Dream Catcher

by Iris Gower

  ‘You are a Jew yourself, Saul.’ Samuel was suddenly angry. ‘Jewish blood runs in your veins, good Jewish blood.’

  ‘My mother was a Gentile,’ Saul said icily. ‘And, thank God, I take after her not you! I am ashamed to own you as my father, do you understand that? I want you dead and out of the way so that I need never admit my father was the lowest of the low; so lacking in intelligence that his son was able to deprive him of all he owned.’

  Samuel remained silent though the blood was rushing to his head, pounding in his temples. He wanted to strike out and kill that which he had created.

  ‘You are not quite as clever as you thought,’ Samuel said. ‘I did have land, acres of it. Good land that one day will make the man who owns it a millionaire.’

  All at once, Saul was calm, the deadly calm of an animal stalking its prey. ‘And where are the deeds of this land?’ His voice was ominous.

  ‘They are out of your reach,’ Samuel said triumphantly.

  ‘Well then you had better bring them back into my reach,’ Saul placed his hands around his father’s throat and squeezed. ‘Have you signed it all over to that Indian? Tell me!’

  Samuel saw that he was in mortal danger. ‘No, I did not,’ he said flatly, the lie forced out with his breath as Saul released him. ‘Would I do any such thing? Me a Jew, give away a piece of prime land? You must be out of your mind.’

  Saul was convinced. ‘Then you will sign it over to me,’ he said. ‘Now get to bed and out of my sight. We will arrange things in the morning. Until then I do not want to set eyes on you, understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand perfectly.’ Samuel sat in his room in the brooding silence, staring out into the night sky. He had lit no candles, wanting the cover of darkness. When the last sounds of the house settling for sleep had died away, Samuel drew on his coat. Moving with the stealth he had learned in prison, he opened his door and made his way as silently as a cat down the wide staircase.

  He went through the kitchen and, though his bones were old and brittle, he managed to climb out of one of the windows and into the garden. He had no idea of the distance back to Swansea but he was determined to walk every step of the way if need be.

  The roads were dark, there was no moon and the only way Samuel could make progress was to feel his way, step by step. He began to feel panic grow within him: soon it would be dawn and with the growing light Saul would come after him and take him by force.

  It was then he heard the gentle clip clop of a horse’s hooves. He slid into the bushes and crouched there, sweating.

  Out of the gloom a rider appeared, a darker shape against the slowly lightening sky. ‘Sam!’ The voice was familiar, a cultured voice, a kind voice. ‘Samuel, don’t be afraid, it’s Joe, I’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘Joe!’ Samuel stepped out onto the road and took the warm, strong hand that was held out to him. ‘How did you know?’ Samuel was lifted bodily onto the back of the horse. ‘How, in the name of all that is holy, did you know I needed help?’

  Without answering Joe turned the animal, and Samuel relaxed in the saddle. He knew he could trust Joe. Joe did not think of him as an outcast, the lowest of the low. Joe was not his son but, at this moment, Samuel loved Joe as though he were bred from his own flesh and blood.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, his voice strangely unsteady. Joe turned in the saddle and only the gleam of his eyes was visible against the darkness of his face.

  ‘We’re going home.’

  ‘Going home?’ Home was the warmth of the house beside the pottery. Home was with people who had been strangers until a short time ago. Home, how welcome the word sounded. Suddenly, Samuel began to weep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE EXOTIC FIREBIRD range of pottery took the town of Swansea by storm. So much so that plans were drawn up to expand the business. New kilns were built and more staff employed. Four more throwers were taken on as well as two saggar makers and one talented flower painter, a young man from the Hafod area of the town. Lily, as chief painter, was much admired by her fellow workers. She basked in the admiration of the owners who came from miles away to witness the success of the Savage Pottery, and she knew she had been right not to agree to marry Watt. There were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it, as her friend Polly was fond of saying.

