by Rona Randall
Now he felt differently. If there was money for him in dirt and mud and dust and chaff, he was more than ready to pick it up. But let others soil their hands. He would be like his father before him, the gentlemanly overlord, ruling the roost.
He was vaguely aware that the woman in the clay-soiled potter’s slop glanced back at him before disappearing into the shed and closing the door behind her. Absently, he ordered his driver to continue, but had travelled barely a few yards before changing his mind. His mother could wait, and so could Carrion House. This moment, the moment when he claimed his major inheritance, could not.
The driver wheeled the carriage round at his command, and drove into the potter’s yard.
Chapter 3
It had changed, but subtly. The layout of the place seemed the same, flanked by workers’ sheds on one side and administrative ones on the other. Off cobbled alleyways were glaze stores and stock-rooms and packing areas and, beyond, the huge firing section with its massive bottle-shaped ovens. Finally there were the long open-fronted canalside sheds where clay from the barges was hacked into workable lumps before going to the cleansing sheds for riddling and sifting and raking, thence to the wedgers’ benches to be transformed into perfect clay, free of air bubbles or pinpricks. ‘Satin smooth,’ was how his cousin Olivia had once described it. ‘Beautiful to touch. Perfect for modelling and ideal for throwing.’
Only an odd creature like Livvy, who turned it into figurines, or throwers, who spun it on their wheels to form bowls of all imaginable sizes, could have regarded the unpleasant, dun-coloured stuff as ‘beautiful to touch’. Not he, though he was now ready to participate in its financial rewards.
Judging by the increased number of workers’ sheds and what was plainly a vastly expanded area overall, these rewards would now be substantial. His mother had apparently been right when saying that the pottery was more prosperous than ever. And, bless her (which he rarely did), her oft-quoted prophecy that he had only to wait and his day would come, had also been right. His day had certainly come.
Bolstered by the thought, he began to stroll about the main yard but, with so much development around him, getting his bearings was like trying to study a map from which essential signs had disappeared. Where, for a start, was the office his father had occupied? It had been built at his wife’s insistence, because she considered a workroom on a par with all the others to be unworthy of a Master Potter, especially one who had married into such an elevated family as the Freemans of Tremain Hall.
‘And I furnished it more handsomely, too,’ Agatha had once boasted, ‘with a splendid desk to replace the old-fashioned one that previous Draytons always considered good enough. That had been no more than a table with a couple of drawers, shabby to a degree. But Martin will be content with it…’ Whereupon she had presented the handsome new desk to her father, Old Ralph, who had been quite touched by the thought, though sitting at a desk wasn’t his idea of how a country gentleman should spend his time. ‘What’ll I do with it, m’dear?’ he had said to Grandmother Charlotte, well out of Agatha’s hearing. ‘Put your feet up on it while you read your daily news-sheet,’ the old lady had laughed. At least, that was how the story went, although he couldn’t vouch for it, not having been born at the time.
He could now imagine unlikeable Uncle Max putting it to the same use. No matter. When established as the Master of the Drayton Pottery he would buy an even finer desk for himself.
As he strolled through the potters’ yard, viewing everything possessively, he became aware of an old man hobbling after him. He had apparently emerged from a small gatehouse at the entrance. Such a thing had never been there in the old days and Lionel Drayton could see no necessity for it now — nor for a gatekeeper, if such he was. Superfluous employees like that would have to go, he decided, and when the old man’s quavering voice asked for his identity and the nature of his business, he brushed him aside, silenced him with a glance, and then continued his tour, counting the rows of sheds which seemed to have increased in size as well as in number.
Finally, he halted before a door which he seemed to recall as that of the Master Potter’s office. It looked less impressive now, flanked by neighbouring ones which had surely not been there in his youth. He remembered how he had once sauntered into that office when his uncle had been touring the sheds and how he had found his Aunt Amelia, in an adjoining room, scribbling in what he had assumed to be a ledger, and how startled he had been to discover, when left briefly alone, that it did not contain the financial figures he expected but a sort of diary; recorded episodes in Drayton family history that had proved highly intriguing. With amusement he recalled how, on her return, he had teased her about romancing and how she had accused him of spying, angrily telling him that these Drayton archives would one day be of value.
A vivacious, nonsensical creature, his Aunt Amelia. In one of her rambling letters his mother had likened the youngest Kendall daughter to her. Deborah is as silly and flighty as Amelia when young, but men don’t seem to see it, alas. I even suspect that Max’s boy is in love with her… Agatha rarely referred to Miguel, knowing of Lionel’s own bitterness toward him. But I suppose I should not call him a boy, for he is now more than seven-and-twenty…
As if that half-breed was of any interest! Nor Amelia Drayton, who must be approaching fifty now, a widow sitting at home with a lace cap on her head and her feet on a footstool and a crochet hook in her hand, no longer busying herself in Drayton affairs, no trouble to anyone. He could safely anticipate the future without her meddlesome interference.
