by Iris Gower
Later, as he sat on the coach, glad of the shelter from the sting of the wind, he looked across to the other seat and saw the face of the stranger who had witnessed his attack on Treherne.
‘Morning,’ the man said. ‘Travelling my way, are you?’
‘I am that.’ John looked at the stranger defiantly. ‘I know you think me a barbarian, but Treherne asked for all he got and more.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ He leaned forward, holding out his hand. ‘Watt Bevan, overseer at the Savage Pottery.’ He smiled. ‘I never much liked Treherne myself.’
John looked down at Richie and sighed. ‘Well, Mr Overseer, I wonder if you might find work for two honest labourers at the Savage Pottery?’
‘You never know,’ Watt said. ‘I will put in a word with the owners for you, if that’s any use.’
‘It’s a start,’ John replied. ‘A very good start.’ He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. He had not slept the night before but had sat with his father until the last breath left the old man’s body. Suddenly, despite his eighteen years, John Pendennis felt like weeping.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE PAINT SHED was alive with voices and sunlight. The sharp smells of lead, oil and drying clay permeated the long building. Watt stood in the doorway with John Pendennis and looked along the line of workers.
‘So, do you think you can fit in round here?’ Watt asked. ‘I know you’ll be working mainly in the office but it’s just as well to familiarize yourself with all aspects of the job.’
‘I’m sure I’ll adapt,’ John said. ‘Anything must be better than the Treherne stone quarry.’
Watt’s eyes were drawn towards Lily, one of the finest painters in the pottery. She was still very young but like him she had come to the pottery from the workhouse as a child.
She smiled when she saw him watching her and then quickly turned away. Her silky hair was tied back and pushed beneath a cap. She was beautiful; he wanted to touch her soft skin and kiss the full pouting lips that were pursed now as she concentrated on the tall pot she was painting. He had fancied Lily for some time but she was a shy little creature and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her off.
‘Llinos – Mrs Mainwaring – wants you to be happy here,’ Watt said, turning his eyes away from Lily with an effort. ‘She knows that your family business stood by her when she needed help and she’s grateful.’
John nodded without comment. He was a man who would not easily become a friend and Watt knew it. Perhaps it was just as well; he did not want any competition from the handsome Cornishman where Lily was concerned.
He showed John the various operations required to decorate the pottery, skimming through the tour as quickly as possible. Then he led John outside to the yard where the new apprentices, Richie among them, were spending their first few days clearing away the bits of wasted clay.
‘He seems happy enough,’ John said. ‘Let’s hope he can learn a better way of life here than he did back home.’
Watt was pleased when the tour of duty was over and John safely installed once more in the elegant office building. He returned to the painting shed, walked the length of the room, carefully inspecting a jug here, a bowl there, before pausing beside Lily.
‘That’s nice.’ Watt knew as soon as he spoke that his words were inadequate. The sweep of stout rushes, executed in fawns and greens, stood proudly against the still river water and were so lifelike in appearance that he felt he could touch them.
Lily looked up at him from beneath her lashes and his gut contracted as he saw the blush spreading up her throat and into her cheeks.
He wanted to lean closer to her but he was too awkward, so he moved away instead. He must mention Lily’s talent to Llinos, he decided. She was a gifted decorator and it was time someone noticed that.
‘Hey there, Watt, feel like a roll in the hay this weekend?’ He knew the voice, recognized the banter.
‘I might take you up on that, Pearl, then what would your husband say?’ He was learning to overcome his shyness with the women. Since he had been made inspector of the paint work, he had been teased unmercifully and was at last learning how to deal with it.
‘Oh, him.’ There was a world of scorn in Pearl’s voice. ‘My Joshua sleeps, drinks and farts; it’s all he’s good for.’
There was a roar of laughter from some of the other women. ‘Go on, Pearl, you haven’t got three kids for nothing, have you? Josh has fathered three big strong boys, so what you got to complain about?’
