The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  ‘Something is worrying you. What is it?’

  ‘The children and their lessons. I hate abandoning them, but with so much new involvement how can I possibly start a Dame School?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Jessica said promptly. ‘Right in the centre of Burslem for children of all potters. And I know where I’ll run it — at the Wesley Meeting House. Martin admired John Wesley from the day the man first preached on Cobbler’s Green and was pelted by the rabble. Despite that, the Meeting House was built. The social room attached can be hired for useful purposes, and what could be more useful than this? Have no fear, Amelia your Dame School will flourish.’ She finished with elation, ‘What a wonderful day this is!’

  ‘I echo that,’ said Simon Kendall, smiling. ‘My wife and the two pottery ladies of Burslem are about to make history.’

  Chapter 9

  When Meg Tinsley decided to lead a protest delegation from the turners’ shed and called for volunteers, Abby hung back. Not because she wasn’t as shocked as everyone else by Mistress Drayton’s sudden departure, but because she didn’t want to offend a powerful man who was showing such an interest in her. Kate would say as much and warn her to keep out of trouble, and mothers were supposed to know best, weren’t they?

  So Abby kept her head down over her wheel, pretending not to hear. She didn’t like the guilty feeling it gave her, but what else could she do? Line up with the others and she’d surely be seen, even if she tried to hide behind them. From the top of the steps leading to his office — for it was certain-sure he wouldn’t admit any of them — he would look down on everyone and even the smallest wouldn’t be overlooked.

  Some of the other turners eagerly lined up with Meg, but some hesitated. On those she cast a contemptuous glance and called them cowards.

  ‘Afraid he’ll send ye packing, are ye? Well — listen t’me. He daresn’t. If everyone downed tools an’ he sacked the lot of us, he’d get a nasty surprise if he thought we’d be easy to replace. You lot are the best turners in Burslem — I’ve see t’that. So what are ye worriting about? Think of M’s ’Melia and all she’s done for us all these years. Don’t that make ye angry?’

  There was no hesitation then. The clatter of shoes trooping through the door was followed by silence, Abby’s whirring wheel the only sound.

  Minutes later, the door flung open again.

  ‘Well, Abby Walker? Why ain’t ye out there with t’rest of us?’

  ‘I’ve this pile o’ pots to finish —’

  ‘An’ plenty of time to do ’em when we come back. Wot’s got into ye, our Abby? Only t’other day ye were challenging the man, vowing that if he hurt Mistress Drayton he’d ’ave a battle on ’is hands — with you. Seems ye didn’t mean it, after all. Shame on ye, Abby Walker!’

  Without warning Meg seized the girl by the rolled collar of her potter’s slop and half dragged her to the door. ‘Aye,’ she stormed, ‘it’s a coward y’are!’

  ‘I ain’t, I ain’t! It’s jest that —’

  ‘That wot?’ Meg demanded, releasing her but looking so threatening that Abby knew she would renew her grip if provoked.

  ‘It’s jest that I wanted t’get on wi’ me work. Summun’s gotta.’

  ‘We’ll all get on with it when we’ve said our piece, an’ don’t think the turners are the only ones rarin’ to do it. There’s men an’ women from other sheds lining up out there, so come on wi’ ye!’ D’ye want me to drag ye? I’ll do it — that’s a warning!’

  The group in the yard was larger than Abby expected, and was swelling as men and women emerged from all quarters. Then someone raised their voice and shouted, ‘Master Potter, we’d like a word with ye!’

  There was no answer until Meg mounted the steps, knocked on the door, then rejoined her fellow-workers who were now chanting in unison. At that, the door opened and Lionel Drayton, immaculate in a high-collared longcoat of dark green velvet — with matching knee breeches, white hose and tall cravat, satin waistcoat and silver buckled shoes — stepped through the doorway and looked down on them. His hair, tied back with an immaculate bow, made every man before him look unkempt. Standing there, he surveyed them; unruffled, calm, amiable.

  ‘And to what do I owe this massed delegation?’ he asked. ‘There are too many of you to invite within, but perhaps a single spokesman —?’

