The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘Troubled in what way?’

  ‘Politically. At severe odds with the Government, the people hotly resenting things like the Stamp Act, and levies on glass and paper and paints and tea. Things seem to have been approaching boiling point for some time, hence the Billeting Act four years ago. Having to send British troops to enforce such detested dicta speaks for itself.’

  So what had Damian Fletcher done to merit imprisonment in that distant, troubled country, a country once so full of promise that people called it the New World and envied those who had gone there? And, despite the restless murmurings and rebellious mutterings which somehow spanned the ocean, many still believed it had a great future. So what crime had Damian committed to be clapped into jail, and how had he learned to become a farrier there? Prisons the world over were terrible places where men rotted, forgetting what skills they ever had and certainly not acquiring new ones. And for how long had he been imprisoned, and why had he then come back to England and taken up the trade when he was an educated man to whom a new world could seem to offer boundless opportunities? Reports had it that the thirteen Colonies were so vast that a man could lose himself in them, that there were still unexplored regions waiting to be developed, and that the country was regarded as a land of opportunity no matter how humble a man was, or how uneducated, or whatever his past. With his brains, Fletcher could surely have created a whole new life for himself in an area where he was unknown, without returning to a life more humble than before.

  These questions were still in Olivia’s mind when she wakened at her usual hour, rose, and set out on what would appear to be an early morning ride. Only the servants were astir and as she rode away from Tremain Hall, heading for the pottery, she knew that her departure would arouse no comment either from them or from any member of the family should they see her — except from her mother, who would take the first opportunity to warn her, yet again, not to expose her complexion to the sharp morning air. (‘You know what will happen to it if you do, my dear, so when it becomes like leather, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’)

  It was therefore quite safe to ride into Burslem, calling at Medlar Croft to beg a key from her uncle because, being the Sabbath, the pottery would be closed.

  She wasn’t surprised to find Martin and Amelia at breakfast. Potters were early risers, working fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and even on the Sabbath the habit of early-rising persisted.

  Amelia, as always, looked very fetching in a morning gown of that new material called soupir-etouffe lutestring, and dear Uncle Martin looked as tousle-haired and lovable as ever in an old, much-loved quilted robe, indulging in idleness on this one precious morning.

  Olivia felt a rush of affection for them. They seemed more like contemporaries than her mother’s generation, more like friends than relations. Perhaps it was a mutual interest in potting that bridged the gap. But for that interest she would not be here at this time of day, on this day of the week.

  ‘You know what I want, of course,’ she said as she went from one to the other to plant a kiss on each cheek. ‘A key to the pottery, because I have the promise of much free time. My mother is unlikely to stir until the mid-morning meal, and that will be served in her room if she is awake for it. Then comes the ritual of her toilet. Until that is completed she is interested in no one.’ Olivia stretched her arms wide, luxuriating in the prospect of freedom. ‘A whole day — think of it! I am free for a whole day because she certainly won’t miss me. So — the key, please, Uncle Martin. I’m impatient to see how my current work has kept.’

  ‘The portrait bust of Amelia? It will be unchanged, stored in a damp bin to preserve its condition.’

  ‘And you, Amelia — can you give me one last sitting, even though it’s the Sabbath? An hour, no more. After that, I can finish the work without bothering you further.’

  Amelia glanced at her husband, saying persuasively, ‘You wouldn’t have me refuse, just because you want me to hear Mr Wesley preach, would you, my love? I know his visits are few and far between, but I’ll see him when he sups with us before leaving and in the meantime both Olivia and I will be practising what he preaches — never to be idle.’ Her smile flashed. ‘At least, Olivia won’t be idle and even when sitting still I’ll be helping in her labours.’

  ‘Of which I wholly approve, and even if I didn’t you would have your way. After the meeting-house gathering, I’ll bring Wesley to the pottery. He always likes to visit it when in Burslem. And have you ever known me refuse you a thing? I’d be wasting my time to try!’

