Dream Catcher

by Iris Gower

  Perhaps Polly was right but, somehow, Lily did not think so. She pulled the bedclothes over her and stared at her friend wondering how many men Polly had slept with. She was not very old, perhaps about seventeen or eighteen, and yet there was a knowingness about her, a worldly-wise attitude that fascinated and repelled Lily at the same time.

  Had she slept with Watt? She might have, that night she took his money. Somehow the thought was not a pleasing one. Even though Lily did not want him herself, she did not like the thought of Polly having him. Perhaps, if Watt came back from America a rich man, she would overcome her coldness and marry him. Put up with his pestering in exchange for a ring on her finger and her own roof over her head. She had no intention of slaving in the Savage Pottery for ever more. As for the Tawe Pottery, the snooty-faced man there had turned her down. Told her they had enough painters, good men painters, and did not want a woman anywhere near the place.

  ‘What’s it like, Polly?’ She asked. Polly stared at her uncomprehending.

  ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘Letting a man . . . do things to you? What do they do, exactly? I know they like to kiss and touch but what else?’

  ‘You’re a right case, aren’t you?’ Polly scrambled under the sheets. ‘Damn it’s getting cold, winter’s coming.’

  For a long time it appeared she was not going to satisfy Lily’s curiosity. Polly lay back against the thin pillow, her arms beneath her head, staring up at the cracked ceiling. At last she spoke.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely, it’s a lot of fun. Hurts at first mind when he pokes his thing in you but you soon gets used to it.’

  Lily was mystified. ‘Pokes what thing into you, where?’ It sounded rather alarming and Polly had admitted it hurt at first.

  ‘His “thing”, you know, that thing between his legs, you daft sod. It feels good, I can tell you.’

  Lily was appalled; she had never heard anything so disgusting in all her life. She could not believe that it was a common practice, perhaps it was only people like Polly, the ‘lower orders’ as the rich called them, who did things like that.

  ‘Llinos and Joe don’t do that, though, do they?’ she asked. Polly lifted her head and looked at her in disbelief. ‘Course they do, you fool! How do you think folks gets babies?’

  Lily digested this in silence, trying to imagine anyone treating Llinos in such an undignified way. And babies, that was another mystery. She knew they grew inside the woman, she had seen plenty of swollen stomachs in her time, but the whole sordid procedure was disgusting to her.

  ‘I’ll never get married! Well,’ she amended quickly, ‘I’ll never have children at any rate.’

  ‘You might not be able to help it,’ Polly said, laughing at her now. ‘Sometimes it happens even when you don’t want it to.’

  ‘Why haven’t you had children then?’ Lily said triumphantly, feeling she had scored a point.

  ‘I spits in a toad’s mouth every time I plan to go with a man, that seems to help.’ Polly did not sound at all sure and Lily knew that she could never bring herself to touch a toad let alone get close enough to spit in its mouth. She would just marry and not allow her husband to do anything but kiss and hold her and even that would be when she felt she could stand it. She knew men liked her. She brought in a good wage, saved most of it and, in addition, Polly had shared with her the money she had stolen from Watt. Oh yes, she would have a great deal to offer a prospective husband without all that sordid stuff. But she would keep that to herself; she did not want Polly to think of her as different, strange even.

  ‘I think I’ll go to sleep now,’ Lily said but Polly sat up, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘You’ve got me all riled up now, talking about men.’ She began to dress quickly and Lily looked at her in dismay.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going out. There’s this lad, he’s new in town, he’s working down at the wharf. Dai Jones is his name and I found out today that he’s lodging a few doors down from here. He’s not really my sort of fella, a bit skinny, but he’ll do for tonight.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to let him . . .? Lily’s words trailed away.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said grinning. ‘I’m going to let him poke his thing into me!’ She pushed open the window and, before Lily could stop her, swung herself out onto the ledge and was shinning down the clumps of ivy with the dexterity of one well used to the task.

  Lily closed her eyes but for a long time sleep would not come. When she did sleep nightmares haunted her: a beast, huge and grotesque, was forcing down on her, hurting her. She tried to scream but her mouth was stopped by a menacing hand.

