by Rona Randall
‘Shut yer bloody mouth!’ Kate took a deep swig of gin, braced her shoulders in a mixture of anger and pride and then said in maudlin tones, ‘I’d never desert me own child. I’ve allus bin a dutiful mother…’
‘But will she do ’er duty by thee? Children leave the nest, an’ a pretty one like Abby’ll go quick. Ever thought about that? What’ll ye do then, Kate? What’ll ye do when you’re left alone in a one-eyed place like Burslem? We all grow old. Where would I be if I couldn’t work in the pot banks? Where’ll you be when men want your daughter instead of yr’self? Ye may be proud ’cos she’s found favour so soon, but ye oughta be afeared.’
Kate scoffed, ‘That shows ’ow little ye knows. My Abby’s all set for a fine life, an ’er mam along with ’er. Ye’d be surprised if ye knew the truth!’
‘Mebbe. An’ mebbe not. Other folk ’ave eyes an’ ears an’ other folk gossip. An’ news travels fast. An’ things never work out the way we expect ’em to. Young or old, it don’t. Only it be worse when you’re old. Ye can start again when young, but not when —’
Kate called loudly for another gin before rounding on Meg again.
‘Ye’d best get back to your turning wheel, Tinsley. Trouble is, being old’n past it, ye be jealous.’
‘You an’ me happen t’be the same age, but it be true that men don’t come after me no more. But like I said, Frank Tinsley spoilt me for other men. Luckily, I can still make a living, but what’ll thee fall back on when the time comes? Not that ye need to worry — yet. There be still time for ye to prosper, but not in Burslem, where all the men know you be old enough to ’ave a growed-up daughter rivalling thee — an’ start coming after her.’
Kate bragged, ‘Fat chances they’ll get wi’ my Abby! She’ll be set up well afore long.’
‘Sure o’ that, are ye? Well, I ’opes as ’ow ye be right. But it ain’t Abby I be thinking about — it be you.’
‘Why me, all of a sudden?’
‘There’s never bin no need afore. Ye’ve bin all set an’ doing fine, but nothink in this world lasts for ever, ye can take it from me.’ After finishing her noggin of small ale, Meg added, ‘My, I wish I were in your shoes, that I do. I’d be thinking of them lace merchants an’ their like in Nottingham — all stinkin’ rich an’ partial to women. Famous for it, the place is. Did ye know that when the new French weaving machines were brought over from Calais, French operators came with ’em an’ took up wi’ the local wenches an’ even married some of ’em? Those Frenchies ’ave eyes for good-lookers like y’rself, an’ so do factory owners an’ rich merchants an’ they’d fair go for thee, Kate. It be wonderful, the way ye’ve kept your looks. An’ yet ye still be living in that poky place in poky Burslem! Mebbe Abby will get a chance to quit it soon, but will thee?’
Uncertainly, Kate muttered that she would make sure of that.
‘Will ye? I wonder. ’T’aint so easy. If Abby’s got ’erself a rich protector, ye can mark me words that the man won’t be willing to take ’er kith’n kin aboard too. So there ye’ll be, out on your ear, still living in a shack wot’s ready t’fall about your ears. Ye deserve better and what’s more, ye could get it. Now. Afore it be too late.’
Influenced either by the gin or Meg’s alarming picture, Kate became suddenly tearful.
‘Eeeh, if ye did but know the nights I’ve spent, nagged at by all that stuff about the serpent’s tooth an’ ungrateful childer an’ wot’ll ’appen t’me when Abby ups an’ goes! Wot if she does the very thing ye’ve bin atellin’ me, after the way I’ve devoted meself to ’er all ’er life! The sacrifices I’ve made, the care I’ve taken of ’er’ — Kate sniffed loudly as she added — ’an’ she’s not so much as shared them pretty things she’s bin given!’
‘If ye mean them new bodices and suchlike, would they fit ye, Kate? Abby’s a scrap of a thing, but you be — well — what I once ’eard M’s Olivia describe as “Junoesque”. I didn’t know what it meant ’til she explained it, an’ d’ye know who it put me in mind of, straight off? Thee. Kate Walker. I said as much, too, an’ meant it. So I be glad ye’ve been thinking about the future, an’ I’m real glad I dropped in at the Red Lion today. I know ye’ve never liked me, but we’ve never really got to know each other. A pity, pr’aps.’
