The Potter's Niece

by Randall, Rona

  ‘We?’ Olivia echoed. ‘You and me? I have never taught a child in my life!’

  ‘Nor have I, but we are going to. And what fun it will be! We must make sure they enjoy it too, or they’ll learn nothing. Lessons are useless unless they’re fun. My own were so dreary it isn’t surprising I emerged the ignorant creature I am!’

  Olivia said, half dubiously, half hopefully, ‘Do you really think we could do it, without experience? Don’t you think someone accustomed to teaching would be better?’

  ‘In these days, there are few teachers for the very young. Almost as toddlers children are sent to work. Only the offspring of the rich see the inside of a schoolroom. Until the law is changed and free schools are opened, there can be no provision for child education and no incentive for impoverished parents even to think about it. Here, at the Drayton Pottery, we can give them that chance. The youngest are happy enough while their mothers work, but later, at about seven or eight — even earlier with the bright ones — they become restless. You and I could fill their enquiring minds and open up the world for them. I have primers from Martin’s brief schooldays, but none of my own because I made a bonfire of them as soon as I turned my back on the schoolroom, but I can trace no text books specifically designed for small children. So these primers must be simplified. I shall ask Martin to do that, when he can spare the time.’

  ‘Why not Damian Fletcher?’

  ‘The farrier?’

  ‘He is experienced in tutoring, so adapting text books should be easy.’

  ‘A farrier, experienced in tutoring? Then why did he take up a trade?’

  ‘I’ve no notion, but shall we seek his help?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, and without delay, but first I want to show you something else.’ Moving on to the display room, Amelia continued, ‘In my search for relics I found a pile of discarded bowls buried beneath debris outside, and amongst them was this — ’ She picked up a damaged pot, upturning it to show the base. ‘This must be Meg Gibson’s work. No one else could turn such an excellent foot. She was so skilled that she has remained a legend at Drayton’s. This particular article could only have been discarded because of faulty firing. Possibly it was badly placed in the kiln, hence the charring on one side. Despite that, it’s worth displaying because it bears Meg Gibson’s imprint.’

  ‘Do you remember her? Did you know her?’

  ‘I remember her vividly, but I didn’t know her as Martin did. They worked alongside each other.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Rumour had it that she ran away to London with a rich admirer, but I never heed rumour. One thing is certain — her departure was abrupt, and she has never been heard of since. Agatha, of course, is convinced that she came to a bad end, but then Agatha and others always regarded her as a bad girl and therefore doomed.’

  ‘Meg Gibson was a whore, the most notorious in Burslem.’ Phoebe’s words echoed in Olivia’s mind distastefully. Her mother’s willingness to believe the worst of anyone, whether she knew them or not, always jarred.

  Amelia’s voice was running on. ‘Martin would never allow a word to be said against Meg. She was a victim of her circumstances, he always said, and those circumstances were terrible. She and her mother, a dying woman, lived down by that dreadful marlpit — ’

  ‘Not in that ruined hovel!’

  ‘None other. It was crumbling even then, and the neglected pit was just as unhealthy. Not until the last few months of her mother’s life did they escape from it, thanks to the Kendalls, who were instrumental in rehousing them. They moved them into a cottage down Larch Lane, close to where that mad old woman lives, the one believed to be a witch. The one known as Ma Tinsley. She can’t be a witch, of course, though she certainly looks like one. They say she is nigh on a hundred — rumour and speculation again, of course. As for that sinister marlpit, I am fighting for it to be excavated. When the marl clay became so bog-ridden that it wasn’t worth extracting, potters began to throw all their unwanted pots into it because there was no village dump and they were threatened by the magistrates if they started one.’

  ‘So the pit became a burial ground for everything people didn’t want?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Goodness knows what things lie hidden there. Treasure trove, perhaps! Certainly antique pottery. And now, if you’re ready, we’ll beard Damian Fletcher in his smithy. Strike while the iron’s hot seems rather appropriate, don’t you think?’ Amelia glanced at her niece. ‘You’re hesitating. Why? Do you think he’ll refuse? My dear Olivia, faced with two determined women, he’ll have no chance to!’

