The Rival Potters

by Rona Randall

  The whole shed was silent as he moved to the door, but the silence was shattered when Abby spoke up.

  ‘Ye don’t mean it, do ye, sir? You ain’t the kinda gent to hurt summun like Mistress Drayton, nor our Meg neether.’ Her eyes were challenging. The girl had been taught to fear no man and she certainly didn’t fear one whose glance had been openly admiring. ‘If ye do, sir, ye’ll ’ave a battle on your ’ands. With me.’

  There was a momentary hush, then Lionel Drayton burst out laughing. He was still laughing when he left the shed.

  From the door, Amelia looked back at Meg and smiled. The smile expressed gratitude and affection, but also concern, and Meg knew that her thoughts were the same as her own — that despite Abby’s apparent victory the girl had unwittingly made matters worse. And in doing so she had whetted the man’s interest in herself.

  *

  After delivering a tray of finished pots to the drying shed, Meg came face to face with Dave Jefferson.

  ‘I want to talk to ye,’ she said, and when he asked what about she answered, ‘Abby. And the new boss. I’ll never call ’im “Master Potter”, though that’s what he’s to be. “Master Potter”, indeed! An’ all because he’s a Drayton and next in line.’

  ‘I knows all that, Meg, but what’s this about Abby?’

  ‘He likes her. Too much.’

  Dave’s blue eyes darkened. Not that he was surprised. Too many men liked Abby, and little did she see the danger of it. If only she would listen to himself a bit more, he’d be less worried, but she skimmed through life like a butterfly he could never pin down. Not that he wanted to curb her or hurt her in any way; he loved her too much for that, so much that he wanted to wed her and keep her safe. He had told her so more than once, but when he did she would laugh, fling her arms about him, smack an affectionate kiss on his cheek and tell him not to be daft.

  ‘Me — wed? Only if I ’ave to, an’ ye wouldn’t do that t’me, would ye, Dave? Get me in t’family way, I mean. There’s many a wench as’d be glad to get an ’usband that way, but not me. Me mam’s taught me ’ow to take care o’meself when the time comes.’ She added provocatively, ‘An’ I’ll be the one to choose when that’ll be.’

  All this was cold comfort to Dave and of the gravest concern to Meg, who knew of the primitive precautions used by women like Abby’s mother. That old witch, Martha Tinsley, used to dole them out to the village women, no questions asked, together with herbal brews guaranteed to force miscarriages but which often failed, thereby leading to her profitable trade in abortions. No one had replaced that so-called midwife, so heaven protect Abby Walker.

  ‘I wish I could get ’er away from Kate,’ Meg now confided to Dave. ‘I’ve never ’ad a daughter, never ’ad a child. If I could persuade ’er to move into my cottage, I’d make room for her somehow. Better still would be a home with you, Dave.’

  ‘Aye.’ Dave was a man of few words, but that single one came from his heart.

  Meg could say no more. Besides, there wasn’t time. Old Peterson was ringing the ancient bell which had been used to summon pottery workers to the eating sheds ever since the place had been established. Haifa pint of small ale and a hunk of bread and cheese with a raw onion was the routine meal at midday.

  Rinsing her clay-covered hands at the pump, Meg looked around for Abby. The fact that both male and female workers now ate in one huge shed, unlike the old days when they were segregated, was a mixed blessing in her eyes, for the men’s attention would be focused on Kate Walker’s daughter, with many a suggestive glance and ribald remark thrown in her direction even though the men sat at one end of the shed and women at the other.

  Meg knew what it was like to be the target for male innuendo; she had experienced it herself when young, though mercifully spared it at meal breaks, when the women ate alone. At such times she had had to parry malicious female jibes instead, but now she had achieved a position which commanded respect and when she sat beside Abby the men as well as the women showed restraint.

  Perhaps she was being over-protective, but Meg didn’t think so. Especially after this morning. But if the new Master Potter’s interest in the girl increased, what could she do about it?

