by Rona Randall
She was tearful no more. Beaming, she said, ‘Have you had time to inspect the house yet? I hope not, for I look forward to showing it to you. I have been diligent in my care.’
‘I know. Your letters told me. Truth to tell, it became somewhat monotonous. Now don’t look so crestfallen. I appreciate all you have done, but you’ll be troubled no more.’
‘It’s no trouble! How could you imagine such a thing? I shall continue to supervise it as conscientiously as ever. We will be so happy here — as happy as your dear father and I once were. When he died I couldn’t face living alone in this house, but now I shall be proud to be its mistress again, receiving guests at your side. Dear Joseph took justifiable pride in it. He restored it to its original splendour and I never shared Jessica Drayton’s — I mean Jessica Kendall’s — dislike of it. But Jessica was always odd, always unpredictable…’ Agatha took a few clumsy but excited steps and glanced around happily, quite unaware of her son’s silence. ‘Did you know that Max and Phoebe’s wedding breakfast was held in this very hall? Such a lavish affair! As head of the Draytons, Joseph spared no expense. And now you occupy his shoes! I know you will do so admirably —’
She broke off’, suddenly aware that her son was staring at her in what appeared to be disbelief.
‘It is true, Lionel — you are master of Carrion House.’
‘I am well aware of that, but you are not its mistress. Nor will be. Surely you didn’t imagine so? My dear mother, did my revered father have his mother living with him in his bachelor days? I’m quite sure he did not. Nor shall I.’
There was amusement in his voice, and in the stunned recesses of her mind she realized that he found the whole idea comical, and herself as well.
When he led her out to her carriage she knew she was dismissed. She had served her purpose. She had done her duty. She had been useful, as a mother should be, but he needed her no longer. She was to go back to her own life, in which he had no interest, and leave him to his own, in which she was to have no part.
Chapter 5
The twenty workers in the turners’ shed flanked two walls, ten along one side and ten along another, with Meg at her wheel overlooking them. From floor to ceiling the room was lined with slatted wooden shelves on which pots waited to be turned, with completed ones waiting to be collected for drying. In fine weather there would also be lines in the yard outside. Not until thoroughly dried out would they be ready for bisque-firing — the first firing of raw clay — and not until the kilns cooled could they be decorated, glazed and, after standing for a further drying period, fired yet again.
Days of patient waiting lay between each vital operation. The only speedy steps were the actual throwing and turning, and between these it was necessary to wait for the pot to become leather-hard. Only then was it ready for the turner’s tool. Too wet, and a foot would be impossible to carve; too dry, and the tool would merely scratch the surface. There was an art in knowing when clay had reached the right consistency and to Meg’s delight Abby Walker had grasped it quickly. Sharp as a needle, she was, with an unerring eye.
Meg had been much younger than Abby when she began to master the skill. How proud her mother had been when the small daughter, whom she took with her to the pottery daily, had picked up a turning tool and jabbed at a mound of clay, drawing a perfect circle with unerring instinct! ‘Ye’ll mak’ a better turner than me, our Meg…you be me own clever lass, that ye be!’ And how proud she had also been when George Drayton offered employment to her daughter on her tenth birthday, the earliest age at which he would employ children. More caring than many potters, who employed them as soon as they were sturdy on their feet, setting them to rake out ash from beneath the massive ovens because they were small enough to crawl through the apertures. Then their mothers would wipe their ash-covered faces with their sacking aprons, comforting them when they cried and giving them water from the pump to clear sediment from their throats.
Mercifully, Meg had escaped all that, for George Drayton had been one of the first Master Potters to provide long-handled iron shovels to remove debris which was then riddled and sifted, the resultant ash being carted to the glazing sheds where it was a valuable ingredient. For such work the strongest lads were used. Even George Drayton’s eldest son, Joseph, had continued to provide these shovels, not because he was a considerate employer but because the practice was economical — though he was less concerned about the age and strength of the boys who did this and other arduous tasks.