‘Aye,’ sighed Kate. ‘A pity. Mebbe ye’re not so bad as I allus thought…’
‘Nor you, neether.’
Well into her third gin, Kate actually smiled on Meg, then instantly reverted to tears.
‘Trouble is, Meg, I can’t get away ’cos I ain’t got money. An’ I’ve nivver bin beyond Burslem. I wouldn’t even know ’ow t’go about it. I can’t afford stage coaches…’
‘No need. I were penniless when I quit Burslem for Liverpool.’
‘Then ’ow’d ye get there?’
‘On a crateman’s cart. There ain’t so many about now, but in them days there were cratemen aplenty. They useter lie in wait for potters taking their loads to the big towns, an’ set about ’em an’ loot ’em. But Zach Dobson were different. An honest old man. He took me all the way t’Liverpool to join Frank, an’ it didn’t cost nothink like a stage coach —’
‘Nor feel like one, I reckon!’
‘Oh, t’weren’t so bad. It got me there. Bumpy roads are bumpy any way ye travel. Cratemen turned to tinkering when the canals come along, because they couldn’t jump aboard barges and raid ’em. There be a few bad ’uns among the tinkers still, but a woman like you knows how to deal with suchlike. Ye can halt a tinker’s cart up by the Hiring Cross, same as ever. That were where old Zach picked me up that morning, long afore anybody were awake.’
Meg didn’t tell Kate that Frank had paid the man in advance and instructed him to deliver her safely to the seaman’s mission on Liverpool’s docks. The woman would have to make do with a tinker and take care of herself if needful. Knowing Kate, she would probably render services instead of a fare, though tinkers nowadays were glad to pick up passengers because they needed the money. That would be Kate’s problem and she would know well enough how to handle it.
‘So all ye have t’do,’ Meg continued, ‘is same as I did. Find out where they be going, an’ if it be the place you aim for — say Nottingham — jump aboard. Ye’d like Nottingham, I reckon.’
‘I’d still ’ave t’raise the fare.’
Meg rummaged in her pocket. ‘That should do it.’ she said, slapping down a small bag of coins. They happened to represent her entire savings, but it was worth it.
Kate could never resist money. She gathered it up, saying offhandedly that she would make no promises. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
‘Then don’t take too long. Act quick. Time moves fast at our age. An’ if ye don’t go, I’ll be after ye for that money, every penny of it, mark my words.’ Gathering up her shawl Meg finished, ‘Good luck t’ye, Kate. An’ God speed thee.’
*
Deborah was disappointed when Miguel failed to arrive for the unloading of the first stoneware firing.
It was a momentous day for the Ashburton Pottery, the day on which the success or failure of her father’s work was to be finally proved, for although the clay and powder mixture had been carefully monitored during its preparation and had dried to a satisfactory whiteness, a bisque-firing could sometimes change a colour unpredictably, enhancing it or diminishing it.
Meg and the other clay workers gathered round for this important event, and Si Kendall’s men marched up en masse from the valley. Damian left his forge, Simon his projects, and Jessica her manifold duties. Everyone wanted to share these crucial moments with Amelia and Olivia — except, apparently, Miguel who not only failed to arrive but sent no message to explain his absence.
Deborah reflected that perhaps she should not have taken him so much for granted. The thought reproached her and somehow worsened her disappointment. Even reminding herself that she had possibly expected too much of someone who had known her since her early childhood, and could therefore regard her as nothing mor
e than a life-long acquaintance, did little to assuage it. He had played such a big part in fostering her talent that she couldn’t believe he was not interested in the fruits of it. All along he had displayed such an interest in the progress of her sundial that she had thought he would be eager to see it when fired.
Her disappointment was doubled when it emerged from the kiln and proved to be all that she had hoped for and more than she had expected. The whiteness was splendidly maintained, the surface strong and unmarred. It would mellow beautifully. He should be here to see it! she thought passionately. WHY isn’t he here to see it?
