The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  From behind the house of Ashburton, grounds swept toward a deep valley where every spare outhouse and barn had been turned into a workshop of some kind. None could be seen from the house, nor could the perpetual hum of activity be heard, a hum currently dominated by her father’s latest experiments in harnessing wind and water to charge his latest project — a windmill to drive stampers for pounding burnt flints to powder. When perfected, such a mill would replace the laborious process of hammering and handgrinding, and the result would be the finest ground flint to mix with Drayton’s white clay, thus producing the purest and whitest stoneware ever marketed. It would be the most exciting advance in ceramic manufacture for many years.

  ‘There won’t be a firm in all the potteries that won’t be after it,’ Martin Drayton had predicted. ‘For that reason the product and the mixing proportions must be as closely guarded as the workings of Simon’s mill.’

  It was all very exciting, but also frustrating, thought Deborah as she flung herself into the house. Now that she was to be involved — and she was determined that her Mexican-inspired designs should actively involve her — her interest in her father’s scheme was heightened. The clay of Miguel’s pots had been strong enough to use for outdoor cooking, which meant that it was strong enough to withstand the elements which, in turn, meant that similar clay, such as stoneware, could be used for external work — garden ornaments, statuary, and picturesque sundials to be mounted on walls. The possibilities were endless.

  Already she had committed to paper a panel design for a wall sundial, featuring pheasant and partridge instead of tropical birds; a design which would blend into an English background but, at the same time, have the life and vigour of Miguel’s. Not until she had finished the drawing had she realized that, subconsciously, she had been designing it with Tremain in mind because he was the heir; consequently she was now impatient for her father’s experiments to reach fruition.

  The sundial plaque would need to be produced in stoneware clay, otherwise a mason would have to be employed to carve it in solid stone and Deborah found such an idea unacceptable. She wanted to execute the work herself, and to do so she would first have to understand the working properties of clay.

  Unbeknown to her family, she had been sketching in a disused summer house in a forgotten corner far west of the entrance lodge, keeping the activity secret in case of failure. She had pursued so many creative hobbies, without success, that her brothers and sisters had become indulgent but sceptical. Only her cousin Olivia seemed to understand her frustrated need to express herself.

  ‘Wait until you’re married like me, Debby dear,’ her sister Penelope had said, laughing. ‘You’ll be producing a new addition to the family every year and that will satisfy your creative urge, believe me!’ And back she had gone to Lincoln, happy and content, amused by the little sister who wanted to do more than mark time until conventional marriage with a conventional man led her into conventional married life.

  But now Deborah was eager to show her pheasant-and-partridge design to the world, so here she was, racing up the long drive and into the house, waving a roll of thick drawing paper and calling her mother’s name.

  In the middle of the wide hall, she stood still and raised her voice. It was a habit in this family to shout to each other through the sprawling rooms; it saved time and trouble and spared servants the necessity of plodding up from the kitchen quarters to answer unnecessary bells. Even so, they would frequently appear, as one did now.

  ‘If it be your dear mother you want, Miss Deb’ra, last time I seed her she were on her way to the flower room. Would ye like me to tell her you be looking for her?’

  ‘No, don’t trouble — but thank you, Sarah.’

  The woman was Clara’s sister, younger by twelve years. Their mother had once been a lowly kitchenmaid at Ashburton, finally achieving the position of cook. By the time Clara was established as the late Emily Drayton’s only servant at Medlar Croft, Sarah had been taught to read and write and to ‘speak proper’, thanks to the late master of Ashburton. She had reached the rank of senior housemaid by the time she was ‘inherited’ by the Kendalls and, like the rest of the staff, had willingly remained. Now she happily occupied the position of under housekeeper beneath her older sister, whom the mistress had brought from Medlar Croft on the death of her mother, Emily Drayton. Clara was ageing rapidly so it was Sarah’s more nimble legs that brought her to answer Miss Deborah’s lusty call.

