The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  Kate made it all sound enticing. ‘’Tis the easiest job in t’world an’ the best paid,’ she would say. ‘“The oldest profession”, they calls it. Profession, mark ye, not a trade.’ The pride in her voice emphasized the superiority of her occupation and the inferiority of women who were obliged to work in the pot banks. ‘Lowest labour of all, that be, muckin’ about wi’ clay. Ye cain’t git lower than the earth! But we’ll git ye away from potting sooner than I did.’

  ‘Meg Tinsley sez that if I stick at it I’ll ’ave security an’ a chance to marry a good man.’

  ‘Marriage! Listen t’me, luv. I tried it once an’ I don’t reckon much by it. Ted Walker weren’t no catch, I can tell ye. But I’ll give ’im ’is due — ’e did the right thing by me when I told ’im ye were on t’way. Married me, but thought I oughta thank ’im! For wot, I wanted t’know, an’ so I said when ’e lost ’is job at Drayton’s just because ’is lungs give out. Joseph Drayton never kept anyone on when the coughing an’ wheezing took over. That’s wot the potteries do t’ye.’

  ‘Not so much now. Meg sez Master Martin’s got the right idea about them masks.’

  ‘Fancy stuff! Ye don’t see other pot banks using ’em. Ye listen too much to that Meg Tinsley. Ye should listen to yer Mam instead.’

  ‘But Meg’s kind t’me. Sez I’ll be as good a turner as she is, one o’these days.’

  ‘‘Aye — if ye works yer fingers t’bone, year in, year out, same as she do. An’ why? ’Ave ye ivver thought about that, our Abby? I can tell ye. ’Cos men don’t want ’er as they useter. I’ve ’eard tell that she was real beautiful once, with ev’ry man in Burslem after ’er favours. Then wot did she do? Upped an’ quit fer a Liverpool docker! Rumours went around that she’d gone off to Lunnon with a rich client, though where she ivver met a rich ’un, God knows. Anyways, when she came back years later she were Meg Gibson no more, but Meg Tinsley, wife of Ma Tinsley’s nephew, a seaman who’d come t’Burslem t’visit ’is old aunt an’ stayed betimes as potman at t’Red Lion. Old Ma Tinsley were now’t but a witch, but she ’ad ’er uses, I can tell ye. ‘Tis a pity she’s gone ’cos Burslem ain’t got no one like ’er now, an’ one day, Abby luv, ye’ll mebbe be needin’ summun with skills like ’ers. Careful as ye might be, these things ’appen. So ’tis a good thing ye’ve got a Mam like me t’teach thee ’ow t’dodge trouble.’

  Kate had further sage advice: ‘Don’t give yersel’ t’first man as comes after ye, our Abby. Learn from yer Mam’s mistakes. If I’d waited afore startin’ I might’ve bin noticed by summon like ’Igh’n’Mighty Joseph Drayton, who were Master Potter then. My, that would’ve bin a triumph! I swear t’God that man ’ad a rovin’ eye, though nivver a breath o’scandal touched ’im. But I weren’t so lucky as you be, m’gal. I ’ad t’make do with men who’d got nowt, but that won’t ’appen t’thee. I were on t’game afore I were yore age, pleasin’ any man as offered sixpence, but I’ve took good care thee won’t start afore ye’re ripe fer it. T’best fruit fetches t’best prices.’

  Her ma’s gems of wisdom were worth remembering, though Abby had experienced a flickering doubt about them when Dave Jefferson had kissed her beneath the mistletoe after the pottery closed last Christmas Eve. The way he had kissed her was warm, gentle and kind; not rough, the way Abby had seen men kiss her mother and which she had therefore assumed to be normal. For the rest of that evening she had been aware of Dave in a breathless sort of way, and he had never taken his eyes from her.

  That had been a magical evening. Martin Drayton had laid on a feast for his workers, unlike other Master Potters for miles around who thought that a holiday on Christmas Day was generous enough. But at the Drayton Pottery an ox had been roasted on a spit in the potters’ yard, with a broaching of more than one butt of Staffordshire ale.