‘One hundred per cent success for the first thing you have ever made is something to be proud of,’ Olivia told her, well pleased. ‘And this is only the first.’
The first, yes, but the most important. It had changed the course of her life, adding another dimension to it, and for this Deborah had to thank Miguel as well as Olivia and the others. His absence saddened and puzzled her, and the reaction was intensified by unfamiliar feelings that she failed to understand.
Somehow everything was made worse by the fact that no one remarked on his absence. She felt this was deliberate and out of consideration for herself. Disturbed, she went back to work without waiting to see the full load emerge, and here her mother found her.
Placing an understanding hand on her shoulder, Jessica said, ‘He will be very proud of it when he sees it. Proud of you, my darling. Please don’t fret.’
Deborah was sufficiently at ease with her mother never to feel the need to hide things. ‘But why? she burst out. ‘I should have thought…expected…that he would have been as anxious as anybody to be here…as Damian was for Olivia’s sake…’
She bit back the words. The relationship between those two was totally different from the relationship between herself and Miguel, which was no relationship at all other than friendship…and friendship never insisted that a person should be at another’s side at important moments.
Jessica smoothed back her daughter’s hair, kissed her brow, then asked how long it was since Miguel had visited the pottery, and Deborah promptly answered, ‘More than a month, Mama…a whole month…and I have only just realized it…’
‘Then I should think there was a reason, and if it worried me I would make it my business to find out what it was. His father isn’t ill, that I know because I paid a call at Tremain only the day before yesterday and found him in fine fettle. But there may be some estate problem with which Miguel is having to cope. It would be the easiest thing in the world to find out.’ She finished idly, ‘Don’t you ride over to Tremain any more?’
‘Not since we launched this pottery. I don’t have time to go so far afield.’
‘You must make time. The exercise will not only do you good, but lighten your spirits. Why not take a holiday this afternoon? Go to Tremain and seek out Miguel. Only shyness could prevent a young woman from presenting herself at a man’s door, and I have never known you to be shy — certainly not with Miguel. And because the pair of you are just good friends he could not possibly suspect any underlying motive…’
Deborah was grateful for the maternal advice; also for the gentle smile accompanying it, though why she felt there was something more behind that smile she could not imagine and was now too distracted to think about. With characteristic impetuosity, she flung aside her hessian apron and went speeding back to the house to change, scarcely heeding her mother’s reminder about the weather.
‘The rains were so heavy last night that the valley is like a quagmire, your father says. So do take care…’
Deborah called back over her shoulder, ‘Don’t I always, dear Mama?’
‘No, dear daughter, you do not!’
But the girl had gone. Smiling to herself, Jessica retraced her steps. The last pieces of stoneware were being taken from the kiln and everyone was gathered round, examining the collective results. Spirits were high. ‘What a splendid day,’ Jessica said to her husband as she joined him. ‘And I think it might be even more so…’
*
On seeing Deborah, Miguel’s feelings were mixed. Swift delight gave way to a regret that she had come. Having decided to put an end to his obsession, and believing that this could be achieved by avoiding her, it was disconcerting to see her come riding along Tremain Hall’s three-mile drive.
Head down against the driving rain she failed to see him until they drew abreast, then she cried, ‘A fine thing it is that I should have to brave weather like this to fetch you to Ashburton!’
‘Then why do so?’
‘What a question! Have you actually forgotten that the kiln was being broached today?’
Rain was streaming from the brim of her black tricorne hat with its swirling ostrich feather. She could feel rivulets trickling down her neck and sodden gloves made it impossible for icy hands to grip the reins firmly.
‘I am furious!’ she declared.
‘Then you’d best come indoors. There’s a good fire in the library and you can give vent to your fury in greater comfort there.’
‘No thank you, I —’
But as he came alongside and seized her horse’s bridle, the driving wind and rain flung her answer away, unheard. Without another word and without releasing her bridle he covered the long stretch to the stables, then helped her down. Wretched as she was feeling, she was nonetheless aware of how abruptly he let her go. It was as if he wanted as little contact as possible.
