by Rona Randall
It was now five months since M’s Amelia and M’s Olivia had departed. With them had gone the contented atmosphere that had prevailed under Master Martin. Looking back through the years, Meg saw life at Drayton’s in a series of pictures, first of herself dragging at her mother’s skirts or being carried in her mother’s affectionate arms when her footsteps flagged, a toddler dumped with others on a few sacks in a corner of the earthen floor while their mothers worked non-stop over wheel or bench; women prematurely bent, prematurely aged. Then when tiny legs grew stronger their owners would have to earn their midday hunk of bread and their mug of watered-down ale by performing tasks for which they were usually unequal.
But not under George Drayton, that dear absent-minded old man who almost ruined the business by his inattention to essential matters. George Drayton had preferred the books of prose and poetry that he brought to work, daily, in his saddle bags. Near ruin had been averted by his eldest son, who promptly reinstated the child labour abandoned by his father and restablished the Drayton Pottery as a thriving concern.
But at that stage Meg stopped looking back over her life because there were slices in it that she wanted to forget. She preferred leaping ahead to the times when the young Martin Drayton, whom she herself had tutored in the art of turning, at last came into his own and undercurrents of resentment and hatred at the Drayton Pottery yielded to a wholly changed atmosphere; when the workers were no longer afraid of their master and no longer suspicious of their superiors or of each other, and the shed overseers became more trustworthy because they no longer had to spy on those beneath them and report their misdemeanours and mistakes. An overseer could then take his workers to task personally and the matter would go no further — unlike that brief and unhappy spell when Maxwell Freeman from Tremain Hall was brought into the place for no better purpose than to relay to Master Joseph every kind of goings-on.
Some had said he was there solely because he had married Phoebe Drayton and a share in the family business went with her dowry, but that seemed nonsense since the Freemans were far richer. In any case, he didn’t last long and there wasn’t a worker who wasn’t glad about that. Max Freeman had been an unattractive youth, over-indulged and self-indulgent, and no one had been more surprised than Meg when he came back to Staffordshire, a changed and far more likeable man.
There was time for these reflections, and others, as Meg rode to Ashburton on this particular Sunday afternoon. The aftermath of the Drayton upheaval seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Supervision at the pottery was rapidly deteriorating, despite intermittent demonstrations of the Master Potter’s authority, which seemed to be his idea of the right way to go about things; a periodic round-up of overseers, chastising them or criticizing them, demanding greater endeavours, better results, more diligence, more attention to duty, when each and every one of them was doing his or her utmost already, and so were the workers.
‘The man’ll drive us to breaking point,’ Dave Jefferson had declared one day in a rare bout of temper.
‘Aye, but not himself,’ Meg had answered. ‘Haven’t ye noticed that his rantings are allus followed by a lull, like he’s run out of steam?’
‘Until the next time.’
But why think about that now? Today was the Sabbath; the weather was fine. It was May and a balmy one, the hedgerows in leaf, apple and prunus in full bloom, hawthorn blossom burgeoning. Early spring flowers were over but carpets of bluebells spread richly in the woods and cottage gardens were bright with colour…and she was on her way to spend an hour with her lifelong friend and benefactress, Mistress Kendall. There was always a welcome chance to talk with her when the lesson was over and today Meg was anxious to discuss Abby, who had somehow changed and was slipping out of her reach. And that was frightening.
There were other things, too; not frightening but important and exciting. Ever since the news that Mistress Amelia’s museum was to be re-established alongside Fletcher’s Forge and that it was to be named after her late husband, Burslem had been agog. And when it actually happened, everybody sat up because it was far more splendid and far better situated, attracting passers-by as well as coach travellers who commanded their drivers to stop. Museums along the way were an unusual attraction, so the Martin Drayton Museum won the attention of many folk besides dealers who were heading for the pottery on business. And how did the new Master of Drayton’s like that?