  ‘We’re all here to say our piece, sir, so by your leave we’ll say it here, together.’ This was Dave Jefferson, standing in the foreground, and although his words were courteous enough there was nothing humble in his tone. ‘It’s about Mistress Drayton. We be concerned, Master Potter. Gravely so.’

  ‘Indeed? And for what reason?’

  ‘Because we hear she’s gone, sudden-like,’ Meg called out. ‘We’d like t’know why.’

  ‘Would you, indeed? And since when have workers had the right to question their employers?’

  ‘We’ve allus been able to, at Drayton’s,’ said Dave. ‘Master Martin useter say, “Come t’me any time there’s summat on your mind,” an’ we allus did. So here we be. We want Mistress Drayton back, Master Potter. And M’s Olivia, too. Folks say she left alongside her aunt, and the loss of either ain’t to our liking.’

  Their new boss remained unruffled. Concealed in the middle of the group, thankful that she was not as exposed as she feared, Abby gazed up at him in awe. He was an impressive figure — handsome, elegant, debonair even when faced with hostility — and her desire to retain his interest and approval increased. Meg Tinsley was a fool to antagonize him. They were all fools, the lot of ’em, even Dave who, she had always believed, had his head screwed on the right way. T’weren’t the business of clay workers to argue with the bosses. Their lot was to get on with their jobs and mind their own business, no matter if they did feel badly about something. She felt badly herself when she thought about M’s ’Melia, but what could she do? What could any of them do?

  She turned a willing ear to what the Master Potter had to say.

  ‘My aunt left of her own choice. That is the truth of the matter and because I respect you as workers I am taking you into my confidence.’

  (There! Y’see, the lot ’o ye? Ye be wrong about ’im, dead wrong…)

  ‘An’ did she ask ye to close down the museum and shove everything into crates and get rid of ’em?’ Meg demanded. (Right angry she sounded — more fool she.)

  A glint of anger flashed in the Master Potter’s eyes. Abby shivered faintly. Get on the wrong side of such a man, and Meg would surely regret it. Abby marvelled now that she had ever had the courage to speak up to him the way she did that first time, and all on account of Mistress Drayton. But she’d meant it at the time.

  So why didn’t she now? Guilt stirred again, but died when the Master Potter continued, speaking so quietly, so politely, so convincingly that it was quite plain that he spoke the truth. It had all become too much for his aunt, he was saying. She had worked hard for Drayton’s throughout the years, but had earned her retirement. Indeed, she had sought it. Since her bereavement she had struggled on, but without her husband at her side it had all become too much for her.

  ‘To let her go was the least I could do, the least you would all have wanted me to do. I know how greatly you all cared for her. You will therefore be glad on her behalf.’

  ‘An’ M’s Olivia?’ called someone from the modelling shed.

  ‘Alas, my cousin has behaved foolishly, but I have no doubt she will be back.’

  ‘Even though she were blamed for the blow-up in the kiln according t’thee?’ Meg blazed. She was being reckless now. Abby tugged at her sleeve to silence her, but it was pulled away angrily. ‘Why else did ye set all those men scrabbling around among the shraff?’ she went on. ‘An’ now she’s quit Drayton’s too, d’ye mean t’let ’em go on wasting their time and everybody else’s?’

  Dave added his voice just at the moment when Abby thought the Master Potter was going to lose his temper.

  ‘Meg’s right, sir. Some of our best men a
re still at that job, including three of my finest glazers. With respect, it be getting us nowhere. If everyone don’t get back to work, and soon, it’ll be more than one kiln coming to a standstill.’

  Dave could speak reasonably and calmly even when he wasn’t feeling that way. Meg knew this and envied him the ability. She glanced toward him, caught his eye, and signalled the thought. Others were thankful when the words brought a much hoped for result.

  ‘Then the operation will cease forthwith, and so will this meeting,’ Lionel Drayton announced, and when Abby whispered, ‘Wot do that mean, our Meg?’ she was glad to hear that it meant everyone was going back to work again. The danger she had sensed was past and when the Master Potter bowed to the group and thanked them politely for coming, then went back into his office and closed the door, she, like many, sensed no irony in his words or his manner.

  Only Meg, once back in the turners’ shed, voiced any criticism.