  She was glad when she saw M’s Olivia on her way to join her aunt for the midday meal. This they took in the room housing archives compiled by M’s Amelia years ago. The volumes occupied a whole shelf, their contents immaculately written in her fine copperplate hand. Meg knew this because she had once been shown them by Mistress Amelia, who promised that when she learned to read she would be allowed to practise with certain selected parts. Jessica Kendall had promptly offered to teach her, since when Meg had hired a nag for five pence from the landlord of the Red Lion and ridden the few miles to and from Ashburton every weekend.

  She was less adept at deciphering letters than she was at wielding a turning tool, but she persevered because she knew how proud Frank would have been had he known. She was a slow reader, but writing presented less difficulty because copying letters was like drawing a design. Loops and lines had come easily to her as a child, hence her ability to draw that perfect circle with the point of a turning tool. She could now write her address as well as her name — Tinsley’s Cottage, Larch Lane, Burslem. It was an achievement unknown to many another pottery worker.

  She also signed some of her work with her initials, no longer impressing her thumbprint in the clay for identification.

  When the day came that Mistress Amelia opened one of those volumes and asked her to read, Meg would reach an important milestone in her life.

  Other books the Master Potter’s wife had shown her contained lessons she and M’s ’Livia had used for the pottery workers’ children until they were old enough to become apprentices. The classes were an innovation unheard of elsewhere. Abby had been one of the fortunate children to receive basic instruction in the three Rs before her mother found a more financially profitable occupation and turned her back on a clay-worker’s life.

  Kate’s desertion had caused Amelia and Olivia much concern, not for the woman’s sake but for her small daughter’s, for officially Abby had no longer qualified for inclusion in the children’s classes. This had first brought the little girl to Meg’s notice. Finding her in floods of tears outside the pottery gates one day, she had discovered the cause of her grief, taken her by the hand, and led her to the Master Potter’s wife.

  ‘She’s crying because ’er mam don’t work ’ere no more, Mistress, so Abby can’t share the children’s lessons an’ she wants to real bad.’

  ‘Then indeed she shall.’ Wiping the child’s tear-stained face Amelia Drayton had said, ‘Dear Abby, there’s a place for you in the class for as long as you wish.’

  ‘An’ can I work ’ere, ma’am, when I be growed?’

  ‘You certainly may.’

  ‘At summat good, summat important like our Meg’s?’

  ‘Yes indeed, if you work hard enough.’

  ‘That I will, ma’am! I’ll be real important ’ere, one day.’ Her radiant grin had focused then on Meg. ‘I betcha I’ll beat yer, Meg Tinsley!’

  That was the first indication that Kate Walker’s daughter not only wanted to better herself, but had the will to do it.

  But at that time she had not matured into a ripe young peach, ready for the plucking.

  *

  Seeing Olivia, Meg seized her chance.

  ‘M’s ’Livia, ma’am —?’

  ‘Yes, Meg?’

  Olivia spoke absently and Meg wondered if she too had something on her mind. Recalling the underlying strain in Amelia Drayton’s manner, Meg decided that the advent of Joseph Drayton’s son was sufficient explanation for both.

  ‘It’s about Abby Walker, M’s ’Livia. She worrits me.’

  One glance at Meg’s face told Olivia a lot. ‘Is it men?’ she asked.

  ‘Just one, ma’am. And mebbe I’m wrong. I ’opes so, but this morning the new Master Potter came to the turners’ shed. An’ noticed Abby.’
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  ‘Everyone notices Abby. She is extremely pretty.’

  ‘And — and sus —’ Meg groped for the word.

  ‘Susceptible?’

  ‘Aye. That.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we are all susceptible when young, but what you are really saying is that the new Master Potter singled her out this morning and you don’t like it. Neither do I. Let us hope he singles out someone else, someone outside the pottery, someone in his own sphere. I expect he will but, knowing my cousin, that won’t stop him from amusing himself elsewhere if he so pleases. Meanwhile, what can we do about it? We must think of something…’

  ‘I’ve already thought, ma’am. First chance I get I’ll go to work on that ma of ’ers. I think I know how to get rid of Kate Walker. Then I’d like Abby to live along o’me.’

  ‘Can you persuade her?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘And if you fail?’

  ‘M’s ’Livia, I daresn’t fail. If she’d only wed Dave Jefferson, I’d not be worrit. Nor would he.’