  But fond as she was of Dave, and even flattered by his attention because he was chief glazer, Abby had not experienced the feeling of triumph which now filled her. How could any wench withstand the attentions of a man so handsome and highly placed as the new Master Potter? It was an honour which went immediately to her head.

  When he released her she felt something pressed into her hand. A coin. Looking down, she saw that it was silver. Never in her life had she possessed one. Mam was certainly right about not starting too far down the ladder.

  Through a dizzy haze of success Abby heard the man saying, ‘There will be more for greater pleasures. Our secret pleasures. You know what I mean by that, don’t you? And you know what “secret” means?’

  ‘Summat betwixt thee’n’me, sir…’

  ‘Much more than that. It means that if you ever mention it to a soul, you will be punished. If you are good and pleasure me well, the coins will be gold, not silver, but one boastful word to anyone, one hint of betrayal, and punishment will be so severe you will never again be able to hold up your head in Burslem.’

  Breathlessly, she promised to remember. ‘But where’ll ye want me, sir? Not ’ere at t’pot bank, surely t’God? Folks’d soon be whispering. They doan’t miss nowt.’

  ‘I will arrange things.’

  Lingering only for his dismissive caress, Abby left. Not until she was half way back to the turners’ shed did she remember why she had gone to the Master Potter’s office — to dare take up the cudgels for Mistress ’Melia. Her mischievous threat the other day had amused him, a reaction which had given her confidence. But now look what she’d done — forgotten all about it! Shame touched her, but the pressure of the coin in her palm was stronger and more persuasive.

  Chapter 8

  Not a worker in the place could believe it. After such a disaster no master potter would set a team to sift through a mass of breakages in order to pinpoint blame. Accidents were accidents and when they happened a quick search was made for undamaged articles, the rest were thrown away as shraff, and work started again. That was routine in a risky trade like this and the new master should be aware of it.

  To make matters worse, the most experienced workers were drafted to comb through the rubble because inexperienced ones could overlook significant signs, but at a time like this it was the most experienced who were needed to start production flowing again.

  The firers, too, were disgruntled because one kiln would now stand idle, waiting to be replenished, and others would follow suit if supplies were allowed to slow down. This would mean a rapid cooling of the bricks and a lengthier warming-up process; more delay, more disappointed customers, more frustrations.

  Meg said as much to Dave Jefferson, adding that she could never remember such an order being given before.

  ‘Nor me. Right daft it is. What’s got into the man? What’s ’e trying to do? Show us who be master now?’

  ‘That’s the sum of it,’ Meg agreed, though inwardly suspecting much more. She had overheard Lionel Drayton summoning M’s Olivia to his office and concern had sharpened when he commanded the searchers to save every item from the modelling shed — a clear indication that he believed the cause of the trouble to be from there.

  ‘D’ye know what I think, Dave? That for reasons of his own the man’s out for blood — first Mistress ’Melia’s an’ now M’s ’Livia’s.’

  ‘Why the hell should ’e be?’

  Meg shrugged, but reminded Dave of the museum’s quick closure. ‘Didn’t waste no time getting every single piece packed! The crates are waiting to be shifted right now. They’ll be gone afore the pottery closes t’night.’

  ‘Not after a blow-up like this, with every man jack of us at work! And where can they go? They can’t just be dumped outside the gates.’

  Nothing would surprise me, thought Meg, and went back to work. She had something else on her mind — Abby. The girl had been absent from the turners’ shed a bit too long for her liking, and when she returned she’d looked like a cat that had been at the cream. One hand had been hidden in the pocket of her hessian apron and before she picked up a turning tool it had emerged tightly closed. Then she had slid it into a deepe
r petticoat pocket, as if transferring something, and all the time there had been a smile on her face, sort of secret-like, relishing something. But when Meg had said, ‘Where’ve ye been, Abby?’ the girl’s big eyes had turned to her, full of innocence.

  ‘Why, t’see wot were up, same as ev’ryone.’

  ‘I didn’t see you near the kiln.’

  ‘I were there orlright.’

  ‘But not for long, or I’d’ve noticed, so where else did ye go?’

  ‘No place, ’cept to talk t’ Sadie Fisher. She called me over. Ye must’ve seen ’er. She were standing near ye.’