  ‘Smooth-tongued bugger!’ she exploded, and snatched up her turning tool.

  *

  Leaving the turners’ shed that night, Abby saw Master Lionel, as she now thought of him, lingering outside his open door. This was not unusual; many pottery owners stood at their office doors at night, watching their workers depart, bidding some good night, nodding to others, occasionally calling one aside for a word or two, either to voice approval of their work or to utter reprimand if necessary. She hoped he would notice her, but not if he was angry with her for being among that mob today.

  To avoid walking home with Meg, who had established the habit a long time ago, Abby had lingered to finish a batch of pots which, she had pointed out with not a little satisfaction, had been delayed by all that to-do. Abby was beginning to chafe against Meg’s supervision. It seemed that the woman was forever watching her and tonight she felt she’d had enough. So not until she estimated that the chief turner would be well on the way to her cottage in Larch Lane did she decide to leave.

  By that time almost everyone had departed and the few stragglers were too intent on doing likewise to notice the imperceptible nod the Master Potter bestowed on Abby. It was a beckoning gesture, a summons, imperative and to be immediately obeyed. After it, he turned casually and re-entered the building, and Abby, slowing her steps, pretended to have forgotten something and went back to the turners’ shed to await the moment when the yard would finally be empty and she could slip across unseen. She was surprised by her own sagacity.

  Minutes later she flitted across the yard and through the Master Potter’s door, conveniently left ajar. Quietly, she shut it. He was stooping over his splendid desk, apparently absorbed in a pile of papers, but she knew he was aware of her, standing there waiting, and a quivering excitement stirred within her. It was a breathless sort of game, an enjoyable game, and she was content to let him make the next move. It was his place to, wasn’t it, not hers? Besides, prolonging things made it even more exciting.

  She knew what to expect, or thought she did. He was going to do to her what her mother said was much better than working for a living, something a woman with sense enjoyed. So she was going to enjoy it too.

  Even so, her expectancy was tinged with fear. No — excitement, not fear, she insisted in her mind. How could fear be part of a game? Keeping her waiting like this was all part of it and she knew she had to play it his way because he was the master. Standing there quiet as a mouse, she wondered when he was going to make the first move.

  With the door closed and the night darkening outside, the room was heavily shadowed. A single oil lamp burned on his desk, but light also glowed from an adjoining room the room in which M’s Amelia’s precious things had been crated and stored.

  She wished she hadn’t thought of Mistress Drayton right now. It brought uncomfortable feelings of guilt and regret. She thrust them aside, along with the thought that her Mam would have said she’d acted the right way. ‘Never get mixed up in other folks’ business,’ she would say. ‘Keep yer mouth shut an’ yer nose clean.’

  Abby was clean in every way tonight. Remembering how he had said that a man never liked to kiss a dirty face, she had paid particular attention to it ever since. Her hands as well. In fact, all of her as far as she was able in the one-roomed hovel in which she lived with Kate. As often as possible, when her mother was out on business, she poured water from the big black kettle, which was forever on the hob, into a wooden washtub, then she stood in it and swished water all over her body, the way Meg had told her was good to do.

  ‘I useter do it when I lived down by the marlpit, even though old Ma Tinsley useter say I’d catch me death. But that’s how folk in big houses keep theirselves clean, Abby, by washing all over in tubs filled by servants…ye can pretend t’be a grand lady that way!’

  But she didn’t want to recall Meg any more than she wanted to recall M’s Amelia right now. Both women seemed to be disturbing reminders of something she didn’t want to think about.

  At last he looked up. He crossed to the door, locked it, then came toward her and cupped her chin in one hand.

  ‘That’s better, Abby. A clean face and a pretty one -- that’s what I like to see,’ and he kissed her on the mouth, not the way Dave had kissed her under the mistletoe — gently and softly — but greedily, his tongue thrusting and demanding. She was startled. When he released her she was breathless and a little bewildered, but even so she guessed why he then extinguished the lamp on his desk — so that when old Peterson went the rounds, checking that everywhere was locked up, it would seem that the Master Potter had gone. Then the gatekeeper would lock the main gates and go home and they would be alone, here in the Drayton Pottery, and no one would even suspect.