Fletcher’s Forge wouldn’t be doing too badly out of it either, some said wryly, because it was obvious that the whole scheme had been aided and abetted by Damian Fletcher and the young woman he lived with. But more kindly folk said good luck to ’em, some adding that Olivia Freeman must feel lost with nothing to do but supervise her household. Meg thought the same and was surprised that she didn’t appear to be helping at her aunt’s museum. It was the other niece, Deborah Kendall, who was doing that. When M’s Amelia was absent, the girl took over and the heir of Tremain would sometimes join her — which started tongues wagging, of course. He was very active about the place, putting finishing touches to this and that and doing anything else required by Mistress Drayton.
There was more local speculation when it was reported that Lionel Drayton, dropping in to see the place one day, had begun to repeat the visits whenever Miss Deborah was on duty. Not that he was interested in the museum. He had been heard to refer to it, contemptuously, as his aunt’s little pastime, but Meg doubted whether he had uttered that remark in the young lady’s hearing; he seemed too anxious to win her approval and to belittle anything associated with her aunt would never achieve that.
*
Meg’s lessons took place in Ashburton’s library, a room she had found awesome until Mistress Kendall had taken down volume after volume and introduced her to the marvel of illustration and lettering and the enjoyment of listening to words read aloud. She had a lovely voice, had Miss Jessica — even now, Meg sometimes thought of the mistress of Ashburton as the young lady she had once been. The most handsome in Burslem, in her opinion, though everyone had seemed to admire the golden prettiness of her sister a great deal more. Plump Phoebe. Pretty Phoebe. Pettish Phoebe. Spitey-Phoebe, Meg had secretly called her, because the rose-bud mouth could tighten spitefully if she were crossed. And yet she had produced a daughter like M’s Olivia who, in character if not in looks, had resembled her mother’s twin in many respects and Spitey-Phoebe in no way at all.
But today, on this ambling trot to Ashburton, Abby Walker began to dominate Meg’s thoughts. Of late, the girl had taken to prettying herself up; new ribbons for her hair, new stockings too, and of white cotton so fine that Meg herself had never been able to afford anything like them. At least Abby had the sense not to wear them to the pottery, and Meg would never have seen them had she not forgotten her shawl one night and gone back to the shed to pick it up — and there was Abby, carefully rolling on one stocking and tying it above the knee with yet another ribbon and her other leg, bare and wet, waiting to be dried. A bowl of water was on the floor and a piece of scrim a yard long beside it, and a hunk of rough soap, used for scouring the work benches at the end of the day, was melting in the water.
The girl had been not in the least put out. She had smiled pertly and, extending the stockinged leg, said, ‘Pretty, ain’t it, Meg?’ and laughed and picked up the length of scrim and dried the other leg with it. Meg had been struck dumb at first, and when she had found her tongue all she had been able to say was, ‘That there soap’s melting. We ain’t allowed t’waste it.’
‘I b’aint wastin’ — wasting,’ Abby corrected hastily. She seemed very anxious, of late, to talk proper. ‘I ain’t wasting it. Soap’s for keeping a body clean.’
‘And who told ye that?’
‘Me mam, o’course. ’Sides, ye’ve allus told me t’wash’n tidy meself after work.’
Her hands and face, yes. And her hair too. But not other parts of her body except in private.
‘Ye should’ve locked the door, Abby. I s’pose ye thought everyone
were gone. Next time, wait ’til ye get home.’
The fact that Abby made no answer and continued calmly with her toilet had told Meg that the girl was not going home and that all this preparation was for something, or someone, special. The freshly brushed hair, the white stockings, the removal of all signs of clay, even from beneath the fingernails where it lingered permanently with most potters, all indicated that Abby had remained behind to prepare secretly for an assignation.
‘Is it Dave? I ’ope it be. He loves ye, Abby Walker.’
‘Aye, I know that. ’E’s told me often enough.’
Thrusting her feet into working clogs at which she glanced distastefully, Abby picked up the bowl and threw the dirty water out into the yard. The place was totally deserted and totally silent but for the distant roar of the massive kilns. Not even the brick walls shut out the sound; it was the hum every potter liked to hear and the lull following the blow-up had now mercifully passed; production was flowing again. But the comforting noise did nothing to assuage Meg’s sudden unease. Something was wrong. Something concerning Abby.