As for Olivia, when she threw in her lot with Damian Fletcher she must have abandoned her whimsical idea of working as a ceramic modeller. From the size and prosperity of the man’s forge (not to mention another at Tunstall) it was plain that he could easily support her, and because she had been inordinately fond of Martin and Amelia she would surely have spared them the embarrassment of her continued presence at the pottery. An unmarried woman living with a married man was always a target for disapproval, some of which would extend to anyone willing to employ her. Even Olivia, unconventional as she was (brazen, said his mother) would not have exposed her uncle and aunt to that.
It was good to know that there would now be no tiresome females underfoot, other than women labourers in the sheds. For as long as he could remember, female clay workers had almost equalled the men in number, driving carts to and from the canal barges, unloading clay at the canalside sheds, hacking it into lumps for riddling and cleansing, wedging it until it was free of air bubbles, turning the bases of pots, making handles and fixing them on with clay slip — there were manifold jobs for women in potteries, but not for refined ones. Rough ones fitted into such a background, but wellborn women like his aunt and his cousin were totally out of place. No doubt Martin Drayton had yielded to their desire to participate because he was too weak to do otherwise. (Indulgent, said Lionel’s mother.)
Well, there would certainly be no indulgence from the new Master Potter, a title he would bear once the reins were in his hands, even though he had neither knowledge nor experience of the craft.
Confidently, he headed for the Master Potter’s office, only to pull up abruptly when faced with a sign that had never been there before. The Drayton Showroom and Museum.
A showroom? What in hell’s teeth was a showroom? And a museum? What sort of a museum, what did it contain? Relics, shards, ancient pots? What ridiculous nonsense was this and whose fanciful mind had conjured it up? The idea was so absurd that he was almost laughing as he flung open the door, only to halt yet again.
The room which had once been the Master Potter’s splendid sanctum was lined with tables on which seemingly endless rows of pottery were displayed. They even adorned the walls, the choicest pieces encased in glass. And surely those were additional windows in the roof, admitting greater light? What wanton extravagance! What an absurd waste of money! The place must be a joke amongst Staffordshire’s rival potteries.
Cynical amusem
ent gave way to critical assessment as he walked from table to table, from display cabinet to display cabinet, from shelf to shelf, finally halting at a section labelled ‘New Productions’, where samples of present-day ware were prominently featured and, to his surprise, individually marked with workers’ names. What further nonsense was this? And who imagined that prospective customers would be interested in a craftsman’s identity? The only important thing was the quality of goods and how quickly they could be delivered. The name of the thrower, decorator, or modeller meant nothing to a buyer, but even a turner was included here, not only in the modern section but in the so-called ‘museum’. A whole table exhibited samples of her work, past and present.
Studying them, he saw that they dated from the time when she had been lowly Meg Gibson, once a child labourer working alongside her mother, to the time when she became known as the best turner in the potteries whom many a rival potter wanted to lure away from Drayton’s.
Despite his lack of interest in the muddy process of pot-making, Lionel Drayton found himself studying Meg’s samples with interest. After her girlhood there was a halt, but the samples were renewed after her return to Burslem as Meg Tinsley, related by marriage to that evil-smelling old witch from Larch Lane — the poor people’s substitute for fee-demanding doctors. And suddenly recollection sharpened — the woman at the well, the woman who had cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder, that woman was Meg Tinsley. He should have recognized those gypsy features and that swaggering walk, but time had obliterated many memories and many people — and, after all, she had left Burslem before he was born so she had been unknown to him until she returned when widowed, years later.
Even then, he had never really met her, though her reputation had intrigued him. She was known to have been Burslem’s most successful whore from the age of thirteen or fourteen, disappearing at the age of sixteen or seventeen and not being heard of again until her unexpected return after many years. She must have been into her thirties then, but he had been too besotted by Caroline Fletcher to spare a glance for the good-looking turner, of whom most people thought the worst.
Memories were long in these parts, so people had predicted that Meg would start plying her old trade on the side again, but as far as he knew all she did was to pick up a turning tool at Drayton’s and start putting rims on the bases of pots, as good as any she had done in the old days. ‘Everyone should see Meg at work,’ his uncle had said. ‘No one can create a foot as dexterously as she. She is an artist.’
So once, in an idle moment, Lionel had visited the pottery, sauntering confidently into the place because he bore the name of Drayton and knew no one would dare challenge his right to be there. He had gone straight to the turning shed and stood beside her. When she failed to glance up he remained there, watching as she peeled away leather-hard clay from the bases of revolving pots, each curling strand equal in thickness until a firm, neat foot stood up, always of the right dimension and strength to support the article. Even he was impressed by her skill, but when he complimented her she ignored him — something he was so unaccustomed to, especially from women, that he never went near that shed again, nor glanced at her, except covertly when catching sight of her in the village.
Although she was older than he, her indifference had challenged him.
A woman’s voice cut into his recollections.
‘I’m sorry there was no one here to receive you, sir…’
At his abrupt turn, the voice cut off.
Its owner was silhouetted against sunlight streaming through the open door, her face in shadow while light shone full on his own. Although unable to see her features, something about the outline of that slim figure was vaguely familiar.
‘Great heavens!’ she gasped. ‘I do believe it’s Lionel!’
At that she stepped forward, her quick light tread, as well as her voice, identifying her at once. Both attributes had typified his cousin Olivia.