Meg could well remember the lines of spindly-shanked, undersized lads leaning over troughs, backs bent and shoulders straining as their thin arms wielded heavy sieves…round and round, shaking and tossing, pausing only to pick out larger pieces of grit and stone until their hands were raw from the icy water and their finger nails broken to the quick.
It had been a merciful day when Joseph Drayton died, though the way of it was something she never cared to think about. The mercy was that his younger brother had stepped into his shoes and from that day the Drayton Pottery had never looked back. She now resolved not to look back herself, though the sight of Lionel Drayton at the gates of the pottery still troubled her. Not that she had realized who he was until later, when old Peterson had come shuffling into the turners’ shed in a state of agitation, babbling about the gentleman who had brushed him aside.
‘Could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I see’d un, that ye could. Reckernized ’im soon as I got up close — spittin’ image o’ Master Joseph. I swear t’God ’t’were ’is son, Master Lionel.’
*
It was true that when Martin Drayton became Master Potter conditions had promptly improved, but the back-breaking work still had to be done. It was all part of a potter’s training. Even Olivia Freeman had gone through it, daring anyone to doubt her stamina. A person had to be dedicated to stay the course.
Would Abby Walker? Watching her now, eyes intent, tool poised, oblivious of everything but perfecting a foot to support a particularly delicate bowl, Meg’s hopes soared. At moments like this she saw the real Abby, the one for whom she had ambitions, the one who could rise above her background given half a chance. The problem was, would the girl recognize a chance if faced with it?
The answer was the same as ever — not so long as her mother was around.
Both question and answer were presenting themselves more frequently these days, increasing with Abby’s increasing maturity. Those thrusting young breasts had developed early and now her body was no longer that of a child; she was a young woman, and as patently aware of it as she was of male attention.
In anxious moments, Meg would ponder at length on the problem of Abby. She longed to protect and guide the girl, but she had no jurisdiction over her beyond the turning shed. What Abby did or where she went outside the gates of the Drayton Pottery was not the concern of the chief turner.
Nor was it the concern of Dave Jefferson, though Meg wished it were. Dave was the well-set-up young man currently in charge of the glazing sheds. His grandfather had been chief glazer once upon a time and had played an important part in the young Martin Drayton’s life, taking an interest in him throughout his apprenticeship and helping him to solve many a glazing problem when he branched out on his own after being sacked by his brother. Eventually old Jefferson had died, as so many glazers did, through respiratory troubles which, Martin Drayton suspected but which medical science had not yet proved, were due to the chemicals used in glaze recipes, particularly lead.
George Drayton’s youngest son had been the first Master Potter in England to ban the use of lead glazes, working for years to produce a leadless substitute which would produce an equally high gloss. The quest was still only partially fulfilled, but in it he had been supported by young Dave, who was now battling with it alone.
‘I owe it to Master Martin,’ he had once said. ‘I’d like to solve it for his sake.’
Dave was passionately loyal. He was equally passionate in his devotion to Abby.
It h
ad been no surprise to Meg when Dave became chief glazer at twenty, nor that he should then support the Master Potter’s ruling that all glaze workers should wear masks, a practice scoffed at by many but finally accepted when benefits became apparent. Dave also insisted on the daily cleaning of benches and worktops and floors because the Master Potter was convinced that dust was equally injurious to health; but when it came to forcing clay workers to wear masks the battle proved to be a losing one. How could dust possibly be harmful? they argued. Why should they coddle themselves when their forefathers hadn’t done so? To imagine that dust caused troublesome breathing was a pack o’nonsense, so wearing fancy facewear was not for them!
Dave Jefferson could be of no help there. ‘There’s none as’ll listen to me, Master — not outside the glazing shed. Ye knows what potters be like. Nobbody knows ow’t about their business so well as they does themselves!’