  She sat up sweating, gasping for breath, and to her relief saw that the pale rosiness of dawn was bringing the bedroom to life. The wardrobe had form, the chest in the corner was solid, brushed with early light. She was in bed and she was safe.

  Polly’s bed was empty, the window still stood open. Before the sun had taken hold on the day, Polly was climbing over the sill, dropping down into the room, her hair tangled, her clothing awry. She flung herself on her bed, arms and legs spread wide so that she resembled a starfish draped with seaweed.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, I sold Dai Jones short! He didn’t stop; all night he kept on and on. I didn’t think he had it in him.’

  ‘You’d better get washed.’ Lily tried to keep the distaste from her voice. ‘You smell a bit . . . a bit sort of stale.’

  Polly puffed out a huge breath. ‘I’ve got to rest, I’m worn out. In any case, I don’t have to turn up for work like you at some ungodly hour of the morning. I have other ways of earning a living as well, you know.’

  ‘Then I’ll use the water.’ Lily washed quickly, wanting to be out of the room, away from Polly’s obvious satisfaction with her night’s work.

  ‘You’ll learn one day that lying on your back being pleasured is much easier than slaving away to make some other person rich!’ Polly’s parting words followed Lily as she descended the stairs. Perhaps her friend was right, but no amount of money would persuade Lily to allow a man, any man, to do unspeakable things to her. No, she would keep herself for marriage and, even then, she would only give what she must.

  The sounds of breakfast – of dishes being placed on the clean wooden table, the chatter of voices – was suddenly reassuring. Not every woman was like Polly; it was she who was strange, not Lily.

  She moved into the dining room, a smile of superiority on her face. She was better than Polly, much better, she would demand more of life than Polly ever did and, what’s more, with her looks and brains, she would get everything she asked for.

  Letitia was dying. Joe knew it, Charlotte knew it and Letitia herself knew it. She reached a thin hand up towards Joe.

  ‘I knew you would come.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. Joe sat beside her and held her hand gently. ‘I sent my thoughts out to you and you responded. There truly are more things in heaven and earth than this world dreams of.’

  Joe touched her forehead with the back of his hand. Letitia’s skin was hot, her eyes overly bright. It was clear she had a fever, a fever that was in its last throes.

  ‘Why didn’t I come sooner?’ he said and she smiled up at him.

  ‘Because I blocked my mind to you. I didn’t want you to come, not until the end. I’m ready, Joe, I want to die and I don’t want doctors and such fussing over me. All I want is for you to promise that Charlotte will be all right. She can’t live alone, Joe, she’s far too timid for that.’

  ‘I know. She shall come home with me,’ Joe said, adjusting the covers as if the quilt could protect Letitia, keep the life in his sister’s thin frame. Joe thought of Llinos; he had promised to send for her if matters were serious but there was no time. In a way he was glad. Seeing Letitia die would only remind Llinos of the unhappiness of her father’s death. She had suffered too many tragedies lately; he did not want to place any more weight on his wife’s slim shoulders than was necessary.

  ‘I shall be
buried in the family grave,’ Letitia said. ‘And, Joe, you have a place there too when it’s your turn, you know that, don’t you?’ If Joe had needed proof that Letitia accepted him as her half-brother, this was it. He smiled and touched her sunken cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Letitia.’

  ‘But you won’t be buried with the Mainwarings, will you, Joe?’ she asked. ‘You are your own man, you will go wherever you will, free like the breeze in the trees. But then, you have a long life ahead of you. I have lived mine and am grateful for it.’

  She closed her eyes; her lashes were light, almost non-existent. Her breathing was shallow, laboured.

  Joe leaned over her. ‘You must conserve your strength. Save your breath, don’t try to talk any more.’

  Letitia’s eyes opened and there was a gleam in them that reminded him of her indomitable courage.

  ‘Save my breath for what, brother, to list my virtues to St Peter at the gate?’ She smiled softly. ‘It’s time. Fetch Charlotte.’

  They sat with her for little over an hour, Joe one side of the bed and Charlotte, weeping, at the other. Letitia passed away at dawn light with scarcely a tremor and with the peaceful exhalation of her last breath.