  *

  Leaving the pottery, they met Martin arriving with John Wesley. The Methodist was now sixty-five, but looked more, though he was still a good-looking man. Martin had been an admirer of his doctrine since boyhood, and although in some ways Wesley seemed to have become an introverted man, difficult to talk to, Amelia shared her husband’s respect for him.

  She still retained a vivid picture of her first sight of him on Cobblers Green, many years ago. The rougher village element had torn up clods of earth to pelt him with, welcoming no man who dared to preach against their sins. A killjoy, they called him. A ranting would-be saint. But the doctrine originated by Wesley’s brother, Charles, had weathered the storm and now people flocked to hear John Wesley during his tours of the country. Whenever he visited the Methodist centre in Burslem it was filled to overflowing.

  But the preacher also liked visiting Burslem because Martin Drayton lived there and he had admired his talent from boyhood. Despite the wide gap in their years, friendship between the two was firm, and although Amelia found the Methodist preacher baffling in some ways, she never said as much to her husband. Only once had she admitted that Wesley’s tardy marriage puzzled her, for although it was known that in the course of his life several women had been in love with him and he with them, it was known equally that he had always drawn back on the brink of marriage until, late in life, he met the wealthy Mrs Vazielle and married her in haste and semi-secrecy.

  The secrecy, said Amelia, was understandable since he was a man who disliked fuss; the haste less so, unless due to a determination on the bride’s part not to let him back out as before, but Martin, ever loyal to his friend, argued that a wise man withdrew from possible mistakes and that one in Wesley’s position needed to be absolutely sure he was making a right decision, so the swiftly accomplished marriage surely implied that he harboured no doubts this time.

  Amelia’s further speculation met with kindly amusement. Could it be possible, she suggested, that the man, strong willed though he was, had actually been afraid of women?

  ‘My dear, Wesley’s previous hesitations were inevitable. For a man so dedicated to his work, the right wife would be essential but difficult to find. Such a woman would have to face up to discomfort and fatigue on her husband’s journeyings up and down the country, and even to the threat of mob violence. Clearly, he needed a stoic woman who would work at his side with devotion and unselfishness; a woman with fortitude and unending patience.’

  ‘You mean one prepared to live only for him, putting him first above all things?’

  ‘I fear so, yes. Not an easy role for a woman to play.’

  ‘And not one you have ever expected of me.’

  ‘My love, there’s been no need. You have become as dedicated to the pottery as I, and even if you were not, my happiness with you would be as great. Not every man can be so lucky.’

  ‘I’ve heard that John Wesley once vowed never to marry until he found a woman to equal his mother. That would put me off a man for ever!’

  ‘I thought you never listened to rumour,’ Martin had chided gently.

  Seeing John Wesley now, Amelia concluded that if the man’s wife had come to Burslem with him, she had apparently chosen not to visit the Drayton Pottery. Did that mean she had returned to their lodgings in Stoke after his morning’s preaching, or, as reports said she now did, remained at home in London because she had little taste
for these exhausting tours and their accompanying tribulations? And was it true that the marriage was foundering? That widely circulated suspicion was also one Amelia never voiced to her husband.

  Hearing that Amelia and Olivia were on their way to the farrier’s cottage, and why, Martin insisted on accompanying them.

  ‘You should enjoy meeting Fletcher,’ he told his guest, ‘for he, like you, was in the Colonies for a spell. He told me so when shoeing the pottery’s horses one day.’

  ‘I thought you no longer used horse-drawn wagons now canals flow right to your door.’

  ‘Some are still used for carting clay between sheds, of which there are now very many. Our premises have grown extensively since the days when you first came here.’

  ‘And am I to be cheated of the visit I was looking forward to? Can’t we have a quick glance at your latest products, and then call on your Mr Fletcher, though it’s well over thirty years since I was in the Colonies and I doubt whether my recollections would interest a man who was there more recently. The chance of our knowing the same area must be remote.’