  ‘But she’s little more than a child!’

  ‘Fourteen, ma’am. I wed Frank Tinsley when I were sixteen, an’ t’were the best thing I ever did. But till then, I’d like Abby under me own roof —’

  Meg broke off. She had just seen the girl walking across the yard to the eating shed, with Dave at her side. Murmuring with relief, ‘Mebbe I worrit too much, M’s ’Livia. Forgive me for bothering you,’ Meg turned to follow them.

  ‘Bother me whenever you wish. Abby’s a nice child and a promising worker. And Meg — if you have any further cause for concern, come to me, won’t you?’

  Meg hesitated. ‘Well, there do be summat I’d like to ask. It be about the new Master an’ Mistress Drayton’s museum.’

  ‘The museum? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I, ma’am, but this morning ’e hinted that it’s to be done away with. It’ll ’ave t’go, he said, because the only things to interest folk are what’s being made right now. Fair scoffed, ’e did, an’ Mistress Drayton were hurt, I could see.’

  ‘And I am angry!’

  ‘He can’t do away with the museum, can ’e, M’s ’Livia?’

  ‘I don’t know, Meg…I just don’t know. For the time being my aunt and I can only hope that lawyers will help us. In the meantime, we both have to wait — and that is something which doesn’t come easily to me.’ Her hand touched Meg’s briefly. ‘Thank you for telling me this. And now I will tell you something — we have exciting plans for a new type of decorative ware, Mexican and very colourful. And guess who had the idea? My young cousin Deborah. My half-brother had been showing her some of his mother’s possessions — her treasures, he called them. Pottery and hand-made jewellery unlike anything produced in this country. And to think he has had them all these years and never shown them to me or to anyone because he didn’t think we would be interested! He had kept them for sentimental reasons — and bless him for that because Deborah Kendall wants to try her hand at producing designs in the same colourful and exciting form. We may discover that the girl has latent talent — who knows?’

  Although Meg had no idea what Mexican designs were like, she did know that new ceramic lines were always important. What with Master Kendall’s new grinding-mill to produce stoneware of a whiteness never seen before, there could be exciting days ahead for the Drayton Pottery.

  ‘The new Master’s lucky to be taking over right now,’ she commented, thinking that he ill deserved such good fortune.

  ‘He is not to know yet,’ Olivia said, remembering Lionel’s derisory comment. ‘The whole idea needs developing. By then we will know what is to happen here. In the meantime —’

  ‘— in the meantime, ma’am, me mouth’s tight shut, but I can’t ’elp thinking Master Lionel don’t deserve such luck and it’d please me mighty if it fell through — meaning taking over the pottery, M’s ’Livia, not the new line o’ goods.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Olivia said devoutly.

  Meg smiled gratefully and went on her way. Entering the huge shed she heard Abby’s voice calling.

  ‘I’ve save a place right ’ere beside me, our Meg!’ And sure enough the girl had — at a table far removed from the men’s. When Meg sat down, Abby smiled broadly and said, ‘I ’opes as ow this pleases ye, Meg luv? I chose this table ’cos those loose-tongued women from canalside allus takes the one nearest the men, so stop worriting, will ye?’

  ‘It isn’t the women I worrit about,’ Meg wanted to say.

  Instead, she took a welcome swig of small ale.

  *

  Olivia was glad to find Amelia waiting for her. Nowadays her aunt seemed to eat very little, frequently missing the midday meal and occupying herself with work instead. In this way she felt she was still serving her husband.

  Amelia fulfilled manifold duties at the pottery. Apart from concerning herself with the welfare of workers’ children, and running both the museum and showroom, she compiled the museum’s catalogue, updating it regularly, and producing stock lists for dispatch to both regular and prospective customers.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she began when Olivia put food before her. Then, seeing her niece’s face, she yielded. ‘Very well, I’ll eat if it pleases you.’

  ‘You’ll eat because it’s necessary,’ Olivia replied with mock severity, ‘not only for your own sake, but for your children’s. I can’t have you going home feeling tired.’

  ‘I recover the moment I see them. And if my work here is to come to an end, perhaps it will be for the best.’

