by Iris Gower
She knew her mother kept accounts, she had seen her sitting in the candlelight studying the books in which she sometimes wrote industriously for hours on end. Perhaps in the pages of neat handwriting Llinos would find the information she needed to carry on.
She would require more hands, too. She had taken on Jim Cooper to help with the heavy work and Binnie was a good foreman. The apprentices were becoming more experienced and worked hard stacking pots in the saggars and carrying them to the kiln. Ben kept the kiln fuelled. They were good men, good workers all of them, but what she really needed was more potters, more painters and more labourers.
She sat up and hunched up her knees under the bedclothes thinking how much the pottery had gone downhill in the last few years. It was a wonder that it had kept going at all. If she was to make a success of things, she needed to get back into full production again. But where was she going to get the money to pay for it all?
First thing after breakfast, she would begin by studying the books. She would learn the business as best she could, she would borrow money if she had to, she would do anything to save the pottery.
What wares made the most money, what goods should she concentrate on? Millie Fishguard promised to pay her handsomely for the mixing bowl and had ordered a jug as well, but large objects took time to bake. Several glazes were needed to cover the surface, making it an expensive process. Perhaps she should concentrate on smaller wares, sugar boxes, milk jugs, that sort of thing.
Tomorrow was market day and Llinos felt she should make the effort to take some of the stock to town. If Binnie and Watt came along, she could leave them to sell the crocks while she saw Mr Francis at the bank and asked him for his help and advice. He had been a good friend of her father’s; surely he would not let her down now?
Celia had the fire blazing in the kitchen, the kettle was singing over the flames and the smell of toasted bread permeated the room. She came in from the back yard, a pile of sticks in her arms.
‘Oh, aye, awake at last, sleepyhead? Well, get some food inside your belly, too thin by far, you are, my girl.’
Celia took liberties, she was too familiar, but then times had changed. Llinos was no longer the daughter of a rich potter but an orphan who needed to work or starve. She sat at the table opposite Celia, who was rubbing her swollen knees. ‘Just been out to give the boys and old Benjamin some gruel and a cup of hot milk. Good man, Ben, got the kiln so hot you’d think it would take the skin off you.’
Llinos rubbed at her eyes. ‘Market day, today,’ she said, the words feeling thick in her mouth. She was frightened, not knowing if she could support herself let alone support dozens of workers.
‘Aye, it’s market day right enough. Shall I come down to town with you?’ Celia was settled back in her chair, her skirts lifted now, the flames of the fire playing on her knees.
Llinos shook her head. ‘I’ll be taking Binnie and Watt. Thanks all the same.’ Celia would not make it to the end of Pottery Row let alone to town. Fine medicine woman she was, she could not even heal herself, she was plagued by the bone ache.
Llinos ate her breakfast with little appetite. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘perhaps I could get some girls in to help me with the light work, the decorating and glazing.’
Celia’s mouth twisted downwards. ‘And where would you find the money to pay them?’
‘I was thinking of someone from the workhouse.’
Slowly, Celia nodded. ‘Aye, that might be an idea, jest for bed and board you’d get yourself some help all right.’
‘How do I go about it?’
‘Well how do you think? Go on up there. Tell the guardian that you got work for some of the brats. Glad to get rid of ’em, they’ll be, less mouths to feed, see?’ Celia snorted. ‘Course, they’ll keep the names on the books, make a bit on the side, like, but that’s not your worry.’
Llinos was not sure she had the courage to approach anyone in the workhouse. It was a gaunt, sprawling building surrounded by a high wall.
‘I thought you was going to market.’ Celia hacked at the loaf and stuck the blackened prongs of the toasting fork into the bread.
Llinos gave up any attempt to eat and pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I’d better see if the boys have got the horse and cart ready.’
It was a soft day, the wind had dropped and late tea roses splashed the hedgerow with brave flags of colour.
‘Shall I come with you, Miss Savage?’ Jim Cooper asked. ‘Those pots take some lifting, mind.’