‘All right, girls,’ Watt said, grateful that he was tall for his age and that his voice was as strong and deep as any man’s. ‘Let’s stop the larking and get back to painting, is it?’
Pearl persisted. ‘Not going to take me up on my offer then? I could teach you some tricks that might come in useful when you get married. Sow your wild oats now, boy bach, before you jump the broomstick with a nagging wife!’ She laughed uproariously. ‘Anyway, if you are not willing, what about that handsome Englishman you just fetched here, is he ready for a laugh and a tumble, do you think?’
Watt deftly changed the subject. ‘Well, Pearl, your work’s improving, just look at those Indian feathers, they are very good indeed.’
Pearl smiled widely. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, my lado, if you are to please the ladies.’
Watt ignored her remark. ‘You are a talented artist, Pearl, but you talk so much that you are falling behind with your work.’ He tweaked at her cap. ‘I can see that your mouth moves faster than your hands.’
The roar of laughter followed Watt as he continued on his way, inspecting the work, noting the progress the painters were making. Soon he found himself standing once again beside the bench where Lily was working. She kept her eyes averted and he very much wanted her to look up at him. He could see a strand of silky hair escaping from under her cap, curling into the hollow in the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch it badly.
‘You want to watch yourself, Watt,’ Mrs Smedley said sourly. ‘You can see your thoughts writ plainly on your face.’
He turned away in embarrassment. ‘Right, ladies,’ he said a little too loudly, ‘it’s time to finish work for the day. Go on, get on home, all of you.’
He took off his paint-smudged apron and without a backward glance walked out into the chill evening air. He crossed the yard and entered Pottery House through the back door. The smell of beeswax mingled with roasting meat drifted along the passageway. He paused and breathed deeply. This had been his home since Llinos had taken him in from the outhouse which he had shared with the other men and given him a bedroom of his own.
Llinos had been good to him; she had treated him more like a brother than an employee brought from the workhouse to clean the floors of the pottery sheds. He had learned to read and write as well as anyone from the gentry. He wore good clothes: crisp white shirts and tight-fitting breeches. His tall boots were of the finest leather, but inside he was still Watt Bevan, an orphan, uncertain, knowing that his good fortune depended not upon himself but on the good will of Llinos, her husband and her sick old father. What he really wanted was to own a business of his own.
Watt made his way upstairs to his room and closed the door behind him. Here the silence wrapped itself around him. He looked at himself in the mirror over the mantle. He was fair, very young, beardless. What could he offer a girl like Lily? His good fortune could vanish like mists before the sun. In any case, he was far too young to think of settling down. And yet his loins ached, his urges strong; he needed a woman badly. He smiled to himself, perhaps he should have taken Pearl up on her offer.
He thought of her bare arms, sleeves rolled above her elbows. Her breasts were the full, heavy breasts of a mature woman. He smiled as he imagined himself kissing her lips; yet he could not deny it, he was aroused.
He had never experienced the joy of lying with a woman. Some of the other men employed at the pottery frequented the streets of Swansea looking for quick release with one of the many w
hores to be found touting their trade. But Watt was neither fish nor fowl; not one of the workers nor yet one of the higher orders. In any case he would not have the courage to take a prostitute; a stranger who would expose him to ridicule if he failed in his task.
Later, after supper, he sat and talked for a time with Llinos and Joe. They were kind, they tried to include him in their lives, but he knew by their glances, by the small touches, that they longed to be alone. It was shortly after ten when he rose.
‘If you will excuse me, I think I’ll take a walk before I go to bed.’ He paused near the door as Llinos spoke. ‘You said there was something you wanted to tell me, Watt, have you forgotten?’ she smiled at him. ‘Not in love, are you?’
‘I might be,’ he said, pleased that he was learning, albeit slowly, to conceal his feelings. ‘It’s Lily,’ he said. ‘I’ve noticed how very talented she is at painting. Her work is exceptional, Llinos.’