  But the flower room was empty. So was the sewing room, where her mother sometimes helped Clara with household needlework. The woman’s hands were now so gnarled that holding a needle was difficult, but never would she admit it. ‘Clara lets me help only because she thinks I enjoy it,’ Jessica Kendall admitted, ‘but frankly I would rather lose myself in a book!’ All the family was in the conspiracy, fostering dear Clara’s belief.

  When neither the sewing room nor the flower room yielded Jessica Kendall, the next possibility was the writing room, where she penned those articles on social reforms which aroused ire in many people but brought applause from others. Failing that, she might be in Ashburton’s extensive library, where Jessica had tutored her children until the boys were old enough to go away to school and the girls ready for individual tuition (plus home management, which she herself had learned at her mother’s knee). And if she were in neither of these places, then she could well be outdoors, listening attentively to the head gardener but subtly winning him over to her own ideas, or she would be down at the valley workshops, unobtrusively watching her husband at work.

  They could never be apart from each other for long, those two. If Jessica Kendall were seated beneath the shade of a tree, soon her husband would be beside her. If he were working on some complicated plans in the silence of his study, after a while he would discover his wife’s quiet presence, and be glad of it.

  Failing to find her mother, Deborah hurried through the house, finally emerging on to a wide terrace flanking the southern side. From here she could faintly hear not only the spasmodic throbbing of the pump which was to drive her father’s waterwheel, but the muted hum of activity involved in other schemes and the sound of distant voices shouting above their work. Although far removed and out of sight of the house itself, they were the very pulse of Ashburton, ceasing only for sleep.

  This was the contrast between Miguel’s home and her own. At Tremain, quietness reigned. Only from belowstairs and in the far-flung regions of smithy, granary, stables, carpenter’s shop and other domestic and estate services came any real sounds of life. No family voices echoed in the vast house. All was peace, serenity — and loneliness.

  Never had this struck Deborah so much as during the hours she had spent with Miguel on that memorable day (was it really no more than ten days ago?). ‘We will not be interrupted here,’ he had said, leading her into Tremain’s long library, though who was likely to intrude she could not imagine. Neither Aunt Agatha nor Uncle Max were booklovers, so Miguel had exclusive use of the place, but the picture of him closeted alone for hours at a stretch struck her as sad.

  He had set out his mother’s treasures on the library’s big drum table. They had looked incongruous in the sombre room for they included primitive cooking pots of all kinds, but their patterns were so vivid and colourful that they seemed to contain a vitality of their own. There was also hand-made jewellery created from leather and bronze, brightly ornamented with ceramic stones. The display had forced a delightful exclamation from her, and the warmth of her enthusiasm had brought happiness to Miguel’s quiet face.

  ‘Amelia and Olivia must see these at once!’ she had declared. ‘How could you have hidden them all these years?’

  ‘They were all I had of her. Very personal, very private. Of interest to no one but myself, I thought.’

  ‘And your father.’

  ‘To him, yes, but he finds such reminders painful. “Do with them what you wish,” he once said, so I told him I intended to keep them for my bride — when I have one.
To that he said he only hoped the young lady would appreciate them, but that he doubted whether any English miss would. So I put them away and there they have remained until now.’

  Why was Miguel so touching? Was it his simplicity, his modesty, his shyness? And why was he shy, after all these years in a country to which he had adapted so naturally? At one time he had been in the habit of visiting Ashburton regularly, becoming a close friend of her brother’s and fitting easily into the family background, but recently he seemed to have withdrawn, and that concerned her. She hoped he wasn’t growing away from them all. She would hate to lose such a good friend. ‘Perhaps we could find him a nice wife,’ she had blithely suggested one day when her mother commented on how rarely Miguel now visited them.

  ‘And how could a wife improve the situation, my dear?’

  ‘Why, Mama, she would come to call and he would come with her and then exchange visits would start and we would all be one happy family again.’

  ‘You think so?’ Her mother’s glance had been as quizzical as her voice, but she had changed the subject by discussing the week’s batch of home produce to be packed and sent to Liverpool’s dockland settlements. The Kendalls had given over whole areas at Ashburton for the cultivation of foodstuffs, from which a variety of charitable organizations, as well as villagers, benefited.