  ‘Who says it is to end?’

  ‘My nephew — if he has his way. He hasn’t actually said as much, but I can read his thoughts.’

  Then thank heaven Damian has ridden into Stoke to get a legal opinion, Olivia reflected. She said: ‘I talked to my father, whose reaction was the same as yours and mine. He immediately thought of the Tremain lawyer in Stoke, though he also considered that since he himself was not a Drayton he couldn’t interfere in that family’s affairs. He then said it might not be a bad idea to give Lionel his head, because he would be sure to dislike the earthenware trade as much as he himself had done. He added wryly that you would be sure to remember that…’

  ‘I do indeed. Joseph made an opening for him because he was marrying Phoebe. It ended as disastrously as the marriage. What else did Max say?’

  ‘Only that the sooner we consult Whittaker, the better. That made me impatient to see Damian, but I had to wait until he returned from Tunstall.’

  ‘And when he did return, what did he say?’

  Regretfully, Olivia admitted that Damian feared nothing could be done because Lionel was undeniably the eldest male in the Drayton line, but since Whittaker knew what Martin had in mind he would press that point home.

  ‘Damian was always more decisive than Max,’ Amelia said gratefully.

  ‘He went to Stoke first thing yesterday and will return tonight if he has been able to see Whittaker. If not, he will remain until he does. Meanwhile, take heart. If we have to work under my unlikeable cousin, we must thwart him whenever he tries to spike our guns.’

  ‘He is firing the first volley already. The museum is to be closed. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Meg has just told me, but I hoped it was nothing but idle talk — Lionel’s, not Meg’s.’

  ‘Not this time. He intends to restore that splendid room into an office for himself. He told me so after we toured the works this morning. The smaller room can display samples of our latest wares, he said, and that should be quite enough. If not, the large shed given over to the children can be utilized instead. When I asked where the children’s classes would then be held, he said that “of course” they would be abolished and reminded me that no other potter in Staffordshire wastes time or money on workers’ offspring.’

  Olivia’s fury choked her.

  ‘As for my catalogues and stock lists,’ Amelia continued, ‘he considers them an unnecessary expense. Put an end to the museum, and the cat
alogues will end too. And stock lists, he maintains, can be done by any employee who can read and write. They can also be issued half-yearly instead of quarterly. What he is really saying is that I am superfluous here and will have to go.’

  ‘Never! The workers would be up in arms.’

  ‘They might want to be, but dare any of them risk their jobs?’ Amelia sighed. ‘Where will he attack next, I wonder. Dear Olivia, what are we to do?’

  ‘Fight him,’ Olivia declared hotly. ‘Fight him every inch of the way! But let’s look on the bright side — his claim may fail.’

  ‘I fear not because he is right. I have looked at it from every angle, over and over again, and it is inescapable. Martin died before he could change the old order, so it remains. You and I, dear Olivia, have no choice but to yield to it.’

  Chapter 6

  The contrast between her own home and Miguel’s struck Deborah forcibly as, with one hand lifting her skirts, she raced up the front steps of Ashburton. Both were country houses of distinction, but in atmosphere they were vastly different.

  Glancing up, she saw the Armstrong coat of arms carved into the portico. At Tremain Hall the Tremain crest was featured similarly. Here at Ashburton proud griffins stood at the foot of the steps, with unicorns midway and haughty lions at the top. Corinthian columns framed a pair of fine double doors. At Tremain the statuary was classical, the columns were doric, and the entrance doors even more imposing. Both houses were approached by magnificent tree-lined drives terminating, at Ashburton, in a circular sweep and at the Hall in a fine courtyard.

  As far as lands went, however, Ashburton’s were considerably less because the elder Armstrong sons — the wastrel brothers — had sacrificed the Home Farm and other large sections of the estate to satisfy voracious debt collectors, leaving it to Neville, the youngest, to salvage what he could. With determination and diligence he had done so, dedicating himself to the restoration of the family’s fortune and the resurgence of its pride. While Tremain had prospered, Ashburton had been painstakingly reborn — first under childless Neville, then under Deborah’s clever father, Simon Kendall, whom Neville had chosen as his heir.