Llinos turned to her husband and rested her hand on his arm. ‘Well, Joe, isn’t this an opportune moment to bring out your new patterns?’ She turned to Watt. ‘Could you delay your walk for a while?’
‘Of course.’ He returned to his seat. ‘What new patterns are these?’
Joe rose and took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. ‘They are very rough drawings,’ he said, handing them to Watt. ‘But I think it might be time to introduce some new designs.’
Watt looked at the designs; he was no mean artist himself, and though the drawings were rough, he could see the power of them. The central decoration was a bird: not an eagle, nor a dove, nor any bird Watt had ever seen. Perhaps a peacock was the nearest he could get to it.
‘It’s a firebird,’ Joe said, knowing as always what others were thinking. ‘It’s a bird from myth and legend, an imaginary bird. What do you think?’
‘It’s most impressive,’ Watt said and meant it. The full flush of feathers cascaded from a crested head and neck. Watt could see them painted in jewel colours, perhaps predominantly red and gold. He voiced his thoughts and Llinos nodded.
‘It shall be a trade mark,’ she said. ‘Let Eynon’s painters experiment with designs stolen from China, with filled-in transfers and unoriginal flower groups. The Savage Pottery will be known for something far more exotic.’
Watt looked up at Llinos. ‘And do you think Lily could try out some of these?’ he asked.
‘As she comes so highly recommended, I don’t see why not.’ Llinos smiled at him. ‘I always knew that girl had talent from the moment she began work here. She’s always been eager to learn, that’s usually a good sign.’
Watt nodded. ‘Shall I take these with me?’ He held up the papers. ‘I could show them to Lily in the morning, give her a chance to do some drawings of her own before she begins to paint on the pots.’
It was Joe who replied. ‘Take them and let a real artist work on them.’ He rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder and, in that moment, Watt envied them their closeness. It must be fine to have another being care so much. Would he ever be fortunate enough to find someone like that?
It was cold outside but the night was clear. Stars hung low, crystal bright against the velvet of the sky. As Watt walked he could feel the chill of the road even through his good leather boots. When he breathed, the coldness felt like shards of ice in his chest. He walked towards the river bank and stood looking down into the water. It was fast running but calm.
Unbidden came the memory of the flooding. Watt could feel it now, the pain of the water closing over his head. He had panicked for a moment but then he had seen Captain Savage, helpless in the swollen river, his injured legs unable to work to keep him afloat. Watt held onto him, keeping his head clear of the water until help came. Later, in gratitude, the captain had settled a generous sum of money on Watt, money that he could draw on when he was twenty-one. He grimaced, that was still a few years away and what would happen when the captain died? Would the promise of money die with him or would Llinos see that he received it? He was not sure of the legalities of the matter but he supposed he was fortunate: his employment was secure, he would work at the Savage Pottery as long as Llinos drew breath. He knew this but a restlessness had gripped him ever since John Pendennis had come to work at the pottery.
He stared up at the sky, at the distant stars, and thought about his friend Binnie Dundee. Both orphans, they had been more like brothers with Binnie looking out for Watt, taking his part if anyone picked on him. He missed Binnie. He would have liked to ask his advice, to discuss the future with him. But Binnie was far away across the sea in the huge land they called America.
Watt kicked at a fallen branch and watched it slip silently into the river causing the smallest of ripples. That was him: small, insignificant, and would marriage, even to a girl like Lily, make his life any better?
Marriage had not suited Binnie. He had lived with his sweetheart Maura, given her a child and eventually married her and then, with the bed still warm from the wedding nuptials, Binnie had run away leaving Maura desolated and bereft.
On an impulse Watt began to walk towards the town. Some of the taverns in Wind Street would be open still to accommodate any late-night travellers who might step off the coach. As he passed by small, huddled houses, he saw the lighted windows and his loneliness increased. Was he destined to be a lone wolf, to live without love, without a family of his own? Would he always be Watt, the boy from the workhouse who no-one wanted? He recognized the self-pity but somehow his feeling of isolation persisted.