  Charlotte began to whisper prayers and Joe bent his head, speaking to the spirits of his ancestors, asking for care to be taken of the soul of this, his sister. The sun climbed higher in the sky, a sharp autumn sun, and Joe rose at last and closed the curtains. He turned to Charlotte and helped her to her feet. ‘There are things to be done,’ he said. ‘And when this is all over, you are coming to Swansea with me.’

  Llinos heard the sound of the carriage on the drive and wondered who was coming to visit. Her regular visitor, Eynon, always walked the short distance between the two potteries and, as for other friends, she had few in the town of Swansea.

  The maid knocked at the door and without waiting for an answer opened it. ‘It’s the master, he’s back home and he has a lady with him, a rich lady by the look of it, at any rate they’ve come in a very stately carriage.’

  Llinos hurried to the hall in time to see Meggie take the coats and hats. Joe turned and came towards her.

  ‘My love, it’s good to be back home with you,’ he said softly as he took her in his arms. ‘I’ve brought Charlotte with me, she is alone now.’

  ‘Letitia? Oh, Joe, I’m sorry!’ She clung to him and then, behind him, she saw his sister, her head downcast, her shoulders bowed.

  ‘Charlotte, you are welcome in our home, most welcome.’ Llinos hugged the older woman, feeling with pity her frailness. ‘I’m sorry about Letitia, so sorry. Come, let’s go into the drawing room. I’ll get the maid to build up the fire in one of the bedrooms, you’re shivering.’

  Charlotte seemed numbed by her loss. She would have stumbled had Joe and Llinos not been supporting her. ‘You poor dear, you must be quite weary with the journey and everything.’

  Charlotte was seated near the glowing hearth and leaned back gratefully in her chair. ‘I am, weary I mean,’ she said at last, her voice low. ‘Once my room is ready, perhaps I can go to bed?’

  ‘You can do just what you want,’ Llinos said. ‘This is your home now, you must treat it as such.’

  ‘You are a kind girl, Llinos.’ Charlotte spoke with difficulty, tears blurring her eyes. ‘I couldn’t bear to stay alone in that big house. Joe, you will see to all the business of selling it, won’t you?’

  She turned to him for reassurance, holding out her hand. He took it and his look was so tender as he patted Charlotte’s hand that Llinos felt a constriction in her throat. It was good to see them together as brother and sister, even if the circumstances were so sad.

  Later, with Charlotte safely asleep, soothed by one of Joe’s potions, Llinos sat with him and listened as he talked.

  ‘Letitia died peacefully, there was no time to send for you, my love,’ he said. ‘I arranged the funeral as quickly as I could and then brought Charlotte home. Poor Llinos,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘I am filling the house with lame ducks, first Sam Marks and now Charlotte, but what else could I do?’

  ‘You did exactly the right thing,’ Llinos said, kneeling at his feet and resting her head in his lap. ‘You are a good, kind man, Joe, and once again your uncanny instincts proved to be correct. Thank goodness you took heed of them.’

  ‘I owed it to my father’s memory to take care of my sisters. I have a very small family now, Llinos. There’s you and Charlotte and my birth mother. I have neglected her lately.’ He relaxed a little. ‘I love her very much but you are the most precious thing in my life, Llinos. You know that.’

  ‘I know, my love.’ Llinos brightened. ‘Watt will be seeing your mother, remember,’ she said. ‘He will give her the gifts you sent and she will know you think of her and love her.’

  ‘She knows that without being told,’ Joe said. ‘Mint needs nothing and no-one. She is secure and happy with her people and when she’s old she will become an elder and be cared for by the Mandans. I have no fears for my mother; the way of life is different there in America among the native people.’

  ‘It’s very strange,’ Llinos said. ‘We are supposed to be the civilized ones and yet our old people are prey to loneliness and neglect, sometimes dying in poverty.’

  ‘Let’s not get too maudlin,’ Joe said. ‘In any case, I think it’s high time we went to bed.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘To sleep, my darling wife, so don’t look at me like that!’

  Laughing, he swept her into his arms and kissed her. ‘I’m so glad to be home.’ He held her close and she clung to him knowing that she was the luckiest woman in the world.