‘I don’t see Dave,’ she said, glancing through the open door. ‘He’s not out there, waiting for ye.’
‘An’ who said ’e would be?’ Abby answered pertly as she turned back into the shed. Only recently had she begun to speak to Meg that way, with a touch of insolence, too confident by half.
‘D’ye do this often, Abby? Stay behind to pretty y’self up?’
‘I be only practising wot ye preach. Ye oughta be glad.’ The girl picked up Meg’s shawl and handed it to her. ‘This be wot ye come back for?’
Meg had taken the shawl, saying awkwardly, ‘I’ll be off then. If Dave’s walking ye home a second party won’t be welcome. Don’t forget to lock up afore ye leave.’
But there was still no sign of Dave. No sign of anyone but old Peterson locking up the gatehouse. Looking back as she walked through the gates, Meg had seen the flickering light within the shed snuff out as Abby prepared to leave. Meg had turned away then and headed for Larch Lane, not waiting to see the girl emerge because she didn’t want to give the impression that she was spying. No doubt Abby would head for the glazing sheds to find out what was keeping Dave and old Peterson would see them off the premises, or leave the gates unlocked if firers were on duty through the night. Either way, it were no business of hers.
Feeling suddenly tired, suddenly aware that she was no longer young, Meg had gone on her way.
*
After the lesson, Jessica Kendall said, ‘You’ve something on your mind, Meg. What is it?’
Were it that plain, then? Or was it just a way this lady had, sort’ve sensing when a body’s thoughts were troubled?
‘Come, Meg. Tell me. You’ve not been concentrating so well this afternoon.’ When Meg hesitated, Jessica crossed to the fireplace and tugged a bell rope. ‘We’ll take some tea together and talk about things, and as it’s such a beautiful day we’ll take it outside. Remember how we sometimes did that at Cooperfield, when you came to turn my brother’s pots?’
Meg remembered it well — and the small outhouse in which Master Martin had launched himself as a potter, thanks to the Kendalls.
The library opened on to a wide terrace flanking the whole of the south side of Ashburton, and here Sarah brought the tea. She showed no surprise on seeing Meg Tinsley, being accustomed to her mistress’s varied assortment of friends, and her master’s too. When the Kendalls entertained they did so in a variety of ways with a variety of people. Sometimes they threw open the grounds for local fairs, letting the organizers set up maypoles and Aunt Sallys and coconut shies and Punch and Judys and anything else they fancied in whatever spot they chose, and when everything was over the weary helpers would be fortified with food from the Ashburton kitchens, washed down with mugs of strong tea or home-brewed ales, often imbibed right here on the terrace.
For miles around, the Kendalls were liked and respected, feelings shared by both their indoor and outdoor staff, so if her mistress wanted to take tea with someone as humble as Meg Tinsley, Sarah served it willingly. She also nodded and smiled affably at the guest because, despite all she’d heard about Meg throughout her lifetime, she liked her.
‘Now tell me what is troubling you,’ Jessica said as she took the silver kettle from its silver spirit stand and poured boiling water into the silver teapot in which Sarah had already put tea leaves. ‘Is it the pottery? Aren’t you happy there any more? Or is it someone?’
‘Aye,’ Meg admitted, then with some hesitation added, ‘It be young Abby Walker.’
‘Abby? But everyone likes her. My sister-in-law once described her as very promising.’
‘She be that orlright, if she sticks t’the job. Wot worrits me is she mightn’t.’
Jessica waited while Meg drained her cup, set it aside, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sighed appreciatively. Feeling much better for it, she went on, ‘I’m afeared she’ll go the way of ’er ma, Miss Jessica — beggin’ pardon, mistress. Sometimes I think o’ye just as I useter.’
Jessica smiled, then said seriously, ‘Tell me why you suddenly fear for Abby.’
‘T’ain’t sudden reely. I’ve bin afeared for a long time. With Kate for a mother, there be plenty o’reason. I useter hope that one day Kate’d clear off an’ leave Abby, an’ a good riddance it would be. Then I’d step in an’ look after the lass an’ one day she’d marry a good honest chap like Dave Jefferson, but now — yes, I be real worrit. She’s changed.’
