by Rona Randall
But silly little whores could get above themselves if allowed to imagine that they were good enough to enter a man’s home. It was therefore wiser to keep Abby well away from there. So far, that small room off his office had sufficed, but could not continue to. Too many people called on a master potter, and although he continued to exercise care by admitting Abby only when everyone had gone home, if she lingered too long and too often her fellow-workers could begin to wonder why. They would notice if she persistently stayed behind. Perhaps they had done so already, but as long as they didn’t see her hurry across the yard to his door, no matter. They could imagine she lingered for different reasons, for a different man.
But there was the additional risk of a late worker encountering some emergency that would bring him hurrying to the Master Potter’s office in the hope that he had not gone home, such as a fire man appointed to keep his eye on an overnight firing. And although Lionel made sure that the place appeared to be dark and empty, one never knew…a chink of lamplight might filter through the cracks of that inner door.
But the cellar room was a different proposition. Not only could he keep it locked, but access to this new basement area was out of sight, situated round a corner away from the worksheds. Abby was a bright little thing, sensible in her way, quite capable of making sure that she slipped along to that entrance, not only when the coast was clear but speedily and nimbly. The distance was less than crossing the potters’ yard.
The new room fulfilled all his expectations. So pleased was he with the builder’s work that he even added a bonus. ‘That’s for your diligence and the speed at which you completed the job,’ he said, promising to call the man again if and when he needed further construction carried out. There was mutual satisfaction on both sides and Lionel wasted no time in preparing the room and introducing Abby to it.
‘My!’ she breathed, inspecting it thoroughly. ‘Carpet’n all! An’ them cushions — look at the size of ’em! Pity it can’t be a bed though. I likes it better in a bed.’
‘One can’t have everything, Abby. It was tricky enough to explain the need for a carpet in a cellar. Tiresome, too. A master potter shouldn’t have to make excuses for anything.’
‘Then why did ye? An’ wot did ye say? ’An who wanted to know about it, anyways?’
‘Young Jefferson. He seems to think his new position entitles him to probe where he has no right to probe.’
‘Well, I dunno about that, but I do know Dave ain’t young. Rising eight-an’-twenty.’
At that the Master Potter laughed and told her to strip and be quick about it. ‘You’ll find those cushions just as comfortable as a bed…’
And she did. And everything seemed fine until, when it was over and she lay naked and unabashed she gazed around and said, ‘Feels kinda shut in, don’t it? Needs a winder or two, don’t it?’
‘You can’t have windows in cellars.’
‘Well, I’ve seen ’em. When me mam’s bin broke she’s gone scrubbing at them big ’ouses of rich folk, an’ when I were small she’d take me along with ’er, an’ down in them coal cellars there’d be bars up near the ceiling for vent — venti —’
‘Ventilation. That has been taken care of in the main cellar here.’
‘Then why not in this ’un?’
‘It wasn’t practical.’
Surely she was bright enough to realize that light would penetrate through an open-barred ventilator and shine across the ground outside? He hoped she wasn’t going to be tiresome. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble and expense for nothing.
Abby retorted, ‘Then we’d best leave the door open next time so’s this ventilation ye talks about can come in ’ere too. Then ’t’won’t be so stuffy. I don’t like that funny smell, neether. Musty-like.’
‘That’s due to the newness of the place. When thoroughly aired, the mustiness will go.’
‘’T’won’t air if no air can get in.’
‘The whole place has to dry out,’ he answered irritably.
‘Then it’d best dry out quick, Master Potter, or this fine carpet’ll be ruined. Real damp it is. Take a feel.’
She had rolled off the piled cushions and now jumped to her feet, rubbing her body and then reaching for her clothes. Looking down at him she said cheerily, ‘Don’t worry, Master Potter. I don’t mind if we do it with t’door open. Nobbody’s like t’come down ’ere, so I can’t think why ye’ve locked it.’ She was dressing hurriedly. For the first time in his recollection, she was eager to be gone. To demonstrate his annoyance he took his time, keeping her waiting for the customary reward.