Llinos shook her head. ‘I’ll take Watt and I thought Binnie could come, too.’
‘He ain’t come in, miss, don’ know why. But I’m willing and strong, I’ll be a right good help,’ Jim said and Llinos bit back a sharp retort. The men must stop treating her as a lady, they must begin to think of her as a boss.
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I want you to stay here, Jim, look after the place and if Bert Cimla shows his face, take a pickaxe to him.’
Llinos climbed into the driving seat and helped Watt up beside her. The horse shifted uneasily between the shafts. The weight of the pots was unstable and the load moved a little towards the back. She wondered where Binnie was, it was not like him to miss a shift. Well, she had other things to think of at the moment.
‘Take your time, miss,’ Jim said doubtfully. ‘I don’t like the thought of you driving to town with only Watt for company. Are you sure you can manage?’
‘You are needed here.’ Llinos clucked her tongue and the horse moved forward abruptly, jolting the cart so that the pots rocked from side to side.
Llinos looked at Watt. ‘Hold on tight now, it looks as if this is going to be a bumpy journey.’ After a few miles she realized how prophetic her words had been; the jolting of the cart against the uneven surface of the road jarred her bones and her head began to ache. Already one of the taller jugs had keeled over and the handle had broken off.
The road led along the river bank towards the town and the market place. The animal was restless, knowing there was a bag of oats at the end of the journey. Llinos pulled on the reins. ‘Whoa there.’ She leaned backwards in an effort to slow the cart, the shafts creaked with the strain and Watt, sitting beside Llinos, was clinging on for dear life. The load shifted again and, startled, the horse reared, hooves pawing the air.
She saw a rider from the corner of her eye. He came alongside and caught the reins of her horse, talking soothingly to the animal.
Llinos was breathing hard, her hair swung loose, her eyes were misted with tears of frustration. She was a failure, she was sure that half the stock was broken, the hard labour of the past week wasted.
She climbed shakily from the cart, pushing her hair away from her hot face. She could hardly breathe, her heart was thumping as though it was going to jump out of her chest.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to gasp. She looked up and saw the pale face of Eynon Morton-Edwards looking down at her in concern.
‘You all right?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m perfectly all right.’ She somehow felt resentful of him, whenever he was around there was trouble. She knew it was unfair of her to blame him but nonetheless she turned away from him and began to examine her stock.
‘Not too much damage done,’ he said and there seemed to be a wistfulness about his voice that was touching. She turned to face him. His head was inches from her own. He was very fair, his eyebrows and lashes almost invisible. There was something soft about him, a vulnerability that he seemed unable to hide.
He smiled at her and she felt churlish. ‘It was good of you to help, thank you so much, but I can manage now.’
‘You call it managing, letting a pile of crocks run away with you? Look, the load of pottery is insecure. Let me ride with you, I’m going to town anyway.’
She hesitated.
‘I’m no threat,’ he said, ‘I only want to be a good neighbour. I heard of your sad loss and I would like to offer my condolences.’
She closed her eyes f
or a moment. ‘That’s very kind of you. But please don’t trouble yourself, I will be just fine.’
She knew she was being childish but somehow the sight of Eynon Morton-Edwards, son of her father’s rival, offering her sympathy was too much to bear. His pottery was not suffering. His father had not gone to the war and left his wife and child at home alone.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s none of my business but if you are going to the market’ – he gestured towards the pots – ‘which unless you are taking these things for a walk I suppose you are, don’t you think you should do something about that hair?’
‘What?’ Llinos put her hand up and encountered a rough tangle of curls. She bit her lip and twisted her hair into a loop with impatient fingers, wishing he would go away.
He was small and thin and pathetic-looking and she felt sorry for him. He seemed to need a friend but she had enough to do to look after herself without taking on his problems as well.
‘I don’t know why we have to meet in such unfortunate circumstances,’ he said apologetically and it was as though he sensed her impatience. ‘Last time we met I almost ran you down.’
‘I’m surprised you remembered me at all.’ Llinos spoke acidly. Eynon Morton-Edwards was being friendly but why, what did he want?