‘In what way? Tell me.’
‘She be allus prettying ’erself up —’
‘That’s quite natural in a growing girl.’
‘Aye, if she earns the money t’do it on. But Abby’s wages ain’t enough for fancy new ribbons an’ fancy new blouses an’ other things besides. I caught ’er washing ’erself t’other day, after everyone had gone an’ she thought she was safe; ’tweren’t just her face an’ hands, but way up ’er legs too. I remember well, ’cos I saw fancy frills underneath, the like o’ which only come on costly garments.’
‘Perhaps she had made them herself.’
‘Not Abby! She’s no great shakes with a needle an’ these frills were made o’ real lace — an’ lying on the floor were her cast-offs — coarse cotton like us pottery women all wear an’ no fancy trimmings. So she be getting money from somewhere else, an’ I don’t like it, mistress.’
‘Did you question her?’
‘I wanted to, but ’t’were a waste o’ time. She don’t open up t’me no more. She’s changed. More’n more she’s beginning t’sound like ’er mother, an’ t’look like ’er too, or trying to. An’ all I can do is look on an’ say now’t, ’cos trying to talk sense into her be a waste o’time.’
‘Meaning she won’t listen?’
‘That she won’t.’
Jessica tried to lessen Meg’s anxiety by reiterating that it was natural for a girl like Abby to take an interest in her looks, but when that met with only a distracted nod she knew that Meg’s anxiety was too deep to be soothed by trite observations.
‘You think there’s a man. That is what’s worrying you, isn’t it, Meg?’
‘Aye.’
‘Some man providing her with these things, or the money to buy them, and for a reason.’
‘That’s the truth of it, mistress. An’ it’ll grieve me sore if Abby goes t’way of ’er ma.’ She burst out passionately, ‘For two pins I’d tan the hide off that Kate!’
‘I shouldn’t try it, Meg, since she’s twice the size of you.’ The light note Jessica forced into her voice did at least make the other woman smile. ‘There must be some other way we can handle this…’
‘Aye, there be, but whether it’ll work, I don’t know. I can but try, an’ somehow I will. I want t’get that woman t’quit Burslem once an’ fer all, an’ then I want Abby along with me ’til such time as she be wed, an’ that’ll be young, being the way she’s made. The sooner the better, then she won’t be pleasuring th
e wrong men for the wrong reasons, ’cos mark me words, mistress, once started on that road it ain’t easy to stop. I were lucky. I met Frank Tinsley an’ ’e loved me just as I were —’
‘As you always were at heart, Meg. Your circumstances were different from Abby’s. Yours were tragic and harsh. You weren’t taught that taking money for satisfying men was an easy and therefore enjoyable way of making a living, as Abby has been taught by that mother of hers. I share your dislike of Kate Walker. Do you really think you can persuade her to leave Burslem? And how?’
‘Leave that t’me,’ Meg said darkly, and Jessica chose to, asking instead if Meg knew the identity of the man concerned.
‘One of the overseers, perhaps? Not Dave Jefferson, surely? He seems a wholly honest and decent young man.’
‘No — not Dave. It’d break his heart if ’e knew, though he ain’t so dense as not to notice a thing or two.’
‘Then another pot maker…surely not more than one, Meg?’
‘Not yet, I be sure o’ that. It be summun in the pottery, though, I’d take a bet on’t.’
‘If he is giving her money, he must be one of the top employees, otherwise he couldn’t afford it.’
‘Aye.’
Meg suddenly shut up like a clam, and that was when Jessica suspected that the woman had guessed the man’s identity, but that nothing would persuade her to name him. There could be only one reason for that. No pot worker could afford to fall foul of the most important man in the place, their employer and boss, the Master Potter who could turn them off at a moment’s notice without pay. The thought made Jessica run cold. Her brother had been that type of a man, and now his son had taken his place. Something had to be done, not only about Abby but about Meg. Casually, she asked what life was like at Drayton’s these days. Was she still happy there? Were things as they used to be?