  ‘We must do something with our land, other than feed ourselves,’ Jessica had once said when Agatha, paying an unexpected call, asked how they could possibly need so much fruit and vegetables. ‘Unlike Tremain, we haven’t a veritable army of dependants, so it’s good to feel that someone, somewhere, enjoys our produce too. And remembering all the charities you were involved with when young, Agatha, you must surely approve?’

  ‘Ah, but I supervised and organized. I didn’t soil my hands with all this messy cleaning and packing of foodstuffs. Just look at yours, Jessica! Not the hands of a lady at all.’

  That had sparked her mother’s laughter. To Deborah’s ears, there was no one who laughed so musically. ‘I loved your mother’s laughter from the moment I first heard it,’ Papa had once said, which didn’t surprise Deborah, though all she had said in reply was, ‘It seems to me that you loved everything about her from the moment you first met,’ to which he had nodded agreement, smiling his quiet smile.

  Impatiently now, she went in search of her parents, resolving that, wherever they were, she would make them pay attention right away.

  She found them in the long barn which served as her father’s main experimentation centre. The water-driven pump had hummed to a standstill and Jessica Kendall stood quietly aside, watching her husband as he stooped to adjust part of the mechanism. Plainly, things were not going to his satisfaction so perhaps this was not a good moment to interrupt, but surely, just for five minutes…? Quietly, Deborah slipped her arm through her mother’s and whispered, ‘I have something to show to both of you, urgently…’

  ‘Hush, my love. There seems to be a problem here. We must not interrupt.’

  Deborah suppressed a sigh. When one was agog with excitement, it was difficult to be patient. ‘Why water-driven?’ she whispered more loudly. ‘I thought steam was Papa’s obsession now.’

  Simon Kendall looked up. ‘Stage whispers should be quieter than that, my child.’ The words mixed admonishment with indulgence. ‘As for steam, that is something to advance to when we have perfected this stage — which we will.’ Wiping his hands on a roll of cheese-cloth, he called a halt. ‘A short one. Just long enough for me to get rid of this boisterous girl of mine.’ The men laughed and the foreman shouted for the ale-boy as Simon drew his wife and daughter outside. Workers at Ashburton were more fortunate than elsewhere, the customary small ale being homebrewed.

  Si Kendall placed one arm about Deborah’s shoulders, the other about his wife’s, and led them to the shade of an overhanging tree.

  “Now let us hear what you are so agog about —’

  ‘This!’ Deborah unrolled her drawing and held it up. ‘And don’t either of you dare to tell me that you can’t recognize pheasant and partridge!’

  ‘My dear — is this your work?’

  ‘Of course, Mama. And I plan to do more. Papa, why are you looking at it like that, head on one side as if it puzzles you?’

  ‘Because it is puzzling me. It’s so unusual. Oh, the birds are instantly recognizable but the way they are drawn…so boldly, so differently…’

  ‘They look almost tropical,’ said her mother, plainly interested but also surprised.

  ‘Good. I meant them to.’

  ‘Is this your latest whim?’ Simon asked. ‘If so, I approve, though I share your mother’s surprise. What sparked this dashing approach?’

  ‘The patterns on Miguel’s Mexican pots. His mother’s. He has treasured them all these years, showing them to no one except, at last, to me — which is lucky for Drayton’s because the moment I saw them I found them exciting and challenging and felt convinced that the Drayton Pottery should produce something similar — not copying slavishly, of course, but seeking inspiration from them.’

  ‘They have certainly inspired you,’ said her mother. ‘The more I study that design, the better it seems. I would very much like to see it in colour.’

  ‘So you shall. Vivid and bold. But it will need the right clay body, so the sooner you get your mill working, Papa, the better. Can’t you just see how dramatic these birds would look on really white stoneware? And why couldn’t the powdered flints be mixed with terracotta to produce a lovely shade of coral? What a splendid foil that would be! My dear, dear father, do go back to work quickly, and do abandon water-power for steam, to speed things up. You’ve been extolling the virtues of steam ever since you went to Wolverhampton to study Newcomen’s atmospheric steam engines. There — you see how carefully I listen to all you say, and doesn’t that surprise you?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’m not the feather-brained miss you believe me to be!’