  The only cloud on Lily’s horizon, as she saw it, was Watt’s growing hostility, and in that he was aided and abetted by Mrs Smedley, who had always hated her. It was pure jealousy on the older woman’s part: Lily was young, beautiful and talented and, what was more, she now earned more than Mrs Smedley. As for Watt, just because she would not give into his lustful desires he was being horrible to her.

  Watt entered the painting room at that moment and began to traverse the length of the shed, bending to examine a pot here and there, commenting on some work that was not up to standard. Her own work, Lily knew, was always up to standard. However, Watt it seemed did not think so.

  ‘This painting is rather off-centre,’ he said, taking up a tall jug on which Lily had been painting the absurd bird that was now the trademark of one line of pottery.

  ‘No it is not,’ Lily said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lily, but it is. You see how the tail feathers swoop around to the side and are lost out of view at the back of the jug?’

  The very reasonableness of Watt’s tone, and the fact that he was patently right, only served to make Lily angry.

  ‘I’ll be glad when you leave for America,’ she said loudly. Several of the other decorators looked up, happy at a diversion from the dullness of their routine tasks.

  ‘Why?’ Watt asked. ‘So that your work can become sloppy and inferior without anyone complaining, is that it?’

  ‘My work has never been sloppy or inferior!’ Lily said indignantly.

  ‘Well it’s going that way.’

  ‘No!’ Lily stamped her foot. ‘It’s just you picking on me, Watt Bevan.’ She put her hands on her slim hips and surveyed the room. ‘Just because I’m a good girl, and wouldn’t allow him to take liberties with me, Watt is picking on me. It’s not fair.’

  Llinos was suddenly beside her and Lily stared at her defiantly. ‘It’s the truth,’ she said. ‘Watt’s a monster, it’s not safe for any girl to be alone with him.’

  ‘How I ever thought I wanted to be alone with you, I don’t know,’ Watt said quietly.

  ‘Lily,’ Llinos said, moving away, ‘come to the office, I’ll speak to you there.’

  Sullenly Lily picked up a rag and rubbed the paint from her hands. It was clear that Llinos was going to take Watt’s part in all this.

  She followed silently, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun on the yard and on the whitewashed walls surrounding the pottery.

  Indoors the sun was slanting across dusty rows of books. The smell of ink permeated the air but Lily was immune to it; the smell of paint was her constant companion.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Mainwaring.’ John Pendennis, seated at one of the desks, scarcely glanced at Lily. Doubtless he thought he was a cut above her.

  ‘Now, Lily, what’s all this about?’ Llinos was seated now, looking up, waiting for a reply.

  ‘It’s about Watt picking on me.’ Lily’s voice was sullen. ‘He’s always doing it, ever since I turned him down.’

  ‘Turned him down?’

  ‘I told him I didn’t want to go with him to America.’ Lily saw John glance up at her, and there was a smile in his eyes that told her he was pleased about the situation. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him. It was all his fault, she and Watt were all right until John came along and put foolish ideas into Watt’s head.

  ‘Well, whatever problems you and Watt have, I would appreciate it if all future discussions about your personal life took place outside working hours,’ Llinos said calmly.

  ‘But, Llinos, he’s picking on me all the time, what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him.’ Llinos smiled. ‘But, in the meant
ime, Lily, try to make sure that your work is up to standard and then no-one will be able to criticize.’

  As Lily returned to the shed she felt anger at the injustice that had been meted out to her. Trust Llinos to take Watt’s side, it was always the same, they stuck together these people who had money. Watt forgot that he himself had come from the orphanage; he imagined himself to be one of the toffs.

  She smiled then, a secret smile. Watt had been relieved of some of his money, at least. It lay now beneath the night clothes in her drawer. She had not asked Polly to take it into her head to rob Watt. Polly lived with Lily in the lodging house and she had heard her crying one night. Polly had been indignant when she learned about Watt trying to force his attentions on Lily and promised to take revenge on him whenever she had the chance.

  ‘Leave it to me, love,’ she had said. ‘I was always a good pickpocket. I’ll bide my time and watch the bastard and then one day I’ll pounce. I’ll pay him back for his little games.’