Feeling the damp carpet beneath his feet, he regretted not waiting until the place had thoroughly dried before having the floor covered. If he now took the precaution of leaving the door ajar during the day, the additional comforts he had installed would arouse comment. His excuse — that the carpet was a precaution against breakages should any fine porcelain be dropped while being stored here — would then cease to pull the wool over Dave Jefferson’s eyes.
Perhaps he should think of getting rid of that young man, or at least of promoting someone less alert in his place. Or perhaps he should have retained the less observant Willis?
‘Oh sir, please ’urry. I wanta get ’ome. Me mam’ll be wonderin’ where I be.’
‘She will be wondering nothing of the sort. Your mother, at this moment, will be occupied with her own trade.’
Abby exploded.
‘“Trade”, d’ye call it! Let me tell ye, Master Potter, it be a profession. She told me so, years ago. “The oldest profession in the world,” she said. An’ that ain’t low, like a trade, sir. No ways it ain’t.’
She couldn’t understand why he laughed. She didn’t like being laughed at. Sulkily, and without even pausing to see what it was worth, she pocketed the coin he tossed her.
*
A ripple of interest ran through Burslem and its environs when it was heard that the ladies’ pottery at Ashburton had completed its first earthenware bisque-firing. Fifty-four hours of cooling, and then the kiln would be broached and the results known. Meanwhile, a stock of stoneware items was being built up. One of the clay workers employed there, a villager from Cooperfield, bragged about it in the Red Lion on his weekly outing one Sunday night.
People from outlying villages were often patronized by the natives of Burslem. ‘Come t’see a bit of life, eh? A nice change f’thee, likely, buried out there ’midst t’pigs!’ But the minute he mentioned the Ashburton Pottery, folks pricked up their ears and he enjoyed some rare attention. Everyone, it seemed, was eager to hear how the two eccentric ladies were getting along.
‘Lucky for them they’ve got money to back ’em,’ someone said sourly, to which the Cooperfield man retorted, ‘Lucky for they as are working for ’em, y’mean! There be four full-time pot workers there now, counting in Meg Tinsley — and she wouldn’t’ve quit Drayton’s if it ’adn’t been worth ’er while! An’ mark me words, there’ll be many like Tinsley as’ll be willing to trudge a few miles t’work at the Ashburton Pottery. Treats ye well, they does. Reel ladies, they be. An’ ye never seed stoneware the like of Ashburton’s. Whiter than any I’ve ever seed! Next firing’ll make all the potteries sit up.’
It was a wild claim that no one believed. Stoneware was never white. It was greyish, dun-coloured, strong, the colour of stone which was why it was so named. But here was this man, talking freely after a few pints of Staffordshire ale, bragging about Ashburton’s being better than any used elsewhere. A man spoke the truth when in his cups; that was the time to listen. So everyone listened.
‘Wait ’til ye sees it! Even M’s ’Livia’s using it now.’
That aroused only derision. Everyone knew that stoneware was rarely used for modelling — at least, not the kind of modelling Olivia Freeman was renowned for. Porcelain was her favourite, or fine china, or — if requested — good quality earthenware. Apart from stout kitchen and oven pots, stoneware was used mainly for exterior stuff like gar
den urns and statuary because it could withstand the elements. None of that was Olivia Freeman’s field.
Muttering into his glass darkly, the villager from Cooperfield told them to wait and see.
*
To Lionel, when he paid one of his now regular courtesy calls, it seemed that there was nothing outstanding about the Ashburton earthenware product, nothing to represent competition. He was surprised to see none of Olivia’s fine modelling. In the main, the stock consisted of the usual domestic ware produced by most pot banks. There was no likelihood of any rival establishment being eclipsed by it.