  In one graceful movement, Amelia reached across and kissed her husband, then she was hurrying from the room, throwing over her shoulder, ‘Five minutes, Olivia, and I’ll be out of this gown and into something more practical. And there’s something else I want to do at the pottery. Something I want to show you. I have plans, great plans!’

  ‘More plans?’ Olivia said to her uncle as his wife’s flying figure disappeared. ‘What is she up to now? What with the Drayton Museum and the archives she is working on, not to mention this household to run, I should think she has enough on her hands.’

  ‘My wife can never have enough on her hands. She would make twenty-four hours stretch to thirty-four if she could.’ Martin didn’t add why. Nor did he ever mention it to Amelia herself. The question of her childlessness was not a subject they ever discussed. They were happy together. Their love was deep. If life gave them no more than that, they were richer than many. But when he saw her with other people’s children he glimpsed an unfulfilled side of her nature.

  It was a mystery why they had remained childless. There was nothing wrong with Amelia’s health and he himself, despite his infirm leg, was one hundred per cent fit. At thirty-seven Amelia looked much younger and was as active as a girl in her teens, but they had now been married for many years and all hope of parenthood seemed gone.

  In Olivia’s opinion there was no place more interesting than the Drayton Pottery on the Sabbath, the throwing wheels hushed, the sheds deserted, the carts which trundled clay from the wedgers’ tables to the potters’ benches standing idle, the turners’ tools lying rejected but ready to be picked up again, the glazing sheds stacked with pots ready for dipping and others drying out before going to the kilns … to her it was a magical world briefly sleeping before stirring again into vibrant life. Even on a Sunday there could be activity if firings were in progress and men had to feed the dragon flames.

  From the moment that Martin had put a lump of clay into her hands as a child, saying ‘Play with that, Livvy … get the feel of it, see what you can make out of it … ’ she had been enchanted. He had watched with approval while her fingers moulded and pinched and pummelled, and she didn’t even have to tell him what the end result was supposed to be because he saw at once that it was a monkey with a grinning face. His delight had equalled her own. ‘You’re a Drayton, a real Drayton, it’s in your blood, my dear.’ But afterwards he had made the mistake of telling his sister so. ‘Livvy has inherited the talent. You should be proud, Phoebe, and as glad as I.’

  But Phoebe had not been. She had rounded on him instead. ‘I thought the child was spending the day at Medlar Croft, not at that dirty place!’

  ‘So she was, but Amelia didn’t want to leave her alone with Clara while she went to the pottery to deal with some tasks. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, cheating Clara out of her afternoon nap — which she needs now she is aging — and confining Livvy more or less to solitude. Besides, she loves the pottery. It is a wonderland for a child — or has become so since I abolished child labour.’

  ‘Joseph saw nothing wrong with child labour, so why should you?’

  ‘For the same reason that my father did, and other enlightened people.’

  ‘Such as John Wesley, I suppose. I know he’s a friend of yours, though Joseph disapproved of his ideas. Education for the masses, indeed! As for the way Amelia pampers the workers’ children!’ Phoebe had thrown up her hands. ‘Is it true that she
has a churn of milk and freshly baked bread delivered to the pottery daily, to make sure they are fed?’

  ‘Quite true. And more besides. One of the sheds has been set aside for them to play and to rest in. Amelia supervises this herself.’

  ‘Whoever heard of women being allowed to take their children to work, except to earn extra pence? Failing that, the mothers should stay at home and look after them.’

  ‘And how could they do that, on depleted wages? Many a family needs to supplement the father’s earnings and many a mother is unmarried and the sole support of her child.’

  ‘Sinners must accept their punishment. It is God’s will.’ With that, Phoebe had shrugged. If women had to work, the shrug implied, what was wrong with their children doing likewise? In Joseph’s time the tiniest had crawled beneath the ovens to rake out ash, the sturdiest carrying loads of raw clay to the wedgers and then pushing wheelbarrows of the prepared material to other sheds. Many Staffordshire potters still employed children, though here and there some seemed to be coming round to Martin’s way of thinking.

