town just a few years ago, but I know what you and everyone else in Byrne Corners think of the suffragists so I will say no more about that.
Here, Roseanne, is a part of the story I am not proud of, but I am telling it anyway because it is you. Just before we left the Pottery, Mrs. Decker-Jones’s friend the oven man handed her a covered basket, the kind you might carry to the shops. I did not think to wonder what was inside as we walked away from the factory, and I was about to thank her and take the street back to Mrs. Wilson’s when she stopped under a gaslight and removed the cloth cover from the basket to reveal its contents. It was full of black clay beads, made and decorated in the famous Wedgwood Jasper style, each with the bone-white face of a different hideous creature. She told me that they had been created by her in secrecy and fired in a Wedgwood kiln with the help of her oven man. I had never before seen anything like them. I removed several of the beads to examine more closely the tiny subversive faces, and just at that moment Mrs. Decker-Jones was distracted by the sound of male voices approaching in the darkness.
There is no explanation for what I did next. When she turned toward the voices, I slipped the beads in my sweater pocket. Then the voices faded, and Mrs. Decker-Jones turned back to me and said, “I wish you all the best, Mrs. Diamond. If I am blacklisted here, perhaps I will emigrate and seek you out, and by then you will be an artist of some renown. One never knows.”
As she walked away, I felt as unable to call after her as Lot’s wicked wife. I tried to tell myself they were only a few small beads from a basketful and she would not notice the missing ones, but that is no defence at all of my transgression against a woman who had done me a great favour. And to top it off, I seem to have offended Oliver by not confiding in him. He is horrified by the thought of me walking alone in the dark, and I think he is jealous that I managed to get a tour of the Etruria Works without him. He is trying to be a good sport, but I believe I have wounded his pride. And of course I did not tell him how I acquired the beads and let him believe they were given to me. In addition to being a thief, I am a deceitful wife.
As punishment for it all, I have contracted a bit of a cold in the dampness, and the air here is dreadful anyway with all the clay pits and thousands of ovens burning coal. I’m sure our new landlady in London, Mrs. Russell, will fill me with lemon tea and provide a good stash of wool blankets, although I find wool to be unbearably itch
y and am planning to leave every woollen thing behind when we depart for home.
Don’t worry. I will be back to good health in no time.
Here is something I hope you will pass on to Mrs. Morris should you run into her. Two Sundays ago, Oliver and I attended church in Etruria, and who was sitting in the family pew but Major Cecil Wedgwood. You need not tell Mrs. Morris that he didn’t give us the time of day after the service, but instead you might say that we left the church together, which is almost true since we followed him out. I told Oliver that the war in Africa has no doubt affected his desire and ability to be hospitable.
Did I say that Mrs. Russell’s rooms in Kensington Court are very close to the new Victoria and Albert Museum, which I have been told has an extensive collection of ceramics from all over the world? When I am over this illness, I expect to be spending many days there. Oliver is planning to visit the Fulham Pottery in London, where he believes a distant cousin may have worked. He has been in touch with a man who has been employed there since he was a boy and thinks he might remember the Diamond name. (Oliver has not fessed up that the cousin is on his mother’s side.) Did I tell you that he brought a container of his own clay with him in hopes that someone will fire it into a brick for him? I don’t quite see the point.
Oh, that sounded a bit mean. The truth is, I cannot get excited about bricks when there are teapots to be imagined. Still, we are in this together.
Please share this letter with Mother and Father. It is such a long one and has played me out. On second thought, don’t. Or perhaps read it aloud to them and leave out the part about their daughter being a thief.
The Diamond House Page 6