In that, he was right. Divisions were wide and strictly partisan. Wedgers, throwers, fettlers, turners, decorators, modellers, glazers and fire men, all had their rightful places in the scheme of things. Each department was a self-enclosed kingdom. Only when a man became General Overseer had he the right to interfere overall, and young Dave Jefferson had not yet reached those heights.
But some day he would. Meg was confident of that. Having been trained from the ground up and mastered every aspect of the craft, he even deserved to become his own boss, but in Martin Drayton’s lifetime the young man refused to desert him. Nor would there have been any need, for the master had begun to depend on him more and more; without a doubt Dave would have become his right hand. As General Overseer, he would then have lived in a tied cottage close to the pottery. That would have meant security and a roof over the heads of himself and his family for life. Dave’s grandfather had been pensioned off in such a way, as had others too old or too ill to work.
But if Martin Drayton’s widow was stripped of authority, what would happen? Please God it wasn’t true that Lionel Drayton had come home to step into the late Master Potter’s shoes, but throughout the past week the rumour had gathered momentum and when he entered the turning shed this Monday morning, with Mistress Amelia at his side, Meg knew it was indeed true.
By every turner’s wheel the man paused, watching them at work and occasionally asking a question or making a comment. In the old days he had been nothing but a rich and spoiled young man who squandered his time in idleness. For such people Meg had no respect and she had never hesitated to show it. It might be fortunate now if his memory was too short to remember the occasions when she had deliberately ignored him, and particularly the time when he had gone out of his way to speak to her and she had snubbed him. She had seen through the youth too well, knowing he would think it amusing to bed an older woman, particularly one with a past. She had read his mind unerringly and dealt with him accordingly. How would he now deal with her, were he to remember that?
She was not surprised when he paused beside Abby, ostensibly watching her small hands at work and possibly marvelling, as many people did, that a diminutive fourteen-year-old could handle so skilful a job, but when his eyes lingered on the girl’s face Meg knew precisely what he was studying: the soft, full mouth; the delicate nose and chin; the large brown eyes with their long eyelashes which lay like small fans against her cheeks as she looked down at her work; her unruly mane of blonde hair which Meg had encouraged her to wash beneath the pump at the end of a day’s work, to remove its pall of clay dust. Abby hated wearing the protective cloth cap which many female potters wore, for she shared Meg’s dislike of its restriction.
In the old days, Meg had washed not only her hair at the village pump on her way home from work, but her face and arms and legs as well, avoiding the one in the potters’ yard because Joseph Drayton, like this son of his, had been too observant. But that had never stopped him from watching from his carriage as he journeyed home to Carrion House.
Like father, like son? It seemed so, for she saw Lionel Drayton’s glance linger on Abby’s young throat, move down to the immature young breasts, then still further to the curve of slender hip and thigh, and it recalled sickening moments with Joseph Drayton that she had never been able to forget.
The cheap, thin fabric of Abby’s skirt clung betrayingly; better material would have hung well, concealing rather than revealing, but Kate’s suggestive cast-offs always came her daughter’s way. ‘They’ll show ye off, luv, an’ ye’ve got plenty t’ show, so mak’ t’most of’t!’ Instil that teaching into a growing daughter’s receptive mind, and it would take root.
Meg saw Mistress Amelia watching her nephew and knew that she, too, had noticed his interest in Abby. But Meg also saw the sad air of the woman. When young, Amelia Drayton had been vivacious, even what staid folk called flighty; rich and spoilt, but warm and outgiving; generous and friendly to everyone, regardless of their station in life. Come to think of it, the youngest Kendall daughter was very much the same. Everyone liked Miss Deborah. So did Meg, who well remembered kindnesses extended by the girl’s parents to herself and her dying mother, all those years ago…
But had Deborah Kendall the ability to love as loyally as Amelia Freeman had loved? That remained to be seen. Folk said that the heir of Tremain was attracted to the girl, but so were many other young men in Staffordshire. The situation was not so very different from the young Amelia’s all those years ago, but it was the struggling potter with the crippled leg whom the younger Freeman daughter had wanted and the happiness of their marriage had been self-evident and lasting.