  Charlotte was like a shadow about the house, hardly speaking, until she happened upon Samuel Marks one day. He was sitting in the garden, well wrapped against the autumn chill in a good wool coat with a shawl draped over his shoulders. She had made a point of avoiding him until now, accepting his hand when he had been introduced but unwilling to be drawn into conversation. When Samuel saw Charlotte coming along the path, he doffed his hat.

  ‘Please, dear Miss Mainwaring, forgive me if I don’t rise, my old legs are a bit rickety these days. I put it down to the time I spent in prison.’

  In spite of herself, Charlotte was intrigued. ‘You were in prison? What for?’ Immediately she caught herself up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. It is, after all, your business, Mr Marks.’

  ‘Please sit with me and allow me to tell you all about it. And, please, call me Sam.’ They sat for some time until the day dwindled away and the sun sunk below the horizon. But by the time they returned indoors Charlotte Mainwaring and Samuel Marks had formed a friendship that was destined to blossom into something much more.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AS THE AUTUMN days faded into the wettest of Novembers, Llinos began to feel that perhaps the foolish charges of murder had been dropped and Joe was safe at last. Her false sense of security was brief. Her composure was shattered when a letter arrived from Grantley to say he would be in Swansea for a few days towards the end of the week. Why was he coming? Had he heard anything from the judge or the courts? She left the house and walked out into the dank air, unable to concentrate on anything indoors; not even the affairs of the pottery could hold her interest this morning.

  The river was swift, running full, swollen by rain down towards the sea. At full height the tidal waters of the Tawe were impressive, washing the banks with greedy strength, swirling thick branches in the eddies as though they were mere twigs. Llinos stood looking down into the river without seeing it. She thought of Joe, meeting Grantley in the sitting room of the Angel Hotel and wondered what was happening. Why the Angel Hotel? Why did Grantley not come to the house? The questions worried her mind as she searched for an answer that she could not find. She had wanted to go with Joe but he had told her, very gently, that he would go alone. He was a strong, independent man and Llinos understood that he wanted to protect her in the event that Grantley was bringing bad news. So was it bad news?


  The rain began to fall more heavily and, shivering, Llinos turned back and walked briskly towards the pottery gates. It was time she pulled herself together, time she took charge of her business and saw that everything was running smoothly. She was allowing herself to fall to pieces, it would never do. It did not help her and it certainly did not help Joe.

  The kilns rose high above the walls, shimmering with warmth, the stonework steaming as the rain hit. Inside each of the four kilns would be stacked the freshly made pottery: jugs, bowls and plates set carefully within the saggars. She stood for a moment looking up at the towers and thought of the days when there was only old Ben to see to the fires. Those were the days when she, Watt and Binnie clung together like lost souls. But all was different now. Now she had Joe, didn’t she?

  She visited each of the sheds in turn, taking her time. In the potting shed, the throwers were up to their elbows in clay, forming the first crude shapes ready for the turners. It was good to see a tall jug emerge from a lump of shapeless clay; just a form without handles, without lips and without finesse, but recognizable in spite of that. She had always loved the pottery, loved everything about it. Now she thought only of Joe.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Mainwaring.’ One of the younger throwers dipped his fingers into a bowl of water and pressed them into the neck of a jug he was shaping.

  ‘Good morning, Dai. How is your mam today?’

  ‘Not too good, this weather gets to her chest, see, makes her cough worse so she can hardly breathe.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, perhaps you would like me to give you some medicine for her. I have several bottles laid in the cool pantry.’

  Dai looked uncomfortable. ‘No thank you, Mrs Mainwaring, my mam won’t take nothing funny-like. She don’t think kindly to taking the stuff the doctor gives her, let alone . . .’ His words trailed away but Llinos knew what he had been about to say. She sighed and moved on, fighting the weak tears that blurred her vision. No-one trusted Joe, not since he had been accused of murdering her father. And how could she blame the townspeople for being cautious? Joe was an outsider, he would always be an outsider wherever he went. Even in America, among the Mandans, Joe did not really have a place because he was of mixed race. But at least there he was not regarded with suspicion.