  ‘I have never believed you to be any such thing,’ her father answered mildly, ‘and I acknowledge that steam will advance things enormously, but only when my watermill has reached a certain stage and can be adapted to it. One step at a time, young lady — that is the way to success. As for your sudden interest in pottery, I am gratified by it. I take it that Drayton’s know?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And when Amelia and Olivia saw the Mexican pots, they were as fascinated as I. Not Cousin Lionel, though. He thought them crude. I know he didn’t mean to be overheard — he’s too charming to be impolite — and of course he will admire the new product eventually, as will everyone. Meanwhile, so long as the two Drayton partners approve, that’s all that matters — and they will, they will! Amelia said what Uncle Martin used to say — that sometimes new lines are slow to be accepted. Even so, new lines are the lifeblood of a pottery — he used to say that too. Well, my idea has sparked a whole new line and I intend to produce the designs for it. I’m sure Amelia will be happy for me to do so. I could dance for joy!’ She hugged each of her parents in turn.

  ‘So you’ve met Lionel,’ Jessica commented, extricating herself from her effervescent young daughter. ‘We haven’t yet had that pleasure, but I suppose we must accept his invitation to sup at Carrion House.’

  ‘So it has come?’ Deborah was delighted. ‘He did say he would invite us, but so often people say that sort of thing and then forget… I thought he might do the same… But why do you “suppose” we must accept? Surely the invitation was for all of us, not just for yourselves?’

  ‘For the family, or those of us who are currently at home. And I say “suppose” because I am not wholly sure that I want to go, despite the fact that he is my brother’s son…or perhaps because of it. I have never made any secret of the fact that I was not overfond of my elder brother.’

  ‘But why, Mama?’

  ‘Ancient history, my love.’ Jessica added briskly, ‘We will hinder you no more, Simon. I want to see where this secretive daughter of ours has been developing this newly-discovered talent.
Not in her room or, knowing how untidy she can be, there would have been some evidence. I have seen none of it anywhere in the house, so where have you been hiding yourself, my child?’

  ‘In a dilapidated summer house far beyond the Lodge.’

  ‘That won’t do. An attic with a northern light — isn’t that what artists need? There are plenty here at Ashburton so let’s go and choose one.’ Giving her husband the smile which she reserved especially for him, and receiving the warmth of his in return, Jessica linked her arm with her daughter’s and moved away.

  ‘I imagine you will need art tuition,’ she continued. ‘I believe that in Stoke there are several fashionable tutors for young ladies —’

  Deborah interrupted swiftly, ‘If Amelia and Olivia think me sufficiently talented, I’m sure I shall be given workspace at the pottery. There I shall be taught ceramic painting, both underglaze and overglaze, because only that way can I learn the technique. Then I shall be able to create designs suitable for reproduction on clay. I fully expect that when Amelia and Olivia see this one, they may want it to be modified or embellished. Where better to learn all this than at a pottery? And how splendid it will be to be part of a place like Drayton’s!’ When her mother made no answer, Deborah finished, ‘Don’t you think so, Mama? And won’t you be proud of me?’

  ‘I am always proud of you. So is your father. But —’

  ‘But what? You don’t doubt my ability, do you? I know I have a tremendous lot to learn, but Olivia mastered a specialized field and I mean to do the same.’

  ‘It isn’t your ability that I doubt. It’s the future of Drayton’s.’

  ‘Not you, too! Surely you don’t side with all those gloomy folk who declare that women can’t run a pottery successfully?’

  ‘I am confident they can, if allowed to.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be? And who can stop them?’ Deborah gave her mother’s arm a little shake and was satisfied when she smiled. ‘Now tell me when my handsome cousin has invited us to his house — and what shall I wear? My blue velvet? You like me in that, I know. Or may I have something new, if there’s time?’