Lionel Drayton’s drawling voice recalled Meg’s wandering thoughts.
‘My dear aunt, we seem to have a talented person here.’ (The use of that ‘aunt’ seemed to relegate Amelia Drayton to a very dusty shelf.) ‘And so young, too. So delicately formed. Do you really think she has sufficient stamina to stand at a wheel all day, labouring over lumps of clay? Should we not find less arduous work for her?’
Amelia answered, ‘Abby enjoys it, and Meg has taught her well. She is one of our most promising young turners.’
At that the girl looked up, smiling. ‘An’ I be strong, sir. Ye’d be surprised ’ow strong I be. Me ma sez I wear ’er out!’
‘In what way?’ Lionel Drayton asked indulgently.
‘I be allus on the go, sir. Enjoying life.’
‘And your mother does not?’
‘Oh aye, she enjoys it in ’er own way!’ Abby’s laughter filled the shed, bringing smiles from her fellow workers.
‘And what is her way, Abby?’
‘Well now, that be ’er own business, sir. I asks no questions.’ Mischief danced in the big brown eyes. Abby was well aware that her mother’s mode of life was frowned on, but having been reared to it she accepted it uncritically. So long as Kate had money in her pocket for gin and gaudy clothes, life proceeded tolerably enough.
Meg picked up the next pot to be turned, centred it on the wheel, secured it with knobs of clay to prevent movement whilst revolving, sent the wheel spinning and set to work again.
‘And you,’ said Lionel Drayton, ‘are Meg Tinsley, I believe? I recall your name, and vaguely your face. You were a turner here when a girl, were you not?’
‘I were, sir,’ said Meg, not pausing to look up. ‘I’ve worked at the Drayton Pottery from childhood, and me mother afore me.’
Her turning tool remained steady, thin strips of clay curling like apple peel from its point.
Drayton was momentarily silent, then said, ‘In that case, I think I shall not dispense with your services after all, old as you are. You must be well experienced by now, and my aunt speaks highly of your work. She even displays samples of it in that “museum” across the yard. You must not be too disappointed when I put an end to that.’
Instantly, Meg’s tool was withdrawn. Her wheel slowed down. For the first time she looked directly at the man.
‘What d’ye mean, sir?’ She had heard Amelia Drayton’s indrawn breath and now saw distress in her eyes. No one should be
allowed to hurt the woman who had been a lifelong friend to her; certainly not this man who knew little or nothing about the potter’s craft.
Meg rushed on, ‘Mistress Drayton’s museum is important — sir. Folks travel far to see it an’ customers place bigger orders because of it. Master Martin useter say it was a big asset. So what d’ye mean about putting an end to it? If ye mean taking out me own pieces, that I won’t mind at all. But what right have ye?’
She was being foolhardy, and knew it. Challenging a man who was to be her new boss could mean the end of her employment. She might be considered the best turner in the industry, but he could replace her with others. Abby, for instance, even though the girl had still a long way to go. But a man such as he would only promote Abby for reasons of his own.
Meg could see from his expression that she had overstepped the mark. His eyes went cold, and despite the smile his mouth tightened. Turning to his aunt he asked if it were customary for workers to be so insolent, at which Amelia replied that Meg was never insolent; that she and her work were valued highly and that her long employment placed her in a privileged position.
‘My husband always encouraged his workers to speak up and this they were never afraid to do, knowing they would get a fair hearing because he liked to know what they thought and felt. And Meg is right about the showroom. Customers value it.’
‘I was speaking about the “museum”, the section cluttered with relics from the past. Displaying current wares is another matter, but who wants to see samples of Meg Tinsley’s work from long ago, or any other obsolete items? Only present-day work is of any importance, so the so-called “museum” is superfluous and will go. It is for me to make the decisions now, and to enforce them.’