  Silently then, he drew her into the adjoining room and shut the door. They were enclosed in a small world from which dim lamplight could not be seen from outside, and there he stripped her and fondled her and pulled her down on to the floor. In a remote corner of her mind she was surprised to feel the softness of carpet beneath her, and even as he began to caress the most intimate parts of her body and she quivered in response her startled eyes noticed, over his shoulder, a roll of carpet half undone, the rest of it spread beneath them, and the same remote corner of her mind registered that he had prepared this himself and that he must have done it as soon as Mistress Drayton’s crates were out of the way, and that seemed so callous that suddenly she was crying…silently, helplessly, ashamed and regretful and wretched…hating herself for being disloyal to a woman who had always been kind to her and in whose defence she had once sprung and whom she had deserted…and she wanted to get away…now…right now…and couldn’t because she was pinned down beneath the weight of this man and pain was piercing her as he penetrated her body, making her cry aloud.

  Promptly, his hand covered her mouth and his voice, panting, hissed at her to be quiet…and on it went, and on, and on, until pain gradually became merged with sensations that drowned all others…and thought had gone, and shame and regret and sadness…everything had gone but this surging, overwhelming feeling.

  It seemed to continue for a long, long time and when it was over she lay supine, spent, partially stupefied and partially radiant; partially happy and partially sad, though why she was sad she could not analyse and now had no wish to try. Then suddenly she was shivering, for when he had finished with her he simply rose and left her and without the heat of his body the chill of the room struck down on her nakedness. The light was very dim, but she saw his white form stoop and pick up something and throw it to her. It was a towel.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he commanded, and the curtness of his voice was a shock. No gentleness, no fondness, no feeling for her whatsoever. He had finished with her and now she had to go.

  In the outer room he tossed a big iron key toward her. It fell at her feet. Leaving her to pick it up he said, ‘You’ll have to unlock the gates and let yourself out. Leave the key on the inside.’

  ‘Why?’ she stammered.

  ‘So that I can lock the place up when I leave,’
he answered impatiently. ‘You don’t expect me to be seen leaving with you, surely to God? Now away with you. And here’s your reward.’

  It was another coin. Larger this time, but still of silver.

  ‘Ye promised gold,’ she managed to say, but at that he laughed and casually touched her cheek.

  ‘When you do better. Next time perhaps — if you do better. You’ve a lot to learn.’

  Mam had never said anything about learning. Mam had always said it was easy. Puzzled, Abby said, ‘Didn’t I do right, sir? I thought I did right…’

  He yawned. ‘You will, in time. You’re promising, but I won’t put up with all that whimpering. Why in hell’s name were you crying? You must learn to enjoy it. Now be off.’

  Dismissed, she obeyed.

  Chapter 10

  Meg’s favourite day was the Sabbath, the one day of the week when the pottery closed, unless firings were underway and therefore demanded the supervision of fire men. But for Meg it was a day of precious freedom and the highlight was the hour she spent at Ashburton, learning to read and write under Jessica Drayton’s tuition.

  She would hire the ancient nag from Joss Barlow, landlord of the Red Lion, and cover the distance impatiently, chafing at the animal’s plodding pace — but what could be expected for five pence? The Red Lion’s stables didn’t boast thoroughbreds.

  The lessons were progressing well. She could now write a weekly record of the number and type of pots turned in her shed, instead of making chalk marks on the wall and getting someone else to add them up at the end of the day so she could wash the wall clean again. Her pride in her new skill was immense. It had also been appreciated by Mistress Drayton from the time Meg made her earliest entries, but whether the new Master Potter appreciated it too was open to doubt.

  Along with other supervisors Meg would hand in her record book at the Master’s office every Saturday night, place it on his desk, bob the curtsey expected from a female employee to the overseer in charge (the men tugging their forelocks) and there the book would remain until she lined up to collect it when the pottery reopened on Monday. The pile of books always appeared to be untouched, which was scarcely surprising since Saturday was a holiday for the Master Potter and he never arrived on Monday until long after his clay workers had started and the record books had been handed back, again by a deputy. So it didn’t fool Meg when Lionel Drayton pretended to have production figures at his fingertips.