He took out a small brush from inside his coat and handed it to her. ‘Just run it through your hair,’ he said. ‘It’s coming loose again.’
She contemplated throwing the brush back at him and then thought better of it. She brushed her hair with quick angry strokes. ‘There, are you happy now?’
‘You are really quite pretty,’ he said. ‘You’d be very pretty if you smiled now and then.’ The white crisp collar at his neck emphasized his pallor. Eynon Morton-Edwards was not a strong man, she realized with a rush of remorse. Other people had their problems too and it was about time she remembered that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘have I upset you? I only wanted to make friends.’ Suddenly, it was as if the dam of ice within her melted. Llinos put her hands over her face and began to cry. She was ashamed of herself, ashamed of her ill temper and more ashamed of crying before a stranger.
Tentatively, he put his hand on her arm, clucking to her as if she was a baby. ‘There, there, you’ll feel better for a good cry.’ He patted her shoulder and she leaned against him, grateful for his kindness. After a while, she wiped her eyes and smiled shakily.
‘I’m all right now.’ She looked at him. The collar of his fine jacket was damp with her tears. ‘Thanks for being so . . . so . . .’ The words trailed away.
‘Think nothing of it. I often feel like crying myself, only men are not supposed to cry, are they? At least that’s what my father has always drummed into me.’
‘I’d better get on, sell the pots I haven’t broken.’ Llinos picked up the reins. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way, the market’s not far.’
‘Miss Savage,’ Eynon said, ‘I know you’ve had a bad time of things lately. I wish you would accept my offer of help, it’s well meant.’ He smiled. ‘I assure you, I have no ulterior motive.’
‘I know.’ She believed him.
‘Isn’t there anyone to look after you, no cousin or uncle or something?’ he asked as he fell into step beside her, leading his horse on the rein.
Llinos thought of Celia, who would be cleaning the house, cooking up a pot of cawl, taking over her life. She nodded.
‘I’ve got some help.’
‘But it’s not the right sort of help?’
She glanced sideways, seeing the softness of his features and the clean fall of his hair over his brow. She knew suddenly that she liked him. She felt instinctively that in spite of who he was, she could trust him.
‘I have Celia helping in the house, she’s very good, but . . . anyway, what I need is financial help,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the bank while I’m in town to see Mr Francis. Perhaps he can advise me.’ Llinos heard her voice shake and swallowed hard. ‘I won’t lose the pottery, I just won’t.’
‘I’m sorry. No wonder you were crying,’ Eynon said. ‘Would you like me to come with you to the bank? I am very friendly with Mr Francis.’
‘No,’ Llinos said firmly. ‘If I’m to run the pottery and make it the fine business it once was I have to learn to stand on my own two feet.’
‘I’m sure the bank will help,’ he said. ‘The Savage name was always good in Swansea. Once my own father even mentioned the place with respect and he doesn’t like anyone to be in competition with him.’
‘Why should he worry about competition? He has got the biggest pottery in this part of the country.’
‘I know, but he’s ambitious,’ Eynon said. ‘He’s trying out an experiment on a new porcelain body, he’s quite excited about it. If it works he’s going to produce it in large quantities, have the finest painters to decorate the pieces and sell the services to London, perhaps even to the king.’
‘The king?’
‘Oh, yes, as I said, my father is a very ambitious man.’ Llinos drew the cart to a halt. The market sprawled across the dirt track of a roadway, stalls set down on whatever spot took the vendor’s fancy.
‘Well, here we are, then, Miss Savage. I trust you will sell all your pots and take home a nice little profit.’
Llinos turned to him impulsively. ‘If you meant your offer to help then I accept. Won’t you stay with me, just for a while?’
‘Why not? Let’s unload the pottery. Young man, you go and find us a good spot, somewhere we’ll be noticed.’
They set up the baskets of stock between a woman in a hat and shawl selling cockles and an old man with a basket of vegetables.