The Swansea Inn was filled with pipe smoke and the smell of ale. Over near the fire, two old men sat on the wooden settle and Watt recognized one of them. Old Ben he had always been called at the pottery, old Ben the kiln man. His gnarled hands, deeply veined, rested on the worn, shining crook of a stick. Ben had long since ceased to work at the pottery. He was too old now to carry coal to fuel the fires.
‘Evening, Ben.’ Watt approached and sat on the opposite side of the fire. Ben peered at him, his watery eyes narrowed.
‘It’s me, Watt, don’t you recognize me?’
‘Duw, a man it is now, not a boy bach any more. How are you, Watt, married with a family, is it?’
‘No,’ Watt said flatly. ‘Still on my own.’
‘No, man, not on your own. Living with Llinos and her father, aren’t you? So how can you be alone?’
‘Aye, well, good as Llinos is, it’s not like having kin of your own. Anyway, have a mug of something with me, Ben.’
‘Aye, that’s a good idea. My friend Bertie here is thirsty too, aren’t you, Bert?’
‘All right,’ Watt said, ‘Bertie is welcome to have a drink on me, too.’ His brief look at the man took in a long stringy beard and close-set eyes that were somehow familiar. He shook away the thought, it was not important, and waved his hand. After a moment the landlord came over rubbing his hands along his apron.
‘Three mugs of ale, is it?’ He glanced at Watt’s good clothes. ‘Or is a measure of porter more to your liking, sir?’
‘Ale will be just right,’ Watt said. He settled back against the wooden chair and stared into the fire. Ben leaned forward.
‘How are the folks up in Pottery Row? Celia-end-house still plodding along with her potions and such?’
Watt had not given the occupants of the row a great deal of thought but as far as he knew, Celia was all right. ‘Same as usual,’ he said, noncommittally.
Ben leaned a little nearer and Watt could see how sparse the old man’s beard had become. ‘Llinos with child yet?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Watt said, instinctively retreating; what went on in the private life of his employer, however caring she might be, was none of his business.
‘’Bout time she had a little one now, isn’t it? How long has she been wed to the Indian fellow?’
‘I suppose it’s not very long, really. Anyway, Ben, how are you keeping. Enjoying staying in bed of a morning instead of carrying coal for the fires?’ He had changed the subject adroitly and Ben smile
d.
‘It’s not too bad. Living with my poor dead sister’s daughter, I am, see? She loses her patience with me sometimes.’
Watt stared around him restlessly; he would have been better off having an early night, sitting in his room reading or thinking about Lily. How wonderful it would be to hold her, to touch her soft throat, to kiss her breasts. He had never seen a woman’s breasts, not naked, not properly. He had once walked into the painting shed and found one of the younger women giving her child suck and the quick glimpse he had of the pink, damp nipple had fired his urges in a way that had shocked him. He had remonstrated with the girl but she looked up at him with large eyes and told him such a sorry tale of her husband falling sick and herself needing to work in spite of having the baby that he had said no more about it.
‘Heard a strange tale about Binnie Dundee the other day,’ Ben said and Watt sat up straighter.
‘Oh, what was that?’
‘Well, my niece’s friend’s husband went out to America and worked there for a time. Good pickings out there, lots of people with nice houses and the like and the weather sunny all the year, so they say.’ He was given to rambling but Watt listened, trying to be patient.
‘Anyway, he said that Binnie Dundee was married to one of them rich ladies out there in America. Can’t be right though, can it? I mean he’s married to that pretty little Irish girl, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, of course he is.’ Ben must have got his story wrong somehow. America was an enormous country, the chances of anyone meeting Binnie there were remote.
‘Where was this?’ Watt asked and Ben looked up at him, frowning.
‘Where was what?’
‘Where did this man see Binnie?’ Watt tried not to let his impatience show. ‘Which part of America, I mean.’
Ben waved his hand. ‘I dunno, somewhere called Troy I think it was but I’m not too sure about that, my memory isn’t what it was.’