He judged that the stuff would sell well enough in surrounding towns and villages, but would have to be packed and taken there because dealers would be disinclined to journey out to Ashburton specifically to buy it. Curiosity might persuade some to go and see the first firing results, but these would not encourage them to return. Dealers and traders liked to go from pottery to pottery, loading up with supplies. Any journey to outlying pot banks was not worth the trouble unless the ware was outstanding or unusual or other potteries were within reach. Time was time and money was money — so went the saying in Staffordshire — and few had much of either to waste.
With her customary perception, Olivia knew what her cousin was thinking.
‘A first firing needs to take no chances,’ she said. ‘Until it is known how a kiln behaves, a good potter doesn’t risk more valuable ware. Hence this conventional load. We can be more venturesome next time. Meanwhile, it’s good to know that the chamber is reliable, though we expected as much from something designed and built by Simon Kendall. Everything has fired evenly and well. At this stage, we ask for no more than that. In an average firing a measure of wastage is expected, but in this one it was minimal.’
‘Then you have done well, Livvy. I congratulate you and wish you many substantial orders.’
There was no need to congratulate Amelia, who contributed nothing to the creative side, so he merely greeted her with the dutiful respect of a nephew. Meg Tinsley he acknowledged with nothing more than a curt inclination of the head, though he could have complimented her on the excellence of her work. Every Ashburton pot was faultlessly turned. At least no purchaser would have to examine each one to make sure of that.
Courtesies exchanged, he then sought out Deborah, and found her totally absorbed. She scarcely raised her eyes when he greeted her, but when he stooped over her shoulder to see what she was doing, and remained with his face close to hers, she said calmly but not ungraciously, ‘I find it disconcerting to be watched, Cousin Lionel, and I dislike people breathing down my neck.’
He withdrew, laughing and apologetic.
‘Forgive me, but you know what a boor I am, dear Deborah!’
‘I know, and you know, you are nothing of the sort. You are a sophisticated man and sophisticated men pride themselves on their good manners, so when I ask you not to hinder me at work, I know you’ll heed it.’
‘But I may browse awhile, may I not? That is what customers like to do and you would surely not discourage them.’
‘But you aren’t a customer.’
‘Am I not?’ he murmured with a secret smile, deciding there and then to surprise her. Glancing round, he added, ‘And there is so much her to browse amongst! How busy you’ve been!’
‘The majority is Olivia’s work, not mine. I have produced only a few pieces so far, but she set to work long before the pottery was launched.’
He scarcely heard that because his attention was caught by the surprising number of large pieces, the like of which had never featured in Olivia Freeman’s work. There were large-scale models of wildlife and an even greater amount of garden statuary. He was particularly struck by their whiteness, which indicated that nearly all were ready for bisque-firing.
Strolling from piece to piece he commented, ‘White earthenware, I take it…’
Deborah neither confirmed nor denied it. To all intents and purposes she was unaware of him again. He looked at her bent head and wondered what was going on inside it. Could she be so totally absorbed in the slab of clay on which she was building up a bas-relief apparently inspired by a drawing propped up before her?
‘Did you sketch that, pretty Deb?’
She nodded and indicated that he could examine it, if he wished. He did so, and was baffled. Art in any form was beyond him so he could not imagine what this maze of geometrical lines, embellished with what seemed to him to be hieroglyphics, was supposed to represent.
Deborah smiled. For the first time, he had her attention.
‘It is an idea of my own, inspired by a primitive Mexican design from Oaxaca coupled with another from San Andres and a sun motif from Chiapas.’
At his expression, she burst out laughing. The sound delighted him but failed to quell a spasm of jealousy. That half-Mexican outsider had plainly been influencing her.
A moment later even that was forgotten when he halted beside a trestle table bearing a large square slab of finished work slowly drying out. From the look of it, it was almost ready for its first firing. It was plainly a wall sundial with a border surrounding a central motif of partridge and pheasant. That part, at least, he recognized, but the border was unlike anything he had seen before. Whether he liked it he was unsure, but he found it compelling.
‘Is this yours, Deborah? Is this the design you brought along to Drayton’s and I was fool enough to let you take away?’
She smiled.