‘Morning, Miss Savage.’ The cockle woman lifted her hand. ‘Sorry to hear about your mother, good woman was Mrs Savage. Pity she took up with a bad lot the likes of that Mr Cimla, mind.’
Llinos nodded. ‘Thank you for your condolences, Mrs Williams.’ She was aware she sounded distant but she did not want to talk about her mother, not to this woman whom she scarcely knew.
The woman was not done. ‘Got yourself a helper though, I see, Eynon Morton-Edwards no less.’ Her eyes were bright with curiosity. She touched the brim of her black hat in a deferential gesture that was belied by the spiteful look in her eyes. Llinos wondered what the woman had against Eynon.
Whatever it was, it didn’t bother Eynon. He held up one of the tall jugs, glazed with the brown and cream that was a mark of the pottery, and called out loudly, urging the crowd to buy one of the finest pots in Swansea.
Llinos’s mouth curved into a smile; he had a nerve, he was obviously a gentleman and yet he made a sale almost at once as though he was born to barter in the market place.
By midday, most of the stock was sold. ‘Want to go home or shall we stick it out?’ Eynon asked.
‘Might as well sell the lot.’ Llinos smiled. ‘I’d better make the most of you while I’ve got you. When I’m on my own I won’t do half as well.’
‘Very well, then, hang on here, I’ll go and get us something to eat. Are you hungry, lad?’ The boy’s eyes lit up at the prospect of food and the words of protest Llinos was about to say died on her lips.
When he had gone, Llinos felt suddenly weary. Her feet ached and she sank onto a flat stone and wrapped her skirt around her legs.
‘That boy is a strange one.’ Moriah Williams was packing; the baskets were empty except for a few cockles that clung to the weaving.
‘He’s been good to me,’ Llinos said.
‘Well, that posh school didn’t make much of a man of him, did it? All that painting and stuff, no occupation for a bright young fellow.’
‘As I said, he’s been good to me.’ Llinos spoke icily; the woman nodded.
‘Chwarae teg, fair play, that’s all anyone can ask. Perhaps he’s not as bad as that father of his.’
Eynon returned and Moriah Williams nodded to him before putting the large baskets over her arm and making her way through the crowd in the direction of the hills.
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Eynon had brought a fresh loaf and a piece of cheese and Llinos realized how hungry she was. She smiled, feeling better than she had done in weeks.
‘I expect old Mrs Williams has been talking about me.’ Eynon began to eat hungrily. His teeth, Llinos noticed, were clean and white. She said nothing.
‘I expect she’s told you I’m not a son my father can be proud of, I’m not strong and manly enough; that’s what everyone says. Well, I am different to him and I’m glad about it.’
‘Being a man isn’t about physical strength, is it?’ Llinos said. ‘I, for one, would be proud to call you a friend.’
He rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You are so sweet and innocent and to you everything is simple. I am a few years older than you and far, far more used to the ways of the world and I expect criticism whatever I do. But if you would like us to be friends, I can promise you I will never ask for anything from you except friendship and trust.’
Llinos nodded. ‘Sounds as if I’m getting the best of the bargain.’
Eynon laughed. He finished eating and picked up one of the remaining pots. ‘I’m going to sell these before we go, if it’s the last thing I do.’
The warm air was cooling into evening by the time Llinos made her way back to Pottery Row.
‘Tired?’ Eynon asked and she nodded.
‘I am tired and I never even got round to seeing Mr Francis at the bank, but somehow I feel happier than I’ve done for days.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know I shouldn’t say that so soon after . . . after Mother’s death but . . .’
‘Your mother is probably looking down at you and urging you to be happy right now.’
At the corner of Pottery Row, Eynon paused. ‘May I come in?’
‘Yes.’
She took him around the back way and left the cart beside the kiln. He appraised the buildings, his head on one side.
‘I’ve never seen your place properly before; it looks like you’ve got the makings of a very good business here, Miss Savage.’
‘I don’t know.’ Llinos shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with it all, the books and things, figures just puzzle me. I don’t know how much clay to buy, or anything.’