  Amelia was looking at him thoughtfully, but agreed that it would be a good idea if she and Olivia went ahead. ‘But join us quickly, for we may need my husband’s persuasion in addition to our own. Mr Fletcher is a man we scarcely know.’

  Martin smiled.

  ‘I’ve seen you enchant many a stranger, my love, and I don’t underestimate my niece’s powers, either. By the time Mr Wesley and I catch up with you, I’ll warrant Damian Fletcher will be eating out of your hands.’

  Going on their way, Amelia said reflectively, ‘Was it my imagination, or did John Wesley really seem reluctant to meet anyone from America?’

  ‘He showed no great enthusiasm, I agree, and I’ve heard he has refused to undertake a return tour of the Colonies, even though Methodism is now flourishing there.’

  ‘And yet he refuses to go. Odd, don’t you think?’

  They proceeded in silence until Damian Fletcher’s smithy came into view. Despite being a holy day, the clang of iron upon iron proclaimed he was at work. Tethering their horses, they went inside and Amelia looked around in surprise. She had expected an ordinary village smithy, but this was more like a blacksmith’s workshop of which shoeing horses was merely one aspect. A successful blacksmith employed farriers for that particular line of work, which was despised by more advanced craftsmen. The Tremain blacksmith was responsible for maintaining, and replacing when necessary, all wrought iron work throughout the estate, from the many ornamental balconies on the mansion’s facade to wrought iron gates at approaches to the grounds and inner gardens, also massive iron locks and hinges on solid oak doors, the delicate tracery of the balustrade to the minstrel’s gallery in the great hall, and wrought iron candelabra suspended from Tremain’s extensive ceilings. The blacksmith’s craft was a skilled one, yet a glance at Damian Fletcher’s workshop confirmed that more advanced work was being started here.

  For shoeing, one hearth and one anvil were enough, but here two hearths stood back to back with sufficient space alongside to accommodate more, which seemed to imply an ambition to expand. A prosperous blacksmith’s shop would have anything from eight to ten glowing hearths, with apprentices manipulating long-handled shovels to maintain the requisite temperature of each fire, all varying according to heat requirements which, in turn, were dictated by the article being made.

  ‘You are something more than a farrier, Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘And what makes you think that, Mrs Drayton?’

  ‘The fact that you have two fires heating various implements, more than necessary for the shoeing of horses.’

  ‘You are observant, Ma’am. I dabble in other things. Shall we leave it at that?’

  ‘No. I’m curious to know what sort of things.’

  ‘Ornamental work,’ Olivia put in. She was already exploring the rest of the smithy and her eyes had not missed the metal-topped bench at which Damian worked, nor the scrolled rod which his left hand gripped in immense tongs, revolving it deftly as he swung a ball-peen hammer with his right. ‘Is that a staircase rail you are shaping?’

  He nodded. ‘My cottage stairs need repairing. The wooden banisters are rotten. What can I do for you, Miss Freeman — Mrs Drayton?’

  But Amelia wasn’t ready to discuss that yet.

  ‘Where did you learn this craft, Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘As Miss Freeman already knows, in America.’ He glanced at Olivia with a faintly ironic smile, as if challenging her to denounce him. ‘My interest in wrought iron work was sparked when I became tutor to the twin sons of a Savannah merchant. Many crafts were carried out on his estate and I thought the boys would benefit from studying them in addition to scholastic work. In the process, I learned much myself and, since then, have taught myself more. I hope to supplement my job as a farrier.’

  As he talked he continued working without a break until, with a final twist of the red hot iron he struck a last hammer blow then plunged the rail into a dowser for tempering. Above the violent hiss of the water he said, ‘And now — what can I do for you?’

  Amelia thrust the books forward.