‘The very same. The outer area is Guerrero-inspired, and the masks are of the Mexican gods Ehecatl and Tlaloc.’
‘My dear cousin, that sounds very impressive but such unpronounceable names are foreign to me.’
She laughed. ‘So they were to me, at first.’
‘I suppose Miguel soon put that right.’ He regretted saying that. Even more he regretted the tone because it betrayed how he felt, so he hurried on, ‘I would like this for the wall at Carrion House. I’ll buy it as soon as it’s glaze-fired.’
‘I’m not sure that it will be. If it is, then salt-glaze will suffice. Much depends on the bisque-firing. If hard enough to be weatherproof, it will be left in its natural state so that, in time, it will blend with surrounding stonework.’
‘Then I take it this is the new stoneware clay that Drayton’s originally commissioned…’
She didn’t want to discuss that and was sorry he had mentioned it. The atmosphere had been amiable until then. Anxious to restore it, and refusing to discuss her father’s refusal to supply Drayton’s with the new flint powder, she said hurriedly, ‘Please don’t buy the sundial because you want to let bygones be bygones. I am sure everyone wants that.’
I doubt it, he thought, but said, ‘I want to buy it because you made it, because it is your very first piece —’
‘I shall make better ones.’
‘I want this one.’
‘You have sundials at Carrion House already.’
That was true. He didn’t need another, didn’t really want another, but because she seemed reluctant to part with it he was immediately more determined, so he pointed out that those he already owned were freestanding and were already there when he inherited the place, and therefore not of his personal choice. ‘I have no wall sundial and this would look extremely well above the main door of the house…’
But not too high above; near enough for him to be able to reach out and touch it when he felt so inclined, tracing the ornamentation she had created, following the lines her fingers had touched. No, he didn’t need it and had it been for sale in any other pottery he would not have considered buying it at all, but here was a chance to forge a new link in their relationship, a chance to repair one broken bridge. And it provided an excuse for more contact with her while waiting for delivery; he could call to inquire about it, to find out when it was being fired, to be there when it came out of the kiln. So buy it he would.
‘I insist on your reserving it for me, sweet Deb. Tell me the price and I’ll close the deal at once.’
‘I don’t know the price. That has nothing to do with me. To reserve it, you must see Olivia and for the financial side you must see Amelia.’
‘Then I shall do so at once. But if you were to put a word in for me, I would surely be less likely to miss it?’ Standing close to her now he sensed that she was excited about the sale of her first piece of work, and trying not to show it. ‘Dear Deborah, you won’t mind my having it, surely?’
‘Of course not. Why should I?’ She smiled suddenly. ‘How can I pretend? It would be unnatural for me not to be pleased.’
‘About the sale, or because the sundial will be mine? The latter, I hope.’ He put out a hand and touched her cheek. ‘Dear Deborah, please say it is the latter; say you want me to have it…’
‘If you genuinely want it, of course I do. Come, I’ll take you to Olivia. Her new modelling room will interest you, I’m sure.’
‘I’m damned if it will. I’m interested only in your work…in you…in us. Come to Drayton’s, sweet Deborah. I want you there.’
Before she could draw away he seized both her hands, kissing each in turn. He was gratified when he felt a slight trembling in them, but not when he looked up and she burst out laughing. Clay from her fingers was imprinted on his mouth. Shaking with mirth, she pulled a kerchief from the pocket of her hessian apron and held it out. ‘Oh, Lionel — I’m sorry — but if you could see your handsome clay moustache!’
The intimate moment was gone. He took it well. Wiping his mouth carefully, he then thrust the piece of cambric into his pocket. ‘You won’t get this back, my tantalizing cousin. I shall keep it as a souvenir to remind me of the day we did our first business transaction, though actually it will remind me more vividly of something else. I see you’re not going to ask me what that is, so I’ll tell you. It will remind me of my admirable self-restraint.’
Puzzled, she asked, ‘In what way?’
‘In resisting the temptation to kiss you. At least you have no clay on your mouth and I would have had no false moustache. What a pity I resisted!’