Silently they went indoors. Beside the blazing library fire she shed her tight-waisted redingote, untied her wet stock and dropped her hat before the hearth to dry. ‘You shouldn’t have turned out in such weather,’ he admonished.
‘It was fine when I set out.’
‘I’ll see about something dry for you to put on. Aunt Agatha is away on one of her visits to Carrion House, but no doubt Rose can produce something from her wardrobe, although’ —he finished, with a wry little smile — ‘anything of Aunt Agatha’s will wrap around you like a tent.’
She smiled too, and the tension eased. Beneath her billowing riding skirt she wore pantaloons, tucked into elastic-sided ankle boots, a practical but revolutionary riding fashion much frowned on by people like Aunt Agatha, but thoroughly approved of by her enlightened parents. Without self-consciousness she discarded the skirt and spread that, too, to dry. The slender trousers and cambric shirt, with frills at wrists and throat, made her look almost boyish, an impression counteracted by the lovely sight of her young breasts thrusting beneath the dampened material.
Miguel wished she had not come…he was delighted that she had…he wished she would go…he couldn’t bear it if she did…To cover his confusion he urged her into a chair and said, ‘Off with those boots…’
He stooped before her, back turned, and she obediently thrust one leg between his knees so that he could pull the boot off. Then the other. He examined her damp toes with one hand and ordered her to remove her stockings, but she held her feet out to the fire, saying they would dry in no time at all.
‘In any case, I’ll not stay long. I merely wanted to find out why you failed to come today. Everyone expected you.’ When he said nothing, she burst out, ‘I expected you, and no wonder! Right from the start the sundial has been as important to you as to me, and yet you turn your back on it when at last it emerges from its final test — and that, let me tell you, it has passed superbly.’
‘Congratulations. You must be well pleased. As will be its new owner.’
Arrested by his tone, she fixed a searching glance on him.
‘I hope so,’ she admitted, ‘but why sound so angry?’
She was unpinning her hair and now it fell in a dark cloud about her shoulders. Stooping toward the fire she ran her hands through it, letting strands trail through her fingers, shaking them dry. To get a more direct heat she knelt on the thick hearthrug, stooping, and her shirt fell open at the neck. He saw the soft valley between her breasts, and could no longer avert his eyes. To touch there…to press his lips there…t
o explore and fondle…to pour out his love with his mouth against her flesh…the longing was so great that the next moment he was on the rug beside her, gathering her close, his hand searching and caressing while murmuring inarticulately, ‘I am angry! It was part of our coming together, and you let that damned cousin have it!’ As she struggled to be free he gave full vent to his wrath. ‘It meant nothing to you — you wanted to please him, and to hell with the Mexican half-breed who stupidly fell in love with you!’
‘Stop! Stop!’
But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. His tight control snapped and out poured the emotions of a lifetime, driven by passion and pain. Shock, more than the spate of words, rendered her speechless. This was not the Miguel she knew — or thought she knew and when the weight of his body suddenly pinned her beneath him and his hungry mouth silenced her and one hand tore at her clothing, she could do nothing. And wanted to do nothing. She felt her own heartbeats respond to his and her senses stir in a way that bemused and yet threatened her. She was excited, but frightened. She was also saddened because the man who was about to rape her stripped away the mask he usually wore and hated her for making him do so. Had he told her as much, she could not have been more certain of it.
Suddenly his weight was gone, and the mask was back in place, and he lifted her to her feet and said abruptly, ‘I’m sorry. I forgot myself.’
‘Perhaps it is time you did,’ she answered shakily, adjusting her clothes and haphazardly recoiling her hair. When he walked to the door she said, ‘Don’t go. There’s no need.’ She was pulling on her riding skirt, indifferent to its dampness, aware only that she shouldn’t have come, but was nonetheless glad that she had. She picked up her scarlet redingote and went over to him. ‘Help me into this, please —?’ He did so, still avoiding her eye, and she reached up and kissed his cheek and said, ‘Forgive me, Miguel…I didn’t know…didn’t realize…’
‘Why should you? I am years older than you.’
‘What has that to do with it? You are simply Miguel to me, however old you are. I would have you changed in no way at all.’