  That was true. Sadie Fisher had been there when Meg arrived and still there when she left. Then it were mighty strange I overlooked Abby, thought Meg, but felt happier with this confirmation that the girl had been close at hand all the time.

  ‘Well, I’m glad ye cleaned up your face afore going there. I like my workers t’take a pride in theirselves. Sets a good example. Muck on t’face be all right here in t’shed, but not outside it.’ Meg finished casually, ‘Did Sadie give ye summat?’

  Abby grinned. ‘Don’t miss nuffink, do ye? Saw wot I slipped in me pocket, eh? Well, I’ll show ye…’

  From the hiding place in her petticoat she drew forth a small hunk of cheese. ‘Swiped it from t’scullery, Sadie did. Don’t tell on ’er, will ye, or she might lose ’er job there. That Ma ’Awkins wot doles out t’food be a right tartar. Nobbody can ’ave a crumb more than they be entitled to — that’s Sadie’s word, “entitled”. I didn’t know wot it meant ’til she told me. “It means ’aving no more than wot ye’ve a right to,” she said, which were a right giggle considerin’ she’d swiped enough fer two!’

  Abby’s pretty white teeth bit into the cheese. Then she held it out. ‘Wanta bite, our Meg? Not goin’ t’tell on us, are ye?’

  ‘Of course not. But one o’ these days that Sadie’ll fair cop it. She pinches more than cheese, that I know. I saw the neck of a stone ale bottle sticking from under her shawl t’other day, on the way home. I reckon t’weren’t no gift from Ma ’Awkins, neether.’

  Abby flung back her young head and laughed. As always, it was a happy sound. After the prevailing atmosphere of disaster, it sounded even happier than usual. Almost excited.

  *

  Amelia heard nothing of the kiln disaster until after the children’s lessons. Promptly, she went to see her nephew.

  ‘You are making a mistake, Lionel. And I am not referring to those crates in the next room, or to how I feel about them.’

  ‘I should hope not, my dear aunt.’

  If there was anything Lionel disliked it was being dictated to by a member of the opposite sex — the lesser sex. To be lectured by one of them, as if he were an errant schoolboy, was not to be tolerated. His aunt should have been relegated to hearth and home long since and the time had come to enforce it.

  ‘My dear Amelia, if you are concerning yourself with matters here, please stop. You must realize that your usefulness has come to an end.’

  ‘Not entirely. I still teach the children.’

  ‘Educating children is not part of a pottery’s function. I intend to get rid of all superfluous activities, and all superfluous people.’

  ‘Such as myself, I know. But beware of losing Olivia, and beware of antagonizing the workers in your determination to blame her for an accident which can happen in any thriving pottery. Wasting time in hunting for the cause is a big mistake.’

  ‘Wasting my time is an even bigger one.’ He crossed to the door and opened it. ‘Next time you come to call, do choose a convenient moment.’

  She didn’t budge. She even smiled, as if amused. ‘You never change, do you, Lionel? You were a stubborn child and you are still the same. Do some men never grow up?’

  ‘And do some women never stop interfering? Your husband may have tolerated it — perhaps he had no choice? — but not I.’

  ‘To you, even your mother’s attentions are interference. Poor Agatha. She waited ten years for your return, and now you are home you brush her aside.’

  ‘You seem to have been listening to her plaintive grumbles. My mother is a very fortunate woman, living in luxury, well looked after, denied nothing…’

  ‘Except her son’s affection.’ Amelia moved to the open door, then stopped in front of him. ‘I came here to warn you, to plead if necessary.’

  ‘To tell me how to run the pottery, you mean. How to handle the workers. How to be a master potter who can be bent to their will.’

  ‘No. How to avoid losing valuable men and women who have served Drayton’s loyally and well, winning the respect of fellow workers in the process. People like Olivia. My days here may be finished, that I know, but not Olivia’s. Lose her, and you will regret it. Martin always said her work was outstanding, and time has proved him right.’

  ‘There are other skilled modellers.’

  ‘All trained by her.’

  ‘And therefore capable of carrying on after she has gone.’

  ‘So I’m right — your aim is to get rid of her. By blaming her for bad workmanship? If you hope to do that, you will fail. And if you succeed for any other trumped-up reason, Drayton’s will be the poorer.’