  ‘Adapt these for children of tender years, if you’d be so kind.’ Surprised, he took the books and studied them, saying after a while, ‘What age do you regard as “tender years”? To me, that implies the extremely young, for whom these books were never intended. It would be better and possibly quicker to devise new ones. But who suggested you should come to me?’

  ‘It was my niece’s idea and I thought it perfectly splendid. You see, Mr Fletcher, we propose to teach the potters’ children. Their mothers bring them daily, and while they work the children amuse themselves as best they can when I am unable to organise games. So I’ve enlisted Miss Freeman’s help. Between us, we propose to fill their enquiring minds with basic knowledge so that none will be unable to read or write when they grow up. The books are relics of my husband’s childhood but, as you so rightly say, they’re not intended for the very young. He left school at fourteen and these were amongst the last text books he used, so if you could see your way … ’

  ‘To plan a curriculum of sorts? That is what you really need.’ He gathered up the books. ‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the early lessons I used for the boys I went to America to teach. Friends and relations of the family thought their father mad to want to drill knowledge into heads so young, but Silas Hopkey was perhaps ahead of his time in believing they were ready for it. He had sought fruitlessly for a man who shared his views, so extended his search to England — ’

  ‘And found you. How fortunate for us that you came back when your pupils needed you no longer! It must have been a wrench, parting from them when they grew up, but how lucky for us that you did!’

  To that, Damian said nothing, merely leading them through the adjoining small garden to his cottage, where he urged them to be seated whilst he searched through a crowded cupboard until, triumphantly, he produced a sheaf of papers. These he divided between the pair of them while he glanced further at the text books Amelia had brought, pronouncing them useful for later stages. ‘Meanwhile, those lessons you’re looking at should fill the bill. The ones you are holding, Mrs Drayton, are the later ones; Miss Freeman’s are the earliest, the beginners’ lessons … ’

  In her excitement, Amelia failed to notice Olivia’s silence.

  ‘These are splendid, Mr Fletcher! We can start without delay, if you’ll let us use them. Olivia love, isn’t this a stroke of luck? We can’t thank you enough, sir, truly we cannot.’ She broke off, at last aware of her niece’s inattention. The girl was staring fixedly at one of the papers. ‘Olivia — I said isn’t this tremendous luck?’

  Olivia’s head jerked up. ‘Oh — yes indeed. We are indebted to you, sir.’

  Damian said nothing. His eyes were on Olivia and remained there until Amelia announced that her husband and Mr Wesley were arriving. She danced to the door to meet them, flinging it wide and then racing do
wn the garden path crying, ‘We’ve won, Martin dear! And such a prize!’

  Within the cottage, Damian said quietly, ‘Something is disturbing you, Miss Freeman, and I know what it is. You’ve noticed the date on that first lesson. I should have anticipated that. A date barely three years old betrays me, doesn’t it? So of course you are wondering why I didn’t contradict Mrs Drayton when she remarked on my leaving the boys when they were grown up.’

  To hide her embarrassment, Olivia said lightly, ‘Are my thoughts so obvious, Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘Perhaps not to everyone, but to me, yes. You have a very expressive face, so I know you are also wondering how long I was in prison. More than a year is the answer, though my sentence was longer. Since I have now been back in Burslem these five months, deduct that time plus my imprisonment from the date on that paper, and it is plain that my pupils had their tutor for only eighteen months and must have been children when I left them. I’m sorry I can’t provide you with further information, partly through disinclination and partly because your uncle is about to cross the threshold with another gentleman, whom I take to be John Wesley. I heard he was preaching in Burslem today and his face is well known. I would prefer neither of them to know about my past. Nor do I wish to dampen your aunt’s enthusiasm, so I can only trust you will keep silent for her sake. Mine doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But it does to me — ’

  There was no time for more. The others were joining them and introductions were being made, with Amelia taking Olivia’s sheaf of papers to show Martin along with her own, while Damian filled a jug with ale from his kitchen butt and poured it for his guests. The atmosphere was easy, friendly, with John Wesley’s observant eye appreciating his surroundings. ‘I must compliment you, sir, on your extensive library.’