  Joseph, however, had always declared he was being charitable in hiring children because it put more pence into their parents’ pockets — a penny a day for the stronger ones, and a ha’penny for others — also that it developed them physically, building good strong muscles. It also taught them a useful trade from the ground up. This applied to girls as well as boys from infancy, but this sensible regime had been terminated the minute Martin stepped into his brother’s shoes.

  In view of some of Martin’s ideas, Phoebe was amazed that the pottery had continued to thrive, and even more amazed that the other lines he had introduced, lines which Joseph had scorned because he considered them frivolous, had added to Drayton’s reputation as the most flourishing pottery in Burslem. These lines consisted of decorated ware made of fine bone china and porcelain, also delicate figurines and ceramic models which Martin himself made and in which he had tutored others. He now had a whole department devoted to ceramic modelling, and it was in this department that Olivia most wanted to work.

  As she and Amelia rode from Medlar Croft down into the valley, all this was in her mind — so, too, was her uncle’s early prediction that she had inherited the Drayton talent. ‘It is in her blood, Phoebe. I’ll guarantee that one day she will want to be part of the pottery.’

  ‘You mean work there? Alongside those rough women!’

  ‘Why not? Our ancestors did, women as well as men.’

  ‘Well, we don’t have to, and no daughter of mine will ever be allowed to so demean herself.’

  From that moment, Olivia had been forbidden to visit the place, and from that moment Martin had aided, abetted, and secretly taught her on quiet Sunday afternoons when everyone at Tremain Hall was napping. The conspiracy had flourished, and continued to. She looked forward to her weekly visits and made the most of them. Snatching a whole day was an additional bonus.

  Also, whenever possible, she went there on weekdays too because she found it spell-binding to watch potters at work; to see the wedgers slamming down great hunks of clay to drive out air bubbles, then slicing in two and slamming together again, then kneading until the texture was completely smooth; to watch throwers at their wheels, their wet hands transforming mounds of clay into bowls, vases, jugs, tankards, beakers, cups, plates, salt phigs, cooking pots and wine jars; to see the turners skilfully adding rims to bases and the glazers mixing great tubs of liquid containing whiting and feldspar, some tinted with metal oxides, but never lead, as some potteries used, because Martin sternly forbade it.

  People accused him of being fanatical in his aversion to lead glazes, but when asked the reason for it he would remain stubbornly silent. The older generation, men who had worked for Joseph Drayton, believed it was for reasons of economy, which had been a fetish of the late Master Potter, but in view of Martin’s profitable expansion into the realms of majolica glazing and ornamental ware, both of which his elder brother had considered far too costly, that reason seemed unconvincing. High gloss glazes, Martin insisted, must be achieved by other chemical formulae, and justified this by personally producing fine glazes which at least bore comparison with the lead glazing of rivals.

  Stubbornly, he turned a deaf ear when one of the younger glazers, who had a friend employed at a pot bank where no such objections existed, argued that lead would produce an even greater gloss if combined with Drayton’s new recipes. As far as the use of lead was concerned, there was no budging the present Master of Drayton’s. ‘If you prefer to seek work with someone who doesn’t hold my views, it is up to you.’ That was all he said, and of course the man didn’t — who would leave a place like Drayton’s where, from what his father told him, working conditions had improved a hundredfold since ‘young Master Martin’ took over? And he certainly gave his workers scope for advancement, introduced every worthwhile improvement, paid them well, put the best of their work on display and gave them full credit as well as financial reward for it, but damned stubborn could he be at times, and this was one of them. There would be no lead glazing at Drayton’s so long as he was Master Potter there, and his reasons were not to be questioned.

  As always to Olivia, the interesting culmination of a weekday visit was to watch the firemen packing the massive kilns and, most exciting of all, the final unloading — especially the unloading of a glaze firing when the finished articles emerged jewel bright. And Martin had been right. She wanted nothing so much as to work here every day of the week, whether it was a ladylike occupation or not. To her, it was far more enticing than the prospect of becoming mistress of Tremain Hall.