  ‘You are wasting my time,’ he said again.

  ‘I can see that.’ Briefly, Amelia’s shoulders drooped. He actually felt a faint twinge of guilt, but when she straightened up the dangerous response subsided.

  He said briskly and not unkindly, ‘I have a suggestion to make. A good one. Since you are a woman who likes to be useful, why not teach those children in your own home? You could start a Dame School. Medlar Croft must surely have room to spare and since you and Olivia are so obsessed with ideas of equality your own children could share the lessons.’

  She answered serenely, ‘I have already thought of that, but I’m sure you would never be so foolish as to jeopardize the Drayton Pottery’s good name.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That the children should at least be transported from the pottery to Medlar Croft after their parents have brought them here each morning, otherwise how will they get there? It is a considerable distance. Arrange transport for them, and Drayton’s good reputation will be preserved.’

  ‘Countrybred children are accustomed to walking.’

  ‘And the same distance back? Unfortunately, the only transport I now have is a carriage for four, whereas the pottery has plenty of wagons capable of holding a much larger number. So I will strike a bargain with you. Put one of those wagons at the daily disposal of the children and I will “interfere” no more. You have defeated me, Lionel. You have succeeded, and I have lost.’

  ‘Come,’ he said generously, ‘you mustn’t look at it like that. You have served the place loyally and well, all of which is appreciated and will be financially rewarded.’

  ‘Martin himself took care of that. I have no financial cares, thanks to him, and fortunately I am able-bodied and not yet senile. And while I think of it, I will relieve you of more than those burdensome crates in the next room. There are volumes there, records I have kept for many years, all out of date, all obsolete and, I am sure, of no interest to you. Of what use can ancient history be to a progressive young man like yourself?’

  ‘Certainly you may have them. I will set them aside now. As for a wagon for those children, I will make one available when you open your Dame School. You see how willing I am to help you?’

  To that she said nothing. He crossed to the adjoining room, only to find the entrance blocked by crates, stacked high. Craning his neck to see over them, he said, ‘The shelves seem to be empty, so your precious volumes must also have been packed. I’ll have everything delivered to Medlar Croft today.’

  ‘Can you spare the time or the men? With all this frantic scratching around among rubble, I don’t see how you can. Draytonware sells as rapidly as it is made, so kilns must be idle only for reloading. All the workers know that and will be none too pleased about the delay.’

  He sa
id with an elaborate show of patience, ‘Believe me, I appreciate your interest as greatly as I appreciate your loyal service here, but I have no need of either. You may now go home and forget about the pottery. Enjoy your —’

  ‘— advancing years? Thank you, Lionel, I will.’

  At last she turned away, betraying no sign of the effort it cost her nor how desperately she wanted to repeat her warnings.

  ‘About those crates,’ she said as an afterthought before walking out into the potters’ yard for the last time. ‘Olivia tells me that arrangements have been made for them, so there’s no need for you to take even one man away from the important job of probing for guilt just to satisfy your personal desire for power — or is it revenge? Revenge against Olivia because she always spurned you? And don’t imagine that the workers are fools — they come of stock similar to your own. Do you know the origins of the Draytons?’

  He shrugged indifferently.

  ‘Then let me tell you, nephew. They can be traced back to the sixteenth century, a family of itinerant potters who peddled their wares up and down the country, setting up their stands on village greens or any other convenient spot. The ancestor who first came to Burslem in 1581 and settled with his family in a disused barn, had pitched his cart on any suitable site, erected his ancient potter’s wheel, dug clay from the highways and byways and riddled it in any nearby stream with his wife and children helping him. They kneaded it and wedged it on convenient stones, just as potters did in these parts as long ago as the thirteenth century, and then his family turned the handle of a massive wheel that revolved a leather belt running to his turntable. They had to take it in turns because the wheel was heavy and the task was hard, while he threw pots for villagers for as little as a penny a time. At night, they slept beneath the cart, so the unclaimed barn which became the first Drayton pot bank was a godsend. It’s from such stout yeomen stock that your workers come. They have the same courage and determination. So don’t cross them, Lionel, or I repeat — you’ll regret it.’