  Lily had been somewhat dismayed by the girl’s vulgarity but when Polly had brought the purse of money to her she had, after demurring a little for the sake of appearances, agreed to share it.

  ‘Lily, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’ She jumped nervously as she was confronted by Watt himself. She hastily composed herself and looked up at him from under her lashes. Polly had told her not to be a fool, to use men for her own ends. She smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Watt,’ she said. ‘And you’re right, the bird was off-centre; you have a better eye than me. I’m sorry, Watt.’

  He warmed to her immediately; as Polly had told her, men were fools for a bit of flattery.

  ‘I should have been more discreet about it, though,’ he admitted. ‘I had no right to show you up in front of everyone. It’s me that’s sorry.’

  ‘Well, let’s forget it,’ Lily said. She steeled herself not to flinch as Watt touched her shoulder. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and, fleetingly, his lips touched hers. She resisted the desire to rub at her lips; to erase the touch of him, the taste of him. For a moment she felt panic: was she unnatural, was she less than womanly? Why did she not like the touch of a man, the caress of lips upon lips? She heard Pearl going on about her exploits and the woman seemed to never have enough of men. But then Pearl was a harlot at heart while she, Lily, was a good girl, a respectable girl.

  ‘Lily,’ Watt said, ‘you’re so beautiful. I don’t think you know what you do to a man.’ He laughed. ‘I think you could ask a king for his crown and he would give it to you for one kind glance from those gorgeous eyes.’

  ‘You’re teasing me.’ She looked down at her paint-stained hands. ‘I’m just an ordinary girl from the orphanage.’

  Watt tipped her face up towards him. ‘No, Lily, you’re not an ordinary girl: you’re a talented painter as well as being the most beautiful thing around here.’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of you to say all those things to me, Watt, but I’d better get back to work or that Pearl will be gossiping about us again.’ She held her head high as she walked across the yard and inside her was the beginning of a glow. It was just as Polly told her: you could use men, manipulate them to your own advantage, if you had the guile. And the looks of course. Feeling as though she was walking on air, Lily swept past Mrs Smedley without giving the woman so much as a glance. She, Lily, had found the power she had and she meant to use it to the full.

  Eynon Morton-Edwards and his new bride were the talk of the town. The pair had married in London. Annabel was clearly a wealthy, attractive girl, one of apparently good breeding, but the haste of the marriage ceremony and the seclusion in which the bride kept herself, gave rise to great speculation.

  Eynon had been trapped, not so much by Annabel, as by his own guilty conscience. He sat across the room from her now, watching as she stitched with coloured silk, working a pattern of flowers and birds into the cloth stretched over a frame. She glanced up at him, her eyes soft. Annabel was in love with him, she made it clear by every melting look, by the softness of her hands as they touched him. But Eynon could not forget the way she had begged him to make love to her. She had thrown all modesty aside and the thought persisted that perhaps Annabel was following in her mother’s footsteps and was a whore at heart.

  ‘Why don’t you make love to me, Eynon?’ Her softly spoken words shook him from his thoughts. He looked up at her, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

  ‘You are going to have a baby, I don’t feel that I should . . .’ The child was not the reason and they both knew it.

  ‘You don’t love me, do you?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. A curl of hair fell against her neck and Eynon felt an overwhelming sense of pity engulf him.

  ‘It will all come right in time,’ he said. ‘We hardly know each other, Annabel, we are married strangers. But, one day, everything will be fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘You feel I trapped you.’

  How could he deny it? He was trapped, married to a woman he would never love. He loved Llinos, his darling, the girl he had wanted since he met her when she was little more than a child.

  ‘You told me you were in love, is that still true?’ Annabel was determined to probe into his mind and, suddenly, Eynon was resentful. She had his name, his protection, his company, however unwilling, what more could she expect? He rose to his feet.

  ‘Let’s end this discussion right now, shall we?’ He moved to the door. ‘I’m expecting visitors and I don’t want you to say anything that would embarrass me, do you understand?’