  She couldn’t decide which of Amelia’s features was the most attractive, the delicate nose, the gentle mouth which forever seemed to hint at laughter, the small, well-cut chin, or the high forehead above widely spaced eyes. Modelling them was both challenging and enjoyable.

  ‘It flatters me,’ said Amelia, who had no great opinion of her looks.

  ‘It is the way I, and others, see you.’

  ‘You are biased.’

  ‘Others, too?’

  Amelia brushed that aside because she didn’t believe it. She was convinced that her niece was prejudiced in her favour. ‘I am a staid married woman approaching forty — ’

  ‘Not for another three years.’

  ‘ — and you have made me look young and pretty. Add a few lines. Stick to the truth.’

  ‘I am sticking to it. And your laughter lines are there, as they should be. I shall present you as you are.’ Covering the work and shedding her potter’s ‘slop’, Olivia then headed for the yard and the pump in the middle of it. There she cleaned herself up and then followed Amelia to a room next to Martin’s office, where finds for the prospective museum were stored.

  As she expected, Amelia was boiling water on a corner stove which, like the one in Martin’s office, was never allowed to go out.

  ‘When we’ve had tea, I want to show you something, Livvy.’

  ‘The thing you mentioned earlier, the thing you have plans for? Great plans, you said.’

  ‘And so they are.’

  ‘Plans for the pottery?’

  ‘No. This time for the children. There, drink this — ’ Amelia handed her a steaming cup. ‘Do you realise you have been hard at work for over four hours?’

  ‘And I kept you sitting all that time!’

  ‘Oh, no. Every now and then I stretched my legs with a walk round the potters’ yard, and even over to the children’s recreation shed to attend to a thing or two. You were so absorbed you didn’t miss me. Time flies at such moments, as well I know. Preparing these archives, writing the history of Drayton’s, makes me oblivious of time.’

  ‘This history — how far back does it go?’

  ‘As far as I can trace, and I hope to trace even earlier. That is the challenging part, though even the days I personally remember are interesting to write about. One recalls so much, things one believed to be forgotten — like the time I played truant t
o come here. It was on my eleventh birthday and Martin had just started his apprenticeship at the pottery. He was fourteen.’

  ‘So young? My mother talks a lot about Joseph’s fine education — that he went to university and was consequently very well informed. Why didn’t Martin have the same opportunity?’

  ‘Their father died. He died right here in the pottery. A heart attack. Joseph stepped into his shoes and he certainly put his shoulder to the wheel to get the place back on its feet.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that. My mother declares that but for Joseph the pottery would never have survived. She gives Martin no credit for its success.’

  ‘It’s present success only — we must give Joseph his due. He did work wonders, but not the kind my dear Martin has wrought, and not in the same humane way. Martin is the last to admit that, but the first to pay tribute to his brother’s hard work. I’m not so charitable, though I do acknowledge Joseph’s determination. He had plenty of that, and at one time it threatened Martin’s career, for he was plainly resolved to keep his young brother permanently at the wheel because he was an expert thrower. Had he succeeded, Martin’s creative ability would have been suppressed. I used to warn him about that, and so did Jessica and Simon Kendall. They encouraged him to fight for what he wanted. But all that is ancient history — ’

  ‘To be left out of your records?’

  ‘I intend to leave nothing out, though I daresay Martin would wish me to omit certain things. However,’ Amelia glanced at Olivia with a secret smile, ‘he won’t read it until finished. Until then, I keep it locked up. Not that Martin would ever pry, but others might. I was once hard at work at Medlar Croft when your mother sailed in unexpectedly and straightaway glanced over my shoulder. I don’t wish to speak ill of your mother, Olivia, but she is sometimes a trifle inquisitive. Since then, I’ve worked on it only at the pottery. No, I shall omit nothing, including the fact that children were slaves in Joseph’s time, but not in his father’s. Now come and see my surprise.’ The children’s recreation shed had been divided into two. Beyond the partition, benches stood in rows, facing a desk and a blackboard. ‘I am going to teach them, Olivia. We are going to teach them. Their letters and numbers. To read, write, add up and subtract.’