He was too astonished to speak, but she demanded with characteristic frankness, ‘What brings you here?’
Besides incredulity there was amusement in her voice, though he failed to see the cause. Sharp as ever, she hastened to enlighten him.
‘Lionel Drayton visiting a pottery? My fastidious, idle cousin who would soil his hands with nothing except an overfull glass of wine and would immediately change his fine linen if so much as a drop sullied it? Your clothes must have collected a deal of dust even when stepping down into the yard — I presume that carriage outside is yours? I thought it must have brought customers from Stoke, so I came to attend them until Amelia returns. Naturally, I am amused! And so will Amelia be, I swear. I’ll linger until she comes. She is with the potters’ children at the moment. You remember how we started classes for them while their parents work? Of course, you don’t. You were probably not even aware of it. You took no interest in the pottery or anything to do with it, so your presence now astonishes me. We knew you were coming home because Agatha has talked about nothing else for many weeks, but we were unaware of your arrival. You are already installed in Carrion House, I take it. Is this the first time you’ve honoured the village with a visit? If so, Drayton’s is honoured too.’
The old, teasing note was there; the note that had so often made him feel ridiculed.
When she reached his side he saw that the past ten years had altered her looks only by improving them. He had always, unwillingly, thought her attractive in her fashion, and even found her seductive on occasion — such as his coming-of-age celebrations at Tremain Hall when she had had the audacity to attack him because he did what any man had a right to do if he fancied a woman. He remembered the marks of her teeth on his hands and the weal she had left on his face. He had had the devil of a task trying to conceal the blemishes for the rest of the night’s festivities.
He could remember insults vividly and the old, familiar resentment came flooding back. Olivia’s mockery had always inflamed him — but, by God, he could turn the tables now.
‘It is I who should ask what brings you here, Cousin. Surely you should be gracing hearth and home? But no how foolish of me! That is a wife’s place. Aren’t the same duties expected of a woman who merely occupies a man’s house?’
At her angry flush, he laughed. ‘Have I touched you on the raw, Cousin? Do you expect me to apologize? You should know me better than to hope for that.’
She said contemptuously, ‘Any apology you made would be worthless. Nor would it make any difference as far as I am concerned. I am Damian Fletcher’s common-law wife and content to be.’
‘But Caroline is still his legal one. I know she has never divorced him.’
‘That is of little consequence to either of us, nor to anyone who knows us. Not only are we accepted by most people (the rest don’t matter) but Damian is highly respected and a valued member of the parish.’
‘But not in the eyes of the Church.’
‘As far as the local church is concerned, you are wrong. We worship there together and although we avoid embarrassing the clergy by seeking Holy Communion since the Church forbids them to administer it to “sinners” like us, we are not treated as outcasts either by the clergy or congregation not merely because Damian is Burslem-born and bred, nor because he made the beautiful new reredos and altar rails, but because we live honestly. And though no doubt this will amuse your cynical mind, we even feel that we have received God’s blessing because we pledged ourselves before the altar, privately, with no one present but ourselves, and have kept our vows to each other ever since.’
‘How very touching…’
Olivia said calmly, ‘State why you are here, and then leave. Even a customer can outstay his welcome.’
She had lost none of her ability to snub him. He turned the tables by reverting to his earlier question.
‘And why are you here, dear Livvy? As a customer yourself?’
‘I work here, as you must well remember.’
He noticed then that she wore that unbecoming garment, a potter
’s slop, her long skirts finishing at her ankles, her feet in dusty boots. So absorbed had he been in parrying her thrusts that he had spared no glance for her clothes.
He said, hiding a smile, ‘And you imagine your employment will continue?’
‘Of course. And so will Amelia’s. You seem to be unaware that we are running the pottery jointly. It was Uncle Martin’s wish.’ A sound from the door cut into the moment. ‘And here she is.’ Dropping her voice, Olivia added, ‘Be gentle with her. It will be long before she recovers from her loss. Don’t upset her, I beg.’
‘I will be the soul of discretion. What else would you expect of me?’
Olivia cast him an eloquent glance, as if nothing he did or said would surprise her, then she was crossing the room to meet her aunt and asking how the children had behaved. ‘Well, I hope?’
‘If by well you mean quietly, the answer is no, but if you mean naturally and boisterously, then yes they did behave well, thanks to your suggestion that they should each model something of their choice, which yielded some surprises. Young Timmy Collard chose to make an elephant, memorizing a picture from a book and producing something not in the least like it, but he was ecstatic and begged to be allowed to take it home instead of putting it on display with the others.’
Her voice was unchanged, soft and musical as it had ever been, but her nephew detected a forced note. He was glad to be unnoticed by her, as yet, and took the opportunity to study her. Strong light from the windows above beamed down on her, revealing lines of strain. Her smile was bright, but forced, and there was sadness in eyes which he remembered as sparkling. Her figure, to his surprise, had retained its youthfulness, but her face had not. It was the face of a woman struck down by sorrow, and fighting it. That aroused in him not pity, but hope. She might not be an ageing woman, ready for rocking chair and crochet hook, but grief made her vulnerable, which meant she would be easy to dispose of.