  She looked him full in the face then. ‘I am not my mother. You do not have to tell me how to behave.’ Her voice was unexpectedly hard and it was he who looked away.

  As if on cue the doorbell chimed and Eynon heard the sound of voices in the hall. Maura pushed open the doors to the drawing room to admit his visitor. Llinos, he saw with a sense of relief, was alone.

  Eynon moved forward to take her hands. ‘I’m happy you’ve come. Where’s Joe?’

  ‘He sends his apologies.’ Llinos looked across the room and her beautiful eyes rested on Annabel. ‘So this is your wife; she’s so pretty! Why have you kept her a secret from us, Eynon?’

  He sensed the hurt behind her bubbly tone and kicked himself for not speaking to her privately before this.

  ‘It was all rather sudden,’ Eynon said and the words sounded weak and lame even to his own ears. ‘Llinos, this is Annabel.’

  The two women exchanged greetings and Eynon had to hand it to Annabel, she was acting as though nothing was wrong.

  ‘I understand you and Eynon are old friends,’ Annabel said graciously. She left her embroidery and took a seat next to Llinos. Eynon compared them, it was impossible not to. Annabel was more heavily built than Llinos, her eyes did not blaze with the same fire. Her hands were not as delicate.

  Enough! he told himself. He could never have Llinos: she was married to Joe, she adored Joe.

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy here in Swansea,’ Llinos was saying. ‘It must be rather dull after London.’

  ‘Much quieter,’ Annabel agreed. ‘But I prefer it here near the sea. The bustle and traffic of the big town was sometimes overwhelming.’

  Eynon could see that Llinos was longing to ask questions but they trembled on her lips unspoken. She must be wondering why he had never spoken of Annabel, but how could he talk about her without branding his wife as a loose woman who took a man to her bed at their first meeting? The questions would just have to go unanswered.

  ‘What’s Joe up to that he can’t come to visit my new bride?’ Eynon asked, his tone revealing a false note of jocularity.

  ‘He’s gone to London,’ Llinos said. ‘He needs to talk to Mr Grantley.’ A cloud darkened her eyes and Eynon kicked himself for his tactlessness. The threat of imprisonment still hung over Joe. He would remain under a cloud unless Grantley could come up with some evidence to refute the allegations made against him.

  ‘You have no news of the da
te of the hearing?’ Eynon leaned forward and breathed in the perfume that was all Llinos’s.

  ‘No.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I wish to heaven it was all over. I couldn’t bear to be parted from him, not again.’

  Annabel moved slightly and Eynon was aware that he had been shutting her out of the closeness between himself and Llinos.

  ‘Anyway, let’s not be rude.’ Llinos had obviously picked up on his thoughts. ‘We should not be discussing matters your wife knows nothing about. I apologize.’

  There was a light tapping on the door and Maura entered the room, a tray on her arm. Eynon concealed a smile: Maura, as housekeeper, had no place acting as a maid but it was clear she was burning with curiosity about the new woman in Eynon’s life. She had almost come right out with it and asked him if Annabel was the one who had sent him the letter.

  ‘Maura, how are you?’ Llinos smiled at the Irish girl but Maura did not look at her. She placed the tray on the table before answering.

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ Her tone was sullen, as if, in some strange way, she blamed Llinos for Binnie’s defection.

  ‘You have heard nothing of Binnie, then?’ Llinos was nothing if not perceptive.

  Maura sniffed. ‘I never want to hear from that man again. If he was dying of thirst in the gutter, I would not spit on him.’

  The silence was sudden and profound. Eynon frantically sought for something to say to cover the moment of embarrassment, but it was Annabel who stepped in with an aplomb he had not believed her capable of.

  ‘We are sorry for your troubles, Maura,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the tea and will you please close the door when you go out, I feel there’s quite a draught in here.’

  Dismissed, Maura left the room and again it was Annabel who broke the silence. ‘Poor woman,’ she said, ‘it must be so sad to be deserted by one’s husband.’

  She looked meaningfully at Eynon and he faced her squarely.